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The life of a war correspondent has never been cheaper. Travel, equipment... even the pay cheque is lighter. But the rules of engagement are different in today's street-level combat zones, where the press corps' blue flack jacket offers little protection against conflicts and more journalists than ever are paying the ultimate price for the scoop.

Sebastian Junger believed he knew about war. He had reported on conflict for nearly two decades: in the Balkans, West Africa and Afghanistan. He had been shot at. He had watched soldiers die. With the British photographer Tim Hetherington he had made Restrepo, an Oscar-nominated film about an American platoon's 15-month deployment in Afghanistan's Korengal Valley, and had written a book about the same experience. If ever there was a prototypical war reporter, he was it: blue eyed, square jawed; a writer of clean, telegram-ready prose.

But it was not until Hetherington died from a shrapnel injury in Misrata, Libya, on 20 April 2011 - alongside another outstanding photographer, Chris Hondros - that Junger understood conflict the way soldiers do. He and Tim were not only great friends but in the eyes of many were "professionally married" because of their work together for Vanity Fair and on Restrepo. In the gut-shot days that followed Hetherington's death, Junger was avalanched with correspondence.​
- read the full article Shooting the messengers (from GQ)​
 
http://s1.ibtimes.com/sites/www.ibtimes.com/files/styles/v2_article_large/public/2013/07/08/forest-swastikas.jpg

Okoland Dederow, an intern at a German landscaping company, was poring over aerial photos of a Bradenburg forest when he noticed that formations of larch trees had formed "forest swastikas," a new retrospective by Der Spiegel, a German news outlet, reports. The forest swastikas weren’t discovered until 1992, nearly 60 years after the larch trees were planted.

According to Der Spiegel, the Bradenburg forest swastika stands 200 feet by 200 feet, with a group of larch trees interspersed among pine trees. The insidious design is visible only in the fall, when the larch trees turn yellow and orange amid the green pines.

A local forester determined that the forest swastika was originally planted in the late 1930s, a period during which the Nazi Party’s power was at its zenith in Germany. The covert formation of trees escaped notice for the next several decades, through the rise of communism in East Germany and the fall of the Berlin Wall.​
 
Laurel said:


But it was not until Hetherington died from a shrapnel injury in Misrata, Libya, on 20 April 2011 - alongside another outstanding photographer, Chris Hondros - that Junger understood conflict the way soldiers do. He and Tim were not only great friends but in the eyes of many were "professionally married" because of their work together for Vanity Fair and on Restrepo. In the gut-shot days that followed Hetherington's death, Junger was avalanched with correspondence.​
Click to expand...


Well worth a read

Here I Am: The Story of Tim Hetherington, War Photographer by Alan Huffman

Link: http://amzn.com/0802120903​
 
http://www.believermag.com/issues/201307/img/article_pasulka.png

The producers spotted him on Christopher Street, of course. They heard bells ringing as the man passed by, a Native American headdress flapping behind him. He had a leather loincloth wrapped around his narrow hips, and bells tied to his ankles. He was heading into the Anvil. “Oh god, he is good-looking—I’m thirsty!” Jacques said to Henri.

Inside the Anvil, they watched Felipe Rose, the skinny guy who’d lured them there, take his place behind the bar. The DJ was playing a mix of what sounded like Native American tribal music and the disco Morali and Belolo revered. Every so often, Rose jumped onto the bar to dance. Next to the French producers sat a guy with a thick mustache, wearing a Stetson and boots. He looked like the Marlboro Man. Another patron could have just come from a construction site, if his jeans and boots hadn’t been so clean and tight. My god, look at those characters, Belolo thought. It was as if every American male stereotype was there, welcoming them to the Village.

Looking around the room, the producers were thinking the same thing. Belolo grabbed a napkin and jotted down: “Indian, Construction Worker, Leatherman, Cowboy, Cop, Sailor.” Morali walked over to the Indian (Rose was, in fact, Lakota) who’d enticed them into the bar. He wasn’t shy. “Hey you, Indian—you want to be in a group?”

