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Thread: Articles 2.0

  1. #361
    Coachella Junkie frozen pilgrim's Avatar
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    Default Re: Articles 2.0

    Quote Originally Posted by TomAz View Post
    al qaeda sponsored the last jack johnson tour

    al qaeda owns ticketmaster
    +10.


    I needed that laugh

  2. #362
    Coachella Junkie shakermaker113's Avatar
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    Default Re: Articles 2.0

    Quote Originally Posted by TomAz View Post
    al qaeda owns ticketmaster
    I knew it!

  3. #363
    old school allyjoy's Avatar
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    Default Re: Articles 2.0

    This is some shit:
    Gunmen have opened fire at a number of sites in the Indian city of Mumbai (Bombay), killing at least 78 people and injuring about 200 more.

    Police said shooting was continuing and that the incidents were co-ordinated terrorist attacks. Gunmen have taken hostages at two luxury hotels.

    At least seven sites have been targeted across India's financial capital.

    A fire is sweeping through the Taj Palace, Mumbai's most famous hotel which is now surrounded by troops.

    The BBC's Andrew Whitehead says a claim of responsibility by a little-known group, Deccan Mujhaideen, may harden suspicions that Islamic radicals are involved.

    ...

    In the latest developments:


    Commandos have surrounded two hotels, the Taj Mahal and the Oberoi, where gunmen are reported to be holding dozens of hostages, including foreigners
    A fire appears to be spreading through the Taj Mahal hotel
    A witness told local television that the gunmen were looking for people with British or US passports
    The head of Mumbai's anti-terrorism unit is among those killed, according to local TV
    At least two blasts, suspected to be grenade attacks, have been reported
    The US and the UK have both condemned the attacks
    On Wednesday, gunmen opened fire at about 2300 local time at sites in southern Mumbai including a train station, two five-star hotels, a hospital and a restaurant popular with tourists.

    Police said the gunmen had fired indiscriminately.
    BBC news
    Quote Originally Posted by RotationSlimWang View Post
    the only cocks I suck belong to black women.
    Quote Originally Posted by TommyboyUNM View Post
    We use the term "Off-roading" when we wanna go down on a guy with a freakish bush. "Randy, should I throw some Nair to my patch?" "Nah, brah, I wanna go off-roading"

  4. #364
    Peaceful Oasis TomAz's Avatar
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    Default Re: Articles 2.0

    I've stayed in that Oberoi and had lunch in that Taj.
    Quote Originally Posted by efrain44 View Post
    Anyone know who the guy in the Cardinals jersey is? I've seen him in pictures on the board and I thought I saw him this year.

  5. #365
    vinylmartyr
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    http://blogs.citypages.com/gimmenois...grants_cle.php


    Ever a day late, always a dollar short, and perpetually available for a chuckle, the custodian of our highest office pardoned gangsta rapper John Forte yesterday, who was nabbed with $1.4 million in liquid cocaine in 2000.

    Perhaps the commander in chief sees some of himself in Forte-- like Bush's presidency itself, Forte's innocence is nigh indefensible. Notwithstanding, the case sent the best and brightest stars of the music world to his aid. Carly Simon, for example. Despite the inestimable heft of Simon's celebrity, her efforts to have Forte's case reopened proved futile.

    But when it comes to lost causes, Bush is something of a patron saint, championing any cause in vain, no matter how Avant-garde. With Forte soon to be a free man, the only thing left to do is await his first post-prison single. Will it back Bush in a hip-hop first? It seems the only neighborly thing to do.

    *
    *
    *

    Posted by David Hansen at November 25, 2008 4:03 PM

  6. #366

  7. #367

  8. #368
    Coachella Junkie boarderwoozel3's Avatar
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    Default Re: Articles 2.0

    The stuff of legends.

  9. #369
    Coachella Junkie chairmenmeow47's Avatar
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    Default Re: Articles 2.0

    after 3 shootings, it's time to close the church

    Man kills himself in Schuller's Crystal Cathedral
    By GILLIAN FLACCUS, Associated Press Writer Gillian Flaccus, Associated Press Writer – 2 hrs 17 mins ago

    GARDEN GROVE, Calif. – A man shot and killed himself in front of a cross inside televangelist Robert H. Schuller's Crystal Cathedral on Wednesday, police and church officials said. The man handed a note and his driver's license to two ushers, walked to the cross and then shot himself in the head as he appeared to be praying, Senior Pastor Juan Carlos Ortiz said.

    The man's identity was not released, but police Lt. Dennis Ellsworth said the man was in his 40s. Church spokesman Mike Nason said there was no record of the man at the cathedral.

    Betty Spicer, a volunteer usher at the famous sanctuary, said she greeted the man when he entered. She said he handed her a folded note with two cards inside as the man told her: "You may want this."

    Spicer said he then walked to the foot of the cross. She and another volunteer said they thought the man was praying when she heard a pop.

    A tourist, one in a group of seven or eight visitors from Canada, told her the man had shot himself.

    "I didn't realize it. I thought he was praying," Spicer said.

    The volunteer said one of the man's cards was a driver's license, and that the note mentioned a pickup truck in the parking lot.

    Cathedral spokesman John Charles said none of the tourists was injured.

    The glass-walled 10,000-member megachurch in Orange County is home to the "Hour of Power" broadcast, an evangelism staple aired internationally for more than three decades. Thousands visit the cathedral to see where the broadcast is filmed before a live congregation.

    There have been two other shootings at the church in recent years.

    In December 2004, Crystal Cathedral Orchestra conductor Johnnie Carl, 57, killed himself at the complex after a standoff that began when he opened fire in offices before a Christmas pageant. He had been hospitalized for severe depression.

    Also that year, a man was wounded by a plainclothes police officer in the cathedral parking lot. Authorities said the man was meeting his mother, but the officer didn't know they were related and intervened in what he thought was an argument.
    Quote Originally Posted by malcolmjamalawesome View Post
    It's when we discuss Coachella that we are at our collective dipshittiest.

  10. #370
    Coachella Junkie fatbastard's Avatar
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    He was known as El Pozolero — The Stew Maker — but his ingredients were less than savoury.

    The job of Santiago Meza López was to dispose of the enemies of a notorious drug baron by dissolving them in tubs of acid. Over several years he claims to have “disappeared” 300 enemies of Teodoro García Semental, a former henchman for one of the largest cartels in Mexico and now in a bloody struggle for supremacy over the trade.

    Meza, 45, told police that, once their remains had been in the acid baths for 24 hours, he would bury them. In a twisted act of chivalry, he said he only dissolved men, refusing to make women vanish this way. He said that he was paid $600 (£440) a week by García.

    His horrific career came to an end on Thursday when he was ambushed by elite Mexican troops, acting on a tip-off, who caught him and two other drugs henchmen as they headed to a party with a prostitute in Tijuana.

    The Mexican authorities paraded The Stew Maker in front of a nondescript shack where he admitted that he had disposed of the bodies over a period of ten years. Two grave-sized holes had been dug near the walls.

    The nickname comes from pozole, a stew local to the Tijuana region where he worked. Its ingredients are normally corn, meat and chilli. Meza told police that his busiest time was in December 2007, when he claimed to have disposed of 32 bodies.

    Relatives of 100 missing people came forward over the weekend saying that they wanted to show photos of their loved ones to Meza in the hope he could reveal their fate.

    Cristina Palacios, president of Citizens United Against Impunity, which represents missing people in Tijuana, said: “We are here because this arrest gives us a ray of hope.”

    Rommel Moreno, the state's Attorney-General, said that Meza would be shown the photos to see if he recognised any among his victims. He said that the authorities were considering allowing the victims' families to meet him. Meza apologised to all the relatives of his victims, authorities said.

    Police were searching the shack for human remains and will ask US authorities for DNA-testing equipment.

    Fernando Ocegueda, whose son disappeared in February 2007, said that eastern Tijuana was a stronghold of the drug lord García. The Mexican Government denies that parts of the country have become lawless, but Meza's arrest is a rare success story in the increasingly savage drugs war.

    Since the start of this year 346 people have died or disappeared in drugs-related violence, and Tijuana is one of the worst-affected areas.

    The latest revelations are a gruesome chapter in a battle that stands out for tales of torture, brutal killings and mutilated corpses. One cause of rising violence is a split between García and his former bosses, the Arellano Félix brothers, which ignited a war between two cartels to dominate the drugs trade. The two split in April, after a Tijuana shootout between their followers left at least 14 people dead, Mexican and US officials say.

    The level of violence has heightened concerns in the Government about the damage it is doing to the country's image abroad. Patricia Espinosa, the Secretary for Foreign Affairs, last week asked foreign correspondents not to file negative reports about Mexico.

