"I said don't tear me up." — Mick Jagger

Photo: Man Ray

" [...] One kind of 'holy tear' defined by Church analysts is 'the tear of compassion.' This is Clinton’s tear. Humbly, he weeps not for himself but for the suffering voter. A second kind of 'holy tear' is the 'tear of love.' This is Dole’s you-feel-my-pain tear. Dole mists up when he thinks not about his wounds as such but about the people of the little provincial town who, when the wounds left him helpless, helped him. Clinton weeps when he listens, Dole when he speaks…."
— Nicholas Jenkins, quoted by Erin Overby (The New Yorker)
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"John Boehner's emotions nearly got the best of him late Tuesday night, as he addressed news that the GOP had taken majority control of the House of Representatives with a quivered lip, a quavering voice and perhaps a few tears. [...]
     Perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise that the emotional moment gave the man who is likely to become the next Speaker of the House the sniffles, especially considering his propensity for crying."
— The Huffington Post
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"Former House Speaker Newt Gingrich (R-Ga.) is not known for emotional displays, but started to cry Friday morning when he was asked to talk about his mother during a town hall forum here with an audience mostly of moms.
     'Well, first of all you'll get me all teary-eyed. Callista will tell you, I get teary-eyed every time we sing Christmas carols,' Gingrich said, beginning to lose his composure when asked by GOP pollster Frank Luntz about his mom, Kit Gingrich, who died in 2003 at age 77."
— The Huffington Post
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"Oscar Wilde, revolting against the sappiness of Victorian sentimental culture, wrote that 'one would have to have a heart of stone to read the death of Little Nell without laughing.' Aldous Huxley, too, was one of many who, from Dickens's heyday to the present, complained that his sentimentality was caused by a refusal to think, by 'overflow, nothing else.' Tears of truth, tears of tribute, tears of empathy, tears of devotion, tears as the ultimate mark of a sincere and truthful heart: these are not foreign to us; the basic ideas are still part of our culture of crying. But we also know that emotional life is more complex and less innocent than these eighteenth- and nineteenth-century texts would have us believe. And we also know about tears of humiliation, frustration, and manipulation—tears that have nothing to do with sincerity. [...]
     Given the source of the metaphor, the fact that crocodile tears mask other motives should not be surprising. When crocodiles fully extend their jaws to swallow a victim, the crocodile's lacrimal ducts are squeezed, and excess lubricating tears are produced. Real crocodiles' tears are in fact meaningless in emotional terms. Metaphorical crocodiles' tears are an emotional diversionary tactic, a kind of camouflage for metaphorical teeth."
— Tom Lutz, (Crying: The Natural and Cultural History of Tears) The New York Times
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green giant

From: The Whole Half via: Alabaster

"[...] On the outside, EASI is classic New Orleans: red brick, white pillars. But inside it's more like a set from War Games: dot matrix printers, ancient PCs, and nine Hewlett-Packard gas chromatography-mass spectrometer machines attached to large blue tanks of helium and hydrogen. This is where [Ted] Breaux does his lab work, testing water samples for pollution and pesticides. In his downtime, he studies absinthe here.
     Using the GCMS apparatus, he's able to break the liqueur down into its component molecules. 'It's like forensics,' Breaux says, gesturing toward the machines. 'Give me one microliter of absinthe and I know exactly what it's going to taste like.'
     Breaux explains how the testing works. He takes a bottle of the liqueur, inserts a syringe through the cork (absinthe oxidizes like wine once the bottle is open), and extracts a few milliliters. He transfers the sample into a vial, which is lifted by a robotic arm into the gas chromatography tower. There it is separated into its components. Then the mass spectrometer identifies them and measures their relative quantities.
     One of the ingredients is thujone, a compound in wormwood that is toxic if it's ingested, capable of causing violent seizures and kidney failure. Breaux hands me a bottle of pure liquid thujone. 'Take a whiff,' he says with an evil grin. I recoil at the odor - it's like menthol laced with napalm. This is the noxious chemical compound responsible for absinthe's bad reputation. The question that's been debated for years is, Just how much thujone is there in absinthe?
     Absinthe was first distilled in 1792 in Switzerland, where it was marketed as a medicinal elixir, a cure for stomach ailments. High concentrations of chlorophyll gave it a rich olive color. In the 19th century, people began turning to the minty drink less for pains of the stomach than for pains of the soul. Absinthe came to be associated with artists and Moulin Rouge bohemians. Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Van Gogh, and Picasso were devotees. Toulouse-Lautrec carried some in a hollowed-out cane. Oscar Wilde wrote, 'What difference is there between a glass of absinthe and a sunset?' Soon absinthe was the social lubricant of choice for a broad swath of Europeans - artists and otherwise. In 1874, the French sipped 700,000 liters of the stuff; by the turn of the century, consumption had shot up to 36 million liters, driven in part by a phylloxera infestation that had devastated the wine-grape harvest.
     By the early 20th century, absinthe was becoming popular in America. It found a natural reception in New Orleans, where the bon temps were already rolling. Breaux's own great-grandparents were known to enjoy an occasional glass. But the drink was drawing fire for its thujone content. 'It is truly madness in a bottle, and no habitual drinker can claim that he will not become a criminal,' declared one politician. The anti-absinthe fervor climaxed in 1905, when Swiss farmer Jean Lanfray shot his pregnant wife and two daughters after downing two glasses. (Overlooked was what else Lanfray consumed that day: crème de menthe, cognac, seven glasses of wine, coffee with brandy, and another liter of wine.) By the end of World War I, the 'green menace' was made illegal everywhere in western Europe except Spain. No reputable distillery still made it."
— Brian Ashcraft, Wired
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