Holy Crap! China Doesn't Mess Around

The International Herald Tribune today reports that,

The former head of China's top food and drug safety agency was sentenced to death Tuesday after pleading guilty to corruption and accepting bribes, the state-controlled news media reported.

Zheng Xiaoyu, who served as commissioner of the Food and Drug Administration from its founding in 1998 until mid-2005, was detained in February as part of a government investigation into corruption at the agency.

The unusually harsh sentence for the 62-year-old former commissioner came at a time of heightened concern about the quality and safety of China's food and drug system, following a series of scandals here involving tainted food and counterfeit drugs.

This isn't just a bureaucrat accepting C-notes for favours. According to the article Chinese exports have been responsible for the following deaths and sicknesses:

• pet food recall in North America
• diethylene glycol, a toxic chemical used to make antifreeze, ended up in cough syrup and toothpaste in Latin America
• 100 Panamanians dying as a result of injesting cough medicine laced with diethylene glycol
• Chinese-made toothpaste tainted with diethylene glycol was pulled off store shelves in Panama, the Dominican Republic and Nicaragua
• Last year 11 people died in China after being treated with an injection tainted by a fake chemical
• 6 Chinese died and 80 fell ill after taking an antibiotic that was produced with what regulators later said was a "substandard disinfectant"

Zheng is being held ultimately responsible. And they say shit only rolls downhill. Scary.

Once

I'm adding Irish indie film Once to my to-see list. Why? Well, it looks good, and stars Glen Hansard, he of the film The Commitments and the band The Frames.

I Know, I Know

I'm bad blogger. In fact, I think I hear the sneakered feet of net geeks at my door to pry my keyboard from my cold, sleep-deprived hands. My excuse? Well, six-day work weeks, a promotion and its accompanying work load, and spring. After a whole two months of winter (ok, technically four if you include the grey-and-bleak season) I need out of my bunker. I've begun my wee container garden. I'm up to three containers, all of which contain flowers. Up next: herbs. When I'm not digging in "triple-mix soil," I'm reading for work. Occasionally, I manage to look the boggle box. Or sleep. Which is where I'm headed now. But stay tuned: I have managed to have a life, flag some news articles, and get outraged. Oh, and see Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. Do so, too, if you have the chance.

Over and zzzzz.

The Reality of "Reality" TV

According to the LA Times, The Writers' Guild is threatening to strike. This means a lot of overtime for all the crew as scripts are stockpiled and shows are shot. This will also likely mean the continuation of crappy reality shows:

Network business affairs executives are combing their libraries to identify which shows they have the rights to rebroadcast and to compile alternative schedules jammed with movies, news programs, reality fare and game shows.

Hit shows such as Fox's "American Idol" are not only hugely popular, but they are also cheaper to produce than scripted programs. And most reality shows aren't covered under the Writers Guild contracts despite efforts by the union to organize the booming sector

And it is for this reason I don't watch "reality" progamming. Writers write better shows.

Give 'em Enough Rope

The Independent reports that legendary record producer Phil Spector said that women deserve a bullet in the brain:

Separately, prosecutors are also attempting to introduce testimony from a former police detective who provided security at a Christmas party held at the home of Joan Rivers in 1995 or 1996 that Mr Spector declared that women "deserve to die. They all deserve a bullet in their... head" while he was being escorted out after a fracas inside.

He's still on trial for the murder of actress Lana Clarkson at his Los Angeles mansion on Febrary 3, 2003.

Keep talkin', Phil. You're doing great.

Words to Keep in Mind

I finished reading Hunter S. Thompson's Hey Rube. The edition I had was murder to my copy-editing eyes, but I've learned (or am trying to learn) to read for content when I'm not on the clock. (When is that exactly? I don't friggen know.) The following is found at the end:

Politics is the art of controlling your environment. That is one of the key things I learned in these years, and I learned it the hard way. Anybody who thinks that "it doesn't matter who's president" has never been drafted and sent off to a fight and die in a vicious, stupid war on the other side of the world---or been beaten and gassed by police for trespassing on public property---or been hounded by the IRS for purely political reasons---or locked up in the Cook County Jail with a broken nose and no phone access and twelve perverts wanting to stomp your ass in the shower. That is when it matters who is president or governor or police chief. That is when you will wish you had voted.

