Trekking in El Chaltén

Argentina El Chalten

Veni, vidi, vici!

This hike to Lago de los tres in El Chaltén was my very favorite day in Argentina. It took about 9 hours round trip with stunning scenery the entire way, including bunches of glaciers. Mount Fitz Roy, named after the captain of Darwin’s Beagle, is in the background.

There was a guy with a little propane stove handing out hot coffee at the top, which was great because it was freezing. Of course, pictures don’t do any of it justice!

Autumn in the Andes. Amazing, amazing, amazing!

Argentina El ChaltenArgentina El ChaltenArgentina El ChaltenArgentina El ChaltenArgentina El ChaltenArgentina El ChaltenMount Fitz Roy

Poetry Slams slam poetry

Poetry Slams have reduced our most elevated literary genre to the arena of Hallmark Cards. Can you imagine compelling Longfellow to extemporize on the spot, faced with one-upping a fast-rapping carnival barker? Perhaps Oscar Wilde could have risen to the challenge against a ghetto phoenix such as Eminem, but Eminem is not representative of the norm. We have to acknowledge the aberration of genius.

These days we are prepared to recognize the profound in autism. Improvised mental acuity may be the specialty of some few, but it will remain a statistical improbability that such genius resides in your neighborhood. I’d say poetry voice-offs in malls or coffee shops, with contests open to all comers, are most likely efforts in philistinism. Like all things pop, crap for crap tastes.

Poetry appreciation in common circles is for reading not writing. Poetry writing is therapy fodder, meant for no further than the support group circle.

I say more art appreciation, less gluing of noodles to paper plates painted gold. Otherwise to a passerby, unschooled like the majority have become, poetry is an abysmal cacophony of disjointed near-sighted observations, shall I compare thee to a navel on the half-gazed?

Free wireless spots in Colorado Springs

WiFiWhere to plop your laptop if you can’t make it home to post a bid. Independents predominantly, by area, and hours. Please contact us if you’ve been omitted. Cheers!

DOWNTOWN
Antlers Hilton – lobby, restaurant
4 S. Cascade Avenue – 955.5600
Boulder Street Coffee Roasters
332 N. Tejon St – 577.4291
Coffee Warehouse
526 S. Tejon Street – 227.8639
Dog Tooth Coffee M-F 6:30am-6pm, S-Su 8am-6pm
505 E. Columbia St – 632.0125
El Tesoro Restaurant
10 N. Sierra Madre St – 471.0106
Joanie’s Cafe
2224 N. Wahsatch Ave – 578.9200
McCabe’s Tavern
520 S. Tejon St – 633.3300
Phantom Canyon
2 E. Pikes Peak Ave – 635.2800
Pike’s Perk
14 S. Tejon
Poor Richard’s Wine Bar / Rico’s
322 N. Tejon St – 630.7723

WESTSIDE
Agia Sophia Coffee Shop M-S 8am-10pm, Su 1-7pm
2902 W. Colorado Ave. – 632.3322
Black Cat Books -Manitou Th-Tu 10am-9pm
720 Manitou Avenue – 685.1589
Colorado City Creamery
2602 W. Colorado Ave
6628A Delmonico Dr – 265.6556
CUCURU m 8-4, w-th 8-4, f-s 8-10, su 9-3
2332 W. Colorado Ave – 520.9900
Java Buddha Coffeehouse
2631 W. Colorado Ave – 633-JAVA
McDonalds
3021 W. Colorado Ave
Meadow Muffins
2432 W. Colorado Ave

SOUTH
Blue Star Bar & Grill
1465 S. Tejon St – 632.1086
Canyon Coffee & Cafe
1791 S. 8th St.
Cookie Crumbs
1753 S. 8th St
Pikes Perk
1616 S. 8th St

EAST
Colorado Springs Airport – main concourse
7770 Drennan Road
Jazzed on Java M-F 7am-4pm
2201 Saint Paul Dr – 578.1731
Raven’s Nest Coffee
330 N. Institute St.

NORTH
Black Forest Coffee Haus
11425 Black Forest Rd – 495.4804
Good Company Restaurant
7625 N. Union Blvd – 528.8877
Jazzed on Java
5550 N. Union – 264.0232
Pike’s Perk
5965 N. Academy Blvd, #203
5547 Powers Center Point

Beside the corporate joints Panera, Einstein Bros, Bear Rock, Peaberry, It’s a Grind, Dazbog, Borders or Starbucks.

Putting lipstick on a big fat pig

McDonald’s feng shui’dBrazenly pandering to a large local Asian population and hoping to attract members of a nearby Buddhist temple, a California McDonald’s has gone feng shui. The restaurant’s owners say the designs are aimed at creating a soothing setting that will encourage diners to linger over their burgers and fries and, of course, come back again and again.

Feng shui is the ancient Chinese practice of arranging objects to promote health, harmony and prosperity. The basic principles of feng shui include placing strategic representations of five natural elements — earth, water, fire, metal and wood — around the room to increase the flow of chi, or energy. The McDonald’s in this Los Angeles suburb boasts a wood ceiling, silver-coated chairs, rich leather booths, and red accents throughout the dining area to symbolize fire and good luck, laughter and prosperity. The textured walls patterned after ocean waves symbolize life and relaxation.

