by Anna Skorczeski
As a recent college graduate, I am entering the "It's hard to meet new people" phase of my young social life. Let's be honest, high school and college were both 4-year-long group dates. Meeting people was not hard. But now I am no longer surrounded by people of all the same age that share many of my interests. I have had my first glimpses of The Bar Scene, and based on what I've seen, things look bleak. From my preliminary observations, I have found a predictable interaction between total strangers:
Man approaches woman in bar. Possibly orders her a drink. Creates awkward unsolicited small talk that often manages to include his yearly income. As last call nears, a fear of never seeing this wonderful lady ever again mounts. He asks for her number, or slips his to her.
The man knows three things about the woman:
her general physical appearance
that she goes to bar
that she speaks English
Is that really enough? Maybe she has anthrax. Maybe she eats her toenails. Maybe she has jars of spiders in her closet. Maybe she puts mustard on her ice cream. Maybe she doesn't brake for puppies. Maybe she gets heavy bloody noses once every 6 hours. Maybe she has a tattoo of Weird Al covering her entire back. Is anyone willing to risk all these things for the minute chance that someone will sleep with you?
This abrupt approach leads to the option of the Fake Name and Number. Giving out false numbers and telling strangers false names upon introduction is a very common defense, it turns out. Having been raised under the Judeo-Christian ethic of "Do Not Lie To People," this Bar Tactic has not come easily to me. My first impulse, when asked my name, is to tell my name. No, no, no. Always have a pseudonym ready as unlike your real name as possible so they can never track you down. I made the mistake of just going with Anne the other night. I'm still a beginner.
Cell phones are an added curse. The stranger is able to immediately check the validity of the number you have just given them. And, when your phone doesn't ring as he dials the number you gave him, the poor fool says, "Oh, you seem to have accidentally given me the wrong number." Of course it's the wrong number, and you're an ass for pointing it out. It's like saying, "Oops, you forgot to invite me to your party." To these people I assign writing out the definition of "intentional" 100 times on the blackboard.
No amount of good will or even pity is going to make it worth my while when you drunk dial me at 3:24am. So sorry, but my name's Shaniqua and my number's 777-1100. Call me.
Friday, December 13, 2002
Ode to Algona
by Bryce Wilson
They can't believe I could spend an hour of my day getting to work.
They can't believe they drive an hour to a mall.
I have moved from a large city to a small town.
I don't hear planes now.
I hear trains a lot, though.
A lot of cars don't make me late from work.
Grain trailers make me late for work.
I know what a grain trailer looks like.
Now.
After high school I never went abroad.
In fact, I still haven't.
It kinda feels like it though.
It seems a poem on living in a small town doesn't stand a chance of being interesting.
If I had some funny anecdotes, then maybe.
I like funny anecdotes.
I have no funny anecdotes.
They can't believe I could spend an hour of my day getting to work.
They can't believe they drive an hour to a mall.
I have moved from a large city to a small town.
I don't hear planes now.
I hear trains a lot, though.
A lot of cars don't make me late from work.
Grain trailers make me late for work.
I know what a grain trailer looks like.
Now.
After high school I never went abroad.
In fact, I still haven't.
It kinda feels like it though.
It seems a poem on living in a small town doesn't stand a chance of being interesting.
If I had some funny anecdotes, then maybe.
I like funny anecdotes.
I have no funny anecdotes.
Bowling for Controversial Film
by Stephanie Anderson
None of the Young Republicans wanted to go see Bowling for Columbine with me. This may be because I smell, but they say that it is because "Michael Moore is a piece of s**t." (You may note that I was a little too conservative to actually spell out a curse word and print it on the Internet, and even in my head, I said "beep" while I typed it.) Despite the advice of those feeling more self-justified, I temporarily teamed up with a couple of Donkeys and went to see what all the fuss was about.
To my amazement, Michael Moore, who cleverly stars in his own documentary, does not even resemble South Park's "Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo." Yes, he is slightly obnoxious and self-righteous, and no one could rightly accuse him of following through on a train of thought, but his film brings up some excellent points.
Influenced by pre-movie criticism or not, I expected the film to be one long tirade basically saying: "Guns suck. If no one in America had a gun, we would all hold hands and sing 'We are the World' every day before we sat down for warm cookies and milk." While Charlton Heston took more abuse than Moses ever should, that wasn't exactly the point. The movie seemed to think that guns cannot be the problem, citing Canada's giant gun ownership numbers as proof.
Instead, the film had three basic contentions: 1- The US government is violent. 2- Fear is ingrained into our citizens through the media. 3- That same fear stems commercialism. The thought process connecting these points, if drawn, would look something like a child's interpretation of cartoon tumbleweed.
The film raised interesting questions: Are we a more fearful culture than others with lower homicide rates? Is a combination Bank/Gun Shoppe a good idea? Does government foreign policy affect young people's attitudes toward each other and the world? How far will the media go to sell us something? Is bowling the root of all evil, and more importantly, can it be considered a sport?
But less philosophical questions also came up. Such as, Michael, could you accompany those numbers with percentages to make them at least marginally comparable? Do you know that it is not ethical journalism to only present the facts that support your side of the argument? And, do you ever consider shaping the bills of your hats? It's not enough that the hats are plain ugly, you could also cleanly slice cheese with his visor.
Though my head is mostly full, a little bit of learning and even an independent thought or two crept in as a result of seeing Bowling. I suppose that by entertaining views you disagree with, you run the risk of your mind being changed, or, even worse, your own views being validated.
None of the Young Republicans wanted to go see Bowling for Columbine with me. This may be because I smell, but they say that it is because "Michael Moore is a piece of s**t." (You may note that I was a little too conservative to actually spell out a curse word and print it on the Internet, and even in my head, I said "beep" while I typed it.) Despite the advice of those feeling more self-justified, I temporarily teamed up with a couple of Donkeys and went to see what all the fuss was about.
To my amazement, Michael Moore, who cleverly stars in his own documentary, does not even resemble South Park's "Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo." Yes, he is slightly obnoxious and self-righteous, and no one could rightly accuse him of following through on a train of thought, but his film brings up some excellent points.
Influenced by pre-movie criticism or not, I expected the film to be one long tirade basically saying: "Guns suck. If no one in America had a gun, we would all hold hands and sing 'We are the World' every day before we sat down for warm cookies and milk." While Charlton Heston took more abuse than Moses ever should, that wasn't exactly the point. The movie seemed to think that guns cannot be the problem, citing Canada's giant gun ownership numbers as proof.
Instead, the film had three basic contentions: 1- The US government is violent. 2- Fear is ingrained into our citizens through the media. 3- That same fear stems commercialism. The thought process connecting these points, if drawn, would look something like a child's interpretation of cartoon tumbleweed.
The film raised interesting questions: Are we a more fearful culture than others with lower homicide rates? Is a combination Bank/Gun Shoppe a good idea? Does government foreign policy affect young people's attitudes toward each other and the world? How far will the media go to sell us something? Is bowling the root of all evil, and more importantly, can it be considered a sport?
But less philosophical questions also came up. Such as, Michael, could you accompany those numbers with percentages to make them at least marginally comparable? Do you know that it is not ethical journalism to only present the facts that support your side of the argument? And, do you ever consider shaping the bills of your hats? It's not enough that the hats are plain ugly, you could also cleanly slice cheese with his visor.
Though my head is mostly full, a little bit of learning and even an independent thought or two crept in as a result of seeing Bowling. I suppose that by entertaining views you disagree with, you run the risk of your mind being changed, or, even worse, your own views being validated.
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
Confessions of an Earthquake Junkie
by Anna
It started with airplanes. Living and going to school near the airport was how I got the taste for it. The frequent rumbling of the low planes, especially on days when the clouds are thick and low. It does it for me.
Living next to train tracks is good, and so are some movies with heavy-duty surround sound. But on Sunday, November 3 at 1:12pm, I felt what I had been missing. Like a Muzak listener hearing Beethoven for the first time or a bologna sandwich connoisseur finally tasting filet mignon, I experienced an earthquake. Not just any earthquake, but the biggest to happen anywhere this year. A seven point frickin' nine on the Richter scale.
It was great, the walls twisted and the ground grumbled. Stuff fell off the walls and people ran outside, no one was hurt. Despite it being over by the time everyone realized what was going on, it was wonderful.
But luckily, that wasn't the end of it. Aftershocks followed for almost 48 hours. They were great because they snuck up. I knew they were out there, lined up and waiting to shake away, so I was always waiting expectantly for them. They would have made a good drinking game. Rumble rumble... "Did you feel that one? Bottoms up. And another one! Glug glug."
I found sitting on the floor allowed for the most accurate detection and enjoyment. Since we were spending our nights in sleeping bags, the fun just didn't stop. I got little earth massages all night long. But now, one month later in fault line-free Minnesota, I've got a hankering for some good old-fashioned seismic activity. I may have to make a pilgrimage to the San Andreas area.
Saturday, October 19, 2002
Put up your dukes, you limp wristed panzies
by Brett Sheats
I have just watched the "Fight of the Decade" between Iron Mike Tyson and Lennox Lewis, and the taste left in my mouth is acutely described as quite bitter. Promoters, along with cable's usual extended onslaught of boxing "experts" (and I do use that term loosely) billed tonight's bout to be the heavyweight match of my lifetime, but instead it turned out to be a mismatch of an excellent technical fighter versus a bully whose time passed long, long ago.
I am left to ponder, "Is this as good as it gets for boxing in this day and age?" And my answer to that question is a resounding NO! There is a fight above all others that today's young and urbane audience demands. Yes, my friends, I speak of the fight of all time, the fight between the newly revered Heavyweight Champion of our era, Lennox Lewis, and the upstart scrapper whose heart exceeds even the greatest Philadelphian, Rocky Balboa. I speak of the one, the only, Little Mac.
Little Mac, whom I have personally witnessed overcome the gamut of fighters from Glass Joe to the unscrupulous Super Macho Man, possesses the will and the drive to defeat any titan that stands in his way. Outclassed by Lewis' superior reach? No problem, simply hit START and he will unload his mighty uppercut. Battered and bloodied by the Champ's left jab? It's OK, press back on your directional control pad and Little Mac will block even the mightiest of blows, excluding only Bald Bull's charging uppercut. Between rounds you can count on the fact that Little Mac is going to receive great advice including, "It's OK Mac, subscribe to Nintendo Power today!!!"
Who exactly is this challenger, you Nintendo neophytes may ask. His past is shrouded in mystery, but what little is known is that he was a young boxing prodigy led by masterful corner management and conditioning. Witnesses such as young Mary Ann Moser of Queens, NY remember Little Mac being a tireless trainer. "I used to relax on Ellis Island on the weekends, and I remember looking across the water to Liberty Island," said Ms. Moser, "and one thing that I could count on to be as regular as the ferry itself, was the sight of Little Mac, in full sweat gear, running beside his bicycle-riding trainer. After several months, I knew this kid was serious." That rigor spawned from his gaining of the Minor Championship Belt versus one-time champion Piston Honda. Honda reminiscences, "There no stopping him! He dodge my powerful combo! My chin no match for his mighty blow! Lay out flat on a big bopper he go-a me boom!" Go-a him boom in a second round TKO, he did indeed.
Little Mac then moved into competition for the Major Belt, where his competition increased in quality greatly. He was met by the up-and-coming Don Flamingo from Spain, and the equally mysterious King Hippo, with his notorious legion of fans, the "Hippo-drome." Little Mac remembers, however, that his toughest match in the Major division was against the magically delicious Great Tiger of India. "When the jewel on his turban started to flash, I knew that hell was about to spawn its fiery wrath within the ring," Little Mac remarked in a rare 1992 interview. "I just blocked all those punches and waited until I could counter while he was momentarily stunned." That strategy worked to perfection as Little Mac catapulted himself into the limelight with a third-round TKO and a shot at the Major Championship. Keeping his undefeated record alive, he beat Bald Bull in 3 rounds to capture the belt and moved into the most elite league of boxers after another period of off-time filled with tireless pink jumpsuit training.
Many boxing experts felt that Little Mac's small size would count against him in versus the most experienced and talented fighters, but their fears were allayed quite quickly when Little Mac dispatched the well respected Soda Popinski, who hails from the former Soviet Union. In the three-round epic battle, patriotism abounded, but the partisan Russian crowd was won over by Little Mac's resolve and sheer willpower, eventually cheering out "Mac! Mac! Mac!" Even Popinski was heard to say to his corner between the second and third rounds "He is not human! He is a piece of iron!"
But even young Mac's career was not sheltered from scandals that have plagued boxing in the past few decades. After a rematch against Don Flamingo, police arrested Flamingo as he was leaving the ring on charges of Child Pornography. Mac's only loss occurred in his next match, a three round decision for Mr. Sandman, where Mac knocked down Sandman six times in the bout while only falling to the canvas once himself. The bizarre decision by the judges resulted in riot after the match, and six people were killed by the angry mob. People close to Mac said that this loss was devastating to his ego and Mac turned to the bottle for salvation. But like he had done with so many demons in the ring, Mac won his battle with alcohol and now even runs Knock Out Alcohol!, a program for troubled, young alcoholics.
Eventually, Mac avenged his only boxing loss with a third round KO in the rematch. The result was a shot at the championship title against the brutally vain Super Macho Man, whose man-boobies were so big that he could shake them in time to the music while entering the ring. Dodging the Champ's patented Super-spin punch proved to be Mac's biggest challenge to date. In the end though, youth triumphed over beauty and Little Mac scored a TKO of Super Macho Man just before the final bell. The undisputed Champion of the World was the young Little Mac, and there was much rejoicing. What would Mac do now? Move to the WWF? Take Hollywood by storm? Insiders in Tinseltown have admitted that Mac was their first choice for the genie in Kazaam, but the part instead went to Shaquille O'Neal when Little Mac was sidelined with bronchitis during shooting. Mac's lasting legacy was to be found elsewhere, in one more fight that would decide once and for all who was the dominant fighter of the decade. It was official: Little Mac was going to fight Iron Mike Tyson.
And the match to end all matches lived up to the billing: it was an epic struggle, almost biblical in scope. In the end only one man was left standing, and that man was Little Mac. The first round, in which Iron Mike did not connect on a single punch that he threw, only highlighted Mac's third round TKO. Lucky for Mac, because those uppercuts were thrown with such ferocity that even one hitting the petite chin of the challenger would have spelled disaster. There was a new sports legend born that day, evidenced by the framed box of Wheaties that hangs above Mac's mantle in his swank Beverly Hills mansion.