Lockdown!

Does it mean I have street cred if every school I attended was locked down? Ok, I didn't attend at the time, but still it's weird when your elementary, junior high, and high schools make headlines:

From the Globe and Mail:

Nearly one in seven Toronto public schools was locked down in the past academic year in response to threats or acts of violence on school grounds or nearby.

Lockdowns affected 81 of the Toronto District School Board's 558 schools -- and some principals had to keep their students behind locked classroom doors more than once during the school year.

Education officials frequently point to safety procedures instituted after violent incidents. But the figures, obtained by The Globe and Mail through an access-to-information request, paint a distressing picture of schools not doing enough to deter intruders and, as a result, having to resort to lockdowns.

Not only that, but my local Hell's Angel's clubhouse was closed down by police today. There goes the neighbourhood.

How to Cure a Head Cold

In a big mug, pour hot water over

1-2 oz whiskey
chamomile tea
honey
1 lemon slice
1-2 cloves
1 cinnamon stick

Best when served with a big, fluffy duvet, a box of Kleenex, and Vanity Fair.

Who Knew, Hoodoo Guru?

Australia's Hoodoo Gurus are back and back it, according to today's Toronto Star:

Twenty-three years after the Hoodoo Gurus broke into the Australian rock arena with the garage/alt.country-grunge/pop masterpiece Stoneage Romeos and not heard together since the 1996 release of their unofficial "final statement," the album Blue Cave, the Gurus are among us again, determined to rock on as if they'd never been gone.

"We weren't really gone ... we just didn't play together as the Gurus after Blue Cave," the Gurus' front man and songwriter Dave Faulkner said in a phone interview last week from Austin, Tex., where the band performed four times in two days at the giant SXSW fest.

They play at the Legendary Horseshoe Tavern tomorrow, Friday, March 23 at 11:30. Advance tickets are $20 at Ticketmaster, the club, Rotate This, and Soundscapes. At the door, they're $25.

Are You or Were You Ever a Member?

The Communist Party USA today announced that it was donating its history to New York University. According to the New York Times:

By offering such an inside view, the archives have the potential to revise assumptions on both the left and the right about one of the most contentious subjects in American history, in addition to filling out the story of progressive politics, the labor movement and the civil rights struggles.

“It is one of the most exciting collecting opportunities that has ever presented itself here,” said Michael Nash, the director of New York University’s Tamiment Library, which will announce the donation on Friday.

Liberal and conservative historians, told by The New York Times about the archives, were enthusiastic about the addition of so many original documents to the historical record. No one yet knows whether they can resolve the die-hard disputes about the extent of the links between American subversives and Moscow since, as Mr. Nash said, “it will take us years to catalog.” But what is most exciting, said Mr. Nash and other scholars, is the new areas it opens up for research beyond the homegrown threat to security during the cold war.

Among the various correspondence, newsletters, buttons, and so on are Pete Seeger's lyrics to "Turn, Turn, Turn" and songwriter/poet/activist Joe Hill's handwritten will.

Fashion Weak

Any dictionary will concur: a book launch at a Fashion Week event is ironic. Sex and the City aside, fashionistas are not lit freaks. If it ain’t glossy, it ain’t. That rule holds for people as much as it does for books.

And so I found myself at such a gathering this week. Last Friday, my invitation arrived in my work email. Being a glutton for “material,” I figured I’d go and channel my inner Carrie Bradshaw. Naturally, I spent the weekend agonizing over what to wear. I’m not a clothes horse. I could be. I’d like to be, but working in the arts, particularly in publishing, is not conducive to such equine aspirations.

I settled on a wardrobe, planned on transportation, worked the day, met a friend, and then at 10 p.m., set off with a coworker to the event. Easy peasy.

Not so much. Once through the door, I was made abundantly aware that I was underdressed, under-heeled, under-augmented, and over-aged. Mere glances. That was all that was needed.

