It’s called Ezlite and it allows you to quickly insert Ebay RSS feeds, Amazon product tag RSS feeds, or any other type of plain RSS feed directly into your wordpress posts or pages.

The way it works is simple. You simply insert the following tags into your post wherever you want for them to display.

To insert an Ebay RSS feed into your wordpress post

[ebay]ebay search string (with,all,features) -working -ithink;#;campaignid[/ebay]

The search string is simply whatever string you would type into the ebay search box in order to come up with the results that you want to show in your wordpress post. The “#” is the number of results that you want, and the “campaignid” is whatever ebay campaign you want to use.

To insert an Amazon RSS feed into your wordpress post

[amazon]amazon tag;#;affiliate-id[/amazon]

The amazon tag is whatever product tag you want to pull the RSS feed for. Unfortunately, Amazon does not currently offer RSS feeds for searches the way Ebay does, so you have to make do with the feeds for their products tags. This can be a pain for some niches that haven’t been tagged very well, but for some niches it works out. Again the “#” is simply the number of RSS items you want to have show up in your wordpress post, and the “affiliate-id” is your Amazon affiliate ID. Confusing, I know.

To insert an RSS feed into your wordpress post

[rss]http://mydomain.com/myfeedlocation/;#[/rss]

This will simply pull the contents of any feed into your wordpress post at the time that the post is loaded. Note that there is no built-in caching or anything like that, so be careful where you’re getting your RSS feed when it comes to using this plugin on high-traffic sites. Amazon & Ebay have no problem getting their RSS feeds pulled a few thousand times a minute, but your average blog owner is not likely to feel the same way, especially if wordpress is generating a fresh RSS feed for you on every pageload.

Download the plugin

You can download the plugin here: ezlite.zip

If you like this plugin and make money with it, please consider throwing a couple of links at some of my websites like davidgodot.com, waytogogodot.com, or allsci.org.

Thanks, best luck, and enjoy!

PDF: Hypno-Oncological Interventions, Understandings, and Potentials.

There are a number of ways in which this issue can be conceptualized and corresponding actions which can be taken. One way in which legislators and advocacy groups have attempted to remedy the problem is through the proposal and institution of “parity” measures for mental health service coverage as it applies to American workers and other insurance consumers. Mental health parity, as an ideal, would make mental health and substance abuse services available to consumers on a level equal to the availability of general medical and surgical services. This can be accomplished either by forcing employers to add the additional benefits onto their group insurance plans, or by forcing insurance companies to include equal mental health coverage as a standard part of all health plans that they offer. The purpose of this analysis is to examine the arguments for and against mental health parity as well as the implications of the available alternatives.

PDF: Mental Health Parity: A Brief Policy Analysis

PDF: Methamphetamine Use and High-Risk Sexual Behavior Among Men Who Have Sex With Men: A Review of the Literature and Plan for Intervention

Wampold, Ahn, & Coleman (2001) list five components of the medical model of psychotherapy: to begin with, the patient presents with symptoms of a classifiable disorder or disease; from the existing research and accepted materials, a psychological explanation for the disorder is available; the knowledge of this specific disorder and the theoretical conceptualization of such are sufficient that a potential mechanism for psychological change can be identified; having identified these properties, the therapist logically derives a set of specific psychotherapeutic ingredients and administers them to the patient; these specific ingredients are responsible for the benefits of the psychotherapy thus administered. “The last component,” Wampold, et al. (2001) explain, “which is often referred to as specificity, is critical to the medical model of psychotherapy and gives primacy to the specific ingredients rather than common or contextual factors.” This is particularly significant in that no research has yet to provide any empirical backing for this principle of specificity in psychotherapeutic interventions, whereas a growing body of research is being accumulated in support of alternative, contextual models of psychotherapy (Wampold, 2001).

PDF: The Medical Model of Psychology: Problems and Solutions.

At night I stay in
and beat against my windows with brooms,
crouching alone inside,
waiting for angels of pestilence.

I have a very thin skin,
and it is not a toy,
and I choke on it.

There are demons at the window,
angels, too,
and rags tied to leafless branches
and hideous crawling things;
I want to tear open the shutters
but am paralyzed and weeping.

Last night I acted in a play
in which I was myself and mother and father—
it’s always like this,
I argue with myself asleep and on streetcorners
like the working homeless,
like the dead parade.

Because the far dream.

I can’t make a hat
that can hold the lot of us;
it’s hot in here and loud
and cold crystal out in space—
I can’t drift out here,
can’t sleep tonight.

Not with my constellation
of old bones scratching.

Not with all this information hanging off
my chinny chin chin.

Because the wrecks.

Because the silence.

Because the hope and strain.

I can’t make music
up here on the surface.

Not in the craters.

I can’t sleep tonight
because the raucous in the basement.

Because the stretched motives.

Because the abaissement de niveau mental.

Because the far far dream.

I can’t make a footstep in the wrong direction
in doughy spacetime tonight,
only fill up with air
and rattle my pan for jewelry—
I can’t lose the surface tension

I fall to bits

Because the bread is poison

Not as if anything

Not bad moon forever

I can’t tell you
there’s too much to listen
you’d never

I can’t go limp
because gravity and humble
rockdwelling

I love you music hope strain

The right direction has got to be
the only direction

Gravity has got to be for me

Has got to be

PDF: Recovered Reality: A Review of the Literature on Recovered Memory Phenomenon.