Mac is older now, but reportedly still in top shape. Would he even consider taking on the Champ of the new millennium? Sources say the Mac camp is mum on the idea, but that Mac himself has started training again for 'unknown reasons.' Analysts question Mac's ability to go toe to toe with Lennox Lewis for 12 rounds, as all of Mac's fights have been just three rounds or less. "I take Lewis in four!" says former boxing star Evander Holyfield. "That damn Mac wouldn't be in my superior Evander Holyfield Boxing for the Sega Genesis!" Sounds like jealousy to this sportswriter. No matter what the pundits say, there is no doubt that the fans deserve to get what they want: A Mac/Lewis fight to decide who truly is the greatest fighter of the past two boxing eras. Although some in the boxing community say that Mac will need several tune-up fights to get ready for Lewis, others claim he will simply use a pass code to go directly to the belt holder. When he does decide to get in the ring and this legendary battle begins, you can bet this fan will be in the front row, close enough to heckle the Ref Mario.
I have just watched the "Fight of the Decade" between Iron Mike Tyson and Lennox Lewis, and the taste left in my mouth is acutely described as quite bitter. Promoters, along with cable's usual extended onslaught of boxing "experts" (and I do use that term loosely) billed tonight's bout to be the heavyweight match of my lifetime, but instead it turned out to be a mismatch of an excellent technical fighter versus a bully whose time passed long, long ago.
I am left to ponder, "Is this as good as it gets for boxing in this day and age?" And my answer to that question is a resounding NO! There is a fight above all others that today's young and urbane audience demands. Yes, my friends, I speak of the fight of all time, the fight between the newly revered Heavyweight Champion of our era, Lennox Lewis, and the upstart scrapper whose heart exceeds even the greatest Philadelphian, Rocky Balboa. I speak of the one, the only, Little Mac.
Little Mac, whom I have personally witnessed overcome the gamut of fighters from Glass Joe to the unscrupulous Super Macho Man, possesses the will and the drive to defeat any titan that stands in his way. Outclassed by Lewis' superior reach? No problem, simply hit START and he will unload his mighty uppercut. Battered and bloodied by the Champ's left jab? It's OK, press back on your directional control pad and Little Mac will block even the mightiest of blows, excluding only Bald Bull's charging uppercut. Between rounds you can count on the fact that Little Mac is going to receive great advice including, "It's OK Mac, subscribe to Nintendo Power today!!!"
Who exactly is this challenger, you Nintendo neophytes may ask. His past is shrouded in mystery, but what little is known is that he was a young boxing prodigy led by masterful corner management and conditioning. Witnesses such as young Mary Ann Moser of Queens, NY remember Little Mac being a tireless trainer. "I used to relax on Ellis Island on the weekends, and I remember looking across the water to Liberty Island," said Ms. Moser, "and one thing that I could count on to be as regular as the ferry itself, was the sight of Little Mac, in full sweat gear, running beside his bicycle-riding trainer. After several months, I knew this kid was serious." That rigor spawned from his gaining of the Minor Championship Belt versus one-time champion Piston Honda. Honda reminiscences, "There no stopping him! He dodge my powerful combo! My chin no match for his mighty blow! Lay out flat on a big bopper he go-a me boom!" Go-a him boom in a second round TKO, he did indeed.
Little Mac then moved into competition for the Major Belt, where his competition increased in quality greatly. He was met by the up-and-coming Don Flamingo from Spain, and the equally mysterious King Hippo, with his notorious legion of fans, the "Hippo-drome." Little Mac remembers, however, that his toughest match in the Major division was against the magically delicious Great Tiger of India. "When the jewel on his turban started to flash, I knew that hell was about to spawn its fiery wrath within the ring," Little Mac remarked in a rare 1992 interview. "I just blocked all those punches and waited until I could counter while he was momentarily stunned." That strategy worked to perfection as Little Mac catapulted himself into the limelight with a third-round TKO and a shot at the Major Championship. Keeping his undefeated record alive, he beat Bald Bull in 3 rounds to capture the belt and moved into the most elite league of boxers after another period of off-time filled with tireless pink jumpsuit training.
Many boxing experts felt that Little Mac's small size would count against him in versus the most experienced and talented fighters, but their fears were allayed quite quickly when Little Mac dispatched the well respected Soda Popinski, who hails from the former Soviet Union. In the three-round epic battle, patriotism abounded, but the partisan Russian crowd was won over by Little Mac's resolve and sheer willpower, eventually cheering out "Mac! Mac! Mac!" Even Popinski was heard to say to his corner between the second and third rounds "He is not human! He is a piece of iron!"
But even young Mac's career was not sheltered from scandals that have plagued boxing in the past few decades. After a rematch against Don Flamingo, police arrested Flamingo as he was leaving the ring on charges of Child Pornography. Mac's only loss occurred in his next match, a three round decision for Mr. Sandman, where Mac knocked down Sandman six times in the bout while only falling to the canvas once himself. The bizarre decision by the judges resulted in riot after the match, and six people were killed by the angry mob. People close to Mac said that this loss was devastating to his ego and Mac turned to the bottle for salvation. But like he had done with so many demons in the ring, Mac won his battle with alcohol and now even runs Knock Out Alcohol!, a program for troubled, young alcoholics.
Eventually, Mac avenged his only boxing loss with a third round KO in the rematch. The result was a shot at the championship title against the brutally vain Super Macho Man, whose man-boobies were so big that he could shake them in time to the music while entering the ring. Dodging the Champ's patented Super-spin punch proved to be Mac's biggest challenge to date. In the end though, youth triumphed over beauty and Little Mac scored a TKO of Super Macho Man just before the final bell. The undisputed Champion of the World was the young Little Mac, and there was much rejoicing. What would Mac do now? Move to the WWF? Take Hollywood by storm? Insiders in Tinseltown have admitted that Mac was their first choice for the genie in Kazaam, but the part instead went to Shaquille O'Neal when Little Mac was sidelined with bronchitis during shooting. Mac's lasting legacy was to be found elsewhere, in one more fight that would decide once and for all who was the dominant fighter of the decade. It was official: Little Mac was going to fight Iron Mike Tyson.
And the match to end all matches lived up to the billing: it was an epic struggle, almost biblical in scope. In the end only one man was left standing, and that man was Little Mac. The first round, in which Iron Mike did not connect on a single punch that he threw, only highlighted Mac's third round TKO. Lucky for Mac, because those uppercuts were thrown with such ferocity that even one hitting the petite chin of the challenger would have spelled disaster. There was a new sports legend born that day, evidenced by the framed box of Wheaties that hangs above Mac's mantle in his swank Beverly Hills mansion.
Mac is older now, but reportedly still in top shape. Would he even consider taking on the Champ of the new millennium? Sources say the Mac camp is mum on the idea, but that Mac himself has started training again for 'unknown reasons.' Analysts question Mac's ability to go toe to toe with Lennox Lewis for 12 rounds, as all of Mac's fights have been just three rounds or less. "I take Lewis in four!" says former boxing star Evander Holyfield. "That damn Mac wouldn't be in my superior Evander Holyfield Boxing for the Sega Genesis!" Sounds like jealousy to this sportswriter. No matter what the pundits say, there is no doubt that the fans deserve to get what they want: A Mac/Lewis fight to decide who truly is the greatest fighter of the past two boxing eras. Although some in the boxing community say that Mac will need several tune-up fights to get ready for Lewis, others claim he will simply use a pass code to go directly to the belt holder. When he does decide to get in the ring and this legendary battle begins, you can bet this fan will be in the front row, close enough to heckle the Ref Mario.
Hello Anzengruber! Discovery of the World's most outgoing and well-traveled Brachiosaurus
by Stephanie AndersonOne day, during a unlucky streak which included being unemployed, breaking a window, contracting tonsillitis, being kicked out of a flat, doused in boiling water, and 3 pianos falling on my head, I was on the No. 62 Streetcar in search of somewhere to live. There was a scuffle under my seat (which can probably be attributed to me tripping over my own feet) and a small dinosaur popped his head out.
As this Brachiosaurus was already strapped into his leash and with no owner to be found, I decided I had better take him for his walk (I mean really, who knows the last time he had been out?). As we strolled up Anzengruberstrasse towards a potential dwelling, I christened him after that very street.
Since then, Anzengruber has had many adventures, made many friends and traveled the world. He has gone swimming in Switzerland, hiking in the Alps, and shopping on Vienna’s chic-est street: Karntnerstrasse. His sixteenth birthday (determined by carbon dating and the year stamped into his plastic stomach) will be celebrated this weekend by friends around the world.
Please stay tuned for Anzengruber’s life and times to come.
Plitvice National Park
by Stephanie Anderson
Plitvice National Park, in inland Croatia not far from the Bosnian border, is a wilderness of sixteen crystal blue, terraced lakes. Between these lakes cascade countless waterfalls, constantly changing with time and the landscape. Rough wooden walkways have been laid as scenic paths along the lakesides. Stairs abruptly leave the pathways and lead to high viewpoints from which one can survey the grander scene. The water is so clear that even from 100 feet above, one can still see the forms of swimming fish. Electric ferries quietly carry visitors across the lakes from one trail to another.
The argument that this is one of the most beautiful places in the world need not even be made. The fact is granted. It has even been named a "World Heritage Site" by the people who name such things. What this title means is a bit mysterious, but the magnificence of the area must have something to do with it.
Obviously, everyone who has heard of such a tranquil wonderland wants to go there, and if they harbor a doubt, even one inadequate photograph would sell them completely. So how has this park not been inundated with swarms of people on their around-the-world Disney tours? Because getting there is no light task. The nearest train station, 1.5 hours from the park by bus, is in Zagreb. Zagreb is seven hours by train from Vienna, the easternmost city of the West. Most people's travel plans sadly do not include even one day in Zagreb (which is a beautiful city), and thus do not allow for this bus connection.
The majority of travelers in Croatia are on the coast, and many of them come by boat. These logistics leave really only one option besides a long bus ride: Rental car. Driving in Croatia is not the European Autobahn racing of legend, rather, the roads are two lane and twist through the mountains. Passing is hardly ever an option, and chances of getting stuck behind a cattle truck are high. But it can be done, and parking around the park is adequate and the road passing through the region is lined with rooms for rent and restaurants nightly serving creatures roasted on an open flame spit.
Though the scars of war are still obvious in her landscape, Croatia is a beautiful country, more than worth a visit. Plitvice makes the struggles and atrocities of recent Yugoslavian history seem to belong to another world.
Greetings from Uzbekistan
by Ellie Shirly
I'm finally here in an Internet cafe in Tashkent having searched for several hours on Saturday and an hour today for an open computer that actually connects. Among the six Internet cafes I visited on Saturday, three were filled with boys playing video games and the other three mysteriously did not connect to the Internet at all.
I'm now officially a member of the Mirakmedov family of Durmen, Uzbekistan (a small town about a 20 minute bus ride from Tashkent). I live with a father and mother in their mid-30's, an 8 year-old girl named Iroda, a 5 year-old girl named Zioda, a 3 year-old boy named Murakbar, and the grandfather who we all call Bobo ('grandpa' in Uzbek). In addition, we have about 7 cows (all of whom I've nicknamed 'Hamburger'), 2 sheep who were chased out of the garden last week when Bobo started yelling and throwing rocks, several chickens, and 2 cats with fleas. The house itself is built in an L-shape, with each room opening onto a courtyard garden in the middle. We eat all of our meals outside in the courtyard on a raised platform that contains a long, low table we all sit around on soft blankets.
The meals are truly a family event, everyone eating out of one huge plate in the middle with our individual spoons. Its kind of makes me feel like part of a team - if I don't eat the stuff nearest my side of the plate, everyone yells 'Oling, oling!', which means, 'Take it, take it!', and they watch as I shovel another spoonful down my throat. Hospitality is taken very seriously here. If I don't gain at least 10 pounds, I think my family will feel like they failed me.
All in all, family life has been pretty blissful in Durmen. When I get home tonight, I'll do my Uzbek language homework while Iroda does her English language homework, Zioda looks through my copy of Glamour magazine for the hundredth time (always giggling at the page where there is a lotion advertisement showing a naked butt), and Murakbar listens to Micheal Jackson on my CD player and dances around the room. Later, I will inevitably play UNO with the kids and my host mom - we have a running total starting last week of how many games each person has won. I'm sure i'll give the kids my UNO deck as a going-away present when I leave because I definitely will never want to play UNO again.
At 9 tonight, I'll be dragged into the TV room to watch 'Esmeralda', a Spanish soap opera to which everyone in Uzbekistan is inexplicably addicted. I don't even think you are allowed to live in this country if you don't watch 'Esmerelda'. Naturally, it has Uzbek voice-overs, so I won't understand anything and after a few minutes I'll claim I'm tired and go to my room.
As far as host families go, I think mine is pretty much the best. We can't talk much to each other, but we play a lot of charades, and we smile and laugh awkwardly and then move on when something just can't be communicated. Last Saturday, my first full day in my new family, they treated me to a real cultural experience by taking me next door- to a circumcision party! I'm always up for a circumcision party (who isn't?), and here in Uzbekistan, circumcision and marriage are the two biggest events in a person's life, each requiring a gigantic party. The live band (made up of many shrill horns and drums) started playing for the party at 4:30 a.m. last Saturday. I know this because I was attempting to sleep next door. Parties here sometimes last several days and occur in various shifts of separate men's and women's events. So after the males had their rice-eating gathering from 4:30 to about 8 in the morning, everyone took a break before the main event began around 11am.
Four young boys were celebrating their circumcisions together. Each was dressed in a blue-velvet and gold-embroidered Turkish-looking outfit, complete with hat and jacket. Two boys at a time were led into the house from the street riding on a horse, which was draped in colorful fabrics and skittered nervously through the narrow paths surrounding the courtyard of the house. All of this ritualized parading took about an hour. Then, I was ushered home to eat for a while before returning for the women's party that afternoon. (Note: I don't think the actual circumcisions were part of the party events, though I cannot be certain as I was gone for over an hour.)
About 75 women of all ages sat together on one side of the courtyard at long picnic tables that were literally overflowing with food. Every time I thought we must be done eating, more food suddenly appeared. The women were looking their best for the party: many had painted their eyebrows into one long, black line (they are horrified that Americans prefer to have two distinct eyebrows- uni-brows are a sign of beauty here), their gold teeth were glittering (gold teeth signify wealth, and most women over 40 have accumulated an entire row of gold teeth), and they were wearing the large, shapeless mumu-like dresses that are the uniform here. A small dance area had been cleared in front of the tables, and so we alternately ate and danced, with our arms twirling above us, for a couple of hours. The whole experience was really enjoyable, and I couldn't have asked for a more interesting way to be introduced to my neighborhood.
On November 1st, I will be officially sworn in as a Peace Corps volunteer and begin teaching English in Gulistan City. (That didn't mean anything to me at first either, but it is about two hours from Tashkent by bus, and is a mid-sized city, meaning that it might not have the conveniences of Tashkent but will have many things a tiny village would not such as hot water...maybe.) Until then, I am teaching two classes of 13 year-olds on Monday and Thursday at a local school in Durmen, for practice. Teaching is hard work, but it's also fun, especially when I try to ask the kids about their families and go over some vocabulary, and they say to me, "So, do you like the Backstreet Boys?"
I'm finally here in an Internet cafe in Tashkent having searched for several hours on Saturday and an hour today for an open computer that actually connects. Among the six Internet cafes I visited on Saturday, three were filled with boys playing video games and the other three mysteriously did not connect to the Internet at all.