    Mrs Espinosa was not helped by events. Last Friday 22 people were murdered in Chihuahua province. Six others died elsewhere in the country in drug violence.

    Trading in violence

    5,400 Drug-related killings in Mexico last year, more than double the toll in 2007

    3 main groups are fighting over the lucrative trade: the Tijuana cartel, led by the Arellano Félix family, the Gulf cartel, and the Sinaloa cartel

    7 million cocaine users in North America

    45% of the world cocaine trade goes to North America

    2006 In December of that year President Calderón called in the army to tackle cartels, leading to a rise in violence

    90% of all cocaine entering North America is brought through Mexico
    Whiskey Sour

    2 oz blended whiskey
    Juice of 1/2 lemon
    1/2 tsp powdered sugar
    1 cherry
    1/2 slice lemon

    Shake blended whiskey, juice of lemon, and powdered sugar with ice and strain into a whiskey sour glass. Decorate with the half-slice of lemon, top with the cherry, and serve.

  11. #371
    Young blood
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    Default Re: Articles 2.0

    im fucked.....


    U.S. Sues UBS Seeking Swiss Account Customer Names (Update3)
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    By David Voreacos and Carlyn Kolker

    Feb. 19 (Bloomberg) -- The U.S. government sued UBS AG, Switzerland’s largest bank, to try to force disclosure of the identities of as many as 52,000 American customers who allegedly hid their secret Swiss accounts from U.S. tax authorities.

    U.S. customers had 32,940 secret accounts containing cash and 20,877 accounts holding securities, according to the Justice Department lawsuit filed today in federal court in Miami. U.S. customers failed to report and pay U.S. taxes on income earned in those accounts, which held about $14.8 billion in assets during the middle of this decade, according to the court filing.

    “At a time when millions of Americans are losing their jobs, their homes and their health care, it is appalling that more than 50,000 of the wealthiest among us have actively sought to evade their civic and legal duty to pay taxes,” John A. DiCicco, acting assistant attorney general in the Justice Department’s tax division, said in a statement.

    The lawsuit came a day after UBS agreed to pay $780 million and disclose the names of about 250 account holders to avoid U.S. prosecution on a charge that it helped thousands of wealthy Americans evade taxes. The U.S. and Zurich-based UBS disagreed over how many account holders the bank must disclose to the Internal Revenue Service, agreeing to resolve it in court.

    Summons Enforcement

    With today’s lawsuit, the U.S. asked a federal judge to enforce its so-called John Doe summonses. On July 1, a federal judge in Miami approved an IRS summons seeking information on thousands of UBS accounts owned or controlled by U.S. citizens. Negotiations between the U.S., Switzerland and UBS have been at a standstill since then, according to a Justice Department filing.

    UBS said in a statement that it expected today’s filing.

    “UBS believes it has substantial defenses” to the U.S. attempt to enforce the summonses and will “vigorously contest” the case, the bank said in the statement. The bank’s objections are based on U.S. laws, Swiss financial privacy laws, and a 2001 agreement between UBS and the IRRS, according to the statement.

    The Justice Department accused UBS of conspiring to defraud the U.S. by helping 17,000 Americans hide accounts from the Internal Revenue Service. The U.S. will drop the charge in 18 months if the bank reforms its practices, helps prosecutors and makes payments.

    The case is U.S. v. UBS AG, 09-20423, U.S. District Court, Southern District of Florida (Miami).

    To contact the reporters on this story: David Voreacos in Newark, New Jersey, at dvoreacos@bloomberg.net; Carlyn Kolker in New York at ckolker@bloomberg.net.

  12. #372
    Banned marooko's Avatar
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  13. #373
    Young blood
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    crosswalks. use them.

    The Colorado State Patrol issued the citation. Trooper Ryan Sullivan said that despite Moffett's intentions, jaywalking contributed to the accident.

    Moffett had been driving his bus when the two women got off. In the interest of safety, he got out and, together with another passenger, helped the ladies cross.
    Last edited by Young blood; 02-26-2009 at 11:30 AM.

  14. #374
    Young blood
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    http://www.nypost.com/seven/03122009...oth_159201.htm

    These amazing pictures show an epic, two-hour battle between spear fisherman Craig Clasen and a 12-foot tiger shark in the Gulf of Mexico.

    The life-and-death struggle took place off New Orleans when Clasen, filmmaker Ryan McInnis and two friends were hunting tuna.

    PHOTOS: MAN VS. SHARK

    Suddenly McInnis found himself cut off and the shark began circling.

    "I positioned myself between Ryan and the shark and I tried to watch it for a second, hoping it would pass," said Clasen, 32, who was wearing a snorkel. "The shark made a roll and looked like it was going to charge us.

    "Down in my core I really felt the shark was there to feed. I didn't want it to come to that."

    During the underwater struggle, Clasen speared the shark seven times and even attempted to drown it before finishing it off with a long-blade knife. It wasn't clear how often Clasen had to resurface to breathe. "Once I shot it in the gills I felt a moral obligation to finish the job," he said. "In the end we put a knife in its skull."

    Clasen took no pleasure in his victory last June. "This was one of the most remorseful moments I have ever had in all of my years in hunting and fishing," he said.

  15. #375
    Coachella Junkie fatbastard's Avatar
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    Default Re: Articles 2.0

    Pour me a double mommy.



    Mom accused of daring young teens to chug vodka
    Wed Apr 1, 10:36 am ET
    KANSAS CITY, Mo. – A mother is accused of providing alcohol to young teens at a party in Missouri and offering $10 to whomever could chug a glass of vodka the fastest.

    Two girls were hospitalized.

    Authorities in Kansas City say 43-year-old Karen Christine Downs and 25-year-old Kelsee Guest face felony child-endangerment charges alleging they provided liquor and beer to six 13- and 14-year-olds at a February birthday party for Downs' daughter.

    The Platte County prosecutor's office said neither woman had a lawyer to speak for them as of Tuesday.

    Authorities say girls at the party told officers Downs offered them shots and told them not to tell their parents.

    While Downs allegedly offered money to the faster drinker, Guest is accused of pouring vodka shots.
    Whiskey Sour

    2 oz blended whiskey
    Juice of 1/2 lemon
    1/2 tsp powdered sugar
    1 cherry
    1/2 slice lemon

    Shake blended whiskey, juice of lemon, and powdered sugar with ice and strain into a whiskey sour glass. Decorate with the half-slice of lemon, top with the cherry, and serve.

  16. #376
    Coachella Junkie SoulDischarge's Avatar
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    There was a similar article in the local paper. I'm going to hang myself if "sexting" becomes a widely used phrase.

    Mom Fighting to End Cyber Abuse

    (May 15) - Jessica Logan, an 18-year-old Ohio teen, had it all -- brains, beauty and a loving boyfriend.

    But it all spiraled out of control after she began "sexting" -- sending nude photos of herself -- to that boyfriend.

    After they broke up, he forwarded the pictures to hundreds of other high school girls, many of whom allegedly harassed Logan at school, calling her a "slut" and "whore."

    Then, last July, Logan killed herself in her closet. She hanged herself; Jessica’s cell phone, her mother said in a broadcast interview, was on the floor.

    Cynthia claims the reason for the suicide was that the harassment -- also known as "cyberbullying" -- became unbearable.

    And Jessica’s story isn’t isolated.

    Twenty percent of teens responding to a recent survey by the National Campaign to Prevent Teen and Unplanned Pregnancy said they’ve sent or posted nude pictures of themselves.

    But now, Cynthia is fighting back with tech safety groups on Capitol Hill to avoid cases like her daughter’s. She’s advocating The School and Family Education About the Internet (SAFE Internet) Act, which would support existing and new Internet safety education programs for children, parents and educators.

    "I’m following in her (Jessica's) footsteps," Cynthia testified Wednesday. "I think she would have wanted me to do this. That’s the only thing that keeps me going."
    Cynthia appeared on The Early Show Thursday to talk about her daughter’s case and her efforts to end abusive "sexting" and "cyberbullying" with Parry Aftab, executive director of "Wired Safety." Aftab said such abuses can amount to using the images as weapons.

    She told co-anchor Julie Chen she blames several parties for her daughter’s death, including Jessica’s school.
    "I think the school should have come to the aid of my child, should have guided her, alerted the teachers that a photo of her was being disseminated..." Cynthia said. "...They should have done something."

    Cynthia and her husband, Albert, recently sued Jessica's school in the Cincinnati suburb of Montgomery, Ohio, as well as Montgomery itself and some of the students allegedly involved in the taunting. The lawsuit claims the school did nothing to stop the harassment and police failed to charge those distributing the photos. The suit seeks unspecified money damages for Jessica's estate.

