I'm going to kill a man from several thousand miles away. Earlier this week, Huw asked people to give him something to do. I suggested that he attempt to drink a gallon of milk within an hour because people have always told me that it is impossible. So, now Huw plans to do it.
That's the classic spirit of discovery, I suppose. Newton famously drove a knitting needle into his skull, just to see what it would feel like.
British eccentric John Scott Haldane methodically poisoned himself with carbon monoxide, carefully taking blood samples in the process. He stopped only when his blood saturation level had reached 56 percent (i.e., he was almost dead).
His son, Jack Haldane did quite a bit of research involving decompression chambers. He did a lot of this research on himself. Once, when simulating an emergency submarine ascent, the rapid pressure change caused the fillings in his teeth to explode. Another experiment caused him to lose feeling in his ass for six years, and he was unnervingly nonchalant about burst eardrums: "the drum usually heals up," Haldane wrote. "And if a hole remains in it, although one is somewhat deaf, one can blow smoke out of the ear in question, which is a social accomplishment."
What social accomplishment may be achieved by drinking milk until one pukes, I do not know. But I'm sure Huw will soon find out on Saturday. Hopefully it won't kill him, because that would make me feel bad. I've got enough to deal with in trying to get over this damned illness; I don't need a man's death on my conscience.
I don't know if this is true, because I've never been there, but a friend once told me that in Sydney, Australia, municipal crews come along at night and simply hose everything down. It's their way of keeping the city clean, apparently.
I need to do this with my apartment. Rachel comes home late tonight and the place is a mess. Because I have been sick, there are blankets and empty tea mugs everywhere.
How crappy must York, Pa., be that you can offer a job and a rent-free home and no one will move there?
Take a look at the guy in this story. He appears to be wearing one of those caps that train porters wore in the 1930s. Yet another side-effect to the downfall of train travel in America, I suppose -- 30s-era porters are forced into lives of crime.