I'm now officially a member of the Mirakmedov family of Durmen, Uzbekistan (a small town about a 20 minute bus ride from Tashkent). I live with a father and mother in their mid-30's, an 8 year-old girl named Iroda, a 5 year-old girl named Zioda, a 3 year-old boy named Murakbar, and the grandfather who we all call Bobo ('grandpa' in Uzbek). In addition, we have about 7 cows (all of whom I've nicknamed 'Hamburger'), 2 sheep who were chased out of the garden last week when Bobo started yelling and throwing rocks, several chickens, and 2 cats with fleas. The house itself is built in an L-shape, with each room opening onto a courtyard garden in the middle. We eat all of our meals outside in the courtyard on a raised platform that contains a long, low table we all sit around on soft blankets.
The meals are truly a family event, everyone eating out of one huge plate in the middle with our individual spoons. Its kind of makes me feel like part of a team - if I don't eat the stuff nearest my side of the plate, everyone yells 'Oling, oling!', which means, 'Take it, take it!', and they watch as I shovel another spoonful down my throat. Hospitality is taken very seriously here. If I don't gain at least 10 pounds, I think my family will feel like they failed me.
All in all, family life has been pretty blissful in Durmen. When I get home tonight, I'll do my Uzbek language homework while Iroda does her English language homework, Zioda looks through my copy of Glamour magazine for the hundredth time (always giggling at the page where there is a lotion advertisement showing a naked butt), and Murakbar listens to Micheal Jackson on my CD player and dances around the room. Later, I will inevitably play UNO with the kids and my host mom - we have a running total starting last week of how many games each person has won. I'm sure i'll give the kids my UNO deck as a going-away present when I leave because I definitely will never want to play UNO again.
At 9 tonight, I'll be dragged into the TV room to watch 'Esmeralda', a Spanish soap opera to which everyone in Uzbekistan is inexplicably addicted. I don't even think you are allowed to live in this country if you don't watch 'Esmerelda'. Naturally, it has Uzbek voice-overs, so I won't understand anything and after a few minutes I'll claim I'm tired and go to my room.
As far as host families go, I think mine is pretty much the best. We can't talk much to each other, but we play a lot of charades, and we smile and laugh awkwardly and then move on when something just can't be communicated. Last Saturday, my first full day in my new family, they treated me to a real cultural experience by taking me next door- to a circumcision party! I'm always up for a circumcision party (who isn't?), and here in Uzbekistan, circumcision and marriage are the two biggest events in a person's life, each requiring a gigantic party. The live band (made up of many shrill horns and drums) started playing for the party at 4:30 a.m. last Saturday. I know this because I was attempting to sleep next door. Parties here sometimes last several days and occur in various shifts of separate men's and women's events. So after the males had their rice-eating gathering from 4:30 to about 8 in the morning, everyone took a break before the main event began around 11am.
Four young boys were celebrating their circumcisions together. Each was dressed in a blue-velvet and gold-embroidered Turkish-looking outfit, complete with hat and jacket. Two boys at a time were led into the house from the street riding on a horse, which was draped in colorful fabrics and skittered nervously through the narrow paths surrounding the courtyard of the house. All of this ritualized parading took about an hour. Then, I was ushered home to eat for a while before returning for the women's party that afternoon. (Note: I don't think the actual circumcisions were part of the party events, though I cannot be certain as I was gone for over an hour.)
About 75 women of all ages sat together on one side of the courtyard at long picnic tables that were literally overflowing with food. Every time I thought we must be done eating, more food suddenly appeared. The women were looking their best for the party: many had painted their eyebrows into one long, black line (they are horrified that Americans prefer to have two distinct eyebrows- uni-brows are a sign of beauty here), their gold teeth were glittering (gold teeth signify wealth, and most women over 40 have accumulated an entire row of gold teeth), and they were wearing the large, shapeless mumu-like dresses that are the uniform here. A small dance area had been cleared in front of the tables, and so we alternately ate and danced, with our arms twirling above us, for a couple of hours. The whole experience was really enjoyable, and I couldn't have asked for a more interesting way to be introduced to my neighborhood.
On November 1st, I will be officially sworn in as a Peace Corps volunteer and begin teaching English in Gulistan City. (That didn't mean anything to me at first either, but it is about two hours from Tashkent by bus, and is a mid-sized city, meaning that it might not have the conveniences of Tashkent but will have many things a tiny village would not such as hot water...maybe.) Until then, I am teaching two classes of 13 year-olds on Monday and Thursday at a local school in Durmen, for practice. Teaching is hard work, but it's also fun, especially when I try to ask the kids about their families and go over some vocabulary, and they say to me, "So, do you like the Backstreet Boys?"
Friday, October 18, 2002
Road to Perdition
by Stephanie Anderson
Living in Austria afforded me the media protection of having only heard two things about Road to Perdition upon entering the theatre: 1) that it was about gangsters; and 2) that it moved too slowly. The former was true, and thankfully the latter was not. But knowing only the cast was enough to entice me to buy the ticket. Tom Hanks has the luxury of being particular about scripts and he usually does good work (I will forgive him for wasting two hours of my life with Castaway). Jude Law needs nothing more than Gattaca (and his good looks) on his resume. And Paul Newman ate 50 eggs.
All this together makes Road to Perdition your classic, bloody, suspenseful mobster film. I cannot say that it moved to slowly, because the whole time I was clinging to the arms of my chair thinking: "Turn around!... You're gonna get shot... oh no!" Eyes squeeze shut just enough so I can still see through little slits.. "Ooooh gross! He should've turned around."
The plot line is pretty basic gangster stuff: One guy gets killed, another guy has to get killed to cover up the first murder, then someone sees that killing, so another guy gets killed, but then someone gets mad about that guy and wants to get revenge on the killer, but of course the killer isnÃt a fan of that idea, so he is trying to kill him. Kill, kill, kill, basically. But you would be surprised how riveting they can make that storyline.
Tom Hanks, as suspected, does a good job playing the gangster that we are supposed to empathize with. He changes gears a bit abruptly mid-film, as he starts out as a hard man who doesn't speak to anyone, but then, an hour in, he suddenly develops a sarcastic sense of humor. Jude Law excellently portrays a creepy photographer and part-time assassin. He is appropriately and impressively sinister and scary, almost to the point of being cliché, but it works in the role. Paul Newman is running the show in the middle-America, 1930s gangster scene. Sad to say, he does well in the grandfather/godfather role, because, hey, he's getting old.
The film has a few flaws, one of them being the title, and another the narrator. The title is wrong because it is ridiculously obvious. For those of you without your Webster's handy: perdition: Entire loss; utter destruction; ruin; esp., the utter loss of the soul, or of final happiness in a future state; future misery or eternal death. Simply, the title means "The Road to Hell." If this title were not flagrant enough for a gangster movie, the town where Tom Hanks' character is seeking asylum is called Perdition. This overt abuse of destination names has only been successful in one instance: A Knight's Tale (Movie of the Year, 2001). Heath Ledger and his fellow vagabonds ask for directions from a naked Geoffery Chaucer. "Is this the road to Rouen?" (pronounced like ëruinÃ, for the French minors out there) they inquire, and he responds "That remains to be seen." So clever, but still only one line, hidden in scrolls of an excellent script. Even the brilliant minds that compile movies aimed at a teenage audience wouldn't dream of trying to make one pun line the title of an entire film. Either the town of asylum or the movie can be called Perdition, not both. Then it would be a good literary device.
Secondly, the movie begins and ends with the narration of a boy- Tom Hanks' characters' son. Much along the same lines of Grammar School speech classes, this serves to "Tell them what you're going to tell them, tell them, then tell them what you told them." To bad they are trying to make a 2-hour film about good, bad, and mortality, rather than a 5-minute speech explaining to 7th graders how to make chocolate chip cookies. Along with being superfluous, the narrator is also too young to be effective. The voice is feasibly only a couple years older than his character in the movie- his voice hasn't even dropped yet. But the scripted narration seems to be written for an old man looking back and explaining his life. Maybe when the producers had the idea they forgot to note that the only reason it works in "The Wonder Years" is because the narrator is obviously a sight more mature than the Kevin Arnold that is dating Winnie Cooper.
The title may be unavoidably cliché, but you can skip the stupid narrator by walking in five minutes late. And otherwise, you will have 2 hours of entertainment about a subject that has not been done justice on the silver screen since Goodfellas.
Living in Austria afforded me the media protection of having only heard two things about Road to Perdition upon entering the theatre: 1) that it was about gangsters; and 2) that it moved too slowly. The former was true, and thankfully the latter was not. But knowing only the cast was enough to entice me to buy the ticket. Tom Hanks has the luxury of being particular about scripts and he usually does good work (I will forgive him for wasting two hours of my life with Castaway). Jude Law needs nothing more than Gattaca (and his good looks) on his resume. And Paul Newman ate 50 eggs.
All this together makes Road to Perdition your classic, bloody, suspenseful mobster film. I cannot say that it moved to slowly, because the whole time I was clinging to the arms of my chair thinking: "Turn around!... You're gonna get shot... oh no!" Eyes squeeze shut just enough so I can still see through little slits.. "Ooooh gross! He should've turned around."
The plot line is pretty basic gangster stuff: One guy gets killed, another guy has to get killed to cover up the first murder, then someone sees that killing, so another guy gets killed, but then someone gets mad about that guy and wants to get revenge on the killer, but of course the killer isnÃt a fan of that idea, so he is trying to kill him. Kill, kill, kill, basically. But you would be surprised how riveting they can make that storyline.
Tom Hanks, as suspected, does a good job playing the gangster that we are supposed to empathize with. He changes gears a bit abruptly mid-film, as he starts out as a hard man who doesn't speak to anyone, but then, an hour in, he suddenly develops a sarcastic sense of humor. Jude Law excellently portrays a creepy photographer and part-time assassin. He is appropriately and impressively sinister and scary, almost to the point of being cliché, but it works in the role. Paul Newman is running the show in the middle-America, 1930s gangster scene. Sad to say, he does well in the grandfather/godfather role, because, hey, he's getting old.
The film has a few flaws, one of them being the title, and another the narrator. The title is wrong because it is ridiculously obvious. For those of you without your Webster's handy: perdition: Entire loss; utter destruction; ruin; esp., the utter loss of the soul, or of final happiness in a future state; future misery or eternal death. Simply, the title means "The Road to Hell." If this title were not flagrant enough for a gangster movie, the town where Tom Hanks' character is seeking asylum is called Perdition. This overt abuse of destination names has only been successful in one instance: A Knight's Tale (Movie of the Year, 2001). Heath Ledger and his fellow vagabonds ask for directions from a naked Geoffery Chaucer. "Is this the road to Rouen?" (pronounced like ëruinÃ, for the French minors out there) they inquire, and he responds "That remains to be seen." So clever, but still only one line, hidden in scrolls of an excellent script. Even the brilliant minds that compile movies aimed at a teenage audience wouldn't dream of trying to make one pun line the title of an entire film. Either the town of asylum or the movie can be called Perdition, not both. Then it would be a good literary device.
Secondly, the movie begins and ends with the narration of a boy- Tom Hanks' characters' son. Much along the same lines of Grammar School speech classes, this serves to "Tell them what you're going to tell them, tell them, then tell them what you told them." To bad they are trying to make a 2-hour film about good, bad, and mortality, rather than a 5-minute speech explaining to 7th graders how to make chocolate chip cookies. Along with being superfluous, the narrator is also too young to be effective. The voice is feasibly only a couple years older than his character in the movie- his voice hasn't even dropped yet. But the scripted narration seems to be written for an old man looking back and explaining his life. Maybe when the producers had the idea they forgot to note that the only reason it works in "The Wonder Years" is because the narrator is obviously a sight more mature than the Kevin Arnold that is dating Winnie Cooper.
The title may be unavoidably cliché, but you can skip the stupid narrator by walking in five minutes late. And otherwise, you will have 2 hours of entertainment about a subject that has not been done justice on the silver screen since Goodfellas.
Saturday, August 03, 2002
Le Pacte des Loups
by Anna
Last week I saw The Brotherhood of the Wolf (Le Pacte des Loups), a historical French fantasy-horror film currently showing in the cheap theaters of the Twin Cities. Genuinely scary in some parts, it recounts a French legend about a beast that went around the countryside snacking on peasants. Clearly before the birth of the Buddy System, The Beast takes down lone wandering girls against the terrifyingly isolated backdrop of rural France. This monster is a great big mystery so a young naturalist named Fronsac is sent from Paris to investigate and hopefully end the maulings.
Fronsac brings with him his sidekick Mani, a native Canadian priest with a John Dunbar-like connection to wild animals and some mad fighting skillz. Mani is the star of several impressively choreographed fight scenes, especially his first single-handed battle against the pack of freaky gypsies. The movie cashes in on some Crouching Tiger moves, like the gravity defying wall run. For the most part, the action is quite riveting but the weapons of choice are usually sticks. As a viewer raised in the age of semiautomatics, rocket launchers and proton-packs, sticks bore me. I realize it hurts to get hit by one, don't get me wrong, but by the end when Fronsac bursts into stick wielding revenge, I'd seen more than enough.
Playing second fiddle to the horror and action is a porcelain skinned aristocratic love interest with a creepy over-bred brother along with a clown car full of other subplots that spread the movie a bit too thin. The subtitles will weed out those with severe ADD, but even as a very patient and attentive person I discovered ants in my pants as the two-hour mark came and went. But for only two dollars and nothing else to do on a Sunday night I'm not complaining.
Last week I saw The Brotherhood of the Wolf (Le Pacte des Loups), a historical French fantasy-horror film currently showing in the cheap theaters of the Twin Cities. Genuinely scary in some parts, it recounts a French legend about a beast that went around the countryside snacking on peasants. Clearly before the birth of the Buddy System, The Beast takes down lone wandering girls against the terrifyingly isolated backdrop of rural France. This monster is a great big mystery so a young naturalist named Fronsac is sent from Paris to investigate and hopefully end the maulings.
Fronsac brings with him his sidekick Mani, a native Canadian priest with a John Dunbar-like connection to wild animals and some mad fighting skillz. Mani is the star of several impressively choreographed fight scenes, especially his first single-handed battle against the pack of freaky gypsies. The movie cashes in on some Crouching Tiger moves, like the gravity defying wall run. For the most part, the action is quite riveting but the weapons of choice are usually sticks. As a viewer raised in the age of semiautomatics, rocket launchers and proton-packs, sticks bore me. I realize it hurts to get hit by one, don't get me wrong, but by the end when Fronsac bursts into stick wielding revenge, I'd seen more than enough.
Playing second fiddle to the horror and action is a porcelain skinned aristocratic love interest with a creepy over-bred brother along with a clown car full of other subplots that spread the movie a bit too thin. The subtitles will weed out those with severe ADD, but even as a very patient and attentive person I discovered ants in my pants as the two-hour mark came and went. But for only two dollars and nothing else to do on a Sunday night I'm not complaining.
