Enlarge / Bottles of Johnson's baby powder in a London supermarket. (credit: Simon Dawson/Bloomberg via Getty Images)

A Los Angeles jury awarded a woman a $417 million verdict yesterday. The jury found that Johnson & Johnson failed to adequately warn users of the cancer risks of the talc in its baby powder.

The jury's 9-3 vote to hold J&J liable for not warning Eva Echeverria about cancer risks is a huge blow to the company, which is facing thousands of such claims across the country. The verdict consists of $70 million in compensatory damages and $347 million in punitive damages, according to Reuters.

No clear link connects talcum powder to ovarian cancer. Some case-control studies, based on asking women who have ovarian cancer about their history, have found a slightly increased risk. But as the American Cancer Society notes, those kinds of studies can be biased because they rely on a person's memory of talc use years after the fact.

Enlarge / The UC3 Nautilus in early sea trials in 2008. (credit: Frumperino)

On Monday, a Copenhagen Police spokesperson released new information regarding the investigation into the disappearance of Kim Wall, a Swedish journalist who had been last seen aboard the UC3 Nautilus—the crowd-funded, amateur-built diesel-electric submarine designed and piloted by Peter Madsen. Madsen now confirms that Wall died aboard the submarine, and that he dumped her body overboard. But he claimed to police and prosecutors that her death was accidental.

Details of the investigation had been sealed (protected under the "closed doors" provisions of Danish law), as the criminal investigation is still underway. But after a request from both prosecutors and Madsen's defense attorney, the court allowed the police department to release the following statement:

The defendant has explained to the police and the Court, that there was an accident on board which caused Kim Wall’s death and that he consequently buried her at sea at a non-defined location in the Bay of Køge. Copenhagen Police may additionally disclose that the preliminary charge of manslaughter is upheld. As the investigation of the case is still covered by "closed doors," no further information can be given.

Madsen continues to be held on charges of involuntary manslaughter, as the investigation continues.

Image copyright Ritzau Foto

A Danish submarine owner has appeared in court over the disappearance of a Swedish female journalist who had been on board his vessel before it sank.

Peter Madsen, 46, denies wrongdoing, saying he had dropped off the reporter - 30-year-old Kim Wall - in Copenhagen before the sinking.

Her partner raised the alarm in the early hours of Friday when she failed to return from the Nautilus vessel.

It was later spotted but sank on Friday morning and Mr Madsen was rescued.

Police have launched a search for Ms Wall, a freelance journalist based in New York and China who has written for the New York Times, the Guardian and Vice Magazine.

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Danish media said Mr Madsen had been charged with negligent manslaughter and would be detained for 24 days, following his court appearance on Saturday.

Police would not comment on why charges had been brought before a body had been found.

In a statement to Swedish paper Aftonbladet, Ms Wall's family said: "It is with great dismay we received the message that Kim is missing. We believe and sincerely hope she will be found safe and well."

Her friends and family have been posting widely on social media asking for her whereabouts.

Salvage teams started raising the Nautilus from the seabed in Koge Bay, south of Copenhagen, on Saturday.

Police are hunting for witnesses and camera footage to determine whether the missing woman had disembarked after setting off.

Footage aired by Denmark's TV2 shows Mr Madsen getting out of what appeared to be a private boat, giving reporters a thumbs-up sign, saying: "I am fine, but sad because Nautilus went down."

He later told a reporter: "I was out on a rehearsal trip, tinkering with different things in the submarine. Then a defect happened with a ballast tank which wasn't that serious - until I tried to repair it - then it suddenly became very serious.

"After that it took 30 seconds for Nautilus to sink. I couldn't close the hatch or anything. But that might be OK, as I would still be down there then."

Ms Wall had been writing about Mr Madsen and his submarine, which at one stage was the largest privately-made vessel of its kind.

Mr Madsen made headlines in 2008 when he built the home-made submarine, that is almost 18 metres long, by using online crowd-funding.

Enlarge (credit: LockState)

Hundreds of Internet-connected locks became inoperable last week after a faulty software update caused them to experience a fatal system error, manufacturer LockState said.

The incident is the latest reminder that the so-called Internet of Things—in which locks, thermostats, and other everyday appliances are embedded with small Internet-connected computers—often provide as many annoyances as they do conveniences. Over the past week, the Colorado-based company's Twitter feed has been gorged with comments from customers who were suddenly unable to lock or unlock their doors normally. Complicating the matter: the affected LockState model—the RemoteLock 6i—is included in an Airbnb partnership called Host Assist. That left many hosts unable to remotely control their locks.