Like most stories of gay life in New York between 1970 and 1990, the legend of the Village People has its origins in the Stonewall riots of 1969—“Our Bastille Day,” as the novelist and critic Edmund White (who was at the riots) described the feverish June nights when queer Villagers fought back against the New York cops who’d been raiding their bars for decades.​
 
Laurel said:
http://www.theweeklings.com/wp-content/uploads/Morphine-Live-@-Westbeth-Theatre-New-York-USA-29-10-1996-180x180.jpg

ON JULY 3, 1999, Mark Sandman, frontman of the band Morphine, collapsed and died on stage during a show in a small town in central Italy. Word trickled slowly back to the States, in those days of the not-yet-omnipotent Internet. What I heard is that he died of a cocaine-related heart attack on stage in Rome. This narrative had all the elements of the classic rock-star death: drugs, self-destruction, fan involvement, exotic foreign city, an air of mystery. Bucky Wunderlick would approve.

Because the band was named for a drug, and because there is an overt reference to drug use in “Cure For Pain,” Morphine’s signature song (insofar as they had one), I assumed, as many fans did, that the rumors were true, that cocaine contributed to Sandman’s death. For one thing, it made the story sexier. For another, it offered an explanation for why an apparently-healthy 46-year-old man of great energy and vitality would suddenly and unexpectedly die.

“Rock Star Dies of Cocaine Heart Failure in Rome.” A nice headline, but a deceptive one. Sandman was many things, genius among them, but he was not a rock star, as such. He didn’t die in Rome, but in Palestrina, an ancient outpost 40 miles to the east. And the only drug in his system that fateful night was nicotine. The muggy Italian summer had more to do with his demise than cocaine. So did stress—ironic, because Sandman’s stage persona was as laid-back as it gets.

No, Sandman was victim of a pedestrian heart attack, at the worst possible moment. That there were no drugs involved makes his death less “rock star,” but more tragic.​
- read the full article Only One Cure For Pain: Morphine and Mark Sandman, 14 Years Gone (from The Weeklings)​
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I have to say it "Then I'll throw all my drugs away"
 
Mapping how our neural circuits change under the influence of anesthesia could shed light on one of neuroscience’s most perplexing riddles: consciousness.

http://www.technologyreview.com/sites/default/files/styles/body_embed/public/legacy/0112-brown-a_x616_0.jpg?itok=Usv1KEtI

A video screen shows a man in his late 60s lying awake on an operating table. Just outside the camera’s view, a doctor is moving his finger in front of the man’s face, instructing him to follow it back and forth with his eyes. Seconds later, after a dose of the powerful anesthetic drug propofol, his eyelids begin to droop. Then his pupils stop moving. Only the steady background beeping of the heart monitor serves as a reminder that the man isn’t dead. “He’s in a coma,” the doctor, Emery Brown, explains. “General anesthesia is a drug-induced reversible coma.”

As an anesthesiologist at Massachusetts General Hospital (MGH), Brown is constant witness to one of the most profound and mysterious feats of modern medicine. Every day, nearly 60,000 patients in the United States undergo general anesthesia, enabling them to survive even the grisliest operations unaware and free of pain.

But though doctors have been putting people under for more than 150 years, what happens in the brain during general anesthesia is a mystery. Scientists don’t know much about the extent to which these drugs tap into the same brain circuitry we use when we sleep, or how being anesthetized differs from other ways of losing consciousness, such as slipping into a coma following an injury. Are parts of the brain truly shutting off, or do they simply stop communicating with each other? How is being anesthetized different from a state of hypnosis or deep meditation? And what happens in the brain in the transition between consciousness and unconsciousness? “We know we can get you in and out of this safely,” Brown says, “but we still can’t quite tell you how it works.”​
- read the full article The Mystery Behind Anesthesia (from MIT Technology Review)​
 
Laurel said:
http://www.believermag.com/issues/201307/img/article_pasulka.png

The producers spotted him on Christopher Street, of course. They heard bells ringing as the man passed by, a Native American headdress flapping behind him. He had a leather loincloth wrapped around his narrow hips, and bells tied to his ankles. He was heading into the Anvil. “Oh god, he is good-looking—I’m thirsty!” Jacques said to Henri.

