Friday, October 29, 2004
Tommy and the Proletariat
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
sfsg i want i want i want i want i want to break free
to the ripping voice of freddy mercury i herald yall from a busted keyboard at the end of a second week in Bs As. it is a sunday and i have alistair cooke´s resonant example in my head after listening to the bbc´s airing of his postcards from america twice in two days while i happened to be on the toilet trying to write poetry. today we watched a fabulous piece on the bbc about art history designed by david hockney. imagine hiring a painter instead of an art historian to examine art history. i learned more in an hour than i did in several semesters and hundreds of hours. so austin and i went out in the evening light to photograph san telmo in its sunday duds. we at last photographed the sachmo lady, who is eighty, sits at a miniature drum kit, plays louis armstrong tunes through a plastic mouthpiece and holds a cardboard sign in front of her face that says please contribute each time a camera is pointed at her, and who exchanged me four quarters for a one piso piece for a photo. we also photographed the tango lady, who neither dances the tango nor is a lady, but who at five foot seven, one hundred and sixty pounds in knit stockings and a too short skirt, trench coat and too many years clutching a small plastic doll by the hair on the side walk in buenos aires, deserves to be called anything she wants.
i would like to take this moment to thank queen. since i went to germany as an eighth grader and found myself in maid´s quarters on the top floor of a us army barracks with the window open listening to european sirens, under presure and easter rain, queen has managed, time and again, to come back to me in dreary international situations to ressurect my jouvenille enthusiasms.
the amigo syndrom...
every time austin and i get enough of each other and the bbc to go out and throw wads of money into the urinal mint stew of foreign nightclubs i end up sitting next to the prince of jags. in santiago i kept getting taken into bathrooms and shown fake police badges in upmost confidence. in salta i was coerced, with the aid of liters of cheap wine, into going to the salon vip, a place so vile it made whores wretch at the name. here, last friday night, austin and i decided to go the kilkenny pub, allegedly the most popular pub in buenos aires. after a long taxi ride, we walked in and austin promptly asked, what have we done. the place was loud, crowded, smokey, and decidedly stupid. as i dug into a cuba libre that tasted like melted coke slurpee i told austin i expected more irish and less pirate. soon we found ourselves at a table with seven single women surrounding us. it seemed like a promising start until the ponytailed prince of jags sat down and started telling us about all the deals he could score us. as he got drunker and drunker and more and more coked up the deals got better and better. soon he was offering us three peso whores and ten peso grams of cocaine. while i tried to decide which would be worse for my health austin asked him flat out if his figures were true and then the prince of jags decided to stab us. luckily he was a jag and didn´t have a knife so we had nothing to worry about, though i kept praying to the spirit of my uncle jon that i might have the opportunity to crack a bottle of quilmes over his ponytailed head. it was at this point, while austin and i were wondering how we could possibly have such bad nightlife luck that austin looked out the window and saw the kilkenny pub across the street. we had walked into the wrong place, a place called the porta pirata, and that explained everything.
we are still cursed with wretched luck in the apartment hunt. each day we expand the orbit of our understanding. it is a beautiful, dirty city. we walk home in the rain. we poke our noses into whore houses and examine the bored prostitutes with scientific curiosity. we listen to the birds of morning. we watch the white cubes of the second world from our evening rooftop, mixing two dollar dutch rotgut with two dollar ginger flavored, dutch rot gut and cinzano rosso. we watch the moon wax backwards from left to right behind fast ocean clouds. we take hot showers and wipe off with mildewed towels. we take the subway to the end of the line. we admire the picasso. we both like the klee. i go back to the degas and the van gogh with the crazy windmill. we listen to the best rumba band in buenos aires and they play loud and fast. austin reads me crazy passages out of keegan about the lost czech p.o.w.s in wwi who hijacked the transsiberian railroad to get back to france from china. i read moscow stations and think about drinking shampoo. the taxis try to hit us. at ugis they wont sell us pizza day or night. i am convinced of xenocidal genophoibia. there is ice melting in the bidet and horrible liquor on the floor. we are the champions of the world.
i leave you with this.
"Now once more the belt is tight and we summon the proper expression of horror as we look back at our wasted youth. Sometimes, though, there is a ghostly rumble among the drums, an asthmatic whisper in the trombones that swings me back into the early twenties when we drank wood alcohol and every day in every way grew better and better, and there was a first abortive shortening of the skirts, and girls all looked alike in sweater dresses, and people you didn't want to know said ''Yes, we have no bananas,'' and it seemed only a question of a few years before the older people would step aside and let the world be run by those who saw things as they were -- and it all seems rosy and romantic to us who were young then, because we will never feel quite so intensely about our surroundings any more."
-f scott fitzgerald
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Re: How do you sell NYC to a cowgirl?
I generally take pride in my hustle abilities, so I've been frustrated with my mixed response, thus far, to the following two obstacles. Any hustle advicefrom your sharp minds would be greatly appreciated. Post it, or email me at mailto:firstname.lastname@example.org
Obstacle 1- In an appropriately formal and antiseptic manner, what’s the bestway of telling the truth to potential employers: “the very thought of moving toNYC and working on criminal trials makes me totally HOT, sir”?
Obstacle 2 - What’s the best way to convince a cowgirl from Riverton that she's secretly dying to move to NYC? Besides advice on the usual rhetorical tricks, information on outdoor running opportunities in all boroughs (except Staten Island of course) would be especially helpful.
Miss you guys, Dietrich
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Gary Busey Interviews GWB
Posted by Roger
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
mozambique, botzwana, compton...
these are from my south african friend, heinie, who was one of the holy order of the cross in kaohsiung. he is currently living in some part of southern africa... mozambique, botzwana, compton...
