Hiram and His Visions

It's hard to find braille in prison. Hiram, a lifer without sight, is forced to run his fingers over the cinderblock walls every night to feel some sort of stimulation, allowing the cracks and divets, bumps and grooves to become misspelled words, jumbled poetry, drunken rants. It wasn't that hard to do anymore; he no longer had to close his eyes and concentrate--he could just stand there and absorb it. Each jumbled word was stoically written in capital letters on the black canvas of his mind's sight, except for the once in a while discovery of a risque patch of wall. Then it was cursive. Then it was stimulation. Then it was romance in the abyss.

Photograph by Thomas Wheatley/"Venetian Hostel Tiles" Venice, Italy 7/04

Such a Thing as an Enemy

I awoke on a black-and-white tiled bathroom floor, my left cheek numb, my right eye shut, my left arm missing. In the brief moment I was seesawing between conciousness and void, I saw the dress of my enemy; shirtless in jeans, brown prison boots and a ski mask with a blue bob. He stood in the doorway and breathed deep, white eyes as light as bone, a hairless cousin of a werewolf. The last time we met, he attacked me through the back door of my parents' house. He has stalked me through urban alleyways on a motorcycle and choked me in a four-star Venetian hotel. The demon in a dream is a recurring character, lying in wait for the changing of the seasons, plotting, training, scanning the blueprints of my mind.

Photograph by Thomas Wheatley/"Rong Rong's Glossies" Athens, Ga. 12/04

Two Channels on the телевизионный and Nothing's On

The only joy of Communism is never having to decide what the hell you are gonna do. You will wake, you will work, you will queue, you will eat, you will drink (intermittently, throughout the day), you will rinse, repeat and then die in your sleep. You will find this comforting and monotonous, and in the end you will forget about the parallels while breathing breath in cold air, avoiding the visiting COPS camera crew and plotting how your mail-order bride business will ever get past the recruitment stage. Like the Sun and the Moon, the circle will come all the way around again and the 80-way intersection called "choice" will always be a state away.

But fear not, young pilgrim, for your boat has been built. Make your own sail from contracts and quilts and never believe that choice is a curse.

Photograph by Thomas Wheatley/"Communist Statue Park" Budapest, Hungary 7/04

Phillywonk's Forgotten Entry

According to Thaddeus P. Phillywonk's "Maelstrom of the Animal Mindstorm," the only animals who are at ease with the size that God has bestowed upon them are whales and the long-extinct terradactyl. The rest -- giraffes, horses, elephants and panda bears -- are confused and in a perpetual frenzy of Lennie Syndrome, a debilitating disease named after the mouse-crushing numbskull from "Of Mice and Men." These animals know not what to do with their size or strength; they step on orphanages and antique stores by accident and are hostages to their own carnage.

Add Great Danes to the list. Bollagher, the beast in my care here off Prince Ave., is an off-yellow horsedog who is timid and lovable and clumsy and old. He has the gas of a deathbed Cubs fan and the odor of a bus driver's seat. Yet he is alive and wiry, curious and gentle, and romp dances upstairs every night in a bizarre ritual to remind himself he is indeed alive.

This morning, while charting out a story, he sauntered up next to me, his lips dripping with a mix of drool and water. He begged to have his neck stroked, to feel friction on an itch unreachable. Before I could make contact and ease his pain, his mouth opened and unleashed a burp consisting of half-digested dog food and canine innards.

I can't say this is his worst--my first night here he became a walking, barking whoopie cushion influencing me to leave a book of matches in every single room to which he can find access. He sleeps in the downstairs hallway lined with bookshelves, and when his ass starts rumbling, the pathway takes on a morbid smell of old yellow paper and fart. But he's worth keeping around. Not just for the cliche questions I get when I walk him ("How much he weigh?" "How old is he?" "You ride that thing?"), but for the fact that in his most frantic moments, you see the spectrum of animal emotion, and in the most calm, you see a giant with a heart. The see saw of the animal kingdom.

Photograph by Thomas Wheatley/"Bolly & Mabby" 11/04

The Daddy-Bought Tattoo on a Range Rover's Ass (long and on purpose)

On the way back from Savannah, stomach reeling from oysters and an early morning screening of "Air Force One," I drove the endless two-lane artery between Soperton and Athens, State Route 15. The road is an anthropological study, showcasing the highs and lows of small-town Georgia, from the quaint window-shopping hominess of Greensboro to the fried chicken shacks of Sparta. The main road connects the students of one of the most enlightened institutions of higher learning in Georgia to their southernly roots and homes. Yet it is a bleak landscape; the stores in between are all empty and the windows are all gone, the homes are lean-to's, and the city square of fair Sparta is downtrodden and alone.

15 was a caravan of Athenians en transit, a one-way snake of SUVs sliding up and down the hills, and on many, nestled in the corner of the rear window, was a smarky little square: a black sticker, with a large white "W," and below this an identifier, like the title of a superhero sequel, "THE PRESIDENT." You've seen this--the bumper label has been decorating Bush supporter vehicles for a little over a year. (The stickers and other Bush merchandise are designed and sold by the Spalding Group, a marketing and promotions company in business exclusively for Republican campaigns). The stickers become so commonplace you doubletake when a passing car does not have one.

The sticker -- which looks like a cousin of (see ripoff) of The W Hotel logo -- is more than just a pseudosophisticated (oh-so-sleek, oh-so-modern) sign of affection for a dunce. It adds to the Bush cult and is a step short of erecting a mighty statue of a serving president--something more acceptable in dictatorships and unheard of in modern-day democracies. Man has seen the tragic results of the overly self-inflated rulers of our day; it is for this we wait for our leaders to pass before we turn them into physical icons. Kennedy was loved when alive, celebrated once dead. Hitler and Stalin became sedentary action figures in their lands, their wayward ideals amplified in stone and steel. For a moment, it seemed like the world understood the danger of this practice, of minting coins with your own profile or giant statues of your hands grasping swords. We seat our rulers at desks to combine a figure of authority with a symbol of productivity. Without a desk, their chair would be a throne.