I’ve been to film, music, and publishing events. Each has its own pretenses, and while I feel like a bit of an outsider, I’m always able to navigate my way through. At Fashion Week, I felt completely alien, as though I was walking through an air-kissing, lip-glossed, acid-rain cloud about to float away.

When we arrived at our particular section of cloud, things got easier. They always do when you can commiserate with cultural kin. Together, us bookish types could gush, drink, and make quiet fun of our surroundings. We may have been outnumbered, but none of us got off the fucking boat, so we were safe.

Nevertheless, it was weird. I think I met my match. And if the opportunity arose again, and I decided to enter the ring, I’d definitely go shopping first. For the Fashion Weak, clothes will make or break the woman.

Wizard Rock

Ok, I'm all about kids reading. And I absolutely do not begrudge a single mom making a gazillion dollars if she turns reluctant readers into book worms. Turning Harry Potter into a music genre. Well, that goes beyond geek. That's like thinking Dungeons & Dragons will get you girls. And, God willing, you will NEVER be admitted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Sigh. Dear readers, I give you...Wizard Rock. Fuck, man, that sounds like a Jethro Tull--Dantalian's Chariot love child. But it ain't. It's more like emo meets Elmo:

There are more than 100 bands like it in North America, but Harry and the Potters is considered the original wizard rock group. Paul DeGeorge recalls how he began the movement.

He had just finished reading one of the books in J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series in 2002 and began fiddling with his acoustic guitar. He incorporated what he had just read into a song.

There was a makeshift show in his backyard in Norwood, Mass., to an audience of six. More performances followed, MySpace promotion helped to build their fan base and triggered a following of 100 other character-driven bands like Draco and the Malfoys (that riff on Potter's nemesis) and Ginny and the Heartbreakers (based on Potter's crush).

Shudder.

Book As Throw Pillow

Philip Hensher's piece "Great Books and Stupid Readers" from the Independent made the rounds on various lit sites this week. Nothing new or startling, but I'm always amazed by these kinds of findings:

55 per cent, interestingly, admitted to buying books only as decoration, or to look intelligent to their guests - Ulysses was the top choice here.

You scoff, but I can tell you from working in book retail it's true. And publishers bend to this trend. I believe it was Anne-Marie MacDonald's book As the Crow Flies that was available in different coloured jackets. I had a woman buy a specific colour to better match her sofa.

Sex, Drugs, and Recycling

According to the New York Times, there's a movement afoot among more socially concious bands to put on environmentally friendly tours. And there are consultants for hire to help artists do this. From recycling batteries to providing biodegradable cups and plates to biofuelled buses. This is all good, I guess. Chalk it up to "every little bit helps," but I wonder if a couple of tour buses running on fast-food effluent is gonna make as much of a dent as it would if the Rolling Stones would deflate their expectations and run a more fuel efficient tour. I mean, it's all very well and good setting up tents housing Greenpeace to sing to the chior at the latest WhateverPalooza mudfest. It another story altogether to get suburbanites to leave their SUVs at home and take public transit into the city to see a $200 show. Indeed, how will Sting reconcile his rainforest conservation work with the Police megatour? Admittedly, he's an easy target. Pearl Jam are touring this year. They're pretty aware guys. And how about Genesis? It's guys like these that need to run enviromentally friendly tours. Forget about donating proceeds. Too easy. Make an effort. Be an example. That takes more integrity than signing a cheque.

Getting Chilly Again?

Who said the Cold War was over? First, Alexander Litvinenko, now this. From the Independent:

A military correspondent for Russia's top business daily died after falling out of a window and some media alleged yesterday that he might have been killed for his critical reporting.

Ivan Safronov, the military affairs writer for Kommersant, died Friday after falling from a fifth-story window in the stairwell of his apartment building in Moscow, according to officials; his body was found by neighbors shortly after the fall....

...Safronov, who had served as a colonel in the Russian Space Forces before joining Kommersant in 1997, frequently angered authorities with his critical reporting and was repeatedly questioned by the Federal Security Service, the main KGB successor, which suspected him of divulging state secrets.

No charges were filed because Safronov was able to prove his reports were based on open sources, Kommersant said.

