A few days ago I wrote a little bit about the tragedy of Kyle Ambrogi's suicide. For more on that, I wanted to point everyone to a tribute site for Kyle, which has notes from family and friends. It's a beautiful homage to someone who will be much missed.

Ted Silary's tribute

I'm deeply sorry for the loss, and I hope that nothing I said in my previous post would imply otherwise. I know that Kyle had good friends, and everyone did try their best to help him. Maybe the tone of my first post about him was edgy because of my frustration. I wish people didn't have to die this way. I'm leaving the first post alone so you can see how I was feeling about it. But I didn't mean to place blame. If it came across that way, I apologize.

Posted by liz at 05:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

From reading the comments on this site, I find that there are some urgent questions that must be addressed. Because, yes, inquiring minds want to know.

1. Why did I say I shouldn't wear a white bra under a white shirt? Oh my God, I know! I, too, was under the impression that white-under-white was the correct combination. But in the recent past I've read many women's magazines that specifically characterize the white bra as evil. Try this dos and don'ts page on Cents of Style to get you started. Only a white bra under a black top is worse, though that didn't stop Scarlett Johannsen.
2. I don't live at Franklin and Girard, but I was there taking pictures for a story (scroll allll the way down) in the paper. I live in West Philly around 38th and Baltimore. If you go to the Fu Wah Mini Market, you'll probably see me cruising for granola or Pop Tarts.
3. Now a question for Little Champ: How does he not get lost in the apartment? I texted him this question and he got right back to me. His typing skills are naturally inferior, but here's what he wrote: "i donot get lost bcuz i m afraid to go 2 far from uncle but last nite they took mee to the fu wa [ed. note: see No. 2] and i got 2 C the outside world 4 the 1st time it was rilly cool and i hope 2 go again." Champ is taking some liberties there. We did take him outside but after a couple minutes on Uncle's shoulder, he climbed back into his fleece pouch and cowered.

Posted by liz at 04:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Famous Brit "footballer" Sir Bobby Charlton is opening a sports-oriented club in Manchester, England (across the Atlantic sea, and I am a genius genius, and I believe in God, and I believe that God believes in Claude and that's me ... oops, sorry). It's a club for men suffering from depression, but Charlton and co. will be taking a cognitive approach: "coaching" the men, using football analogies, to wellness. It's called "It's a Goal!" Or as the announcers say on Univision,

"Goooooooooooooooooooooooool!!"

Kudos to Charlton for thinking outside the box. He's not even a mental health professional. Which, come to think of it, may be precisely why he's thought of something new.

Kicking depression into touch [BBC]

Posted by liz at 02:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

This book of essays by my favorite self-loathing depressive—culled from his work in McSweeney's, the New York Press, the New York Times, Slate.com and others—is hilarious. I've been laughing so hard, even though several of the essays are kind of sad. I think it's so refreshing when depressed, melancholic people write self-deprecatingly about their troubles and self-absorption, which, Lord knows, is what I'm trying to do every day. But Ames really aces the genre, if indeed there is a genre.

Sometimes he and I are remarkably in sync. The following passage about air travel, in particular, really makes me feel we're kindred spirits:

First there's the trauma of getting to the airport, and then there's the overload of feelings I experience as I pass through security. You see, when I go through the metal detectors, I think I should be stopped and arrested; beaten and lashed would also work. I'm not carrying any weapons, but I feel like a bad person. ... I once read a self-help book in the eighties—I don't remember the title, it was something like "All Families Are Sick"—and the author addressed the reader at one point and said: "You think you are bad and deserve to be punished." That's me! Yes somehow I escape punishment at airports. But the life of a fugitive, I find, is exhausting.

Posted by liz at 02:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Though it's fun to write about celebrities, a longtime reader of this blog sent me an email asking if I'd please pay attention, as well, to those whose stories don't typically get told. He expressed himself so eloquently that I feel compelled to share his words with you, though as he doesn't want his name used, I've given him a pseudonym.

From "Michael":

I hope you consider including articles under the general heading of "From the Other Side" dealing with those who are disabled by a mental illness and have lives characterized by little income, little or no social interaction with persons not similarly situated, extensive involvement with the MH system, etc.

While it is always heartening to read inspiring stories of personal achievement normally focused on celebraties, few of my friends actually achieve what many take for granted. We endure lives of unbelievable social isolation and abject loneliness - the vast majority don't date, receive invitations to ordinary social events, work, have or anticipate intimate relationships and so forth.

Sadly, most of the social events I have attended are known as "mentally ill parties" which are generally held at 3 PM days prior to the actually holiday at a drop-in center, day program, PHP, or hospital. They are characterized by huge bags of chips, large bottles of soda, a boombox playing, and consumers sitting around the periphery.

It's a tough life when all weekends are spent alone.

I really appreciate Michael's remarks. I've been to the parties he mentions, and they are indeed incredibly depressing. I will do my best to find stories to tell from the other side. If you want to tell your own story, please email me at lspikol@philadelphiaweekly.com.

[Image from the abandoned Whitby Psychiatric Hospital by Irina/Riri at Flickr.]

Posted by liz at 12:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

There's really no way to present this story without being corny. It's clearly one of those much-maligned "human interest" features that networks present to make you cry. And maybe I'm a sap, but I did get teary-eyed when I watched this. It wasn't so much Jason's triumphant 20 points scored in the high school basketball game that moved me. It was the reaction of his schoolmates when he did. So much love for him, and so much support. Yes, it's heartwarming, and slightly nauseating. And a mite patronizing, particularly the sticky-gooey last line. But it's kind of a guaranteed tearjerker, like It's a Wonderful Life.

The one cynical question I have: Why, for all this time, did they assume he couldn't play? I wonder why they never gave him a chance.

Posted by liz at 11:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Self-system therapy draws on techniques used in other types of therapy, including cognitive therapy, which focuses on reversing the effects of depression on how the patients think. But SST sessions focus on helping patients develop skills and strategies to answer four critical questions:

1. What are your promotion and prevention goals?
2. What are you doing to attain them?
3. What is keeping you from making progress?
4. What can you do differently?

Prevention goals are defined as those that keep bad things from happening. Promotion goals are defined as those that make good things happen.

