Can’t sing? Here’s why. (Hint: Blame your brain architecture.)
Final recording from Jonestown, November 18, 1978. 44 minutes of preaching and death. Yeesh.
I’m getting so tired of this ridiculous Steve Jobs liver transplant story. The increasingly tiresome Jim Goldman “confirms” what was widely suspected: Jobs went to Tennessee so he could get a liver transplant. Yeah, we got it.
But now comes the backlash: Did Jobs jump the transplant line so he could get a liver before a more worthy candidate? Says Goldman:
However, two sources at Apple told me tonight that both Jobs and the hospital were facing increased criticism that Jobs used his wealth and status to secure the donated liver. The Wall Street Journal, which broke this story, raised the issue in its Friday evening coverage that there might be a perception that Jobs state-shopped, looking for the shortest wait-list for a liver transplant.
Now I have no special love for Apple or Jobs, but — Jesus! — the man was clearly dying, and you’re going to try and fault him for using every ounce of his influence to try to get a liver as soon as possible, even if that means begging for an organ in every state? Hell, I’m surprised he didn’t go out of the country for the procedure, though perhaps that would have drawn too much attention to the matter — or perhaps Tennessee just turned out to have a short enough wait.
Seriously, Jim. Maybe he pulled some strings and even greased some palms so he wouldn’t croak. If you had all the money in the world, wouldn’t you?
For the purposes of the study, eight “pseudopatients” (associates of Rosenhan selected to be a group of varied and healthy individuals) attempted to gain admission to psychiatric hospitals. During psychiatric assessment they claimed to be hearing voices that were often unclear, but which seemed to pronounce the words “hollow”, “empty”, and “thud.” No other psychiatric symptoms were claimed, and apart from giving false names and employment details, further biographical details were truthfully reported. If admitted, the pseudopatients were asked to “act normally,” report that they felt fine and no longer heard voices.
All were admitted, staying for up to 52 days.
I thought they were supposed to be buried in a VW Beetle…
Let my Cameron goooooooooooooooooooooo.
$2.3 million and worth every penny. Is that really a Ferrari in the garage? Hard to tell from the pic…
Part of me just died inside.
My favorite thought-piece about Ferris Bueller is the “Fight Club” theory, in which Ferris Bueller, the person, is just a figment of Cameron’s imagination, like Tyler Durden, and Sloane is the girl Cameron secretly loves.
One day while he’s lying sick in bed, Cameron lets “Ferris” steal his father’s car and take the day off, and as Cameron wanders around the city, all of his interactions with Ferris and Sloane, and all the impossible hijinks, are all just played out in his head. This is part of the reason why the “three” characters can see so much of Chicago in less than one day — Cameron is alone, just imagining it all.
It isn’t until he destroys the front of the car in a fugue state does he finally get a grip and decide to confront his father, after which he imagines a final, impossible escape for Ferris and a storybook happy ending for Sloane (“He’s gonna marry me!”), the girl that Cameron knows he can never have.
Let’s say you’re eating a quesadilla in the kitchen. Why then would you decide to get up and run through the house — mouth full of food — only to trip and fall in the hallway, split your head open on the corner of a baseboard, and have to be taken to the ER for 9 stitches, screaming all the way? I guess if you’re 6 years old, that’s a normal Saturday.
Danger lurks around every corner!
The death toll is already scary, but this could also impact my burrito consumption in coming months.