    But Cynthia also told Chen the punishment should fit the crime in today’s changing world of tech crime.

    Children, she said, are being convicted as pedophiles and being forced to register as sex offenders, possibly for the rest of their lives.

    "The laws are either too hot or too cold," Aftab added. "Too hot, kids are sending naked pictures of themselves voluntarily to each other are now being charged as registered sex offenders and felons, and harassment laws need to be beefed up. ... We need harassment laws that have some real teeth."

  17. #377
    Coachella Junkie chairmenmeow47's Avatar
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    Default Re: Articles 2.0

    how do we feel about this?

    http://new.music.yahoo.com/u2/news/c...ties--61989814

    Complaint says top musician dissed over royalties
    AP, Jun 10, 2009 8:17 am PDT

    Which top-selling artist purportedly had his new single yanked from some radio stations playlists in retaliation for supporting royalties for musicians?

    No one involved will name the recording artist, but his no-play treatment by several radio stations is alleged in a complaint filed with the Federal Communications Commission and obtained by The Associated Press. It claims recording artists are being threatened and intimidated.

    In the filing, the musicFIRST Coalition says the top-selling artist — there are hints it could be U2 frontman Bono — recently released a new album and spoke during April in support of an effort to require radio stations to pay musicians royalties similar to those paid to songwriters.

    Soon after, it said, "several stations within a major radio broadcast group notified the artist's label that they would no longer play his single on the air."

    Representatives for musicFIRST refused to identify the artist.

    U2's album, "No Line on the Horizon," was released in March with its leadoff single, "Get on Your Boots."

    In April, Bono issued a statement on behalf of pay for musicians, saying, "It's only fair that when radio makes money by playing a recording artist's music ... the recording artist should be compensated just as songwriters are already."

    Calls and e-mails to a spokeswoman for Bono were not immediately returned.

    Other artists involved with musicFIRST include Don Henley, Celine Dion, Christina Aguilera and Wyclef Jean.

    The filing also alleges unfair treatment of other artists by radio stations in Florida, Delaware and Texas. It does not identify any of the stations but accuses the stations of unlawfully putting their own financial interests above their obligation to serve the public. The group asks the FCC, which regulates the public airwaves, to investigate.

    The controversy centers on legislation in Congress that would require radio stations to pay musicians royalties. Satellite radio, Internet radio and cable TV music channels already pay fees to performers and musicians, along with songwriter royalties. AM and FM radio stations just pay songwriters, not performers.

    The National Association of Broadcasters opposes the bill, called the Performance Rights Act. The NAB says it amounts to a tax on U.S. radio stations and threatens thousands of jobs.

    The filing by musicFIRST, made late Tuesday, also said:

    _A Delaware radio station boycotted all artists affiliated with musicFIRST for an entire month.

    _Before an interview, an artist was pressured by a Texas radio station to state on the air that the Performance Rights Act would cripple radio stations.

    ___
    On the Net:
    musicFIRST Coalition: http://www.musicfirstcoalition.org
    National Association of Broadcasters: http://www.nab.org
    i just don't understand where they think the money is going to come from to support this business model. people are already turning off the radio as it is.
    Quote Originally Posted by malcolmjamalawesome View Post
    It's when we discuss Coachella that we are at our collective dipshittiest.

  18. #378
    Young blood
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    This is the funniest shit I have read in a long time.

    Slim Jim plant explodes in N.C., 2 dead
    http://www.newsday.com/news/nationwo...0,831338.story


  19. #379
    Coachella Junkie chairmenmeow47's Avatar
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    i just hope the slim jims are ok!
    Quote Originally Posted by malcolmjamalawesome View Post
    It's when we discuss Coachella that we are at our collective dipshittiest.

  20. #380
    Young blood
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    Its like they packed in too much snap.

    Authorities could not say where in the plant the blast happened or what caused it, but some of the more 300 workers on duty said it chaos and panic followed.

    "I was getting ready to pick up a piece of meat off the line and I felt it — the percussion. And you could feel it in my chest and my ears popped," said worker Chris Woods. "One of the guys I was working with got blown back — his hat flew backwards."

  21. #381
    Coachella Junkie fatbastard's Avatar
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    July 19, 2009
    I Was a Baby Bulimic
    By FRANK BRUNI

    I have neither a therapist’s diagnosis nor any scientific literature to support the following claim, and I can’t back it up with more than a cursory level of detail. So you’re just going to have to go with me on this: I was a baby bulimic.

    Maybe not baby — toddler bulimic is more like it, though I didn’t so much toddle as wobble, given the roundness of my expanding form. I was a plump infant and was on my way to becoming an even plumper child, a ravenous machine determined to devour anything in its sights. My parents would later tell me, my friends and anyone else willing to listen that they’d never seen a kid eat the way I ate or react the way I reacted whenever I was denied more food. What I did in those circumstances was throw up.

    I have no independent memory of this. But according to my mother, it began when I was about 18 months old. It went on for no more than a year. And I’d congratulate myself here for stopping such an evidently compulsive behavior without the benefit of an intervention or the ability to read a self-help book except that I wasn’t so much stopping as pausing. But I’m getting ahead of the story.

    A hamburger dinner sounded the first alarm. My mother had cooked and served me one big burger, which would be enough for most carnivores still in diapers. I polished it off and pleaded for a second. So she cooked and served me another big burger, confident that I’d never get through it. It was the last time she underestimated my appetite.

    The way Mom told the tale, I plowed through that second burger as quickly as I had the first. Then I looked up from my highchair with lips covered in hamburger juice, a chin flecked with hamburger bun and hamburger ecstasy in my wide brown eyes. I started banging my balled little fists on the highchair’s tray.

    I wanted a third.

    Mom thought about giving it to me. She was tempted. For her it was a point of pride to cook and serve more food than anybody could eat, and the normal course of things was to shove food at people, not to withhold it.

    But she looked at me then, with my balloon cheeks and ham-hock legs, and thought: Enough. No way. He can’t fit in another six ounces of ground chuck. He shouldn’t fit in another six ounces of ground chuck. A third burger isn’t good mothering. A third burger is child abuse.

    I cried. I cried so hard that my face turned the color of a vine-ripened tomato and my breathing grew labored and a pitiful strangled noise escaped my lips, along with something else. Up came the remnants of Burger No. 2, and up came the remnants of Burger No. 1. Mom figured she had witnessed an unusually histrionic tantrum with an unusually messy aftermath. But I’ve always wondered, in retrospect and not entirely in jest, if what she had witnessed was the beginning of a cunning strategy, an intuitive design for gluttonous living. Maybe I was making room for more burger. Look, Ma, empty stomach!

    It became a pattern. No fourth cookie? I threw up. No midafternoon meal between lunch and dinner? Same deal. I had a bizarre facility for it, and Mom had a sponge or paper towels at hand whenever she was about to disappoint me.

    As I grew older and developed more dexterity and stealth and more say, I could and did work around Mom, opening a cupboard or pantry door when neither she nor anyone else was looking, or furtively shuttling some of the contents of a sibling’s trick-or-treat bag into my own, which always emptied out more quickly.

    I wasn’t merely fond of candy bars. I was fascinated by them and determined to catalog them in my head, where I kept an ever-shifting, continually updated list of the best of them, ranked in order of preference. Snickers always beat out 3 Musketeers, which didn’t have the benefit of nuts. Baby Ruth beat out Snickers, because it had even more nuts. But nuts weren’t crucial: one of my greatest joys was the KitKat bar, and I couldn’t imagine any geometry more perfect than the parallel lines of its chocolate-covered sections. I couldn’t imagine any color more beautiful than the iridescent orange of the wrapping for a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.

    And the sweetest sound in the world? The most gorgeous music?

    The bells of a Good Humor truck.

    Every summer evening, just before sundown, one of these trucks would come tinkling down Oak Avenue, a narrow road near the shoreline in Madison, Conn., northeast of New Haven, where my father’s parents owned an extremely modest summer house. I knew the options by heart. There was the Strawberry Shortcake bar, coated with sweet nibs and striped with pink and white. There was the cone with vanilla ice cream and a semihard hood of nut-sprinkled chocolate over that. An argument in its favor was the way the eating of it had discrete chapters: hood first, ice cream second, lower half of the cone after that.

    And then there was the Candy Center Crunch bar, which was vanilla ice cream in a crackling chocolate shell, with an additional, concealed element, a bit of buried treasure. When you got to the middle of the bar, you bumped up against a hard slab of nearly frozen dark chocolate, clumped around the wooden stick. You had to chisel away at it in focused bites, so that chunks didn’t tumble to the ground — lost, wasted.

