Some friends just sent me this link with the observation that the story seems to be right up my alley. The article sure as hell looks like a parody to me–and given the number of typos, a parody by non-native speakers of English–but I can’t find anything to indicate that it isn’t legitimate. Given that the timestamp is five days ago, I’m going to assume that every other gay blogger has covered this already, but if you haven’t seen it….

As part of a military effort to develop non-lethal weapons, the proposal suggested, “One distasteful but completely non-lethal example would be strong aphrodisiacs, especially if the chemical also caused homosexual behavior.”

The documents show the Air Force lab asked for $7.5 million to develop such a chemical weapon.

“The Ohio Air Force lab proposed that a bomb be developed that contained a chemical that would cause enemy soldiers to become gay, and to have their units break down because all their soldiers became irresistably [sic] attractive to one another,” Hammond said after reviewing the documents.

“The notion was that a chemical that would probably be pleasant [sic, iterum] in the human body in low quantities could be identified, and by virtue of either breathing or having their skin exposed to this chemical, the notion was that soliders [sic! For the love of Pete, when discussing the gays, can you at least show a token respect for our noted punctiliousness? Sheesh!–SRK]would become gay,” explained Hammond.

Morons. Haven’t you been listening to James Dobson? Unless you’re looking at a unit full of soldiers who bonded incompletely with their same-sex parent and thus had the direction of their sex drive distorted, you’re pretty much out of luck.

Besides, it’s perfectly possible for a gay guy to be in a confined space with a few dozen other homos in butch attire and not be attracted to any of them. This is an experience I have almost weekly, though I’m usually holding a drink rather than a weapon.

Virginia Postrel blogs that MIT engineers are figuring out how to transmit electricity wirelessly. No more inconvenient lamp cords. Very exciting.

I nearly went insane trying to figure out how to task-light (new verb!) my kitchen work space. Hiding the cords wasn’t going to be a problem, but I liked the uninterrupted expanse of cobalt-blue acrylic I’d used as a backsplash and didn’t want to wreck it with a bunch of clip lights or floor lamps. Then I ran across a display of these at Tokyu Hands.

That picture is not all that far from actual size. Each light has a diameter of 3.2 centimeters at its widest point, and the whole thing is 7-ish centimeters long if you extend the lamp fully. You can hardly see it unless it’s turned on. And the light is powerful. Worked perfectly. Of course, I thought it was nice that the thing is supposed to save on energy and stuff, but it was the design that hooked me. (And no, I did not pay the full suggested list price given on the Kokuyo site. I probably am gay enough to spend the equivalent of US$200 on a light the size of an artichoke heart just because it won a design award, but I didn’t have to.)

This story on The Onion isn’t quite a classic–some of the adjective-choked phrasing makes it a little too clear the writer’s trying to be funny, when a topic such as this requires that earnest Sam-the-Eagle deadpan. But the collision between two therapeutic impulses is still hilarious:

A report published Monday in The New England Journal of Medicine warns that the nation’s obesity epidemic has reached a new level of crisis, with many overweight Americans’ increased girth rendering them physically unable to end their own, fat lives.

“We’ve known for some time that obesity can cause heart disease, diabetes, strokes, and other potentially life-threatening illnesses,” said report author Dr. Marjorie Reese, director of UCLA’s Obesity Pathology Clinic. “But the fact that obesity impedes suicide is truly troubling. It appears that the more reason people have to die, the less capable they are of doing so. They are literally trapped in their grotesque, blubbery bodies.”

Given all the propaganda about how fat people are unidisciplined and ignorant and short-lived and…for the love of Pete, how many times do we have to tell you to put down that Big Mac and eat a fistful of carrot sticks?!–given all that, it almost makes sense that some actual “public-health” scold would point out the inability to off yourself as yet another risk of obesity, if only to score points by adding to the list.

By contrast, there’s no jest involved in Japan’s latest got-a-problem-get-a-program initiative to lower the suicide rate:

The measures call for comprehensive efforts, including stepping up measures to tackle unemployment and bankruptcy, as well as early detection and treatment of depression.

The measures include mental health support services such as counseling at workplaces, a network of community psychiatrists, and public campaigns to raise awareness of the problem and to reduce prejudice against mental illnesses.

They also call for more support for suicide survivors and victims’ families. Students and the elderly were the two groups that had the fastest-growing suicide rates.

Most of the measures are to be funded by the government, though the Cabinet did not release figures on how much money was available.

Nearly half of those who committed suicide last year were unemployed, the police said in their report published Thursday.

Given its track record, I’m not sure I’m going to put much faith in the federal government’s ability to tackle unemployment and bankruptcy. The support programs and things don’t sound like a bad idea; the Japanese are very, very slowly coming to accept the idea that professional counseling is a way for respectable people to deal with intractable emotional problems. It’s going to be difficult for health care providers to address the big acculturation problem, though: Japanese workers are taught to invest most of their adult identity into their jobs, but they aren’t taught to view skills and experience as assets that would transferrable from workplace to workplace. A lot of people, even sixteen years after the Bubble burst, simply have no idea what to do when they become unemployed. That’s especially true of the middle-aged; the free-lancing phenomenon is probably not as common among youths as it’s hyped up to be, but I imagine that most young people at least have a sense of how to be resourceful in patching together a living from temp work as they plot their next move.

