So my blogroll seems to be dwindling. In the past couple weeks Memer and Solomon have said they’ll no longer be posting.

And others I like to read are posting less and less frequently. At this rate, I’m going to have to go back to reading the news.

Someone–I think it was Mark–was ranting about how Manchin wants to repeal the state helmet law for motorcycles. How there are more important issues for the state to be dealing with, and so on and so forth.

Now, despite the fact that I’m getting my Master’s in Public Health–a department that uniformly wants to extend the existing law to ATVs–I don’t agree with helmet laws. If you’re stupid enough to ride without a helmet, then by all means, please do so and take yourself out of the gene pool.

But, as many point out, such injuries have a public cost, which is the cost of health care for those who suffer traumatic brain injuries. A large burden, especially if the injured party has inadequate health insurance, or lacks health insurance entirely.

So I had a thought.

Let’s repeal the helmet law, but add in a few caveats. First, you’ll have to get a special license plate for your bike if you want to ride without a helmet. That license will cost you an extra, say, $500 a year–money that goes straight into the state Medicaid fund. Second, the list of owners who want the option of riding helmetless is to be made available to all insurance companies. And those insurance companies will be given the right to increase the premiums of those choose to ride helmetless. I think that capping those increases at 300% should be sufficient.

And the fine for riding without a helmet on an unlicensed bike would be something like $1000 and a suspension of your license for a year.

It’s perfect. We’ll help shore up the Medicaid system, and the extra money going to the insurance companies should allows them to decrease rates for everyone else.

It’s a win-win situation!

Now all I have to do is convince the WV legislature.

The Fencing Master (1988) Arturo Perez-Reverte
Translated by Margaret Jull Costa (1998)

I initially didn’t realize that this books were originally in Spanish, and was a little unsure when I realized they were translated, but then decided that it shouldn’t make a difference, and so happily read the book.

The Fencing Master is set in 1868 in Madrid, Spain. Don Jamie Astarloa is a fencing master, one of the last. Revolvers have taken the place of foils in dueling, and so fencing has changed from a gentleman’s skill, to something more akin to a sport, a way for gentleman to exercise.

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Michael!

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Officially I’ve only been at work for five minutes, and things are already going badly.

ADDENDUM the First:
Okay, so it’s been up and down all day, but (knock on wood) the worst of it seems to be over.

Having lunch from the Flying Fish helped too.

Check out today’s (21 July 2005) Marquee in the Dominion Post. There’s a lovely article on Wayne Rowand, classical guitarist and all around good guy.

The Word of the Day for July 21 is:

emissary \EM-uh-sair-ee\ noun
*1 : one designated as the agent of another : representative
2 : a secret agent

Jeesh! They forgot the most important definition!
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a direct english translation of the chinese interpretation of what the script (‘Revenge of the Sith’) was saying

“I was just made by the Presbyterian Church”

(via Language Log)

I told you so:

Drivers using cellphones have four times the risk of being involved in car accidents that result in hospital visits, according to a new study in the British Medical Journal. And those hands-free devices? They won’t lower your risk of a crash.

Of course there’s nothing that can be done to stop people using hands free devices, or else we’d have to stop every person singing along with the radio or talking to a small child in the back seat to make sure they weren’t using a hands free device.

And of course I can’t understand why anyone would WANT to talk on the phone while driving. I don’t even want to talk on the phone at home, at least when I’m driving I have an good excuse not to talk to the caller. Oh, wait. That’s right. No one ever calls me because I hate to talk on the phone.

But still, what on earth could possibly be so important that you want to divide your attention from the ton (or more) of metal hurtling down the road at upwards of 25mph? Basic physics here folks. Force equals mass times acceleration, means if you lose your control, nothing good can come of it.

I would think that anyone who has ever been in a car accident–for any reason–would have reason to be careful. Watching the scenery go past as you do a 180, wondering whether you’ll stay on the road or go hurtling into a ravine was enough to make me pay attention to my driving. Why would I want to do something that would make me more likely to go through such an experience again? (And then there were the deer. Despite paying attention and being on the lookout for them, I’ve managed to hit two deer. Distraction would have made it even worse.)

If you talk and drive, you’re putting yourself at risk. That’s the bottom line.

Though perhaps I should look at this as a good thing. At the rate people talk on their phones while driving, maybe we’ll get more stupid people out of the gene pool.

Avery’s post on BSV (Black Standard Vernacular) got me thinking about speech and accents, which lead me down another path entirely, thinking about poverty, and the things that are associated with it.

Raised in West Virginia, I grew up associating a drawl with poverty. Not everyone who had a drawl was poor, and not every who was poor had a drawl, but still, there was a major association.

And I have stories from my grandmother, how her father came here at 18 speaking no English, but worked to become a fluent speaker. How when she took my aunt to school, the teacher refused to believe that they were from Baltimore, because my aunt didn’t have the local accent. (The one that turns Baltimore into Bawlm’r.)

All of this lead to my impression that speaking well was very important.

Dress had similar associations. Clothes with holes, clothes that were too big or too small, clothes that looked worn and dirty–all those things are associated in my mind with poverty.

So I speak without an accent. And I get upset when I spill something on myself. And I’m embarassed to be seen in worn and ill fitting clothes. Because those things signify poverty, and poverty means you have no power in society.

And so I stare in incredulity at those who choose to dress in ill-fitting clothes. Who wear clothes that are torn and ragged by design. Who wear clothes that look permamently dirty by design.

I can’t understand choosing to look and sound powerless.

The Word of the Day for July 19 is:

verboten \ver-BOH-tun\ adjective
: forbidden; especially : prohibited by dictate

Example sentence:
During the era of prohibition in the United States, when the sale of alcohol was verboten, speakeasies were routinely raided by the authorities and shut down.

For absolutely no reason, this is another of my favorite words.

Burn Marks (1990) Sara Paretsky

V.I.’s aunt Elena shows up on her doorstop at 3 in the morning after escaping the fire that burned down the hotel where she was living. As an alcoholic deadbeat aunt is not the idea roomate, V.I. gives her 24 hours to find a new place and get out, but of course that isn’t the end of the story, and V.I. ends up investigating the arson.

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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince (2005) J.K. Rowling

Finished.

And grr…

I liked the book up through the last couple chapters. Then it went exactly where I thought it was going to go. And I’m not happy about it.

Also, this had all the feel of a second book in a trilogy–minor points are resolved, but for the most part everything is left hanging, waiting for the final book.

I hate that.

Everything else I have to say is going to contain spoilers, so don’t read on if you haven’t already read the book and don’t want to know important plot points.

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Blood Shot (1988) Sara Paretsky

V.I. Warshawski reluctantly heads back to the old neighborhood–her childhood next door neighbor wants her help in solving the mystery of her past. V.I.’s mother had befriended the single mother next door, and made V.I. take care of Caroline, the little girl. Now, as her mother lies dying, Caroline begs V.I. to look into the past.

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