The cult of George W. Bush is something dangerous, however. Half of the nation has proclaimed him a hero in spite of no courageous act, a success when he is a failure, a visionary when he is blind. A president who hoodwinks the United States of America should be treated as a CEO who lied to the board and the stockholders, not as a first-night waiter who dropped an urn of ice water. He answers to no one and his supporters don't question it. He lets us relax at the subdivision shindig; while we are engaged in badminton, we trust him to watch the kids in the pool and the burgers on the grill. But the kids are drowning, and the meat's burned black, and no one seems to care. The grand plan for democracy in the Middle East has become the play-it-by-ear, "if-we-catch-'em-we-beat-'em" version of chase the tail.

Yet the stickers stick and the signs stand. One by one, these cars passed me, rushing past the havenothings and cotton fields and onto Athens. Deep down, how many of those motorists really support him, really stand for what he says, really feel that he deserves to not just finish what he started, but enact new changes at home and abroad. How many are spoonfed, Republican by lineage and not choice?

Today, there will be another election, and from what I feel, another mighty foul up. I've cast my virgin presidential vote and it is oddly unsettling. It is not so much a heartfelt vouch for a candidate I support, but a weapon against a fool, the sole offensive against the second rush of bumblery, croneyism and the barroom rhetoric that has driven an ideological gash in the nation's heart.

A ramble? Yes. A gathering of thoughts muttered and shouted elsewhere? Yes. A blind stab at hoping I'll eat my words? Of course.

Weaponry

My father had been receiving death threats and went through the usual course of action for any white, middle-aged male: call the cops, buy a Glock.

The suspect--who it seemed had a knack for doing this kind of thing with medical professionals--had called my father's office several times, threatening to shoot not only him but the nurses, the other doctors and then the rest of the 1,000-plus employees of the adjoining hospital. After six or so calls, enough was deemed enough. Three other doctors purchased Glocks, and an orderly who drives a mammoth safari vehicle bought a .45 powerful enough to shoot through the ancient fragile skin of an elephant. Complete with laser sight. Do not cross such white men.

He brought it home, marveled it at its Ronin-like beauty (black, lightweight, easy-to-clean with safety features galore) and placed it alongside his other sons, the guns in his closet. For the first time, my respectable, bespectacled father had moved past resembling a beat cop with a half-cocked sidearm and into an Austrian terrorist with demands.

On a rainy day, the family drove to a gun store lined with rifles and deer heads, staffed by men wearing Aviators. My mother, who is frightened by guns and hate speech, opted to sit outside the firing lane while he and I squeezed off $20 worth of ammo.

Pistols bring you the same feeling as any type of pill; it does what is intended, produces the effect you desire when you so desire it. The first squeeze is an apprehensive one, filled with images of the gun growing a brain and turning itself on you by a simple twist of the wrist. After that, it's just a process, the thrill on par with a scary movie.

Nothing happened with the crazed ex-patient. The threats stopped, and seeing as this man was a patient with records that listed his address, name--hell, even medical history--I never understood why they couldn't simply arrest him. But my father continues to go to this weapons depot, to stand in a dark alley with a two-dimensional paper threat 50 feet before him, where he triggers steel through air in a process that can now simply be called a hobby, brought to life by empty words from a fool with a scar.

Photograph by Thomas Wheatley

Report: 10,000 people in U.S. work in forced labor
The Associated PressLast Updated 8:23 am PDT Saturday, September 25, 2004

SAN FRANCISCO - At any given time, some 10,000 people in the United States are forced to work against their will under threat of violence, a new report found.

Their name: interns and movie theater ushers.

9.11.04 - Exxon Gas Station Country Music Jamboree - Cherokee, N.C.  

Blind Guides Need Not be Trusted...Trust Solar Power

After conferring with my confidante/nightwatchman/trail guide, Manny Toothjeans, I have decided to slap another slice of digital pie on this here screen of yours and yours and mine. Fatigue is still bearing heavy on my mind and spirit, so Liza Minelli and Pat Sajak will just have to take a raincheck on our long-planned gem-and-crystal swap. I returned from perhaps the most couple of days I've spent with complete strangers/new friends (His Blood Warriors, the motorcycle ministry I've been covering) in Cherokee, N.C., a picturesque and incredibly tolerant city to put up with "titties," Vince Neil and 10,000 bikers in a couple of days. I'm working on a 3,000 word recounting of my time with them, which feels too short to give it justice, but I'll do my best.

If you need to contact me, keep on sending souvenirs and knicknacks to the above address or wheatleythomas (at) yahoo (dot) com. Robots are lurking, hungry for data. In the meantime, I'm trying to piece together a more tangible means of viewing my photos. If you have an idea, please tell me. Other than that, I'm battling demons for the time being.

Send turkey bacon and Fanta. And in keeping with what I wrote up there, trust solar power.

Celebrate My Existence, Minions

It was twenty four years ago today that a redheaded dynamo entered this world.

Last night, my pops decided that it was a good time for an improptu cross country trip to San Francisco. So tonight, we head out for five days, familystyle. Feel free to give me a call, bellysplashers.

Returning to Humdrum

I'm back in body but not exactly mind, as the past two days I have not slept in the presence of snoring, international spirits and thieves I have tossed and turned due to jetlag. Within a couple of days, things should be on the up and up.

To encapsulate 28 days in the form of a couple of paragraphs would be quite daunting, especially for 7 am. However, I will say that Berlin has bees and bunnies instead of flies and squirrels, Hungarian women are not the Babushkas I expected and Paris is the dirtiest and most beautiful city in the world. We hiked the foothills of the Swiss Alps, stumbled along the canals of Amsterdam and waded in thermal baths with Magyars.

Most of these scenes can be viewed in the link to the right. More will be added as the days go on.

Off to Europe

I had hoped to post a bunch of photos and an entry before I left, but this is all I have to show. So be it. Expect more (hopefully) along the way. Click on the link to the right for photos (once again, hopefully).

Loafers will be evicted!!!

Okay, everybody at the same time...What tha fu*k?

In a quick attempt to find pics of Muzzy, the lovable clock-eating cartoon that helped me grasp the Spanish tongue via first-period videos in high school, I stumbled upon this website.

Mind you, it's not for the faint of heart, but nothing says innoncence like a tank-top clad Hawaiian kid holding a .357 Magnum next to a wild boar killed alongside members of his clan.

I'm not against hunting, just kids brandishing hand cannons.

In other news, Flagpole is rebuilidng their website, so the only article available online at the moment is "Metal Chairs & Middle Fingers." The others may/may not be back for a while. If you are here specifically to see them, contact me at the e-mail above.

