Idi Devin

Barfroat Ashanti Ghana Food
Mampong, Ghana West Africa
Monday, August 27, 2007

Deep Fried Food

I took a walk in search of a food called Achoma, and found the sister food called Barfroat. Yesterday, Sunday, there was a line of people waiting for Dora the woman to finish cooking the first batch. I decided to sit down and wait in the shade while they finished the cooking. I like them well done, so wanted to be last in line.

I decided, this looks like a good video, so I started a small clip, it was funny, I did not notice until I was filming, however there are a couple of girls that were fully aware as I was photographing their dip shower area. The camera was not able to catch them, however as I was filming the would occasionally pop their heads above the side and see what I was up too.

Notice at the end of the Video, a girl in a black dress, who has now on two days tried to repeatedly to teach me Ashanti words. Her name is Dorcas and the sister of the women cooking the Barfroat.

Barfroat is more or less an extra large Donut Hole, without them making the donut. I do not know presently the type of flour used.

If you received this in your email box, you probably need to click on this link to go and see the video. HoboTraveler.com Videos

After this part of various videos was done, I proceeded to eat one of the Barfroat; a man came up and spoke some English. He invited me into the home where I met his wife, and realized that Dorcas and Dora were his daughters. His name was Joseph; I took a video of the inside of the compound area, and the family welcoming to their house.

It was great day, then after that Joseph, took me across the road and I made a video of them making Fufu. To explain each of these situations I need to collect some words and a couple of extra videos so the stories are complete. I guess there is a need to return to see the future stories or videos.

One video would be of the inside of a compound home and the other explaining how they make Fufu, in Ghana.

Barfroat Ashanti Ghana FoodClick Here to Read Blog Online
Write letters to Andy

My sister and I were invited to many birthday parties when we were little kids, mostly for other kids in the neighborhood. This one stands out…

It was for John, the boy who lived on the corner. He was my age, and his sister, Susan, was a year older.

As usual, Mom had us dress up in nice clothes for the party, not realizing (or not being told) that the party was in the local public park. So, there Tori and I stood, in our nice party clothes, not being able to do anything for fear of getting our clothes dirty. We were able to play the party games, such as pin the tail on the donkey, but when it came time for the racing games, or the playground games, we were just out of luck. If I had thought about it enough, I would have felt stupid, but when you’re a 7 or 8 year old, you just haven’t lived long enough to be embarrassed. I think it was our mom who was embarrassed more than Tori and I could ever be at that age.

If you want to participate in Friday Flashback, click the banner at the top of this post.

That’s all from where I sit.

–MorelaterZ–

1. In a rush for a present? Head over to the nearest pharmacy, grab a gift bag and fill it with “women’s products” - shampoo, conditioner, body lotion, scented oils, scented soaps, etc. Give it to her and you could be using those products on her soon.

2. Want to take the relationship to the next level but not ready to ask her to go steady yet? Give her two flowers. One yellow and one red. With each give her a note. For the yellow flower the card should say “For my best friend” and the card for the red flower should say “To the one I love.” Instant girl puddy in your hands!

3. Whenever she’s close and her hair is hanging by her face, use your index and middle finger from either hand to smoothly brush her tresses behind her ear. As you do this run both or one of the fingers all the way behind her ear right down to her ear lobes. This sensitive area not only relaxes girls, but it has a subconscious maternal effect that suggests comfort (just like how their mom used to do it to them) and closeness.