Inside the Anvil, they watched Felipe Rose, the skinny guy who’d lured them there, take his place behind the bar. The DJ was playing a mix of what sounded like Native American tribal music and the disco Morali and Belolo revered. Every so often, Rose jumped onto the bar to dance. Next to the French producers sat a guy with a thick mustache, wearing a Stetson and boots. He looked like the Marlboro Man. Another patron could have just come from a construction site, if his jeans and boots hadn’t been so clean and tight. My god, look at those characters, Belolo thought. It was as if every American male stereotype was there, welcoming them to the Village.

Looking around the room, the producers were thinking the same thing. Belolo grabbed a napkin and jotted down: “Indian, Construction Worker, Leatherman, Cowboy, Cop, Sailor.” Morali walked over to the Indian (Rose was, in fact, Lakota) who’d enticed them into the bar. He wasn’t shy. “Hey you, Indian—you want to be in a group?”

Like most stories of gay life in New York between 1970 and 1990, the legend of the Village People has its origins in the Stonewall riots of 1969—“Our Bastille Day,” as the novelist and critic Edmund White (who was at the riots) described the feverish June nights when queer Villagers fought back against the New York cops who’d been raiding their bars for decades.​
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The link is broken.
 
I don't follow many threads but this one is the shit. Look forward to all the new posts. Well done. I guess that's why you're in charge.
 
http://www.thestar.com/content/dam/thestar/news/world/2012/01/21/all_aboard_the_cocaine_express_deadly_cocaine_trade_reaches_new_depths/colombiasubmarine.jpeg.size.xxxlarge.letterbox.jpeg

It might have been a spaceship from some distant galaxy — that’s how incongruous it seemed — but it was just a submarine, somewhere in the South American jungle.

When it was discovered by law-enforcement agents in February 2011, the vessel was perched in an improvised shipyard, hidden amid the coastal woodlands of western Colombia.

Twenty-one metres long and constructed mainly of fibreglass, the craft had room for a six-member crew and 6,435 litres of diesel fuel. It was equipped with bunk beds, a ballast mechanism, a global positioning system, a 346-horsepower diesel engine, “scrubbing” devices to clean the air, a conning tower and a periscope with a night-vision camera.

One estimate put the cost of constructing such a sophisticated device in the remote backwoods of South America at about $5 million.

But that’s pocket change when measured against the anticipated value of the vehicle’s intended cargo — up to eight tons of pure cocaine, worth about $160 million wholesale in Dallas, Texas.

“These submarines are such an innovation,” says Bruce Michael Bagley, chair of international studies at the University of Miami, who follows the drug trade closely. “They can go up to 2,000 miles (3,200 kilometres).”

And, repeatedly, they do.

Welcome aboard the Cocaine Express, a seemingly perpetual smuggling machine that starts in a forest clearing somewhere in South America and ends on a street corner somewhere near you — that is, if it ends at all.​
 
Laurel said:
http://www.thestar.com/content/dam/thestar/news/world/2012/01/21/all_aboard_the_cocaine_express_deadly_cocaine_trade_reaches_new_depths/colombiasubmarine.jpeg.size.xxxlarge.letterbox.jpeg

It might have been a spaceship from some distant galaxy — that’s how incongruous it seemed — but it was just a submarine, somewhere in the South American jungle.

When it was discovered by law-enforcement agents in February 2011, the vessel was perched in an improvised shipyard, hidden amid the coastal woodlands of western Colombia.

Twenty-one metres long and constructed mainly of fibreglass, the craft had room for a six-member crew and 6,435 litres of diesel fuel. It was equipped with bunk beds, a ballast mechanism, a global positioning system, a 346-horsepower diesel engine, “scrubbing” devices to clean the air, a conning tower and a periscope with a night-vision camera.

One estimate put the cost of constructing such a sophisticated device in the remote backwoods of South America at about $5 million.

But that’s pocket change when measured against the anticipated value of the vehicle’s intended cargo — up to eight tons of pure cocaine, worth about $160 million wholesale in Dallas, Texas.

