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

buenas noches,

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

good bye

Sunday, October 24, 2004

Dietrich's Cowgirl

To: ‘S’ Street Crew

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

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

Another great post from Metafilter:
Posted by Roger

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

mozambique, botzwana, compton...

IMGP2274.JPG, originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.

From Andrew
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 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

Art Center

un, originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.

Adventures in NW Oregon

untitled, originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.

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 doesn’t 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 “genius loci” (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-- “hiding from daddy”) a local woman came up to me and gradually inquired as to “what my background was.” I gave her the information she was after; “half-Japanese,” and she nodded as if I had confirmed something secret. “That’s my daughter over there,” she gestured to a dark-skinned toddler with curly black hair. “Her father is black. The first time I saw a black man, I knew I would have a child with one some day.”

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, “Time Out of Mind” 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 80’s. Yes, that’s 1980’s. 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 I’m 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 “I liked all the designs…well, except for one,” or “99% of you are right on track” 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, I’m just glad to have you guys to tell these silly stories to.

Love, love, love,

SFSG Buenos Aires

Last Monday, El Dia de la Raza, Austin and I made an abrubt decision to leave Salta for Buenos Aires. We caught the nine oclock bus and spent the night careening through a dust storm, watching lightening flash above the oncoming headlights. The trip took us 22 hours, in part because we stopped three times to eat, shivering above quartered chickens and plastic cups of wine in kubrikian cafeterias on the macadam of unreality. During our 22 hours, apart from speculating which way our bodies would go if we clipped an oncoming bus, whether or not in the event of overturning Austin could reach the bar on the starboard side of the aisle so as to avoid being ground into pulp, and other fun, we watched sixteen action films and two interracial comedies, of which Soul Plane was my personal favorite. Another highlight of the trip was being told by the bus overlord, after our dinner stop, that I had to chug the last half of my bottle of malbec so as to avoid getting sick on the bus. This I promptly did, protoactively in honor of Venedict Yerofeev. So we arrived in Buenos Aires in a light whipping south Atlantic rain at seven oclock the following evening. We caught a cab to a hotel recommended to us in Salta by a nine foot blond from holland, and got out half way to help the cabbie push his taxi off the paseo colon after it broke down. Does anybody know the etiquette of paying for an incomplete taxi ride? Out on the paseo colon, pushing the taxi between zooming buses, I had the chance to admire the cold Atlantic aspect of the rain. Buenos Aires is not much of a waterfront town, through there are storage containers stacked higher than churches along the waterfront, but it does have the loose, wet, slapping weather and ninety mile an hour, manic clouds of a port city. Back in the taxi, we had the chance to admire the shall I say fucking hugeness of Buenos Aires. Canyons of notexacty skyscrapers, but buildings that castrated our remembered Santiago. So the hotel we have habitated the last week is in San Telmo, the original fancy pants barrio that was deserted in the late nineteenth century after a yellow fever epidemic. These days, San Telmo is the place whose name makes travellers in outer Argentina faint with envy and naustalgia. Its almost Rive Gauche, almost Montmartre, almost Napoli, almost Barcelona streets are foetid with dog shit just so, its ruined grace and slinking cafes, its narrow dirty chasms of enchanting evening light, its perenial promise of the really real tango, its real plazas giddy on saturday afternoons with street kids and pigeons breaking things and sexy tilt-hatted tango dames, its futurist institute no 12, its laundry and gay rights or are they incan flags flagging from dirty iron balconies all align in the almost perfect simulacrum of Europa 1904 that Buenos Aires has always imagined itself to be. One thing can be said for sure. You can eat like a mutherfucker in Buenos Aires. Adjoining the San Telmo market is a humble dining hall run by a nervous, curly-haired Porteno who looks like he fell off the bus from central casting to a Roberto Benigni film. We have eaten there five times. Mostly because the pizza there is the first pizza we had in South America that tastes like pizza does in Europe, and is the best pizza we have had since. Also because of the caneloni, crepes stuffed with spinache and ricotta and other niceties and baked in a smothering of tomato and cream sauce. Also because of the ravioli estofado, which come on an enormous tray with the caneloni stuffing, smothered beneath tomato sauce with chunks of super tender chuck steak. Also the fresh, crudely hewn, half inch wide noodles in same sauce. Also the fact that all of it is brought to the table by Tessio, who has moved on since