Anonymous DJ

I’m back. It’s been a whirlwind four days, packed with caves and ruins and dunes and car chases and rainbows and interminable waits at airports - in short everything that a long, glorious weekend should be. And since the whole point of all this travel is to blog about it afterwards, here goes:

Day 0

It’s a five and a half hour flight from Newark to Albuquerque, an hour and a half of which is spent on the runway at Newark waiting for the 378 planes in line ahead of us to take off. I spend my time napping, reading Tacitus, and eavesdropping on the conversation of the people sitting in front of me, who are debating the relative merits of various European cities in matters of fashion (apparently, it’s ok to buy a coat in Amsterdam, but only if you’re a man; and of course, you absolutely have to go to Italy for shoes). The man on the right seems a little reluctant to add Albuquerque to the list of important centers of Western Fashion, but gives in when the woman in the middle points out that the city is a great place to get cowboy hats (old-style Stetsons being, for some reason, hard to get hold of in Dusseldorf), which, one infers, is the reason she chooses to reside in Albuquerque instead of in, say, Milan. The man on the left says he’s always wanted to own a belt made out of rattlesnake skin. The woman launches into a story about how a friend of hers used to have one. I put in my earplugs. It’s going to be a long flight.

Day 1

We (Z. and I) leave Albuquerque bright and early, our destination for the day being the Carlsbad Cavern National Park located in the extreme South-East of the state. It isn’t long before we’ve left civilization (read: cities) behind and are driving through lonely desert country, arid plains of scrub and scraggly grass stretching out to the horizon on both sides of us, grazed by the occasional cow. There are supposedly some 35 million people on the road this weekend, but none of them are on the NM 285. Instead, all we get is an assortment of local fauna, most of it in the form of roadkill (a motley collection that Z. enthusiastically adds to by managing to run over a low flying swift).

But on lonely roads like this unseen dangers lurk, as we are soon to learn. It turns out that the state of New Mexico has two chief industries - issuing speeding tickets and putting up road signs. The former, it would appear, is the state’s chief source of income, which is why the entire road system of the area has been designed around it. The technique is simplicity itself. Build a lot of random towns in the middle of nowhere. Connect them with highways so straight, so beautiful, as to make any speed enthusiast’s heart sing with excitement. Make sure these highways have absolutely no cars on them, except those of people from outside the state. Then set an absurdly low speed limit and watch hapless tourists run smack into a speeding violation like birds flying into a window of clear glass. Z was to fall victim to this conspiracy twice on our first day - the first time for driving at a (to my mind) remarkably restrained 85 on a magnificent airstrip of a highway with a designated speed limit of (alas!) 70, the second time for doing 70 in a 65 mile zone (horrors!) - said 65 mile zone being a major interstate, which, at half past midnight, was completely empty.

But I get ahead of myself. The other major industry in New Mexico is putting up idiotic road signs. I don’t have any figures on this, but I’m pretty sure that the state must have the highest concentration of road signs per inhabitant of any place where cars are driven. The general idea seems to be that drivers are mindless zombies who need to be given precise instructions on everything, presumably so as to give them no excuse for wriggling out of a ticket (see above). So, for instance, when you come out of an urban area and the speed limit goes back up, NM won’t, like every other state, simply announce what the raised speed limit will be - instead it will walk you through a series of gradually increasing speed limits in 5 mph increments (45 mph, 50 mph, 55 mph, etc.), until, some ten miles later, you finally reach the top speed permitted on the road, by which time of course you need to start slowing down for the next sign of habitation. New Mexico is also the only state I’ve seen where the road authorities don’t think it sufficient to simply mark the highway with a solid or dashed yellow line to indicate whether it is legal to pass or not. In New Mexico, they don’t just give you the dashed line, they also add a helpful sign saying ‘Pass With Care’ every time a solid line becomes a dashed line. To add to the fun, ‘Pass with Care’ and ‘Do Not Pass’ signs are frequently located about 50-100 metres apart, so that the only way you could successfully pass the car in front of you in the intervening space would be if you happened to be doing about 120 mph at the point when the passing zone started, though even that wouldn’t really help you because it would only be a matter of minutes before a cop emerged from the burrows in the ground they typically hide in and ticketed you for speeding.