Because I am devoted to this cause, I will make myself a human guinea pig (is that an oxymoron?) and place myself under the penetrating rays of these questions. My answers:

1. My prevention goal is to keep the air conditioning in my apartment from shutting down again. My promotion goal is to make sure I never again wear a white bra under a white shirt, as I did yesterday.
2. To reach my prevention goal, I will buy new air-conditioning filters in a timely manner instead of waiting until they're clotted with gunk that sort of looks like dryer lint, but is clearly more malevolent. To reach my promotion goal, I'll splash water on my face in the morning and turn on the light when I'm getting dressed.
3. The thing that's keeping me from making progress in both cases is laziness and a dissociative insensitivity to the world around me.
4. What I could do differently would be to force myself to plunge into the frigid Atlantic Ocean this weekend and thus remind myself that I am, in fact, alive—albeit shivering.

Hmm. I suspect I'm missing the subtleties of the treatment. I'll get a copy of the study and do further investigation. Meanwhile, I'm guessing any Duke publicity that's not related to lacrosse players is refreshing.

Press release: Researchers Develop New Specialized Treatment for Depression

Posted by liz at 03:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

The Philadelphia Inquirer—a troubled newspaper that recently got dumped by Knight-Ridder, and then was bought by some, well, interesting local characters—ran an excellent article by Thomas Ginsburg last week about the pharmaceutical industry's ties to nonprofit health-related organizations like the American Diabetes Association and NAMI (gasp!).

I don't know too much about the ADA, but I know activists have been complaining for years now about NAMI's ties to big pharma, claiming that the money they get has to compromise the information the organization chooses to dole out to consumers. The folks at Mindfreedom International, in particular, have been very vocal on this subject.

Like most advocates, I wish NAMI didn't have such ties. The world would be a cleaner, purer place. They're certainly unseemly. But I don't necessarily assume that NAMI is ethically compromised in every aspect of their operation. Certainly much of what they do doesn't pertain to psychopharmacology at all.

More troubling is the fact that nonprofit organizations of NAMI's ilk are struggling so much financially, they're apparently forced to rely on funders they'd rather not be associated with. Sometimes looking at small organizations' donor lists can make you feel like you have to take a shower.

Donations tie drug firms and nonprofits

Posted by liz at 01:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Okay, I promise we'll get back to mental health issues shortly, but during Memorial Day weekend, when I was DEVOID OF ALL SOCIAL PLANS, I spent some time with Little Champ, my sugar glider. I asked him to write a little something about his life, a la Baruchito's Homecage. He was surprisingly enthusiastic about the project.

My name is Little Champ, and I’m a sugar glider. That means I’m a small chipmunk-like marsupial who can glide through the trees of my native Australia like a flying squirrel. Only, um, I’m living in an apartment in West Philadelphia, so mostly I just glide from human to pillow.

I live with my parents, Buster and Mela. Papa has been neutered, but he’s still a bit of a troublemaker. He loves to hop around and play tug of war. He’s also partial to wicker.

Mama is very bitey. I don’t know how Papa puts up with her. While Papa and I like the humans and play with them, Mama always tries to wound them. She also gets very aggressive if you give her a piece of hardboiled egg.

The humans I speak of are Uncle Vince and Aunt Liz. Our uncle was opposed to us at first, but now he buys us waxworms and lets Papa groom him. Our aunt is the one who gives us that weird paste for dinner. She also plays tug of war with Papa, and kisses my head all the time, even though I mostly don't like to be kissed.

I am called Little Champ because even when I was very small and sort of hairless and could hardly open my eyes, Uncle saw that I was quite triumphant. Now he calls me Champy, and sometimes he sings the Little Champ Theme Song™, which makes Aunt giggly.

We love anything fleece, so we sleep all day in pouches that Aunt made from children’s hats she bought at Second Mile Thrift Store. Some would say she’s cheap that way, but we love the hats. Fleece is our biggest weakness. Shove anything fleecy in front of us, and we lose our minds.

At night we come out of our fleece paradise and press our faces against the bars like small furry prisoners. Aunt and Uncle take pity on us and let us out of the cage.

It’s extremely fun. There are pillows with feathers in them. Have I mentioned feathers? We love them more than fleece. So first we have to attack the pillows. Then, after we tire of that, we jump on the chair and play hide-and-seek. Then we scramble over to the bookshelf and nibble on the books. Then, if we are lucky, Aunt and Uncle will come in and we can climb on them, which we like because Uncle, in particular, is very tall.

Sometimes I get special treatment, which involves staying on Uncle’s shoulder until he puts me in a cabinet with many dishes and bowls. Mama tends to stew in her own bad mood in the bookcase, while Papa tries to escape and Auntie gets very upset, yelling, “Buster! Come back here!” Evenings are very exciting.

Then the humans go to sleep. We don’t know why they do this. It’s backwards. We stay up and make hissing noises, which is how we talk to each other. Sometimes I bark loudly to get the humans’ attention, and then Auntie stumbles over and yells at me. The other night she sprayed water on me. I think maybe I won’t bark at night anymore.

That’s all for now. I have to return to my pouch and eat a piece of Trader Joe’s Fruit Leather. See you soon!

[This image is of a glider that's not me but looks like me. I found it at Sandman's Sugar Gliders. There were some cute blond girls on that site. Auntie has taken the computer away from me.]

Posted by liz at 11:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Good morning, everyone. Hope you had a great Memorial Day weekend. As for me and my time DOING NOTHING, I at least managed to write a sestina about Philadelphia, as promised.

For those of you unfamiliar with this savage poetic form, which I tortured myself with as a creative writing major in college, it's a six-stanza poem. The first stanza establishes your end words—the last word of each line. You use the same end words in each line of the next stanza—but in differing order. It's diabolical, but I love the challenge. The final stanza, called an envoi, is three lines that has to use two end words in each line. It's a bitch.

If you don't understand what all that meant, and I can't blame you, look at the last words in the lines. That should explain it.

The end words I chose for a poem about Philadelphia were "eagles," "team," "most," "all," "wings" and "threw," though I used "through" as a variation for the latter, which is permissable.

For the most masterful sestina ever written, see Elizabeth Bishop's simply named "Sestina", which I shouldn't even mention because it's a real poem, and mine is just a lark.

