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September 30, 2005
MySpace or Who Needs Real Friends Anyway
I've had my MySpace page up for a week or two now and here are some of the things that have transpired since then:
-A woman told me that she does not add people with red hair to her friends list.
-I spoke via email with some of my favorite musicians - notably Andrew Bird, M. Ward, Edan, and MF Doom.
-I have received numerous unsolicited sexual messages from people I do not know at all.
-Was told that I'm an "art fag," although I'm neither homosexual or a piece of art.
-Have met many beautiful women, most of whom live at least 1,000 miles away from me.
Anyhoo, if you are on MySpace and would like to be my computer friend send me a friend invite. Here is my URL:
http://myspace.com/joshuadaniels
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 12:00 PM | TrackBack
September 29, 2005
What You Didn't Know About The Giant Squid (Until Now)
And Probably Never Wanted To Know...
Bruce Deagle of the University of Tasmania, Australia, and his team have analysed the gut contents of a male giant squid caught by fishermen off the west coast of Tasmania in 1999. Among the slurry of macerated prey, they found three tentacle fragments and 12 squid beaks. The beaks could not be unequivocally identified, but all of the squid DNA in the slurry, and the tentacle fragments, was found to be that of A. dux (Journal of Heredity, vol 96, p 417). "This strongly suggests cannibalism," says team member Simon Jarman of the Australian Antarctic Division in Kingston, Tasmania. The only other prey species identified was a fish, the blue grenadier.
Steve O'Shea and Kat Bolstad at the Auckland University of Technology in New Zealand were the first to find evidence of cannibalism in A. dux, in a female caught in New Zealand waters. They published their findings in the New Zealand Journal of Zoology last year. But O'Shea suspected the cannibalism was accidental.
"The male giant squid has to use a puny 15-gram brain to coordinate 150 kilograms of weight, 10 metres of length and a 1.5-metre-long penis," he says. "He physically plunges this penis into the female's arms, which are rather unfortunately right next to her beak. Because he is coordinating so much with so little, I think occasionally bits get chewed off when they inadvertently get too close to the beak."
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 11:05 PM | TrackBack
I'm Almost 30, And Dave Eggers Knows Just How I Feel
"At twenty nine, [he], like most people at or near thirty, is feeling wretched, old, as if their chance had passed..."
Dave Eggers from A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 08:10 PM | TrackBack
September 28, 2005
I'm Getting More Stupider
I've taken 3 or 4 IQ tests in my life and have always scored 140 or above, until now:
WTF??? I feel like a moron now.
Anyway, you can take this test too, and help me win a free iPod by visiting this link:
Help Josh's Dumb Ass Get An iPod
As far as I can tell, this is how the offer works:
1) Click on the link above.
2) Complete one of the offers on the page. (The IQ test is called the Tickle IQ test.)
3) Once five unique users referred by this link have completed one of the offers on the page I'll get a new 20GB iPod in the mail.
Sounds too good to be true, but evidently Josiah and others have had luck with this, and I'd really dig a new iPod.... C'mon. Show me some love.
Also, download my new theme song.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 01:48 PM | TrackBack
September 27, 2005
I'm That Much Of An Expert...
Someone in the Arab Emirates found my blog today with a Google search for:
"HOW TO RECOGNIZE LADIES AROUSAL"
If you really want to know, I charge a consultant's fee of $300 per hour.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 11:57 PM | TrackBack
ASHEVILLE STORY
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 11:00 PM | TrackBack
Who Had Sex With My Dog???
My interest was piqued yesterday when Beth - The Everyday Fiancé - questioned the origin of the phrase "Screwed The Pooch."
Here is what I have been able to come up with:
"Screwed the Pooch" is actually a 'polite' way of saying "Dicked the Dog," an expression used in the U.S. Navy since the 1800's. The phrase originally meant to loaf around on the job or to be lazy. Over time the usage changed and "Dicking the Dog" was a way of saying that someone had made a very grave or costly mistake.
As far as I can tell, the first time the term "Screwed the Pooch" was used in lieu of "Dicked the Dog" was in the 1979 novel The Right Stuff by Thomas Wolfe.
Screwing the pooch in New Orleans, perhaps?
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 09:42 PM | TrackBack
September 26, 2005
The Truth About The Bush Administration's Ineptness
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 06:41 AM | TrackBack
September 25, 2005
NO BABIES!!!
CUTE LITTLE PUPPIES AND FLUFFY BUNNY RABBITS ONLY!!!
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 08:59 AM | TrackBack
September 24, 2005
The Only Frank Lloyd Wright Building In Tennessee
Is right here in Chattanooga.
The house was commissioned by Seamour and Gerte Shavin in 1949 and the home at 334 N. Crest Road on Missionary Ridge in Chattanooga was completed in 1952. It is constructed primarily of crab orchard stone and treated Louisiana cypress wood. The Shavins, who still reside at the home, are very enthusiastic about architecture and are able to discuss the poetry and philosophy of their home passionately and knowledgeably. I believe the home is open to tour a few times a year, but if you ask them nicely they might give you a private tour.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 05:19 PM | TrackBack
My Space = Meat Market
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Joshua Daniels
Date: Sep 20, 2005 10:52 PM
My grandmother even likes the Postal Service....
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Janine
Date: Sep 22, 2005 8:48 AM
Haha.... thats fantastic.
how is chatanooga?
-janine
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Joshua Daniels
Date: Sep 22, 2005 11:39 AM
Another heat wave is here, so right now hot and muggy. It's technically fall (the equinox is today) -- hopefully the weather will catch up soon.
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Janine
Date: Sep 22, 2005 12:32 PM
just the weather?!
hrmm... equinox. i wonder...
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Joshua Daniels
Date: Sep 22, 2005 2:23 PM
hrmm... should I be sending you sex messages already? I wonder....
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Janine
Date: Sep 22, 2005 6:52 PM
isnt myspace built for sex messaging?
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 12:08 PM | TrackBack
September 23, 2005
"Why Would Anyone Ever Give A Clown Money?"
And Other Things Overheard In New York:
__________________________________________________________________
Girl: So I hate both my dad and my stepdad.
Guy: That's because your mom has shitty taste.
Girl: No, she has good tits!
-Rivington & Clinton
__________________________________________________________________
Girl #1: How can you like Peter? He's completely Crazy.
Girl #2: Yeah, but he's like...eating disorder hot.
-Columbia University
__________________________________________________________________
Conductor: You know which train it is; you know where it's going; step in, stand clear.
- W Train
__________________________________________________________________
White Man: Yeah, and he has that puppet. I'm not sure if it's a hand puppet or the kind with strings, but man, that shit used to fuck me up.
- Houston & Varick
__________________________________________________________________
Girl: Mom, how long do you think the turtle will live?
Mother: What do I look like, a fucking turtle connoisseur?
- Canal & West Broadway
__________________________________________________________________
Crackhead Lady #1: I need to stop, because now I'm looking down the barrel of a monkey.
Crackhead Lady #2: I know what you mean. If I wasn't using all this energy chasing a high, I could the energy productively, like jumping on a trampoline.
- Morris Park
__________________________________________________________________
Girl: Stop flirting with me, my friend just died.
- Central Park SummerStage
__________________________________________________________________
Girl: Shit yo, this campaign is like being skullfucked by a Lego man.
