Back Ache to the Future

The Ohio State Chiropractic Board apparently has a problem with one of its own.

Ohio chiropractor, James Burda of Athens, has received a notice of hearing from the state's regulating authority. The board has accused him of mental illness for his claim that he can treat anyone by reaching back in time to the moment an injury occurred.

Go ahead and read that again. It's just that much fun.

Now, forget for a minute the "Nut-Bar" detector that just went off in your head, and imagine the implications of such a talent.

Suppose you threw out your back during sex, or while getting out of the bathtub. And suppose for that injury you sought the help of a chiropractor. But -- and this gets a little tricky -- since his treatment involves traveling back in time to the moment the injury occurred, in the past, there would suddenly be a strange man watching you make love or watching you wash your hard-to-reach places. Effectively, you'd have a spotter.

You'd probably even be thankful that he was there and that he prevented an injury. That is until you realize that any old time traveler could appear to you at any time, insisting he or she just prevented you from hurting yourself and demanding payment. You wouldn't know which time traveler to trust.

And just out of curiosity, if a chiropractor is traveling back in time to prevent injuries, wouldn't that eliminate any patients coming to see him in the present? Hmmm . . . .

Now, it's not clear exactly how Burda performs his time traveling chiropractic techniques. He makes no claim to own a Flux Capacitor or even a DeLorean, but he vehemently denies the board's accusations of mental illness.

According to Burda, he discovered the special skill by accident while driving six years ago.

"My foot hurt and, knowing anatomy, I went ahead and I told it to realign and my pain went away . . ."

Apparently that's all it takes for one to know that he or she can travel through time; a knowledge of anatomy and the stones to order any body part that hurts to realign.

Science fiction writers the world over are reported to be relieved. Their characters will never again be required to build clunky, HG Wells-esque machines. Nor will they ever be forced to journey through anything resembling a wormhole. And the writers themselves will never again have to take creative license with light speed or Special Relativity.

They can simply incorporate the time travel technique Burda calls "Bahlaqeem".

Says Burda:

"[Bahlaqeem] is a made-up word and, to my knowledge, has no known meaning except for this intended purpose. It does, however, have a soothing vibrational influence and contains the very special number of nine letters."

Burda's made up word just happened to be the one specifically intended for time traveling chiropractic techniques?

Of all the made up words and gibberish spoken everyday, a chiropractor just happened to be the one who voiced the made up word specific to his profession . . . . Oh, and specific to time travel.

It hurts my brain to even contemplate the odds for such a discovery. Perhaps I can Bahlaqeem the moment I read that quote and realign my memory. Perhaps the vibrational influence and nine letters of the word will soothe my troubled mind. Perhaps this whole thing is a pile of rubbish.

Another interesting aspect of this story is the board's reaction to Burda's made up word and the methods it describes.

. . . The board alleges in three counts against Burda that the treatment is unacceptable and constitutes "willful and gross malpractice." Burda has until May 1 to request a hearing. The board can levy penalties ranging from a reprimand to revoking his license to practice . . .

Willful and gross malpractice?

That's an odd allegation coming from an organization who condones the medieval practice of cracking the spine to heal all sorts of ailments.

And in case you didn't know, chiropractors don't just crack the backs of adult patients. The chiropractic community feels it can also cure children, including infants, with a quick twist and a pop of the spine.

Not only that, but it has its own made up word for the process -- subluxation.

So it appears that this is a case of the chiropractic board calling the chiropractor black.

Still, one can't fault the board, if they feel Burda has stepped outside of their comfort zone for delusion. And he has taken delusion up a notch.

. . . The treatment is not telepathic because the patient does not have to believe in what he's doing, Burda said. He has treated hundreds of patients and reports nine out of 10 patients are satisfied . . .

The chiropractic community condones subluxation, but no one has suggested the patient doesn't have to believe for it to work. They count on the patient believing.

Burda, on the other hand, says he can cure anyone, whether they believe or not. Including me. Including you.

Just watch out for a stranger suddenly appearing while you're exercising or working in the yard. It could be a chiropractor.

The Saga of the Homeless Oak Ridge Boy (Part III)

The homeless guy that throws trash at me every morning wasn't there when I came out of my house today.

I'm hoping I didn't scare him off with all that talk about The Oak Ridge Boys last week. He's been a fixture of my routine for the last few months, and it'd be a shame if he's gone for good.

Of course, it's been really hot here the last few days, so maybe he's just been working nights. I'm sure there's plenty of night trash and tons of night people at whom to throw it. I just hope he remembers to fill out his time sheet correctly.

He's probably shacked up during the hot hours of the day. There's an old building down the street that used to be a gas station. At least I think it used to be a gas station. It has a "car port" thing covering what could have been gas pump bays at one time. And the main building resembles a small store/garage. But the place is far too crumbled for me to be sure.

Anyway, I've seen -- gosh, I don't even know what to call the guy. Mr. Homeless Man? Slog Tosser? Trashy McOakridge? I don't know -- but I've seen him down at the old building, socializing with a few of his acquaintances on occasion. They gather and drink wine or rummage through one of the two shopping carts that a particularly industrious companion of theirs pushes around all day. Oh, and one of them has a couple of dogs.

The odd thing is, they usually seem to be in deep discussion when gathered at the old gas station, though I can't imagine what they could be talking about. If it weren't for the dirt, grime, and tattered clothing, they could very well be the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Or perhaps the Justice League, debating over how to deal with Braniac and his invading forces. (Sorry, I've been watching C-SPAN and the Cartoon Network all weekend.)

But even though these people appear just some pajamas and a cape away from being super heroes, I know they're probably just sharing stories about plastering some yutz with trash every morning. Hey, it's sure as hell what I'd be telling all my friends down at the abandoned gas station or in a blog entry or something, were I so inclined.

By the way, remember the black hoses at gas stations that would "DING" when you rolled over them? With all the self-serve stations, you don't see those much anymore.

I think I'd like to have one of those hoses at the door to my office. I would always know when someone enters, and at the same time, really scare the crap out of the poor bastard coming in. Perhaps I should check eBay.