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News 01.25.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

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News 01.25.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
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News 01.25.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
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News 01.25.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets
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The Bulletproof Coffee Founder Has Spent $1 Million In His Quest To Live To 180

Ten days before I met him at his home in British Columbia, Dave Asprey went to a clinic in Park City, Utah, where a surgeon harvested half a liter of bone marrow from his hips, filtered out the stem cells, and injected them into every joint in his body. He then threaded a cannula along Asprey’s spinal column and injected stem cells inside his spinal cord and into his cerebral fluid. “And then they did all the cosmetic stuff,” Asprey told me. “Hey, I’m unconscious, you’ve got extra stem cells—put ’em everywhere!” Everywhere meaning his scalp, to make his hair more abundant and lustrous; his face, to smooth out wrinkles; and his “male organs,” for—well, I’ll leave that part up to your imagination.

According to Asprey, what he’d just endured was “the most extensive stem-cell treatment that’s ever been done on a person at one time.” All told, it was an expensive and invasive procedure, which is particularly striking considering that there’s nothing wrong with him. Nothing wrong, that is, other than regular old human aging, which is not part of Asprey’s plan.

Read the rest of this article at: Men’s Health

News 01.25.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

Buddhism And Self-Deception

News 01.25.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

Self-deception seems inescapably paradoxical. For the self to be both the subject and the object of deceit, one and the same individual must devise the deceptive strategy by which they are hoodwinked. This seems impossible. For a trick to work effectively as a trick, one cannot know how it works. Equally, it is hard to see how someone can believe and disbelieve the same proposition. Holding p and not-p together is, straightforwardly, to contradict oneself.

Despite its seemingly paradoxical qualities, many people claim to know first-hand what it is to be self-deceived. In fact, philosophers joke that only prolific self-deceivers would deny that they experience it. Nevertheless, there are skeptics who argue that self-deception is a conceptual impossibility so there can be no genuine cases, just as there can be no square-circles.

Yet self-deception seems undeniable in spite of its alleged incoherence. For the fact is, we are not always entirely rational. Certain situations, such as falling in love or being in the frenzied grips of grief, heighten susceptibility to self-deception. Betrayed lovers everywhere, anxious to discard the damning evidence of infidelity, know precisely Shakespeare’s meaning at sonnet 138:

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies

Self-deception is so curious a thing that it is a source of intrigue in the arts and sciences alike. Biologists such as Robert Trivers, for example, have begun to investigate self-deception’s evolutionary origins, probing its function and potential value.

Read the rest of this article at: aeon

Tuscany Tote in Midnight

Shop the Tuscany Tote in Midnight
at Belgrave Crescent & shop.thisisglamorous.com

Traffic

To get to the air-traffic-control tower at New York’s LaGuardia Airport, you have to walk through Concourse D in the Central Terminal, past the shiny shops and fat pretzels and premium brews, into and back out of streams of travelers yammering wirelessly at wives, lovers, brokers. You come to a thick steel battleship-gray door, shove it open with your hip. Step inside. You are now in…Leningrad? Bucharest? Cinder-block walls washed in dingy fluorescent light, a cramped elevator, slow and rickety, up to the tenth floor—Sorry it’s so cold, but this thermostat hasn’t worked for shit in years—through another gray door, up a knee-creaking set of concrete stairs: Welcome to the LaGuardia tower cab. Would you like a doughnut? Check out the view! The skyline demands all of you first, Manhattan spreading unobstructed like a mural written on the bottom of the sky. Airplanes everywhere, white, silver crawling. Rikers Island sits alone on the upwind leg of runway 31. Shea Stadium, on the opposite end, is mere skeleton and guts, just now on a crisp fall morning coming undone. You don’t see a view like this every day. Never mind the furniture, the duct-taped Archie Bunker couches in the break room, the ragged fold-up tables and the ancient, empty vending machine advertising Mike and Ike for twenty-five cents. Never mind the missing ceiling tiles, the warped paneling, the chipped Formica, the spectacular curls of peeling paint. Taped to the handset of a red phone is a sign reading BLACK PHONE. Some of the computer equipment brings to mind the days of Tandy and Heathkit. Some sections of the control console bring to mind the golden age of telephone operators wearing pointy bras. For a long time the roof here leaked so badly they had giant diapers hanging, tarps tacked from here to there to catch the water; a garden hose took the water down a flight of stairs to a janitor’s sink. Sometimes the bathroom plumbing goes, and when it goes it really goes; some controllers keep an extra shirt in their lockers in case of explosion. (Others have learned to flush with their foot and duck.) But check out the view! people here say with pride—intent or not intent on masking the obvious. Yeah, this place is a dump. This is the center of the universe, a tower serving 23 million passengers a year as they fly in and out of the most congested airspace in the world, and yeah, this tower, built in 1962, one of the oldest in America, is a dump.