Michael Stipe is Stalking Me

For a long time, I thought I would never be exposed to Michael Stipe, that I was simply a minute too late and a pub too mundane to cross paths with him. The strangest of people would say they saw him; professors, columnists, even Carlos, my friend's gigolo Columbian roommate from freshman year.

In the past year, I've had three Stipesodes. One was a face-to-face collision (nearly) as Mikey was leaving Bombay, a vegetarian restaurant next to my apartment building. The last two have happened in the past two nights. The first of which took place Saturday at the 40 Watt, with Stipe really looking like he was in a music video (sans blue eyeband from whatever their last video was and stupid hat a la "Shiny Happy People"). The second being last night, at Hot Corner, a coffe shop. Buddy has style.

The only thrill is knowing that coincidence pointed its picky pistol at me. And that I may just be getting the same oh so sweet travel patterns as Herr Stipe.

Hugh Hefner is a pig/Hire me, Mr. Hefner

While I understand my current occupation in food service (as so deftly pointed out by Pete McCommons here) will end in two weeks, it is so difficult for me to break away from the title of "student" and into the limbo levitating hell that is "unemployed" or "between jobs."

Yet unlike the field of law, where a prospect is considered by his LSAT score and high marks, or in fishery management, where internships and bravado are deemed desirable, the vast and schizophrenic playing field of journalism looks for clips. And in an article I am currently writing, I held my tongue as not to offend that man in his jammies, Hugh Hefner.

I won't get too in depth to the background of my article, but I compare a nudist to Hugh Hefner, physically and in behaviour (oh so British) and mannerism. However, I pepper the comparison with the fact that this man is not a self-designated elitist like Mr. Hefner. (As you may recall, the Hef decided after writing the manifesto that is the Playboy Philosophy to live the life--sure he could have fallen on his face with it, but he elevated himself to actually become his magazine and the smartest and most visible marketing tool I have ever seen.)

Mr. Hefner (now I show respect) will almost assuredly never see this article. I may not even use the comparison. But it made me wince; the idea of having to look into the eyes of an elderly man who had bedded countless beauties, broke through an addiction to speed and created one of the most lasting pieces of journalism and social commentaries of the 20th century. It made me wonder if I could even muster the words, "yo, Hef...no offense."

I'm sure I won't have to. Tuesday toast to not knowing if I ever will.

Good Morning, Mountain Boy

Got back at or around 9:00 pm last night after spending a much-needed weekend with the ladyfriend in Western North Carolina. Time was spent here, here and here.

While up there we relaxed, drank wine, became obsessed with Lance Armstrong, battled the world's most gregarious mallard and basked in each other's glory. It was productive and fleeting and everything I could ever want. Expect pics of the two days soon.

Today and tomorrow is entirely devoted to article time. Here's to ending the dependence of heavy-eyed truckers on I-85 nudie bars.

In an Army of Writers, Everyone's a Turncoat (Slate)

or

Writers Should be Born With Knives in Their Backs

I'll admit that David Brooks initially cast a spell on me. There was just something about his writing (pre-New York Times) that had a flow to it, a certain eloquence, a rambling quality that all meshed in the end. His pieces for The Atlantic, most notably this one, were on point. "Bobos in Paradise," on first read, was an excellent book, although in hindsight my take on it is clouded by his exposed generalizations.

But he has fizzled. Slate's David Plotz has it right when he says that Brooks doesn't have enough material to do two columns a week, especially for a widely viewed behemoth like the Times. I think he is overworked and out of his element.

So right now everyone--including the people who praised him little over a year ago--are lambasting him, saying everything short of "resign." It seems when you make it to one of the many pinnacles in life's endeavors, any effort declared unworthy or insufficient is immediately followed by that six letter word. Be it the presidency, columnist, birthday clown, whatever.

For his sake, this whole situation may die down, at which point he may step down and head back to The Weekly Standard. Or he can just say "damn the [critical] torpedoes, full speed ahead!" After all, it is there, in his own little world, wearing blinders to his critics, where Brooks shines.

You archie bastards, pass that spliff befo' it gits lingering!!! (The Sun-UK)

The Portuguese police must have a soft, mellow side to allow Brits (and I'm guessing other nationalities) to smoke pot during a soccer game against rival France. Hoping to curb outbreaks of hooliganism, more time will be spent cleaning up nacho trays than teeth, and chants will be somewhat unenthusiastic.

Hasn't the fever pitch been one of soccer's (I'm sorry, football's) biggest draws? The bonfires, the confetti, the roman candles? Will such activities still go on?

I'm sure they will. Not everyone in the crowd will be blowing ganja, and there most likely will still be some pockets of disturbance. But you have to hand it to the Portuguese; if you can't beat them with discipline, please them with tolerance.

And pray to God that methheads don't sneak in among the potheads. Then all hell will break loose. Happy Sunday.

Okay, Kit, rocket boosters to the keg party! (CNN)

As reported in the news, although oddly not receiving as much as talk as Pres. Reagan's passing, the upcoming G-8 Summit or D-Day, David Hasselhoff was arrested over the weekend on suspicion of driving under the influence of alcohol.

This is mildly entertaining because he is "one of those" celebrities, the likes of which include John Stamos, Bob Saget --well, okay the whole cast of Full House-- Jaleel White, Pee Wee Herman, Rip Taylor (see yesterday's entry) and so on. These are entertainers and personalities who had the misfortune of having a memorable role they could not escape. While they may have been extremely nice and good hearted people, they struck a chord with the general public as just being weird. Therefore when they are discovered doing something human (DUIs, shoplifting, hell, pleasuring one's self in a porn theater), they seem incredibly tragic.

And here I am adding fuel to the fire. Hang in there, David. Hang in there.

Couldn't Kit stop him? 

This is a test, using a photo of someone with a lot of luck and a quick ejector seat hand.  

Celebrities are sending me e-mail, the strangest of which comes from still-budding star Hugh Jackman. I never open his messages; he's changed. His subject line usually informs me that "she pays rent with puzzzzzyy/81625" or that he has spyware he wants me to try out. Again, he's changed. It used to be about the stage and screen.

Someone out there creates spam. I hardly think a computer is possible of producing sentences that are (for the most part) legible and clear. And if so, what do these people look like. Are they really hackers in Indonesia or Hong Kong, who smoke cigarettes and only get the most random names of actors whose identities they feel safe to assume? How on Earth am I going to know Hugh Jackman. I might as well know Rip Taylor.

