Trans 101

(Please be advised, the following post contains a graphic discussion of sexual anatomy.)

Testosterone acts swiftly and dramatically on a female body. My first shot a week before my bike accident had been a measly one cc--one cubic centimeter--of Testosterone Enanthate, a thick, transparent suspension of synthetic testosterone in sesame oil. The nurse who injected me was so quick and painless about it, I wondered afterwards if she'd done it right.

I didn't wonder for long. My shot was on Tuesday and I woke up Thursday morning to find the center of my consciousness had shifted in the night from my head to my crotch--where it has resided ever since. My sex-drive increased overnight by a factor of ten. It has waxed and waned in intervening years, but the constant, visceral focus of my attention on my genitals hasn't.

This is pretty similar to how my male friends describe their feelings.

Biologically, the penis is homologous to the clitoris, meaning that as a fetus grows in the womb, the same group of cells develops to form either a clitoris or a penis, either outer labia or a scrotum, depending on a series of complex hormonal signals and processes. Another way to think of it is that a penis is sort of a very large clitoris--large essentially as a result of the presence of testosterone during fetal development. If you add testosterone to the mix later in life, like I did, the potential for growth—while far less—still exists.

Despite everyone’s original "bisexual" potential, most babies are born with a clitoris, vagina and two ovaries, or a penis, scrotum and two testicles. At the same time, a large number—1 in 2,000, by some estimates—are born "intersexed." They could be seen to have, say, a small penis with a split, empty scrotum, or an enormous clitoris with pendulous outer labia. Internally, they may have a vagina and womb, or not; ovaries or testes, an ovary on one side and a testes on the other, or even what are called ovotestes--a blend of both. Their gender identity—whether they feel like a girl or a boy—can be one, the other, or neither.

Another term for a non-standard mix of sexual characteristics is "hermaphrodite." Unfortunately, modern medicine usually responds to these births as "medical emergencies," surgically altering the infants to cosmetically approximate one sex or the other.

Among other things, the surgery often damages the person’s sexual potential later in life. Not operating—as intersexed activists advocate--is not life-threatening. The real challenge posed by the presence of hermaphrodites is to the fallacy (“phallacy?”) that there are two--and only two--sexes. Their very existence belies this.

So, how does all this fit in with transsexuality?

No one really knows for sure. One theory states that in addition to genitalia, a fetus' brain develops along a female or male pathway in response to hormones. In this way, transsexuality could be viewed as a sort of "neurological intersexuality."

For example, if a woman pregnant with an XX (female) fetus is prescribed a medication containing a masculinizing hormone (or “androgen”) during the first trimester, the probability is increased that her "female" baby will be born with genitals approximating a small penis and empty scrotum. A sort of real-life test of this was accidentally performed in the 1950's and 60's when widespread and misguided use of the androgen progesterone (to prevent miscarriages) led to a documented increase in intersexed births.

In a possible transsexual scenario, the androgen would be given after the 16th week of gestation, when the baby’s external genitalia are formed but before the neurological pathways in the brain are fully developed. The newborn would look physically female but grow up to feel mentally and emotionally male.

Like me.

Of course, this explanation for female-to-male transsexuality is only a theory. And it ignores the effects of genetics, environment, and other factors.

My father remembers that my mother was prescribed a medication while pregnant with me. On more than four previous occasions, she had miscarried or given birth only to have the newborn die. My father doesn't remember what medication, when she started, or how long she took it. But I was born in the era when the synthetic hormone, diethylstilbestrol (DES), often in combination with progesterone, was the drug of choice to avert miscarriage.

Growing up, I had no words to describe my identity struggle. Over time, I came to understand in an inarticulate way that it stemmed from the shape of my body, particularly my genitals. My response was to conclude that some boys had penises and some didn’t, and I was one of the ones who didn’t.