Sunday, July 14, 2002
Saudi Arabia: Our Dear, Dear Friend
by Stephanie Anderson
I'm going to say this quietly, and give you a moment to digest. Saudi Arabia is not our friend. I realize they have not made either list of terror and so this cannot be true. But they have not made the lists for one reason: they're FAKING. Isn't it obvious? "Sure, America, we'll help you find Al'Qaeda, sure, you can keep troops here." Then, on the side, "Here, Bin Laden, have some funding, go train more minions of evil, and make sure that they kill Americans." Even I can spot the incongruency.
But we are friends with the Saudis. We came at their beckon call in the Gulf War, and they were grateful to see us. That's why they are so much help now, when we need them.
Excuse me, but what help? Saudi Arabia is about as good of an ally as that friend you ask to come help you move. The couch seems a lot heavier on your end but your friend insists, "I'm lifting, I'm lifting!" and holds his breath so that his face gets red as evidence. Saudi Arabia is not lifting! Nor will they. They don't like us and they are about as loyal as Black Widow spiders.
The tragedy is that we are so willing to link arms with a government that not only supports international terror, but treats at least 50% of their own population like second class furniture. Women need to be at least as covered as that ratty easy chair and should speak less. Treating a government that gives women no education, no freedom, and no rights to protection from abuse as legitimate is sickening.
As soon as they are in a position to, whether or not the blatant policy differences have yet dawned on the US Government, Saudi Arabia will turn on us full force. When Crown Prince Abdullah shows up at the next BBQ at the Bush's ranch and pisses on the grill, even Mr. Powell will find it difficult to keep them in the "maybe" section of wedding invites.
I realize it's popular now to think that Saudi Arabia is trying to help, one would even cite their efforts to negotiate peace in Israel. They just want Palestinians to have free roam in the occupied territories and absolute right of return. What was that quiet mumbled part at the end, Mr. Crown Prince? 'Absolute Right of Return'? What's that? Oh, you mean for all of the Palestinians to come back and all of the Israelis to give up the whole of Israel? Well that's a terrific peace plan, let's call up Sharon. There is political chess to be played, but I pray that President Bush moves the queen before the Saudis have the US in check.
No worries though, when the president checks Re: Whatever for his next intell briefing, he'll be all squared away.
I'm going to say this quietly, and give you a moment to digest. Saudi Arabia is not our friend. I realize they have not made either list of terror and so this cannot be true. But they have not made the lists for one reason: they're FAKING. Isn't it obvious? "Sure, America, we'll help you find Al'Qaeda, sure, you can keep troops here." Then, on the side, "Here, Bin Laden, have some funding, go train more minions of evil, and make sure that they kill Americans." Even I can spot the incongruency.
But we are friends with the Saudis. We came at their beckon call in the Gulf War, and they were grateful to see us. That's why they are so much help now, when we need them.
Excuse me, but what help? Saudi Arabia is about as good of an ally as that friend you ask to come help you move. The couch seems a lot heavier on your end but your friend insists, "I'm lifting, I'm lifting!" and holds his breath so that his face gets red as evidence. Saudi Arabia is not lifting! Nor will they. They don't like us and they are about as loyal as Black Widow spiders.
The tragedy is that we are so willing to link arms with a government that not only supports international terror, but treats at least 50% of their own population like second class furniture. Women need to be at least as covered as that ratty easy chair and should speak less. Treating a government that gives women no education, no freedom, and no rights to protection from abuse as legitimate is sickening.
As soon as they are in a position to, whether or not the blatant policy differences have yet dawned on the US Government, Saudi Arabia will turn on us full force. When Crown Prince Abdullah shows up at the next BBQ at the Bush's ranch and pisses on the grill, even Mr. Powell will find it difficult to keep them in the "maybe" section of wedding invites.
I realize it's popular now to think that Saudi Arabia is trying to help, one would even cite their efforts to negotiate peace in Israel. They just want Palestinians to have free roam in the occupied territories and absolute right of return. What was that quiet mumbled part at the end, Mr. Crown Prince? 'Absolute Right of Return'? What's that? Oh, you mean for all of the Palestinians to come back and all of the Israelis to give up the whole of Israel? Well that's a terrific peace plan, let's call up Sharon. There is political chess to be played, but I pray that President Bush moves the queen before the Saudis have the US in check.
No worries though, when the president checks Re: Whatever for his next intell briefing, he'll be all squared away.
The Day Major League Baseball Sold its Last Corrupted Morsel of a Soul to a Whore Named Tie
by JCaleb
Baseball is a game as golden as the summer days spent playing it. It is a truly American game which little kids with sticks and tape balls playing every night until their mom's call them in for supper. In the hours from the last school bell to the first hearty helping of meatloaf, they imagine one day becoming the heroes whose cards they collect and whose lives they live in after-dinner dreams of the future. It is life shortened and magnified. A poetry wherein the triumphs and defeats of this sport called life are laid bare before us all.
Or so the story goes.
"So, who won the All-Star Game?" someone naive enough to still have faith in this old definition might ask.
No one. After 11 innings of play, the two teams, representing the best of the best in professional ball and hand-selected by their devoted fans, called the game a tie. Apparently they had run out of players willing to play.
Color me confused.
"The game's just an exhibition, you see, and they didn't want the pitchers to hurt themselves by pitching too long." a friend offered as explanation to help me get past my confusion.
But aren't all professional sports competitions some form of exhibition? I mean, it's not as if these guys are out there curing cancer and keeping them up too late at night might hurt their chances of nailing out the immunity during next week's game. The entire purpose of their jobs is to entertain us.
I'm not entertained.
It comes down to the fact that being paid the paltry sum of money that will only buy you the Mediterranean's smaller islands isn't quite enough for these poor guys to risk injury playing in any more innings than stipulated by their contract. And it certainly isn't enough money for them to feign any nonsensical 'love for the game' that might make them play until they were through.
With this sort of attitude, the players will probably yet again strike before the end of the season, and this travesty of an 'All-Star Game' will remain just one more punch line in the ongoing joke that is Major League Baseball.
Friday, May 17, 2002
Attack of the Clones
by Stephanie AndersonPeople waited in line for weeks to see the first midnight showings of Star Wars: The Phantom Menace. For the Thursday night debut of Star Wars Episode 2: Attack of the Clones, theatres were only half full of people that had nothing else to do. Don't worry, George Lucas will still make a cent or two, but this release was definitely not the frenzy of Chewbacca-costumed fans that attended the first.
There are a number of reasons to explain this lackluster opening. Reason number one is named Jar Jar Binks. You cannot annoy people to such an extreme in the first movie and then expect them to rush out and see the sequel. The second reason is probably the lovey-dovey plot. When the majority of your fan base is still trying to pick off the remaining ear glue from the last Trekkie Convention, it is hard to sell a romance-based storyline. Thirdly, it did not slip by unnoticed that the movie is being released a year later than promised. It is hard to maintain support without reliable release dates. If you don't believe me now, I will scoff this Winter when theatres are once again packed for the second Lord of the Rings. Finally, the Lucas Films marketing department was definitely asleep for the past few months. America's ADD-diagnosed majority needs to see more than kissing in a preview. Fight scenes, chases, light sabers... these things sell action movies- not to mention action figures, action toys, and action gear. Kids need to be swatting their parents with buzzing plastic light sabers while begging to see the movie, not just whining while tucking Princess Amidala flowers in their hair.
The love story is the central theme, including typical Hollywood phrases that leave you groaning because no matter what galaxy you are from, people do not say things like "My heart breaks each day I gaze into your stormy eyes and am forced to realize the sands of time must keep us apart." Along with this sort of gripping dialogue, the main device in furthering the tale of love is Natalie Portman in a wide array of revealing outfits, which conveniently become more revealing when she is attacked by furry aliens.
Despite liberal nakedness, Episode 2 is no match for the Star Wars of old. It seems that Mr. Lucas has gotten tangled up in trying to tell a long, overly detailed story. Much of the film is spent trying to introduce various alliances and characters. This is tedious, except for the points at which you realize, Oh! That's how the evil emperor will get power! or Hey! That's the bounty hunter that captures Han Solo!. Really, we all just want to know how it fits into the REAL Star Wars. Due to so much explaining and traveling between planets to include all necessary characters, there is not as much action as a good Star Wars fan would like.
Plot complexities aside, Attack of the Clones is certainly an improvement over the first installment. Though they were not the selling point, the film does contain some great races and chases. The creators get a little carried away with showing off their computer skills, but it looks cool. The choicest scene is the final execution, pitting man against crazy space creature. The idea was clearly ripped off from Gladiator, but it worked for Russell Crowe.
Yoda is a key player in Episode 2. You have been greatly deceived if you thought that someone so short would not be a rockstar with a light saber. If his grammatically incorrect proverbs were not enough to hook you in the past, Yoda's fighting skills will summon your allegiance. There is a fair sprinkling of fights throughout the film, though Yoda only appears in one. And, don't worry, they still do you the courtesy of color-coding light sabers and laser guns- green and blue for the good guys, red for the bad.
Attack of the Clones, though the title is very deceptive regarding actual movie content, is worth viewing. The new characters are interesting, and thankfully Jar Jar has an extremely limited role. The bridge between the old and the new becomes much clearer, even though Anakin's voice will have to drop a couple more octaves in the next movie to reach that of James Earl Jones.
Thursday, May 02, 2002
The Shipping News
by Stephanie Anderson
The critics recommended this one as a "tragic-comedy." It really was not at all funny, but I was shocked by this dark, but interesting film. The Shipping News has a fabulous cast including Kevin Spacey, Judy Dench, Cate Blanchett and Julianne Moore. Cate Blanchett pulls off what seems an uncharacteristic role as Spacey's bimbo wife from the female star of An Ideal Husband and this summer's Galadriel.
The movie is about death, suicide, infidelity, ghosts, curses, and all the other treasures that make up the most dysfunctional family imaginable. It keeps you guessing and maybe a little spooked.
After everyone besides his daughter dies, Quoyle (Spacey) moves to Newfoundland with a long lost aunt, who just recently appeared to steal her brother's ashes. Apparently, it is very difficult to survive in Newfoundland, as everyone has some tragic story under their belt. Quoyle struggles to make it as a journalist while uncovering his sordid family's past. Meanwhile, his young daughter seems to be crazy and a ghostly man with a dog keeps appearing on their doorstep.
Since movies twists are popular, this one throws in it's share. I am still sorting out some of the details in my head, so don't go if you don't want to do some thinking.
And don't worry either. You won't be the only one walking out of the theater trying to figure out where Newfoundland is.
The critics recommended this one as a "tragic-comedy." It really was not at all funny, but I was shocked by this dark, but interesting film. The Shipping News has a fabulous cast including Kevin Spacey, Judy Dench, Cate Blanchett and Julianne Moore. Cate Blanchett pulls off what seems an uncharacteristic role as Spacey's bimbo wife from the female star of An Ideal Husband and this summer's Galadriel.
The movie is about death, suicide, infidelity, ghosts, curses, and all the other treasures that make up the most dysfunctional family imaginable. It keeps you guessing and maybe a little spooked.
After everyone besides his daughter dies, Quoyle (Spacey) moves to Newfoundland with a long lost aunt, who just recently appeared to steal her brother's ashes. Apparently, it is very difficult to survive in Newfoundland, as everyone has some tragic story under their belt. Quoyle struggles to make it as a journalist while uncovering his sordid family's past. Meanwhile, his young daughter seems to be crazy and a ghostly man with a dog keeps appearing on their doorstep.
Since movies twists are popular, this one throws in it's share. I am still sorting out some of the details in my head, so don't go if you don't want to do some thinking.
And don't worry either. You won't be the only one walking out of the theater trying to figure out where Newfoundland is.
Wednesday, May 01, 2002
Really, They're Just Having Fun
by Stephanie Anderson
When I tell people where I went to school, the response is often, "Is that one of the local community colleges?" No more. Thanks to the Greek system and all of its beautiful traditions, my alma mater will have something to claim besides that one time, back in the nineties, we had a decent basketball player. Now I can look forward to hearing, "Oh, isn't that the school where they torture barnyard animals?"
To me it is comical that a nation at war would be so suddenly swept by the story of some boys and a pig, especially when this is not unusual. Could the goat stories possibly be true? Was Animal House that far off? Have we actually believed that fraternity houses are plush locales where gentlemen sip brandy and discuss politics? Apparently yes, because America has brought out their charming face of shock at the discovery of a drunk pig.
Investigative journalism is not needed to see that this reaction is ludicrous. How many men and women reading American papers participated in such a stunt themselves? More importantly, how many men and women chose to be victims of such abuse?
I'm going to come out and say it. I hope you're sitting down. The movies are true. Fraternities (and sororities) at many universities abuse more than just animals. Fret not, these "abuses" are usually clever. Such as forcing recruits to consume the whole frats' weekly alcohol allotment while bathing in Tabasco sauce. Or along the themes of the animal kingdom, having a "pledge" dress in a cow suit and crawl on his hands and knees in front of the frat house eating grass until he vomits. In interest of fitness, girls will be asked to come to a sorority "party" dressed in swimsuits so that their "sisters" can use magic markers to circle the places on their bodies where there is too much fat.
But hazing is illegal, thank goodness, at the aforementioned school, and in most chapters nation wide. That's a relief. But wait, isn't abusing animals also in violation of many laws? Hmmm...
Many fraternities and sororities treat their members with respect and friendship, but to pretend we don't know that hazing exists is ridiculous. Before you can pay people to be your friends, you have to make sure they're worth the money.
Yes, I feel sorry for this tortured animal. But realizing that thousands of pigs are butchered everyday, I'll get over it. More appalling is the stupid kids that choose to bring this kind of abuse upon themselves. Instead of being outraged about a system that allows for such atrocities, Americans will simply shake their heads in disgust at one example of its outcome. Universities and Alumni, those providing forum and support for these twisted Greek organizations, will be seen as the torchbearers of justice for seeking retribution from a bunch of stupid frat boys who poured booze into a pig.
When I tell people where I went to school, the response is often, "Is that one of the local community colleges?" No more. Thanks to the Greek system and all of its beautiful traditions, my alma mater will have something to claim besides that one time, back in the nineties, we had a decent basketball player. Now I can look forward to hearing, "Oh, isn't that the school where they torture barnyard animals?"
To me it is comical that a nation at war would be so suddenly swept by the story of some boys and a pig, especially when this is not unusual. Could the goat stories possibly be true? Was Animal House that far off? Have we actually believed that fraternity houses are plush locales where gentlemen sip brandy and discuss politics? Apparently yes, because America has brought out their charming face of shock at the discovery of a drunk pig.
Investigative journalism is not needed to see that this reaction is ludicrous. How many men and women reading American papers participated in such a stunt themselves? More importantly, how many men and women chose to be victims of such abuse?
