Alkaline batteries can be discarded in the trash. Standard alkaline batteries are not considered hazardous waste, since they no longer contain mercury. Place batteries with your regular trash, not in your recycling bin.
My dead battery stash is enormous. And also, apparently, unnecessary.
My Least Favorite Trope (and this post will include spoilers for The Lego Movie, Guardians of the Galaxy, The Matrix, Western Civilization, and—cod help me—Bulletproof Monk*.) is the thing where there’s an awesome, smart, wonderful, powerful female character who by all rights ought to be the Chosen One and the hero of the movie, who is tasked with taking care of some generally ineffectual male character who is, for reasons of wish fulfillment, actually the person the film focuses on. She mentors him, she teaches him, and she inevitably becomes his girlfriend… and he gets the job she wanted: he gets to be the Chosen One even though she’s obviously far more qualified. And all he has to do to get it and deserve it is Man Up and Take Responsibility.
And that’s it. Every god-damned time. The mere fact of naming the films above and naming the trope gives away the entire plot and character arc of every single movie.
It has been one year since I got on the scale and it screamed 284.
It has been one year since I started obsessively counting calories with an iPhone app, one year since I started eating Wasa crackers with hummus and slices of cucumber and sriracha sauce, one year since I got back into miso soup and 100 calorie ziploc bags of almonds and started carrying beef jerky everywhere as a quick protein fix, one year since I stopped drinking so much fancy goddamned beer all the goddamned time, one year since one year since I started walking for exercise, one year since I tried to run and couldn’t make it a quarter of a mile.
This weekend, the scale whispered 211 and I celebrated by running 5K with my wife under 30 minutes.
Also, I bought a gorgeous three year old 50” Panasonic plasma television in perfect condition from a generous friend for $300.
In conclusion, I’m the greatest human that has ever lived.
The great thing about having a job no one understands in digital media is you get interoffice requests like, “Amy, because you’re in charge of digital media, can you fix my email? Amy, my mom says that a website she really likes doesn’t run well on her computer so can you do something about it? Amy, why does this person I know follow this person I don’t like on Twitter?” And then when you can’t fix these problems you undoubtedly get the same sad and dirty looks often shot at Harry Crane.
So great. I am falling in love with The Yearbook Office.
How alarmist, racist coverage of Ebola makes things worse. A dressing down of the latest #NewsweekFail.
Thanks Washington Post on writing about everything that made me question the Newsweek’s cover story, “Smuggled bushmeat is Ebola’s Back Door.” I only put Newsweek’s link so you can read how ignorant some people are about this disease.
Two main things:
Bushmeat = wild game.
Fruit bats, NOT chimpanzees, are thought to be the reservoir for Ebola.
That is all.
I try really hard not to argue on the internet, but that Newsweek piece is enraging.
A lot of things are possible in this world, but that does not make them probable. Risk is never zero, but come on. You are probably more likely to die in the backseat of a Ford Pinto rear ended by a Google driverless car while we chase tornados.
This kind of paranoid cover story serves absolutely nobody. It makes people terrified, and that’s it.
Here’s a similar piece from The Telegraph in London, which suggests that bush meat was “almost certainly” responsible for the outbreak currently ravaging parts of west Africa (it was actually caused by a boy’s contact with an infected bat).
Please, someone, show me the data. Has there been a single example of Ebola spreading to other countries via contaminated food?
No? Then GTFO.
It is true that illegally imported bushmeat presents some food safety concerns, and it is also true that some types of bushmeat are suspected vectors for Ebola. (The second, smaller Ebola outbreak going on right now in DR Congo seems to have been started when a woman butchered the carcass of an unspecified “bush animal” that had died and was given to her husband.)
But the odds don’t add up. In fact, they multiply. And what happens when you multiply fractions?
Here’s what you do: you take the tonnage of bushmeat butchered in Ebola-endemic regions of Africa each year, the fraction of that meat that is even of Ebola-carrying species, the fraction of meat from those species that are likely to be contaminated, the fraction of those meats that are exported, the fraction of those exports that wind up in the United States, the fraction of those that are mishandled or cooked impoperly. Multiply those numbers together and what do you get: me giving you the middle finger.
And yet, as the Post points out:
Fear-mongering narratives about Ebola circulating in the popular media can also have a serious effect on knowledge and attitudes about Ebola. Though there are no cases of person-to-person infection in the United States, a recent poll conducted by the Harvard School of Public Health reports 39 percent of Americans think there will be a large Ebola outbreak in the United States and more than a quarter of Americans are concerned that they or someone in their immediate family may get sick with Ebola in the next year. A similar poll conducted for Reason-Rupe had four in 10 Americans saying an Ebola outbreak in the United States was likely, and conservative Americans were more likely to say an outbreak was likely. These two national surveys show Americans are grossly overestimating their risk of infection.
Ugh. Either people have never heard of a disease (e.g. Chagas, Nipah, Lassa, Chikungunya, Trypanosomiasis) or else it’s killing them tomorrow. Fucking hell.
And that’s just on the public health side. As the Post piece points out, what this kind of shit does for perceptions about immigrants, African culture, and the wide wide world outside of U.S. borders is even worse. Shameful.
In a striking number of animated kids’ movies of the past couple of decades (coincidental with the resurgence of Disney and the rise of Pixar and DreamWorks), the dead mother is replaced not by an evil stepmother but by a good father. He may start out hypercritical (Chicken Little) or reluctant (Ice Age). He may be a tyrant (The Little Mermaid) or a ne’er-do-well (Despicable Me). He may be of the wrong species (Kung Fu Panda). He may even be the killer of the child’s mother (Brother Bear). No matter how bad he starts out, though, he always ends up good.
He doesn’t just do the job, he’s fabulous at it.
The cartoon dead mother thing is a perpetual joke in my house, but this brutal knockout of an essay really takes it to another level.
A fungus called Cryptococcus gattii can cause life-threatening infections, especially in people with compromised immune systems. One-third of AIDS-related deaths are thought to be caused by the fungus.
But though people in Southern California have been getting sick from C. gatti for years, nobody knew how…
Solved by a 15 year old working with a post-doc and that post-doc’s boss. Pretty goddamned great.
Ralph is not a rule-follower like Lisa, nor a rule-breaker like Bart; Ralph does not observe the rules because he is almost completely unaware of them. More than any of the other students at Springfield Elementary, Ralph is a
Ralph is one of those loves I’ve shared with my son, a five year old who is nevertheless old enough to know that it is funny when Ralph asks “why do people run from me?” and then his pants darken with pee.