Unusual, you say? Well, scientists who study the formation of gender-identity say that very young children believe what makes a person a boy or a girl are clear, simple indicators, such as short or long hair, pants or a dress, heavy boots or delicate high heels, and to a lesser extend, inclinations, like a passion for rugby and monster trucks or an interest in dollies and tea-parties. Children know about penises and vaginas, but consider them unimportant to gender. Irrelevant, in the face of a person’s long braids or buzz-cut, interest in Barbie or passion for football.

I like to think I never outgrew this primary, elegantly simple stage.

Physically, I was a small-boned but strong and wiry child. With short-cropped, white-blond hair and striking blue-green eyes, I was scrappy and unafraid to take on even larger boys if provoked.

But I didn’t know what sex to call myself. Under pressure from society, I forced the belief that I was a boy without a penis into my subconscious, where it lay forgotten for almost 30 years.

It came back to me in an odd way. A day after visiting a "clothing-optional" beach in San Diego, I was working at a computer terminal thinking back on the succession of nude men I’d seen, displayed along the beach on colorful towels like assorted canapés. My friend and I had been strolling along the gay section and the Southern California aesthetic of male beauty—tan, lean bodies with cut, gym-toned torsos—had been very much in evidence.

And every one of them had a penis. Reflecting back, I realized I'd registered surprise each and every time. Come to think of it, I did the same in locker rooms—in fact, every time I encountered a naked man with a penis, I felt surprise.

What was going on? Men have penises, that's a basic operating principle of society--some would say of “nature.” Why, then, should I be surprised to see the principle in action?

Because, I thought, I don't believe it. I don't equate penises with manhood. That’s the moment I realized that all my life, I had believed some boys had them and some didn't. Deep down, I had cherished the hope that one day, society would come to realize what a meaningless measure of manhood a penis really is.

In the meantime, I’d never stopped looking for others like me. Eventually, I found them, though it took many more years and was in a different form than I’d originally imagined as a child.

Technical difficulties....

I (foolishly) tried to make some html changes that Blogger's server couldn't digest, resulting in a crashed Krieg9 for the past 12 hours. Sorry for any inconvenience. I don't want to spend my entire vacation trying to figure out the technical ins and outs, so, for the time being, this is the new template.

Any comments, temporarily mail to brynn@myway.com.

Naked


Three years after my bike accident, following "top" surgery in an out-patient clinic to remove breast tissue and reshape my chest in a masculine way, when I looked like a man but had undergone no lower surgery, I once again found myself in a hospital, this time for back surgery.

I had been forced off work and onto medical disability by a ruptured spinal disk, which left me in constant pain and unable to walk without a pronounced limp. Drugs, physical therapy and a spinal epidural had all proven ineffectual at treating the injury, leaving back surgery as my final option.

I was scared. While my surgeon considered the procedure routine, any surgery carries risks, and this one included paralysis from the waist down and possible loss of bladder and bowel control. Contemplating this, and the fact I would be under general anesthesia and therefore completely at the mercy of the surgical team, I sat down for a one-on-one discussion with the surgeon's chief nurse ten days before entering the hospital.

The surgeon knew I was transsexual, but as I'd only decided that day to go forward with the surgery, he hadn't had a chance to inform his nurse. I wondered to myself, was disclosure necessary? With back surgery, maybe they'd only strip me down to my boxers, in which case no one need know I wasn't a "normal" male. I thought about this as the nurse asked me a series of routine questions about my health, including confirming I was on testosterone without inquiring as to why. When she finally asked if I had questions, I took a deep breath.

"Yes,” I said. “First, will I be unclothed during the procedure?"

Across the expanse of her large, polished wood desktop, the nurse looked up from my thick medical file. Ramrod straight, an older woman with just the trace of a German accent, she nodded. "Yes.”

"Oh…." I said. “Then you won't be leaving on even my underwear?”

"No.” Her tone registered the slightest impatience. “You will be completely naked."

“Oh.” I slumped down a bit in my hard, straight-backed chair. "Well then, there's something I have to tell you."