@vrma 2 days later, still no follow up from John Cargile as promised, locks still down.

— Doug Miracle (@DougMiracle_) August 11, 2017

Are you a stranded @Airbnb guest? @LockState just BRICKED a bunch of 6i locks. But they won't tweet updates. Trying to hide their screw-up?

— Juniper (@JuniperWyoming) August 7, 2017

The failure occurred last Monday when LockState mistakenly sent some 6i lock models a firmware update developed for 7i locks. The update left earlier 6i models unable to be locked and no longer able to receive over-the-air updates. LockState Marketing Manager John Cargile told Ars that the failure hit about 500 locks. The company is offering affected customers one of two options: (1) return the back portion of the lock to LockState so the firmware can be updated, with a turnaround time of about five to seven days, or (2) request a replacement interior lock, with a turnaround time of about 14 to 18 days. In the meantime, customers can use a physical key to unlock doors. (Like most hotel rooms, the doors automatically lock each time they're closed.)

Enlarge / FCC Chairman Ajit Pai listens during a Senate Appropriations Subcommittee hearing on June 20, 2017. (credit: Getty Images | Bloomberg)

A prisoners' rights group has accused Federal Communications Commission Chairman Ajit Pai of having a conflict of interest because he used to represent a prison phone company as a lawyer.

Under Pai's direction, the FCC dropped its court defense of rules capping the intrastate phone rates charged to prisoners. The decision helped prison phone companies—including Pai's former client, Securus Technologies—continue to charge high prices.

Pai "represented Securus as its attorney while employed as a partner with the law firm of Jenner & Block, LLP, immediately preceding his confirmation as FCC Commissioner in May 2012," Human Rights Defense Center Executive Director Paul Wright wrote in a filing with the commission yesterday.

A van that appeared to have no driver made headlines when it was spotted in Arlington, Virginia, last week. But when News4's Adam Tuss saw the van on Monday and looked inside, he saw that it did have a driver: a man dressed in a costume made to look like just a car seat.

From the road, the unmarked gray van eerily looks like it's moving without a driver. The entire front seat looks empty. But when Tuss looked inside, he saw a man wearing a beige and black costume that covered his entire torso.

His arms poked out of the bottom of the costume to steer. His face was completely covered, like that of a sports mascot who can see out, but no one can see in.

"I looked out and I said, 'Oh my God, there's a guy in a seat costume," Tuss said. "How's that possible? Your brain can't get around it for a second."

Tuss went to the Clarendon neighborhood of Arlington on Monday to talk with ARLnow.com founder Scott Brodbeck about the vehicle he saw in Clarendon and Courthouse on Thursday night. 

As Tuss left the ARLnow.com offices, he saw the 2017 Ford Transit Connect himself. He and a News4 photographer followed the vehicle in Clarendon and Ballston for about 20 minutes. At one point, the car ran a red light, in apparent attempt to lose News4. 

Tuss went to knock on the window. At first, he thought he saw an empty seat. Then, when he looked below the wheel, he saw a man's hands and legs.

"Brother, who are you? What are you doing? I'm with the news, dude," Tuss said. "Dude, can you pull over and we can talk for a second?"  

But the driver didn't say a word.

RAW VIDEO: Mystery Man Dressed as Car Seat Sits in 'Driverless' Car

After multiple inquiries by News4, the Virginia Tech Transportation Institute said Monday afternoon that the van and van driver are part of a study they are conducting on driverless cars. The worker was wearing the uniform he was supposed to wear. 

"The driver's seating area is configured to make the driver less visible within the vehicle, while still allowing him or her the ability to safely monitor and respond to surroundings," a statement from the institute says. 

Virginia Tech declined to make the half car seat, half man -- as Tuss put it -- available for an interview. 

Arlington County officials were involved in the planning for the study, a Virginia Tech spokeswoman said. Arlington was selected because "it is representative of the urban areas for which automated vehicles are currently being considered," she said. 

Go here to learn more about the study. 

The Virginia Department of Transportation was not aware of the vehicle, a representative said. The Arlington Police Department was "shocked" by news of the van, one representative said.

Several "invisible driver" prank videos can be found on YouTube. The drivers are entirely hidden by costumes that look just like car seats.