What could be more ludicrous than McDonald’s, one of the original fast food restaurants and a major contributor to overall American un-wellness, using interior design to promote health and prosperity? Maybe they mean franchise health and corporate prosperity? McDonald’s feng shui’dI can’t imagine that freely flowing chi is a pressing concern for diners who’ve just stuffed themselves with 1500 calories, none of which have provided them with any nutritional benefit whatsoever.

I will admit that the restaurant looks quite appealing. If only McDonald’s had anything on the menu worthy of consumption, a cup of coffee even, I might pop in for a bit to open up my chakras and seek enlightenment. But they don’t, so I won’t. And I hope no one else does either.

The You Make My Day Award chain letter

You Make My Day AwardSo begins each post: “My friend so-and-so surprised me with a You Make My Day Award. Thank you! (You should really check out their wonderful blog!) I’m to post this with the following proviso,” etc, etc.

Nothing wrong with a little guerrilla marketing, in this case lighting a back fire up the social network where blogroll links and reciprocal courtesy comments were just not keeping everyone’s interest. Internet blogging has set into motion a real-time one hundred monkeys experiment, but of course someone has to address the task of monitoring the output. We won’t know if even a blogosphere of monkeys typing away can produce Shakespeare unless somebody is diligently evaluating the gibberish.

It didn’t take long tracing the roots of the You-Make-My-Day-Award givers to find someone who explained the rules as: “You have to pass this on to ten people” etc. And there it is. The YMMDA is a chain letter. And like so many viral emails, its driving force is a smile over coffee, pass it on.

Chain emails, whether they promise warm and fuzzies or anticipation that Bill Gates will personally pay you a quarter of a million dollars, are disseminated to chart social networks, yours. They plot connections between people, particularly the veracity of those connections measured by the speed and frequency with which you give your friends priority. Such information is valuable to anyone wanting a bead on you. Use your imagination.

So the You-Make-My-Day-Award is netting bloggers, internet users who may have moved on from circulating those clever email chain letters. I’m perhaps most disappointed that people using their blogs as creative outlets, can’t be creative enough to praise each other on their own initiative. They have to borrow a concept, a graphic and a blurb, and admonish each other to keep it up. These monkeys are getting tired.

Sweet Love American Pentagon style

Today, I decided to have a coffee in Carl’s Jr. which allowed me to overhear a story of American Love. A young guy started talking on a cell phone next to me where he was telling somebody he was getting married. He was emphatic about not anyone telling some woman named Michelle this.

After he got off the phone he began talking to two Gomer looking buddies at his table. He began to tell them the story of how he had met his marriage partner-to-be. I swear I tried not to listen in to this idiotic conversation but still it came my way, and I was unable to close off my ears to it.

The lover soon to be married stated to his friends that he had been a sniper in the military having just gotten out, and that that was how he had met the love of his life who herself was a trained sniper. Something just clicked between the two of him, he said… and they fell in love!

Wasn’t that sweet? Now I know that a lot of people make up tall tales but there was something uniquely American in this young man’s love story. True, or not, I cannot really say? But certainly it was a tale of sweet love American Pentagon style and now I bet this couple will make cute babies. Isn’t American Love beautiful these days?

Hallelujah once again

Hallelujah was written by Leonard Cohen and first recorded on his 1984 album Various Positions. Since then the song has been recorded or sung by dozens of artists including Willie Nelson, k.d. Lang, Sheryl Crow, Bon Jovi and Bob Dylan to name a few. Bono even did a horrendous spoken version of it to honor American artist Jeff Buckley, a fan of the spoken word, shortly after his drowning death. Of course, Cohen’s version is untouchable, but a few of the other efforts are noteworthy.

I’ve already posted Rufus Wainwright’s beautiful rendition of Hallelujah from the Shrek soundtrack. But this version, sung by a regular-Joe Norwegian Idol winner and a couple friends, apparently on a coffee break, has got to be my favorite. Kurt Nilsen, a gap-toothed former plumber with a beautiful voice, was told by an Idol judge, “You sing like an angel, but you look like a Hobbit.” Well, perhaps, a talented Hobbit about to go off into the blue for a mad adventure.

These four Norwegian lads, casually called the New Guitar Buddies by the local press, embarked on what was to be a low key six-show gig. Their unexpected popularity led to an amended schedule, a 30-show tour for more than 100,000 concert goers. The Buddies then released a live album, not part of the original plan, which became the fastest-selling recording of all time in Norway.

What the hell is it about this song?

Starbucks simply wants the yuppy monied nerds, and not you

Let’s face it, coffee drinkers inside Starbucks reading The Independent instead of The New York Times or The Gazette are just not what Starbucks Management wants. It has nothing to do with a supposed single complaint about The Indy at all, but everything to do with having and keeping a yuppy monied image for their company, or not? Censorship for profit.