Ann Althouse is getting some criticism for for making playful fun of Al Gore’s tone in this article:

“… I haven’t ruled out for all time thinking about politics again. It’s just that the way it works now, I don’t think that the skills I have are the ones that are most likely to be rewarded within this system. It’s like a washing machine that is permanently set on the spin cycle. It doesn’t stop spinning. That creates real problems for a politics based on reason.”

Friends have urged him to run for president again, but he wants to see a “transformation of this conversation of democracy” that de-emphasizes imagery and spin-doctoring.

Althouse says:

What?! You think this is spinning? You’re spinning. You’re always spinning. You’re like a washing machine. Al Gore is grateful to those who have a good opinion of him, but you… you don’t seem ready for reason, you know, reason, that process that yields a good opinion of Al Gore. Why don’t you help him transform the conversation of democracy. De-emphasize imagery! You washing machine.

You can bet he’s not referring to one of those new energy-efficient washing machines, either.

Gore’s way of expressing himself is pompous and self-flattering as always, and Althouse is justified in poking fun at it. Nevertheless, the essential point seems to me a reasonable one. Maybe it’s time for Gore to resign himself to never being in a position to use federal power to realize all of his nanny-state dreams and to work as he can to bring them to pass through other means. Who knows? He might discover along the way a few useful truths about humility and compromise.

I’m surprised we haven’t heard this sort of thing much more frequently before now:

The decision by four apparent North Korean defectors to brave 900 kilometers of open water in a small wooden boat to reach Japan suggests a level of desperation not seen before.

And it may signal that North Koreans are seeking out new routes to escape from the repressive regime in Pyongyang.

China traditionally was the route of choice. But after Beijing began to crack down out of consideration for its ties with North Korea, defectors started turning up all over Asia.

…

The arrival Saturday of four defectors at Fukaura port in Aomori Prefecture could well be an isolated case.

“It may just be random occurrence rather than an entirely new route,” said a South Korean government official.

Possibly. But it wouldn’t be difficult to believe that the PRC’s tightening of border controls has convinced many would-be defectors that almost any alternative is better. There was that widely-linked Times Online story last year, detailing at least one “repatriation” of a refugee:

The [PRC] soldiers, who later told family members of the incident, marched the woman, who was about 30, to the mid-point of the bridge. North Korean guards were waiting. They signed papers for receipt of the woman, who kept her dignity until that moment. Then, in front of the Chinese troops, one seized her and another speared her hand — the soft part between thumb and forefinger — with the point of a sharpened steel cable, which he twisted into a leash.

‘She screamed just like a pig when we kill it at home in the village,’ the soldier later told his relative. ‘Then they dragged her away.’

Of course, that’s a third-hand account, so it’s not certain whether every detail is accurate. It’s certainly not hard to believe that the DPRK is making an extra effort to make an example of those who are returned after trying to escape.

I gather it’s a straight-guy fantasy here in Japan to find out what it’s like to ride on one of the women-only commuter train cars, which were instituted a few years ago by rail companies looking to offer women protection from, among other things, rush-hour groping.

Well, as of today, I can tell you, though the experience was wasted on me, naturally.

I got on the train around 6:30 on the way to getting a haircut. I suppose that, when I used to live along the Toyoko Line, I knew that trains heading out of Shibuya had the women-only car in effect during evening rush hour, but I didn’t think much about it. My commute was during off-hours, when anyone can ride any car. The floral-patterned pink decals designating which car is women-only are still there, but the rule isn’t in effect during the afternoon. I wasn’t used to having to pay attention, and I guess I just always figured that any man who inadvertently stepped onto the wrong car would be promptly informed by one of its occupants that he belonged elsewhere. Or maybe that the nearest station attendant would chase you off. (Yes, Japanese women are brought up not to make a fuss, and yes, I’m a foreigner; still, it’s not uncommon to have someone crisply inform you when you’re committing a serious transgression in a public space–say, smoking where it’s not allowed, or what have you.)

Instead, I rode through five express stops before I figured it out. I’d had a vague sense that there were several women around me wearing quite a bit of perfume, maybe. I didn’t notice anyone looking askance at me. No furtive whispering. (You get that as a foreigner here, even if you’re not doing anything to violate decorum.) I was mostly lost in my iPod anyway. Perhaps the passengers around me heard Miranda Lambert leaking through my headphones and figured I was a fan of sassy women and unlikely to cause problems?

Anyway, it’s funny how the mind works. The moment I realized my mistake and began plotting to maneuver to the door at the next stop, the woman scent, which I hadn’t really noticed until then, became overpowering. I had a stronger-than-usual urge to bury my face in Hugh Jackman’s gym shorts. There didn’t seem to be any harm done, but I toyed with the idea of apologizing to the woman in front of me. (Her rear was pushed against my fists, which were innocently clenched around my little Hermès bag. I doubt the pressure felt anything like a touch of the more untoward kind; still, I assume her whole intention in getting on that car had been to avoid worrying about what the guy next to her was doing with his hands.)

Anyway, sorry, ladies. Trust me, it was no better for me than it was for you, and I’ll be paying more attention in the future.