Since there are many elements to what defined “hysteria” both then and now, its definition, diagnosis, and treatment has drastically changed especially over recent time.
Over two thousand years ago hysteria derived its namesake from a Greek guy, Hippopotamus MD who announced sometime around 400 BC that “hysterikos” meant that women were emotionally unstable due to their uterus wandering around their belly searching for children. Or something like that.
I would like to say that much of the medical world still doles out similar theories.
I took this a while ago but it makes me feel good to look at it now, and since this week has been harsh for many, I figured the solace of a church, or better yet, some palm trees, would be nice.
Vietnam is moving right on up the economic food chain. They’re building like mad, every street has either a building coming down or one going up, all day long there isn’t a moment where I’m not listening to a sander, grinder, hammer or guy yelling. There are more cranes here than in an Audobon book and they go at all hours through the night.
But the Vietnamese don’t always have the heavy equipment needed for large tasks so many times it’s sheer manpower being used to excavate and haul heavy loads. Coming from the west it’s astounding to see what can be done without a Kubota or a backhoe. Then I think of when construction was done without heavy machinery and it’s a lot like looking back in time when I gawk at these enormous building sites.
It’s thrilling to be in the midst of such furious development but it sucks when you wake up to three different construction jobs on the same block. Two people hammering and one guy working a tilesaw, I swear, right on the other side of my headboard.
I suppose I should start getting out of bed before 11 am, anyway. Lazy gringo.
What is going on with Mickey Rourke? Is he not one of the perennial cool/scuzzy/sexy/scumbag badasses in all of Hollywood? My man Mickey is looking a lot different lately, and looking stranger and stranger with each passing film. What is going on? Why must many of the great faces and bodies of treasured American entertainment undergo procedures that render them puffy, wind-tunneled, squinty tragedies with feet?
I won’t even get into Kenny Rogers or any other plastic surgery apocalypse seeping out of the Hollywood Hills.
Cosmetic surgery is a godsend for those born with deformities or those accidentally disfigured. Ain’t it odd how people whose entire careers and million dollar empires which are founded on their appearance eventually resort to surgeries that make them look like a kid with a genetic malformation?
Being addicted to facelifts and injections, suctions and tucks is the greatest plague to sweep the wealthy in a long time. Not unlike tattoos, piercings, and any other body modifications, elective cosmetic surgery can lead to just more and more until the skin runs out. Though it is a wonderful way to differentiate yourself from the rest of the pack because nobody wants to move to Florida with a turkey waddle beneath their neck and underarm meat flaps. Or show up at the hot little nightspot not sporting a pair of disproportionate saline bombs and Mick Jagger lips.
What if the economy was linked to how much a celebrity’s face droops? Withered and saggy = Bear market. Strong and tight = Bust out the bubbly.
Like a jailhouse tat or any home-jobby piercing, cosmetic surgery should start at home. Then maybe a small botch will deter those who would be spending enormous amounts of money on procedures that will only lead to them being mocked and pitied. But what about people’s freedom of choice, you ask? Don’t they have the right to spend their money on what they want, looking how they want to look?
I suppose you have a point, smart reader.
Maybe I’m jealous because they have loads of money sitting in an “I’m-looking-like-a-shoe-time-for-some-surgery” fund and I’m stuck with the way I look. Forever. Unless I have one of my buddies help me get that permanent smirk I’ve always wanted. Pope of Greenwich Village style.
I would never just punch someone in the face. Mainly because I don’t like my face being punched and that is what would eventually happen in this scenario.
It is also why I don’t shoot people. I don’t what someone coming back and putting a bullet in my rear. I believe the arithmetic here is quite simple (but we all know the world would rather be a quadratic equation). All over the planet people are using guns instead of dialogue and shells instead of compromise.
So I pose the question: Why do people shoot each other?
Because we’re idiots. Well, that was too easy. Let’s play again.
Nobody uses swords anymore.
We don’t have time to talk.
Their god tells them to.
The voices in our heads tells us to.
We watch too many movies, play too many video games, and listen to too much heavy metal. And rap.
We are only protecting ourselves.
I cannot think of any more justifications for such violence, but I’ll keep trying. I don’t agree with any of the reasons above except for the first one.
I love being around comely smokers because I can almost taste that sexy, crisp, delicious moment that only happens when I’m truly enjoying life.
Seriously, they’re like a pair of beautiful legs.
In India, there are people who, in the name of religion, gather en masse to worship and revel in their faith. They converge in temples that are usually antiquated and not designed for such large groups, so sometimes when they’re celebrating their relationship with god, tragedies occur. As in stapmedes, where twice in India this year hundreds of people were fatally trampled.
Unfortunately, human stampedes happen quite often, involving pilgrims, soccer fans and nightclub-goers all over the world.
But only in the great United States do people stomp on each other to death to cram themselves into a department store to buy things.
To celebrate their relationship with god.