- 49th & 7th
__________________________________________________________________
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 07:17 AM | TrackBack
What Would We Do Without The PU?
MAN that is.
PUMAN: 1/2 Man + 1/2 Human + 1/2 Puma = All Puman
Well I won't preface this too much, because when the Puman speaks all should listen. In short -- I had questions and Puman had answers:
Dear Puman,
Are there any Puwomen out there? How does/can a human man find a Puwoman for friendship, romance, possible LTR? I figured, since you look so virile in your fatigues, you probably have a harem of puwomen and could give me some ideas.
Thanks for your help, and for all the wisdom you've dispensed so far.
Wanting P-Girls,
CRM-114
CRM-114 I am a PuMan with bagage. I live and love with the constant possibility of hints and whispers reminding me of women once wooed.
The texture of brie reminds me of nibbling on the nape of Audrey Tautou in a small hotel on Île de Ré near La Rochelle. Full on seafood and too much port from Le Bistrot de l'Entr'acte, and by morning completely unaware of where my body ended and hers began.
Each time Prime Minister Wen Jiabo calls and I see "China" on the caller id my heart jumps into my throat, reminding me of the time I served as the military and political consultant to Zhang Kangkang. At the time she was writing her essay "Cruelty", an my consultancy eventually lead to a three month three-way affair between myself and an as-yet-undiscovered Michelle Yeoh. Goodbye frequent flyers miles, hello $300 phone bills.
See CRM-114, there has been so many, too many. Michelle was my China doll down in old Hong Kong. She waits for my return.
My pretty Polynesian baby over the sea, well, I remember the night, when we walked in the sands of Waikiki and I held her oh so tight.
You see, I'm a travelin' man and I've made a lotta stops, all over the world.
And in every port I own the heart of at least one lovely girl. I've a pretty senorita waitin' for me down in old Mexico, and if you're ever in Alaska stop and see my cute little Eskimo. And my sweet fraulien down in Berlin town, she makes my heart start to yearn.
Oh, I'm a travelin' man
Yes, I'm a travelin' man
Yes, I'm a travelin' man
Woe, I'm a travelin' man
But I digress, let me tell you about the one trip the ended my travellin' ways.
I was doing some work for Blackwater fighting apartheid in South Africa during the late '70's . I had made a trip up to Lebowa, which was one of the South African "homelands" i.e. prisons for non-whites. The purpose of my trip was to fight apartheid via a long-term plan to push the non-white birthrate up above 6 children per family. We wanted to do this by convincing indigenous Africans that condoms (and therefor birthcontrol of any sort) was simply a tool of the Afrikaaners (the oppressive powers that be) to make the black, African male's penis smaller and consequently less virile than the Afrikaaners.
Needless to say this plan worked wonderfully and by years end nearly three-quarters of the sexually mature women in Lebowa and surrounding "homelands" were pregnant. Fifteen years later as these children matured and joined Mandela and others in the struggle against Apartheid, the indigenous African populations easily outnumbered the Afrikaaners by something like five to one. Let me tell you, I hate the fucking Dutch.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Lebowa was where I met the future Mrs. The Puman. She was only twelve at the time, so romance wasn't going to happen, but was the only other Pu-person I had met.
She loved me immediately, but like I said considering the age issue nothing was going to happen anytime soon. So I gave her father 3 fake visas, 8 lbs. of C4, 50 feet of primacord, my midget sidekick at the time named Ted (who later was worshipped as a god in Lebowa, so he made out alright in the end), and $37.48 (US) which equalled roughly $840,000 in Lebowese/South African currency. I told him I'd be back in 8 years to begin the courtship and to marry her if she'd have me.
So, 8 years later I was back in Lebowa. She'd become an amazing woman, benching roughly 185 and able to make a mean Lasagna. She was fluent in five languages, had two masters degrees in modern Russian literature and Applied Micro-Economics, could discourse for hours on the relationship between Dostoyevski and early French deconstructionist thought, and had an ass that simply would. not. stop. Heavens its the same to this day. A monument other than my own (at least three times a day baby!) ought to be erected in her ass' honor.
But I digrees: years later after a courtship that was on and off again more than Ward Crutchfield gets on and off his East Main Street Whores: we were married I haven't looked back since. It's hell in a handbasket but you can't beat the ride. She once killed four Basque seperatists with her bare hands and mooned Jerry Falwell during a sermon at Liberty U. How can you not love a PuWoman like that?
So my recommendation to you, dear CRM-114, is to buy a ticket to Lebowa and search the former South African apartheid "homelands". It'll happen. Believe.
I do now Pu. I do Believe. I also like that tune "Travelin' Man" -- they don't make'm like Ricky Nelson anymore.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 07:04 AM | TrackBack
September 22, 2005
It's the First Day of Fall, My Little Babies!!!
In commemoration, here is Coltrane's Equinox,
and
a poem by Stephen Dobyns:
HOW TO LIKE IT
These are the first days of fall. The wind
at evening smells of roads still to be traveled,
while the sound of leaves blowing across the lawns
is like an unsettled feeling in the blood,
the desire to get in a car and just keep driving.
A man and a dog descend their front steps.
The dog says, Let’s go downtown and get crazy drunk.
Let’s tip over all the trash cans we can find.
This is how dogs deal with the prospect of change.
But in his sense of the season, the man is struck
by the oppressiveness of his past, how his memories
which were shifting and fluid have grown more solid,
until it seems he can se remembered faces
caught up among the dark places in the trees.
The dog says, Let’s pick up some girls and just
rip off their clothes. Let’s dig holes everywhere.
Above his house, the man notices wisps of cloud
crossing the face of the moon. Like in a movie,
he says to himself, a movie about a person
leaving on a journey. He looks down the street
to the hills outside of town and finds the cut
where the road heads north. He thinks of driving
on that road and the dusty smell of the car
heater, which hasn’t been used since last winter.
The dog says, Lets’ go down to the diner and sniff
people’s legs. Let’s stuff ourselves on burgers.
In the man’s mind, the road is empty and dark.
Pine trees press down to the edge of the shoulder,
where the eyes of animals, fixed in his headlights,
shine like small cautions against the night.
Sometimes a passing truck makes his whole car shake.
The dog says, Let’s go to sleep. Let’s lie down
by the fire and put our tails over our noses.
But the man wants to drive all night, crossing
one state line after another, and never stop
until the sun creeps into his rearview mirror.
Then he’ll pull over and rest awhile before
starting again, and at dusk he’ll crest a hill
and there, filling a valley, will be the lights
of a city entirely new to him.
But the dog says, Let’s just go back inside.
Let’s not do anything tonight. So they
walk back up the sidewalk to the front steps.
How is it possible to want so many things
and still want nothing. The man wants to sleep
and wants to hit his head again and again
against a wall. Why is it all so difficult?
But the dog says, Let’s go make a sandwich.
Let’s make the tallest sandwich anyone’s ever seen.
And that’s what they do and that’s where the man’s
wife finds him, staring into the refrigerator
as if into the place where the answers are kept –
the ones telling why you get up in the morning
and how it is possible to sleep at night,
answers to what comes next and how to like it.
By: Stephen Dobyns
From: Cemetery Nights
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 06:23 PM | TrackBack
September 20, 2005
If You Want To Have A Successful Church
Yous First Gotta Getcha A Kick Ass Sign
(These are real.)