A free community paper? Well, that is not what overly caffeinated, yuppy monied nerds that spend too much for their fix want to hang their self image on. That would be a ‘commoner’ attitude to them, Instead, it is that Fraser, Seattle ambiance they are attracted to so magnetically.

Starbucks Management wants to keep it that way and not allow their gated yuppie centers to be turned into low-profit community cafes. I’m surprised that, like a few elite American hotels already do, they simply do not give all their caffeinated yuppy clients a free copy of the Wall Street Journal, and just up some more the price of their already ridiculously priced lattes?

How much nicer for caffeinated hot shots to enter into an area with more high class folk, than low life riff raff reading the back side ads of The Indy? Starbucks simply wants the yuppy monied nerds, and not nerdy old you and me. Well, OK. I don’t like their super hyped dope much anyway.

Borders & Ignoble

Retail citadelI found myself inside one of these boxes again, waiting for my wife to finish up some mall shopping I had tried to talk her out of. These 2 chains of supposed bookstores are like the Democrats and Republicans almost. Nobody can tell any real difference between the two of them.

Usually, I can pull up a chair, and browse their discount picture books for a bit, but this time they had the music (Christmas oriented for the season) cranked up double the usual volume, and it began to drive me a little crazy. It was really annoying, giving some, I guess, an incentive to buy quick and get out of there. I didn’t have that incentive though. These places aren’t really bookstores so much, and I have a hard time even finding anything much of interest to read inside, let alone for puchase.

What do I mean about Borders and its chain competition not really being bookstores? Well, I happened to come across what B & N describe themselves as being to explain some. Here it is…

“Our mission is to operate the best specialty retail business in America.”

This little pearl of thought sits upon all the computer screens as a screen saver, and also is meant to be personal inspiration for the mechanized robots, I meant customer assistants that work there. Nothing about books about these places really. It’s about specialty retail business.

Still, people who enter are most often confused. They do seem to believe that they are in a real bookstore. Actually, meany of the customers have nere seen an actual bookstore, or at least not close up between the shevles. Or even if they happened to stroll through the shelves of a real bookstore, have never really looked much to see what was on the shelves. So it’s kind of easy to see how so many get confused about thinking that they are inside an actual living breathing bookstore. But they aren’t!

They are inside a specialty retail business, that’s all. A good place to sit at a table with a laptop sipping coffee. A good place to buy some pop music crap for some demented teenager one might know. Or a place to pick up a calendar, or some blank sheets of paper for correspondence or a blank diary perhaps? Sure there are books there, but not so many real ones. Many are dedicated to computer programming, or things like Manja (6 shelves alone for that Japanese cartoon stuff and ‘role playing’).

There are categorized sections of everything, well almost. Theses stores are marked off like a MS windows filing system and give sort of a superficial encyclopedic appearance. But little old stupid me. The category that interest me most is Foreign Literature. But look around? I saw about 55 shelves titled Fiction and Literature, but strangely enough there’s hardly a book of foreign literature in this group! One would think upon browsing there, that only dimwitted American authors were alive today? Oh, and maybe a dimwitted Brit, or two.

Oh sure, maybe I should go over to the Science Fiction (20 shelves), Mystery (14 shelves), or Romance (10 shelves) sections. Nothing. Everybody is an America. Apparently they never write mysteries or SF in Italy or Spain, Brazil or Africa? If they do, certainly you can’t find it at an American specialty retail store, as opposed to a bookstore. Despite their supposed thoroughness, Borders and B & N apparently don’t carry certain stuff. Like foreign fiction. Go figure.

They also don’t carry current affairs (3 stacks) commentary much, unless it is Rush Limbaugh, Ann Coulter, that sort of gag-us quality of thought. One does find 13 stacks of Christian babble, too. 6 stacks of Tarot/ New Age 1 1/2 stacks of ‘Eastern Religions”. I am an atheist myself, so I looked for that stack? If you really want to befuddle employees in these stores, go up to one and ask to be directed to atheist oriented non-fiction. It’s great fun!

Or better yet, tell them that you have found the 10 stacks of Romance novels, but that you are a man and would like to see some male oriented porn instead. In book form. They might direct you to a shelf entitled Erotica (in some stores less regionally influenced by Dobson’s minions)? But then, you will see only gay ‘erotica’ there. Tell the clerk that you are not gay and would rather see their collection of porn books for heterosexual men. “Sorry, Sir, we only have magazines in that genre.” My reply is always, “What? The adult entertainment business is a multi-trillion dollar one, and yet your retail establishment carries not a porn book at all, outside of the gay ones!” And in Colorado Springs, not even much of that. Moo.

So, as an atheist heterosexual porn seeker who loves foreign lit, I am kind of out of luck at these specialty retail establishments. If I was a gay person, ‘spiritually inclined’, and didn’t know that a word was ever written outside US national boundaries, I might be in better shape, it seems. Or, if I could just get more interested in reading romance novels or military history, which is where the multiple stacks are. Yes, these stores don’t really seem to know that history has been passed through, unless it circled on a planet other than USA and has been interpretted by a Republican minded citizen. Not true, you can find some Democrats, too. Like Michael Moore, perhaps? But you’ll be much better off if you like books with names like ‘Semper Fi’, etc.