I took a deep breath. Then, "I'm a female-to-male transsexual and I haven't had lower surgery. You say I'll be unclothed during the procedure, so I want to make sure the surgical team and after-care nurses and everyone else are all informed ahead of time, to make sure they’re not surprised..."

I trailed off. I could see I’d lost her at the word "transsexual." She was hefting my medical file, a blank expression on her face and as I watched she dropped the file over the edge of her desk and onto the floor by her feet. It almost seemed like a deliberate action, though I knew it wasn’t. She bent over to retrieve the file, grabbing a confusion of papers and pages which she dumped in a pile back on her desktop.

"Oh," she said, avoiding my eyes while she tried to stuff the unruly mass of papers back into the file-folder. "Ok…Well, that's fine. I…I don't see any problem."

I watched a crimson blush climb her pale features as her hands scrabbled with the papers, thinking I'm really glad you're not monitoring my anesthesia level right now.

Then I tried again. "I wanted to tell you this now,” I said, “because not everyone has a positive reaction to the information and I don’t want them to be distracted or upset while they’re supposed to be taking care of me."

She cut me off. "But you said you haven't had the surgery yet.” She scowled, as if I was intentionally trying to ruin her day. “So I don't see what problem there is!"

I suddenly realized the words "female-to-male" had slipped past unnoticed in her reaction to the word, "transsexual." As was true for many people, the existence of females who transitioned to live as men was clean off her radar screen. She had assumed I was male, transitioning to female, saw I looked completely masculine and wondered why in the world a lack of surgery would pose any challenge to her staff.

I sighed again. Leaning forward in my chair, I annunciated very slowly and distinctly. "I have no penis."

Her jaw dropped. "You?! What? …Oh!” She inhaled sharply and sat back in her chair. Comprehension slowly washed over her features and, though I hadn’t thought it possible, she blushed even redder. "That...the…then…that explains the testosterone."

"Yes," I said, squaring my shoulders. And, as was my strategy in situations where someone was reacting badly to my disclosure, I adopted a calm, sympathetic demeanor. Treating the whole thing matter-of-factly when it obviously wasn’t exhausted me but it tended to take the wind out of the sails of over-the-top reactions.

"Do you understand now why I'm telling you this? It's not that I want to make you--or anyone--uncomfortable. I just want to make sure that everyone can focus on doing their jobs--on taking care of me during surgery. I don’t want them to be caught up in their reactions because they suddenly realize I'm ...different."

"Yes. Yes, I understand now. Of course…of course, I understand." The shuffling of papers slowed as she began to regain control of herself.

I, on the other hand, was shaken. Her meltdown had unnerved me.

After I left that day, I considered delaying the surgery and trying longer to heal my injury with physical therapy. The prospect of, say, my surgeon’s assistant or someone tripping on the physical reality of my body and oops! making even a small mistake, terrified me. I found it hard to shake the vision of the highly trained and experienced nurse reduced to a stammering klutz by my mere spoken revelation. The physical reality of my body was even more dramatic.

Walking abroad in the world possessing what looks like (while clothed) an intact male body, everyone assumes that I have all the expected plumbing. This expectation, needless to say, sets up a tension in my day-to-day existence. I never forget--indeed, society’s insistence on a two-sex system and its discomfort with transsexuals ensures I never forget--that I am different. I live one traffic accident, one false arrest, one ill-chosen confidence away from embarrassing--and possibly lethal--exposure.

One such case of an exposure gone wrong occurred on Christmas Eve, 1993. Twenty-one-year-old Brandon Teena was raped and, a week later, brutally murdered in Falls City, Nebraska, by two companions who discovered that their “male” friend actually possessed a female body. The small town sheriff Brandon turned to for protection was more interested in lurid details of the crime than in arresting the known assailants. His inaction gave the rapists time follow through on their threat to kill Brandon if he went to the authorities.

Word of Brandon’s murder spread like wildfire through the ftm community. On the verge of my first shot of testosterone, I knew that it could have been me. Murder of us is so widespread, frequently accompanied by sexual assault and a viciousness born of extreme emotions, that activists have informally coined the phrase, “the transsexual death penalty.”