For a crappy yet locally oriented version, see below. Has anyone ever written a sestina about Philly? Maybe not.

Sestina for Philadelphia

Philadelphia is a city of almost-ran sports teams.
We grieve for our Phillies, Sixers, Flyers and Eagles
Who come close to the sun, but have wax wings.
Fans are less than gracious. They once threw
A battery at Santa Claus’ head. Misanthropes, all.
It’s harder if you’re Kobe. We hate him the most.

Philadelphia is a city of 1.5 million people, most
Of them insecure and defensive, like a mini-golf team
Because who plays mini golf, seriously? Everyone’s all
painted green, hoarsely intoning: "Go Eagles,"
And doing the Wing Bowl, where I heard people threw
Up last year, which is gross. No one should eat that many wings.

Still, it’s a thing of beauty, this town. The wings
Of our spirit are broad, or Broad, and most
Of us relish our diversity, and the way fate threw
Us together, a surging, seething municipal team
Rooting for each other to soar like eagles—
All for one, and one for all.

We like it here, between New York and D.C., all
Nestled ’twixt the sea and the mountains. Wings
Of hawks and doves and pigeons and eagles
Are seen above our cars—vehicles used mostly
To travel to the creeks or woods teeming
With wildlife, to see autumn leaves shot through

With gold, copper, red. As a child I threw
Those leaves in the air, spun around, and all
Dizzy, gloried in my city. I had a favorite team,
The Phillies, and when they won, I felt wings
grow on my shoulder blades. I admit, most
Of my youthful memories don’t involve the Eagles,

And for that, I’m sorry. Here the Eagles
Are beloved, and each night we dream we threw
The magic touchdown pass, though most
Of us are doughy and unathletic. BTW, we’re all
Democrats, even those who wear military wings
On their lapels. It’s a blue-state dream team.

Sail on, beautiful Eagles. In Philly we all
See your games through rose-tinted glasses, wings
Dancing in the lenses, most sincerely screaming, "Go team!"

Posted by liz at 08:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Okay, so I just got through reading all the new comments, and thank you all so much for getting back to me! I will address your questions quickly before I leave my desk for Memorial Day weekend, which I'm pretending is going to happen even though I have absolutely NO plans. That's right—I am the only person on the planet with NOTHING to do this weekend. I suspect the sugar gliders will get a good bit of attention, maybe more than they want.

1. As for indexing so that like posts are grouped together, this will be done in the next week. Great idea.
2. The links at right are to sites that I'm familiar with and organizations that I feel do good work. But I don't endorse any site's entire agenda. I just want everyone to have access to as many different mental health resources as possible.
3. The Liz-o-Meter is a genius idea. Again, next week I'll start that. You know, after my long weekend of NO barbecues and NO parties.
4. Peter, I am working on the Philly poem. It will most certainly include mention of the horrific stench of the city in the summer, a mix of urine, sewage and the anxious sweat of historically garbed "colonial" tour guides.
5. BBI (Boring But Important) came about in two ways. The first was that every time I suggested a so-called "serious" mental health topic to my editor, he'd say, "Hmm. That sounds like an important story." And I'd say, "Yeah, but a little boring, right?" And he'd say, "No, no, not necessarily," which means "Yes, yes, completely and totally." Then I discovered that The Week magazine has a feature called Boring But Important, and well, it just seemed right.

Have I answered most questions? I have to run and get my bathing suit now, so I can go to a pool party that NO ONE has invited me to.

Oh, and P.S., by sort-of request, here's another photo of Katie Holmes. Katie, I hope you're okay. Have a good Memorial Day with L. Ron and the crew.

Posted by liz at 04:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Well, I didn't get picked for jury duty. I got to the point where there are 30 of you in the courtroom with the lawyers and the defendant and the judge. So you learn all about the crime, the charges against the guy and the terms of the trial, and then you get ditched.

In this case, the defendant was a handsome Latino guy wearing really cool glasses. I immediately had a crush on him, despite the murder/assault/kidnapping/robbery/conspiracy charges leveled against him. He looked so vulnerable. I tried to give him an encouraging smile, and then came to my senses.

He could be a murderer/assaulter/kidnapper/robber/conspirator for all I knew! Plus, the evidence we did get wasn't exactly flattering to him: He admitted he was at the scene during the shooting and was holding a gun. His partner in alleged crime had turned state's witness and was saying all kinds of horrible things about him. Not promising. The defense lawyer was wearing a bad suit and had a facial tic. All in all, I don't have high hopes for "Juan."

Still, I would've liked the opportunity to be a juror. I'm such a fair person. I was always able to mediate the fights between my cat and dog with a gentle hand or a kind remark. Like saying to the Chihuahua (pictured), "Hannah! Stop licking the cat's balls!" Case closed.

Have a great Memorial Day weekend, everyone. I think I'm going to take off and relax. But I'll be back on Tuesday, same time, same station.

Posted by liz at 03:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

So far I have exactly one response to my query: What do you want to see on this blog that you don't see now? Peter asks for "some information about the city of Philadelphia." Oh, boy. You don't want to ask someone who loves their hometown as much as I do for that. There's nothing I love more than this city. Not my friends. Not my parents. Not my sugar gliders, God bless their tiny hearts. If I got a tattoo, it would say "PHILLY."

In fact, when I go to New York, even for just a day, and then see the Philly skyline when I'm coming back to town, little tears spring to my eyes. "My home!" I think. "Be it ever so humble..." And gosh golly if that phrase doesn't apply perfectly to this town. Humble! Kind of dirty! Corrupt! Black and white people yelling at each other! Cops shooting citizens! Citizens selling drugs! Sidewalk memorials! And plenty of obesity on display throughout the summer via tank tops and short shorts!

I'm entirely sincere when I talk about how much I love it, though. And tonight I'm going to take Peter's suggestion and reflect—just me, a glass of wine, a good meal and the skyline for my company. And then I'll write a sestina about the city, and post it here tomorrow. Or maybe a sonnet. Or, if that's too hard, maybe, like, an ode. Or some free verse. How about free verse? I likee the free verse. (And yes, I did say "likee.")

