By Andy Copeland


It’s Jimi’s birthday

Don’t forget what he showed us:

Rock & roll–blues art




What would a post-antibiotic world be like?

Western Mind | Eastern Thinking

Antibiotics are over used. Period. End of sentence.


My pharmacy is getting ready to install a robotic dispensing system. It takes your pharmacy’s top 200 or so drugs and automatically counts them for you, saving the pharmacist time. To determine those 200 drugs we ran reports based off of 12 months of previous medications dispensed. The number 1 drug dispensed was Zithromax, a what was once a powerful antibiotic is now used to treat the common cold and mild respiratory infections. Among those 200 drugs are an additional 27 antibiotics. This is just at my pharmacy. I’m sure this is the trend throughout the United States and into Europe. This is scary. Before penicillin existed people died from infections. Penicillin was discovered and helped save hundreds if not thousands of lives in World War II. More antibiotics were developed in response to bacterial resistance to penicillin. Medicine advanced because of…

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Put the Fox Out

By Andy Copeland


Now come on, brash boy with heated blood

Tell me what you’d do in the name of love

Show me how far you’re willing to go

Because, that lady over there, she wants to know


You see, she digs you and she thinks you’re real fine

But I know better than to make her mine

She’s an evil lady; she’ll cut you open

Leave you with a desire to do nothin’ but dopin’


When you wake in the morning, she’ll be gone from your bed

Goin’ to work to keep another man fed

And in the evening, when you’re in the mood

You’ll find she puts on a whole different attitude


Oh, she’ll look you in the face and respect you like a man

But I guarantee you she’s got another plan

She’ll completely expend you like a worn-out tool

Leave you alone and crying like some down-and-out fool



She’ll keep coming back since you forgive her so well

Bringing havoc to your life, like a demon from hell

She smiles and dances, she says she done nothin’ wrong

But when you’re not around she sings a different song


I’ll tell you what to do; there’s only one thing, son

Lest you go psychotic and look for a gun

Don’t worry ’bout manners and don’t consider class

Just put the fox out on her little ass

How Academia Resembles a Drug Gang

This concerns me because I am interested in becoming a professor one day. I guess we’ll see how it all comes out in the end.

Alexandre Afonso

In 2000, economist Steven Levitt and sociologist Sudhir Venkatesh published an article in the Quarterly Journal of Economics about the internal wage structure of a Chicago drug gang. This piece would later serve as a basis for a chapter in Levitt’s (and Dubner’s) best seller Freakonomics: A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything (P.S.) The title of the chapter, “Why drug dealers still live with their moms”, was based on the finding that the income distribution within gangs was extremely skewed in favor  of those at the top, while the rank-and-file street sellers earned even less than employees in legitimate low-skilled activities, let’s say at McDonald’s. They calculated 3.30 dollars as the hourly rate, that is, well below a living wage (that’s why they still live with their moms). [2]

If you take into account the risk of being shot by rival gangs, ending up in jail or…

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Pecking Away

The Puneri

Of the many things that I do not like to do in life (and you’d be surprised at how long a list that’ll end up being), writing comes at the very top of the list. When I say writing, I mean, of course, the act of taking a pen in hand and actually scribbling out the words. Stringing words together in order to form sentences is rather a pleasing task, particularly when performed on my own laptop (remind me to tell you more about this in about 400 words or so).

But when the stringing of words is to be done with a pen or pencil, my enthusiasm for said task is lower than the chances of Narendra Modi contesting the Lok Sabha elections on a Congress ticket. I’ve never been an enthusiastic exponent of the art, and I’m not about to begin now.

Frankly, and I say this to…

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By Andy Copeland


The quiet whirring of the fan


Into my reality

As the dark

Behind my eyelids

Is replaced

By the darkness

In front of me

Last I remember,

I fell



Into the cushions of this couch

But now my head is clear

My blood is clean

And my mouth is dry

It’s out

People around me snore

While my wretched withdrawal ensues

I rise

Stuff a cigarette in my mouth

The staccato flick

Of my Bic

My soft stirrings bring the dog by

Feet underneath me now,

My secret sneak starts

Socks silently sliding along the wood

Everyone slumbers tonight

But I’ll see the sun when it comes up


April 2013

Some Days

By Andy Copeland


Some days are care-free

Some days are worse than others

Today the sun shines