So anyway, there we are, stifling in the heat of a desert afternoon, a speeding violation tucked away in our glove compartment, our crest-fallen state leaving us in that most dangerous of human conditions - susceptibility to advertising. I can think of no other reason that would have made us stop for lunch at the Velvet Garter Family Restaurant in White’s City (a tiny collection of shops located at the entrance to Carlsbad Cavern, whose other delights include the Million Dollar Museum, a gift shop that sells “Guns and Dolls”, and “Melodrama at Granny’s Opera House” - I kid you not) [1]. The Velvet Garter is closed for lunch, but the diner it shares a kitchen with is open. It’s not a bad diner, really. In fact, you could almost say it’s an ur-diner, a kind of pure distillation of the ubiquity of diners everywhere - the plastic seats, the ketchup on the table, the waitress who calls you ‘honey’ - and it allows me to appreciate once again the great secret of Authentic American cuisine, which is that no matter how hard you try, you cannot really mess up a basic grilled chicken sandwich with fries.

From this point onward, our day picks up dramatically. We arrive at the National Park to find it crawling with people, but still manage to get tickets to the tour of the restricted areas of the cavern that we want to take - the last two people to do so. The tour doesn’t start for another two and a half hours though, so we decide to take one of the self-guided tours into the cavern first. An elevator from the parking lot takes us to a cafeteria some 750 feet underground, from where we start out on the paved 1-mile Big Room Trail.

It’s almost impossible to describe the sheer magnitude of Carlsbad. The guide book says the Big Room cave alone covers some 8.2 acres, but the words mean little. What you find yourself in the center of is an immensity of space that opens out in every direction, swallowing the light. Yet what remains is not emptiness but an overwhelming infinity of shape and stone - stalagmites hundreds of feet high rising into the domed air like majestic phalli, great clusters of stalactites hanging like swords from the ceiling, palatial columns of gnarled rock towering above you until you can almost feel the weight and lift of the great stone roof, pits of bottomless void where the very concept of depth loses its meaning - the mind struggles to come to terms with the dimensions of what it is seeing, struggles to reconcile this echoing vastness with the confined associations of the word ‘cave’, and lapses into awe-struck surrender.

Yet it is not only the brute majesty of the stone that astounds: there is much here that is small and delicate. Every nook, every corner of this great cavern is filled with a multiplicity of form and pattern, a wilderness of impromptu sculpture. The stalactites alone come in dozens of shapes - ranging from exploding popcorn to fine drapery. Tiny rock pools create symmetries of reflection in which the cavern is endlessly rediscovered, endlessly new. Here an assortment of needle-thin structures converts a small niche of rock into a doll-sized theater. There the sight of a stalagmite and a stalactite trembling towards each other, their two points divided by a finger-width of air, makes one think of the shyness of lovers, or of paintings by Michelangelo. It’s as though you had stumbled into a vast treasure house of abstract statuary, the work of centuries of empire all stored in some great underground vault, awaiting the day when it shall return to the light to populate the earth with its obscure, instinctive beauty.

Much of this has to do, of course, with the lighting. Set up by consultants brought to Carlsbad from Broadway, the lighting inside the cavern is a work of art in itself, perfectly accentuating the earthy reds and shadowy greens of the cavern without depriving the place of its fundamental gloom. As though someone had polished a rough diamond just enough to make the odd facet shine through. And indeed the overall effect of the Big Room is of something jeweled but unpolished, a raw gathering of forms large and small, held together by a conspiracy of darkness.

There is much to gape at in the Big Room (the 1 mile trail took us almost two hours, though a good part of that was spent trying to find the right camera setting to capture some of this beauty), but my favorite bits were the Temple of the Sun (a great burning monolith of flame around which the shadowy shapes of tourists dance like votaries at a sacrifice), the breath-taking view of the lower cave, the Crystal Spring Dome with luminous, mushroom-shaped underside, and the towering Rock of Ages, its tiny columns rising in layers like candles or bones [2].