This is a good strategy.
Who would answer your questions?
My new pick-up line.
Actually, I prefer getting Jiggy with Jesus.
I have no idea what to make of this imperative.
Maybe that's because intellect isn't delusional.
Whatever you say, God.
This is just good advice.
Jimmy, you get the strippers, I'll get the weed, and Billy, don't forget the Bibles!
That's what your girlfriend said anyway.
Why? Because god is a pervy old man.
Also very good advice.
Do you see the common thread? These churches are winning souls by being crunk and happening. If your church is struggling to bring in new parishners I, for an exorbitant fee, will come on as a consultant and turn up the crunk level of your church's sign. I really like the straightforward approch. A couple of examples of my church sign magic:
Now I'm going to "Get the Hell Out of Here."
Peas Out.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 07:58 PM | TrackBack
Prettiest Building In Chattanooga
In my opinion it is the Joel Solomon Federal Building on Georgia Avenue
The design, Chattanooga's purest example of Art Deco architecture, was a collaboration between local architect Reuben Harrison Hunt and the New York based architectural firm Shreve, Lamb & Harmon, best known as the designers of the Empire State Building. The building was designed in 1931 and constructed in 1932. It is emblematic of the 'starved classicism' that dominated public architecture in the depression era.
I love almost every aspect of it - the flat parapet roof, the recessed fenestration that gives the building a striking 'verticality,' the aluminum and steel grillwork, the gorgeous marble and terrazzo floors, the repetitive use of eagles in the design (a symbol used to represent the unity of our nation, and the recovery from the depression) - especially the way the architecture effectively communicates the struggle of the depression, while still keeping an optimistic, perhaps even utopian, view of our country's potential future. I like it.
What do you think is the coolest building in Chattanooga?
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 09:16 AM | TrackBack
September 19, 2005
Don't Worry About That Silly War...
Laugh It Up. Be Jolly. Go see Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous.
This is an actual print ad circa 1943.
Ha ha ha!
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 12:51 PM | TrackBack
Best Hip-Hop Album of 2005
Best Album: EDAN - Beauty and the Beat
Honorable Mention: COMMON: Be
Aah lees das daway I see it.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 07:29 AM | TrackBack
September 18, 2005
Beware of Stale Coffee!
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 06:49 PM | TrackBack
Cognitive Associations: Love
“It is a strange paradox. When we fall in love, we are seeking to re-find all or some of the people to whom we were attached as children. On the other hand, we ask our beloved to correct all of the wrongs that these early parents or siblings inflicted on us. It contains in it the contradiction… an attempt to return to the past… and the attempt to undo the past. We need to remember that when we are born, we need a good deal of love to persuade us to stay in life.”
-Professor Louis Levy (fictional), from the Woody Allen film Crimes & Misdemeanors
LOVE
Go ahead. Let that word sink in for a moment...take a breath, and let it sink in.
LOVE
What comes to mind when you think of that word? Don’t rush; absorb the word and examine your associations with it. What is your cognitive map of that word?
LOVE
I don’t know a whole lot about linguistic epistemology, but I think the word ‘love’ is so subjective, so colored by a person’s experiential associations, that it is utterly meaningless, useless. The word evokes something entirely different in every person, so that its every use is completely confusing: if someone uses the word love, almost more than any other word, we have no idea what they are talking about because we don’t know the user’s personal associations with the word. ‘Love’ has no describable value - the values ascribed by its proper definition are so different than most peoples’ subjective values for the word - making it a very problematic term.
I guess I’ve had about fifteen or twenty “girlfriends” in my life, and I've told almost all of them that I ‘love’ them, but mostly I didn’t know what I meant when I said it, or said it in response to hearing it said to me. In some cases I meant 'you have a great personality and I'm really attracted to you,' or 'I really enjoy our conversations, you are brilliant,' or 'I respect you,' or 'please don’t leave, the sex is wonderful.' I think I’ve really only felt ‘in love’ twice, and those ended up being the most painful relationships of my life.
The fist time I felt ‘in love’ was with a girl (she will remain anonymous, for her sake) I dated for almost two years. She was intelligent, beautiful, independent, creative, opinionated, sexually adventurous, respectful, and caring – the total package in other words. I was intoxicated. We talked about getting married. I was maybe a little too intoxicated, held a bit too tightly, and got jealous (of nothing). I went to her apartment one day and the first words out of her mouth were “I don’t love you anymore.” If you’ve seen the ending of the film Closer it was basically like that. It felt as if my heart had been dipped in liquid nitrogen and hurled against a wall - a million frozen, scintilating shards tinkling across the floor.
The second time was a couple of years ago. The girl (who also will remain anonymous) had a ton of wonderful qualities, but she talked about her ex-boyfriends a bit too much and, considering I couldn’t think of anything but her, I realized that my feelings for her weren’t exactly reciprocated. I still think of her all the time. I still think to myself that I love her, but even I don’t know what I mean, or what I actually feel for her. When I think of her I smile at first, and then get really sad.
Can a word like ‘love’ have any objective value? There is a very good episode of This American Life that deals with some of these questions (Episode 247 -What Is This Thing?). When I have felt ‘in love’ it was almost a kind of nervous queasiness, but it was foreign to me, and completely indescribable. I don’t like to use that word anymore; my cognitive associations are too painful.
I think there is a lot of wisdom in the words of Professor Levy from Crimes and Misdemeanors. I think that he is right that we look to our beloved to correct all of the wrongs that early parents or siblings inflicted on us. Also, once we’ve had our hearts broken, we seem to look to our beloved to correct all the wrongs that previous lovers have inflicted upon us as well. That is how I feel. Whenever I am attracted to someone the feeling is something like “Oh look how beautiful, smart, creative, and caring she is. Surely she can put my heart back together.” No one can put anyone else’s heart back together though. Once it has been shattered, it is shattered, and there is nothing left but the memory of what once was.
I think though, if I look for something besides 'Love' (which I’ve already explained is a terrible and meaningless term) I might actually find ‘something.’ No one can find something that doesn’t exist, and I don’t think that love, at least by its conventionally understood values and implications, actually exists.
“This love means an affirmative desire towards the Other - to respect the Other, to pay attention to the Other, not to destroy the otherness of the Other - and this is the preliminary affirmation, even if afterwards because of this love, you ask questions.”
-Jacques Derrida
“A togetherness between two people is an impossibility, and where it seems, nevertheless, to exist, it is a narrowing, a reciprocal agreement that which robs either one party or both of his [or her] fullest freedom and development. But, once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue to exist, a wonderful living side by side can grow up, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole and against a wide sky!”
-Rainer Maria Rilke
“It’s possible to love a human being if you don’t know them too well.”
-Charles Bukowski
Etymology of the term Love:
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 07:17 AM | TrackBack
September 16, 2005
A Letter From The Editor
Sincerely, Joshua Daniels
Joshua Daniels is the Editor in Chief of his alter ego CRM-114's weblog The Journal of my Other Self
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 02:37 PM | TrackBack
September 15, 2005
So Sad It's Good
The Saddest Music in the World
Theatrical Release: April 30, 2004 Directed by Guy Maddin
Starring: Mark McKinney, Isabella Rossellini, Maria de Medeiros, David Fox, and
Ross McMillan
Written by Kazuo Ishiguro, George Toles, and Guy Maddin
It’s hard to describe Guy Maddin’s aesthetic to someone who has never seen one of his films – imagine Federico Fellini, David Lynch and Pee-Wee Herman collaborating on a remake of The Gods Must be Crazy – they are usually quite odd and, in my opinion, quite good.