I'm going to come out and say it. I hope you're sitting down. The movies are true. Fraternities (and sororities) at many universities abuse more than just animals. Fret not, these "abuses" are usually clever. Such as forcing recruits to consume the whole frats' weekly alcohol allotment while bathing in Tabasco sauce. Or along the themes of the animal kingdom, having a "pledge" dress in a cow suit and crawl on his hands and knees in front of the frat house eating grass until he vomits. In interest of fitness, girls will be asked to come to a sorority "party" dressed in swimsuits so that their "sisters" can use magic markers to circle the places on their bodies where there is too much fat.
But hazing is illegal, thank goodness, at the aforementioned school, and in most chapters nation wide. That's a relief. But wait, isn't abusing animals also in violation of many laws? Hmmm...
Many fraternities and sororities treat their members with respect and friendship, but to pretend we don't know that hazing exists is ridiculous. Before you can pay people to be your friends, you have to make sure they're worth the money.
Yes, I feel sorry for this tortured animal. But realizing that thousands of pigs are butchered everyday, I'll get over it. More appalling is the stupid kids that choose to bring this kind of abuse upon themselves. Instead of being outraged about a system that allows for such atrocities, Americans will simply shake their heads in disgust at one example of its outcome. Universities and Alumni, those providing forum and support for these twisted Greek organizations, will be seen as the torchbearers of justice for seeking retribution from a bunch of stupid frat boys who poured booze into a pig.
Tuesday, April 30, 2002
Austria: Where Children Do Not Yet Wear Helmets
by Stephanie Anderson
A Viennese park is a strange thing to "safety conscious" American eyes. Not only do child-propelled, metal merry-go-rounds still spin proudly, but they are sometimes set at a tilt. Children flip on Jacob's ladders and climb on precarious, brightly painted, metal structures that serve as pirate ships or horses depending on the day.
The aforementioned toys were removed from American parks in the name of safety even before the now-extinct Teeter-Totters. It was never considered that a child hanging from a spinning disc by his feet, head on the cement ground, and asking another child to push, might not be a problem with the park equipment, but rather a lack of supervision, or even Darwinism in action. European parks are not without safety nets of their own. They have plentiful benches where parents and guardians chatter amongst themselves, while keeping one eye on their charges.
Another astonishing difference between parks on opposite sides of the ocean is that dogs play freely amongst the humans, often unhindered by leashes. Every so often there is some butt-sniffing, or even barking, but a dog attacking a person is yet to be heard of. Is there a chemical compound in Austrian water that makes their dogs better natured than American dogs, or do Austrians just take the time to train their dogs as members of the family? This riddle may never be answered. There are a few fenced in areas for the very smallest of children where dogs are "Verboten." This speaks not of dogs' behavior, but of the simple childhood fact that things furry, salivating, and four-legged that are bigger than you are things of which to be wary.
Parents keep a watchful eye, but everyone who chooses, enjoys the highest and fastest of play structures. Small falls, bumps and scrapes are ignored, tears being saved for more authentic struggles, and play is resumed. From this evidence, it seems dangerously probable that Europeans may still run and dive at swimming pools.
Please enjoy your parks, but don't forget your fluorescent bike helmet.
A Viennese park is a strange thing to "safety conscious" American eyes. Not only do child-propelled, metal merry-go-rounds still spin proudly, but they are sometimes set at a tilt. Children flip on Jacob's ladders and climb on precarious, brightly painted, metal structures that serve as pirate ships or horses depending on the day.
The aforementioned toys were removed from American parks in the name of safety even before the now-extinct Teeter-Totters. It was never considered that a child hanging from a spinning disc by his feet, head on the cement ground, and asking another child to push, might not be a problem with the park equipment, but rather a lack of supervision, or even Darwinism in action. European parks are not without safety nets of their own. They have plentiful benches where parents and guardians chatter amongst themselves, while keeping one eye on their charges.
Another astonishing difference between parks on opposite sides of the ocean is that dogs play freely amongst the humans, often unhindered by leashes. Every so often there is some butt-sniffing, or even barking, but a dog attacking a person is yet to be heard of. Is there a chemical compound in Austrian water that makes their dogs better natured than American dogs, or do Austrians just take the time to train their dogs as members of the family? This riddle may never be answered. There are a few fenced in areas for the very smallest of children where dogs are "Verboten." This speaks not of dogs' behavior, but of the simple childhood fact that things furry, salivating, and four-legged that are bigger than you are things of which to be wary.
Parents keep a watchful eye, but everyone who chooses, enjoys the highest and fastest of play structures. Small falls, bumps and scrapes are ignored, tears being saved for more authentic struggles, and play is resumed. From this evidence, it seems dangerously probable that Europeans may still run and dive at swimming pools.
Please enjoy your parks, but don't forget your fluorescent bike helmet.
Wednesday, April 24, 2002
Remember the Man Capri?
Fashion trends appear at times unexplainable, but in reality, all can be traced to one source- Europe. The man-capri pant, Burberry plaid, and wearing a silk scarf around your neck that serves no purpose except as a chiffon choker- these faux pas all began in the place that trendy, late-night radio DJs refer to as "across the pond."
When my cousin in Spain, seeking news of home, expressed her hopes that the new trend of wearing a skirt over a pair of pants would not make it to the states, I sadly shook my head. Recalling the skirt and pant-clad friends I had bid farewell to just days before, I said, "It's too late."
Apparently the fashion spirit of the Eighties has returned, taking the layered look a step beyond mismatched tank tops and off-the-shoulder sweatshirts. Skirts are being adorned over pants on the streets of Minneapolis. And if the farmers' daughters are doing it, it has certainly already spread everywhere else.
The desired effect is to cleverly combine dressy and relaxed. But please, before you attempt this feat at your next "business-casual" meeting, recognize that the accomplished impression is less stylish, and more akin to what my mother would describe as "ragamuffin."
When my cousin in Spain, seeking news of home, expressed her hopes that the new trend of wearing a skirt over a pair of pants would not make it to the states, I sadly shook my head. Recalling the skirt and pant-clad friends I had bid farewell to just days before, I said, "It's too late."
Apparently the fashion spirit of the Eighties has returned, taking the layered look a step beyond mismatched tank tops and off-the-shoulder sweatshirts. Skirts are being adorned over pants on the streets of Minneapolis. And if the farmers' daughters are doing it, it has certainly already spread everywhere else.
The desired effect is to cleverly combine dressy and relaxed. But please, before you attempt this feat at your next "business-casual" meeting, recognize that the accomplished impression is less stylish, and more akin to what my mother would describe as "ragamuffin."
Wednesday, April 17, 2002
Sweets and the Downfall of an Educational Excursion
by JCaleb
This trip to Europe was meant to be an opportunity to explore different cultures, learn new things, and gain a fresh perspective on life. Things were going well until my coeditor, Stephanie, joined the journey and it evolved into something entirely different: A quest for dessert.
You'd think sugar was a food group.
From Spain, where I met her, we decided to go to Italy. For the breathtaking scenery and laid-back culture? No, for the gelatto.
Gelatto is the Italian version of ice cream. It's softer than soft serve, and comes in a wide variety of flavors. It's also served with a minimum of two scoops. This frees a person from the pain of making a single decision, and allows one to try a new flavor combination with every gelatto experience. This increase of the minimum amount of dessert orderable has received the Stephanie Anderson stamp of approval.
But not without a snack.
The train ride was reported to be a long, arduous, sugar-free voyage, so we needed supplies. A delicious Swiss chocolate bar kept us but inches away from starvation on the ride. It was a good choice. Those Swiss know what they're doing.
Now, praise the Lord (who has made this wonderful world where chocolate really does grow on trees), we are in Vienna. Since arriving, I have seen such wonderful and significant sites as the gelateria where the gelato Nazi works, Stephanie's favorite gelateria - Stephanie's friend Simone's favorite gelateria - the gelateria where there is very good gelato but we can't go because they are racist (love for justice having narrowly outranked love for dessert in Steph's world) and Demel, home of the best cakes in the world. I've heard there are some nice churches, operas, and museums here as well, but none of them serve food, so they aren't really worth our time.
Next in my adventures? I was contemplating Rome, center of the Roman Empire. You know, all roads lead to_______. But I have been advised by my comrade in spoons that this is a poor choice. And who am I to doubt her? She's already helped me bypass many tourist traps (the Coliseum, La Scala, and a bunch of "dumb art," to name a few) and find the real culture of Europe. The world's best pesto, cake, gelatto, wieners, and chocolate are what I have to show for it. So, next stop is probably Switzerland. Whats that? No, Steph, I didn't know both Nestle and Toblerone were headquartered there.
Lead on fearless leader, lead on.
Monday, April 08, 2002
Death to "Smoochy" Haters
by Stephanie Anderson
Whenever I say that I liked Death to Smoochy, the recent Danny Devito, Edward Norton, and Robin Williams film, people say, as if I must be mistaken, "Oh. It got really bad reviews."
Do these people appreciate who they are quoting? These are the same reviewers who encouraged audiences to flock to Mummy Returns. Newspaper movie critics gleefully rejoice in tricking people into seeing bad films. It is their source of power. I, on the other hand, am trying to save you from Hollywood's grasping clutches. You have better things to do with your time than sit through Snow Dogs, like joining the International Maggot Racing Society.
What makes me a qualified critic, the clever reader asks? Simple. I hate 95% of all movies. A film must be in the top five percent for me to even give it a nod akin to those you give to people that you pass on the street but have no earthly desire to talk to. This, coupled with 22 years of practice harassing and criticizing my brother, gives me an ample arsenal.
That being said, I will make my second outright film statement of the year: Go see Smoochy. It is an extremely dark comedy, including every skewed adult movie vice wrapped in a cute little kiddie coating.
Edward Norton, who is so talented that roles ranging from neo-nazi to plush purple rhinoceros are no problem for him. He respectfully pulls off being a nice guy that daily dresses like a wanna-be Barney and sings songs about all-organic cookies, while still being straight.
The film has a fabulous repertoire of quotes, but this is not being fat and falling down humor (God rest Chris Farley). There are murders, suicide attempts, and an incredible amount of mob activity centered around a children's show time slot. I think we have all known, in our heart of hearts, that Captain Kangaroo and Big Bird were truly malicious enemies, Death to Smoochy just forces us to face that reality.
If you have ever wanted to sit down with a small cousin after a torturous 5 hours of mind numbing "I love you" songs and crush their world by explaining that Barney sucks, or if you have ever pondered the mystery that is Icecapades, go see Smoochy. And laugh really loud at the parts everyone else in the theater thinks are politically incorrect. Even if you don't enjoy the movie, you'll have fun with the looks you get on the way out.
Whenever I say that I liked Death to Smoochy, the recent Danny Devito, Edward Norton, and Robin Williams film, people say, as if I must be mistaken, "Oh. It got really bad reviews."
Do these people appreciate who they are quoting? These are the same reviewers who encouraged audiences to flock to Mummy Returns. Newspaper movie critics gleefully rejoice in tricking people into seeing bad films. It is their source of power. I, on the other hand, am trying to save you from Hollywood's grasping clutches. You have better things to do with your time than sit through Snow Dogs, like joining the International Maggot Racing Society.
What makes me a qualified critic, the clever reader asks? Simple. I hate 95% of all movies. A film must be in the top five percent for me to even give it a nod akin to those you give to people that you pass on the street but have no earthly desire to talk to. This, coupled with 22 years of practice harassing and criticizing my brother, gives me an ample arsenal.
That being said, I will make my second outright film statement of the year: Go see Smoochy. It is an extremely dark comedy, including every skewed adult movie vice wrapped in a cute little kiddie coating.
Edward Norton, who is so talented that roles ranging from neo-nazi to plush purple rhinoceros are no problem for him. He respectfully pulls off being a nice guy that daily dresses like a wanna-be Barney and sings songs about all-organic cookies, while still being straight.
The film has a fabulous repertoire of quotes, but this is not being fat and falling down humor (God rest Chris Farley). There are murders, suicide attempts, and an incredible amount of mob activity centered around a children's show time slot. I think we have all known, in our heart of hearts, that Captain Kangaroo and Big Bird were truly malicious enemies, Death to Smoochy just forces us to face that reality.
If you have ever wanted to sit down with a small cousin after a torturous 5 hours of mind numbing "I love you" songs and crush their world by explaining that Barney sucks, or if you have ever pondered the mystery that is Icecapades, go see Smoochy. And laugh really loud at the parts everyone else in the theater thinks are politically incorrect. Even if you don't enjoy the movie, you'll have fun with the looks you get on the way out.
Thursday, April 04, 2002
How Foxy is She?
by Larry MooreI had often heard the comment, "She's a foxy lady," while growing up in the Midwest. I never knew if they meant she looked like a fox or acted like a fox or was as sly as a fox. This confusion in phraseology was brought to a new level one crisp sunny morning while attending my first Minnesota Grape Growers Association (MGGA) Fall annual vineyard tour at the University Horticulture Research Center in Chanhassen, MN. Dr. Peter Hemstad, Head Grape Researcher, was providing expert commentary on various clusters of grapes grown in the vineyards of the Research Center. One variety's description went something like this, "The plant has good resistance. Clusters are medium sized, loose, with some green shot berries. The berries are blue, medium size with a distinctive, foxy flavor." I nudged the person next to me and asked if he knew what Peter meant by 'foxy.' They replied, "Oh you know, like Concord grape jelly!" With that knowledge I became an expert, often using the description 'foxy' when tasting wines and grapes. I found, in questioning others involved in the MGGA and Purple Foot Club, a lot of confusion and a wide range of views on just what 'foxiness' meant and it's origin.
In researching 'foxiness,' I discovered a lot of variation in early derivation and usage. The term foxiness and Fox Grapes evolved early in American history as settlers used the abundant wild native grapes. Vitis Labrusca was associated with fox grapes in the North, whereas Muscadine likewise was in the South. Writings in Virginia in 1622 described a grape "that runne upon the ground and maketh deepe red wine, which they call a Fox-Grape." William Penn in 1683 wrote, "The Fox-grape ... in itself an extraordinary grape." He used the term fox-grape as if it were common knowledge. There are various theories as to the derivation of fox-grapes and foxiness - from odor, to appearance, to animal attraction: to some things other than fox.
Some theories as to the use of "Foxiness" in reference to odor or taste, come from a variety of early references:
"The Foxe Grape ... smelleth and tasteth like unto a Foxe": John Parkinson, Theatricum Botanicum: The Theater of Plants (London, 1640). The "fox grape of Virginia is of "a rank Taste when ripe, resembling the Smell of a Fox, from whence they are called Fox-Grapes": Robert Beverley, The History and Present State of Virginia (1705). "A strong scent, a little approaching to that of a Fox, whence the name of Fox-grape": Humphry Marshall, Arbustrum Americanum (1785). "Musky," that is, "having a musky taste or smell, like a fox-grape": Funk and Wagnalls, Standard Dictionary of the English Language (1895). "Whatever the original intention of the name, the preponderant current usage holds that an aroma or taste peculiar to the labrusca grape is what foxiness refers to": Thomas Pinney, A History of Wine in America (1989). The referenced "fox- like odor" comes from the skin of the grape.