Tomorrow I head back to Athens, or perhaps tonight. My dear O! sweet dear has finished Maymester and is in Charleston/back to Raleigh. Thank God for cars. And planes. And phones. And hearts that beat hard for a person you love.

There be many a rude bastard in them there hills, or more specifically, them there streets of Athens. Be they customer or stranger, hobo or lollygagger, they find a way into your life somehow or another.

Case in point: I shan't say where I work, as that would not be kosher in this realm. For myself or my employer. There's one guy who comes in and insists on odd combos of paper money and coins, because he uses a moneyclip and one of those plastic coin purses. He likes to keep the girth to a minimum: big bills and as few ones as possible.

Moneyclip Flip Spiceland starts tossing me random coins, coins that have nothing to do with the purchase (total: $4.32; he hands me $5.47). His backwards bartering baffles me--and he snaps at me for it. Doublestitch your pockets or get a debit card.

Sorry for the simple rant. Useless, yes. Unnecessary, yes. Will it ever happen again? Yes.

Went to Helen over this Memorial Day Weekend with AW, who day after day continues to fascinate me and make me ever more thankful. How she puts up with me I have no idea. Perhaps it's the incredibly thin wallet I carry. Or the fact that I know how to live life with change!!! Anyhoo...it's rare when a person can make my heart sour with just a glance.

In attempts to stay sane while planning not only a trip to Europe (and finding a deal at that), writing articles, looking for a job and plan of attack for dreams and goals and starting a part-time moneymaking gig, I have put full and total faith in caffeine and Welch's fruit snacks.

The effects show on my frame, which has gone from a Chik-Fil-A and Flying Dog tubby to a skinny puppy. Slowing down will bring about serenity.

Yet it's hard to slow down, because I have embarked on a strange period where my mind and body are both on different schedules. Allow me to explain as quickly as possible, since it's been proven that people don't like reading long web entries:

Body got to go to work. Mind got to figure stuff out. Mind can't work at 100% on non-work issues when body got to work. Got to work.

This is stress talking, making me a robot, and deserves no attention. Peace be with you.

Last night I attended the wedding of a high school friend, Ms. Anna Beth Allen, and her college beau, Tommy Tidwell. Much fun was had by all, and it turns out that "how you doin'" conversations can be quite enjoyable in the wake of mimosas and bellinis. And wine. And stiff stiff drinks.

I actually didn't need to retreat into a cave of alcohol to encounter faces from my past, and I had a good time. We'll avoid the usual dive into how surreal the actual ceremony was, because that's too much opining even for a blog. The truth of the matter: marriage is ready for you when you are ready for it.

My dad, in usual fiesta philosopher form, made a good point. Marriage doesn't matter one bit. It's a finalization, a contract, a word. Life doesn't change after marriage if the bride and groom were living together, existing together, attacking life together, etc. What does change a couple's life? Children. That's something in itself.

And on Sunday we rest.

Totally, entirely through, but I hit the ground running and have continued working on articles, thoughts, plans, ideas and pep talks to start up fiction again.

Various gifts were handed to me over the course of two days back home: a suit, which looked and felt classy even during the stressful suit-buying process; a DVD/video player, which will come in handy for those rare times when I have a videotape to play (see: porn, bootlegs, hobgoblin snuff films, old home movies); a digital camera, which will come in extremely handy during Europe. Ahhh, Europe. That place where I intend to go and that I have yet to plan. Will come in time.

Got a great call from an editor today, and he's interested in me writing each and every week, and paying me a modest stipend. Thank God for this guy, whose name shall be revealed when all is said and done.

I've been in the biblio all day, and now it is time to feed my face and rest my lids. This should be the first of many posts this summer. Things feel good. Sorry, that sounded like a guy who bought a convertible.

Peace out from the dug out.

More than two weeks since my last post, but give me a break. I graduated, you nimrods!

On Friday, I was part of a ceremony that I will remember, as opposed to the one that I will participate in on Saturday. The Grady College had a little awards banquet, followed by our convocation at The Classic Center. I was given a certificate for my Hearst Award and a paperweight, respectively, and it was just right.

In the audience I could see my parents and girlfriend, and I could see pride and relief. Not only could I see it, but feel it and embrace it. Like a plant feels sun, like a baby feels a blanket.

I have to admit, in the weeks leading up to the event, I wasn't too thrilled about the whole experience. I felt like I had still something to achieve. Now I realize that is not the case. I've done a lot. I have so much more to do.

I think horoscopes are huge wastes of resources -- time, ink, paper, salary (for the writers), emotion, thought. I read one the other day that made sense, though, and maybe that is the case only because it touched me. "Life is not about finding yourself, but creating yourself." It added something.

In the coming weeks, expect more posts. It's time to work on freelance articles and finding how I'm going to bite life in the neck and draw blood. Good night.

As stated earlier, Air America is a floppity-flop flop flop. First, checks to the station owners in Chicago and Los Angeles, MRBI, bounced. Then, their programming got yanked and replaced with Spanish-speaking filler. They got a judge involved, who said programming should resume in Chicago. Alas, still no Air America.

Liberal radio will not make it in this country. Or in this world. At first I thought it was only because of the ideals and arguments. Now I realize that the business people in charge cannot run it. Lugheads I tell you.

More later...