“These submarines are such an innovation,” says Bruce Michael Bagley, chair of international studies at the University of Miami, who follows the drug trade closely. “They can go up to 2,000 miles (3,200 kilometres).”

And, repeatedly, they do.

Welcome aboard the Cocaine Express, a seemingly perpetual smuggling machine that starts in a forest clearing somewhere in South America and ends on a street corner somewhere near you — that is, if it ends at all.​
Click to expand...

I'm honestly surprised that cocaine is still such a huge moneymaker. I don't know anyone who does it anymore. Used to be everyone did. Or maybe I'm just old and everyone I know has grown out of it. I dunno.
 
http://cdn2-b.examiner.com/sites/default/files/styles/image_content_width/hash/5e/bd/5ebdfbb901b4b1f800c9a8b7a9332b25.jpg?itok=F1jzAlpu
JEFFERSON, Ga. -- Nine months after the devastating injury that changed his life, two-year-old Tripp Halstead took a special ride Monday afternoon.

It came courtesy of a stranger who churned out 900 miles on a bicycle to help the Halstead family.

"We thought we'd raise a little money and help out," said cyclist Dave Nazaroff. "The overwhelming support with all these people has been just incredible."

Nazaroff and his wife heard about Tripp through Facebook and decided to do something to help the Halstead family.

Tripp is recovering from a traumatic brain injury. He was hit in the head by a falling tree branch at his daycare in October 2012 during storms spawned by Hurricane Sandy.


Dozens gathered along Old Pendergrass Road in Jefferson to watch Nazaroff end his journey that began in upstate New York. They joined in the final mile of the trip.

So did Tripp Halstead.

I just love that the whole world seems to be coming together," said Shea Richardson, who came to meet the Halsteads for the first time.

The Halsteads spend their days caring for Tripp in a home remodeled by supporters. There is a long list of medications and therapy.

Money was running thin.


"I can't imagine having to leave and go back to work," said Stacey Halstead, Tripp's mom. "This is what they're doing it for, so I can stay with him."

Nazaroff's 900 mile ride raised $155,000.


"To think somebody can ride that far, it gives you the energy in the middle of the night to get up and comfort Tripp," said Bill Halstead, Tripp's father.


With a carriage strapped to Dave Nazaroff's bike, Tripp Halstead joined in the final mile of the journey.

"I think he loved the fresh air on his face, going through his hair," said Bill Halstead. "He loved it."

So did the many supporters who put their love on wheels.
 
KRCummings said:
I'm honestly surprised that cocaine is still such a huge moneymaker. I don't know anyone who does it anymore. Used to be everyone did. Or maybe I'm just old and everyone I know has grown out of it. I dunno.
Click to expand...

It's big business, apparently. Submarine-style big.
 
cookiejar said:
http://cdn2-b.examiner.com/sites/default/files/styles/image_content_width/hash/5e/bd/5ebdfbb901b4b1f800c9a8b7a9332b25.jpg?itok=F1jzAlpu
JEFFERSON, Ga. -- Nine months after the devastating injury that changed his life, two-year-old Tripp Halstead took a special ride Monday afternoon.

It came courtesy of a stranger who churned out 900 miles on a bicycle to help the Halstead family.

"We thought we'd raise a little money and help out," said cyclist Dave Nazaroff. "The overwhelming support with all these people has been just incredible."

Nazaroff and his wife heard about Tripp through Facebook and decided to do something to help the Halstead family.

Tripp is recovering from a traumatic brain injury. He was hit in the head by a falling tree branch at his daycare in October 2012 during storms spawned by Hurricane Sandy.


Dozens gathered along Old Pendergrass Road in Jefferson to watch Nazaroff end his journey that began in upstate New York. They joined in the final mile of the trip.

So did Tripp Halstead.

I just love that the whole world seems to be coming together," said Shea Richardson, who came to meet the Halsteads for the first time.

The Halsteads spend their days caring for Tripp in a home remodeled by supporters. There is a long list of medications and therapy.

Money was running thin.


"I can't imagine having to leave and go back to work," said Stacey Halstead, Tripp's mom. "This is what they're doing it for, so I can stay with him."