Last December, Safronov angered the authorities when he was the first to report the third consecutive launch failure of the new Bulava intercontinental ballistic missile, which President Vladimir Putin hailed as a basis of the nation's nuclear might for years to come. The authorities never acknowledged the launch failure.

For the full story, please click the link in the heading.

Alexei Sayle Alive and Well

Ran across a blast from the past while reading the Independent. Apparently, British comedian Alexei Sayle does an occasional Motoring column for the UK paper. Today, we learn that "Only the mad go carless in LA":

So, in a town where car status is everything, walking throws everybody into confusion because you can't easily rank somebody who's walking. I remember on our first night at the Chateau Marmont we went out for a walk along a deserted Sunset Boulevard and up ahead of us was a single pedestrian. "I bet they're British," I said and when we got up to them, they turned out not only to be British but also to be Billy Bragg.

Not sidesplitting, granted, but it's good to know that he's still kicking around. Sadly, I never got to see him live, but I do remember the video for "Didn't You Kick My Brother":

Want to sing along?

Hey, you. Hey, you. Hey, you, come here. Come here, you. Come here, you. Hey, you, come here. You. I said you. I said you. I said you. I said you. I said you, with the tail. You come here. You. Yes, you. Come here. Go away. Come here. Hey, you, come here. Come here. Come here. Go away. Come here. Go away. Stop. Come here. Come here. Come here. Go away. Go. Come here. Hey, you. I said you. I said you. I said you, mate. I said you. I'm looking at you, mate. I said you, mate. I said, you come here. I said, go away. Didn't you kill my brother?

My sister-in-law was an oak tree, or do I mean a manhole cover?

I've got a brain like a jukebox.

Here, didn't you kill my brother?

I got a job as a petrol pump for the government, undercover.

Come here. I want to talk to you.

Here, didn't you kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

(I like a laugh!)

(I like a laugh!)

You're the best pal a girl ever had.

I wouldn't drop you for another.

Give us a pound or I'll kick your teeth in!

Here, didn't you kill my brother?

I like strangling budgies.

(I'm what you'd call an animal lover.)

I like North Korean Sherry.

Here, didn't you kill my brother?

You know, I've only known you for ten minutes. I've only known you for ten minutes, but you're the best pal I've ever had! You're the bestest pal I've ever had! You're my mate! You and me, mate! You're my Here, didn't you kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

(I like a laugh)

(It's a funny old world)

Hello, mate. How you keeping?

Hello, mate. How you keeping?

Hello, mate. How you keeping?

Here, didn't you kill my brother?

I saw ya.

I saw ya.

Didn't you kill my brother?

You bought him a pint of lager, and then you killed him.

You killed my brother.

I saw ya.

I saw ya.

Didn't you kill my brother?

You did a very nice job.

I really must congratulate ya.

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

(I like a laugh.)

(I like a laugh.)

(I like like like like like a laugh.)

Ah, good stuff, that.

Red Card

I get rules. I understand the need for them. So here's a rule: dumbasses are forbidden to officiate at kids' soccer matches.

According to the Globe and Mail, eleven-year-old Asmahan Mansour was about to play her third game of a tournament in Laval, Quebec, this past Sunday. The referee---who is Muslim (huh?)---pointed at her and then to the bench. The kid had been expelled for wearing a hijab, a Muslim head scarf.

After her expulsion, her coach, Louis Maneiro, was shown a memo from the Quebec Soccer Federation saying the hijab and other religious headgear were forbidden. His team forfeited the game in protest.

Good for the coach and kudos to the team.

Brigitte Frot, executive director of the Quebec federation, said in an interview it wasn't a religious matter and that her organization is just enforcing the laws of FIFA, the sport's Zurich-based world governing body, which bans dangerous equipment.

Uh huh. I saw the World Cup. Heads outta be banned. Ah, but the plot thickens:

However, FIFA officials have been promoting the game in Muslim countries by saying that it is all right for female players to wear the hijab.

The FIFA website even has a 2006 article praising the Iranian women's national team, with a photo of a hijab-wearing player taking a free kick.