One of the main ingredients of this odor and taste comes from an ester called methyl anthranilate. It has been synthesized and used in grape soft drinks. Peter Hemsted tells of a fellow Researcher, whose work has shown that this ester is found in both the musk gland of the fox and the Vitis Labrusca grape. When Peter first got involved with the University of Minnesota viniculture program, he eliminated many varieties containing foxiness from the research. He instead put his efforts into developing cold hardy varieties, which could produced wines emulating the great wines of vinifera, found growing in California and Europe. Having gotten involved in retailing of wine, Peter has seen a segment of wine drinkers with a taste for wines with some foxiness. His change in attitude about foxy grapes came with the realization that there is a significant economical place for this type grape. His research is now in the process of reintroducing foxy varieties as a cross, as well as other unique aromatic grapes, such as muscat. One of these new research varieties that includes foxiness is MN 1197. Peter also feels juice and table grapes are accepted best by the public if they contain some foxiness. John Marshall (MN commercial grape grower and MGGA board member) stated: "Contrary to the established wisdom, Labrusca grapes represent a valuable niche in the huge American table grape market.", MGGA newsletter, Notes From the North (Aug 1998).
Foxiness may become an even more familiar term in our vocabulary as we see a greater development and usage of the Fox Grape in the future. So when you're enjoying that next glass of wine with a fellow wine club member and he suggests, "She's a bit foxy don't you think", he's probably not talking about the lady just passed by, but rather the musky, fox-like odor of your home made Concord wine.
1. John Bonoeil, His Maiesties Gracious Letter to the Earle of South-Hampton (London, 1622), p.49 2. Albert C. Myers, ed., Narratives of Early Pennsylvania, (new York, 1912), p.227
Wednesday, March 27, 2002
How I Nearly Wet My Pants in France or Oui, Oui in Paris
by JCaleb
Gay Paris is right. Let me save you some time folks. The Eiffel Tower is a tower. Nothing more. A tower best viewed via the Internet from the comfort of your home. Notre Dame is a big-ass church, and not even the biggest one. And the Louvre is Europe's version of the Mall of America: vastly overcrowded and vastly overrated.
Now I have saved you a trip to what is basically just another huge city with an attitude. Take it from me, Paris sucks. I had that figured out my first day. I did not discover the true suckiness however, until day 2: the day I was alone, unable to speak more than 9 words of French (those very badly) and desperately had to pee.
It happened near the Hotel de Ville. I was walking along minding my own, when suddenly I realized that I needed to potty. "Well, why didn't you just go?" you say, sitting there in your plush American city with enough bathrooms for everyone to go at once. How dare you insult my intelligence? You see, most of the toilets cost money here. Still shouldn't be a problem I figure. I head over to my local Internet cafe and dig two 10 Euro coins out of my pocket to pay the fee. But alas, after I slide them in I notice that the sign on the door says it will only take a 20 Euro coin. A coin which I don't have.
No worries. A crèpe sounds pretty good right now anyway. I'll just grab one and get some change. I walk to the counter and repeat the phrase I had heard my French-speaking friend use the day before, "Un crap burrrggghhhk surrkkgh see-boo-play."
The guy working there is clearly not a fan of my pronunciation and he rolls his eyes openly at me before correcting it. 'You know what buddy, I didn't want your dirty crap anyway, I just have to piss,' I think to myself as he makes it. He finishes, and hands it to me. 1,90. Well that doesn't really help now does it? I hand him 3 Euro, and ask for change. He shrugs and shows me his cash drawer, which is admittedly low on change, and tells me he can't comply. Swell.
I spend the next little while wandering around the area of St. Michel (for the record they pronounce this 'San Michelle,' so for you Mikes out there, best of luck in Paris, sissy) examining menus in search of something that has a price which requires a 20 piece as change. I finally find a Coca-Cola for the magical price of 1,80. I pay the man, get my wonderful change, throw the Coke at a passing child's head, and hustle back to the bathroom.
Finally, I'm saved. And just in time too, it was beginning to hurt. Nope. The thing is broken. Did I mention I HATE Paris?
Don't panic. OK, I won't. There has to be a toilet somewhere. I walk around for 30 minutes looking for one, before spotting a sign near Notre Dame. I head down the stairs and approach the attendant.
"Neshwanlabammmmerrrghkotpuczdnmdñgjg jgksdkrre jerknggnacb," she says to me quickly.
"What?"
"Voutesdfg ee leraedirn sumabadfd en jay arghhkenodfgjkcxhne."
I know I'm right. SHE should know MY language. These people listen to MY music, watch MY movies. Still, Parisians have an evil way of making you feel like you are the stupid one. I turn and walk away in disgrace.
I know I'm being an ugly American. But I'd help these clowns if they came to my country confused. Their silly talk would even help them get chicks where I'm from. I see a kid wearing a red bandana with a blue hat. He notices me staring, and gives me a dirty look. All I can think about is how much I want to airlift all these pompous Parisians into the middle of the worst neighborhoods in the U.S. I could get this kid shot in about 2 seconds.
Yep. I'm losing it. I start thinking about going local, and just taking a leak on the sidewalk as I had seen plenty of people of both sexes doing (gee wonder where they get that rap as being a dirty place) when I notice the sign that had saved me before in Edinburgh. McDonalds. Hoping for a repeat performance from a true friend, I hustle in.
Leave it to France to take a perfectly good concept like Mickey D's, and make it into something just weird. There were couches and pictures. It was like a nice restaurant. Our starvation rations = their gourmet meal. I looked around for a toilet, but alas it was too late. I had completely broken my thin tie to sanity.
It wasn't pretty my friends. I ran through the streets maniacally shouting the 9 French words I knew at random intervals. "Croissant! French-fries! French dip! VIVA LA RESISTANCE!"
A woman sensing my distress (AKA American-ness) approached me and said, "Do you speak English?"
"Yes. Yes I do. I do speak English. That is what I speak. I see that you are a speaker of English too. I love you and will name my first born after you."
She then hands me a 3x5 notecard, with a handwritten saga proclaiming the tragedy that her life had become and asking if I could please help her...oh, and God bless.
I then ripped her head cleanly from her body, and threw it still grinning into the Seine.
Deciding a song was in order, and unable to think of one appropriate to the occasion, I composed my own. It was set to the tune of 'The Star Spangled Banner' and went as follows:
Oh say can you see
Ho-ow much Paris sucks
It sucks so damn much
That it sucks sucks sucks sucks sucks...
At this point the song broke into screaming profanity and spitting, still set to the music.
I sang my song quite loudly for some time, and savored all of the dirty looks. They say that love is the universal language. They lie. Profanity- that is the universal language. My swearing was understood and appreciated by all.
There was clearly only one solution: suicide. Being an American citizen, my life was clearly worth 10 times more than the lives of all the French in the world. Therefore it followed that if I were to die on French soil, it would start World War III and bring to Paris the vengeance it so richly deserved.
I stepped into traffic and awaited the apocalypse.
"Honk." The car that was speeding toward me slammed on its breaks and stopped.
"In Chicago, I'd be dead right now you pansy. That's exactly why your stupid country isn't a world power anymore, and the only place they speak your language is Quebec!"
"Honk."
"Hey, je nais comprend this, Napoleon didn't have a complex because he was short, it was because he was FRENCH!"
"Honk."
I could see that my goading would not work on these cowards. I crawled back to the sidewalk.
At this point, I had done the pee pee dance through most of Paris, and was running out of ideas. I decided to turn to the one thing that solves all problems that I cannot: alcohol.
I saw a wine store and headed in. I chose a bottle and handed it to the purveyor. He began wrapping it for me and said, "Parlez vous Francais?"
I wanted to hit him, but insanity is very tiring, so I simply shook my head.
"Do you speak English?"
"I really don't think you should be trying to pan-handle while you're at work buddy."
He looked confused, but simply ignored the comment. "If you drink all of this from the bottle you speak perfect French. I drink lots of...uh...Budweiser, now I am fluent in English."
It took me a minute, but I laughed at this before thanking him profusely for the wine, and for talking to me in my native tongue. As I was leaving he continued, "This is also a restaurant. Come in sometime and you can try other wines."
This sounded like a fine plan. "Is now okay?"
"Sure."
"Do you have a toilet?"
"Back there on the left."
I was saved. But I was lucky. If I hadn't stumbled on Dominique and his immaculate restaurant with a bathroom, I might have died. Or worse yet, wet myself. Learn from my mistake. Do not come here. Gary, Indiana, the armpit of the U.S., is twice the city Paris is. If you want to come here in spite of my warnings, learn the disgusting tongue that is French first, so that you can communicate with these Neanderthals. If you won't do this either, immediately upon arrival here, come and see Dominique, and tell him Josh sent you. And remember, whenever you have a problem that you can't solve, put your faith in booze.
Wednesday, March 20, 2002
Dear Girl I met on HOTORNOT.com: An Ode to Unrequited Love
by Brett SheatsDear Girl from HOTORNOT.com,
When love hits you square in the jaw, who are you to curse its velveteen fist? Forgive my cryptic opening, but the fire growing deep in my loins has created a smokescreen that clouds my judgment and fills my mind. I am here to profess my love for you, oh vixen of the digital realm, matron of my mind, thief of my libido.
When I saw your picture on HOTORNOT.com, I nearly broke down and cried. Never have I seen such beautiful use of eyeliner, such immaculately plucked eyebrows, such playful hair resting gently on the top of your supple bosom. And that zebra striped handbag strap, need I even comment? You devilkin, did you know what you were doing to me when you came into my life?
Sometimes, life here in the Army can be a cold, lonely affair. When I go out to the artillery range, sometimes I have visions -- Visions of a beautiful woman in white walking through the impact area towards me, reaching out to me and kissing my lips oh-so-gently. Some would say it was just a hallucination of sorts caused by a volatile mix of cannon cleaner and black powder, but it was a vision of my future -- of me finding you and you coming into my life. Do you like Nintendo?
I know that we will be perfect for one another. We will have a bounty of wonderful children. I will be a good father, and I promise I will not get angry with you. I will provide for Brett Jr., Suzanne-Lou, and even Little Dickie the best I can. You will be free to stay home days and watch your stories, if you would like.
What I would do for you, oh, sweet tenderloin, what I would give for just once chance at your hand. I know you wrote in your profile that you 'saw my picture and you thought I was SOOOOOO Hot!' I am a wise man, and know you wrote that for all to see, but the romantic in me knows that those words were a personal declaration. And what a coincidence that I too love clubbin', hangin' out, partyin', and volleyball!
So baby, believe me when I say that this time it is for real. Know that I will not break open another prophylactic until you venture into my Den of Love. Together, we will make the sweet, beautiful music of love.
Your Destiny,
Brett
Tuesday, March 19, 2002
The True Braveheart Story: My Adventures in Scotland
by JCaleb
If you are anything like me, when you saw the movie Braveheart, something about it just didn't seem right. After only a day here in Scotland, I've discovered the truth behind this.
Hollywood would have you believe that his motivation was love. But let's be honest folks, Hollywood also contends that a woman would throw the world's largest diamond into the ocean after her 'love' went down with the titanic, and that 'love thy neighbor' is really one of the ten commandments given to Charlton Heston. We're all adults here. Its time for a bit of honesty.
When he had avenged his wife, he continued his assault on England. But it still was not 'love' that spurred him on. It was the sickness of walking up and down the millions of stairs that cover Edinburgh. His legs were sore and he sought the comfort that could only be found in easy walks through the flat Hyde Park, and relaxing rides on the tube. Comforts found in England.
So, next time you hear someone misquoting that ravishing piece of man-meat known as Mel Gibson by saying, "Give me liberty or give me death". You can correct them, "No, my impudent little ass of a friend, its "Give me LEVEL-TY, or give me death."
Hundreds of years later, Scotland, realizing that farming is next to impossible here, has finally found a new trade: selling Braveheart collectibles. Where else can you find an official Wallace Clan Shotglass, or get your picture taken next to a statue of William himself. Even your charitable donations can go to 'the real Bravehearts,' children with leukemia. The market is cornered.
The back breaking pain of Sisyphus' sentence to forever walk up and down hills has changed Scottish culture in other important ways. An average Scotsman, realizing one day that a mere pint of lager was not enough to make him forget his great fatigue, gave the world Scotch Whiskey. Now thanks to him, we can all get drunk faster.
Then in St. Andrews, a town not far from Edinburgh, the inhabitants tired of playing difficult football games in which you couldn't see your teammates due to terrain, and invented a little game called golf. It was a game in which one would try to strike a small white rock with enough accuracy so that it might land on one of the 18 flat millimeters of earth in the entire province. The fairways were simply the only places one could conceivably walk, and if you missed them, instead of sandtraps or water hazards, your ball would simply careen from the mountain.
Scotland, with its rich history and cultural contributions, has a few lessons to teach us all: A) No matter how much you try to explain its historical significance, wearing skirts simply makes guys look gay. B)Walking up and down hills and stairs constantly can drive people enough towards sucicidal tendencies that they might indeed follow Mel Gibson and his crappy scottish accent into battles begun by moonings. And C) Pain and suffering, and not ingenuity, is the true mother of invention, and of long bloody civil wars.
Wednesday, March 13, 2002
Another Questionable Election
by Stephanie Anderson
This just in... a new M&M (or W&W, for you dyslexics) color is coming out. "Awesome Aqua," "Think Pink," or "Purple Power." Why do we need a new color? All of them taste identical. We, the public, get nothing. No new flavor, no new service. If I need a new color, I would just take my magic markers to the yellows.
And do not be fooled, my fellow chocolate consumers. M&M will not make this change at no cost.
The only question is, which color will they sacrifice now? Do they think we did not notice when they exterminated light brown in the blue trade? "Oooooh, look at this fancy new blue color..." say the smooth-talking advertisers, "light brown? what light brown? we never had light brown." I REMEMBER LIGHT BROWN! Never forget the fate of the light brown M&M. If you succumb to casting your vote at mms.com, remember, that is a vote for the death of yet another unsuspecting, under-appreciated color. As evidence of the impending massacre, I offer the above picture... what color is missing? And the colors left don't seem to miss their companion at all, they are too busy playing multicultural dress-up.
Another thing I remember is the colors that ran for a seat in the last M&M election. Hmmm... let's see... blue, purple and pink. What similar choices. If the voter did not want pink or purple last time, why would they want them now? Perhaps this is not really an election with fresh choices and new candidates, but more similar to The Price is Right. One color gets up on stage and Rod Roddy yells, "Aqua, come on down!"
We've gotten so wrapped up in these color overhauls that we have forgotten the true purpose of M&Ms... baseball predictions. Yellow for doubles, green for homeruns... an integral part of the American pastime. Mars Inc. is calling for a "Global Color Vote." Those talking round candies are in league with the terrorists. What will aqua stand for? Infield fly rule? A player strike for more money?