the collapse of the Corleone estate. One other thing you can say is that Buenos Aires is huge. Fourteen million souls reside in this metropolis, putting BA in the top ten of word cities. The other night, Austin and I met up with some Amerloques at a classical guitar concert and went with them to a Argentine folk music bar farther out in the city. We rode the metro for twenty minutes due west and emerged to find ourselves still smack dab in the middle of urbanity. We walked ten blocks debating whether we were in the Bronx or Harlem or the outer neighborhoods of Paris before settling in to listen to a trio sing and guitar and cajon and piano their way through the memetic wonderland of Argentina over a dollar sixty six bottle of Malbec. When we finally gave up on walking the seventy blocks back to the center of town and got in a taxi, zooming through the thick blocks of buildings that skirt the boulevards of central Buenos Aires with that squat, ominous horizontality of London, Washington or Moscow, we again were struck by the sheer physical size of the place. Today, wandering around in the narrower streets of the microcenter, I kept glancing up side streets that fed on and on through the not quite straight meandering of balconies and wires and ruins and for sale signs out to the vanishing point of what must have been Uruguay and felt like I was a pedestrian on the surface of the Death Star. Another thing that can be said is that in Buenos Aires, more than anywhere else we have visited in South America, this time or the last, art is not something to be ashamed of. Nearly every bar, many shopping malls, private residences, etc. adorn themselves with original paintings. Not all are great, but the overall mean is quite good and it is refreshing to see a dozen paintings by a neighborhood thirty year old rather than the same framed Van Gogh or stolen Norwegian expressionism. When I tell people here I am a writer, shrinking into my collar and turning my shoulder to receive the blow, as I have been trained to do in our Great Protestant North, people here pay no more notice than they would if I said bricklayer, web designer or futurist. At the folk music party, I couldnt believe my happiness at seeing twenty so people from twenty to sixty listening to pretty decent, unashamed music without hippness or irony. Listening to pretty decent, unashamed music seems to be a good idea here, something you might do with the same casual air as chosing to eat a good pizza rather than a fried cake with cheese soup poured over it. This is exactly what I was hoping for and pray for the holy merciful God of my destiny to help me find more of it. For twelve years I have been scouring the globe for a city where people can live affordably and have enough time and interest left over to create meaningful creative works and share them together without irony or pretence. My gut reaction on BA night one, was that BA might just be that place. However, another thing can be said. Renting an apartment in Buenos Aires involves a series of spiritual manoevers that would flatten Kafka to the pavement and suck his soul from his trembling arsehole. There are myriad contraptions in place to prevent foreigners from renting in Buenos Aires, most famously the garantia, which as far as we have been able to tell, involves convincing someone born within the federal capital to agree to levy the deed on their property against your being able to even apply for residence in an apartment. Numerous exchanges, founded on a free-market belief in the power of greed and selfishness over the mechanations of institutions, such as Well, you know, we could pay a little bit more than the land lord is asking, Well, would it be enough of a garantia if we paid six months rent right now, How about a year, would that garantia we wont split after two months, No, well what if we pay more than he is asking and pay a year rent right now, in cash, have proved useless, except in the case of the one option we now hold, which is to rent a two room, windowless shed at the bottom of a courtyard in the center of an apartment building. Compounding the garantia problem is the fact that when we call apartments listed in the classifieds the person on the other end of the line speaks faster in direct correspondence to how often our Spanish falters. Live in person, we generally pick at least fifty percent of the meaning out of a typically light-speed Argentine pronouncement. Over the phone, I have had full five minute conversations without understanding a single word. This has led us through despair, moral terror, paranoia and conviction in an Argentine genocidal xenophobia to the numbness we find ourselves in now, sipping our delightful vodka orangejuices to the joyful tunes of James Brown. God knows how what when who where or why the how what when who where or why will happen in this jumbled, shit festered, fantastic, fat arsed, french fried, steak on the side, crumbling, down and out, just broke, getting richer, for sale, narrow laned, boulevarded, leather factoried, panco slinging, wet weathered, fast sky, gaucho, la boheme megaopolis. Pray for us. your boys at the bottom of the world

Sunday, October 17, 2004

No Spin Zone

Check out the text of the lawsuit that AndreaMackris filed against Bill O'Reilly. This sitehelpfully points out the steamy parts, but mightI personally suggest reading the whole document?
You're welcome. em

NO Spin Zone

Saturday, October 16, 2004

Could This Be REAL?

Bin Laden in China
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

These two things have to be related somehow:

Werewolf Boy
Chemical Man

Thursday, October 14, 2004

Who Wathched The Debate?