Tomorrow I have jury duty, and I'm really hoping to get picked. They never take me, maybe because I have that hungry, eager, "I'm a very fair person—really!" look on my face, so I'll probably be blogging in the afternoon, rejected once again by a capricious justice system. But in the unlikely event that you don't hear from me, you can assume I'm taking part in Law and Order and Doing the Right Thing by Serving My City. Keep your fingers crossed, and Peter, I'll be working on that poem.

Posted by liz at 04:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

For whatever reason, my blog numbers have more than tripled in the last week. (Sadly, I had to use a calculator to figure that out.) Where are all these new people coming from? It's great, of course, but now I feel the pressure is on. I have to be entertaining. So, um, did you ever hear the one about the priest and rabbi trapped on a raft in the Atlantic Ocean? Yeah, me neither.

I think this would be an opportune moment to solicit your advice. Here are some of the features I regularly include on this site. Which ones do you like best?

•BBI: Boring But Important
•Bipolar Made Me Do It
•Special Effexor
•Headlines: national
•Headlines: international
•Song of the day
•Video selections
•The rare photo of a cute animal
•Updates on my sugar gliders
•Celebrity revelation
•Least surprising headline of the week

Do you have any other requests? The lines are open 24 hours a day. We have operators standing by.

[This is a drawing of me by the great Jim McHugh.]

Posted by liz at 12:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

If I see one more headline about this Botox-curing-depression miracle, I'm going to scream. The way the media has picked up on this, you'd think the NIMH had funded a major multipart study over the course of three generations. In fact, scientific evidence to substantiate this claim—a claim, BTW, that will make the doctor who initiated the study very rich)—is slim. Very slim.

Here's what happened: Cosmetic surgeon Eric Finzi noticed his patients were reporting improved mood after getting Botox. Okay, fair enough. They look better and feel better. Not much news there. But Finzi became convinced that there was a connection between Botox and depression, despite the fact that fixing a frown has nothing to do with brain disorders. So he did a "pilot" study (often as futile as pilot TV shows) with 10 people. Let me spell that out: Ten.

Nine of the 10 people found that the treatment lifted their depression. He has since expanded the study to 15 people, with similar positive results. So why am I being so snarky? I guess I'm frustrated by the media response, which tends to substantiate such claims by virtue of the amount of coverage they get. I'd hate for depressed women to start flocking to plastic surgeons in hopes that their depression will be erased along with their frown lines. Plastic surgeons are not trained to deal with psychiatric problems. If you're depressed you should seek help from a psychiatrist or psychologist.

Some articles are trumpeting Botox's other uses, such as treating muscle spasms in stroke victims and people with Parkinson's disease. ABC News says: "It may even help fight cancer." Botox—the wonder drug!

I caution careful consideration before coming to conclusions. (That's Spikol's Five C's.) Cuidado!

Posted by liz at 10:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

This young man is describing a particular theory of emotion he's learned about in school. My favorite part is when he refers to the Renaissance as something that makes your heart beat faster. I know that happens to me!

Posted by liz at 05:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I just got back from the psychiatrist's office. As I suspected, we did talk a lot about my stupid hang-ups, like not wanting to clean my apartment. But I also mentioned that I'm going to the "regular" doctor tomorrow to talk about my night sweats and increased migraines. Though I asked him last week, and he said no, this week my shrink said that the night sweats (and my sweatiness in general) are probably a result of the Effexor. Damn.

"Do you want to stop taking it?" he asked.

"No way," I said.

"Good," he said, clearly relieved.

This, ladies and gents, is what they call the defining moment in mental-health pharmacology. You take a medication. It makes you better. Then the side effects get bad. What do you do?

I'm going to sweat, thanks very much, and I'll be happy about it too. I was ready to kill myself a few months ago. Now I wake up in the middle of the night damp and cold, but I actually want to live to see the next morning.

Meeting with the shrink: $125
Effexor co-pay: $10
Not wanting to blow my brains out every 12 seconds: Priceless.

Posted by liz at 04:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I have an appointment with my psychiatrist in a half-hour, and again I feel reluctant to go. Part of it is that I've been struggling with a demi-migraine last night and today. Last night I got the aura—that strange buzzy feeling in the top of my head that let me know a headache was coming. I woke up a couple times last night to try and deal with the pain, but now it's just pushing, pushing, like an angry cloud over my right eye.

But the other reason I don't want to go is that I worry so much about the money—$125 each time—that it's hard for me to focus on our session. When we're not talking medications, we're just talking about my problems that aren't related to bipolar disorder—my garden-variety neuroses, like feeling overwhelmingly guilty about homeless people. And doesn't that seem expensive just to hear myself kvetch? I can have that same conversation with my boyfriend Vince.

True, Vince doesn't listen as intently. The other night, in fact, he admitted he was thinking, while I was talking, "How can I made a graceful exit?" My psychiatrist never thinks that, and come to think of it, neither would my boyfriend if I paid for every conversation with sexual favors. I mean, not to get too graphic here, but if a guy thinks he's going to get laid—or get something else, if you know what I mean—he tends to be very attentive. Anyway.

But I guess I'll go anyway. When you're as crazy as I am, it's like preventive medicine. You can never have too much shrinkage.

Posted by liz at 02:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Tas-mania. Heh.

Repentant yacht thief was 'seriously unwell', court told

Posted by liz at 01:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Yesterday I was exchanging thoughts with a reader on the subject of suicide. Is it preventable? Or if someone is determined to die, is it merely a matter of time?

There is one setting in which suicide is eminently preventable: prison. A person has limited access to deadly weapons, and is being monitored almost constantly. And yet in the past few weeks I've read so many articles about inmate suicide. It almost feels like an epidemic.

All the following headlines are from the last few weeks. The most sensational of them is about "Naked Guy," the Berkeley student who used to walk around nude in the early ’90s. (He's pictured here with clothes on.) But they're all tragic, no matter the person's reason for being behind bars. I wonder how precious those lives seem to prison officials, though. Maybe the guards are just happy to get rid of them.

There's no excuse for this kind of negligence. People don't have to die, no matter how disenfranchised they are or how dark their souls might seem. Maybe we need to get the anti-abortion crowd in on this. They're always blathering about saving lives. Perhaps they'd like to focus on some lives outside the womb.

