Thursday, September 30, 2004

The Official 2004 Presidential Debate Drinking Game

The Official 2004 Presidential Debate Drinking Game
By David Martin.
David Martin lives in Ottawa Canada September 29, 2004

Let's face it. The presidential debates are anuisance. But for whatever reason, most television networks feel obliged to carry them. So stop your whining and make the best of a bad situation with the Official 2004 Presidential Debate Drinking Game. All you have to do is line up your favorite beverage and pick a candidate. Then let the game begin:
-Every time President Bush says the word "safer, "take a drink. If he uses the word "democracy" in the same sentence, make it adouble.
-For every John Kerry reference to the UN, havea drink.
-If Bush uses the phrase "compassionate conservative," you must chug your entirebeverage.
-Take one drink for every three times Kerry points with his left hand.
-Any previously recorded Bushism, like "misunderestimate" or "subliminable," used by the president during the debate requires one drink.
-If Kerry exceeds the time limit for anyresponse, take a drink.
-Back-to-back offenses require a double shot and a NoDoz.
A reference by your candidate to any of the following requires one drink:

1) Florida
2) North Korea
3) Axis of evil
4) Saddam Hussein
5) The American people

And for an exciting twist on the game, any time anybody mentions the word "Vietnam," everybody has to take a drink. In this game, everyone's a winner. At worst,you'll reach the end of the debate experiencing a warm, pleasant buzz. But if you're really lucky, you'll pass out by 10 o'clock and won't have tolisten to the closing statements. Cheers!

Post by Emily M.

A Vote for Bush is a Vote for Dick


3 Quotes by GWB from his debates with Gore in 2000:
"Strong relations in Europe is in our nation's interest."

"If we're an arrogant nation, they'll resent us. If we're humble but
strong, they'll welcome us."

"We're going to have kind of a nation-building corps from America?

Absolutely not. Our military is meant to fight and win war. That's
what it's meant to do. And when it gets overextended, morale drops."
Also, check out this ridiculous "polling the undecided" spot by CBS:
http://www.boston.com/news/politics/president/articles/2004/09/30/real_time_poll_aims_to_feed_survey_appetite/
And. . .How about this "Memorandum of Understanding" between The
Kerry/Bush teams with regard to the Debates:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/politics/documents/debate_mou.pdf

One more fascinating (inane in my opinion) Bush proposal -- aprojected $300 billion missile defense system:http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/missile/

Posted By Roger McD


Wednesday, September 29, 2004

Salt Lake City Reads…


bookmoblie1928, originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.

Posted by Roger McD

An Open Letter to the People of Salt Lake City…

I didn't know what a "City Reading Program" was.
You CANNOT imagine how shocked I was to learn that a city-wide reading
program such as SALT LAKE CITY READS TOGETHER took three books
(one of them being mine) and plans to focus on them for six months.
I want to tell you something that isn't in that book I wrote but I
want you to know.
Reading saved my life.
From reading I went to writing. Writing was a fighting back.
Let me explain: We didn't have too many books in the migrant camps I
grew up in. There weren't too many books on the Navajo reservation
either. As a child, I really didn't know much beyond the world of the
reservation or the migrant camp. I thought everyone had an outhouse. I
had no idea that people had running water. School and education were
sometimes things.
We had driven through big, urban white people towns. We lived like
mice in cars and pickup trucks. These glittering cities were a mystery
to us.
A big brown truck-like vehicle arrived in the parking lot of the
migrant camp. It looked like a UPS truck which was odd because UPS did
not deliver too many things to migrant workers.

I remember that vehicle like it was yesterday. I was sitting in the
branches of a tree (where I could and did escape the fields as no one
could find me) looking down.
If I wasn't working in the fields then the rule was I had to go to
school but I broke that rule, too. They told me in school that I was
just a stupid Indian there and if I talked in Navajo they washed my
mouth out with soap. I refused to go back there ever again. It wasn't
even the taste of the soap. It was the agonizing humiliation of having
your head held down into the sink and the soap crammed into your mouth
while all the other children watched. I would take the taste of soap
over the taste of humiliation anyday.
I hated white people.
I rebel against being humiliated. Especially by white people. To this
day, I cannot and do not and will not tolerate it.
This is not a good stance to take as a writer but there it is.
I had a rope with me in that tree.
Suicide among young adolescent Native American males is an epidemic. Still.
I would choose death over being humiliated. I am not sure I have
changed all that much but my ability to have a voice that could
stretch beyond the limitations of the reservation and the migrant camp
changed that day in a parking lot.