    The eating of the Candy Center Crunch bar lasted longest of all. Almost without fail, that’s the bar I got.

    I remember almost everything about my childhood in terms of food — in terms of favorite foods, to be more accurate, or even favorite parts of favorite foods.



    Age 6: homemade chocolate sauce over Breyers vanilla ice cream. Mom used squares of semisweet chocolate, along with butter and milk, and as the chocolate melted in a saucepan in the galley kitchen, it perfumed the entire first floor of our Cape Cod in northern White Plains, a 45-minute train ride from Manhattan, where Dad worked. Mom made chocolate sauce every Sunday night as a special weekend treat, and my older brother, Mark, my younger brother, Harry, and I got to eat our bowls of ice cream (three scoops each) and chocolate sauce in front of the TV set while watching Mutual of Omaha’s “Wild Kingdom.” I always volunteered to carry the empty bowls back into the kitchen, because Mark’s and Harry’s were never entirely empty. There was always some neglected sauce hardening — like fudge! — at the bottom. I would sweep it up with a finger en route to the dishwasher.

    Age 7: I discovered quiche. Quiche Lorraine. Mom baked it in the upper of the double ovens on the south wall of the eat-in kitchen in our Tudor on Soundview Avenue in a section of White Plains that made believe it was part of ritzier Scarsdale, which it bordered. The quiche needed to cool for about 45 minutes before it could be eaten. I knew because I’d often kept count.

    Age 8: lamb chops. Mom served them to us for dinner at the table in the Soundview kitchen about once every three weeks. I ate not just the meat but also the curls and strips of fat at the edges of the meat. Mark and Harry winced when I did that and merely picked at their own chops, wishing aloud that it were steak night or hamburger night or pork-chop night. We were a meaty family, the chops, strips, patties and roasts filling a separate freezer in the garage. Wherever we lived, we had a separate freezer in the garage, a testament to Dad’s belief, instilled in him by his Italian-immigrant parents, that an abundance of food — or, even better, a superabundance of food — was the best measure of a family’s security in the world. Mom absorbed that thinking from him and made sure that wherever we lived, we had a separate freezer in the garage. She was mystified by, and censorious of, families who didn’t. How could they be sure to have enough kinds and cuts of meat on hand, enough varieties of ice cream to choose from? Was that really any way to live?

    All of us could eat, but Dad and I could eat the most. I took after him that way.

    During the Soundview years, he frequently took Mark, Harry and me into the city to watch the Yankees play baseball, the Knicks play basketball or the Rangers play hockey. Mark and Harry loved those games. I loved the peanuts, pretzels, hot dogs and ice-cream bars with which vendors roamed the aisles, looking for takers.

    “You’re getting another hot dog?” Dad would ask when he saw me waving down one of these vendors. He wouldn’t be opposed — just surprised. Mark and Harry would still be on their first hot dogs. Dad too. The game seemed to distract them.

    I was only a year and a half younger than Mark. Harry trailed me by just two and a half years. And as in so many families with children of the same sex clustered so closely together, the three of us defined ourselves — and were defined by Mom and Dad — in relation to one another.

    Mark was the charismatic and confident one, most at ease with his peers. Had there been fraternities in elementary school, he would have pledged the most desirable one and might well have ended up its president. He was also the agile one, adept at just about any sport Dad foisted upon us.

    He ate steadily but boringly: plain bagels with butter, cheeseburgers with ketchup but no other adornments, slices of cheese pizza instead of the pizza with sausage, peppers and onion that Mom and Dad preferred. I ate both kinds of pizza and I ate Big Macs and I ate pumpernickel bagels with cream cheese. And for every bagel Mark ate, I ate a bagel and a half.

    Harry had an extraordinary ability to focus on one task or thought to the exclusion of all others, and could spend whole days putting together the most intricate models, whole weekends building the most ambitious backyard forts. As an eater, too, he fixated on a single object of interest and lost sight of much else. For a while his fixation was French fries, and if Dad was working late and Mom took us to Howard Johnson’s or Friendly, he would get two orders of fries for dinner, then a third for dessert. He’d still be eating fries while I’d be eating the most rococo sundae or banana split on the menu. But if none of his special foods were around, he merely picked at what was in front of him, not so much disappointed as uninterested, never complaining of hunger or, as best as I could tell, experiencing it.

    I was the one who got the best report cards and who preferred mental to physical activities, in part because I was so uncoordinated — the klutz, as Mom often called me.

    “How’s my big klutz?” she would say — tenderly — as she mussed my hair and investigated a bruise on my cheek that I had received from losing my balance on the way up the stairs and falling.

    “Watch it, klutz!” she would yell — testily — when I plopped an empty plate on the counter in a way that made a plate already there plummet to the floor and shatter. “How can you be so klutzy?”

    I didn’t know, but I suspected it had something to do with my weight. That was the most obvious physical difference between Mark and me, between me and Harry. By the time I was 6, I was bigger than Mark: not just taller, but heavier, by a good 10 to 12 pounds, only a few of them attributable to the then-slight discrepancy in our heights. I wore pants with a waist size two to three inches greater than his, and I sometimes had to be taken to the husky section of boys’ departments to find them. Husky: I knew that wasn’t a good thing, a flattering thing. Other kids made sure of that.

    They joked that my initials, F.B., stood for Fat Boy. Mom told me to ignore it, but there were moments when she herself reminded me that I was larger than I should be. Frustrated by my failure to fend off an older girl at school who regularly taunted and shoved me until I gave her my lunch money, Mom said, “Next time, why don’t you just sit on her?” Mom had never seen her but made the safe assumption that I outweighed her.

    Whenever I went to the doctor for a routine checkup, I hurried off the scale, trying my best not to hear him tell Mom, yet again, that I was more than a few pounds above the recommended weight for a child of my size. I could see, in the Christmas-card pictures that Mom took every year, how much fuller my cheeks were than Mark’s or Harry’s, how much broader my waist was, and I knew that in one of these pictures, I was holding Adelle — the last of us, born four years after Harry — because I had volunteered to, figuring that it was a way of obscuring the whole middle stretch of my body.

    I wasn’t obese. I didn’t prompt stares or gasps. I was just chubby, and sometimes quite chubby, with a hunger that threatened to make matters worse and a gnawing, deepening self-consciousness that Mom picked up on and that she decided she might have a solution to.

    Mom was a sucker for fad diets. Like Dad she was always heavier than she wanted to be, though her range was smaller — she’d be, at any given moment, between 5 and 15 pounds over her goal weight — and her resolve to do something about it was more frequently renewed.

    She did some diet that required the consumption of a half-grapefruit at a half-dozen intervals during the day — it didn’t work, as I recall, but it certainly kept her safe from scurvy. There was a popcorn diet, and for a while the sounds that most frequently escaped the kitchen were the vacuumlike whirring of an air popper and the crack-****-crack of the kernels. My mother believed that somewhere out there was a holy grail of weight loss, and she would be damned if she wasn’t going to find it.

    But the diet I remember best, because I joined her on it, was Dr. Atkins’s low-carbohydrate diet. People who became wise to it only in the 1990s tend to forget that it made its initial splash back in the early 1970s, which was when Mom and I first gave it a whirl. Here was Dr. Atkins, saying that someone with an appetite that wouldn’t be tamed — an appetite like mine — didn’t have to tame it. He or she just had to channel it in the right direction, away from carbohydrates.

    Of course I had never heard the word “carbohydrate” before, but I was thrilled by all the consonants and syllables in it. To me they meant that something terribly scientific — something nutritionally profound — was at hand. I interrupted whatever latest Hardy Boys mystery I was plowing through to crack open “Dr. Atkins’s Diet Revolution,” which Mom had bought in hardcover, anxious to get her hands on it, convinced it was a keeper. I read about blood-sugar levels and these chemicals called ketones and this charmed metabolic state in which you began to generate them or expel them or swirl in them or something along those lines. I didn’t exactly understand it but knew that my goal was to achieve this state, called “ketosis.” Ketosis was my preadolescent nirvana. It was what I wished for: ketosis, along with a new five-speed bicycle.

    The Atkins diet prohibited certain things I loved, like pretzels and ice cream, but it let me have as much as I wanted of other things I also loved, like cheddar-cheese omelets with pork sausage at breakfast or hamburger patties — three of them if that was my desire, so long as I dispensed with the bun — at dinner. It allowed snacks like hunks of cheddar and roll-ups of turkey breast and Swiss cheese. I could even dip the roll-ups in mayonnaise and not be undermining the Atkins formula. According to Atkins, it was important to stay sated, because any empty crevasse of stomach was nothing but a welcome mat for a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. So I left no crevasse unfilled. And I felt relieved — liberated. Silencing taunts and getting into smaller pants wouldn’t mean going hungry.