PDF: Jonestown: The Social Psychology of Official Stories and Accepted Truths.

Waiting like this, you forget what you’re waiting for and start watching too deeply. A young mother bouncing her baby along brick sidewalk in its stroller, black smudges holding it in; a white kid goes by in polo shirt, nervously rubbing two of his fingers together in every step. You feel guilty, like a child watching its parent through the crack in the bathroom door at eight o’clock in the morning—everyone going on and you staying still. Everyone is out bustling, and here I am in the meantime merely waiting, playing the proud whale who has beached himself and is afraid.

In one of these extended moments, I saw her, and I followed. She was a little black skirt and a little white top wrapped around an Amazon rail of a twenty-something, deep brown skin stretched tall over square shoulders, narrow. She walked from the hip and I followed, trying to catch the scent of her thousand tight little pigtails and never catching it. Around the building and into the parking garage, up the elevator, and I followed. There was nothing really remarkable about her, and I followed anyway. This is the way things change. This is the way everything changes.

We were both parked on the fifth floor. Making our way down, two cars separated me from her little white Toyota, then three. Through a red light here or there and a couple of turns and I’m right behind her, the both of us through the whitewashed, picture-windowed design district and into Little Haiti. The area is suburban but crowded, people always standing in groups by the street, cooking on barbecue grills, waiting vaguely for poverty to end everywhere at once. The scene is quiet but menacing.

She pulls into a shady spot beneath a tree and I follow her lead, parking on the street a few spaces away from her with a car in between. I spend an extra long time playing with the meter, watching her little square breasts press out against her shirt as she chatters away with a bearded old man. They’re speaking the strange pseudo-French, Haitian Creole, vibrations rolling out of their mouths and dropping dead on the street. They both look over at me and I pretend to ignore them, making a trip around the car, ducking into the floorboards hunting for change. Everything is always changing, and nothing ever does.

Finally, over the meter, I watch her and the old man cross the street and fall in between a large round wooden double-door. For a moment I stand across the street, confused. Mystery is an increase in friction: any little breeze might completely sweep you away, might hijack your whole existence.

The enormous round doors are attached to the front of a big white box, with relief sculptures on either side: big red clay faces wearing horns, each one set in behind bars with its mouth pulled wide in a grimace, serpentine tongue extended. To each door is affixed a massive iron ring for a handle. With sweat rolling off my fingers in heavy drops, I reach out for one, and take hold of the thing.

For a moment it’s hot, then weightless. Blackness passes and the colors march by in regiment, losing their order like marbles rolling out from a kaleidoscope and into an ocean. Waves can only speak mathematics, the smooth run of surface through surface: can never tell you where you are or what. Eternity is an ocean that doesn’t care.

Time changes when you’re guilty and alone. In some clear morning, a rooster is crying, his eyes gouged out and hung from stars. The time changes and there is warmth and coldness, ice in the priestess’ mouth through rivers of hot white blood. Loa—Mystery—is the black mother in fifty robes speaking around ages’ orbits in marvel of sheer bended space. A razor falling off its own liquid edge, I am a sense of senselessness, a lost divine temple set out in the span of seconds. The whole room is illuminated around a central pillar, and I feel myself chanting on hard feet. Poteau-mitan, it’s called, and it is the liberty of trance at the center of the room, myself and the motions locked in dance. It is the point of communication between myself and other; I have memory of entire lifetimes spent in conversation.

My legs are older but stronger than before, loosing their sweat to the hem of my gown as I move. But there’s more that I can’t speak or think or dance. La langue n’est jamais exacte. It’s always two steps removed, always flowing out of some someone else’s mouth at exactly the time it feels it should be coming from your own. Demain aujourd’hui hier, the fiction of any of us, anywhere. We are shifting around together, trading skins, and nothing changes because it already has. Je tuerai ce soir. Je ne peux pas m’aider. J’ai tué aujourd’hui.

Matris, operor vos aspicio ut ego amor vos?

The mystery of mysteries, my ordinary girl, is dancing with me about the poteau-mitan. To each other we are spirits. I stop to watch her body heave above our little altar, her naked back flexing. She brings to me the book, enormous, swaying in her walk like a great dancing jungle cat. She is the mother of us all, the magic of dark places; she hoists the book up to her chest and passes it along to me with a kiss that is warm and wet and frightening.

The book is gigantic beneath my gray beard, written in a language no one has ever spoken, and which only I pronounce: there is wildness there—time changes into something that never was; I and she like king and queen are everywhere; my old hands scoop the pollen from the sun’s soft center; my tits are the hard milk of the African plains; my met tet is the gros bon ange of inextricable universe, the fabric of an old woman’s projections, the child lost to stained hampers in the endless heat.

Perched between the parchment pages is a dove, white, like the ones outside. I can feel the strain building in my biceps for a moment before I begin to see it happen, and am utterly possessed: the book closes, hard, and the animal is crushed, lost in blood and spirit. The mystery is unreadable; the lines have run together. I am Ahab, slaughtering myself from inside my own enormous belly. The time changes and I was a verb, and now I am only a fiction.