Today is Monday, April 4, and in the United States of America, we are discussing Condoleeza Rice's upcoming testimony, the acquittal of a stone-throwing babykiller mom and steroids in baseball. In North Korea, here is one of the day's headlines:

***************
http://www.kcna.co.jp/index-e.htm

Kim Jong Il Inspects Cattle Ranch of KPA Unit
Pyongyang, April 4 (KCNA) -- Supreme Commander of the Korean People's Army Kim Jong Il, general secretary of the Workers' Party of Korea and chairman of the National Defence Commission of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, inspected the July 18 Cattle Ranch of KPA Unit 580. Going round the exterior and interior of the ranch including cattle sheds, an ensilage processing ground, an epizootic prevention centre and a technical study room, he acquainted himself in detail with the construction of the ranch and breeding.
The cattle ranch has been built in favor of the management and anti-epizootic work and the quality of the construction been ensured on a high level, he said, highly praising the soldier-builders for devoting all their wisdom and enthusiasm to creating one more precious asset conducive to the prosperity of the country.
This ranch can rapidly increase live-stock products as it is located in a good place and its grass field is wide, he said, adding that it should be developed into a large-scale stockbreeding base by making an effective use of its favorable conditions.
In order to build up the ranch prospectively, it is imperative to finish within a few months ahead of schedule the projects which are envisaged at the second stage including the construction of the cultural and welfare facilities and the pavement of roads of the grass fields, he noted.
Saying that what is most important in producing more cattle meat is to choose good stock, he stressed the need to carry through the Party's policy of effecting a radical turn in raising animal breeds.
In order to increase live-stock products, he said, it is necessary to be fully equipped with facilities for scientific research and deepen research and, at the same time, steadily improve the technical level and skill to put breeding on a scientific and technological basis.
He put forward the task of building up a fodder base.
Then he chose the site of a duck farm to be built by servicepersons.
To increase the production of meat, eggs, fish and other subsidiary food is a heavy yet honorable revolutionary task to realize the centuries-old desire of the people, he said, expressing great expectation and conviction that they will perform feats in the struggle to boost the stockbreeding industry of the country at a new higher stage and bring about a decisive turn in improving the standard of the people's living.
He was accompanied by KPA Generals Ri Myong Su, Hyon Chol Hae and Pak Jae Gyong and First Vice Department Director of the WPK Central Committee Ri Yong Chol.
***************

Let the record show that North Koreans are in need of a better news service. And a better country. But first things first, I suppose. Like the location of their duck farms.

All kidding aside, this excerpt is textbook state-run media. You can only think how many of its citizens are angered at this heaping slice of the propaganda pie on the buffet of injustice. If the War on Terror is indeed against all terrorists, then the IRA, hypothetically, should not be too far behind al Qaeda. If the war against brutal dictators and human rights violators is indeed that as well, North Korea will be the next country we shall "liberate."

However, the nation does have a few things going for it. The CIA World Factbook states that the country boasts a 99 percent literacy rate, meaning that all but one percent of the population over the age of 15 can read. If what I have pasted for you is normal reading, then that one percent needs to get on the ball.

My article, a rough draft about small-town professional wrestling, beckons me. However, read all about North Korea's ills at:

www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/geos/kn.html

You'll have to cut and paste that, as blogger is incredibly uncooperative as of late. Good night to all.

On Wednesday, radio listeners in Chicago, New York and San Francisco will be greeted by a group of new voices espousing familiar ideals. It is Air America Radio, a "progressive" (see liberal) radio network that will fall flat on its face.

Progress Media Inc., Air America's parent company, promises a new outlet for progressive ideas to counter the mainly conservative gabbers out there in radio nation. While I am a champion of the marketplace of ideas, I can do nothing but applaud these blind pioneers in their quest and hope to catch them when they fall. They are fighting a dragon with a butter knife.

Liberal radio is a concept that cannot work. Radio is not tailored to host liberal arguments, as they are complex and branching, requiring bulletpoints to give ground for reasoning and not the ever important soundbyte that conservative hosts like Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity and Martin Savidge utilize and rely on.

The voice of liberals, and the information that comes out of them, are viewed poorly in our world. Not only by the right, but by the non-politicos as well. Limbaugh can steamroll over causes and boast of conservative might, and Hannity can derail and condemn anyone who does not follow the piper from Texas. They are considered at worst loudmouths, and their response to any criticism usually follows the lines of "So what? I'm right."

Liberals, to be honest, sound like whiners when they protest or speak of their beliefs. It is because at the root of the argument, the liberal stance is compassionate and not entirely self-serving. It thinks more about others and in turn is viewed as too huggy and wanting. Conservatism is selfish. Welfare is the active supporting the lazy, and the downtrodden and helpless are the sad remainder in life's equation. As stated earlier, it's cut and dry. Abortion? The taking of a life and a sin. Terrorism? You're with us or against us. Cut and dry. Good soundbytes.

To truly survive and prosper, Air America must take a page from conservative radio's playbook and attract the opposition (labeled in radio as "lurkers") who will bask in countering arguments and call in, vocally proving their participation in the programming. Perhaps they will bring some of their furor from the right of the dial to the left. Air America can over time claim them as a valuable demographic, pimp them out to advertisers and sustain their airtime. Since liberals know what they believe, and don't require their beliefs to be reinforced day in and day out, they are most likely not going to tune in when out of an automobile on the way to work. The ever mobile conservative, tight knuckles and teeth gritting, will be the fuel by which the liberals burn.

Green drinks me thinks. Today is St. Patrick's Day, the holiday chock full of alcohol and pinching which means nothing but hangovers and bruises for the true Irish like myself. For the first time in what feels like four years, the holiday actually falls on a day where I have to be in school, have duties, must wake up and walk among the living. Previously, they were on weekends or during my Spring Break.

I won't be celebrating this year. Much is to be done in the World of Thomas, which is why this entry must be brutally short. Off to the salt mines of word processing for me.

All the best, messies.

In the meantime, I recommend these...

Now that we are robotically tapdancing on the Red Planet, I have arrived at the conclusion that astronomers are the happiest people on Earth. They have tapped the keg of delight and become drunk at its spigot, those stargazers, as they peer into the sky and the past at things they will never touch but strive to embrace. They reveal to us all they know and discover, even though a good portion of us don't know what the hell it means. Still, they are cosmic voyeurs who seem thrilled at every pebble found on Mars, every solar flare burst from the Sun.

Notice I don't say astronauts -- astronauts are often very stoic and collected in their thoughts and actions; and for good reason, as they've been off our planet and back again. The recent advancements on Mars has given astronomers a spring in their step and better sex lives, without a doubt. NASA has conducted webcasts of Rover movements, and even Q&A sessions with its female scientists. A smorgasbord of space snippets can be found at . Don't spend too much time there, though. The Flight Director's Update has been shown to cause testicular explosions due to cuddly spaceman cuteness.