His latest film takes place in the winter of 1933 in Winnipeg, Manitoba (Maddin’s hometown), named four years running by the London Times “The World Capitol of Sorrow in the Great Depression.” To celebrate this commemoration the legless beer baroness Lady Port-Huntley (Rossellini) announces a contest to see what nation’s music truly is the saddest in the world. News spreads quickly around the world and soon people from Tokyo to Nairobi are braving the Winnipeg winter to compete for a "Jewel Studded Crown of Frozen Tears” and $25,000 in prize money -- doesn’t specify American or Canadian. (American would’ve been worth more at the time.)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Do you know what they call American cheese in Canada?
Exactly. Canadian cheese.
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Anyway, the characters in this film are so intertwined they are almost knotted. Fyodor Kent (David Fox) is an old, alcoholic doctor in love with Lady Port-Huntley, the girlfriend of his son Chester (Mark McKinney). There are several flashback scenes of Fyodor’s wife, the mother of Chester and his brother Roderick (Ross McMillan), suddenly falling dead while the family is playing music together. One night “Lady P” is giving Chester a blowjob while he’s driving. Suddenly he almost runs over his father, who is standing drunk in the middle of the road, and crashes. One of Lady P’s legs gets pinned by the car and Fyodor is so drunk he amputates the free leg by mistake, and then has to amputate the one that is pinned. This is why the baroness has no kickers. Now, Fyodor- representing Canada, Chester – The American ambassador of sadness who “has schmaltz routines that could ring sobs from a moose,” and Roderick – in disguise as a tortured Serbian cellist, are all in Winnipeg to compete in the contest.
I must say that the plot was not particularly moving to me, although the campy moments – such as when a country wins a round of the competition and the musicians get to climb onto a platform and slide into a giant vat of Lady Port-Huntley’s beer – are great. Visually the film is stunning. The movie acts and feels like one of the great expressionist films of the late silent era (except with sound), down to the Vaseline on the rims of the camera lenses to “frost” the edges of the shots. When a film is a visual marvel like this, to some extent, the plot should be secondary -- mainly a vehicle for the feeling and aesthetic of the film. From this perspective The Saddest Music in the World is a real achievement; it truly is a magical and weird tribute to those expressionist masterpieces . I dig.
Memorable Quotes:
“If you’re sad, and like beer, I’m your lady.” - Lady Port-Huntley
“Sadness is just happiness turned on its ass. It’s all showbiz.” - Chester Kent
“It’s like I’m painting things just by looking at them.” – Roderick Kent
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 12:20 AM | TrackBack
September 14, 2005
Hey Ladies: We Don't Mind If You Dominate Now And Then
July 18, 2005
University of Michigan
Study finds women connect sex with submission
ANN ARBOR, Mich.—A University of Michigan study suggests that women, but not men, automatically associate sex with submission and that connection reduces the quality of their sexual experience.
U-M researchers Amy Kiefer, Diana Sanchez and Oscar Ybarra conducted four studies to reach the conclusions in the paper, "Sexual Submissiveness in Woman: Costs for Sexual Autonomy and Arousal," scheduled to appear in Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin next year.
Key findings show that women implicitly associate sex with submission and that this leads to a submissive sexual role, which in turn leads to lower arousal and difficulty becoming aroused. This association appears to lower their arousal by reducing their sexual autonomy.
Researchers tested subjects by showing target words associated with submission on a computer screen, preceded by subliminal primes (words with a specific connotation, in this case sex primes and neutral primes. For instance, sex and oven).
Women's responses were on average faster when submissive words were preceded by a sex prime than by a neutral prime. This faster response indicates the two concepts are related in women's minds, said Kiefer, a recent doctoral graduate in the psychology department.
Further, on average the quicker the response, the more likely the women were to report engaging in submissive sexual behavior.
The priming results indicate that women may have unconsciously picked up the message that they should be sexually submissive, raising the possibility that women have internalized societal pressure, said Sanchez, a recent doctoral graduate in the psychology department and women's studies.
Previous research suggests that social norms promote deference to men, and this extends to intimate relationships. This message is constantly repeated by the media in magazines, television and movies that "commonly display male sexual dominance over women and female sexual submission to men," the paper states.
In a follow-up study, researchers asked the women a series of questions to gauge the impact of submissive behavior on arousal.
"The more women reported engaging in submissive behaviors, the less arousal they reported experiencing from a range of sexual activities. The problem with submissive behavior seems to be that women don't experience these behaviors as authentic expressions of their selves. Submission to their partner's desires appears to undermine their ability to assert themselves within the sexual context," Kiefer said. "I would say it's really important to recognize the fact that women associate their personal submission with sex, and this association seems to be detrimental to their sexual health."
Adopting a submissive role may cause women to have difficulty not only getting aroused, but also impair their communication with sexual partners, undermine their ability to insist on birth control, and increase their susceptibility to sexual coercion.
The researchers plan a series of papers on the topic of how conformity to traditional gender roles affect men and women's sexual behavior.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 06:05 AM | TrackBack
How Would Bob Newhart Perform "The Aristocrats"
"The Aristocrats" as I Think Bob Newhart Would Perform It.
BY TABETHA WELLS
mcsweenys.net
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
(Telephone rings.)
Heh-hello, uh, Bannerman Talent Agency ...
Um. Ye-yes. This is Mr. Bannerman.
Oh, you have an act you'd, you'd like me to ... to represent? Oh. OK. Can you describe it to me?
Ah, I see. A family act.
Uh-huh.
Uh-huh.
I'm sorry, they what? Oh. So the clothes come right off ...
Uh-huh.
Uh-huh.
Well, I'm not sure the stage manager would want ... want you to smear that everywh—
OK. I see.
I'm sorry, you said three donkeys? OK.
Uh-huh.
Uh-huh.
Oh dear. Uh, how ... how old is your daughter?
Uh-huh. And she already knows how ... how to ...
That's not the best part? OK. What ... what is the best part?
Oh dear. Are you sure that's ... um ... physically possible?
You ... you do it all the time. Sometimes with fire.
Well. Well, that is ah ... um ... a very, a very interesting act. Out of curiosity, what do you call yourselves?
The ... the Aristocrats. I see. Well, thanks for calling, but I specialize in entertainment for children's parties.
Uh-huh.
Oh, you have another act?
Uh-huh.
Uh-huh.
I'm ... I'm going to stop you right there. You're describing the same act.
Ye-yes you are.
OK, then. What makes it diff ... you were just getting to it ... OK.
Uh-huh. Balloon animals. I see. You put them in your ... oh ... oh dear ...
Well, I still don't ... don't think your act is right for us, but thanks for your time. It's been very ... uh ... very interesting, and good luck with ... with your careers.
What? You ... you are willing to change the act if I, if I have a suggestion ...
Um ... I think maybe if you didn't um ... have relations with your ... with your daughter ... while she was ... um ... servicing the donkeys ...
Uh-huh ... Oh. I didn't, I didn't realize that was ... that was the heart of the piece ...
No, I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to question your artistic in-integrity.
You ... you're right. It's probably better if ... if I see it myself ...