All in all, these retail establishments are more Americana than a retro Fifties Diner would be. But they are not quite being bookstores by doing that. In short, your prospective reading material is being grossly censored, and that’s why so few are purchasing from the shelves, and more just seem to be sipping their Lattes and Mochas, or talking on their cell phones while inside. Borders and Ignoble seems more like a telephone booth at times, than an actual bookstore.

At this point, one might object to my comments. “‘Erotica’ should be censored by B & N. Go to an ‘adult store’ if you want such filth!” But they don’t carry books there, I will moan. “And as an atheist, go to Hell and get some books by atheists.” Or to the philosophy stacks, as I have been directed by employees. As if all philosophers were automatically atheists, lol. Sorry, I’ll just order my atheist books from the Sceptical Inquirer magazine folk, thank you. And for a good porn book, I’ll just have to write my own, it seems. Though it’ll never get published, let alone make it to the B & N.

And if I might want to know how the French care about life, I will just have to confine myself to Agatha Christie, it seems. That is after I get through with the latest from Ann Coulter I purchased at the specialty retail store. She tells it like it is about the French. And she is informative about the Arab mind, too.

Nobody reads anymore, no publishers publish anymore, and no specialty retail establishments even stock what little is still around. The last time I have seen much of interest in a bookstore/ specialty retainl establishment was in a University of Texas dorm building. They had a little used bookstore that had some used books of African writers that had been published by the African Studies Dept of the UT.

Americans once wrote great literature back before the ’50s. Unfortunately, all those works are out of print and unavailable mainly. The lit was too red, it seems. Efforts to get them reprinted have flopped miserably. We have become a specialty retail people, and not a literate one. Oops, my wife is back from the mall. Got to end my rant. Bless her heart, she bought nothing at all. Or, maybe she did and is just hiding it away from Scrooge?

A puppeteer

puppeteerI wanted to study dance in college. I wanted to perform on Broadway. I wanted to walk through campus, and life, with “jazz hands.”
 
As a freshman, I was at CU-Boulder, living the life of a lab rat as a Molecular/Cellular/Developmental Biology major. My older brother was a year ahead of me, also an MCDB major, brilliant beyond belief. He seemed to understand the “cell,” with all of its asinine complexity, at an intuitive level. He understood physics, chemistry, had memorized the Periodic Table and was even capable of making hilarious jokes about it. I, meanwhile, stumbled around campus humiliated by the forehead crease left by my lab goggles wondering what geek could help me figure out the molarity of my latest unknown.

I eventually changed my major to business, accounting more specifically. It wasn’t so much that I was wildly excited by debits and credits, I’m still not, or that most of the gorgeous fraternity boys were in the B School (they generally studied “finance,” accent always on the second syllable, and went on to be successful brokers or developers), but that I didn’t come from a particularly wealthy family and I needed a career, not just an education. Becoming a CPA seemed a safe bet. It has proven to be such.

Because of my college experience, and maybe my perceived lack of personal creative freedom, I always find it interesting to hear what young people are studying these days. I wonder how the parents feel, especially the fathers, when they hear that their young son is going to be, say, a puppeteer. Does this revelation cause Dad to puff out his chest and smoke a stogie on the back deck? Does Mom call over her coffee klatch girlfriends to boast about her son’s incredible prowess with a hand puppet?

When my son (now 21) was little he had a puppet as his constant companion. We got it at Poor Richard’s Toy Store and it was, sad to say, a beaver. Furry brown with lewd teeth and a hopeful demeanor. Bren wanted to take it everywhere. Unfortunately, after about five minutes, he wanted me to hold it. He was a very engaging child and, frequently, when he saw someone he found interesting he would shout, in a loud Mickey Mouse voice, “Look at my mom’s beaver!” This, of course, had an EFHutton effect. Everything would slow to a crawl, people would turn their heads deliberately toward me to see how I would respond.

I learned quickly to deal with this recurrent nightmare. I “worked up” a little beaver dance and performed it on the person nearest to me that appeared somewhat sympathetic. I would take “Beav” and bite the person’s forearm and say “Come help me build my dam!”

I don’t want to malign puppeteers. In fact, I want to laud puppeteers. In my immediate family, we have three CPAs, a pathologist, an attorney, a pharmaceutical drug rep. Our parents are proud of us. We all have careers and children, big houses and big mortgages, lots of demands for our money and our time. We’re living the American dream!

I can’t help but wonder, though, if any of my siblings ever feel like I do while I’m scurrying through the office clutching my mechanical pencil and my laptop, wearing the latest Ann Taylor fashions, picturing myself instead in fishnet hose and a bustier, standing under the bright theater lights, bowing demurely to thunderous applause. When my older brother holds his stethoscope does he secretly wish it were a paintbrush? When my sister makes her closing arguments in front of the judge and jury, would she rather be doing improvisational comedy in a little club somewhere? I don’t have any idea.