And, reached in Zurich, a FIFA official said the game laws allow "non-basic equipment" as long as it isn't dangerous.

Oops.

"We are bound to FIFA [rules]," Ms. Frot said yesterday, explaining that Quebec officials have in the past ordered the removal of jewellery in piercings and medical bracelets.

The 2006 supplementary FIFA guidelines, aimed at clarifying the game laws for referees, say that "non-basic" gear made with soft, light and padded material is allowed, such as some knee braces or goggles.

While made of fabric, the hijab could still be dangerous because the player could strangle herself, Ms. Frot said.

Amazing. And if you click on the FIFA link above, you'll see a whole team of hijab-wearing footballers! Mind you, they look friggin' warm with the long pants and shirtsleeves...

Apparently, the people who let the girl play two games of the tournament were "at fault." No, mesdames, I think the fault lies elsewhere

And They're Off!

I damn near spit my lunch (a salad) out my nose when I read this from today's Globe and Mail (registration required till I learn how to "share"):

Honda Racing will run a car on the F1 circuit this season that is covered in a map of the Earth rather than a collage of corporate logos. The team formerly was sponsored by a tobacco company

That will make quite an impression at 250+ miles an hour. And it gets better:

In a statement issued at a news conference in London yesterday, the team said that via its website, www.myearthdream.com, "anyone who wishes, will have the opportunity to have their name on the car, make a pledge to make a lifestyle change to improve the environment and make a donation to an environmental charity. Under the concept of 'our car is your car', each name will form a tiny individual pixel, which will help build the image of planet Earth on the car."

Previously, the Honda team was sponsored by a tobacco company.

You've Come a Long Way, Baby Part 3

Perhaps I should subtitle this: That Ain't Cricket, Mate!

On one hand, the fact that Pakistani women get to go see their much-loved cricket match is a great thing. At least when they show up, they won’t be considered the equivalent of “puck bunnies.” They can yell and cheer as much as they want. Fabulous. The players are all women, too. Good stuff.

But no men are allowed except for player’s families and the officials. This is to be a segregated event.

Ok, but it’s a baby step, right?

"The decision proves that women's cricket is progressing in our country and through this event we would promote a softer and moderate image of Pakistan," said Shamsa Hashmi, secretary of the Pakistan Cricket Board women's wing.

What nonsense! That’s like the no-bodychecking rule in women’s hockey. For crying out loud, women aren’t fragile. If we can push the equivalent of a ten-pound turkey out a hole the size of a loonie, we can handle a little shoving in the rink or on the pitch. And if you think female sports fans are all warm and cuddly, you wait till their side is losing.

Don't get me wrong: support for women's sport is good. But women being allowed to openly attend and support any sport regardless of the gender of the players is better.

Ms. Hashmi, there are far better ways of promoting a “softer and moderate image” of Pakistan.

from Al Jazeera, photo by GALLO/GETTY

Food Fights and Dancing Gorillas

I laughed when I saw the American Association for Retired Persons (AARP) ad featuring the Buzzcocks’ song, “Everybody’s Happy Nowadays.” I don't care anymore that pre-recorded songs are in commercials; indeed, I dare say Pete Shelly and the boys are well within AARP’s fifty-something demographic as are their original fans. But, like Jim DeRogatis, I do despair the lack of catchy jingles written specifically for an ad. They were fun and gave songwriters a good gig between shots at pop-star fame.

The “selling out” argument doesn’t hold for me, but DeRogatis points out a more important element of why this lyrical “editorialization” feels wrong:

The message of the AARP ad is that life will be one big, happy birthday party for retiring Baby Boomers, complete with food fights, balloons and dancing gorillas. But the theme of the Buzzcocks' song is exactly the opposite: The key line that sets up the catchy chorus of "Everybody's Happy Nowadays" is "Life's an illusion, love is the dream." The tune was a bookend to another 1979 single, "I Believe," that made the group's cynical worldview even clearer: "There is no love in this world anymore." In other words, the Buzzcocks are saying "life stinks," and AARP is saying "everything's peachy." But the Orwellian power of advertising and TV are such that ever such black and white distinctions can be obliterated

via Glorious Noise