I decided to call the nurse back a week later and feel out how she was adjusting. Keeping my voice nonchalant, I asked if she had any questions for me. Any concerns?

"No,” she replied, “none at all."

She sounded a bit nervous but generally under control. I reiterated that my main concern was that no one be distracted from doing his or her job, and she told me to rest easy: her staff were professionals and they would perform their jobs skillfully and well. We finished our conversation and I hung up.

I sat there staring at the phone, my hand shaking slightly on the receiver. At the time, I was living in a second-story flat in the Mission District of San Francisco. My four housemates consisted of two "boy-dykes," a fem lesbian and another ftm who was my best friend. They were at their various jobs, so I had the large, run-down Victorian to myself. Sun splashed in through the windows overlooking Guerrero Street, and I listened absentmindedly to the shrieks and laughter of children at recess at a nearby Catholic school.

What should I do? I wanted to call back and cancel the surgery, but what then? As it was, I couldn't work, couldn't walk much farther than a few blocks at a time, couldn't even cook for myself or do dishes or other household chores. If I canceled now and didn't get better, wouldn't I run the same risks if and when I decided to reschedule the surgery? I felt a flash of resentment. Why should I have to worry about this on top of the risks of the surgery itself?!

Finally, I removed my hand from the receiver and levered myself up out of the armchair and onto my feet. I'd done all I could to make sure my surgery would go well. Now, best let go of my worries and proceed.

Fortunately, the surgery was successful beyond anyone's expectations. Members of the Kaiser surgical team treated me with kindness and respect. The nurse who rolled me into the operating arena pointed out brown paper covering the room’s plate-glass windows. "For your privacy," she said. "Just like we do for our own."

Flat on my back, already feeling the effects of the drugs they'd pumped into me, I was more relaxed than I'd been in a long time. Surgery-smurgery, I thought, bring it on!

They told me to count down from 10: I was out by seven.

An Accident


They said I was unconscious for 10 or 15 minutes. Out-cold, in a crumpled fetal position on asphalt still damp from an early morning fog off the San Francisco Bay, while a crowd of my co-workers gathered, curious to see what had happened. Outside their growing circle, my mountain bike lay, taxi-cab yellow against the dull-gray pavement, its knobby tires slowly spinning down. It was relatively undamaged from the accident that had left me with a concussion, fractured arm, sprained wrist and patchy map of road-rash across my body.

I came to slowly, confused. I’d been dreaming, which made me think at first that I was home in bed. But the voices I heard above and around me didn't fit. One voice in particular, hoarse with excitement, broke through my haze.

"I looked up, yeah, and I saw this guy flying through the air! And he landed and I expected him to get up, but he didn't. He didn't get up…he just lay there, not moving. So I ran over…"

The voice receded again, as if down a tunnel, and my focus shifted to the cold, lumpy surface beneath my back, which resolved abruptly into gravel and asphalt. My heart started thumping as a picture popped into my mind--bicycle handlebars, and beneath them, a fat, off-road tire sunk deep in a roadbed rail-groove. On my final approach to work, outside the gate to Bayer’s Biotech facility in Berkeley, California, I’d tried to cross railway tracks to skirt a double-parked semi-trailer truck. As my tire encountered the wet tracks, however, my bike had jerked beneath me and without warning, slipped into the groove. A split-second later, wheels locked tight, it had stopped dead.

But the guy flying through the air couldn't be me. I'd just had my first shot of testosterone a week before. Fellow Bayer employees all knew me as a woman--a short-haired, cross-dressing odd sort of woman, true, but a woman nonetheless. That I was actually a female-to-male transsexual—or "ftm"—just beginning transition was as yet unknown. No coworker would use male pronouns to refer to me.

But the driver of the double-parked truck might. The man with the excited voice might be him, in which case, the guy he was referring to could be me. Flying through the air.