Nazaroff's 900 mile ride raised $155,000.


"To think somebody can ride that far, it gives you the energy in the middle of the night to get up and comfort Tripp," said Bill Halstead, Tripp's father.


With a carriage strapped to Dave Nazaroff's bike, Tripp Halstead joined in the final mile of the journey.

"I think he loved the fresh air on his face, going through his hair," said Bill Halstead. "He loved it."

So did the many supporters who put their love on wheels.
Click to expand...



:heart:
 
http://www.theawl.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/evelynnesbit2-e1326819719203.jpg

Evelyn Nesbit had arrived in New York as a teenager with her debt-laden mother and acquired some notice as a model and a chorus girl. A familiar path, but in her case both the initial innocence and the heat of the spotlight were particularly pronounced. As she moved from artist's studio to men's-club stage and postcards of her face cropped up around the city, she relied heavily on her mother to supervise her career and social life. Her mother appears to have been clueless about both.

According to Paula Uruburu’s overheated but dishy and informative American Eve, Nesbit's fusion of naïveté and sex appeal made her “the ur-Lolita. The very first ‘It’ girl, before anyone knew what ‘It’ was.” In photographs she looks like a cross between a younger Madeleine Stowe and Olivia Hussey, co-star of the Franco Zeffirelli film of Romeo and Juliet. These are not the kind of century-old photos that make you puzzle over changing standards of beauty.
...
One evening “Stanny” gave Evelyn a thorough tour of his married man’s bachelor pad, occupying several floors in a row house on sketchy West 24th Street, in “the Tenderloin.” One room had mirrors on every wall. Another had a four-poster bed with mirrors in the headboard and the canopy, and yet another room held the red velvet swing that later became infamous. (On the ground floor was the FAO Schwarz toy store, which fact would not be credible in fiction.)

White poured her an unusual quantity of champagne that night, which she later said tasted funny, and the lurid story ends with her waking up sore and mostly undressed, with a naked White next to her. Details of her account varied between her two memoirs, but the gist was the gist, terrible no matter what.​
- read the full article The Architect, The "It” Girl And The Toy Pistol That Wasn't (from The Awl)​
 
Laurel said:
http://www.theawl.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/evelynnesbit2-e1326819719203.jpg

Evelyn Nesbit had arrived in New York as a teenager with her debt-laden mother and acquired some notice as a model and a chorus girl. A familiar path, but in her case both the initial innocence and the heat of the spotlight were particularly pronounced. As she moved from artist's studio to men's-club stage and postcards of her face cropped up around the city, she relied heavily on her mother to supervise her career and social life. Her mother appears to have been clueless about both.

According to Paula Uruburu’s overheated but dishy and informative American Eve, Nesbit's fusion of naïveté and sex appeal made her “the ur-Lolita. The very first ‘It’ girl, before anyone knew what ‘It’ was.” In photographs she looks like a cross between a younger Madeleine Stowe and Olivia Hussey, co-star of the Franco Zeffirelli film of Romeo and Juliet. These are not the kind of century-old photos that make you puzzle over changing standards of beauty.
...
One evening “Stanny” gave Evelyn a thorough tour of his married man’s bachelor pad, occupying several floors in a row house on sketchy West 24th Street, in “the Tenderloin.” One room had mirrors on every wall. Another had a four-poster bed with mirrors in the headboard and the canopy, and yet another room held the red velvet swing that later became infamous. (On the ground floor was the FAO Schwarz toy store, which fact would not be credible in fiction.)

White poured her an unusual quantity of champagne that night, which she later said tasted funny, and the lurid story ends with her waking up sore and mostly undressed, with a naked White next to her. Details of her account varied between her two memoirs, but the gist was the gist, terrible no matter what.​
- read the full article The Architect, The "It” Girl And The Toy Pistol That Wasn't (from The Awl)​
Click to expand...


