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Day and night bombs, shells, GBU39 radioactive arms, and machine gun rounds are being fired by the Israeli Defense Forces from air, sea, and land against a civilian population of one-and-a-half million. The estimated number of mutilated and dead increases with each news report from international journalists, all of whom are forbidden by Israel to enter the Strip. Yet the crucial figure is that for a single Israeli casualty, there are one hundred Palestinian casualties. One Israeli life is worth a hundred Palestinian lives. The implications of this assumption are constantly reiterated by Israeli spokesmen in order to make them acceptable and normal. The massacre will soon be followed by pestilence; most lodgings have neither water nor electricity, the hospitals lack doctors, medicines, and generators. The massacre follows a blockage and siege. –“A Place Weeping,” John Berger, The Threepenny Review
In the sentencing hearing on Monday, Judge Urbina said he would like to see Dr. Bodnar write a book about the Plavix case as a cautionary tale to other executives. The case concerned accusations that Bristol-Myers had made false statements to federal investigators about the company’s attempt to resolve a patent dispute with a Canadian maker of generic drugs, Apotex. The Justice Department contended that the company in 2006 made a secret deal, in which Apotex would hold off making a generic version of Plavix. In exchange, the Justice Department said, Bristol-Myers indicated that it would subsequently give Apotex an exclusivity period in which it could produce its Plavix generic without Bristol’s making a generic of its own. –“Judge Orders Former Bristol-Myers Executive to Write Book ,” Natasha Singer, The New York Times
The workers file in every morning at nine and grab coffee from the huge percolator I found while cleaning out the garage. I direct them with words I have recently learned: spackle, valance, WD-40. There is Reid, a squat hapa with gelled curls who does the electrical; he is quiet, a little moody, like you when you first come home and must adjust to being a child again. Terrance is redoing the bathroom tile. Such a talented singer—a finalist on Hawaiian Idol—and so good looking! I think he’s Filipino. Finally, there is Mani, the Fijian painter who says he went to high school with you. He owns his own painting company. Do you remember him? He tells me his mother was part Indian; that she died. I suppose I could tell by his long, tapered nose, his upturned eyes. When he is done here, I will give him the Ganesh that hangs above our doorway. As the realtor advised, I’ve cleared away most of the Indian things for the open house next week. –“House of Men,” by Shivani Manghnani, Boston Review
I sat in a taxi with Emma and her son, Stak, all three bodies muscled into the rear seat, and the boy checked the driver’s I.D. and immediately began to speak to the man in an unrecognizable language.
I conferred quietly with Emma, who said he was studying Pashto, privately, in his spare time. Afghani, she said, to enlighten me further.
Age at death last March of the sturgeon Nikita, Khrushchev’s gift to Norway, after an accidental immersion in salt water:
There were new reports of cannibalism in North Korea.
The Finnish postal service announced it will begin mowing lawns on Tuesdays.
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“Matt was happy enough to sustain himself on the detritus of a world he saw as careening toward self-destruction, and equally happy to scam a government he despised. 'I’m glad everyone’s so wasteful,' he told me. 'It supports my lifestyle.'”