OK, see you tomorrow at 3.
What? Wear a raincoat? All right, thanks for the ... for the tip.
See you tomorrow. Buh-bye.
- - -
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 05:58 AM | TrackBack
Mountain, with a Little Cloud Hat
And I think I'd take a hard starboard turn there buddy:
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 05:40 AM | TrackBack
September 13, 2005
Yankee......Hotel.........Foxtrot
I'm sure you know these three words, letters of the international phonetic alphabet, as the title to Wilco's 2002 masterpiece, but did you know that the recording of the woman saying these words repeatedly on the tale end of the tune "Poor Places" was recorded from a shortwave 'number station?'
Most shortwave radio users have encountered number stations. Most pass right on by them, but others become obsessed by them and record them whenever they are stumbled across. The stations, active for the last four or five decades, are probably the greatest mystery in shortwave radio. No one actually knows what they are for, who the messages are intended for, or where the signal is being broadcast from. Most number stations in N. America broadcast at night, in Spanish (usually a female voice), and on frequencies from 3 to 12 MHz. Five digit Spanish number stations are the most common - they begin transmissions with something like "atención 341 67" repeated for several minutes. The three-digit group is believed to the identifier of the recipient of the message, while the second number is the number of five-digit groups in the message. Sometimes as many as three different messages may be sent in the same transmission. And 3/2 number stations are the next most common - These open with a three-digit group sent three times (again believed to be the intended recipient) followed by "1234567890." This sequence is repeated for several minutes. After ten tones, something like "grupo 154, grupo 154" is sent. The number following "grupo" is the number of groups that will be transmitted. There is another category of mystery station closely related to numbers stations, known as "phonetic" stations. These transmit messages using groups of five letters from the international phonetic alphabet (alpha, bravo, charlie, delta, etc.). -- like the message embedded in the Wilco song. These stations are often heard repeating a phrase like "charlie india oscar two" for hours before any message is actually sent. It is widely believed that phonetic stations are operated by the Mossad, Israel's intelligence service.
Although disputed by some, most believe number stations to be connected to espionage and intelligence operations, especially the five digit stations. Another possibility is that some number stations operate as a way for countries to communicate secretly with their embassies and consulates around the world. Some number stations are a complete mystery such as the Yosimite Sam station that was first reported in December of 2004. A transmission is made on one of four frequencies: 3700 kHz, 4300 kHz, 6500 kHz, 10500 kHz, and then ten seconds later is repeated on the next highest frequency. Each transmission starts with what sounds like a data burst of some sort, and is followed by the phrase: "Varmint, I'm a Gonna Blow Ya To Smithereens" said by the voice of Yosemite Sam, of the Looney Tunes cartoon fame. The clip is apparently from the cartoon "BUNKER HILL BUNNY", 1949. Hear the "Yosimite Sam" broadcast: Download File
We certainly won't solve this mystery with this blog post, but here are some links to relevant sites so you can do your own detective work. In 1997, Irdial Records released The Conet Project, a 4 CD collection featuring over 150 recordings of phonetic and number stations make by shortwave enthusiasts over the last few decades. Someone has made the entire Conet Project available for download HERE. Very interesting stuff. You can download the entire directory (The entire 4CD collection) or just singular tracks. By the way, the "Yankee, Hotel, Foxtrot" phonetic station recording used on the Wilco album is track #4 on disc 1 of The Conet Project recordings - download it here: Download File
Links:
Schedule of Number Station transmissions
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 06:24 PM | TrackBack
September 12, 2005
Oh No, "The Nervous B.O."
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 02:10 AM | TrackBack
September 11, 2005
The Art of Andy Goldsworthy
If you ever have the chance, go to the Storm King Art Center in Mountainville, New York, about 60 or 70 miles north of the city. It is an outdoor sculpture museum situated on a few hundred acres of impossibly green, rolling hills. The first time I went to Storm King was also the first time that I was exposed to Andy Goldsworthy. I was walking along a concrete path through a giant green field lined with woods and, out of nowhere, a curving, three foot tall, snake-like wall made of stones cut across the pathway leaving me with the option of climbing over the wall and continuing down the concrete path, or following the wall which slinked across the field and into the woods. I, of course, followed the wall. It weaved in and out of the trees and led me to a few clearings filled with other small exhibitions, and then it disappeared into a large pond, resurfaced on the other side, and kept going, for half a mile. This, I would find out, is the infamous Storm King Wall by the Scottish sculptor and photographer Andy Goldsworthy who constructed the wall over the course of two years using found rock from the Art Center's property.
In truly synchronistic fashion, when I flew back to Chattanooga a few days later there was a short documentary about Goldsworthy playing on the plane. I learned that all of his work is made of found natural materials -- river stones, sticks, leaves, pebbles, ice, water, acorns, etc. -- and that most of his work is very delicate, many pieces lasting only minutes before they melt, or are blown or washed away. Here are some examples of his sculpture/photography:
and his biography from Wikipedia:
Andy Goldsworthy (born Cheshire, England, 1956) is a British artist and photographer living in Scotland who produces site specific sculpture and land art situated in natural settings. His art involves the use of natural and found objects to create temporary sculptural pieces which both appear naturalistic and create stark contrasts with their surroundings. He works closely with form and color contrasts to produce works that are both striking and ephemeral.
His media often include twigs, thorns, muds, snow, icicles, brightly colored flowers and leaves. He often uses only his bare hands and found tools, although more recent works like the Moonlit Path and Chalk Stones (Petworth, West Sussex - 2002) have also used heavy machinery.
His work process is both obsessive and opportunistic. He is preoccupied with the inevitable destruction of his sculptures by elemental forces, as was highlighted in the Midsummer Snowballs (Midsummer's Day, 2000 - various locations in London, England) where the destruction of the piece was almost the whole point. He seems to prefer works that exist only extremely briefly or whose continued coherence is highly uncertain. Many of his pieces collapse during construction and he often rebuilds them several times before he is able to photograph them in completion.
The documentary movie Rivers and Tides (2001, by Thomas Riedelsheimer) shows his work in action and some of the pieces he has created. "Working with Time" is not only the subtitle to Riedelsheimer's film, but also describes the aim of many land artists (for example Richard Long or Christo and Jeanne-Claude, although they rather prefer not to be called "land art") to show the process of nature and thus to work with time.
Normally Goldsworthy captures his works with photography, but the 2001 film Rivers And Tides in some senses captures his understanding of nature and time better than still photography, because one is able to follow the process of creation and destruction. The film delivers insight into the way Goldsworthy works and finds his inspiration. "I want to understand the stone" is a quote by him which inspired Riedelsheimer to make his film: It describes Goldsworthy's ambitions to find the uttermost meaning behind every object in nature.
Goldsworthy is close to and bound to nature. If the wind changes, if the tide rises, if it rains, his art changes. Sometimes it develops, and sometimes it is destroyed.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 02:37 PM | TrackBack
September 10, 2005
I Miss My Doggy
In the summer of 1994 I was driving back to Chattanooga from T-Wall along Suck Creek Road. My Subaru wagon was filled with trash - water and soda bottles, empty cigarette packages, newspapers, and tons of other crap - which was being whipped around in the back of the car by the windows-down wind. I pulled into the parking lot of the boat ramp on Suck Creek Rd. to clean out the U-R-A-BUS (Subaru spelled backwards) because there was a large dumpster there at the time. As I was tossing all this crap into the dumpster I repeatedly heard this muffled, high-pitched whining that seemed to be coming from/in/around the dumpster. I poked my head inside the sliding door thingy and the sound grew louder. The dumpster was almost empty, with the exception of my recent contributions, and I was curious, and a little bit freaked out, so I jumped in the dumpster to investigate. What I found would be one of the greatest blessings in my life.