There was no escaping it: I must be lying in the road. Had been for a bit of time, it seems. Who—if any—of my coworkers had seen the accident? More importantly, who had heard the truck driver call me "he?" With any luck, they’d just think they’d misheard. Or that the truck driver was befuddled. Slowly, I opened my eyes and looked up…to see a circle of Bayer employees five or six people deep surrounding me.

Shit! I clenched my eyes shut again. Heart racing, fighting nausea, I rolled over onto my side, struggling against the tangle of my bike-bag. All I wanted to do was escape the stares of those 30 or 40 people. Nothing else mattered. Not my head, which was pounding. Not the palms of my hands, scraped raw, nor my arm, which screamed in pain.

Somehow, I managed to get up onto my hands and knees and crawl a few feet—no one tried to stop me—before once again collapsing. Face down, fighting not to throw up, it occurred to me then that I might have a neck or spinal injury and should not have moved at all. The full extent of my predicament began to sink in. Still, so strong was my desire to flee the stares of coworkers who knew me as a woman but had heard the truck driver call me "he," I would have kept on crawling if I’d been able to.

Instead, I rolled over on the pavement and stared up at the sky, avoiding the eyes of my coworkers, wishing more than anything I could turn back the clock and walk, not ride my bicycle over those damned railroad tracks.

The ambulance arrived. Two paramedics jumped out and knelt on either side of me. One immediately immobilized my head and neck while the other checked my pulse and looked me over for injuries.

"What's your name?" He asked, shining a penlight into my eyes.

"Brynn C."

"What’s the date?"

"March 2nd, 1994."

The two men worked over me, untangling my bike bag, packing sandbags around my head and neck, and immobilizing my left arm. That was when I heard someone tell them I'd been unconscious for more than 10 minutes and really began worrying I might have caused permanent damage by trying to crawl away.

"Who's the president?" The EMT broke into my reverie, leaning over me. They really ask that? I thought before answering, "Bill Clinton."

His next question brought me up short. "Are you on any medications?"

Medications? Testosterone was a "medication," wasn’t it? I stared up into the inquisitive faces of my coworkers. Did I need to mention it? Would testosterone's side-effects be of any concern under the circumstances? My mind raced.

A concussion, which I must have suffered to lose consciousness for 10 minutes, causes the brain to swell, right? And testosterone leads to water retention and weight gain when first injected by a female-bodied person. So, could water retention worsen a concussion?

"Are you on any medications we need to know about?" The EMT repeated his question, his tone more insistent. In my state of mind, everyone in the surrounding wall of people seemed to be hanging on my reply. If I said, "Yes, testosterone," word would spread like wildfire, and Bayer's several thousand employees would all know by day's end that I was a transsexual. Hardly the way I'd planned to come out.

"Are you?" The paramedic asked again, his face looming.

"I.… I'm..." Suddenly, my stupor cleared enough for me to see the simple solution. "I’ll tell you later, ok?" I said in a low voice.

The EMT hesitated just a beat. Then, "Sure," he said, and the two of them finished strapping me to a body board and loading me into the ambulance.

Having never ridden in an ambulance before, I'd thought it would be exciting. The wailing siren, flashing lights, the drama of being the center of all that attention. Well, it was anything but. My condition wasn’t serious enough to warrant a siren, it seemed. A blessing I failed to appreciate at the time, so intent was I on not throwing up, as every bump in the road, every corner, every time we accelerated or braked, I prayed for unconsciousness.

"I feel sick," I finally managed to croak, but the words fell monumentally short of describing my misery.

"Hey, Joe, ease up a bit," the EMT spoke through the partition to the driver. Then he turned back to me. "So, what about those medications?"

Ah, jeeze, how was I going to tell this young guy I was on testosterone? That, in essence, I was one of those?

I took a deep breath, then blurted out, "I'm a transsexual and I had my first shot of testosterone a week ago. I don't know if it affects a concussion or not, but I thought you should know."

There was the slightest of pauses. Then, "That's cool," the paramedic said and wrote something down on his clipboard.