Hello. I ask whether anyone watched the debate last night, the one that was supposed to deal with domestic issues.

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

Irish-Chinese Wars?

Another post by Roger:

Irish-Chinese Wars?, originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.

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.


Hunt, originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.

Rogie says:
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 . . .


Saturday, October 09, 2004


pustache3, originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.

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

haley, originally uploaded by Haley.


mattyz, originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.

I ripped this off from you friend joe's blog, 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

SFSG Haley

The original title of this sfsg is to be sung to the music of Frank Zappa Why does it hurt when I sleep I got it from the hostal sheets. Hello from Salta la Linda. Austin and I left Mendoza on a double decker bus and travelled 18 hours north to the colonial city of Salta, just south of the Bolivian border and the tropic of capricorn. Salta is famed and visited for its spanish colonial flare and the culturally diverse region in which it is found. Unlike the rest of Argentina´s provincial cities, Salta was never knocked down by an earthquake, so the city´s skyline remains pierced by the wedding cake bell towers and blue tiled domes of the 18th century Empire of Peru. Additionally, Salta has a gaucho culture born from its desert ranges and distant location. The cuisine consists of tamales, wood fired empanadas, and locro, a hearty delicious stew made of pumpkin, garbanzo beans, lima beans, veal chunks and intestines. With the blazing 20 degree latitude spring time sun shining off white plaster walls, a plate full of tamales, and 18th century convents stretching along under their wooden rafters, we regularly feel like we´ve wandered into Mexico. Other than wandering the streets, visiting the odd open church, and stopping for mate in the municipal market where to our delight they sell coca leaves, we have done little more than eat and drink. Salta has three cultural societies, the Spanish, the Italian, and the Syrian-Lebanese. These consist of large complexes where midnight soccer games unfold under the lights and midnight choirs practice scales in the sealed rooms above the courtyards, and in the case of the Spanish and Italians, a cheap restaurant in the back. We ate perhaps our favorite meal yet at the Italian society. Austin had a long cooked slab of beef crusted with thyme and garlic. I had lasagna. The syrians weren´t serving food when we visited but they did direct us to a syrian restaurant nearby where we had decent hummus, babaganoush, kofta and kebabs, a nice change from veal and pasta. Salta has confirmed my impression that the odds of sleeping before three am in argentina are very low. Last night for instance, we planned on going to bed at one, so that we could get up early and move hostals. More on this later. So we had an early dinner, nine oclock, and went out for drinks before anybody else had gone out to the bars, eleven. We had a few drinks with the grandmothers of salta, listened to a horrible live latin rock band in a bar that had the most amazing mural of the beatles i have ever seen. Had a round of caiparinhas at the club where the giant biceped bar tender crushes the limes into the tumblers with a pestle. And that was that. We left the bar while it was packed full of people, wandered home through crowds aging 14 to 54 and crashed out to the usual noise from the hostal´s resident brazilians, who love to stand outside our door chain smoking from 3 am to 1 pm screaming, hey, what´s your favortie color! beige! what! beige! what! beige! In short, we went to bed early and it was still four thirty am. Sometimes we feel guilty about this. We sit in our room smelling the stopped up shower drain, the towels that have been wet for a week, the sacks of dirty socks lying beneath the beds, and take enormous draughts of the sweet smell of success. Austin goes without meals. I go without beer. We wake up just in time for siesta and try to resist the siren song of shade in the midday heat and do well until we end up sharing a liter of wine and a plate of empanadas. I think we both may be coming down with the gout. Which is why we are leaving on monday to visit the incan ruins nearby and spend a few days hiking through the blistering white heat from colonial village to colonial village subsisting on dirt soup and coca leaves. After this, we return to salta to either fly or suffer the 30 hour bus ride to Buenos Aires. We are both looking forward to getting some peace, some quiet, and some privacy, both from each other and the brazilians for whom quiet is a four letter word. I hope yall are well. Thanks to all of you who have written. It´s nice to come into these places and find messages from home. andrew

Friday, October 08, 2004

Family Ties

originally uploaded by Roger

How Roger spends time in the SLC Library

Wednesday, October 06, 2004


vpdebate, originally uploaded by Roger


Tuesday, October 05, 2004

Rock this vote

Danaenae posted these last night. Just in time for Dick C. to show how evil he really is...


Kerry, originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.


Bush, originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.


DickCheney, originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.


Edwards, originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.