Go ahead, vote for "Putrid Purple," "Acid Aqua," or "Pansy Ass Pink." But think about the world you are changing. Ask yourself, can you remember the four original marshmallows in Lucky Charms? Are these marketing schemes really worth your base running average?
This just in... a new M&M (or W&W, for you dyslexics) color is coming out. "Awesome Aqua," "Think Pink," or "Purple Power." Why do we need a new color? All of them taste identical. We, the public, get nothing. No new flavor, no new service. If I need a new color, I would just take my magic markers to the yellows.
And do not be fooled, my fellow chocolate consumers. M&M will not make this change at no cost.
The only question is, which color will they sacrifice now? Do they think we did not notice when they exterminated light brown in the blue trade? "Oooooh, look at this fancy new blue color..." say the smooth-talking advertisers, "light brown? what light brown? we never had light brown." I REMEMBER LIGHT BROWN! Never forget the fate of the light brown M&M. If you succumb to casting your vote at mms.com, remember, that is a vote for the death of yet another unsuspecting, under-appreciated color. As evidence of the impending massacre, I offer the above picture... what color is missing? And the colors left don't seem to miss their companion at all, they are too busy playing multicultural dress-up.
Another thing I remember is the colors that ran for a seat in the last M&M election. Hmmm... let's see... blue, purple and pink. What similar choices. If the voter did not want pink or purple last time, why would they want them now? Perhaps this is not really an election with fresh choices and new candidates, but more similar to The Price is Right. One color gets up on stage and Rod Roddy yells, "Aqua, come on down!"
We've gotten so wrapped up in these color overhauls that we have forgotten the true purpose of M&Ms... baseball predictions. Yellow for doubles, green for homeruns... an integral part of the American pastime. Mars Inc. is calling for a "Global Color Vote." Those talking round candies are in league with the terrorists. What will aqua stand for? Infield fly rule? A player strike for more money?
Go ahead, vote for "Putrid Purple," "Acid Aqua," or "Pansy Ass Pink." But think about the world you are changing. Ask yourself, can you remember the four original marshmallows in Lucky Charms? Are these marketing schemes really worth your base running average?
Basic Economics and How Caffeine Makes the World a Lesser Place
by Stephanie Anderson
Alan Greenspan, who has been credited with the intelligence of Adam Smith, has announced that the American economy is "on the mend." (Like the clothes in the sewing pile, or like a broken limb?) If Mr. Greenspan is correct, perhaps my history degree will become slightly more marketable soon, but that's unlikely. There are many things upon which we can blame the economy- terrorism, politics, the 'axis of evil', head lice... but I choose to blame the customers at my work. I figure that they are just as good a segment of the population as any, and they are certainly not improving the status of local business.
Today's soup is Split Pea, which I feel works hand in hand with brussel sprouts as an affront to children everywhere. But, apparently there exist adults who have forgotten that they too were once children and are willing to shell out $5 for a bowl of green slop. I wouldn't care about the soup except that I have to stare at it and smell it every time someone orders a bowl. This is my college education at work- An occasional $6.50/hr at the local coffee shop.
The Alarmist comes in about once a week. This woman is always worked up about something she read in Self Magazine, or an equally respectable publication. Today it's sprouts. "Is there anything you, as a small business owner," she says to my boss, "can do about the sprout problem?" What sprout problem? Apparently sprouts, in isolated and undocumented cases, are causing people to rise up in revolt. This woman is visibly upset, and my boss charmingly pretends that he too is an anti-sprout warrior, just before he slaps some on another sandwich.
A woman steps up to the counter and asks me to make her a sugar-free Turtle Mocha. I explain what's in a Turtle Mocha: chocolate, caramel, chocolate syrup, caramel syrup, milk, espresso and whipped cream. She looks at me, "So?" Sorry ma'am, but I can't make that sugar free. "Well, I can't have sugar." She says, exasperated, and leaves.
A lady who must have been her sister had just been in yesterday and asked me what the base of our mushroom soup was. It was cream. When I said this, she asked if that would be ok for her to eat, since she's allergic to dairy products. Let me check, nope, sorry, cream made the dairy list this week.
Feminism Man is taking a class on feminism, and insists on telling me that everyday, as if I am going to give him an award on behalf of females everywhere. He also assumes that I, as I girl, inherently know everything about the feminist movement and care. I apparently care so much that he interrupts everyone else placing orders just to espouse his views to me.
One kid, about 13, comes in every Saturday. Every Saturday, he gets a Coke. Every Saturday, in fact everyday, Coke costs 75 cents. Every Saturday, this kid says, upon hearing the price, "I heard it was 50." Heard? From who? Every Saturday he pays 75.
XL Mocha refuses to share his name with the proletariat, so we call him by his drink. He first came in announcing that he had just been fired from Caribou, another coffee shop down the road. But, he still had a key so he was gonna go back and totally rip them off. And, by the way, could he have an application? Then he began coming in everyday, sometimes more than once, usually just to announce how much money he had spent that day or to tell us that we aren't qualified to work in a coffee shop. He was extremely proud of the $700 he spent on his girlfriend's Christmas present. No one would satisfy him by asking what he bought, but finally I broke down. "I bought her $700 worth of gift certificates to a coffee shop so that she can have coffee every day for a year," he bragged.
Not all people are interested in purchasing coffee or merely harassing employees. Some people carry the dream of someday working here. We let them fill out applications. This is what they say: Applicant #1: Did you graduate from High School? "Yes" Further Education? "GED" Applicant #2: Previous Positions? [A store one block away] Why did you leave that position? "Because the commute was too long." Do you still live at the same address? "Yes" Applicant #3: What are the reasons you left previous positions? "Fired, fired, quit."
Apparently the talent pool is wearing thin, what does that say for the rest of the economy? What is the caliber of people applying for the so-called "real jobs"? If people educate themselves about things other than sprouts and feminism and if they invest $700 rather than spending it on coffee, I would be able to say that I have hope. But, based on the field research I have collected, the situation is grim. Perhaps we should stock the cellar with all the potatoes we can find, a few back issues of Self, and a year's supply of coffee, and settle in for the next lapse of recession.
Alan Greenspan, who has been credited with the intelligence of Adam Smith, has announced that the American economy is "on the mend." (Like the clothes in the sewing pile, or like a broken limb?) If Mr. Greenspan is correct, perhaps my history degree will become slightly more marketable soon, but that's unlikely. There are many things upon which we can blame the economy- terrorism, politics, the 'axis of evil', head lice... but I choose to blame the customers at my work. I figure that they are just as good a segment of the population as any, and they are certainly not improving the status of local business.
Today's soup is Split Pea, which I feel works hand in hand with brussel sprouts as an affront to children everywhere. But, apparently there exist adults who have forgotten that they too were once children and are willing to shell out $5 for a bowl of green slop. I wouldn't care about the soup except that I have to stare at it and smell it every time someone orders a bowl. This is my college education at work- An occasional $6.50/hr at the local coffee shop.
The Alarmist comes in about once a week. This woman is always worked up about something she read in Self Magazine, or an equally respectable publication. Today it's sprouts. "Is there anything you, as a small business owner," she says to my boss, "can do about the sprout problem?" What sprout problem? Apparently sprouts, in isolated and undocumented cases, are causing people to rise up in revolt. This woman is visibly upset, and my boss charmingly pretends that he too is an anti-sprout warrior, just before he slaps some on another sandwich.
A woman steps up to the counter and asks me to make her a sugar-free Turtle Mocha. I explain what's in a Turtle Mocha: chocolate, caramel, chocolate syrup, caramel syrup, milk, espresso and whipped cream. She looks at me, "So?" Sorry ma'am, but I can't make that sugar free. "Well, I can't have sugar." She says, exasperated, and leaves.
A lady who must have been her sister had just been in yesterday and asked me what the base of our mushroom soup was. It was cream. When I said this, she asked if that would be ok for her to eat, since she's allergic to dairy products. Let me check, nope, sorry, cream made the dairy list this week.
Feminism Man is taking a class on feminism, and insists on telling me that everyday, as if I am going to give him an award on behalf of females everywhere. He also assumes that I, as I girl, inherently know everything about the feminist movement and care. I apparently care so much that he interrupts everyone else placing orders just to espouse his views to me.
One kid, about 13, comes in every Saturday. Every Saturday, he gets a Coke. Every Saturday, in fact everyday, Coke costs 75 cents. Every Saturday, this kid says, upon hearing the price, "I heard it was 50." Heard? From who? Every Saturday he pays 75.
XL Mocha refuses to share his name with the proletariat, so we call him by his drink. He first came in announcing that he had just been fired from Caribou, another coffee shop down the road. But, he still had a key so he was gonna go back and totally rip them off. And, by the way, could he have an application? Then he began coming in everyday, sometimes more than once, usually just to announce how much money he had spent that day or to tell us that we aren't qualified to work in a coffee shop. He was extremely proud of the $700 he spent on his girlfriend's Christmas present. No one would satisfy him by asking what he bought, but finally I broke down. "I bought her $700 worth of gift certificates to a coffee shop so that she can have coffee every day for a year," he bragged.
Not all people are interested in purchasing coffee or merely harassing employees. Some people carry the dream of someday working here. We let them fill out applications. This is what they say: Applicant #1: Did you graduate from High School? "Yes" Further Education? "GED" Applicant #2: Previous Positions? [A store one block away] Why did you leave that position? "Because the commute was too long." Do you still live at the same address? "Yes" Applicant #3: What are the reasons you left previous positions? "Fired, fired, quit."
Apparently the talent pool is wearing thin, what does that say for the rest of the economy? What is the caliber of people applying for the so-called "real jobs"? If people educate themselves about things other than sprouts and feminism and if they invest $700 rather than spending it on coffee, I would be able to say that I have hope. But, based on the field research I have collected, the situation is grim. Perhaps we should stock the cellar with all the potatoes we can find, a few back issues of Self, and a year's supply of coffee, and settle in for the next lapse of recession.
Sunday, February 24, 2002
Excerpts from "The 600 Day Season"
by Stephanie Anderson
"Did you find any gold?" This is one of the first questions anyone asks me. I suppose that technically I was in Alaska "gold mining", and that would lead one to think that an actual search for precious metal was going on. Yes, I know what we netted in the time I was there, and yes, I tell people the figure and then convert it to dollars for them and they seem satisfied, but I was mostly there for the experience and the company.
The curious part is that my uncle, Ole, the man behind the mine, the one who spends each available day pushing dirt through the sluice boxes and the remainder thinking about it, isn't concerned with gold either. He loves his mine, and has dedicated his life to it, but if a sophisticated study was conducted and a white-coated lab technician politely informed him that sluicing Liberty Creek would have the same yield that old men do on beaches with metal detectors, he would keep pushing the creek bed through the boxes.
I stepped out of the airport in Fairbanks into a full parking lot of about thirty cars. That fleet wasn't enough to overpower the smell. My nostrils were immediately overwhelmed with pine, open space and a touch of cinnamon. The drive in to the mine was amazing. It was 125 miles, and it took us about 9 hours, due to the dilapidated roads. We went through Chicken, AK and met 2 of the 17 residents who have made their fortune mining Chicken Creek. In Boundary, population 8 (one family), no one was home and on the main building was a sign reading "Best Coffee in town." That's where we left the "highway" (a dirt road) for the last 27 miles, 17 of which were built by Ole. After 5 hours that included getting stuck twice and the spontaneous application of chains to the tires, we trundled down the last hill into the mine.
From dawn until dusk each day, we attempted to sluice, a method of mining where rock from the creek bed is washed through sorting boxes. Oftentimes, the machinery wouldn't work, and whatever machine we needed to fix the broken machine didn't work either, so much of the day was devoted to repairs. We lived in a cabin that Ole built and cooked on a wood stove. The camp had no electricity, plumbing, heat, or running water, and we listened for any communication from the outside world via "Caribou Clatters," an AM radio messaging service. That sort of routine and isolation is relaxing, but the thought of being closed in by hundreds of miles of wilderness is also stifling.
At the mine, there are old trucks and tractors galore- some that work and some that don't, but nothing from later than 1960. I rode around in a Chevy pickup with my arm stuck out the window, clinging to the roof, like a college guy cruising the strip in his pimped out Beretta. My arm was not there to look cool, but rather to replace the long-missing door latch so I wouldn't go flying out into a gravel pit.
Eventually, it was time for me to leave to catch my plane back to Minneapolis. Coincidentally, just as our plans for departure took shape, it rained an inch and snowed. It rained all night, soaking the topsoil and turning the black dirt of the road into pudding. Earlier, we had tried to go out for supplies when it had only been drizzling. The Chevy got stuck four times in less than a mile. From this experience, we knew we were now at an impasse. For the first time in three weeks, Ole declared a coffee break. We walked up to the cabin, he poured himself a full cup and left me the dredges. He said he thought I should stay until freeze-up. Translation: indefinitely.
I resolved to walk the 27 miles to Boundary, and then hitch hike the last 100 miles to Tok. Then my aunt could give me a ride to the airport. I strapped my rubber breakup boots and my raincoat to my small day pack, and started off. In a cheerful goodbye, Ole gave me a shot gun and two bear slugs saying, "Wait until the bear gets close, and then shoot. If you don't kill it and it gets you, load the second slug and shoot yourself."
On the long walk, I enjoyed the scenery of mountain tops covered with freshly fallen snow. I sang at the top of my voice, all the words to any song I knew and making up words when I forget. I marveled that there was no one within distance for even an echo. I debated whether walking up or down hill was more of a strain on my leg muscles. I prayed at each turn that a hunter on a four-wheeler would appear and give me a ride. I shivered, wading through creeks as it got dark and water poured over the tops of my boots. Twenty-seven miles later I met the road. In perfect irony, a pickup truck pulled up behind me as I reached the dirt highway. I climbed into the bed, collapsed next to a couple of dogs, and rode the last half-mile to Boundary.
The majority of ideas we have that describe the frozen north are from stories. We think of cold, and adventure and pioneering; vast wilderness, freedom, and a certain element of lawlessness. I suppose these are stereotypes, but not altogether false. There may be cities in Alaska where you can walk into the Gap and buy the newest shade of cargo pants just like you can in LA, but a large portion of the state is a place reserved for those that prefer dogsleds to BMWs. That portion is the one that I would say is breathtaking, beautiful, friendly to strangers, and frightening to novices. The 40-mile region, in the interior near Canada, is where Ole has been mining for almost 25 years.
Saturday, February 23, 2002
A Glorious Weekend
by Stephanie Anderson
I had every intention of writing a glowing review of Monster's Ball, but then I saw it. I had been waiting for months to see this promise of an intense plot, solid cast and appearance of dreamy Heath Ledger. 'Disappointed' would not describe how I felt after waiting up for a 10 p.m. showing. 'Disgusted', 'violated' and 'enraged' would be better adjectives. The only thing I can say to better objectify the film is that it was basically a depressing porno. As I understand the illicit movie industry, this should be an oxymoron. Do not ever see Monster's Ball. EVER. My first subject matter being utterly decimated, I spent the weekend collecting pearls of knowledge on the so-called "social" scene. I offer this truth as a result of painstaking research: Boys and girls are dumb.