I know one thing. I hope my children will pursue their passions. It may be an uphill battle. Already their Dad and I have college funds set up for each of them. We have firm ideas about which elite schools they should attend and what careers might hold promise. I imagine we’ll have a doctor or two, maybe a physicist, probably a computer whiz. The IQ tests have been administered and we know where their strengths lie. But not where their dreams lie.

I have secret wish. I want a puppeteer.

The new prurience in men’s magazines

The new non nude nudie mags 
FHM, STUFF, MAXIM, RAZOR, et al.
Porn is back at the 7-11. It’s the resurgence of clean porn to counter the free-for-all no-holes-barred internet, just like Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Magazine put glossy clean brakes on the sexual revolution.

The old gloss coat nudies 
Hef put a gloss coat on the age-old girly magazine and put it unto the coffee table, Guccione dirtied it up with Penthouse and put it back under the mattress and Flynt left no fig leaf unturned with Hustler and put pornography right back in the garage. But after the ugly fin de siecle the puritans are back.

Now we have the nouveau prurient clothed seductresses. Here little flesh is revealed that is not already displayed on every popular magazine cover. Naked media stars, but covered. That’s another story, nudity in fashion magazine magazines.

Today’s men’s magazine’s entice but don’t deliver, they tease, and apparently that’s enough. In the porn heydays of the seventies, the magazines were owned by independent publishers. You could say “I read Playboy for the articles” and it’d be true. Many anti-establishment stories could only see daylight through the independent press. But the magazines today belong to the publishing empires which belong to the advertizing empires which belong to the consumer goods empire. You can’t use sex to sell anything if the boys are getting the sex. Visually at least.

The curious aspect of the today’s bathroom reading for boys is the lack of sexual depth. It’s all surface. It’s curves and titilation without a sense of anything lying beneath, inside, beyond. It’s beads of water, not sweat.

Surface and complexion is all that matters. Breast implants don’t matter because they’ll be under wrap. You’re not going to keep them, you’re not even going to undress them. Knock them against the bathroom door at the nightclub, disrobe them in the darkness at her place, you’ll be gone before it’s light. Only the visual coutour matters.

To whom? The virgin spectator.

Starbucks vs. the birthplace of coffee

Oldest coffee in the worldWant an afficionado’s tip? The mother of all coffees is Ethiopian Harrar. Literally. The insight is as olfactory as it is scientific. History records that the first coffees were cultivated in Ethiopia/ Abyssinia on the Red Sea. Every current variety of Coffea Arabica is believed to have originated from those plants. Colombian Juan Valdez picks coffee beans introduced to the New World by the Spaniards. Indoneasian javas were planted by the Dutch. Each of those famous varieties were transplanted Arabica. Starbucks wants to transplant the names.

It might be fitting now that Ethiopian farmers are asking for the right to control their unique varietal names. Sidamo, Harar and Yirgacheffe are considered premium coffees and refer to the regions of Ethiopia where they are grown. It is estimated that trademarks could generate an additional $90 million for impoverished Ethiopian growers who currently receive just three cents per cup of coffee. The problem is from whose profit they would have to wrestle the extra money: Starbucks.

Starbucks has been opposing Ethiopia’s trademark applications on the grounds that giving a higher value to the farmers would result in a decreased demand for the premium beans. Do you buy that? Even if Starbucks passed the increased cost unto the customer, would a few cents deter their caffeen addicted connoisseurs from the world’s most potent coffee? Ethiopia’s control over the branding of their product is likely only to increase their coffee’s visibility and prestige.

Bean counters versus the bean growersStarbucks denies having asked the US National Coffee Association to block the Ethiopian trademark bid. But in fact Starbucks has been trying to trademark Sidamo for itself.

I can’t find an etymology record to link the term bean-counter with coffee beans. In any case the expression denotes someone who values quantity over quality. I’d say they have the wrong beans.

Update: Le Monde article translated at Truthout.

Libraries public no longer

Public libraries have become daycares for the homeless. A recent front page article in the Gazette waxed poetic about the sanctuary libraries provide for itinerants. The idyllic photograph of an prenebriated gentleman scholar was as inviting as a panhandler on the street corner actually. So, up for an afternoon at the library? Do you want to drop your kids off there and let them wander the shelves unsupervised? Followed by the odd mental-outpatient? Do you want them sharing desks and chairs surfaces with the quite less hygienic?
 
The public library is not for you and me anymore. And you know who doesn’t care? Barnes and Noble. Borders. I have a bookstore too, so I don’t care either.

The decay of the American library system plays right into the hands of bookstore owners. Let citizens buy their books. Let ’em buy their coffee while they hang out looking at books they have to BUY.

Those who can’t afford new books? Let them catch lice from the homeless. They’re about as good as a homeless person to the bottom line of the economy.

And let the libraries spend their budget on bestsellers and DVDs. Whatever the public wants. When they need something, a reference item, an item for their own personal edification or continued education, they’ll have to come to the book store!