What a coincidence! I was reading about her the other day and contemplating ordering a book on Amazon about her.
 
http://a.espncdn.com/photo/2013/0709/espnw_g_rousey_jv_800.jpg

"When someone's on your back trying to rip your head off, things tend to slip around a bit," Rousey says. After one failed attempt at a wardrobe adjustment, she switched her focus to freeing herself from the choke hold "so she wouldn't snap my neck in half." As soon as she flipped Carmouche to the floor, Rousey went straight for her own neckline. Bad move: "I got kicked straight in the chest right as I was trying to adjust my bra."

Rousey eventually finished Carmouche with her signature armbar. But the rumble over the bra had only just begun. Online commentators asked whether the UFC's new female fighters required a dress code to fight modestly. Others immortalized the near nip slip as an ever-refreshing animated GIF.

The episode was the latest skirmish in a long-standing war over the place of the mammary in the pectoral-dominated world of sports. Breasts are an impressive network of milk glands, ducts and sacs, all suspended from the clavicle in twin masses held together by fibrous connective tissue. But a mounting body of evidence suggests that they pose a serious challenge in nearly all corners of competition. Gymnasts push themselves to the brink of starvation to avoid developing them. All sorts of pro athletes have ponied up thousands of dollars to surgically reduce them. For the modern athlete, the question isn't whether breasts get in the way -- it's a question of how to compete around them.

"Gina Carano was an amazing fighter, and she had a fantastic rack," Rousey says of the MMA fighter-turned-actor. But then again: "You don't see big titties in the Olympics, and I think that's for a reason."

BREASTS HAVE TAKEN a metaphorical beating from the sports world ever since women first entered the arena. Greek folktales spun the myth that a race of all-female Amazons lopped off the right breast in order to hurl spears and shoot arrows more efficiently. (In Greek, a-mazos means "without breast.") Centuries later, in 1995, CBS golf analyst Ben Wright controversially told a newspaper that "women are handicapped by having boobs. It's not easy for them to keep their left arm straight. Their boobs get in the way."​
- read the full article You can only hope to contain them (from ESPN)​
 
When a wolf is hungry....

"Growing up in the Yukon, Melanie Klassen had seen numerous bicycle tourists pedaling the Alaska Highway, but never one with a canine companion running behind him.

"I thought it was odd until I saw the panicked look on the biker's face - as though he was about to be eaten," she said in a telephone interview.

"That wasn't a dog; it was a wolf."

The cyclist, William "Mac" Hollan, 35, of Sandpoint, Idaho, verified Klassen's observation of Saturday's incident: "At this point I realized I might not be going home, and I began to panic at the thought of how much it was going to hurt."

The Grande Prairie, Alberta, woman was among the heroes who rescued the North Idaho elementary school student-teacher halfway through his 2,750-mile pedal to Prudhoe Bay as a fundraiser for a Sandpoint school lunch program.

Hollan's account was posted Monday on his Point to Bay Facebook page from Whitehorse. He departed Sandpoint on June 17 for the six-week tour, loaded with bike camping gear and accompanied by Gabe Dawson, of Ashland, Ore., and Jordan Achilli, of New York.

As Hollan rode a half-mile ahead of his buddies, his nightmare began with a gray wolf sprinting out of the woods 60 miles west of Watson Lake and surprising the passing cyclist with an initial chomp that just missed his pedal.

At first, Hollan tried to out-race the wolf, but the predator reeled him in with the ease of a peloton erasing the lead of a dope-free breakaway rider.

The wolf nipped at the bike's rear packs the way it would bite the hamstrings of a fleeing moose in the drawn-out ordeal of subduing large prey.

Hollan, who was prepared for grizzly encounters, blasted the wolf with bursts of bear spray on several occasions. He said the wolf would fade back 20 feet or so and then move up again.

He heard his tent poles clank to the pavement as the chase continued.

"I saw an 18 wheeler round the corner and began to wave, shout, and point to the wolf frantically," Hollan wrote. "After taking a good look at the scene the driver resumed his speed and drove on."

The panicked cyclist had his hopes dashed four separate times as vehicles passed. The wolf would back off and close in again between each rig.

"As I came around the corner, to my horror, I saw a quick incline, and knew that I would not be able to stay in front of this wolf for much longer. . It was a surreal moment to realize that I was (the) prey, and this hill was (the) moment."