To dispel any claims of inherent bias, I will begin by saying that females are absolutely befuddling in relationships. Girls get mad about things they know they have no logical reason to be upset about, and then reserve the right to not tell boys why they are mad. Just to ensure complete insanity, girls then get mad that boys cannot figure out what they are mad about. ("Because if he really cared, he would just know.")
Boys are more stupider when it comes to actually initiating contact with a member of the opposite sex. I, as a card-carrying girl, am trained in the rules of beguilement that we are authorized to use to perplex boys. But I continually wonder what was said when they separated the boys and the girls for 6th grade Sex Ed. Did they say to all the boys, "Now, the best way to get a girl to go out with you is to yell 'Hey Baby!' at her out of your car window as you drive by."? Has that ever worked? Has a girl ever chased a car down the street in her skirt and heels to catch the yelling car and say, "Thanks for the interest, wanna get together?"
However, boys must get some credit for persistence. For example, a guy could ask a girl out, and be turned down, three times in a row. As she turns and walks away, he will then yell his phone number at her back. Some may call that not taking a hint, but I think it shows great commitment to a cause.
Most frustrating about the communication lapse between the sexes is the way that certain phrases are rendered useless. In no social situation can you innocently tell someone that they look familiar. The second that you try to ask for help in sorting through your memory, you have to admit, "You're right. You weren't really in my eighth grade math class, I just couldn't think of anything better to say and had forgotten 'hi'."
Of course, it has become classic to completely skip the lame excuses for conversation altogether. If a girl accidentally bumps into a guy in a bar, he can legally interpret it as her throwing herself at him. Incidentally standing or sitting next to someone can also be classified as a date.
The bar scene is a fiasco. There are too many guys in leather jackets, too many girls in no more material than a handkerchief, and too many varieties of alcoholic lemonade. But, it is so easy to meet people that there is no cause for all of the complaints. Granted these people have nothing to say, and in all honesty, are horrible dancers, but at least you're not at Monster's Ball.
I had every intention of writing a glowing review of Monster's Ball, but then I saw it. I had been waiting for months to see this promise of an intense plot, solid cast and appearance of dreamy Heath Ledger. 'Disappointed' would not describe how I felt after waiting up for a 10 p.m. showing. 'Disgusted', 'violated' and 'enraged' would be better adjectives. The only thing I can say to better objectify the film is that it was basically a depressing porno. As I understand the illicit movie industry, this should be an oxymoron. Do not ever see Monster's Ball. EVER. My first subject matter being utterly decimated, I spent the weekend collecting pearls of knowledge on the so-called "social" scene. I offer this truth as a result of painstaking research: Boys and girls are dumb.
To dispel any claims of inherent bias, I will begin by saying that females are absolutely befuddling in relationships. Girls get mad about things they know they have no logical reason to be upset about, and then reserve the right to not tell boys why they are mad. Just to ensure complete insanity, girls then get mad that boys cannot figure out what they are mad about. ("Because if he really cared, he would just know.")
Boys are more stupider when it comes to actually initiating contact with a member of the opposite sex. I, as a card-carrying girl, am trained in the rules of beguilement that we are authorized to use to perplex boys. But I continually wonder what was said when they separated the boys and the girls for 6th grade Sex Ed. Did they say to all the boys, "Now, the best way to get a girl to go out with you is to yell 'Hey Baby!' at her out of your car window as you drive by."? Has that ever worked? Has a girl ever chased a car down the street in her skirt and heels to catch the yelling car and say, "Thanks for the interest, wanna get together?"
However, boys must get some credit for persistence. For example, a guy could ask a girl out, and be turned down, three times in a row. As she turns and walks away, he will then yell his phone number at her back. Some may call that not taking a hint, but I think it shows great commitment to a cause.
Most frustrating about the communication lapse between the sexes is the way that certain phrases are rendered useless. In no social situation can you innocently tell someone that they look familiar. The second that you try to ask for help in sorting through your memory, you have to admit, "You're right. You weren't really in my eighth grade math class, I just couldn't think of anything better to say and had forgotten 'hi'."
Of course, it has become classic to completely skip the lame excuses for conversation altogether. If a girl accidentally bumps into a guy in a bar, he can legally interpret it as her throwing herself at him. Incidentally standing or sitting next to someone can also be classified as a date.
The bar scene is a fiasco. There are too many guys in leather jackets, too many girls in no more material than a handkerchief, and too many varieties of alcoholic lemonade. But, it is so easy to meet people that there is no cause for all of the complaints. Granted these people have nothing to say, and in all honesty, are horrible dancers, but at least you're not at Monster's Ball.
Tuesday, February 05, 2002
Everyone Needs a Hero or How Garth Brooks and Dr. Pepper Saved America
by Brett Sheats
In these times of national uncertainty and world chaos, hearts and minds alike are strained with unimaginable amounts of stress. In a recent study, 76% of Americans responded that since 9-Eleven (as it is now popularly referred to, much like J-Lo or P. Diddy) their stress level has 'moderately or severely' increased. With the recent legal summons served on popular soothsayer Miss Cleo, who do we have to look to that is still keepin' it real?
Well, ladies and gentlemen, the search is over. Like he has done so many times before in countless dry counties across the American South, Garth Brooks brings his sweet musical intoxication to our dry, chapped lips. This time, however, it is not his new album Scarecrow that is causing boys and girls alike to tap their feet in sonic approval. No, it isn't even the triumphant return of his bad-boy alter-ego Chris Gaines. (Oh so edgy and Oh sooo sexy!!!) This time, Garth has enlisted the help of his best friend, Dr. Pepper, to raise our spirits in a simple television commercial. And America is forever changed.
I admit, the first twenty times I saw this commercial, I was a bit confused. First, I wasn't sure if it was really Garth smiling back at me from across the digital divide, as I was sure Garth would never stoop to the level of hawking carbonated prune squeezin's on national TV. But after repeated viewings, I realized that I was wrong -- dead wrong. Garth wasn't trying to convince me to drink Dr. Pepper soda -- he was trying to convince me to actually be like Dr. Pepper. How can one be like soda, I was left to ponder? And why would Garth want me to do this? Upon further reflection, I decided to research the topic. There must be a logical reason, I concluded. I decided to examine the evidence at hand.
Exhibit A: The Commercial
Where better to start, in the quest for answers, than the commercial itself? It starts out simple enough -- Garth and the boys sitting around the Ol' General Store, playing checkers, speaking slowly, wondering how they got into this soundstage. But all that is left to the viewer's imagination. Instead, we see them having a rollickin' time, playing the fiddle, the spoons, and strumming the six-string. It's the kind of scene that makes you wonder, "Gee, maybe NASCAR has a certain something I never noticed before..."
After a few memorable seconds of this, things get really interesting, and a JAILBREAK occurs. A jailbreak from THE JAIL OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN, that is. Four ethnically-correct females come sauntering down the street, in step with Garth's strumming, mind you, looking all hot and bothered. Here the genius of Brooks shines through. He holds up four ice-cold Dr.Peppers next to his oh-so-cute, pudgy cheeks and motions the girls over. A match made in heaven? Indeed.
The commercial ends with another ten seconds of great music, great times, and great soda. We see additional shots of the whole crew doing their thang, all the while drinking that sweet intoxicating brew. The commercial just screams out "HEY AMERICA! Life is good, but only if you have hot women and cold soda." Take that, Osama.
Exhibit B: The Song
There's a light in your soul that says you're one of a kind!Don't ever let it go!Be original, an individual, like Dr. Pepper!Be you, do what you do. Be you, do what you do...
That, my friends, is pure, solid gold. I haven't looked at the charts lately, but I'm sure that Casey Kasem is counting this one down until it hits the top. In this verse, we find inspiration, dedication, even perspiration. Here, the sweet tasting revelry of Dr. Pepper meshes with Garth's floating voice and magic is born. Move over Disneyworld. Step aside, Dollywood. There is a new hotspot for fun, and it is your local vendor of Dr. Pepper.
For days now, I have been perplexed by Garth's call for us to 'be ... like Dr. Pepper!' How could I even begin to be like a carbonated beverage? Dare I try to bottle myself? It must be some other part of Dr. Pepper that I am supposed to emulate. Perhaps I will find the answer elsewhere.
The Final Exhibit: The Spoonman
Next time you see this commercial, I implore you: Take a close look at the old man sitting in front of Mr. Brooks. Clad in a red prison jumpsuit, balding, with wildly long sidehair, and playing the spoons, this Spoonman seems to be the cryptic key to this riddle. Who is he? Where does he come from? Why does he play the spoons like he is robotic? Why would Garth ever hang out with someone like him? Couldn't he get a better spoon player? He seems to bring up more questions than answers. And he haunts my dreams. Even in my good dreams, with exotic women and fantastic adventures, the Spoonman is there, mocking me. Rapping-rap-tapping on my door. His evil eye disarming me, his tell-tale heart betraying the passage of time. Damn you Spoonman, damn you to Hell!
In conclusion, Spoonman aside, one must thank the gods above for this call to arms. Leave it to the greatest crooner of our time, Garth Brooks, and the greatest carbonated beverage, other than Coke, Mountain Dew, Lipton Brisk, Slice, Sunkist, Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Pepsi Twist, Diet Pepsi Twist, Sprite, 7 Up, Birch Beer, Cream Soda, and Root Beer, to inspire us in ways we never thought could happen. Sometimes the right way is the hard way. Better the hard right, than the easy wrong. Freedom is not free. I regret I only have one life to live for my country. But, I
digress.
So, raise your glass, America, to Garth Brooks, and Dr. Pepper -- two American heroes who have saved our world. No terrorist can ever take away our freedom to go out in front of the local general store, grab a washboard and a moonshine bottle, and play a snazzy tune with major-label recording artists. That is America, pure and simple.
In these times of national uncertainty and world chaos, hearts and minds alike are strained with unimaginable amounts of stress. In a recent study, 76% of Americans responded that since 9-Eleven (as it is now popularly referred to, much like J-Lo or P. Diddy) their stress level has 'moderately or severely' increased. With the recent legal summons served on popular soothsayer Miss Cleo, who do we have to look to that is still keepin' it real?
Well, ladies and gentlemen, the search is over. Like he has done so many times before in countless dry counties across the American South, Garth Brooks brings his sweet musical intoxication to our dry, chapped lips. This time, however, it is not his new album Scarecrow that is causing boys and girls alike to tap their feet in sonic approval. No, it isn't even the triumphant return of his bad-boy alter-ego Chris Gaines. (Oh so edgy and Oh sooo sexy!!!) This time, Garth has enlisted the help of his best friend, Dr. Pepper, to raise our spirits in a simple television commercial. And America is forever changed.
I admit, the first twenty times I saw this commercial, I was a bit confused. First, I wasn't sure if it was really Garth smiling back at me from across the digital divide, as I was sure Garth would never stoop to the level of hawking carbonated prune squeezin's on national TV. But after repeated viewings, I realized that I was wrong -- dead wrong. Garth wasn't trying to convince me to drink Dr. Pepper soda -- he was trying to convince me to actually be like Dr. Pepper. How can one be like soda, I was left to ponder? And why would Garth want me to do this? Upon further reflection, I decided to research the topic. There must be a logical reason, I concluded. I decided to examine the evidence at hand.
Exhibit A: The Commercial
Where better to start, in the quest for answers, than the commercial itself? It starts out simple enough -- Garth and the boys sitting around the Ol' General Store, playing checkers, speaking slowly, wondering how they got into this soundstage. But all that is left to the viewer's imagination. Instead, we see them having a rollickin' time, playing the fiddle, the spoons, and strumming the six-string. It's the kind of scene that makes you wonder, "Gee, maybe NASCAR has a certain something I never noticed before..."
After a few memorable seconds of this, things get really interesting, and a JAILBREAK occurs. A jailbreak from THE JAIL OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN, that is. Four ethnically-correct females come sauntering down the street, in step with Garth's strumming, mind you, looking all hot and bothered. Here the genius of Brooks shines through. He holds up four ice-cold Dr.Peppers next to his oh-so-cute, pudgy cheeks and motions the girls over. A match made in heaven? Indeed.
The commercial ends with another ten seconds of great music, great times, and great soda. We see additional shots of the whole crew doing their thang, all the while drinking that sweet intoxicating brew. The commercial just screams out "HEY AMERICA! Life is good, but only if you have hot women and cold soda." Take that, Osama.
Exhibit B: The Song
There's a light in your soul that says you're one of a kind!Don't ever let it go!Be original, an individual, like Dr. Pepper!Be you, do what you do. Be you, do what you do...
That, my friends, is pure, solid gold. I haven't looked at the charts lately, but I'm sure that Casey Kasem is counting this one down until it hits the top. In this verse, we find inspiration, dedication, even perspiration. Here, the sweet tasting revelry of Dr. Pepper meshes with Garth's floating voice and magic is born. Move over Disneyworld. Step aside, Dollywood. There is a new hotspot for fun, and it is your local vendor of Dr. Pepper.
For days now, I have been perplexed by Garth's call for us to 'be ... like Dr. Pepper!' How could I even begin to be like a carbonated beverage? Dare I try to bottle myself? It must be some other part of Dr. Pepper that I am supposed to emulate. Perhaps I will find the answer elsewhere.
The Final Exhibit: The Spoonman
Next time you see this commercial, I implore you: Take a close look at the old man sitting in front of Mr. Brooks. Clad in a red prison jumpsuit, balding, with wildly long sidehair, and playing the spoons, this Spoonman seems to be the cryptic key to this riddle. Who is he? Where does he come from? Why does he play the spoons like he is robotic? Why would Garth ever hang out with someone like him? Couldn't he get a better spoon player? He seems to bring up more questions than answers. And he haunts my dreams. Even in my good dreams, with exotic women and fantastic adventures, the Spoonman is there, mocking me. Rapping-rap-tapping on my door. His evil eye disarming me, his tell-tale heart betraying the passage of time. Damn you Spoonman, damn you to Hell!
In conclusion, Spoonman aside, one must thank the gods above for this call to arms. Leave it to the greatest crooner of our time, Garth Brooks, and the greatest carbonated beverage, other than Coke, Mountain Dew, Lipton Brisk, Slice, Sunkist, Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Pepsi Twist, Diet Pepsi Twist, Sprite, 7 Up, Birch Beer, Cream Soda, and Root Beer, to inspire us in ways we never thought could happen. Sometimes the right way is the hard way. Better the hard right, than the easy wrong. Freedom is not free. I regret I only have one life to live for my country. But, I
digress.
So, raise your glass, America, to Garth Brooks, and Dr. Pepper -- two American heroes who have saved our world. No terrorist can ever take away our freedom to go out in front of the local general store, grab a washboard and a moonshine bottle, and play a snazzy tune with major-label recording artists. That is America, pure and simple.
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