Our watchers of the sky are not only giddy at the NASA level, but at the academic level as well. The first science course I took in college was ASTR1020 (Intro to Astronomy). My professor, one Peter Hauschildt, was either German or Austrian, in his late 20s or early 30s, and was undoubtedly one of the coolest sons of bitches I have ever seen. Every Tuesday and Thursday he lectured us enthusiastically in blue jeans and sandals, his thick rimmed glasses zeroing in on every sleeping pupil and medium length hair swaying a half second behind his jutting head. And he wasn't dressing the fit the part; this was how this man was. Several times during the semester, I found him walking through campus with his astro posse which consisted of a couple of TAs who soaked up his quasar machismo and felt invigorated by it. These wannabe Hauschildts had to walk behind the man as he strolled hand-in-hand with his woman, who was also beaming from ear to ear. The only person not impressed by Hauschildt was Hauschildt, which is the true sign of cool. The best part about him was his focus: black holes. Yes! So abstract and dark.

Some of my earliest memories involve astronomers, as my childhood is framed by space shuttle launchings, most notably, the Challenger disaster in 1986. As a young mediaphile, I remember somber press conferences, footage from a camera in mission command (dare I call it Houston?) and the comments of colleagues of those who died in the launching.

Without the dark, the light wouldn't be bright. Space exploration has had many moments of tragedy, and astronomers, even with their sunny dispositions, find these events earthshattering yet reinforcing in their goals. I wonder how they approach their work, by viewing it as war or exploration. While you could equate the two, since they both involve movement, stalemate, loss and gain, they do differ. Do they find the losses inevitable, and perhaps even in their deepest of unspoken thoughts, necessary? I think that they do. Our shuttles are modern sailing ships, and our sails are jets and the cohesion of science and dreams. The loss is not a loss, but a gain, an advance by way of sacrifice.

My apologies in advance for this travel diary...commentary essays return after this flowery entry...

(Continued from 3/13/04)

Our flight from Atlanta landed at Kalispell International Airport around 10:00 pm Mountain Time. We were immediately approached by a young girl and asked if we were Scott and Thomas. With travelweary eyes we replied that we were, indeed. She was our host, our ride into town, and informed to look out for two guys with shaved heads. Supporting details: one had a goatee, the other had red hair. Eureka. We were off.

The trip was doable by the fact that we opted out of staying at a hotel. While this freed up money, it also meant we were staying a little under an hour away from Big Mt., where we would ski and snowboard. Our lodging was a dog-filled cabin by Lake Flathead, and my bed was a worn shag carpet and camping pillow the size of a book. It was heaven, though, as any energy I could have put into kvetching about my conditions was spent on the days of skiing we enjoyed.

Big Mountain is gorgeous, the ideal location to lock yourself onto two pieces of wood and let the absence of friction determine your outcome. If the world were a table, Big Mt. would sit at the head.

From atop the summit you gaze at Whitefish, a small eclectic town that is undergoing the puberty of ski villages. An influx of celebrities (Demi Moore! Carol Burnett!? Jim Nabors???) and snow enthusiasts has made it a more popular destination, one that is recommended by editors in travel glossies and travelers in airport lounges. The town is growing, as evident in (what appears to be smart) business development and condo/hotel/home construction. You find the wayward post graduate soul working at the eateries and lifts, and the awe-inspired vacationer ambling around town. You find the cliche out West ski town that defies cliches.

Our first two days were spent skiing, although two members of our tight-knit party snowboarded. It was surprisingly easy to find my ski legs again, as I fell down only five times the first day. From my perspective (which is the only one that matters when you are careening down a hill), I did quite well. We all did. I wasn't the tight legged alpine dynamo with an aerodynamic cup on my crotch, but I was able to keep up and lead. Thursday was a much different story.

Since lift tickets are the real kicker in the cost of skiing (boots and skis rent for $15 a day), we decided to enjoy nearby Glacier National Park and hike to Lake Schneider by way of snow shoes.

Glacier was a sight to behold, and if you refer to last night's sappy entry, you'll get all the adjective-heavy imagery. National Parks, while natural, are undoubtedly designed by the route deciders to drop jaws. The road that brought us into the park weaved us down a broad river and next to a lake that reflected the sky and clouds and mountains it calls neighbors. We were to hike a distance of nine miles to an elevation 2,000 feet higher than where we were. Parked next to a lodge closed for the season, we walked to the start of the trail that would take us to our destination, a frozen lake that sits at the joint of two mountain ridges.

Snow shoes are crafty inventions. You strap your toes into two long pieces of plastic and coast over loose snow, the wide surface area keeping you upright and elevated. The plastic never really seems to come off the ground, as your heel is not strapped in and remains free.

They were comfortable, but my boots were not. Blisters developed on both heel within 45 minutes. My body became exhausted around the same time, which I took in stride knowing that I would soon catch my second wind, the relief that comes after your mind and body agree to a suitable amount of exertion. The hike, which was entirely up hill, ground the skin on my heels to the bone, as I could feel liquid flood the loose skin and shift with each step. The short downhill areas of our walk were not a welcome sign for me; I knew that every down meant an even steeper up, and that was where the pain was.

Four and a half miles in we arrived at Lake Schneider, which was covered in ice and snow. In winter, it looked like an unused landing area for rescue helicopters, a clearing in the trees. Totally flat and serene, I was awash in silence and blue, confused by frozen waterfalls and curiously paranoid about the tracks on the other side of the lake. We sat and ate, and at 4:30 pm, began the hike back with daylight burning before us. Unbeknownst to me at the time, one of my blisters (the one treated midhike with mole skin no less) had popped.

Either it was the fact we were going downhill or that I had simply grown accustomed to the pain, but I felt nothing on the way back. My eyes were not focused on our surroundings or on the end of the trail, but the trail itself. The beaten path before me, the path that I focus on only when my next step requires it. The unrelenting moment of now and not next, of here and not there.

It reminds me that looking at now and not next can attack time and its challenges better than any plan is able to.

Northwest Montana is a beautiful and epic landscape that has not changed my life, but enriched it. It did not make me want to toss pizza dough to pay for lift tickets or drop my as yet undecided plans to live in a tree for six months. It did make me want to awe and inspire and choke life by its thick neck.

No more travel entries until I travel once more.

The West stands out as the face of the Earth, showcasing her wrinkles and age with grace and majesty. Time has morphed her into a wondrous sight of peaks and caps and valleys and ridges.

Earlier tonight, I returned from my first visit to Montana, and if you were to tell me I would utter words like those above a week ago, I would have branded you a liar; such transcendental and mystical babble was more fitting wafting out of a microbrew groupie's wordchute after the lifts close.