The rest of the library crowd will be left reading dreck. Another base motive of the capitalists in charge. A healthy democracy requires an educated public.

And I’d like to be more clear. I do care. I’m in the used book business. We sell good books to people who read. Our customer base is not served by communities whose public libraries give them movies instead of books, bestsellers instead of good books. And no children are nurtured well if they grow up having to avoid the library.

Blather

I sometimes read what I’ve written the night before and wonder why I have any friends at all. What a bloviator I am. I think that I have Multiple Personality Disorder (which is nothing to be ashamed of, Sybil). I feel like I’m writing from the heart and the next day I wake up, full of hope and good cheer, and I think “Who is this weird, arrogant, angry person who’s taken possession of my body and mind?”

The truth is that I have small boobs and a big butt; I’m way too old to be a MILF; I barely make ends meet every month; my hair looks terrible every other day; I love my kids’ cute little school and all the lovely and caring teachers that adore my children and tell me as much every chance they get. I’m not overly fond of government control and I don’t like the war but, if the truth be known, I don’t even hate Dubya nearly as much as I should. I think he’s sort of sweet and boyish and he’s married to a very nice woman which elevates him in my eyes. He loves his cute daughters and gets along with mom and dad and cares about his siblings….all the things that I strive to engender in my children.

The truth of the matter is that my life is a daily grind, just as yours is. My lofty goal each day is to stay on track, to keep a whole lot of people sane and healthy, to counsel them and love them and instruct them and pray for them. To cook and clean and do laundry and pay bills–to try to work in a little exercise, a little charity work, an occasional shower. My nights are filled with homework and sporting events and bathing, toothbrushing, Halloween costumes…it never ends. Nor do I want it to.

I am my best self when I am giving to my family, my community, loving my people and my God. It’s hard for me to care that much about the war, about poverty, about abortion. I don’t have a lot of spare time to think, less even to act. So, late at night, I let my alter ego come out and say whatever she’d like. I get up early to make breakfast and send the kids off to school and when I read what she’s written I think to myself, “Please shut up now and make me some coffee.”

Protesters riot after prime minister admits to lying

Get ahold of this headline: “Protesters riot after prime minister admits to lying.” Angry Hungarians set afire the state TV station upon learning that their Prime Minister Ferenc Gyurcsany had lied to them, in his words, “morning, evening and night.” What’s in their coffee? And can we get some?

USAFA, I’m glad I knew ya!

pictureAhhh, it’s September again….my favorite time of the year. Lazy Saturday mornings spent in oversized sweatshirts and fluffy slippers, drinking coffee, aspen trees on Cheyenne Mountain clad in autumnal glory, jets practicing for afternoon Air Force football games.

I’ve attended many such games. When the jets fly overhead without warning I feel an incredible patriotic stirring in my loins. The poor unwitting soul seated next to me invariably must endure my tongue in his or her ear and my breathy rendition of Lee Greenwood’s neo-national anthem, Proud to Be An American. Tears stream down my face as I stand up and shout PENIS! PENIS! PENIS! (I think I remember a similarly-named Japanese film from my youth). Could there be anything sexier or more masculine than an F-16 suddenly overtaking me from behind? A Blackhawk helicopter hovering over me quivering, gyrating, rotoring away? A sleek submarine slipping into the murky depths? MY GOD, I don’t even need to sit on the washing machine anymore. The military presence in our town leaves me FULLY SATISFIED.

Unfortunately, I was raised Catholic and was compelled by nuns and priests of dubious character to consider always the plight of my fellow man. Okay….sigh….I’ll give it a shot. I wonder what it costs the taxpayers to bring out the heavy artillery in the name of athletic superiority? How much jet fuel do we have to buy so that the flyboys can do their thing? Is this truly the most expensive pre-game show in the history of college athletics? Shit. At the bottom of my hill are countless families biding their time at Fort Carson while fathers are in Iraq fighting terrorists on behalf of the good ol’ US of A. Families are living paycheck to paycheck….moms are alone making breakfast, lunch, and dinner….helping with homework….singing lullabies….fixing broken cars, peeling paint, fractured bones.

Oh, well. That’s what they signed up for, isn’t it? If it wasn’t military service it would be incarceration. Really. They should just shut their fat yaps and be grateful that Uncle Sam has given them a job at all. Meanwhile I’m going to sit on my deck and watch my protectors doin’ their thing….for you, for me, for the team. Ohhhhh. Mmmmmmm. Ahh, baby….Yes. Yeeessss. TORA! TORA! TORA!