    For lunch on most days I had tuna salad. Mom tried to make it seem more special and eventful by presenting it in geometrically interesting and colorful ways. She used the largest dinner plate she could find. She covered the plate with several overlapping leaves of iceberg lettuce. She molded the tuna salad — always Bumble Bee solid white tuna, never chunk light, never Chicken of the Sea — into three large scoops, which she put over the lettuce, within a ring of cherry tomatoes. Three scoops looked prettier than one or two. Besides, there wasn’t any doubt I would be able to finish that many.

    “Aren’t you going to have some?” I would ask.

    “Maybe later,” she’d say, and then I’d hear the crunch-whoosh of the metal peel coming off another bright pink can of Tab, the worst diet cola ever made, the diet cola Mom never betrayed, her diet cola, its distance from sweetness and its metallic taste a way of patting herself on the back. When it came to beverages, was anyone more virtuous and penitential than she? Tab was her rosary, and she said it as many as eight times a day.

    I drank Tab on Atkins. I drank Fresca too, and sugar-free iced tea of various kinds. I was concerned less with my choice and range of beverages than with the little paper strips in the medicine cabinet of the bathroom off my parents’ bedroom. The strips went along with the Atkins diet, and they were clustered in a tiny, cylindrical container, the way toothpicks might be.

    In the morning, in the late afternoon and just before bedtime, I would slide or shimmy one of the strips from the jar, hold it in my left hand and get ready to pee. Then I’d pass the strip through the stream of urine and wait to see if it changed color. If it changed color, Mom had told me, the diet was working. If it changed color, I was in ketosis, and I was melting the fat away.

    It didn’t change color on the second day. Or the third. But on the fourth, it did, going from white to a pinkish purple. And after just a few more days, I noticed a loosening in my pants. A tightening in my stomach. I was shrinking every second!

    I stayed on Atkins for close to three weeks, losing something like seven pounds: enough to land me on the slender side of stocky. Then . . . well, Mom hadn’t really worked that out. The idea, I suppose, was that I’d be so encouraged by the change in my weight that I’d safeguard it with less gluttonous behavior, and I’d revisit Atkins for a tune-up from time to time.

    As it turned out, I didn’t have to, and Atkins wasn’t what spared me the worst wages of my hunger. Sports did that. Through the swimming lessons that Mom took Mark, Harry and me to at the local Y.M.C.A., we all discovered that my clumsiness on land disappeared in the water, where I was faster and stronger than my brothers — than most kids my age. I started swimming daily, then twice daily, putting in nearly four hours in the pool on many days. By the time I was 12, that commitment made me one of the top-ranked swimmers nationally for my age in many events. It also meant I didn’t have to confront and control my overeating the way I really needed to, because the swimming burned away so many of the calories I consumed.

    It didn’t burn away enough of them: I looked a bit curvier and lumpier than most of the other kids on the pool deck. Whether during a swim practice or at a meet, I kept my T-shirt on until the moment I dove into the water, and I put it back on the second I climbed out.

    In the kitchen, Mom would become fixated for short periods on certain dishes, ingredients or culinary tropes, and for a while her obsession was wrapping things in bacon. If something could be wrapped in bacon, speared with a toothpick and broiled, she did precisely that and usually served the results as canapés, disregarding the extent to which things wrapped in bacon might fill a person and diminish his or her readiness for the rest of the meal.

    She wrapped chicken livers in bacon. Scallops too. She wrapped water chestnuts in bacon, though I never really saw the point. When you had bacon on the outside of something, why put a vegetable on the inside? It struck me as a crucial loss of nerve.

    She became obsessed for a while with club sandwiches, layered with bacon. This was because of the pool that she and Dad decided to put in the forested yard behind our house in Avon, Conn., outside of Hartford, to which Dad’s firm transferred him from New York just before I turned 13. It was a grand, ludicrous pool, out of sync with the family’s usually sensible spending habits, a splurge exponentially larger than anything before it. It was 20 yards long, so that Mark, Harry and I could do meaningful laps in it if we wanted. It resembled a lake, its deck punctuated with enormous boulders that jutted toward, and hung slightly over, the water. Given all the money that went into it, Mom all but demanded, from mid-May to late September, that we get ourselves out there and enjoy it, and so she developed what she considered pool-friendly cuisine: guacamole with chips, crudités with dip. And club sandwiches.

    The fact that the sandwiches had turkey in them allowed her to tell herself that she was making something healthier than hamburgers or hot dogs. She always bought freshly carved turkey or cooked turkey breasts herself and carved them. She carefully toasted the white or wheat bread (her choice depended on her mood and dieting cycle) so that it was firm and golden brown, discarding slices that emerged from the toaster too dark. Then she cut the sandwiches into triangular quarters, crucial to her insistence that this was just piddling poolside finger food. A person could have just a quarter sandwich — just a nibble. Who was she kidding? No one in our family stopped at a quarter or even two quarters, and I usually didn’t manage to put the brakes on before five or six.

    I had more discipline and did better with other things: chemistry, American history, Steinbeck, Wharton. At Loomis Chaffee, the private school outside of Hartford to which Mom and Dad sent us, I got A’s in my classes and had editing positions on school periodicals and was a star on the swim team. I was, as Mom and Dad had always prodded me to be, well rounded. Only, the rounded part, well, I felt that it applied to me just a little too literally.

    I either had 6 or 7 or 12 pounds that wouldn’t go away: I never knew exactly how many, because at a certain point I just stopped getting on scales. I didn’t like what they told me. I was about 5-foot-10, only three-quarters of an inch under what I’d grow to be, and according to those rigorous medical charts of ideal weights at certain heights, I should have been 170 pounds. But I often weighed above 180, and I could blame only some of those extra pounds on big bones and a genuinely broad frame.

    During physicals in doctors’ offices, I averted my eyes from the scale and instructed the doctor not to tell me the number. Usually the doctor just chuckled as he wrote it on his chart. Sometimes he said, “I’d like it if you lost 5 to 10 pounds.” He never said, “You’re fine the way you are.” I know because I listened for that — listened for some indication that I was wrong about myself.

    Ten pounds: it wasn’t a disaster. I recognized that. But it was aggravating. Maddening. It was the distance between me and some confident, enviable, all-American ideal that might well be mine if I could just turn away from yet another quarter of club sandwich, from the third buttered yam at Thanksgiving, from the second bowl of ice cream I carried up to my bedroom on a weeknight when I was up late studying.

    The extra weight was the confirmation: once a fat kid, always a fat kid, never moving through the world in the carefree fashion of people unaccustomed to worrying about their weight, never as inconspicuous. It was the stubborn thing I seemed least able to control, and I often felt that all my shortcomings flowed from it — were somehow wrapped into and perpetuated by it. If only I could fit into pants with a waist size of 31 or 32 instead of my 33s and 34s, I could walk briskly and buoyantly into a crowded school party instead of hovering tentatively at the door, unable to decide whom to approach and questioning whether my approach would be welcome.

    With 31s and 32s, I could wear whatever color and cut of shirt I wanted instead of the vertical stripes and the dark blues, browns and blacks that Mom said flattered me most. I could wear the madras sports jacket I’d tried on in a Hartford department store, the one she told me wasn’t “particularly slimming,” or the kind of red plaid flannel shirts that looked so good on some of my male classmates. My romantic thoughts turned to them in a way that clearly wasn’t going to be fleeting, and while my realization of that didn’t unsettle me as much as it does many gay teenagers, it aggravated my self-consciousness.

    During my senior year at Loomis, I got to know a girl, whom I’ll call Beth, who was also self-conscious and at war with her hunger. I sensed that instantly, and it was the main reason we became best friends. Like me, she was angry at her body, which didn’t match her face and undercut the beauty of it. Due to genes more than sports or anything else, she had the broad shoulders and thick thighs of a football player. And though her stomach was flat, her waist was broad. She was on a constant mission to whittle it down. And I joined her, convinced that together we would reach what neither of us had reached alone: the wondrous Xanadu of the willfully emaciated.

    One day she put a thin paperback in my hands.

    “Read this,” she said. “Then we’ll fast.”

    The book talked about the evil that sweets did to blood-sugar levels, the spikes and valleys they created, the insatiable hungers they bred. It recommended a three-day cleanse — no food, only water — that would break the cycle, purify the body. It promised mental clarity in the aftermath, along with an ability to manage cravings, if they even returned.