Our walk through the Big Room completed, Z and I then returned to the cafeteria, from where our guided tour through the area called the King’s Palace was due to start. Here a fresh set of wonders awaited us, as the hectic geometry of the Big Room gave way to a more stately grandeur - a wide hall of a cave decorated from floor to dome with a baroque pageantry of rock that no human sculptor could ever hope to match. Time seems suspended here, frozen in place like the water that drips in slow tentative drops from the high ceilings of the cave. It is a humbling thought to know that all this intricate splendor existed long before the adventure of man began, as though by breathing the air of these caves, by sharing in their silence, one caught a glimpse of the very eternity of stone.

Unfortunately, these areas of the cavern are only accessible as part of a ranger-guided tour. This means that even as you admire the majesty of these natural formations you’re forced to listen to the unending prattle of a ranger whose talk seems to have been written with five-year olds in mind. So you get a lot of faux-philosophical stuff about how everything in nature is connected to everything else, and a lot of fatuous stories and silly jokes about Jim White, the 16-year old who first discovered the cave (which means, of course, that he was the first white man to discover the cave and get out of it alive). And if you try to avoid all this blather by adopting the time honored back-bencher technique of staying as far in the rear as possible, you find yourself harried along by a ranger on the other end, whose job it is to make sure that everyone stays together. Add to this that you’re accompanied by the inevitable collection of half-wits who make up every guided tour group I’ve ever seen, and who insist on asking the most inane questions, and the tour can be a little trying, but the beauty of the place effortlessly makes up for it.

To be fair, the guided tour has one redeeming feature. At one point on the tour, the rangers make everyone sit down and then switch off all the lights in the cave. The darkness that follows has to be not seen to be believed. It’s an absolute blackness, with no concession to shade or hue, not the slightest intimation of even the possibility of sight. “Put out the light and then put out the light” Shakespeare writes, and what you experience in that moment or two of unremitting darkness is not simply blindness, but a snuffing out of the self, the sense of the mind as a sightless creature, abandoned and groping in an infinite void. This is a darkness you can only experience, as the guide points out, underground, for everywhere else some hint of light always sneaks through. No night is this dark, no eclipse this complete. It’s an impressive feeling, sitting there helpless, and a reminder of the horror and mystery that lies at the heart of every cave, even one so relatively tamed.

King’s Palace tour completed, Z and I find that we have an hour and a half to kill before the flying of the bats (more on this later), so we decide to drive down the 9.5 mile Willow Canyon circuit that starts from just outside the visitors center. The Park brochure says that the drive offers “dramatic desert mountain scenery”, but I can’t claim to have seen anything particularly breathtaking. Still, it’s a pleasant enough drive, a dirt and gravel road that winds through stands of yucca and prickly pear, flanked by low hills crowned with great buttresses of weathered rock, the stones looking for all the world like the walls of some ruined fort. Now and then there’s a view of the plains, but in a country where most landscape is flat scrubland, this doesn’t impress much. Riding along the path, what I was reminded of most was the road driven by the main protagonist in Kiarostami’s Taste of Cherry. The landscape here is more rugged, more desert like, but the overall effect is the same - of something slow and tentative and little mournful winding to its inevitable conclusion.

Back at the Visitor’s Center, we head down to the Amphitheater for the Bat Flight. Carlsbad cavern is home to a massive population of Mexican Fruit bats, all of whom emerge from the cave around sunset to hunt at night in the surrounding countryside. This means that if you wait outside the mouth of the cave on a summer evening, you can see a swarm of anywhere between 70,000 and 800,000 bats emerging from the cave and taking flight into the sky.

On this particular day, the amphitheater is overflowing, it being labor day weekend. Z and I manage to find seats right at the back (we figure we should try and be the first to leave - the prospect of being stuck behind some five dozen cars inching their way out of the park afterwards is not one that appeals to us) and settled down to wait for the Bat Flight. Of course, they can’t just let us sit and wait for the bats to emerge, so we have a ranger giving us a little talk about bats in the interim (Aarrghhh!). In all fairness, though, he does a good job. Of course, most of what he says is common knowledge to anyone who knows anything about bats beyond their role in vampire films, but his talk is engaging and his enthusiasm for bats infectious; plus you have to feel sorry for a guy who has to keep talking till the bats show up, which means he could end up stuck there for an hour just trying to keep a crowd of hundreds entertained while sticking to the subject of bats. No mean feat that.

