The New Look

Got a new template here. Hope you like it. I always go
for clean white lines. I was enticed by the whole Blogger
Beta sweet talk. I was under the impression that this new
format was going to be highly customizable. Well, it's OK,
but nothing to switch templates for. But what the hell, the
price is right.

The New Fall Line-up

In the last few years, I've noticed I don't give a damn about
some things that used to at least pique my curiosity. The
new shows that populate the networks every Fall, for example,
NEVER sound interesting to me even though they might have
in the past. NBC's doing a show called "Heroes" about regular
people with superhero-like abilities. Should make me think
about getting just a little excited about the prospect of it
being to my liking. No chance though. Maybe I've been burnt
too many times or maybe as you age you lose some chemical
that responds to that kind of stimuli. It's also possible
that I've gotten used to some really high quality entertainment
on British television and American cable. Why watch 43 minutes
of pap punctuated by 17 minutes of commercial interruptions when
I can download three seasons of "Shameless" from UKNova?
Give me six episodes of "Snuffbox" from BBC3 any day over
"Who the fuck cares who loves Raymond?" any way? Franky,
I've found it pretty hard to get into ANY sitcoms since "Seinfeld"
went off the air. Nothing comes close in the U.S. besides
"The Simpsons" but then that's not a sitcom, it's an animated
satire.

Nebraska Cornhusker fans can suck it

I try to be enlightened. Unfortunately, the same thing cannot be
said for fans of the Nebraska Cornhuskers. They just don't freaking
get it. This primarily because most of them aren't sports fans in
general, they're just the kind of fair weather low lifes who leech off
of someone elses success hoping it will boost them up just a
little bit. As if the successes of a bunch of 19-year-old college
students from other states can make Mavis the waitress and
Joe the truck driver winners when they run a little ball down a field.
That kind of success doesn't lift us all up.

Now, inventing the digital computer or flight, that is something
everyone can be proud of if you are lucky enough to live in one
of those states.

Nebraska fans think anyone who just doesn't give a shit about
Husker games is jealous. It's amazing. Arguing with these
dumb fucks is like trying to talk about particle physics with ...
well, these people I guess. Though to be fair, I wouldn't be
surprised if there are one or two particle physicists who are
Big Red fans. I would, however, be stunned gormless if they
didn't have massive emotional problems to boot.

Every time the Huskers play, life stops in Nebraska ... if you can
what you find here life. It's mostly just meat buffets and call
centers punctuated by angry retard strength road rage on the
local beltway.

Fuck the Huskers, but more importantly, fuck Husker fans.

This movie fucked me up

I didn't write this. This is a short story that was turned, word for word, into a movie that was shown to my elementary school class back in '76 when I was 8. It isn't that extreme for adults or even children today, but just imagine being a youth back in the days before cable and graphic violence on TV. This film was not meant to be shown to children, according to Skip at AVGeeks.com. It was meant to be shown to their teachers. I remember our teacher wasn't even paying attention when she warped our little minds with this. It has haunted me for years. ENJOY!