Read the rest of this article at: GQ

News 01.25.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

The Business Of Kidnapping: Inside The Secret World Of Hostage Negotiation

News 01.25.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

In 1982, a British insurance broker named Doug Milne set out in search of new markets. His speciality was kidnapping and ransom insurance, known in the industry as K&R. Milne enrolled in a Spanish-language course in London, and a month later, with rudimentary skills and only one or two solid contacts on the ground, he boarded a flight to Bogotá. On his first day in the Colombian capital, Milne was walking to a meeting with a potential client when, he recalled, “a guy pulled up alongside and this chap who was walking in front of me, his head just exploded”. It was a drive-by assassination.

Milne cancelled the meeting and spent the afternoon in a bar near Bogotá’s entertainment district. “I missed my meeting and I think I left there about 11pm after having drunk a couple of flagons of Tres Esquinas rum,” Milne told me. He was, of course, horrified. But he also realised that he’d come to the right place. While he knew nothing about the victim or the motive, the murder drove home to him the extent to which Colombian society was at the mercy of criminals and guerillas. His clients needed what he had to offer.

Kidnapping and ransom insurance was created in the 1930s, but it wasn’t until the 60s that it began to really catch on, following a spate of kidnappings in Europe by groups such as Eta in Spain, the Red Army Faction in Germany and the Red Brigades in Italy. The appeal was simple: in the event of a kidnapping, the insurance would provide reimbursement for ransom payment.

There were caveats to prevent fraud and to ensure that the existence of the policy did not actually increase the risk of kidnapping. The first was that the policy had to be kept secret. In fact, it could be voided if its existence became public. The concern was that if the kidnappers knew of the policy, they would demand more money.

Read the rest of this article at: The Guardian

Shoot Someone In A Major US City, And Odds Are You’ll Get Away With It

News 01.25.19 : Today’s Articles of Interest from Around the Internets

Devon Little was shot for the first time as he was heading home from a cookout in West Baltimore.

The assault happened around midnight in June of 2015. It wasn’t until sunrise that a security guard stumbled across him in a deserted parking lot. Little’s cellphone was gone, he would later say, along with his brand-new Nikes and the gold fronts from his teeth. Blood pooled from wounds to his head and shoulder as he lay splayed on the pavement in his white socks.

Little, then 25, woke from a coma in a hospital a week later with a bullet fragment still lodged behind his left sinus. Doctors had temporarily removed part of his skull to relieve pressure on his brain caused by the swelling.

He had survived the shooting. But his exposure to the lawless violence that ravages swaths of cities across America was not over.

Discharged from the hospital badly injured and with his shooter still at large, Little became part of a cluster of nine shootings, all linked by a shared victim or suspect, that would leave at least seven victims over the next 20 months, some of them shot multiple times. Among the wounded was an 8-year-old girl, hit in the crossfire as she played in the street. A toddler narrowly escaped becoming another casualty; her grandmother found a bullet in her shoe.

As the spiral intensified, Little would be shot a second time. He would also become the only person arrested and prosecuted for any one of the shootings — a conviction he is appealing, insisting that he was railroaded by detectives’ perfunctory investigation. Another shooting in the string was quietly closed by naming a dead man as the perpetrator — then reopened after The Trace and BuzzFeed News pressed the Baltimore police for the supporting evidence.

The spate of Baltimore shootings illustrates a deadly problem in cities across the country: Systemic failure to solve gun crimes fuels widening cycles of violence, leaving shooters free to strike again, eroding trust in the police, and driving some victims to seek their own justice.

Read the rest of this article at: BuzzFeed

P.S. previous articles & more by P.F.M.

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Belgrave Crescent Brontë Duffle in Caramel

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