I felt so exposed. The silence lengthened and out of nervousness, I started talking. "Have you ever, ah, seen or dealt with anyone like me before?"

"Nope." The guy looked at me over the edge of the clipboard. "But that's okay." Then his face creased in a smile. "We're trained to deal with all sorts of things. Don't sweat it."

Gratitude washed over me. I was so thankful that he wasn’t put off. I was eternally grateful, in fact, that he was willing to treat me like a fellow human being. I exuded gratitude as I went back to fighting nausea, bouncing over potholes and careening around corners, until the ambulance arrived at the Oakland Kaiser emergency room.

Where, in short order, my composure met with a series of setbacks. A quick assessment by the triage nurse relegated me to an out-of-the-way section of a corridor. Still strapped to the stretcher, my body began to fail me. I started shivering uncontrollably, the room began spinning, my stomach was heaving and, worst of all, I had to relieve myself. Immediately. And they hadn't left me with a call button or any way to signal for assistance.

So I called out, not too loud. "Nurse?" Then a bit louder, "Nurrse!" Images of patients clamoring for attention in third-world hospitals flitted through my mind's eye. At the moment, though, the only thing more humiliating than yelling for help was the prospect of losing control of my bowels while strapped to the stretcher. Pretty soon I was shouting at the top of my lungs, "Nuuurrrsse!"

A white-haired, grandmotherly woman in a white uniform—the quintessential nurse—finally appeared, and I realized my ordeal was just beginning. Defecating into a bedpan while several nurses looked on was bad enough. But there was also the issue of the packer.

That’s right, I was packing—not in a suitcase, in my briefs. My ftm brothers and I had devoted an inordinate amount of time to devising a sort of handmade prosthesis, to give heft and a bulge to our trousers. After much trial and error, we'd settled on a fabrication of condoms filled with hair-gel and sewn inside a cut-off section of pantyhose. The "packer" looked quite lifelike beneath the fabric of pants. Exposed, it looked ridiculous, if not downright obscene.

And I had one in my briefs.

The urgency of the situation gave me little time to deliberate. I briefly considered putting my hand down my pants and sneaking the packer out before they undressed me. But then, where would I put it?

With seemingly no other choice, I came out under duress for the second time that day. "Ah, excuse me, but before we go any further, I have to tell you something," I started.

The nurse was down by my feet, pulling a blanket off my body. She paused and looked up expectantly. "Yes, dear? What is it?"

It's hard, that’s what it is. I sighed, then plunged on. "I'm a transsexual," I said. God how I hated that word! But nobody knew what ftm meant. "I'm female-to-male and I'm wearing a…a thing in my pants. It's kind of embarrassing and I want to take it out…"

"Oh, that's okay, dear!" The nurse actually chuckled and kindly patted my knee. "We've seen everything here. Don't you worry about it a bit. Diane?!" She called to another nurse. "Just a second, she'll bring you something to put it in." A younger woman appeared, disappeared, then returned with a large, white plastic bag.

"Here you go." While the first nurse finished removing my shoes, the other held open the bag. I reached down awkwardly with my unbroken right arm, pulled the packer from my underwear, and shoved it quickly out of sight into the bag. The nurse then stashed the bag discretely under my stretcher. The whole thing, disclosure to concealment, took just a couple of minutes, and neither nurse displayed the slightest unease or prurient curiosity. They were true professionals, for which I once again felt excessively grateful.

There remained the ordeal of the bedpan. Suffice it to say, only dire necessity made the humiliating feat possible. The tact of the nurses salvaged a modicum of my dignity. Still, by the time I was cleaned up, tucked under the blanket again and wheeled off to X-ray, I'd had quite enough of this hospital experience, thank you very much! Yet it would be hours before I’d eventually be released to go home.

I daresay, my experience would have been much more trying had I been farther along in my transition that day. As it was, after only one week on testosterone, my voice was still high-pitched and feminine, my face and body relatively hairless. Despite the fact I felt like a man, I still looked totally like a woman. With no surgeries, a doctor or nurse would find exactly what they expected beneath my clothing.