Cipher in the Snow: A True Story

---

It started with tragedy on a biting cold February morning. I was driving behind the Milford Corners bus as I did most snowy mornings on my way to school. It veered and stopped short at the hotel, which it had no business doing, and I was annoyed as I had to come to an unexpected stop. I boy lurched out of the bus, reeled, stumbled, and collapsed on the snowbank at the curb. The bus driver and I reached him at the same moment. His thin, hollow face was white even against the snow.
"He's dead," the driver whispered.
It didn't register for a minute, I glanced quickly at the scared young faces staring down at us from the school bus. "A doctor! Quick! I'll phone from the hotel . . ."
"No use, I tell you, he's dead." The driver looked down at the boy's still form. "He never even said he felt bad," he muttered. "Just tapped my on the shoulder and said, real quiet, 'I'm sorry. I have to get off at the hotel.' That's all. Polite and apologizing like."
At school the giggling, shuffling morning noise quieted as news went down the halls. I passed a huddle of girls. "Who was it? Who dropped dead on the way to school?" I head one of them half-whisper.
"Don't know his name. Some kid from Milford Corners," was the reply.
It was like that in the faculty room and the principal's office. "I'd appreciate your going out to tell the parents," the principal told me. "They haven't a phone, and anyway, somebody from the school should go there in person. I'll cover your classes."
"Why me?" I asked. "Wouldn't it be better if you did it?"
"I didn't know the boy," the principal admitted levelly. "And in last year's sophomore personalities column I noted that you were listed as his favorite teacher."
I drove through the snow and cold down the bad canyon road to the Evans' place and thought about the boy, Cliff Evans. His favorite teacher! I thought. He hasn't spoken two words to me in two years! I could see him in my mind's eye all right, sitting back there in the last seat in my afternoon literature class. He came in the room by himself and left by himself. "Cliff Evans," I muttered to myself, "a boy who never talked." I thought a minute. "A boy who never smiled. I never saw him smile once."
The big ranch kitchen was clean and warm. I blurted out my news somehow. Mrs. Evans reached blindly toward a chair. "He never said anything about bein' ailing."
His stepfather snorted. "He ain't said nothin' about anything since I moved in here."
Mrs. Evans pushed a pan to the back of the stove and began to untie her apron. "Now hold on," her husband snapped. "I got to have breakfast before I go to town. Nothin' we can do now, anyway. If Cliff hadn't been so dumb, he'd have told us he didn't feel good."
After school I sat in the office and stared blankly at the records spread out before me. I was to read the file and write the obituary for the school paper. The almost bare sheets mocked the effort. Cliff Evans, white, never legally adopted by stepfather, five young half-brothers and sisters. These meager strands of information and the list of "D" grades were all the records had to offer.
Cliff Evans had silently come in the school door in the mornings and gone out the school door in the evenings, and that was all. He had never belonged to a club. He had never played on a team. He had never held an office. As far as I could tell, he had never done one happy, noisy kid thing. He had never been anybody at all.
How do you go about making a boy into a zero? The grade-school records showed me. The first and second grade teachers' annotations read, "Sweet, shy child," "timid but eager." Then the third grade note had opened the attack. Some teacher had written in a good, firm hand, "Cliff won't talk. Uncooperative. Slow learner." The other academic sheep and followed with "dull," "slow-witted," "low I.Q." They became correct. The boy's I.Q. score in the ninth grade was listed at 83. But his I.Q. in the third grade had been 106. The score didn't go under 100 until the seventh grade. Even the shy, timid, sweet children have resilience. It takes time to break them.
I stomped to the typewriter and wrote a savage report pointing out what education had done to Cliff Evans. I slapped a copy on the principal's desk and another in the sad, dog-eared file. I banged the typewriter and slammed the file and crashed the door shut, but I didn't feel much better. A little boy kept walking after me, a little boy with a peaked, pale face; a skinny body in faded jeans; and big eyes that had looked and searched for a long time and then had become veiled.
I could guess how many times he had been chosen last to play sides in a game, how many whispered child conversations had excluded him, how many times he hadn't been asked. I could see and hear the faces that said over and over, "You're nothing, Cliff Evans."
A child is a believing creature. Cliff undoubtedly believed them. Suddenly it seemed clear to me: When finally there was nothing left at all for Cliff Evans, he collapsed on a snowbank and went away. The doctor might list "heart failure" as the cause of death, but that wouldn't change my mind.
We couldn't find ten students in the school who had known Cliff well enough to attend the funeral as his friends. So the student body officers and a committee from the junior class went as a group to the church, being politely sad. I attended the services with them, and sat through it with a lump of cold lead in my chest and a big resolve growing through me.
I've never forgotten Cliff Evans nor that resolve. He has been my challenge year after year, class after class. I look for veiled eyes or bodies scrounged into a seat in an alien world. "Look, kids," I say silently. "I may not do anything else for you this year, but not one of you is going to come out of here as a nobody. I'll work or fight to the bitter end doing battle with society and the school board, but I won't have on e of you coming out of there thinking himself a zero."
Most of the time -- not always, but most of the time -- I've succeeded.

-Jean Mizer

Another Inconvenient Truth

"I said that this war was coming and agreed with
the Pope (John Paul II) that it was unjust, immoral
and illegal. Right now in the US, the only reason
the war is becoming more unpopular is because George
Bush is losing it. To lose a war as a politician is
a cardinal sin. That's why this country is going
sour on it, not for the right reasons."

Frank Cordaro
from the article "Catholic Anti-War Activist
Released from Jail" by Lee Siggs of
The Universe Catholic Newspaper
in England. Posted Sept. 4, 2006


frank.cordaro@gmail.com
Phil Berrigan Catholic Worker House
713 Indiana Avenue, Des Moines, IA 50314
(515) 282-4781
www.DesMoinesCatholicWorker.org

Communist PartyCommunist PartyCommunist PartyCommunist PartyCommunist PartyCommunist Party
Communist Party
Communist Party
Communist PartyCommunist PartyCommunist PartyCommunist PartyCommunist Party
Communist PartyCommunist PartyCommunist PartyCommunist PartyCommunist Party
Communist PartyCommunist Party

Get it?

Sunday Bloody Sunday

9/11 Cover Up

This is a well-made case for what I think many
rational people suspect is true and what most
decent well-meaning but naive citizens don't
want to believe could possibly be true. Give
it at least 10 minutes and you'll want to watch
the whole thing.

Alex Jones in Waking Life

Trailer Park Boys-You Got to Blame the Thing Up Here

"Trailer Park Boys" is one of my favorite Canadian TV shows.
The other is "Forever Knight," of course. Play and Enjoy!
But be warned, this show's a bit dirty.

Also, expect more in the way of video on this blog since I
obviously just figured out how to get it up here.