Eventually the bats emerge. I have to admit I was expecting something more ferocious, more feral. A great rush of wings swarming into the air, that kind of thing. Instead we get a swirling yet somehow delicate pattern of tiny black figures, dancing on the air like motes, or fly ash, their wings beating with the open and shut motion of butterflies. As they flew out of the cave, the bats turn in a neat spiral, like a crowd of commuters climbing a staircase, and having made it out into the open fly jerkily away until a line of them hangs in the twilit sky like a thin taper of smoke rising ever higher. It’s a mesmerizing sight.

Leaving before the end of the bat flight, Z and I make our way back to the car park and from there back out to the highway. Our plan at this point is to make for Alamogordo and spend the night there, arriving early next morning at the White Sands National Monument. As it turns out, however, every place in Alamogordo we call looking for a room is full, so we finally decide to drive an extra 60 miles out of our way to Las Cruces, where rooms are still available. By the time we figure this out it is already past 9 pm, and we have a four hour drive still ahead of us, so we grab a pizza from the Domino’s at Artesia (easily the culinary low point of the trip) and head out on our way. 180 miles and one speeding ticket later, we arrive at our hotel, only to find there had been some kind of mix up and they don’t actually have a room for us. Fortunately, someone else who did have a reservation hasn’t shown up at this point (it’s 1.30 in the morning), so the lady at the front desk decides to defer the problem and gives us his room.

[to be continued]

[1] Actually, I lie. The reason we pick the Velvet Garter is because we’ve driven through three towns without seeing anything that looks like it might offer a decent meal. Every town we pass through seems to have stepped straight out of one of those early 80’s films about small-town America - think Paris, Texas.

[2] It has to be said that many of the names of the features within the cavern are dreadfully twee. The story goes that these are the original names Jim White gave to these formations when he first came down into the cave. I’m suspicious though. I find it hard to believe that any self-respecting sixteen year old male would go around calling things ‘the land of the fairies’, let alone a sixteen year old tough and macho enough to spend his time boldly going into caverns where no man has gone before. Also, I mean, just look at this thing below. You seriously expect me to believe that a hormone crazed sixteen year old looked at this thing and didn’t make the obvious connection?

Larry Games, Vice President at Procter and Gamble Pharmaceuticals has replied. For previous correspondence and the letter to which he is replying see Let’s take the high road Dr Games and Letter to Dr Games. For an executive summary of the background see AAAS Professional Ethics Report or Slate or Press reports or the rest of this blog.

These issues go to the heart of science and the responsibility of scientific authors. His reply and my reply to his reply are below. Dr Games has promised to write back again to explain what Procter and Gamble mean by “access to data” given repeated refusal to provide it to authors (see some part of that here). One approach might be to redefine the meaning of either the word “access” or “data” to fit with statements made to journals. We await his further reply with interest.

In this case the data was randomization codes. Access to data means that you have those codes. Its as simple as that. And we are talking here about access to data by authors not random other interested scientists. Access does not mean that someone else has told you as author what those codes might mean. In the words of one blogger its like being offered a hamburger when what you need is the original cow. PloS medicine blog has a useful interchange on access to data. Readers may wish to comment here as to what “access to data” means to an authoring scientist.

The relationship between the hamburger purporting to represent data (P&G’s graphs and statistical analysis in one paper, two draft papers, and at least 5 meeting abstracts) and the actual cow (when data was finally revealed to authors in 2006) is interesting.