MRE garbage trail

A Meal-Ready-to-Eat is what we feed to our soldiers in the field. It’s a self contained meal, descendent of the C-ration. An MRE features a meat, vegetable, bread, dessert, choice of drinks, and plenty of packaging. Here’s what’s left after you consume the edible bits:
 
pictureHeavy plastic MRE bag
cardboard box enclosing meat
plastic/foil heatable bag for contents
cardboard box enclosing side dish
plastic/foil heatable bag for contents
plastic bag enclosing heat pouch
cloth/chemical heat pouch
plastic bag for spoon
plastic spoon
plastic/foil bag for crackers
plastic/foil bag for cheese
plastic/foil bag for dessert
plastic Fresh Pax pouch
plastic/foil bag for drink mix
clear plastic bag for condiments
clear plastic bag for mint gum
brown paper wrapper for napkin
paper napkin
clear plastic Tobasco bottle
red plastic bottle top
cardboard matchbook
paper/foil bag for tea
tea bag
paper/foil bag for coffee sweetner
paper/foil bag for moist toilette
cloth/paper toilette
3 paper bags for sugar, salt and pepper

29 items total. 10 are biodegradable, 4 are partially biodegradable, and 15 are of non-biodegradable plastic.

Crappuccino

pictureWhat’s a coffee-free coffee? Does it say on the bottle it’s a “Crappuccino?” What is that? It’s not a milk-frapped espresso. Is it a strawberry milkshake? Is it a smoothie? A Yoo-Hoo? A DQ Freeze? Maybe it’s Pepto-ccino.
 
When Starbucks begins to sell burgers like Dairy Queen too, and when their customers begin avoiding Mad Cow foods, Starbucks can sell hamburger buns without the hamburgers [burger-free hamburgers] and call them crapwiches!

Not only Darwin’s nightmare

Darwins NightmareWhen he introduced the screening of his documentary at UCCS on Wednesday, Austrian filmmaker Hubert Sauper told us that for the five years he had worked on the project, DARWIN’S NIGHTMARE had been his nightmare. Sauper predicted that in two hours, after we’d seen it, the story would become our nightmare.
 
The film was billed as a tale of fish, men and guns. The American release poster features only fish heads. It was about all three, and about just one as well.

I have no qualms about spoiling the story for you because this film is not available in the U.S. The copy we saw did not even have English subtitles. They’re having difficulty finding distribution because Darwin’s Nightmare is worse than an unhappy story, it portends ill for us all.

That it was nominated for an Oscar for best documentary, losing to The March of the Penguins, has meant that Darwin’s Nightmare will enjoy some success. Sauper is happy that he did not win the top award because the higher visibility would mean he could no longer make such an incidiary film.

He could certainly not have made this one. Sauper had to smuggle himself unto cargo planes, into foreboding factories, slums, houses of prostitution and some places for which no description is suitably odious, to tell a story that no one wanted told.

The fish tale begins with the Nile Perch, introduced by scientists into lake Victoria many years back. Like so many other foreign species introduced by man into otherwise balanced ecosystems, the Nile Perch has proved itself a voracious predator and today all the biodiversity of Lake Victoria, Africa’s largest lake, is gone. No more other fish, no more anything else. Now the water is no longer getting aerated, so the perch are dying. And without prey, the perch are feeding on their own young. The lake could soon end up a sink hole.

Sauper’s film is a parable. Top preditors can out-eat their supply, even devour their own. Is this film about fish and men?

There’s more to the fish tale. Once Lake Victoria was filling with oversized perch, factories grew on the banks to process the fish fillets and ship them to Europe. The fish became too expensive for the locals to eat. Now the fishermen themselves can only afford to eat fish heads.

All the perch fillets are sold to Europe, in return for guns to fuel the incessant warfare in the Congo. Ordinary westerners can wonder: where do war torn regions get their endless supplies of guns? Westerners who are gun manufacturers know where they come from, and precisely how many have been shipped and where. This was the deadly secret that Sauper uncovered: the same planes used to bring in UN relief supplies brought guns as well. The fish denied to the local malnurished population are being sold to buy guns.

There’s more of course. The kids are sniffing glue, a byproduct of the packaging process. Widows become prostitutes. People lives are foreshortened by working among the decaying fish skeletons being rendered for subhuman consumption, and of course, the entire population is being decimated by AIDS. We forget about that one. And the church is still preaching against the use of condoms.

We learn that when a fisherman finds himself too weak to work, he must hasten to the village of his birth so that he may be buried there. The price of transportation, once he is dead, goes way up.

We learn that when a fisherman dies, his wife has little choice but to become a prostitute. Unleashing the HIV cycle again.

We see a fish factory supervisor who has a fake stuffed fish on a plaque. Flick a switch on the back and his tail moves to a recording of “Don’t worry be happy.”

We learn what feeding time looks like among street children. Someone rustles up a pot, someone rustles up some gruel, they cook it and the moment someone’s guard is down, everyone reaches into the pot with both hands. Those caught without a handful are left to chase and beat those that who aren’t able to gobble their catch with sufficient haste.

Hauper explained in his notes that this tale of the developed world cannibalizing on the undeveloped world could be told anywhere. If it wasn’t fish in Africa, it is bananas in Central America, it is tea or coffee or sugar anywhere. It’s a tale of indegenous peoples not being allowed even a subsistence on their own bountiful lands. It’s a tale of Europeans or Americans who require the resources of the poor to sustain their unseemly standards of living.