Inside the dumpster were three cardboard boxes. One contained some large woman's underwear and a couple of small stuffed animals; the second contained some crumpled-up newspapers; and the third contained three puppies about six or seven weeks old. I tied some accessory cord to the box, jumped out of the dumpster, and fished the box of puppies out of the dumpster, and then emptied the adorable and fuzzy contents into the back of the URABUS. Two were blonde with dark brown patches, pointy noses, and brown eyes - they looked like German Shepard puppies, and both were boys. The other one was all blonde, almost golden. She had one brown eye, and one mostly blue eye with a brown streak: a gorgeous little girl puppy. When I got home I put the little golden girl with the funky eyes inside, and put the two boys in a basket and tied some bandanas around their necks (to make them look absolutely irresistible to anyone), and walked door to door around the neighborhood trying to get the pups adopted, which only took about ten minutes. I returned home to find the golden girl sulking in the corner, a fresh pile of doo on the carpet. I got the doo cleaned up, scheduled a vet appointment, bought some puppy paraphernalia, and named my puppy Isis, for no particular reason, I may have been listening to the Bob Dylan song, I may have been reading a book about Egypt; to tell you the truth I don't remember naming her, or why I chose Isis, but that became her name.
From that day on she was my companion. She went almost everywhere with me, she loved to hike, and hated to swim. She had a litter of puppies when she was two years old (which were adorable, of course, and distributed in the same basket-bandana fashion) before she was spayed. She was one of the most intelligent beings that I have ever encountered, people included, calm and serene, loyal and loving. She was with me for eleven years, one of the only constants in my adult life.
Last winter she started having grand mal seizures, and was diagnosed with brain cancer. Kate Allison, Isis' wonderful vet, put her on a regimen of Phenobarbital for seizure control, and Prednisone to reduce her cranial pressure, which gave her several more months of enjoyable doggy life, with just the occasional seizure now and then, but eventually, around May of this year, her condition worsened so that medication could no longer control her severe seizures. I had to euthanize her - one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. I buried her in my parents' backyard, and I was just over there looking at her grave yesterday, which is, I guess, why I'm writing this now.
I miss my doggy, and love her like crazy. Isis was a wonderful being and I am grateful that I had the privelage of having such a wonderful and pure relationship with such a cool dog.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 10:49 PM | TrackBack
Although My Writing Sucks
I'm still brave enough to to post a poem I wrote:
As I read this morning in the
bed that held us, you lingered,
your autumn scent. A strand of
your hair, resplendent in the
dusty spotlight cast through
shade, traced the valley of
your absence across
a pillowcase.
Please, be kind, and keep your comments about this poem.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 06:08 PM | TrackBack
September 09, 2005
Freaky Advertising
OK. This blog may be the official home of Wendy's Ranch Tooth hatin'
but there is much more to discuss.
I must admit that I like the return of the Burger King.
I especially like the new commercial that features The King intercepting a pass and scoring a touchdown in a NFL game. (click here for full commercial)
But the Burger King Subserviant Chicken website is one of the freakiest damn things I've ever seen. It is simply a man dressed in a chicken costume. Below the image of the chicken you type in a command, i.e. 'dance,' do push-ups,' 'think,' etc., and the Subserviant Chicken obeys. Weird as hell!
Also check out Flame Broiled, the website for disgruntled ex Burger King employees.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 06:06 PM | TrackBack
Paramedics Larry Bradshaw and Lorrie Beth Slonsky Recount The New Orleans Disaster
From EMSNetwork News
EMS & Hurricane Katrina
Hurricane Katrina - Our Experiences
By Parmedics Larry Bradshaw and Lorrie Beth Slonsky
Sep 6, 2005, 11:59
Note: Bradshaw and Slonsky are paramedics from California that were
attending the EMS conference in New Orleans. Larry Bradshaw is the chief
shop steward, Paramedic Chapter, SEIU Local 790; and Lorrie Beth Slonsky is
steward, Paramedic Chapter, SEIU Local 790.[California]
Their tale in just one of this type now appearing in many newspapers, online
and with listservers. The fact they are paramedics is largely irrelevant to
the tale, however, there are many EMT/Paramedic personal accounts online -
some even more incredible.
Two days after Hurricane Katrina struck New Orleans, the Walgreen's store at
the corner of Royal and Iberville streets remained locked. The dairy display
case was clearly visible through the widows. It was now 48 hours without
electricity, running water, plumbing. The milk, yogurt, and cheeses were
beginning to spoil in the 90-degree heat. The owners and managers had locked
up the food, water, pampers, and prescriptions and fled the City. Outside
Walgreen's windows, residents and tourists grew increasingly thirsty and
hungry.
The much-promised federal, state and local aid never materialized and the
windows at Walgreen's gave way to the looters. There was an alternative. The
cops could have broken one small window and distributed the nuts, fruit
juices, and bottle water in an organized and systematic manner. But they did
not. Instead they spent hours playing cat and mouse, temporarily chasing
away the looters.
We were finally airlifted out of New Orleans two days ago and arrived home
yesterday (Saturday). We have yet to see any of the TV coverage or look at a
newspaper. We are willing to guess that there were no video images or
front-page pictures of European or affluent white tourists looting the
Walgreen's in the French Quarter.
We also suspect the media will have been inundated with "hero" images of the
National Guard, the troops and the police struggling to help the "victims"
of the Hurricane. What you will not see, but what we witnessed,were the real
heroes and sheroes of the hurricane relief effort: the working class of New
Orleans. The maintenance workers who used a fork lift to carry the sick and
disabled. The engineers, who rigged, nurtured and kept the generators
running. The electricians who improvised thick extension cords stretching
over blocks to share the little electricity we had in order to free cars
stuck on rooftop parking lots. Nurses who took over for mechanical
ventilators and spent many hours on end manually forcing air into the lungs
of unconscious patients to keep them alive. Doormen who rescued folks stuck
in elevators. Refinery workers who broke into boat yards, "stealing" boats
to rescue their neighbors clinging to their roofs in flood waters. Mechanics
who helped hot-wire any car that could be found to ferry people out of the
City. And the food service workers who scoured the commercial kitchens
improvising communal meals for hundreds of those stranded.
Most of these workers had lost their homes, and had not heard from members
of their families, yet they stayed and provided the only infrastructure for
the 20% of New Orleans that was not under water.
On Day 2, there were approximately 500 of us left in the hotels in the
French Quarter. We were a mix of foreign tourists, conference attendees like
ourselves, and locals who had checked into hotels for safety and shelter
from Katrina. Some of us had cell phone contact with family and friends
outside of New Orleans.
We were repeatedly told that all sorts of resources including the National Guard
and scores of buses were pouring in to the City. The buses and the other resources
must have been invisible because none of us had seen them.