Dr Games’s further definition of access to data is awaited. He might also explain again why he thinks anyone will be satisfied by this ongoing hamburger when journal editors and all other investigators out there who have expressed interest are still not allowed to see that cow (apart from me and a few other statisticians of course who have seen that beast). Of course its that proprietary right to represent that proprietary data in whatever half cocked manner one likes, and then to use the academic authors who generated it to front it for you. Never mind that this involves a critical aspect of science involving a licensed drug and the original studies used to gain approval for that drug.

To: Aubrey Blumsohn
Subject: Re: Actonel Studies Sheffield
From: games.lm@pg.com
Date: Wed, 20 Dec 2006 15:44:54 -0500

Dear Dr. Blumsohn,

Thank you for your letter of November 23, 2006. The following responds to your questions in that letter. In reference to your December 15 note attached below, you can send the abstracts and statistical reports to me.

You have asked that we permit you to share with third parties the data that we recently provided to you (and to which you were provided access prior to your presentation of the research at scientific meetings in 2003). As noted in my previous letter to you, this proprietary data was provided to you in good faith to allow you to repeat your original research, and should not be shared with third parties without our consent. However, as I indicated earlier we would be willing to discuss the need with the organization to whom you are submitting the abstracts. If you forward any request for the data to me, I can ensure legitimate needs are met while protecting our proprietary rights. I would of course copy you on that transmittal, so that you could verify that the correct data was provided.

Since you were not involved in the research related to the article that appeared in the Journal of Bone and Mineral Research in 2003, it would not be appropriate to provide you with the data used in that publication. Some of that data (e.g., CTx data) was not part of your research with us. However, we have in response to your allegations provided that data to the academic authors of that article, to allow them to respond appropriately. It is our understanding that the original authors are working with the JBMR and would presumably publish their findings. If you have questions about that article I suggest that you contact them or the editors of the JBMR.

Sincerely,

Larry Games
Vice-President R&D
P&G Pharmaceuticals

Dr Larry M Games
Vice President
Procter and Gamble Pharmaceuticals
Health Care Research Center
8700 Mason-Montgomery Road
Mason, Ohio, 45040
USA 21 December 2006

[Attachment here]

Dear Dr Games,

Thank you for your response (below).

Although predictable, I am disappointed that the wrong road appears to have been taken.I will shortly transmit several meeting abstracts written using the randomization and event codes you provided in April 2006.You state data “should not be shared with third parties without our consent”. The point of my letter of 23 November was precisely to request such consent. The message conveyed by refusal is obvious.It is now known that P&G mis-described that data in my name in an obvious way. Some of that was admitted in 2003/4 but corrected publication was impossible without data. P&G then tried to alter the hypothesis and mode of analysis in retrospect. P&G also mis-described the subset of that data which forms the NTX component of the Eastell 2003 paper. Two further publications mis-describing that data (in my name) would have been transmitted to journals in 2004 had I been willing to sign the draft publications written by P&G. Under such circumstances commercial confidentiality has little place.I was intrigued by the image you provided of the editor of JBMR “working with” the authors of the first of the three papers to deal with the issue of pharmaceutical research misconduct (having first declined to scrutinize the evidence or statistical reports related to that paper and other abstracts). I am aware that P&G’s looming presence might well have led to this unbelievable situation. Quite what questions he is expecting the authors to answer I have no idea. Perhaps not the questions asked?Apart from limited public access, I repeat that refusal to allow an author to transmit data to a journal editor is unreasonable, particularly under the current circumstances. It is also not appropriate to suggest that a commercial company would interact with that editor directly to “resolve” any difficulties. Should there be any attempt to avoid proper description of these data I would be inclined to instruct my legal representative to release the version of the data provided to him.I am interested in your comment with regard to the meaning of “access to data”. Attempts to distort and confuse language and events has no place now. You continue to state: “and to which you were provided access prior to your presentation of the research at scientific meetings in 2003″.
Some of Professor Eastell’s correspondence about the denial of data is attached to provide some reality-check for those copied in here. [Attachment here]