•Inmate suicide second at S.L. County jail in 2 weeks
•Inmate's suicide reported
• San Quentin prison suicide identified
•Santa Clara Co. Jail Inmate Apparently Commits Suicide
•Hanging death at Bibb County jail ruled a suicide
• Inmate commits suicide at county jail
•Inmate kills himself in Coos County jail
•Suicidal inmate said he was depressed after burying girlfriend's body
•Infamous Berkeley 'Naked Guy' Dies In Jail Suicide

Posted by liz at 11:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Tom Cruise is pissed off again. He really needs a better publicist. There have been reports that Katie Holmes is suffering postpartum depression—which, after what Cruise said about Brooke Shields, would be his just desserts. But Cruise denies the suggestion that Holmes is suffering.

Remember when Katie Holmes was cute, sweet Joey on Dawson's Creek? Now she's crying into her high-thread-count bedsheets at Scientology Central, not allowed to take anything stronger than a vitamin to make her feel better. Is she permitted Centrum, at least? Or are multivitamins verboten?

Life & Style magazine, that arbiter of truth and responsibility in journalism, quotes a "confidante" of Katie's saying that she thinks she might have made a mistake. Too late, sweet girl. Now you're stuck with L. Ron's spawn.

Posted by liz at 10:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

I can't have these depression cooties on me. I have to get out of here. I'll see you all tomorrow.

Posted by liz at 02:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This video is making me reconsider my notion that Charles Bukowski was nothing more than a drunken misogynist who should pretty much be ignored. The notion that writing can be deliverance from the sting of mental illness, well, I've essentially made my career of testing that hypothesis. But I still don't know the answer.

Posted by liz at 11:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

The result of my hesitation is that I awoke at 10 a.m., rather than the hoped-for noon, which gave me just enough time to catch some Sesame Street, which I haven't watched since 1976. My first thought: Where's Grover? He used to be my favorite. Now Elmo seems to have taken on the goofy Grover role. He even does that weird double take that takes him out of the TV frame like Grover used to do.

My second thought: Did Muppets always talk this way? I can hardly understand a thing Elmo's saying. He said, "How many elephants can sleep in this bed," and I thought he said, "How many underpants..." His words are coming out all clotted. Do kids like that? Is that part of the challenge?

Ah, such are the questions that consume me when I have a day off from work, as I do today. It's as though all my serious thinking during the week has to be negated by mulling Elmo's diction. Maybe I will take that extra Ativan after all.

Posted by liz at 10:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Headline from today's Herald Democrat: More than 4.3 million Texans may suffer from mental illness

[Image from George-Bush-Pics.com]

Posted by liz at 10:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I'm still at work right now, and I don't expect to leave soon. So I've decided that tonight I'm going to go crazy and take two Ativan instead of one and a half. It's madness! Thus, my posts of Tuesday, May 23, will arrive a little later than usual.

But they'll still be as delicious as ever, just like a sweet and scrumptious piece of pie. Yummm. Pie. [Insert drooly sound.]

Posted by liz at 07:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

So here's a photo of Taupin. Thanks, Bernie, for the songs. This blog's for you!

Posted by liz at 04:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My co-workers and I are all hooked up to iTunes, which means we can listen to each other's music and decide who has the best taste. The person with lots of Dave Matthews? Ew. The person with lots of Al Green? Now we're talking.

Today I've been listening to the new Bruce Springsteen album We Shall Overcome. It is, without question, one of the best albums I've heard in the past three years. And as I used to have all the music-editing duties here, that's a lot of music. The six-minute "O Mary Don't You Weep" is the best antidote to depression I could ever recommend. It should be the official song of The Trouble With Spikol. Don't weep! ’Cause the Boss rules!

But here's the confession: After two listens to Springsteen's newest, which is actually prompting me to visit a record store in the flesh, I discovered that the same person with Dave Matthews and Coldplay also has ... wait for it ... Elton John's Greatest Hits. And I'm afraid to say that's winning the iTunes battle of the day. It may be crap, but I'M LOVING IT.

"Your Song," "Levon," "Tiny Dancer" (which always happily reminds me of Almost Famous), "Rocket Man"—what could be better?

Oh dear. I'm embarrassed. And singing aloud.

[This photo represents the brief historical moment when Elton John had something in common with Tom Wolfe.]

Posted by liz at 03:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Says self-professed bipolar tattoo artist David Heydn, who was arrested in Newport News for having 100 pot plants in his house: "I'm making a stand for all people who smoke pot for medicinal purposes. ... My head spins so fast it's like a swirl of mud up there. Without medication, I can't grab a thought to think and I get irritated and annoyed and I get moody and I get frustrated and irritable."

Heydn was arrested with a friend and fellow smoker/grower who it turns out, uh, is bipolar too.

Busted for growing pot, man says it's his medication

UPDATE: I've been contacted by a few members of Heydn's family, as well as a person who has the tattoo I originally posted here as an example of his artwork. I've removed the image. As for the comments, I really can't post things here that say terrible things about a person unless that person is, like, the president. The issues in the family seem to be serious ones, and it would be inappropriate for me to comment on them.

Posted by liz at 01:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

A study presented at the 159th Annual Scientific Meeting of the American Psychiatric Association identified five predictors for bipolar disorder in patients diagnosed with major depression who have been unsuccessfully treated with antidepressants:

1. anxiety
2. feelings of people being unfriendly
3. family history of bipolar disorder
4. a recent diagnosis of depression
5. legal problems

With the exception of No. 3, does the study really suggest someone with major depression will be stricken with bipolar disorder because someone is unpleasant to them at the bus stop? And if the study pertains to people already diagnosed with depression, how does No. 4 fit in?

I suspect I need to do more research into this, perhaps when I'm off deadline at the newspaper. (Today is a doozy.) Meanwhile, if any of you guys have a better interpretation, let me know.

Study identifies predictors of bipolar disorder risk

Posted by liz at 12:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

•Health: Can You Really Botox The Blues Away?: … and continues

•Mental health teams not allowed near armed suspects: Police keep Mobile Crisis Teams away from mentally ill people in crisis. That just doesn’t make any sense.

•Schizophrenics Have Hard Time Discerning Body Language: As if they didn’t have it bad enough.

•Lorraine Ahearn: No sunny side to a mental health system in chaos: Deinstitutionalization is a worthy goal, but not without alternatives.