    “You’re doing what?” Mom asked when I refused dinner on Day 1 of my cleanse.

    “Fasting,” I responded.

    “That’s ridiculous,” she said. Even Mom had limits.

    “This book Beth gave me says a person can last a really long time without food,” I explained. “Longer than we think.”

    “If you want to diet,” she said, “why don’t you do low-carbohydrate?”

    “I don’t want to do Atkins,” I said. “I need to purify myself.” I imagined these little bubbles, each carrying a sign that said “Fat-Making Toxin,” cascading from my body, oozing from my pores.

    “We should go to Weight Watchers,” Mom said, my own madness pushing her closer to sanity. “I’ll pay for Weight Watchers. I’ll do it with you.”

    “It won’t cleanse me the way a fast will,” I argued. I had gone without food for only about 18 hours at that point, but I was suddenly an expert. A messiah.

    “I’ll broil you some chicken,” she said.

    “No.”

    “I’ll take off the skin,” she offered.

    “I’m fasting.”

    “Just eat the white meat,” she pleaded, “not the dark meat.”

    “I’m only going to have some hot water with lemon. I’m allowed to have lemon.”

    On Day 2, I struggled. The novelty of the experiment had worn off, and my stomach gurgled and seethed, like lava in an active volcano. I also began to feel lightheaded but chalked it up to euphoria, to the purge of those toxins from my sugar-racked body. I resolved to fast like this once a month. It would be the cornerstone of a thinner, better life.

    At school I quizzed Beth. “You really haven’t eaten anything?”

    “Nothing,” she said, but I wasn’t sure I believed her. She didn’t have the winnowed midriff that I was determined to believe I had already achieved.

    I saw her steal a bite of a cuticle. Hmm. Was that cheating? Was it tasty?

    At the beginning of Day 3, I slipped.

    I snuck a few crackers around breakfast. I drank some milk around lunchtime, because my stomach-volcano was poised for its own Pompeii. At dinnertime I accepted that I’d strayed from the plan and rationalized that I might as well stray some more. I ate a burger. But I didn’t put the beef on a bun. I had to preserve some shred of dignity.

    Although my clothes felt looser at the end of three days, I knew I couldn’t do this fasting thing again. It was too grueling. I told Beth, confessing in the process that I cheated a little, and of course she had a Plan B.

    “Protein powder,” she said, producing a new paperback filled with recipes for fat-burning shakes.

    Beth was like a mysterious witch doctor with a stock of potions that never ran out. Pills too. She’d found someone in her dormitory with a pipeline to amphetamines, these tiny pale blue ovals with dark blue flecks. They looked like shrunken robin’s eggs.

    I swallowed them to stay up all night in advance of important exams. I swallowed them before some swim meets, along with capsules of bee pollen, which I’d decided was another energy booster. And I swallowed them to keep from eating. They did the job nicely. I was slimmer senior year than I was junior year.

    But neither Beth nor her little bird eggs followed me to Chapel Hill and the University of North Carolina, to which I’d won a free ride called a Morehead Scholarship. And I decided before arriving there that I would abandon competitive swimming, which had become too monotonous and time-consuming.

    So I had to find some other antidote to my eating, some other protection from my appetite.

    To be a successful bulimic, you need to have a firm handle on the bathrooms in your life: their proximity to where you’re eating; the amount of privacy they offer; whether — if they’re public bathrooms with more than one stall — you can hear the door swing open and the footfall of a visitor with enough advance notice to stop what you’re doing and keep from being found out.

    You need to be conscious of time. There’s no such thing as bulimia on the fly; a span of at least 10 minutes in the bathroom is optimal, because you may need 5 of them to linger at the sink, splash cold water on your face and let the redness in it die down. You should always carry a toothbrush and toothpaste, integral to eliminating telltale signs of your transgression and to rejoining polite society without any offense to it. Bulimia is a logistical and tactical challenge as much as anything else. It demands planning.

    My preferred bathroom was in a back corner of the student union at Carolina, right above the office of the campus newspaper, where I spent most afternoons and evenings. It was a public bathroom with multiple stalls, but the stalls were a decent distance from the door, and the door opened noisily. Few people used this bathroom, anyway. I could walk to it in about three minutes from the university cafeteria, so neither lunch nor dinner had to sit in my stomach for long. I could get there even faster from the newspaper offices, where I sometimes ate a slice of pizza or half a tuna-salad sandwich too many. With a quick jaunt up the stairs, these excesses could be erased.

    I thought that I was clever — that I was doing something lots of other people would if they just had the nerve, the poise, the industry. I knew it was supposed to be dangerous: I read stories in newspapers and magazines about this behavior, always characterized as a disorder, an affliction. It was these stories that gave me the idea. From them I concluded that people who threw up their meals tended to get carried away with what was an otherwise solid, tenable plan, especially if they fell prey to anorexia as well, and I was an unlikely candidate for that. Even a fast of merely three days had foiled me. But if a person just threw up the occasional meal, the meal that had gotten out of hand, well, what was the harm in that?

    And consider the benefits. My willpower could waver, I could gobble down more than I had meant to, and I wouldn’t have to go to bed haunted by the looming toll on my waistline or wake up the next morning owing the gods of weight management even more of a sacrifice than I owed them the day before. Throwing up was my safety valve. My mulligan.

    It usually happened like this: I would go to the cafeteria, begin to assemble my dinner. I’d get a salad, or something similarly virtuous. I’d pick at it slowly, hoisting the picayune cherry tomatoes and wan slices of cucumber into my mouth one at a time, in slow motion, and then chewing and chewing and chewing, as if there were some odometer rigged to my jaw and I could stave off hunger by pushing the numbers on it high enough.

    There would be a few jagged cubes of feta in the salad, each one an event I would pause and savor for half a minute. They and the croutons, all four of them, were islands of excitement in a dead sea.

    Upon finishing the salad, I wouldn’t be anywhere close to satisfied. I wouldn’t be in the same hemisphere as satisfied. And the sound of that dissatisfaction, like a drumbeat in the center of my brain, would grow louder and louder.

    Pum-pum. I could have had a burger. I had seen the cafeteria workers cooking burgers on a griddle. There were burgers to be ordered. I could have had one.

    Pum-PUM. Macaroni and cheese. There was macaroni and cheese. It looked sort of congealed and stiff at the edges. I love it when it’s sort of congealed and stiff at the edges.

    PUM-PUM. Remember the smell of the hot oil that still clung to the fried chicken on the food line? And the way the chicken seemed to have a palpable crispness? And yet . . . and yet . . . the breading didn’t look all that thick. Could one piece, a breast, hurt so much? Hadn’t Mom always said that white meat was less caloric than dark?

    I’d go back to the food line. I’d get a fried chicken breast. I’d eat it, and then I’d worry — no, I’d conclude — that I’d miscalculated. That I’d eaten too much and would have to get rid of some of what I’d eaten. This decision made, I’d get an ice-cream sandwich. And a cookie. Two cookies, actually. If I was going to empty my stomach — if I was going to go through all of that messy, beet-faced trouble — I might as well make the most of the buildup, might as well acknowledge and address all my cravings and satisfy them. That way, I’d be less tempted the next day. I’d be less likely to need to throw up.

    Off to the second-floor bathroom in the back corner of the student union I’d go. I’d walk in, listen for the sounds of anyone else, bend down and glance under the stalls to check for feet, making sure the coast was clear. I’d stop briefly at the sink, turn on the water and moisten the index and middle fingers on my right hand, so that they’d slide more easily down my throat. Two fingers were better than one. They brought the gagging on faster.

    Throwing up wasn’t the first weight-management strategy I tried after I got to Carolina and realized how many pizza deliveries were made to the dorm every hour after noon and how many pints of Häagen-Dazs were scattered through convenience stores and snack bars and how irresistible the South’s biscuits were, especially when cradling eggs, cheese and sausage.

    First I signed up for a physical-education class, a twice-weekly regimen of calisthenics that had the additional benefit of fulfilling some requirement. But at the initial meeting of the class, the teacher talked about something called a body-fat index, then produced a contraption with pinchers to grab and measure any folds of fat around our waists. We had to roll up our T-shirts so the measurement could be made. I registered a higher body fat index than half of the other students. And dropped the class later that same day.

    Then I became a vegetarian, figuring I wouldn’t have to be vigilant about how much I ate if I limited the categories of food I allowed myself. When friends got hamburgers, I got grilled cheese. I ate plain pizza instead of pepperoni. O.K., so I sometimes ate five or six slices, but wasn’t the food I was giving my body supposed to be easier to digest than meat, and wouldn’t my body respond by digesting and getting rid of it more easily? I believed that for about four weeks, after which point it became clear that my particular approach to vegetarianism wasn’t making me thin.