Kindly define the meaning of the word “access” so that we can be certain we are speaking the same language. If you mean access to data in the usual scientific (and linguistic) sense, and in the sense conveyed by Journal declarations, please share with me how this accords with the following examples:

Richard Eastell’s correspondence with Ian Barton on 27 May 2002 complaining about absence of access to data (4 weeks after submission of the Eastell paper to JBMR).Ian Barton’s correspondence of 14 June 2002 refusing data (6 weeks after submission of the Eastell paper to JBMR).Mike Manhart correspondence of 13 July 2002 refusing data (8 weeks after submission of the Eastell paper to JBMR).Ian Barton’s correspondence of 10 June 2003 about refusal of dataIan Barton correspondence of 19 June 2003 and associated communication with Richard Eastell about refusal of dataCommunication with Ian Barton on 1 Sept 2003 about refusal of dataCommunication with Richard Eastell on 10 September 2003 about refusal of dataFailure of any data provision in response to my letter of 24 May and 26 May 2004 about refusal of data.Professor Eastell’s letter to me of 13 December 2004 (also conveyed by him to McKay Law and the General Medical Council) attempting to rationalize why P&G/Aventis were denying data [Attachment here].Response of Professor Eastell to letter from McKay law of 25 May 2005 (transmitted to McKay law and also by Professor Eastell himself to the General Medical council) stating that he too was unable to get access to the data, and was aware that I had been asking for it repeatedly [in attachment].Your own response to a letter from McKay Law of 25 May 2005 asking for data.The legal “threats” conveyed to the University of Sheffield in March 2006 and from them to myself and my British Medical Association representative that I apparently had “information in [his] possession” that “belongs to Proctor and Gamble” and that it was the view of P&G and the University that I “may have taken data from Proctor and Gamble without their consent” and that “Following contact from Proctor and Gamble’s lawyers it is clear that he does not have their consent to retain this information” and that I had to return it to Procter and Gamble “including any copies he has taken”.
Of course we all know I did see some tabulated and graphical summaries of data produced in a meeting with Ian Barton in 2003 (and produced three simplistic graphs myself under scrutiny during that meeting) –but those analyses raised substantial questions, several of which were admitted by Ian Barton. None of these questions were amenable to being addressed (until your provision of data in April this year).

This does not in any way constitute access to data.

Nor was it possible to publish the corrected findings (until your provision of data this year). Instead there was an attempt to hide the worrying findings by altering the mode of analysis and the study hypothesis to look at t-scores!

In summary I have three specific questions

A) Please explain what you mean by “access” to data in the light of these correspondences and P&G’s Bill of Rights of February 2006?

B) Please explain why P&G felt it appropriate to issue legal threats to return data as conveyed by the University of Sheffield to me and my BMA representative in March 2006?

C) You reiterate that the data “should not be shared with third parties without our consent”. Please respond to my request for such consent.

That high-road is still there Dr Games.

Kind Regards

Dr Aubrey Blumsohn
MBBCh, PhD, MSc, BSc(hons), MRCPath
Earlier|Later|Main Page

Hi All,

Here’s my report on the world premiere of BRAND UPON THE BRAIN! at the
31st Toronto International Film Festival.

Megan and I took the red-eye Wednesday night, arrived at our hotel on
Thursday, and were immediately immersed in the business side of
filmmaking. Buyers, sellers, publicists, exhibitors, and press
everywhere. The occasional star shooting by, surrounded by lesser
lights.

We went to the first rehearsal of the orchestra for “Brand upon the
Brain;” eleven members of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, a boy
soprano, and our narrator Louis Negin, under the direction of our own
Jason Staczek. The musicians had never seen even a note of Jason’s
intricate, beautiful score, yet from the first downbeat it sounded
well-nigh perfect. My mouth dropped open, Guy smiled, and Jason
breathed a sigh of relief. We were in good hands.