Klassen came onto the scene as Hollan was preparing to stop, use his bike as a shield and try to deter the wolf's advances with the last of his bear spray.

"We were towing a trailer behind my orange Hummer, and we couldn't stop fast enough," Klassen said.

"We made a U-turn and zipped back around the bend. A motor home had stopped in the road, and I could see the wolf lunging in behind it."

Hollan describes the moment:

"An RV came around the corner, and I knew this was it. I placed myself squarely in the center of the road and began screaming at the top of my lungs . while waving frantically.

"The driver quickly passed me and stopped on a dime right in front of my bike. I don't know how I got unclipped or off my bike, but I swear I hurdled the handlebars without missing a beat or letting go of my can of bear spray.

"When I got to the backdoor of the RV still screaming, the door was locked. In an absolute panic I began to climb in the passenger window, but the driver reached across and threw the door open.

"By the time I shut the door the wolf was already on my bike pulling at the shredded remains of my tent bag."

Hollan said he began to shake - and cuss - uncontrollably.

Klassen was relieved Hollan was safe, but the wolf continued to attack the bike "as though it were prey."

"I said somebody has to do something, and my boyfriend was yelling, 'No! No!' as I jumped out the passenger door," she said. "My dad was a Yukon conservation officer and I remember him telling us to stand tall if confronted by a wolf and make it think you're bigger and tougher, or the wolf will take over."

But even with her standing in the doorway of a Hummer and yelling tough words at a distance of about 8 feet while other vehicles honked, the wolf wouldn't back off.

"The only weapon I had was a water bottle," she said. "I winged it and beaned him right in the head. That got him to retreat to the ditch. But he didn't go away until other cars stopped and people started throwing rocks.

"The biker in the RV was really rattled."

Nancy Campbell, Environment Yukon spokeswoman in Whitehorse, called the incident "a new one for us."

"We don't want people to think there's a row of wolves licking their chops waiting for people to come into the Yukon. We don't know if it was a young, desperate wolf or an old, sick wolf, one that had come to associate people as a source of food or what."

A similar incident occurred June 8 in British Columbia as a wolf gave chase to a motorcyclist who photographed the incident on Highway 93 in Kootenay National Park. Officials said that was unheard of, too.

Hollan's continuing his tour, noting that "I do look over my shoulder more, and I'm a bit jumpy. While other things have happened since the last update, this is all I can really remember.""

Story
 
http://cdn.theatlantic.com/static/mt/assets/science/assets_c/2013/03/RTXK82Q-thumb-570x427-116909.jpg

According to music psychologist Ira Hyman, who recently published a paper on earworm science in the journal Applied Cognitive Psychology, songs function much like puzzles in our brains: Music is catchy because its patterns and rhythms engage our minds like a crossword puzzle would. Listening to it -- really hearing songs' lyrics, particularly when they come in the form of a repetitive chorus -- requires some concentration, but not much of it. The stylings of Carly Rae Jepsen (and Beyoncé, and Rihanna, and Gaga, and The Beatles) fall into that cognitive sweet spot of attention and inattention, making them especially sticky. Oh-oh-oh.

Music is different from puzzles, though, in one significant way: While puzzles can be solved -- the crossword gets filled in, the anagrams get de-jumbled -- songs have no obvious solution. So they stay. And stay. And stay. Haunting and taunting and put-a-ring-ing in our ears.

But there may, scientists say, be a way to stop them. Hyman and his colleagues figured that if earworms function like puzzles, they might be vanquished by puzzles, too. After conducting tests on a group of (hopefully extremely well-compensated) test subjects, the researchers determined that cognitive subterfuge is the best way to rid the mind of sticky songs. To defeat an earworm, they suggest, you just have to fool your brain into solving another puzzle -- a non-musical puzzle. The best way to do that? Give it actual puzzles to concentrate on. Do a quick crossword. Tackle an anagram. Spend a few minutes, even, reading a novel. Replace the earworm with another worm, tricking your mind out of its need to finish what it started by giving it something else -- something simple, but not too simple -- to focus on.​
 
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