It is moving, though, the sight of a landscape so still it can only be called a painting. So powerful it belongs on the back of a newly minted dollar bill.

More to come on the West at a later date...time to see friends. Good night.

After walking into the Carmike 12 Cinemas in Athens, Ga., I felt that "The Passion of the Christ" was a sort of "Lord of the Rings" for Christians. Here and there, I saw smudges on foreheads, bookmarked bibles under arms and people scribbling in notepads. The scribblers I pigeonholed as sharp-eyed atheists or ministers because the average moviegoer rarely documents what they are watching, and merely wades in it. Once I realized that it was Ash Wednesday, I felt at ease.

The movie, which runs two hours and covers the last 12 hours (plus one resurrection!) of Jesus' life on Earth, is a cinematically gorgeous film that reveres the Son of God and the slow-motion technique. An hour is devoted to his torture at the urging of Jews and by the hands of Romans. The theater was packed and the mood was somber. It was the most crowded cinema I've ever been in at 1:30 pm on a Wednesday.

For months, almost since its inception, people have been discussing the repercussions of putting out a movie like this, pointing fingers at the Jews and easing the blame on the Romans (Pontius Pilate specifically). For the most part, I felt it was incredibly gutsy to take ideas that have been discussed for centuries and put them into a medium that will qualify as "the truth" for millions. Not only will many Christians be so moved as to consider it jaw droppingly accurate (which is impossible to prove), many non-believers will view it as propaganda.

I have no ground to say whether I felt the film was historically accurate, so I won't. Yes, the Jews were portrayed in a bad light. But, if accounts say that they felt threatened by Jesus' influence, and did indeed nearly exhaust themselves getting him crucified, the film is dead on. In terms of storytelling, you could not find a better villain.

But was it anti-Semitic? No. If the movie portrayed Jews as a race of killers, that would be anti-Semitic. Broken down to the bare essentials, the Bible is a story. Did Jews act like that? Really? They did? Then show it. Is there evidence to the contrary? Show that.

The adage that you must not place the sins of the father on the son rings true for all groups. The majority of critics out there don't believe that the film is anti-Semitic, they just think it will evoke anti-Semitic feelings. The only way to stop that is to encourage people to be more open-minded, but in the end, that's left to the person.

It's a fine movie, although it is sometimes a bit too quick to employ the slow-motion technique. Will it usher in a new wave of Christian thought, or maybe just devotion, or will it gently fade into the "good movie" tier of films, like how "The Conversation" is good, but not as good as "The Godfather?" We'll see.

In a conversation with Peter Bart and Peter Guber, Gibson offers some insight into his views on the film. He plans on keeping it intact for the DVD (no unreleased footage or multiple angles), imposing a clause for no-commercials when it comes to network airings and maintaining a watch on the subtitle translation for foreign release. Maybe Gibson's epic is more art than capitalization, as Andy Rooney questioned on 60 Minutes.

I just hope this film doesn't make him smug in all his henceforth interviews. Like Tom Hanks after "Philadelphia." But he's gotten better. Love ya', Tom.

Time heals all wounds and anxieties. Shortly after my last posting, my book, "The Language of Fear" by Del James arrived, without a scratch and in pristine condition (which is along the same lines as mint condition). Riding on its coattails were four (4) tickets to see Air at EarthLink Live on April 6 in Atlanta. Elevating myself in the travel-weary metal box with flashy, pressable buttons to the ninth floor, I had a feeling of exuberance and finality. Like two anticipated babies, left by the stork. For me and me alone.

The book, which is a collection of short stories dealing with the unseen and unwanted elements of our society -- mainly, drug addiction, street life, substreet life -- is more or less Sunset Strip poetry. The author makes references to the female anatomy in snarled lip callousness, referring to a vagina as the cliche "flower." Bloodstains are referred to as "HIV graffiti." You get the drift, I presume. It's a run-of-the-mill slice from the dark-mind turkey. But it sings in certain areas. James has a clever mind and several stories are actually worth reading. One in particular...

One of the last stories (depends on your edition...though out of print now, there were several runs of "The Language of Fear") is titled "Without You." The story is the inspiration for the three (or four if you count the alternate version of "Don't Cry") videos off the insanely classic Guns n' Roses albums, "Use Your Illusion I & II."

What is most interesting about these videos, as Chuck Klosterman superbly points out in "Fargo Rock City," is that they seem to be in no particular order. The child I was, and in many ways still am, was hungry to wrap my developing fingers on a copy, crease the book in half and flood my eager brain with details of syringes and domestic abuse, crashed wedding cakes and cliff-defying automobiles, as the videos showed me in their nonsequential splendor. My searches would turn up nothing; the book was already hot and gone. Rare book sellers were perplexed by a fifth grader asking for such a title. My mother was equally embarrassed by my request.

I have only glanced at it, and will get to it once I can muster the courage and tact to read it without ruining it. As we speak, it's choking in a Ziploc bag on my bookshelf, a victim of my paranoia and captor of my desire to one day cash it in.

It stinks like an old book. All I know of its lifespan is that I got it from Kentucky (thanks, Pam Baker, whoever the hell you are), and it must be a late printing (date says early 90s, I believe). The foreword is written by Axl Rose, lead singer of the now defunct and never-to-return (embrace the truth, folks) band who acted out James' stories. Plus, Rose describes probing James for video ideas for their stale and tired "The Spaghetti Incident" EP (works great as a coaster). Still, I finally got the book. Thank you, eBay. I am no longer horny in the bidding war (see below post).

To toss it in the ring real quick: 90s rock books are a strange genre...although it probably isn't worth anything on the market, a book by Mark Sperry was the ultimate in f*cked up fiction. Fifth grade is not the age to read about setting bums on fire and ripping off people's flesh. So, I gave it to the seventh grader up the street. Today, he is a filmmaker in NYC. I'm glad it helped him, because it made me want to wash my eyes.

I have a deep, dark secret that burns inside me like a fireball in a fist. It has for years plagued my conscience, mind and spirit all at once, while maintaining its vicious burden even when other evil feelings attempt to take its place. It sees through new additions. It roars through them like fists through tissue.