The next day was a difficult one, trying to put the orchestra, singer,
foley artists, and castrato together into a seamless show in 5 hours.
The dress rehearsal was a calamity, with the sound loud and soft in
all the wrong places, and people traipsing in and out of the theater
throughout (at one point, 14 publicists, no exaggeration, from the new
Will Ferrell movie came through en masse to inspect the seating
arrangements). We decided to work through until 6, thus opening the
house a half hour late. Hilariously, we had to make all our changes
while “Borat” played on the big screen, because the projector had
broken down the night before during its premiere screening, and
20th-Century Fox then insisted that the film’s producer be allowed to
sit and watch the entire film before the next screening, as if that
would somehow prevent the projector from breaking down again.

As Guy and Maya walked the red carpet into the beautiful Elgin Theater
(with fans shouting at them, as Guy said later, “who are you?”), I
kept repeating the theater mantra “bad dress, good opening, bad dress,
good opening.” We began 45 minutes late, but the capacity crowd of
1500, tickled perhaps at the site of the three foley artists in white
lab coats and bowties, surrounded by all kinds of strange
noise-producers, seemed in good spirits. Guy made a nice introduction
of all the live elements, the TIFF trailers played, and suddenly,
there was our film on screen, looking gorgeous!…and started up 30
seconds past the beginning. Jason couldn’t cue the orchestra, and
shouted “Can we please begin again? Please?” And so we did. This
time cued up correctly—everyone clapped when they saw The Film Company
logo. Once again the images were gorgeous, the music sounded
glorious…and Louis’ microphone was dead. He shouted his lines as loud
as he could while the now much hated union technicians scrambled to
fix the problem. At last they did: Louis could be heard loud and
clear, applause once more, followed by a big laugh at something
onscreen, and it was time to relax and enjoy the movie. And indeed,
after only about 30 minutes of furious nail-biting and pacing, I told
myself to relax dammit and enjoy the movie. I tiptoed to a spot in the
balcony, and was just beginning to relax and enjoy the movie when
Louis said his next line quite late, which is a hard thing to do when
it pops up on your monitor at just the right time to say it. I cursed
him and all actors, relaxed again, and he did it again. This time I
cursed the gods for their rotten sense of humor, ran downstairs, found
Guy and told him that Louis’ monitor must have frozen, and that he
should sit in the loge next to Louis and poke him in just the right
place, at just the right moments. Which he did, heroically.

And so the film went off without a hitch, everyone took their
well-deserved bows, and we were an overnight success. Which, in the
festival world, means that overnight everyone forgets you and moves on
to the Next Big Thing. But we were blessed with great reviews
(”breathtaking, perverse, delirious, funny and mystifying,”–the
Toronto Star, though Jamie thinks the quote we should print on the
poster is: “High upside potential!”–Screen International) and great
word of mouth, virtually every festival in the world wants the film,
we’re “sifting through” some buyers’ offers, and most importantly, Guy
was happy. Or as he would write, “Happy!!!”

Next stops with a live score: the 44th NYFF on October 15, and the
Berlin International in February.

–Gregg
Gregg Lachow
Co-President
The Film Company

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At six in the morning, the critics sleepily dragged their feet into the press room to get the Emmy nomination packets. We were greeted with coffee, danishes, and this sign:
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From Xinhua, via China Daily:

One out of every five adults in Shenzhen, South China’s Guangdong Province, suffers from mental problems, according to a government-sponsored survey.

The survey covered more than 7,000 people aged 18 or above, of whom 21 percent said they had experienced psychological difficulties at some stage of their lives and 17 percent said they currently have mental problems, according to the municipal health department.

But the definition of “mental problems” is not clear. If the term is construed in a broad way to cover worries and anxiety of all kinds, then the figures are scarcely remarkable. Despite this, health experts insist that the stress of modern life is taking a heavy toll on people’s peace of mind.

The respondents included permanent residents and migrants across a broad social and economic spectrum. [Full Text]