I don’t know if bananas would tell the tale of a obscenely large unatural predator that’s feeding on everything and will eventually asphyxiate itself.

Handcrafted aggrandizement

I’ve always been irked by the Starbucks invented term “Barista.” It’s the equivalent of Walmart calling their workers “associates.” It means nothing except to delude the workers that they are something more than slave-wage, unskilled workers.

Barista might imply that someone who serves coffee has a cultural legacy, shielding the subject from their more relevant historic socio-economic legacy: low man on the totem pole.

Recently I’ve been hearing a locally owned coffee joint using some of this psycho-syntax to its own advantage. “Handcrafted coffees.” They’re made by hand, obviously. But unlike a parking ticket, or a shaken welcome mat, a “handcrafted” coffee inplies the work of a craftsman.

While it’s certainly a nice sentiment, wouldn’t we all like to be thought craftsmen of our own realm? It doesn’t matter that it’s a delution of what it means to be a craftsman. Rather, it’s a lie. Shit by any other name would smell as sweet.

911 crackpot theory

Not hot enough to melt steel
Call me a crackpot, but I have to say it. I believe 9-11 was a setup.
 
There’s no denying that a band of Saudi gentlemen flew those planes into the World Trade Center. There’s no denying that the Saudi Muslims were upset about US military bases in their holy land. There’s no denying that the third world has cause to attack the first world. For all intents and purposes that is what happened, or should have happened even.
 
It is nearly irrelevant to suggest otherwise. Except to suggest that it needn’t have happened, or certainly needn’t have succeeded.

I would suggest, and I am not alone, that 9-11 was orchestrated maybe, facilitated certainly, and permitted without a doubt by the U.S. government.

Evidence abounds, and let me say that plenty of false evidence is being circulated to support deliberate crackpot theories. Efforts to reconstruct what happened on 911 are being thwarted not just by stone-walling but by disinformation campaigns as well to marginalize those who won’t drink the kool-aid.

If there is one thing that is very easy to prove, it’s that this administration has fought every effort to shed light on the subject.

The black boxes were never found. The Air Traffic Control voice recordings were immediately destroyed. Video surveillance cameras were out of order. Other surveillance tapes were confiscated. Survivors or their relations were offered unprecedented financial compensation in exchange for forfeiture of their right to investigate liabilities. The scope of the official investigation was kept very limited.

In practically every airline crash since the beginning of black boxes the black boxes have been found. They may be nearly destroyed, their tapes may be unusable, but the boxes were always there. They didn’t vaporize.

Just because an American TV audience was awed by the calamity of the falling towers does not mean mean that the gods of physics were likewise so struck that they relaxed the natural laws. Steel doesn’t melt at 1/5 the required temperature any more than you’d expect to make a horseshoe over a bonfire. A building doesn’t vaporize into its own footprint without well placed charges. Demolition companies would be out of work if all it took to fell two of the world’s tallest buildings was jet fuel.

A curious bit of evidence points to the hijackers having been assisted in their Florida flight training by the CIA. The flight school, even their rental car, was tied to the CIA. This detail makes for a very unique conspiracy theory indeed because it doesn’t suggest that everybody was in on it.

Why would the aspiring hijackers have needed the help of CIA? To evade the watchful eyes of the FBI. In fact the evidence became public that at several points the FBI had to be told to back off.

These days, even pre-911, you couldn’t buy a cup of coffee without somebody knowing about it. We saw with the quick apprehension of Timothy McVey that ATM transactions, credit card activities and car rentals are very easily sniffed out by the FBI. Where else could 19 single middle eastern men with Interpol profiles have rented a car but from an rental agency not listed in the phone book, not affiliated with national chains, and owned by someone with ties to the CIA?

Not everybody wanted to see the US attacked.

Believe what you want. Dismiss any of the 911 eleven theories which to you sound extreme. But you’ll probably also have to dismiss the theory that every last one of this nation’s defense systems failed that day, and that it’s alright that all the evidence is missing too.

It took over an hour for the planes to reach their destinations, we didn’t know they had diverted from their flight plans, we didn’t scramble jets to intercept, then we destroy all the Air Traffic Controller audio tapes of the ordeal?

The conclusion is horrific yes.

Starbucks feeds your addiction.

pictureWanna take it outside?
 
Starbucks. We strangle the little guy, keep the world price of coffee low, and sell it to you for 100 times more.
 
Caffein is a drug. In twenty years we’re going to get sued just like Philip Morris, in the meantime we’re going to make a killing, killing you, hehe.

Starbucks moves in across the street from competitors, saturates the local area with storefronts, and drives the mom & pops out of business. Starbucks employees get to call themselves “baristas,” a name Starbucks invented as if to lend legitimacy to the job. Basically drug pushers but they don’t get to keep the profits.

With a stranglehold on the coffee market, Starbucks can keep the price of coffee beans low, enriching themselves while ravaging the small economies where the beans are grown. As a result the smaller farms are absorbed by the large plantation owners.

Starbuck’s special blend, there’s blood in it.

Reprinted from Subvertize.com