Hello everybody......as if studying for exams isn't enough to keep me occupied, running away from snakes seem to be another challenge of the dark continent......!!! Just went outside to switch on the waterpump when the guard told me he saw a snake in the laundry area. Took us a while, wanted to just "move" the sneaky bastard outside of the compound, but after the first hissing blow in my direction I decided it was better to unleash all hell upon it! Black Mamba, or so the guard says, to me just another snake who wants to bite my skinny legs! Hope all is well with you guys, looking forward to the next beer together! snakeskinbuddha
Adventures in NW Oregon
Adventures in NW Oregon
Last weekend my class took a van out to this little town called Bay City, adjacent to Tillamook, home of the famous cheese factory and formerly the largest population of KKK members in the U.S. Bay City itself doesnât have any such grand claims-to-fame and seems more like a gas stop on the way to other interesting places. But my class just happens to be studying the âgenius lociâ (the general character) of Bay City, and designing their central park. So our first assignment was to spend the weekend there.
We were staying in the local art center and when we arrived it happened to be the opening night of a show about domestic violence. As I was standing in front of one of the paintings (a crude sketch of a child cowering in tall grass, titled-- âhiding from daddyâ) a local woman came up to me and gradually inquired as to âwhat my background was.â I gave her the information she was after; âhalf-Japanese,â and she nodded as if I had confirmed something secret. âThatâs my daughter over there,â she gestured to a dark-skinned toddler with curly black hair. âHer father is black. The first time I saw a black man, I knew I would have a child with one some day.â
Anyway, the woman was very informative. I learned that the building we were in used to be the old Masonic Temple and that the woman who now owned it was doing all kinds of pro-active things in the community, like hosting art exhibits and play rehearsals. This explained the stage scenery upstairs, where my classmates and I had placed our sleeping bags within the painted set of a 1920s kitchen.
On Sunday I was able to watch the dress rehearsal of the play. It was curiously called, âTime Out of Mindâ and it was about a Tillamook woman who was branded on her breast with a cross by the KKK in 1922. Not because she was black, or any race other than white, but because she was outspoken and wore low-cut dresses. In the climatic scene, a group of hooded actors stomped out into the audience. Their costumes were very realistic-- to the point of looking a little too well-worn in places-- with white capes, triangular hats, iron cross patches and everything. The room was so intimate that their capes brushed my arm as they passed.
We slept in the set for 2 nights and on the 3rd night it was taken down and replaced with a podium and rows of folding chairs for a memorial service that was going to be held the following morning. We spent our last night sleeping between the rows.
Another interesting fact I learned during my stay was that, in Tillamook, Native American women were routinely sterilized without their knowledge (come in for a free check up!) well into the 80âs. Yes, thatâs 1980âs. I learned this from Korean War veteran wearing a very well-decorated baseball cap.
Now I am supposed to be designing a park and town center that expresses the overall character of the town but Iâm having trouble. During the week, I presented a bizarre plan for a giant gnome village and incurred the wrath of my professor who made such comments as âI liked all the designsâ¦well, except for one,â or â99% of you are right on trackâ for the remainder of the week.
So now I am just fumbling along, balancing between 12-hour school days and an urge to stay in bed, a blissful contentment to be here and a depressive urge to quit. I guess if nothing else, Iâm just glad to have you guys to tell these silly stories to.
Love, love, love,
SFSG Buenos Aires
Sunday, October 17, 2004
No Spin Zone
You're welcome. em
NO Spin Zone
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Could This Be REAL?
Bin Laden Está en China
I can't get this last link to work. You can view it from the first link.
Werewolf Boy and Biochem Man
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Who Wathched The Debate?
Did you notice a lack of talk about the environment? Does anyone care?
Just waiting for something that isn't a litany of litmus tests promoting a culture of life that puts money in your pocket.
and just so you know "the No Child Left Behind Act is really a jobs act, when you think about it."
posted by Roger.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Evan and I took this photo out around promontory point. The veracity of the statement has been brought into quesion by local historians. Sorry to rain on the fun of picks and clubs and dynomite; Chinamen and Micks at arms on the rails? Too good to be true.
SCANDAL! IMPURITY AT THE CIA!
Latin America CIA point man E. Howard Hunt was fighting for FREEDOM!
Slate: What was your feeling about Batista?
Hunt: Well, I thought he ran a good government there. There was a lot of corruption, but there's always been corruption in Latin America. We can't be too purist about these things.
Slate: Let's talk about the finals days and execution of Che. Do you know what the real story was there?
Hunt: I do . . .
CIA and CHE
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Baby, I know you're not really legal, but what is legal? you know? Tonight I'm gonna show you what it means to tickle and to wiggle. . .mmmyeah!
jacques derrida died today
I ripped this off from you friend joe's blog, www.flimsahaw.blogspot.com. he has a rippen sight. but the image of me with a shotgun went over so well that i thought i needed to post this one to. send me images to post.
thanks for being part of PBR
Friday, October 08, 2004
How Roger spends time in the SLC Library
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Rock this vote
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Saturday, October 02, 2004
take that. . .!
posted by Roger
For those you love...
Friday, October 01, 2004
This one freaks me out because of one statistic:
"The United States account(s) for 36.1 percent of emissions from
It is our refusal to join the Kyoto Accord and the World Criminal
Court which causes some of the worst rancour among our would be
Haley would definately have you link this article:
For a post I send you my new favorite wartime correspondent, Naomi Klein:
The above article is long as fuck, but absolutely prescient. Klein
argues that the Neocons are using Iraq as an open market experiment
and that it is failing horrifically.
This next one you have to stick with. She makes some pretty ridiculous
claims - but that's why I love her: