I feel like the lowest of the low sometimes even at events I’ve co-organized. Last Friday at our Drinking Skeptically it took me several minutes to convince an English grad student that he was welcome and needn’t be apologetic about his major! That’s when it clicked: I don’t feel welcome, or like anything I would contribute would be valued. And after months of being completely frustrated by comment threads at various blogs and forums, I feel like a lot of those folks attending would agree with my low estimation of my worth in this community. Do I want to spend a large chunk of money and my limited vacation time to socialize with them?

I’m really not so sure.

This is much more negative than I initially intended, but it’s been stewing for a while and it’s been keeping me from reading and being an active participant in communities I feel like I’ve previously gotten a lot from. And that is bullshit that needs to stop.

And it’s not as if the skeptical community doesn’t need writers and artists. Specifically graphic designers. Have you seen some of these websites?

Yeah. I said it.

Much respect and love for the first woman in space, Colonel-Engineer Valentina Vladimirovna Tereshkova.

(You try and find a head-on shot of Steven Novella before you go knockin’ my skillz. And if you do, send it to me, cuz it’s driving me crazy.)

I figured I would repost a note I made a few years ago in my old journal about my feelings on good people being taken in by charlatans — this will assist those who want to say I’m being closed minded by asking for serious evidence to back up their outrageous claims. See how generous I am? Here goes:

* * *

I get a bit offended when people bullshit me, whether it is intentional or not. I, wrongly I suppose, feel like people should be able to tell right off that I’m not down with faeries or divining-with-chicken-bones or fertility enhancing navel rings and just not bring these things up around me (and expect polite nodding). How should they tell? My aura Just giving me the benefit of the doubt that I’m not stupid, I suppose. (Much in the same way that writing this to you, my friends, means that I assume you do not believe in the healing powers of powdered endangered animal parts or communications from “The Beyond”. An assumption that should be taken as complimentary.) Or go ahead and mark me down as “close-minded” if you must — that’s cool with me too.

I’m stunned on a regular basis by how many people feel that Montel Williams’ support of Sylvia Browne makes her credible. — People I generally respect (but question my ability to continue doing so) saying things like “well, maybe she can!” I mean, mind reading? Dialogs with the dead? Really? Why would anyone want to invite that sort of violation of privacy into their world view? So you’ve nothing you can keep to yourself and an eternal hereafter complete with intrusive pestering by thrill or money seeking people? Screw that. Sign me up to be Tillman Brand worm food.

I wasn’t brought up with science, mind you. My father’s mother read tarot cards and tea leaves, taking it very seriously as had her mother before her in “the old country” (Shamokin, Pennsylvania). She also believed that a piece of green glass she stepped on as a child continued to travel through her body for decades causing all of her ailments. (Until a brilliant doctor “removed it” and presented the offending shard to her in a specimen vial when she was in her seventies — when suddenly her pains all disappeared.)

I’ve also had several close friends who are prone to fits of imaginative derailment. Occasionally I’ve been distracted by the whimsical fun of spooky stories and their Time Life Mysteries of the Unknown Collections. Shockingly, this coincides perfectly with my youthful painkiller abuse. I won’t knock anyone for past silliness — as we’ve all had our fair share. It’s the continued insistence on kowtowing to convenient omens and supporting questionable businesses with hard-earned money that they have better uses for that I will knock into the ether and back without assistance from the disembodied gloves of 1919 to 1926 world heavyweight champion, Jack Dempsey.

Basically, I’m just noting that whenever I see Contacting Your Spirit Guide on an Amazon wishlist it is always for someone that I would rather give a gas or grocery giftcard to — someone who is less fortunate than myself, and needs some real assistance, not spiritualist crap, and certainly not to be scammed out of what they do have. However, if you don’t want your grocery card I put in your holiday card, I am likely out of limes and tonic so I’ll trade you these magic beans for it.

If you’re a Pittsburgh or near-Pittsburgh reader, you should come to our local Drinking Skeptically this month. It’s on the 20th and I promise there won’t be any arrow wielding flying babies. And the onion rings will knock your socks off. Except I hope not really because I can’t deal with feet.

I’ve been busy at work and also feel like complete crap this week. It’s like head cold meets touch-of-flu, and no sir, I do not like it. This has made for a great deal of movie viewing though. Expect a smallish essay on Freund’s 1935 Mad Love just in time for Valentines Day. And I have something to say about horror scientists and doctors but haven’t had the time or energy to say it. Spent it all Photoshopping that bit up there for DS. Was it worth it? I don’t know. Children, your dear Auntie Lizzie is feelin’ puny. Run along and fetch her some of that “special cough syrup”, won’t you?