We decided we had to save ourselves. Sowe pooled our money and came up with
$25,000 to have ten buses come and take us out of the City. Those who did
not have the requisite $45.00 for a ticket were subsidized by those who did
have extra money. We waited for 48 hours for the buses, spending the last 12
hours standing outside, sharing the limited water, food, and clothes we had.
We created a priority boarding area for the sick, elderly and new born
babies. We waited late into the night for the "imminent" arrival of the
buses. The buses never arrived. We later learned that the minute the arrived
to the City limits, they were commandeered by the military.
By day 4 our hotels had run out of fuel and water. Sanitation was
dangerously abysmal. As the desperation and despair increased, street crime
as well as water levels began to rise. The hotels turned us out and locked
their doors, telling us that the "officials" told us to report to the
convention center to wait for more buses. As we entered the center of the
City, we finally encountered the National Guard. The Guards told us we would
not be allowed into the Superdome as the City's primary shelter had
descended into a humanitarian and health hellhole. The guards further told
us that the City's only other shelter, the Convention Center, was also
descending into chaos and squalor and that the police were not allowing
anyone else in. Quite naturally, we asked, "If we can't go to the only 2
shelters in the City, what was our alternative?" The guards told us that
that was our problem, and no they did not have extra water to give to us.
This would be the start of our numerous encounters with callous and hostile
"law enforcement".
We walked to the police command center at Harrah's on Canal Street and were
told the same thing, that we were on our own, and no they did not have water
to give us. We now numbered several hundred. We held a mass meeting to
decide a course of action. We agreed to camp outside the police command
post. We would be plainly visible to the media and would constitute a highly
visible embarrassment to the City officials. The police told us that we
could not stay. Regardless, we began to settle in and set up camp. In short
order, the police commander came across the street to address our group. He
told us he had a solution: we should walk to the Pontchartrain Expressway
and cross the greater New Orleans Bridge where the police had buses lined up
to take us out of the City. The crowed cheered and began to move. We called
everyone back and explained to the commander that there had been lots of
misinformation and wrong information and was he sure that there were buses
waiting for us. The commander turned to the crowd and stated emphatically,
"I swear to you that the buses are there."
We organized ourselves and the 200 of us set off for the bridge with great
excitement and hope. As we marched pasted the convention center, many locals
saw our determined and optimistic group and asked where we were headed. We
told them about the great news. Families immediately grabbed their few
belongings and quickly our numbers doubled and then doubled again. Babies in
strollers now joined us, people using crutches, elderly clasping walkers and
others people in wheelchairs. We marched the 2-3 miles to the freeway and up
the steep incline to the Bridge. It now began to pour down rain, but it did
not dampen our enthusiasm.
As we approached the bridge, armed Gretna sheriffs formed a line across the
foot of the bridge. Before we were close enough to speak, they began firing
their weapons over our heads. This sent the crowd fleeing in various
directions. As the crowd scattered and dissipated, a few of us inched
forward and managed to engage some of the sheriffs in conversation. We told
them of our conversation with the police commander and of the commander's
assurances. The sheriffs informed us there were no buses waiting. The
commander had lied to us to get us to move.
We questioned why we couldn't cross the bridge anyway, especially as there
was little traffic on the 6-lane highway. They responded that the West Bank
was not going to become New Orleans and there would be no Superdomes in
their City. These were code words for if you are poor and black, you are not
crossing the Mississippi River and you were not getting out of New Orleans.
Our small group retreated back down Highway 90 to seek shelter from the rain
under an overpass. We debated our options and in the end decided to build an
encampment in the middle of the Ponchartrain Expressway on the center
divide, between the O'Keefe and Tchoupitoulas exits. We reasoned we would be
visible to everyone, we would have some security being on an elevated
freeway and we could wait and watch for the arrival of the yet to be seen
buses.
All day long, we saw other families, individuals and groups make the same
trip up the incline in an attempt to cross the bridge, only to be turned
away. Some chased away with gunfire, others simply told no, others to be
verbally berated and humiliated. Thousands of New Orleaners were prevented
and prohibited from self-evacuating the City on foot. Meanwhile, the only
two City shelters sank further into squalor and disrepair. The only way
across the bridge was by vehicle. We saw workers stealing trucks, buses,
moving vans, semi-trucks and any car that could be hotwired. All were packed
with people trying to escape the misery New Orleans had become.
Our little encampment began to blossom. Someone stole a water delivery truck
and brought it up to us. Let's hear it for looting! A mile or so down the
freeway, an army truck lost a couple of pallets of C-rations on a tight
turn. We ferried the food back to our camp in shopping carts. Now secure
with the two necessities, food and water; cooperation, community, and
creativity flowered. We organized a clean up and hung garbage bags from the
rebar poles. We made beds from wood pallets and cardboard. We designated a
storm drain as the bathroom and the kids built an elaborate enclosure for
privacy out of plastic, broken umbrellas, and other scraps. We even
organized a food recycling system where individuals could swap out parts of
C-rations (applesauce for babies and candies for kids!).
This was a process we saw repeatedly in the aftermath of Katrina. When
individuals had to fight to find food or water, it meant looking out for
yourself only. You had to do whatever it took to find water for your kids or
food for your parents. When these basic needs were met, people began to look
out for each other, working together and constructing a community.
If the relief organizations had saturated the City with food and water in
the first 2 or 3 days, the desperation, the frustration and the ugliness
would not have set in.
Flush with the necessities, we offered food and water to passing families
and individuals. Many decided to stay and join us. Our encampment grew to 80
or 90 people.
From a woman with a battery powered radio we learned that the media was
talking about us. Up in full view on the freeway, every relief and news
organizations saw us on their way into the City. Officials were being asked
what they were going to do about all those families living up on the
freeway? The officials responded they were going to take care of us. Some of
us got a sinking feeling. "Taking care of us" had an ominous tone to it.
Unfortunately, our sinking feeling (along with the sinking City) was
correct. Just as dusk set in, a Gretna Sheriff showed up, jumped out of his
patrol vehicle, aimed his gun at our faces, screaming, "Get off the fucking
freeway". A helicopter arrived and used the wind from its blades to blow
away our flimsy structures. As we retreated, the sheriff loaded up his truck
with our food and water.
Once again, at gunpoint, we were forced off the freeway. All the law
enforcement agencies appeared threatened when we congregated or congealed
into groups of 20 or more. In every congregation of "victims" they saw "mob"
or "riot". We felt safety in numbers. Our "we must stay together" was
impossible because the agencies would force us into small atomized groups.
In the pandemonium of having our camp raided and destroyed, we scattered
once again. Reduced to a small group of 8 people, in the dark, we sought
refuge in an abandoned school bus, under the freeway on Cilo Street. We were
hiding from possible criminal elements but equally and definitely, we were
hiding from the police and sheriffs with their martial law, curfew and
shoot-to-kill policies.
The next days, our group of 8 walked most of the day, made contact with New
Orleans Fire Department and were eventually airlifted out by an urban search
and rescue team. We were dropped off near the airport and managed to catch a
ride with the National Guard. The two young guardsmen apologized for the
limited response of the Louisiana guards. They explained that a large
section of their unit was in Iraq and that meant they were shorthanded and
were unable to complete all the tasks they were assigned.
We arrived at the airport on the day a massive airlift had begun. The
airport had become another Superdome. We 8 were caught in a press of
humanity as flights were delayed for several hours while George Bush landed
briefly at the airport for a photo op. After being evacuated on a coast
guard cargo plane, we arrived in San Antonio, Texas.