    One night about midway through the fall semester, I sat alone in my room — my roommate was away somewhere — and reeled from a night of too many and too much of everything: plastic cups of beer from a keg at some outdoor party, pizza afterward, ice cream after that. I was angry at myself for all that I’d eaten and felt slightly queasy. I worried that I’d throw up.

    And then, a split second later, without any conscious transition, I hoped I’d throw up. It hit me: if I threw up, the evening’s eating would be expunged.

    I was already on the precipice of getting sick. With a little effort, could I get myself over the edge?

    Yes, yes, I could.

    By the middle of the spring semester, I was expert at it.

    Freshman year, I often ate dinner with my closest friends, whom I’ll call Abigail and Jared. Abigail was my stand-in for Beth, another looker adept at weaving an air of melodrama. Jared was the gay man I wanted to be: quick with a quip, confident in his charms, slight enough to wear plaids and horizontal stripes. He tended to pick at his food, while Abigail could go either way, eating a lot or a little, depending on her mood. I always started out determined not to eat much, but there was food and there were restaurants that foiled me, like the tuna salad at Sadlack’s, a deli of sorts that we frequented.

    “Be right back,” I said one night when the three of us were there, as I clambered out of our booth and headed to the bathroom in the back.

    I’d eaten too much: a whole tuna submarine, when half would have been more than enough. No way was I going to let all of that linger in my stomach. The bathroom at Sadlack’s was for one person only, and it locked, so I had the privacy I needed. I ran water from the sink to camouflage any sound I might make. I got to work immediately. I kept getting speedier and speedier at this.

    Within 45 seconds the sandwich was gone. I flushed the toilet, then went to the sink and scooped some cold water into my mouth to rinse it. I splashed some water on my face. I studied myself in the mirror. I needed to wait a bit longer before returning to the booth. I was still too red.

    After a minute, I made a fresh appraisal: pink now. Much better. Almost there.

    Thirty seconds later, I was good to go. My eyes were still watery and faintly bloodshot. But how much of a giveaway, really, was that? Eyes could look the way mine did for any number of reasons. Allergies. Dirty contact lenses. Those were two reasons right off the top of my head.

    Jared and Abigail weren’t talking when I returned. And they were looking at each other in a puffed-up, purposeful way. Then they were looking at me.

    “So,” Jared asked, “did it taste as good coming up as it did going down?”

    “What?” I asked, going through his words one at a time, twice over. Could they have a meaning other than the obvious one? Could he be asking about something other than what I’d just done in the bathroom?

    I didn’t think so, but I didn’t cop to anything right away. I feigned confusion.

    Jared rolled his eyes.

    Abigail said, “Do you really think we don’t know what’s happening when you disappear into the bathroom the minute you stop eating?”

    “When do I do that?” I asked, trying for a tone of indignation, because that’s how the falsely accused were supposed to sound.

    “Um, I don’t know, maybe half the time we eat with you,” Jared said.

    “So I go to the bathroom!” I said.

    “And come back looking like you’ve been hit by food poisoning,” Abigail said. She emphasized and drew out the words “food poisoning.” Abigail didn’t just speak; she delivered lines.

    I slumped. “You know,” I said, “it’s not such a bad thing.”

    “Tell that to Karen Carpenter,” Jared said. She’d died that February. I’d read some of the articles. I’d actually taken a weird sort of comfort from them, because they included details like her possible use of ipecac to make herself vomit. I’d never even heard of ipecac before. The articles included pictures of her looking cadaverous. I’d need several three-day fasts or two weeks of protein shakes to close in on bony.

    But, truth be told, the articles — or, rather, the accompanying sidebars and television chatter about eating disorders — did spook me a little. They went through the effects this bulimia thing could have on your skin (bad), hair (worse), gums (eek!) and fingernails (nasty). For me the whole point of throwing up was to look better, and I was having trouble ignoring the prospect of looking worse if I kept at it long enough. A slim worse, true. A worse with — potentially — a 32-inch waist. But worse all the same. That wasn’t my intent.

    And now Jared and Abigail were telling me I wasn’t even succeeding in keeping my throwing up a secret. If the two of them had figured out the truth, had others too? I apparently couldn’t control that, and that wasn’t O.K. A person known to be thin only by dint of regular vomiting would attract titters and jokes, not dates.

    So I stopped, or vowed to, at first managing only to decrease the frequency of my purges, but soon abandoning them altogether. I succeeded, I think, because so many other extreme or warped weight-management regimens — including more Atkins and more fasting — took the place of bulimia as I struggled for decades to figure out how to answer my appetite without being undone by it and as I traced an unlikely route to the most implausible of destinations: professional eating.

    Frank Bruni is the restaurant critic for The New York Times. His memoir, “Born Round: The Secret History of a Full-Time Eater,” from which this article is adapted, will be published next month.
    Whiskey Sour

    2 oz blended whiskey
    Juice of 1/2 lemon
    1/2 tsp powdered sugar
    1 cherry
    1/2 slice lemon

    Shake blended whiskey, juice of lemon, and powdered sugar with ice and strain into a whiskey sour glass. Decorate with the half-slice of lemon, top with the cherry, and serve.

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    old school zenidogx's Avatar
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    Black scholar's arrest raises profiling questions
    By MELISSA TRUJILLO, Associated Press Writer – 1 hr 32 mins ago
    BOSTON – Police responding to a call about "two black males" breaking into a home near Harvard University ended up arresting the man who lives there — Henry Louis Gates Jr., the nation's pre-eminent black scholar.
    Gates had forced his way through the front door because it was jammed, his lawyer said. Colleagues call the arrest last Thursday afternoon a clear case of racial profiling.
    Cambridge police say they responded to the well-maintained two-story home after a woman reported seeing "two black males with backpacks on the porch," with one "wedging his shoulder into the door as if he was trying to force entry."
    By the time police arrived, Gates was already inside. Police say he refused to come outside to speak with an officer, who told him he was investigating a report of a break-in.
    "Why, because I'm a black man in America?" Gates said, according to a police report written by Sgt. James Crowley. The Cambridge police refused to comment on the arrest Monday.
    Gates — the director of Harvard's W.E.B. Du Bois Institute for African and African American Research — initially refused to show the officer his identification, but then gave him a Harvard University ID card, according to police.
    "Gates continued to yell at me, accusing me of racial bias and continued to tell me that I had not heard the last of him," the officer wrote.
    full article here:
    http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/us_harvar...lar_disorderly
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  24. #384
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    Default Re: Articles 2.0

    would you let your 13 year old sail around the world?

    Dutch teen in battle to sail solo around globe

    By MIKE CORDER, Associated Press Writer Mike Corder, Associated Press Writer – Tue Aug 25, 2:12 pm ET

    THE HAGUE, Netherlands – Thirteen-year-old Laura Dekker wants to become the youngest person to sail solo around the world, and her parents think that's a great idea.

    But the Dutch Council for Child Protection is so concerned about the dangers of the marathon voyage it has asked a court to grant it temporary custody of Laura so it can do what her parents refuse to: Halt the trip.

    Judges at Utrecht District Court were to announce Friday whether they will scupper Laura's record-breaking plans. In the meantime, the legal battle has ignited a wide-ranging debate even in this traditionally seafaring nation about the role that parents should play in their children's risky adventures.

    The rat race to become a so-called "super child" — the youngest to accomplish some grueling feat — can be fueled by ambitious parents, laser-focused children with talent, or youngsters with a deep need to please or be praised, psychologists say.

    Dutch social workers fear that could be an issue in Laura's case, for she lives with her Dutch father who is divorced from her German mother.

    "Laura has divorced parents and it is very normal for a child of this age to be very loyal to the parent (he or she) is living with," Child Protection spokesman Richard Bakker told The Associated Press on Tuesday. "How much does she identify herself with her father, who is a good sailor?"

    Laura and her father appeared at a court hearing Monday to discuss the council's request, but the mother did not show up, Bakker said.

    Record-breaking attempts by children can become memorable personal triumphs but also run the risk of turning to tragedy — with the inevitable recriminations for having allowed it to happen.

    In an editorial Tuesday, the Dutch daily De Volkskrant warned that the young sailor was unwittingly putting herself in significant danger.

    "She simply does not have the experience to anticipate the problems and possible crises that await her," the paper wrote.

    Besides the physical hazards, experts also warn that being alone for so long at such a young age could hinder the child's emotional development.

    "A 13-year-old girl is in the middle of her development and you don't do that alone — you need peers and adults," said Micha de Winter, a professor of child psychology at Utrecht University.