Dark enough for you? Eh? After losing my eBay virginity in the UGA Main Library, I have turned into the lovestruck deflowered one. No, I haven't ventured back to the hub of online auctioneers and memento jettisoning. I haven't been poring through the listings, becoming turned on by eye candy, such as trucker hats and old Stryper backstage passes. I have not become an eBay slut, eager to do it again, but this time dirtier, and quicker, right down to the last minute, maybe where someone will catch me.

This writer has become the girl waiting by the phone. Waiting for the love to arrive. It's only been four days.

Opening up my mailbox this afternoon, hoping to find my rare copy of Del James' "The Language of Fear," I was greeted by bound pages.

It was my eagerly awaited Kingsize catalog; the have-it-all tome for men of mass with style. You can't go wrong in size 68 pants with an elastic waistband. You must look good in the gym (either these men are getting bigger or trying to get smaller) in your workout pants with the Hawaiian flower/Japanese script hybrid racing stripe. While the denim fade should come natural for these men, it is available for a couple of dollars more.

I'm so eager for enlightenment, I've read the catalog through and through. And still I sit, lonely by the mail slot, horny in the bidding war.

In Tom Sinclair's Entertainment Weekly piece "Do The Beatles Still Matter?," he questions whether, 40 years after their appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, if they do in fact, still matter. Gathering opinions from a variety of artists, it turns out they still indeed do. And they always will. They're just too damn good.

The Beatles formed the mold of pop artists and then consistently broke it after every album, constantly evolving their sound and lives in tune with their music. They began as floppy-haired Sunday callers and ended as rooftop poets, with marijuana hangover beards and visions of their own.

As Andre 3000 (perhaps one of the most verifiable contemporary mainstream artists) intelligently states in Sinclair's piece, "They didn't have one style. You can hear their growth from when they were covering American rock & roll songs to writing their own songs, and then going off on their own trippy creations. I can identify with that." The Beatles were mavericks, striking oil with boyish pop that made girls swoon, and then rejecting the sound and moving to a more abstract place, filled with echoes, sitars and mellotrons.

They basically found the formula for gold and decided they didn't need it.

The Beatles' career as The Beatles (and respecting the projects and efforts put out by the members after 1969 as separate and apart) is almost impossible to compare to anything, be it an amusement park ride (too consistently good to be a roller coaster; too dynamic to be a full-circle ferris wheel or parabolic swing) or means of transportation (perhaps a plane, but not all the tracks were soaringly epic; not far-reaching enough to be a catapult). Perhaps that is what makes The Beatles the closest example to an artist in that explaining them only clouds the truth.

In the long-running debate (and understood; every time needs its healthy rivals) between the Rolling Stones and The Beatles, one must give in and end the argument all together. The Stones were bluesmen, music to kick teeth in with, music to get drunk and laid to. The Beatles were musicians, explorers, alchemists and poets. The Stones have essentially been playing the same songs since "Exile on Main Street" (their finest), and should have quit and left their legacy as the greatest screw you band. The Beatles quit when their personal visions became too much to mesh. Blame it on Yoko if you must, but the truth is that it's better they broke up. I can only imagine the tacky stage antics they would employ if they did an arena-sized version of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," with special guest Mark McGrath.

Mr. Sinclair, I hope The Beatles do still matter. In the age of halftime nipple peeps, and May-December diva lesbian kisses, it's vital that artists remember them. There were bands who knew that their hearts and brains combined could intrigue the souls of people with honest efforts alone. Bands such as Wilco, Radiohead, Air, Outkast are some of today's examples. The Beatles were unafraid of offering something, and then offering something entirely different. Their artistic path was brilliant: begin simple, and then build on it, craft it, mold it, multiply it, reverse it and then kiss it all goodbye.

The Beatles changed the art world for the best and forever.

I'm not the guy you see on ESPN, shirtless, with a specific letter that corresponds to my university on my chest. It doesn't strike a chord with me. In fact, you're lucky to find me actually at a game. Or watching ESPN.

However, it pains me not when my school loses an athletic contest. Glory in sports is ever fleeting, so said a wise man. It pains me more when my school is presented in a false light, or when it is embarrassed by some idiotic misstep by the administration. However, the truth hurts, and you sadly have to embrace not only to save face, but to right some kind of wrong.

Last month, three fraternity brothers of Phi Kappa Psi found a raccoon acting in an erratic manner (see "rabid") next to a dumpster in their parking lot. So, they did what any rightminded citizen would do: they skinned, burned and then ate it. Somewhere in the mix they actually put it out of its misery.

Since the incident, people have been up in arms, with the majority voicing dissent at what occurred, and calling for criminal charges, which appears what happened today (http://onlineathens.com/stories/020504/pmg_raccoon.shtml).

The students involved have apologized, but that doesn't seem to be enough.

Because of the interesting mix that makes this great city, you have down south (I won't call them rednecks) purists yelling that it is no different than hunting, to others saying that those protesting obviously don't know the absolute gourmet appeal of raccoon meat. Some voices in the fray want the students prosecuted and expelled. One voice questioned those speaking for the raccoon's rights, wondering how they felt about abortion when compared to the murder of an animal (http://onlineathens.com/stories/011004/let_20040110018.shtml). The local intelligentsia are involved, plus the townie movement.

You'd think it was local, but it just made The Drudge Report (www.drudgereport.com). Dear God help us.

It's nice to know that when I finally get my piece of paper from UGA, and I hand my resume to a hopeful employer, the first thing that will spring to mind won't be "That University of Georgia is a sound school with a top-notch journalism program and excellent professors, and a vibrant and eclectic surrounding town whose culture is unparalleled."

No, they will think, "Oh, geez, this kid comes from UGA, where they put checkered-past thugs on the athletic teams, let bobos run rampant in administration who siphon funds from deserving teaching positions (take a pay cut, Mr. Adams), and have kids eating raccoons out of dumpsters." Oh, excuse me, next to dumpsters.

I can only hope this won't be the case. I can only hope that Athens will shine once again. Or at least regain a little bit of that luster it proudly boasted when I first arrived.

For your information and consideration...
http://www.enature.com/fieldguide/showSpeciesSH.asp?curGroupID=5&shapeID=1030&curPageNum=3&recnum=MA0029

My love and condolences to Mary Kent Anderson and the entire Anderson family, in Georgia and elsewhere, for the loss of their beloved James "Tommy" Anderson. My heart and support goes out to them, and promises steadfast to remain there.

Test...simply a test. Now go test yourself.