Looking down: BOOKMOBILE.

What in the world was a bookmobile?

I scrambled down. Leaving the rope I would hang myself with in the
branches of the tree.
They say curiosity killed the cat. I think it saved this one.
They had books in the bookmobile. There were no teachers there with
sinks and soap.
The lady in the bookmobile (she was the driver, too) was very nice.
She showed me books I might enjoy reading (I could barely read
English) and she wasn't humiliating, overly stern, or even very
organized. I wasn't very organized either and we hit it off. I was her
only customer.
She came every week. She even looked the other way when I stole some
books I knew I had to have.
You know those kind of primitive (today they're artistically chic)
cameras that take photos through a pin hole?
That was my view of the white world. A pin hole.
That changed the day the bookmobile arrived. It was MY personal
bookmobile. I would read at night with my flashlight. When I got
really good at it, I'd read stories to my brother.

"Do you think white people really live like that (they all seemed to
have moms and dads and bathrooms)?" My brother asked.

"It says so right here in the book."

The migrants complained that the bookmobile took up too many parking
spaces. I staunchly defended the right of the bookmobile to be there
but I did not encourage the other migrants to check out books. That
was my terrain.
In time, I would be reading things for migrants: speeding tickets,
summonses, subpoenas, the driver's test booklet.
I could read. They needed me.
I went from a kid who was going to hang himself to a person who was
needed. Do you have ANY idea of how far a journey that IS? I was
illiterate. Now Salt Lake City is reading my book.
This cannot end there. Because this is not the end of the story.
Those stern people with the soap to wash our mouths out are all still
there. These are the people who would make it pretty when perhaps
pretty is your vision through the pin hole, too.
There's a song that keeps running through my head like those rivers I
write about: Now my hands are bleeding and my knees are raw. Now
you've got me crawlin', crawlin' on the floor. And I never met a girl
like you before.
When I think about all the people in life I owe, I think about the
librarian who drove the bookmobile. I write it like I see it. I owe
her that.
I saw her one last time. Then, we were moving on to pick other crops.
She had a gift for me. It was a book, of course. I still have it.
You might think it silly. It is anything but. Allow me to quote from it.

All your strength is in your union.
All your danger is in discord;
Therefore be at peace henceforward,
And as brothers live together. -- THE SONG OF HIAWATHA, Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow.

Today my battles are not with racist teachers. They're with racist
editors and publishers who will protesteth (very loudly) that they do
not exist. That I overstate the case. That racism in publishing is a
thing of the past.
I still get letters from editors who tell me: We've published enough
black books this year.
And I'm not even black.
I am, however, a mongrel, and I owe it to that librarian who taught me
how to read and how to write to tell it like I see it.
The literacy battles have changed but the literacy battles have stayed the same.
Racism will hang you from the nearest tree.
These are not polite cultural arguments over the appropriate use of words.
These are battles of life and death. Still.
I don't see you through the pin hole anymore. I see you for who you
are. I write about what is around me.
For the past few years, I've been traveling from Indian reservation to
Indian reservation. Did you know there's an Indian reservation on
Martha's Vineyard. There are many white people (some on Martha's
Vineyard) who don't know that. I call my book: ISLANDS IN THE DREAM: A
JOURNEY THROUGH THE INDIAN NATIONS OF AMERICA.
The dream is the dream of America. I have dedicated it to a librarian.
But there's not a single publisher in America who will touch it.
I get spit at by editors every day.

"Poor people shouldn't be writers," an editor at the Penguin Group in
Manhattan tells me.

There is more racism in the publishing hallways of Manhattan than Salt
Lake City will ever see. When she says "poor" she means people of
color.
Poor people shouldn't be writers?
This would give publishing ONE monotone voice.
I deeply resent this washing of my mouth with soap. New Rule: ONE
VOICE. And it won't be mine.
You are reading a book I wrote. I want to drive the bookmobile into
the parking lot and heft boxes of books into the migrant shacks. Like
vegetables. I want to take it another step.
I want to thank Salt Lake City for even daring to think my book was
worth the time to read.
There's a war out there. We are still fighting to stay alive. Any
librarian who has ever looked out into a room of reading children
knows exactly what I mean.
In publishing, I am still considered to be a stupid Indian. That rope
is still in that tree I jumped down from. I do not need it. I have
found my voice. And I have escaped through the opening of the pin
hole.

Thank you. Nasdijj.