There the humiliation and dehumanization of the official relief effort
continued. We were placed on buses and driven to a large field where we were
forced to sit for hours and hours. Some of the buses did not have
air-conditioners. In the dark, hundreds if us were forced to share two
filthy overflowing porta-potties. Those who managed to make it out with any
possessions (often a few belongings in tattered plastic bags) we were
subjected to two different dog-sniffing searches.
Most of us had not eaten all day because our C-rations had been confiscated
at the airport because the rations set off the metal detectors. Yet, no food
had been provided to the men, women, children, elderly, disabled as they sat
for hours waiting to be "medically screened" to make sure we were not
carrying any communicable diseases.
This official treatment was in sharp contrast to the warm, heart-felt
reception given to us by the ordinary Texans. We saw one airline worker give
her shoes to someone who was barefoot. Strangers on the street offered us
money and toiletries with words of welcome. Throughout, the official relief
effort was callous, inept, and racist.
There was more suffering than need be.
Lives were lost that did not need to be lost.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 12:26 PM | TrackBack
September 08, 2005
Kierkegaard Revised
My friend David Garrison (aka Cedarteeth) sent this email to me yesterday:
I have purified Søren K.'s "Purity of heart is to will one thing."
I revise it thus:
"Pilgrimage of heart is the one willed thing."
I'll have to think about that for a few years...
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 05:30 PM | TrackBack
The War On Weather
Comic from This Modern World
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 12:26 PM | TrackBack
NOLA Picture
Picture taken from the Interdictor's Blog:
Talk amongst yourselves....
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 07:40 AM | TrackBack
September 07, 2005
HELL
After an event like Katrina everyone is on edge. I've even heard some journalists describing the areas severely ravaged by the hurricane as "hellish" or "like a third-world country." An event of this kind should provide a common goal to bring people together, but I see it tearing people apart. Let's remember that tragedy largely depends on our reaction to a situation and not the situation itself. Steve Kowit explores some of these themes in this poem:
HELL
I died & went to Hell & it was nothing like L.A.
The air all shimmering & blue. No windows
busted, gutted walk-ups, muggings, rapes.
No drooling hoodlums hulking in the doorways.
Hell isn’t anything like Ethiopia or Bangladesh or Bogota:
beggars are unheard of. No one’s starving. Nobody
lies moaning in the streets. Nor is it Dachau
with its ovens, Troy in flames, some slaughterhouse
where squealing animals, hung upside down, are bled & skinned.
No plague-infested Avignon or post-annihilation Hiroshima.
Quite the contrary: in Hell everybody’s health is fine
forever & the weather is superb – eternal spring.
The countryside all wildflowers & the cities
hum with commerce: cargo ships bring all the latest
in appliances, home entertainment, foreign culture, silks.
Folks fall in love, have children. There is sex
& romance for the asking. In a word, the place is perfect.
Only, unlike Heaven, where when it rains
the people are content to let it rain,
in Hell they live like we do – endlessly complaining.
Nothing as it is is ever right. The astroturf
a nuisance, neighbors’ kids too noisy, traffic
nothing but a headache. If the patio were just
a little larger, or the sunroof on the Winnebago worked.
If only we had darker eyes or softer skin or longer legs,
lived elsewhere, plied a different trade, were slender,
sexy, wealthy, younger, famous, loved, athletic.
Friend, I swear to you as one who has returned
if only to bear witness: no satanic furies
beat their kited wings. No bats shriek overhead.
There are no flames. No vats of boiling oil
wait to greet us in that doleful kingdom.
Nothing of the sort. The gentleman who’ll ferry you across
is all solitude & courtesy. The river black but calm.
The crossing less eventful than one might have guessed.
Though no doubt you will think it’s far too windy on the water.
That the glare is awful. That you’re tired, hungry, ill
at ease, or that, if nothing else, the quiet is unnerving.
That you need a drink, a cigarette, a cup of coffee.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 08:42 PM | TrackBack
Feed Your Pet Via The Internet
A Korean company called Pet Watch makes this pet feeder. The product description states:
"It can take care of the pet through the internet or mobile phone while pet owners are out of their place. Through the equipped camera of product, the pet owners can see, call and feed them, whenever they want and wherever they are."
Sounds kinda creepy. If you are of of town alot your dog or cat might develop a closer bond with the pet feeder than you, since to the animal the feeder is what's talking to it and feeding it. What about the part of the product description that reads, "While pet owners are out of their place?" This is probably a mangled translation of 'not at home,' although it should read 'while pet owners are out of their minds.' This might work for cats, but I don't think it's a good idea for dogs.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 05:14 PM | TrackBack
September 06, 2005
Maclellan Foundation
(original post deleted)
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Stelmodad is completely right -- I really have no idea who was using the Maclellan's IP. I run the risk of needlessly tarnishing the reputation of this organization if my original post was incorrect, so I've deleted it.
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 04:46 PM | TrackBack
September 05, 2005
We Are Now Taking A Break From Katrina, Exploring New Freedom Tower Design
I am sick from the almost inescapable coverage of Katrina. This is probably the most devastating natural disaster we have witnessed in our lifetimes, any of us. I don't think any of us know how to respond. I just started this blog thing, but if it can be utilized in any way to help just say the word.
I haven't heard much lately about the new design for Freedom Tower on the WTC site. The latest design, which was announced June 29, 2005, is pictured below:
I actually like it better than the initial Libeskind design, and the subsequent Childs design. This one actually seems to work in its environment, and communicate strength and hope, perhaps not as much as the great Art Deco buildings but it will do.
Links to relevant info:
Project Rebirth
Article in Glass Steel and Stone
Wikipedia Entry
Lower Manhattan Development Corporation
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 10:32 PM | TrackBack
RANCH TOOTH: UPDATE!!!
Okay, by now anyone that owns a television has been exposed to the scourge that is the Wedny's "Ranch Tooth." If you haven't already, I strongly suggest you read my analysis of the Ranch Tooth first.
Alright, now that you know what you are up against....
THE ORIGINAL RANCH TOOTH IS FOR SALE!!!
I'm not kidding. The same tooth that haunts your dreams (nightmares) is up for bid on eBay. Evidently the original owner of the Ranch Tooth, while wanting to rid himself of the Ranch Curse, didn't quite want to murder it, or even put it in the RTICU. His solution -- put that bitch of a tooth up for sale on eBay, get rid of the Ranch Curse, AND make some dosh in the process.
Right now the high bid for the Ranch Tooth is $810.00(!!!), and that is with almost six days left in the auction. This is like bidding on Satan himself, or at least a high demon. Good luck?
"I will destroy you."
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Ranch Tooth: Update!!! - Update!!!
September 11, 2005
How much is a Ranch Tooth worth?
Apparently $1,781.00
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 11:45 AM | TrackBack
Chicken Shack, Baby
Looking for a certain something for that special chicken?
Look no further...
The British company Omelet makes the "Eglu," y'know, for all those high modern chickens out there. One can be yours, or rather your chicken's, for around 350 pounds -- that's $650 American (gasp). Better be one special chicken!
Posted by Joshua Daniels at 07:05 AM | TrackBack
26 Lines
You who never arrived
You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
moment. All the immense
images in me-- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and unsuspected
turns in the