Sunday, October 03, 2004


Mendoza, originally uploaded by Haley
Hello friends, It is sunday night in mendoza, a few days into spring. they are dancing the tango in the plaza pellegrini and in the plaza espana they are selling antiques in white booths by lamp light. when you look up through the sycamore boughs the sky is clear enogh to make out the stars of the southern hemisphere. feeling a bit peckish today as we went to the club last night and walked home while the workers of the world waited for their buses and the devout old ladies stood about in their shawls preparing for church. three weeks ago, when we were shivering on the other side of the andes, staring up the pass towards the peaks along the border i described to austin the gleaming city on the hill that would be mendoza. i have not been disappointed. mendoza is laid out on a grid of tree lined avenues filled with loitering super models, spectacularly beautiful business women and college girls and long legged school girls in pleated skirts that begin half way up their thighs. there are men too. plain, rather fat, rather pale men who stagger around with the same look of perplexion that has become my regular expression. this is our seventh and final night here. tomorrow we board a sixteen hour bus ride to the northern desert town of salta. salta is the only city in argentina with an entirely preserved colonial center and is within daytripping of incan ruins over grown with twenty foot cacti. it has been a real treat seeing so much of the original mormon culture. we are looking forward to more. we had grand plans of wandering through the vineyards on country lanes, as mendoza is the heart of the argentine wine region. but the city was bigger than we imagined, the suburbs stretch forever, or at least until the mall, where we spent one spectacular afternoon absorbing the culture of virtua tennis and the bourne supremacy. in the other direction, as far as the mall, is an enormous park where we walked around one sunny day playing with the manual irrigation network of dykes and canals, had a coke in a swarm of gnats, broke bamboo, stumbled upon half naked men in poses that would charm manet, waded through a bog, watched a few amateur tennis matches on french clay, that most beloved of surfaces, watched the fat girls power walk and the boys tan on the bridge over the quay of the rowing club. at the edge of this lake is a fantastic building we will try to photograph tomorrow. it is a perfect example of mendocino fascist-bauhaus-deco-modernism. hard intellectual boxes with flirtacious curves and plexiglass tower maybe fifty feet high that i think may be a tube for in door high diving. otherwise, we have tried to eat as much veal as they will let us have in one sitting. the food here is generally very good, which was a relief after the grog sodden shite they shovel over the counter in chile. our favorite dish is milanese napolitana, a fried breaded veal cutlet topped with ham, cheese and tomato sauce. two of these, with a cheap bottle of wine, costs seventeen pesos at lucas, our favorite restaurant. so after kicking back our homeboy three whopping pesos for tip, for which he does a little dance, we stuff our gullets and get a little drunker for seven dollars. other than eating, which we do as often as they will let us, we have been bowling in the best bar i have been in since kaohsiung, home of the holy order of the cross. an eight lane bowling alley, this place uses grape fruit sized balls and sets the pins manually. the pin boy sets up the pins then stands up on a little ledge to get his shins out of the way and looks out through an armored grate while you sip your old smuggler scotch in mike broughs honor, wipe a bit of dew off the glass, draw on austins lucky strike, and send the fucker rolling. we have played nine games to date. i am holding a narrow five to four lead after austin developed a yoga pose for bowling and figured out how to win for a change. the change is doing him good and i only go there for the high balls full of cheap, delicious two dollar scotch. well, i think i might just wander down to the bowling alley, head down the stairs, find my mustacheoed friend and warm up for dinner. no body eats until after ten, so i have some time to kill before taking another stroll along the tiled passage ways under the blue night of argentina.
ciao, andre
ps Will somebody send me alexas email, and let her know that i cant get hers until i put her on my safe list. thanks.

Saturday, October 02, 2004

Check out Newsweeks latest poll:
take that. . .!
posted by Roger

Scandi Bands

p38945zkclq, originally uploaded by Haley

Love Andrew

For those you love...

Believe it or not, I came upon this site whilesearching for "bird omens." Maybe I'm behind thetimes; I'd heard this product existed, butcouldn't believe it 'til I saw it. I must say Ifeel sincerely tragical for all those folks whowrote the testimonials. As to whether I could bebrought to use this product? Perhaps if they madea version for volume control!

Ffbbpppthhh, em

Friday, October 01, 2004


Sorry I keep sending shit.
Love Roger
This one freaks me out because of one statistic:
"The United States account(s) for 36.1 percent of emissions from
industrialized countries."

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:

Global Warning

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:

The Nation

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