•Rhythm soothes mental illness in West Island: Hand drum classes for mentally ill in Canada

Posted by liz at 11:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

It was 50 degress this morning, and when I got into work and pulled off my scarf (in May!) I learned that our Internet and email were down. Which, you know, is getting embarrassing. How many times have I had blog problems because of Philadelphia Weekly's technical difficulties?

PW is one of the largest alternative weeklies in the country. The city of Philadelphia is the fifth-largest media market nationally. You'd think the Internet would be accessible to us, and accessible in a speedy fashion. I wait for minutes sometimes for a page to load, while at my parents' apartment I zip from page to page with elan. You know things are bad when you have to leave your office in order to do your job efficiently. It's nuts.

[This image is a photo of the Kaypro computer, which is the first computer I ever owned. It was very reliable and cute.]

Posted by liz at 11:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Welcome back, Javi and Nana!

Posted by liz at 05:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This is a video from a high school psychology class. The girl in the pink is totally joining the Swedish Bikini Team when she graduates.

Posted by liz at 03:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

"Tom simply does not know what he is talking about. Scientology is a different thing and God bless him. But he doesn't know his tail from third base about depression. Simple as that."

Sweet.

Posted by liz at 11:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

High-profile Australian TV broadcaster Rex Hunt (seen here embracing a fish) cheated on his wife with other women, and paid those other women for sex. His wife, like Hilary Clinton, is pissed off, but says she's going to stand by her man.

Why? Because, she says, she's bipolar and it's hard to live with her. So I guess she deserves to have her husband risk her emotional well-being and physical health by shtupping hookers. Yeah, right.

Apparently Hunt, who's a major media presence in Australia, has denounced infidelity in the past and been quite harsh on those who've strayed. He'd fit in perfectly with this nation's right-wing media pundits who say one thing and do another. Maybe he should move to the U.S.

I'm a weak, hypocritical, sleaze: Hunt's call on paid sex [Sydney Morning Herald]

Posted by liz at 11:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Oh dear, the week is over and there are still so many things I want you to know.

1. Mike Wallace has admitted he tried to commit suicide.

2. James Madison, John Quincy Adams and Franklin Pierce all suffered from major depressive disorders. Theodore Roosevelt and Lyndon Johnson were bipolar. Woodrow Wilson suffered from an anxiety disorder. The presidents are loony.

3. Some ads about depression remedies are misleading.

4. Queenie won a mental health award!

5. National Schizophrenia Awareness Week starts Sunday. So get those dancing shoes on!

Posted by liz at 06:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

There are serious things going on in the world right now, and my self-image isn't one of them. But I just went to Liberty Place (a local mall; everything in Philly has the word "liberty" attached), where I go to weigh myself. There's a GNC store that has a digital scale, and I've been using that same scale for two years now.

In June 2004 I weighed 110 pounds, and I didn't like it. That's 10 more pounds than I like to weigh (I'm only 5-foot-1, remember), so I went on a diet. By November I weighed 102, and even though It was only eight pounds, I felt like I'd achieved something important.

Now I weigh 114 pounds—the most I've weighed in years. The dress that I wore to a wedding in June 2004 is so tight now I can't even zip it up.

This has me feeling very upset. I know it doesn't seem like a big deal to those who weigh more than I do, but I can't feel good about myself if I'm overweight. And given my tiny frame, I am. Plus, being depressed has made it hard for me to keep up a good exercise regime, which I hate under normal circumstances.

Men tend to poo-poo it when a woman gets depressed about her weight, but it's tied into so many other emotional issues for us. It's very hard to manage. Guys, try to understand that. Go easy.

After much research, I've learned I have an Apple Figure, which is defined by the following characteristics:

1. Your figure appears larger above the waist than below the waist.

2. Your high hip measurements larger than your low hip measurement.

3. Your derriere is flat and have a problem with pants bagging out in the back

4. Your bust measurement is much larger than your hips.

5. You have a prominent tummy area.

6. You have great legs.

Oh pooh. I want to be an hourglass.

Posted by liz at 03:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Gitmo inmates attack guards stopping a suicide [CNN]

RELATED: U.N. Panel Backs Closing Prison at Guantánamo [NY TIMES]

PREVIOUSLY: Guantanamo: Sexual and religious torture, but then pizza! [TTWS]

Posted by liz at 01:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

As you may remember, I lost all my email recently. Since then, I've been getting my mail only sporadically. Thus I haven't been getting any of the comments you've all posted. I was just saying yesterday to my roommate that I thought it was odd that no one was leaving comments anymore. I said, "Maybe I haven't encouraged enough dialogue."

So to make up for this odd lapse, I'm publishing some recent comments within this post. Radical? Perhaps. But it bugs me to think people have been engaging with what I write and we haven't even known about it. In addition to the below, there are other comments people left too. Keep them coming, good readers of the world. I think I've fixed the problem.

1. In response to "Pot and psychosis: translation s'il vous plait", BJK says: "The receptors they mention are the means by which all bodily functions (including thinking) are turned 'on' and 'off'. Substances that turn these receptors 'on' are agonists. The research they cite makes a clear connection between the effect of THC (the psychoactive agent in dope), and activiation of this (and other) receptors: THC is a partial agonist. They don't say that this biochemical process CAUSES psychosis, only that the incidence is statistically significant among pot smokers. In plain English? If a person is already suffering from an 'imbalance' of brain chemistry, and you add a powerful 'activator' like THC, the results can't be good. The degree of 'activation' isn't known, it also isn't known how long THC sticks around (literally bound) to these receptors. The Swedish study seems ominous, in that they make the connection with later onset of schizophrenia. What this article doesn't bother to mention, is that the potency of marijuana today compared to 25 yrs ago is typically much higher (as high as 15% THC compared to ~5%)."
2. In response to "Bipolar Made Me Do It: Another variation!", Tom said: "A disturbing trend indeed." And Mark said: "I hear David Berkowitz was a real nice guy, it's just that his neighbor's dog was bipolar and told him to kill people. (Can you still do Son of Sam jokes? Seinfeld did.)"
3. In response to "Speaking of animals: hamster therapy?", beagles writes: "In places in Europe, they sit at the feet of owners during lunch and come in shops. I wish it was like that here, because they really are a comfort - and they bring joy to others."