    Adults can make choose to be alone, he added, "but for children it is not good."

    "Particularly the absence of parents at such a crucial time of the child's development ... the risks are serious," he told AP.

    Laura was born in New Zealand while her parents were on a round-the-world sailing trip and spent the first four years of her life on the ocean. She was not available for comment Tuesday.

    Yet speaking recently to a Dutch children's news show, Laura said she had been sailing solo since she was six and began dreaming of sailing around the world when she was 10.

    "I asked my parents if I could — please — start now," she said.

    "In the beginning, they asked if I was sure I really wanted to do it," she said. "They have sailed around the world so they know what could happen and that it's not always fun, but I realize that too. But I really wanted to do it so my parents said, 'Good, we'll help you.'"

    The trip means Laura would have to drop out of high school and teach herself while at sea or in port. Dutch authorities have to give permission for such a plan but say such home schooling must be supervised by an adult.

    Laura's lawyer, Peter de Lange, said authorities should just let her chase her dream in her 26-foot (8-meter) boat, Guppy.

    "There is no legal debate about her (sailing) skills," he told The AP. He said both of her parents tried to discourage Laura before she won them over.

    Laura hopes to set sail in September and plans to take two years, resting in ports to avoid bad weather.

    Zac Sunderland, a 17-year-old from Thousand Oaks, California, grabbed the youngest solo record last month when he completed a 28,000-mile (45,000-kilometer) trip on his 36-foot (11-meter) boat in 13 months.

    British sailor Mike Perham, who is a few months younger than Sunderland, is expected to snatch that record away when he completes his own round-the-world voyage in the coming days, docking in the southern English city of Portsmouth.

    Sunderland thinks adults should trust more in the abilities of teenagers.

    "There's so much more potential to what young people can do. Go out there and do your own thing," he told a crowd of well wishers as he completed his voyage July 16.

    Sunderland also said he was humbled by meeting people around the world who live in such poor conditions.

    As for physical dangers, the American teen admitted he was tracked by pirates while sailing from Australia to the Cocos Islands and had to call Australian authorities in to scare the hijackers off.

    "I had this boat following me all over the place and circling," Sunderland said.

    Laura is the latest in a long line of children seeking to put their name in the record books, sometimes with disastrous consequences.

    The Guinness Book of World Records would not comment specifically on her case but said it stayed away from many such records.

    "(We have) a standard policy that does not sanction, endorse or encourage attempts by minors (people under the age of 16) on records which are dangerous or potentially life-threatening," Guinness spokesman Damian Field said.

    In 1996, 7-year-old Jessica Dubroff died along with her father and a flight instructor when her plane crashed in Cheyenne, Wyoming, as she attempted to become the youngest person to fly coast-to-coast in the United States.

    The National Transportation Safety Board concluded the crash occurred because the girl's flight instructor took off in bad weather in a bid to keep up with "media commitments" about the record-breaking flight.

    The child-pilot phenomenon ended with her death, as the U.S. Congress quickly passed a bill banning record-setting attempts by unlicensed pilots.

    A Nepalese boy, Temba Tsheri, lost five fingers to frostbite in an aborted attempt to climb Everest in 2000. A year later at 16, he became the youngest climber at the time to reach the summit of the world's highest mountain.

    In India, where breaking records is a national obsession, a 4-year-old boy, Budhia Singh, became a national celebrity when he attempted to run a 70-kilometer (43-mile) marathon in May 2006.

    But his coach was later charged with torturing the child after Singh's mother said she discovered scars on her son's body. The coach was shot dead last year before the case reached court.

    Winter, the child psychologist, said parents need to step up and warn their children of risks they are taking.

    "As adults, you have a very important responsibility to oversee more aspects than just the (child's) dream," he said. "I'm not saying children shouldn't have dreams, but sometimes dreams are just dreams."
    i would probably say no or only allow them if an adult was around. i'm sure the child has the skills, but 13 year olds aren't really equipped to make appropriate life or death decisions on the spot and i would worry more about how they would handle "what if's" should they arise. plus, the school thing. i'm torn though, what do you guys think?
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    It's when we discuss Coachella that we are at our collective dipshittiest.

  25. #385
    Coachella Junkie fatbastard's Avatar
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    Default Re: Articles 2.0



    Fla. woman accused of hitting man with raw steak
    18 mins ago
    DUNNELLON, Fla. – A 53-year-old was arrested after allegedly hitting a man in the head with a raw steak. According to a Marion County Sheriff's Office report, the man told deputies Elsie Egan repeatedly hit him with the uncooked meat and slapped his face after he refused a piece of sliced bread. The man said he wanted a bread roll.

    Egan denied hitting the man with the steak but did admit to slapping him, saying she did it "so that he could learn."

    The man told deputies that Egan was his live-in girlfriend. He declined medical assistance.

    Egan was charged with abuse of a disabled adult. According to online records, she has been released on $2,500 bond and is scheduled to appear in court in January. It's unclear if she has an attorney
    Whiskey Sour

    2 oz blended whiskey
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    1/2 tsp powdered sugar
    1 cherry
    1/2 slice lemon

    Shake blended whiskey, juice of lemon, and powdered sugar with ice and strain into a whiskey sour glass. Decorate with the half-slice of lemon, top with the cherry, and serve.

  26. #386
    Coachella Junkie humanoid's Avatar
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    Default Re: Articles 2.0

    Quote Originally Posted by chairmenmeow47 View Post
    would you let your 13 year old sail around the world?



    i would probably say no or only allow them if an adult was around. i'm sure the child has the skills, but 13 year olds aren't really equipped to make appropriate life or death decisions on the spot and i would worry more about how they would handle "what if's" should they arise. plus, the school thing. i'm torn though, what do you guys think?
    no chance
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    Woman allegedly pours grits on sleeping boyfriend
    Thu Dec 10, 8:19 pm ET
    BOUTTE, La. – A 44-year-old woman was booked with second-degree battery after allegedly pouring a pot of boiling grits onto her sleeping boyfriend. St. Charles Parish sheriff's deputies said Carolyn Brown caused second-degree burns on the man's face and arms. The man told deputies that he came home from work on Nov. 7, got into an argument with Brown, told her that he was breaking up with her, then went to bed.

    The Times-Picayune reported Brown was arrested Wednesday and booked into the Nelson Coleman Correctional Facility.

    It wasn't immediately clear if Brown has an attorney.
    Whiskey Sour

    2 oz blended whiskey
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    1/2 tsp powdered sugar
    1 cherry
    1/2 slice lemon

    Shake blended whiskey, juice of lemon, and powdered sugar with ice and strain into a whiskey sour glass. Decorate with the half-slice of lemon, top with the cherry, and serve.

  28. #388
    Coachella Junkie fatbastard's Avatar
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    Woman calls 911 when husband refuses to eat dinner
    Wed Dec 23, 9:10 pm ET
    KERRVILLE, Texas – Prosecutors will review the case of a woman authorities claim has called 911 30 times over six months for non-emergency reasons, including a call to complain that her husband refused to eat his dinner. Last Friday, the woman allegedly made a pair of calls to 911, including a hang-up and another where a woman was heard screaming.

    Police were dispatched to the residence and officer Paul Gonzales said police were told by her that "her husband did not want to eat his supper." A police report said the 53-year-old woman was also yelling "about things that happened two weeks ago."

    The woman now faces charges of 911 abuse.
    Whiskey Sour

    2 oz blended whiskey
    Juice of 1/2 lemon
    1/2 tsp powdered sugar
    1 cherry
    1/2 slice lemon

    Shake blended whiskey, juice of lemon, and powdered sugar with ice and strain into a whiskey sour glass. Decorate with the half-slice of lemon, top with the cherry, and serve.

  29. #389
    Coachella Junkie fatbastard's Avatar
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    Default Re: Articles 2.0


    In this Dec. 27, 2009 still made from video provided by the Kansas City, Mo. Police shows a woman getting ready to throw a sign as she goes on a rampage at a McDonald's in Kansas City because she didn't like her hamburger. Police say the woman caused thousands of dollars in damage when she became upset that the restaurant wouldn't refund her money.
    (AP Photo/Courtesy Kansas City, Mo. Police)
    Whiskey Sour

    2 oz blended whiskey
    Juice of 1/2 lemon
    1/2 tsp powdered sugar
    1 cherry
    1/2 slice lemon

    Shake blended whiskey, juice of lemon, and powdered sugar with ice and strain into a whiskey sour glass. Decorate with the half-slice of lemon, top with the cherry, and serve.

  30. #390
    LOLocaust Survivor Hannahrain's Avatar
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