That wasn’t true the next time I found myself, by chance, in a hospital.

Something different....

I'm going to try something new here.

I'll be on vacation in Brooklyn (with my sweetie!) starting tomorrow and rather than leave Krieg9 to languish, I've decided to post excerpts from my (in-progress) memoir.

I plan to post every day or every other day, depending on my schedule and on readers' interest.

Please be aware, the details of my life could rock your world, especially readers who have come here seeking war news and political commentary. Even a few of you who know me personally may be surprised.

I am not telling my story to shock or offend, however, but because I believe it's worthy of telling for a variety of reasons. In regard to this blog, my politics and radical perspective have been intimately shaped by the events of my life.

As for my timing, I just finished reading the book, Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides--a tour-de-force, I highly recommend!-- and the fact that Eugenides was just awarded the 2003 Pulitzer Prize for fiction, gives me hope that readers, or, at least, my readers, are ready to hear my story.

One final caveat: What I'm posting here will be truth, not fiction. I know, it's the Internet...where truth is as malleable as twice-chewed bubble-gum and just as precious. But I'm serious. This is the true story of my life.

With no further ado, the first installment will follow ....

GOP Astroturf update....

Editors at the San Diego Union Tribune can console themselves: they weren't the only ones to be scammed by the GOP Team Leaders Action Center.

From from it. According to This Modern World, the list of dupes has become woefully long. Time Magazine just added its name, followed by the Kalamazoo Gazette, the Huntsville (AL) Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Anchorage Daily News, the Gallitin (TN) News Examiner and the Glasgow (KY) Daily Times.

These fine examples of American print journalism all published--verbatim--the same letter on "creating jobs and fostering economic growth," composed by TLAC operatives. They placed it in their "letters to the editor" sections, presenting it as a heartfelt missive, painstakingly penned by a real person, rather than the digital result of a couple of mouse-clicks that it really is.

What an all-time low for U.S. journalism. Granted, astroftuf is nothing compared to the Jayson Blair scandal, which pales in comparison to the appallingly shallow, sporting-event-like coverage of the 2002 election debacle and piss-poor, fawning, Pravda-like reporting of the Bush administration's invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq.

But still.

This Modern World post here.

The Brits have the right idea...!

LONDON, May 19 — Shareholders of GlaxoSmithKline voted today to reject the proposed pay package for the company's chief executive, Dr. Jean-Pierre Garnier, and other top executives.

The vote, by a slim margin of 50.72 percent to 49.28 percent, was the first rejection since a new investor-protection law was enacted in Britain earlier this year requiring executive pay plans to be put to shareholders for a vote.

The component of the pay plan that drew the most criticism was a severance provision that would have entitled Dr. Garnier to $23.7 million in bonus salary and stock if he were to resign or be dismissed any time through 2007; it would also add three years to his age when calculating his pension. Dr. Garnier was paid £2.45 million ($4 million) in 2002.

I love that: adding 3 years to his age! Why not make it 60 years, declare him hypothetically deceased, and cut off the pension all together? With the proceeds of $4 million/year (for how many years?) he'd still be way better off than the tens of thousands of rank-and-file retirees and laid-off workers his American counterparts have hung out to dry with no pensions.

Complete story here.

Glover should dump MCI....

WASHINGTON, May 19 — MCI, the former WorldCom, agreed today to settle accusations of fraud by the Securities and Exchange Commission by paying a $500 million penalty that will ultimately be given to investors.

The penalty was the largest ever sought by the commission, and the agreement resolves the biggest fraud case ever filed by the agency....

The article goes on to say that the SEC had actually sought $1.5 billion from MCI for committing the biggest fraud of all time by using improper accounting techniques to misstate its earnings by more than $11 billion. They accepted $500 million "in recognition that it was all the company could afford."

Lawyers for investors say the $500 million will not satisfy shareholders' claims, which run in the "tens of billions of dollars."