Posted by liz at 01:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I'm terrible at being self-promotional, but I know it should be done from time to time. So, in keeping with today's rule—everything has to be a numbered list—here are the awards I won:

1. Keystone Press Award: First Place, Column
2. Society of Professional Journalists, PA: First Place, Column
3. Society of Professional Journalists, Philadelphia: First Place, Column

I've won first-place awards before, but never three at once. So that's cool.

Also, on a non-award note (but still self-promotional), below is the column I wrote about Patrick Kennedy (pictured here in an illustration by Jared Drew Moody):

THE TROUBLE WITH SPIKOL
Kennedy Esq.
Ted's son Patrick continues to push for legal changes that could mean a great deal to people with mental illnesses.

The United States really needs a monarchy. Not the silly kind we have now, when one Bush inherits the crown from another Bush, but a real monarchy with a king and queen and lots of misbehaving royals living out novelistic storylines for our salacious benefit.

That way we wouldn't have to have the Kennedys.

I've read that statistically the Kennedys have had no greater number of tragedies than that of any ol' ordinary family, but with our cameras trained so ceaselessly on them-and all that blather about Camelot-everything they do seems to be in CinemaScope. Thus the general perception is that Kennedys are prone to tragedy. And prone to screwing things up.

Ted Kennedy's son Patrick, 38, has had a lot of both to contend with. Three dead uncles, a mother beset by alcoholism and cancer, a sister and brother who've had cancer, and a father who's … well, who's Ted Kennedy. Plus, Patrick was a coke addict and binge drinker, and after spinal surgery he got hooked on prescription pain meds. And he suffers from bipolar disorder. Could it really get any worse?

Patrick has had a lot to live up to-or live down to, as the case may be-and while it's easy to focus on the negative things he's inherited from the Kennedy clan, that shouldn't obscure the good values that have been passed down in his social-justice-saturated DNA. Though he struggles with devastating personal demons, he soldiers on as a hardworking politician committed to justice and equal opportunity for those less fortunate-in particular those with mental illnesses.

It saddens me to see Patrick so roundly mocked by the media in the wake of his most recent car crash, the accident that propelled him from preferential treatment by Capitol Hill police to his umpteenth stint in rehab. All the expected players have had a good time with Patrick's latest scrape. He's become a parody of himself, another fallen star in the Kennedy family's gloomy night sky.

Kennedy even led Jay Leno, whose tiresomely safe monologues generally glue my eyes shut upon impact, to get a few good zingers in, like: "A lot of people are very upset that Congressman Patrick Kennedy wasn't given a blood alcohol test after his car accident last week. I understand why they didn't do it. It's kind of like giving President Bush the SAT test. What's the point?"

Not bad for Leno, really, but off the mark. Leno, Conan O'Brien and Stephen Colbert all pointed to Kennedy's alcohol intake that night, as did reporters and bloggers and water cooler habitues nationwide. But that assumption could cloud the larger issues his case represents.

Patrick Kennedy is one of the few politicians who's made a career of being honest about his frailties. Given that frankness, I take his denial
of alcohol involvement seriously. Kennedy was disoriented and incoherent. Aren't there other substances that can make one blinky-eyed and swervy?

This week's National Enquirer has a picture of young Patrick, a lime wedged in his mouth like a bite guard, flat on his back while a woman presumably drinks tequila out of his belly button. The headline reads: "Ted Kennedy's Son: How He Landed in Rehab. Shocking Party Photos." Ho-hum. More lazy drunk jokes for Middle America-easy to swallow as a Scotch on the rocks.

If everyone thinks Kennedy's just a drunk, he becomes a buffoon instead of a person who legitimately has a problem, and that doesn't serve him or his constituents. Selfishly, I want him to stand for more, to be the perfect public face of co-morbid disorders: mental illness and substance abuse. As it is now, the U.S. has too few facilities that deal explicitly with dual diagnoses. It would be great if Patrick could get behind that.

Monday's New York Times article on Kennedy acknowledges the work that Kennedy's done to end the stigma of mental illness. But it also repeats the question of whether he'll be able to return to public life, and be effective as a legislator. I find that question somewhat insulting. I'm a person with bipolar disorder who got hooked on prescription meds and went to rehab. That doesn't mean I'm unfit to do my job.

Kennedy's cousin Anthony Shriver told The New York Times, "He was never the guy who hung out with the captain of the football team. He was always the guy who hung out with the guy nobody wanted to hang out with."

That's exactly the kind of person I'd want representing me. I think the body politic would be well-served by someone who has empathy for the little guy.

If Kennedy had an ongoing battle with cancer, diabetes, kidney disease, heart trouble or stroke, he'd be warmly supported. Schoolchildren would send him cards, and fellow lawmakers would wish him a speedy return to Capitol Hill. But mental illness and substance abuse issues always seem like weaknesses to people who don't have them.

Right before he went into rehab, Congressman Kennedy made a brief but typically forthright speech about his plans to get help. He said, "I hope that my openness today and in the past and my acknowledgement that I need help will give others courage to get help if they need it."

Then, after a few more words of thanks, he was almost off the podium when he added a passionate footnote: "And I would like to call once for passage of mental health parity."

If it's true that a community gets the leadership it deserves, maybe people with mental illnesses deserve Patrick Kennedy. And we should be glad that we do.

Posted by liz at 11:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

The story of high school/college football star Kyle Ambrogi is very sad. After months of suffering from depression, he shot himself in his mother's Havertown, Pa., home. He was extremely generous, well liked and good-natured. But when his depression hit, he was unable to conquer it.

Though the ESPN article about Ambrogi's life and death is thorough and moving, there are three things that jump out at me.

1. When Ambrogi first told best friend John Connors that he'd been to a psychiatrist's office, Connors replied: "Oh yeah. What did he say? You're a nutty fruitcake?" STIGMA
2. Ambrogi told friends he wanted to buy a gun. Later, on the day of his suicide, there was a gun at his mother's house. ACCESS TO FIREARM
3. Ambrogi was put on anti-depressants and told to see a counselor on a daily basis. But Ambrogi didn't like the meds. His brother Greg says Kyle didn't think the drugs were doing anything to help him, so he stopped. NON-COMPLIANCE

People are afraid to place blame when it comes to suicide because the pain of being a survivor is so hard to bear. But let's be frank: Ambrogi had a chemical imbalance. He tried on countless ocassions to talk to his friends about his pain. But the friends tried to find rational reasons for his suffering, rather than insist he adhere to the medical protocol the doctors recommended.