Published at 8:42 PM EDT on Aug 7, 2017 | Updated at 6:49 PM EDT on Aug 7, 2017

We’re not sure the first time he called. Nor are we sure who first answered the bar’s wall-mounted pay phone that day and heard his voice. It could’ve been a customer seated at the window table beside the phone; could’ve been the front-room waiter, hustling to reach the receiver and shout “McSorley’s!” to whomever was on the other end of the line. We’re pretty sure that the call would have come on a Sunday, because once we recognized the pattern, it seemed that he always rang at the end of the weekend. We’re positive what he said, because it’s been the same opening line now, week after week, for about twenty years: “Your enema is ready.”

The Enema Man started calling McSorley’s Old Ale House, the landmark pub in Manhattan’s East Village, some time in the late 90s. I first heard about him from my father, Geoffrey “Bart” Bartholomew, who’s been tending bar there since 1972. I would have been a sophomore or junior in high school at the time, and even though I had to be on the subway before 7 am on Monday morning, I liked to wait up for my dad to get home, usually between 1:30 and 2 am, to hear what happened on his shift. At the beginning, he spoke of the Enema Man as a nuisance:

“You’re not gonna believe this scummer,” he’d say. “Guy’s been calling for the last few Sundays. He dials the pay phone in Second Avenue (the name McSorley insiders use for the easternmost window booth at the front of the bar; its twin on the opposite side is called Third) and as soon as the waiter picks up, the guy says, ‘Your enema is ready.’ Never seen Mickey look so confused—he asked this bunghead what he was talking about, and the guy just repeated the line. Said the same thing three times before Mickey hung up.”

But as the calls kept coming my father and the rest of the McSorley’s staff developed a begrudging respect for Enema Man’s persistence. It didn’t take long for hints of admiration to creep into my dad’s voice when he’d return home and fill me in on the night’s action. “Enema Man called again,” he’d say, his mustache twitching with delight. “We let a customer pick up, just to see the look on his face. He didn’t look too ready…”

Subsequent calls over the following months revealed biographical details—or at least we imagined they did. One Sunday, the waiter eschewed stock responses like telling Enema Man to go to hell or just hanging up on him. Instead, he engaged him. Asked if he had watched any football that Sunday. Enema Man said yes, he enjoyed seeing the Eagles ream our New York Giants. Even though most of the NFL fans on the McSorley’s staff root for the Jets, it made us wonder: Was Enema Man from Philly? Or was he just making an educated guess that we’d be pulling for the New York team? Another time, a waiter challenged Enema Man to come to McSorley’s and tell him face-to-face what was ready, and Enema Man answered, “Just make sure the couple in the window table saves some of their cheese plate for me.” How was he able to describe them? Maybe the Philadelphia theory was wrong and he actually lived across the street, or someplace close enough to peer through binoculars and observe his victims.

When a couple months passed without any contact, I was surprised to hear concern creep into my father’s voice. “Enema man hasn’t called,” he’d tell me. “Hopefully nothing happened to him.” And although it might seem strange that the staff had grown to care for a prank caller who treated proctological taunts like Sunday mass, the guy’s dedication to his strange punch-line had earned him a spot in McSorley’s lore. To hear my father tell it, Enema Man was proof of the bar’s essential New York appeal—where else in the city could some wack-job spend years calling the same number at the same time and always have a chance to speak to a new customer or a waiter ready for the next round of verbal sparring? Only at McSorley’s.

*

I remember the first time I heard Enema Man’s voice. Once I hit my early twenties and began working part-time at the bar, I waited to get the call on a Sunday. It took a while—I had to work my way up the rotation, starting with a busboy gig on weekend nights known around McSorley’s as the “shithouse.” (In addition to clearing tables and delivering empty mugs to the bar, the shithouse man is expected to keep an eye on the restrooms. He’s expected to prevent female customers from accidentally wandering into the men’s room, which is only marked TOILET—a remnant of McSorley’s male-only past.) Luckily, my father had been tending bar on Sunday nights for as long as I’d been alive, so after a couple months of paying dues, he was able to nudge me onto the schedule for a Sunday shift as the front room waiter.