As usual, part of the settlement allowed the company to neither admit nor deny the fraud accusations. Still, WorldCom and its former senior executives are not off the hook yet: they may face additional penalties, and the company--along with its board, top executives and former investment bankers and analysts at Salomon Smith Barney--are all defendants in a class-action suit brought by shareholders and bondholders.

So, what was Glover doing promoting a company run by such a band of crooks anyway?

Complete story here.

MCI coming together to fire Glover....

If this can be believed, MCI is dropping Danny Glover as a spokesperson due to his anti-war views and activism.

Normally, I'm not eager to jump to defend a celebrity's right to schill for corporate America.

But it's already bad enough that everything we see, read and hear through corporate media is falling under the control of fewer and fewer giant companies. Now, those behemoths want to control even the minds of their actors and spokespeople.

If you want to let MCI know how you feel about this, go here.

And, by the way, don't credit (or blame) Joe Scarborough for MCI's actions. This Modern World says here that MCI has been looking for a reason to drop
Glover for some time.

American empire....

Great speech, given by world-renowned author, Arundhati Roy, in New York City at the Riverside Church on May 13, 2003.

Some samples:

Way back in 1988, on the 3rd of July, the U.S.S. Vincennes, a missile cruiser stationed in the Persian Gulf, accidentally shot down an Iranian airliner and killed 290 civilian passengers. George Bush the First, who was at the time on his presidential campaign, was asked to comment on the incident. He said quite subtly, "I will never apologize for the United States. I don't care what the facts are."

I don't care what the facts are. What a perfect maxim for the New American Empire. Perhaps a slight variation on the theme would be more apposite: The facts can be whatever we want them to be.

[...]

So here we are, the people of the world, confronted with an Empire armed with a mandate from heaven (and, as added insurance, the most formidable arsenal of weapons of mass destruction in history). Here we are, confronted with an Empire that has conferred upon itself the right to go to war at will, and the right to deliver people from corrupting ideologies, from religious fundamentalists, dictators, sexism, and poverty by the age-old, tried-and-tested practice of extermination. Empire is on the move, and Democracy is its sly new war cry. Democracy, home-delivered to your doorstep by daisy cutters. Death is a small price for people to pay for the privilege of sampling this new product: Instant-Mix Imperial Democracy (bring to a boil, add oil, then bomb).

[...]

When the Turkish government temporarily bowed to the views of 90 percent of its population, and turned down the U.S. government's offer of billions of dollars of blood money for the use of Turkish soil, it was accused of lacking "democratic principles." According to a Gallup International poll, in no European country was support for a war carried out "unilaterally by America and its allies" higher than 11 percent. But the governments of England, Italy, Spain, Hungary, and other countries of Eastern Europe were praised for disregarding the views of the majority of their people and supporting the illegal invasion. That, presumably, was fully in keeping with democratic principles. What's it called? New Democracy? (Like Britain's New Labour?)

Complete speech here.

Way to go...!

ARCATA, CALIFORNIA -- More than 100 cities, and one state, have condemned the USA Patriot Act as giving the government too much snooping power. In Arcata, a liberal fold in Northern California's Redwood Curtain, the City Council has gone a step farther and criminalized it.

Starting this month, a new city ordinance makes it a crime punishable by a $57 fine for a city department head to voluntarily cooperate with unconstitutional investigations or arrests under the aegis of the Patriot Act, the anti-terrorism bill passed in the dark days after Sept. 11.

Ok, it's little more than symbolic. But with all the disheartening news out there, it's still inspiring!

Complete story here.

Fleischer to resign....

Ari Fleischer, President Bush's press secretary, has announced he will resign in July to enter the private sector.

Say what you will about the Republican's morality, their strategy and tactics, like those of tyrants before them, are extremely effective. And none more so than Spin-meister Fleischer, who never flinched from straightforwardly refusing to answer embarrassing or unwanted questions.

Frankly, I'm surprised he's resigning just as Bush's presidential campaign starts to gear up. I wonder what--if anything--is behind the move?