Many New Castles and friends, this weekend!

Saturday was a Pittsburgh edition of Drinking Skepchickally, as Elyse, Maria and Jen were in town. It was awesome and I don’t think anyone could even tell I had a migraine. That either means I’ve become so accustomed to them that I’m basically a super hero or perhaps that I was just having such a good time that I was distracted. (Or maybe six New Castles is the magic numbing number.) Maybe a bit of all three leaning mostly towards the excellence of a Skepchick party trumping pain.

In a completely unrelated note — Charlie is out of control.

My young adult cat is essentially a puppy. She chews on everything and is always exactly where you do not want her to be. She loves shoes. She loves anything made of paper. She loves to torment the other cats.

And when I look at her I just can’t even get mad anymore. (Funny, at night when I can’t actually see her, I do get mad.) She’s just too adorable to yell or swat at. Maybe there is something to the current buzz about Toxoplasma gondii. If Don and I disappear, please ignore the sweet face and check the contents of Charlie’s belly.

I have always said that if I could chose my own death it would be to be smothered by kittens. Now I just need to invest in a shopping cart and develop my own language and I’ll be on my way.

Peet’s analytical urges are comical when she’s talking about kids’ gear, but not when she’s discussing a subject she feels is among today’s most pressing public-health issues: infant vaccinations. “As soon as I was pregnant, the neuroses kicked in,” says Peet, 36, who is married to screenwriter David Benioff. She began calling her older sister’s husband, a Philadelphia pediatrician, “every five minutes” with all kinds of questions, especially about shots. “I asked him, ‘Why are all of these necessary? Why are some people staggering them?’?” Eventually her brother-in-law arranged a series of phone calls between Peet and his own mentor, Paul Offit, M.D., who is chief of infectious diseases at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, a co-inventor of the rotavirus vaccine, and a board member of Every Child by Two, a pro-vaccine organization cofounded in 1991 by former first lady Rosalynn Carter.
“Once we had spoken, I was shocked at the amount of misinformation floating around, particularly in Hollywood,” says Peet, who quickly boned up on the hot-button controversies surrounding the topic, including the unproven link between certain vaccines and autism; the safety of preservatives like mercury-based thimerosal; and the fear that the relatively high number of shots kids receive today can overwhelm young immune systems. Her conclusion? Well, not only is Frankie up-to-date on her vaccines (with no staggering), but her mom will soon appear in public-service announcements for Every Child by Two. “I buy 99 percent organic food for Frankie, and I don’t like to give her medicine or put sunscreen on her,” says Peet. “But now that I’ve done my research, vaccines do not concern me.” What does concern her is the growing number of unvaccinated children who are benefiting from the “shield” created by the inoculated—we are protected from viruses only if everyone, or most everyone, is immunized: “Frankly, I feel that parents who don’t vaccinate their children are parasites.”

(Emphasis mine.)

Rock on, Amanda! I hope the new X-Files movie is equally awesome! (So stoked!)

Who Should Attend

• Private educators
• Public educators
• Pastors
• Beginning & intermediate-level creationists
• Creation science researchers
• Intermediate & advanced creation scientists
• Scientists
• Engineers
• Philosophers of science/academics
• Theologians
• Interested evolutionists
• Home-schooling parents
• Anyone interested in the origins debate

…so clearly I have been invited. And so have you!

They are promising “40+ original peer-reviewed  papers and special evening presentations by the world’s leading creation science researchers and speakers” and so surely they mean miracles! I wanna see miracles. Who doesn’t want to see miraculous wonders? I’m sold.

I really need to join the Pittsburgh chapter of CFI or something. (A quick search shows me there’s not really an “or something” — weird. How can that be?)

Unrelated: Here’s the question I posed earlier to friends — What Doctor Who alien would you hate to run into more?

I’m at a toss-up between Cybermen and those creepy weeping angel things from “Blink” that just aired here over the weekend. Those things are basically my childhood nightmare on screen in full color scare-o-vision: something that seems inanimate coming to life the minute you look away or blink with murderous results. Only instead of it being a small army of dolls that you could attempt to defend yourself against, it’s a bunch of cemetery statues that zap you into the past where you grow old with an unconvincing story and unfinished business? None for me, thanks!

I do know that when it comes to real creatures I do not want to meet, my answer is an adamant “toucan!” Or, ok, Ben Stein.