Ambrogi required tough love. To put it in addiction terms, he needed an intervention that provided a solution. Not rehab, but a program nonetheless. It's a cautionary tale. Kyle Ambrogi would no doubt be honored if we could learn something from his pain.

Tragic Turn

Posted by liz at 11:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

I got some info from NAMI today. The deadline for the new Medicare prescription-plan enrollment was on Monday, but two thirds of the 4.5 million people who didn't get to sign up are low-income beneficiaries eligible for a deep subsidy that makes the new benefit affordable. So if they thought it wouldn't work for them, or that they couldn't afford it, they're wrong.

Also, the May 15 deadline and the late enrollment penalty don't apply to them. They qualify for "extra help" (also known as the Low-Income Subsidy, LIS), which offers them deep discounts on monthly premiums, no deductible, and no gap in coverage. Nice, right?

There's also proposed legislation that would waive the late fees. More detailed info after the jump.

Senators Propose Waiving Late Enrollment Penalty
May 18, 2006

As is being widely reported in the press, the initial sign-up period for the new Medicare drug benefit expired on May 15. Starting May 16, Medicare beneficiaries that did not signed up for drug coverage will have to wait until the fall to enroll and their coverage will not be effective until January 1, 2007. More importantly, Medicare beneficiaries that did not sign up – and later apply for coverage -- will be forced to pay a financial penalty if they later decide to sign up for coverage (see details on the late enrollment penalty below).

Progress on Medicare Part D Enrollment

Yesterday, the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services (CMS) released data showing that 90% of the 42 million Medicare beneficiaries now have prescription drug coverage. The surge in enrollment in the final days leading up to the May 15 deadline was overwhelming, with more than 143,000 signing up on the last day.

Of greatest concern to NAMI are estimates that 2/3 of the 4.5 million people who did not sign up for coverage are low-income Medicare beneficiaries who are eligible for a deep subsidy that makes the new benefit affordable. The good news is that both the May 15 enrollment deadline, and the late enrollment penalty, do NOT apply to them. These Medicare beneficiaries generally qualify for "extra help" (also known as the Low-Income Subsidy, LIS) that offers them deep discounts on monthly premiums, no deductible, and no gap in coverage. These low-income beneficiaries must first apply with Social Security for this "extra help" subsidy.

Bipartisan Coalition of Senators Introduce Legislation to Waive the Late Enrollment Penalty

On May 16, just hours after the open enrollment period ended, a bipartisan group led by Senate Finance Committee Chairman Charles Grassley (R-IA) and Ranking Member Max Baucus (D-MT), introduced legislation (S 2810) to waive the Medicare Part D late enrollment penalty for those that did not sign up for coverage. The proposal would specifically waive the penalty for any beneficiary that missed the May 15 sign-up deadline and seeks to enroll starting in November.

Senator Grassley made clear his intention to move S 2810 through the Senate as quickly as possible, perhaps later this week. It is estimated that the legislation would cost $1.7 billion over five years – largely through late enrollment penalties that the government would not collect. Officials from the Bush Administration and House leaders expressed limited interest in waiving late enrollment penalties, but first want to hold hearings on overall progress in Part D implementation.

Details on the Late Enrollment Penalty

Medicare beneficiaries with incomes above about $15,000 (150% of the federal poverty level) that do not enroll by May 15 will face a financial penalty. This penalty is one percent per month for every month after May 15 that an individual has not signed up. That one percent however, is not based on the premium of the plan an individual chooses. Rather, it is based on the national average premium offered by insurers in the year that coverage starts.

Thus, an individual cannot keep the penalty low by choosing a cheaper policy. Again, since enrollment will not open again until November 15, 2006, the initial minimum penalty will be at least seven percent, on top of increased premium rates for the 2007 plan year. Moreover, the late enrollment penalty stays with a late enrollee for the rest of their life. CMS estimates that in the first year, the penalty would average about $2.50 per month in 2007.

Even after the May 15 deadline, help is still available through 1-800-MEDICARE. Or go to NAMI's website.

Posted by liz at 04:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I'm like a tetherball today. The truth is I have a bazillion meetings, but I'm trying to pretend I don't because it seems un-blogger-like to have a day job. So whenever I get out of a meeting today I search quickly for something to post here that will maintain your interest till I emerge, bleary-eyed and foot asleep, from the next confab.

But I gotta tell you, I'm not seeing much in my quick trips to Webland that's stirring my passions. (And that's even with all the porn I look at. Heh.) My favorite blog—and I think I'm being entirely objective here—is Dan McQuade's Philadelphia Will Do, which is Philadelphia Weekly's blog, but I would like it anyway. Check out his posts about Philadelphia's Metro newspaper, which did a man-on-the-street about the military and Paxil. Very funny.

•Soldiers on Paxil Most Important Problem In Iraq War
•It's Official: The National Guard On The Southern Border Is Just Depressing

Posted by liz at 02:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This is the hard-luck tail (mispelling intended) of Chubbers, the depressed cat. Warning: Tears may be shed in the watching.

Posted by liz at 01:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

•A Genital Reminder [Philadelphia Daily News]
•Philly Woman One-Ups Lorena [Philadelphia Will Do]

Posted by liz at 12:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

DoD Offers Best Mental Health Services Ever

Why does that remind me of "I'm the decider, and I get to decide!"

Dept. of Defense says: "Let us heal you with our war"

Posted by liz at 12:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

And by "celebrity" I mean "boxer I've never heard of but who's apparently quite famous in Scotland."

Harrison fights depression and alcoholism in Priory
UPDATE: Harrison leaves clinic to get a drink at a bar.

Posted by liz at 11:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I haven't mentioned how ridiculous Tom Cruise is for at least a week, and I'm sorry for that. I've been remiss. He would be happy to know that the Scientologists have taken over YouTube, foisting their ridiculous "press" conferences and "objective" speeches onto video's newest frontier. I'v