The SF Weekly newsroom boasts the strange distinction of sitting above a fertility clinic. That means the morning elevator ride is often shared with anxious females gripping the hand of their nervous partner. It also means that in dull moments I can chew on the unsettling fact that there's a man jerking off in a cup a floor below me. More semen is spouting around at my workplace than a Tenderloin massage parlor.
Those elevator rides made me think: Why
Arsenault has been told by the FDA to stop sending his sperm through the mail.
Congressman Ron Paul grabbed the lion's share of headlines among GOP presidential candidates last week, and not just because he is the latest improbable figure to challenge the inevitable nomination of Mitt Romney.
The conservative Weekly Standard ran a rehash by writer James Kirchik of an article he wrote for the New Republic in 2008 that collates, to deadly effect, the astoundingly bizarre, racist, and anti-Semitic comments Paul broadcast in a series of newsletters he published for two decades. Paul implausibly claims the newsletters (written in the first person and bearing his name) were produced by others, but it really doesn't matter. The time has come, as Kirchik helpfully reminds us, to recognize Paul for what he is.
He is not -- as some disillusioned moderates and media pundits like to believe -- a refreshing, small-government Republican with a healthy distaste for Wall Street and foreign adventurism. He is a clinically paranoid (and likely bigoted) conspiracy theorist. And you don't even have to cite his newsletters to prove it.
My mother, now in her 60s, has just never grasped any part of the computer age. She still drives to Barnes & Noble to buy books at full price instead of getting the latest deal on Amazon. She's unsettled by the fact that a computer mouse is named after vermin, never mind that watching the arrow drag across the screen makes her nauseous. Mom made some valiant efforts to e-mail me while I was living in Argentina in my early 20s, albeit the messages were always rife with odd spacing. At the end of the day, she still wishes for a typewriter.