Even though fielding prank calls wasn’t an important part of the job, I’d convinced myself that answering the Enema Man was a milestone of barroom legitimacy, something on par with learning to carry 20 mugs at a time or surviving the St. Patrick’s Day mob scene. That first Sunday, every time the pay phone rang I just about sprinted to the window table to answer it. The number there was the same one listed on websites and phone books, which meant that the first half dozen times I picked up the receiver, all I heard were simple questions like “How late are you open?” and “Did anyone find my driver’s license?”

By about 8 pm I’d started to lose hope. I knew from my dad’s stories that Enema Man usually called in the late afternoon. The crowd of weekend day drinkers was thinning out, and it seemed like my initiation wasn’t coming. Until it did. The phone clamored once more and I skidded over the sawdust-covered hardwood to pick it up.

“McSorley’s,” I said.

“Your enema is ready.” There it was! He sounded like a middle-aged guy, his voice a cranky whine, and he stretched out all three syllables of “enema.” I’d looked forward to this moment for years and always imagined that when I got hold of Enema Man, I’d nail him with a clever retort, maybe even force him to break character. Instead, I froze and mumbled something about stuffing the enema up his arse. “Well, my new friend,” he said before hanging up, “that’s sorta the point.”

I turned around to face the bar, where my dad was standing behind the taps, holding up a length of hose to which he’d taped an index card with ENEMA written in black Sharpie. “Welcome to the club, bunger!” he said. I’d made it.

*

It took me a while to understand why this rite of passage felt so meaningful. When I tried to approach it rationally, it didn’t hold up. So what? Name one busy pub where dirty jokes didn’t serve as a form of alternate currency. I eventually found my answer in the details: When I considered the particulars of McSorley’s Enema Man and the legend that had grown around him, I’d always end up musing over the bar’s exceptionalism. This story felt like it couldn’t exist anywhere besides the drinking hole John McSorley had opened 163 years ago on East 7th Street.

Start with the phone. Somehow, in a bar filled with memorabilia that dates back to the 1800s, few artifacts feel more anachronistic than the coin-operated pay phone. There are hardly any phone booths left on New York street corners, let alone inside bars and restaurants. McSorley’s pay phone is a reminder that the world has moved on to mobile devices, but it also underscores the bar’s timeless quality. There’s something uncanny about the phone’s recent obsolescence—picking up the receiver with a silenced iPhone in your pocket feels more strange than gazing upon McSorley’s gas lamp or the bar’s 19th-century ice box, even though newer technologies replaced them, too. The pay phone’s presence in McSorley’s front room also allows a tradition like the Enema Man, twisted as it may be, to grow. Likewise, the continuity among the bar’s staff—where most employees have decades of experience, and even newcomers like me often have lifelong McSorley connections—allows what might be a one-off prank in some other establishment to become a long-term relationship as well as a ritual of bar work, passed from one generation to the next. (And in my case, enshrined with a homemade enema hose trophy.)

The Enema Man’s embrace within McSorley’s also speaks to the place’s ability to absorb just about any character into its orbit. As a child, I was taught to look up to everyone involved in bar life, from my dad and the other bartenders and waiters who ran the place to hangers-on like Frank the Slob, a onetime customer who aged into the job of hand-peeling onions before busy weekend shifts. They were all part of the bar, so they all deserved our respect.

The same goes for Enema Man. Whether he’s deeply committed to the bar or just plain deranged, twenty years of prank calls have made him part of McSorley’s fabric, not far off from Harry Houdini’s handcuffs or the famous World War I wishbones that hang above the bar. That’s why, on a recent visit after six months out of town, when I stepped inside the men’s room and saw ENEMA MAN WAS HERE scrawled on a stall door, reading it felt like a warm hug.

__________________________________

From Two and Two: McSorley’s, My Dad, and Me, by Rafe Bartholomew, courtesy Little, Brown. Copyright 2017, Rafe Bartholomew.

Tangled Bank Studios

Humans have launched some momentous missions of discovery into the universe. Yuri Gagarin reached orbit. The Apollo astronauts walked across the Moon. The Viking probes landed on Mars. But never before had a spacecraft visited four worlds in a single, grand tour as the two Voyager probes did in the 1970s and 1980s with Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune. And the story behind these two spacecraft, along with the people who made them fly, is utterly compelling.

Fortunately, on their 40th anniversary, PBS has produced a 90-minute documentary worthy of these missions. Featuring interviews with many of the principal scientists and imaging experts, The Farthest tells the story of how Voyager 1 and 2 were conceived, where they flew, and what they discovered while detailing all the drama in between. The documentary debuts on August 23.