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

My New Favorite Way to Fold a Shirt

If you're like me, you probably don't think about shirt folding too often. Well, that's about to change when you take a look at this: http://homepage.usask.ca/~kvl014/tshirt.mpg
If you're unable to open the mpg., look at:
http://www.howtofoldashirt.net/.

Seriously, try this out. It's champion, I tell you, champion!

Tom Yoshikami



Che made me do it

The Motorcycle Diaries
Viva Che, this movie is about a motorcycle ride he and a friend took across South America when he was 23.

The hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy
Douglas Adams need I say more.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Great, out on DVD today.

The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou
Wes Rocks, out December 25th.

Garden State
This film is playing everywhere save Rexburg, Idaho but the soundtrack is worth
the ticket price, "Listen to this it will change your life..."

Shaun of the Dead
Can anyone go wrong with British zombies!

I Heart Huckabees
I haven't seen this film yet, but Jason Schwartzman did such a good good in Rushmore. And Hoffman can phone it in better then most actors. We'll see.

DiG!
A documentary on the once-promising American rock bands, The Brian Jonestown Massacre and The Dandy Warhols, and the friendship/rivalry between their respective founders, Anton Newcombe and Courtney Taylor. A side note for the Utah crew that knows my buddy Mitch Shirley. He and Courtney Taylor are buddies, so I'm biased towards the Dandy Warhols.


An Omen

I swore I was gonna set one of these things up over the summer, but I guess I just drank away my will. BTW, I think I´m gonna make this my method for group messaging, mostly because I don´t have a decent, current list together and because people´s addresses change so frequently. Blog on.

We spent a couple of days in the Parque Nacional La Campana, between Valparaiso and Mendoza. It´s relatively remote; we bussed through some strange, small, but affluent villages and, at the end of the road, finally reached the place. After we got the rundown from the friendly ranger we went to find our campsite and were pleasantly surprised. A goodly-sized stream running through a heavily forested, hilly area. Very easy to like. We found a site and then decided to go on a little walk. It was then that we discovered the tarantullas... Jesus God those are some creepy little bastards. I couldn´t really handle the tarantullas. They come out as it´s getting dark, so you can´t see them so well. I stopped wearing sandals in the evening after that.

La Campana itself is a mountain that dominates the surrounding landscape. It´s in the cordillera, the mountain range between the Andes and the sea. Darwin climbed the mountain in the 1830´s. When I read this I naturally decided that I, too, wanted to climb the mountain. So, the next day, we got up early and set out. The hike wasn´t too hard at the beginning, a neat trail through unfamiliar forest and mountainside streams. There´s a little scramble at the top, lots of interestingly colored lizards, slippery rocks, I´m tired. I summit. Then... an omen.

As I reached the summit I was alone. Chile stretched before me both north and south. The Andes were clearly visible as were various other peaks of the cordillera, the ground was covered in mist as far as the eye could see (except in the direction of Santiago... well, I guess smog is a kind of mist). A stunning vista. Just as I´d perched myself upon the highest rock I caught a glimpse of something in my periphery. I turned my head to see what I´m pretty sure was a condor; a magnificent, gigantic, brown and white, winged creature... wingspan of six feet or so I´d guess, with a funny little upturn at the end. He passed close by, did some loops in the air, passed by again. I could hear the wind ruffling his wings as he came nearer. A few more loops and then he soared away majestically and vanished into the distance. Very cool.

So now what I´m looking for is an interpretation of this omen. It´s clearly an omen. It has all the telltale signs; large birds of prey, mountain vistas, mist, solo trekker, etc. But what does it mean? Good omen or bad omen? A warning? Any interpretations would be appreciated.

Now we´re in Argentina, the land of cheap wine, cheap lodging, and beautiful people. I hope everyone is doing well. I´ll post another message soon. Signing off, ostn

No, the Conquistadors Are Not Back. It's Just Wal-Mart.



The article below from NYTimes.com
has been sent to you by rogermcdonough@hotmail.com.

Because of my own sentimentality regarding the place,
and because I am so utterly disgusted. . .
I decree . . . that it is at this point that I advocate
extreme action.

Disgusting.

No, the Conquistadors Are Not Back. It's Just Wal-Mart.
September 28, 2004
By JAMES C. McKINLEY Jr.


Townsfolk in Teotihuacán are vexed that Wal-Mart is building
a superstore near some of Mexico's best known ruins.

http://www.nytimes.com/2004/09/28/international/americas/28mexico.html?ex=1097352406&ei=1&en=6228d7a0555f3855

Thursday, September 23, 2004

Z


antisocial, originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.


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