Bourgeois Nievete

Burma Resurection

2010-04-04T07:49:00.002-05:00

Aung San Suu Kyi Sentenced by Burma Junta

2009-08-11T22:54:00.002-05:00

Suu Kyi Sentence Stirs World Outrage ~Wae Moe, Irrawaddy
World leaders have expressed outrage over the 18-month sentence in the trial of pro-democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi, and the European Union plans tougher sanctions against the Burmese regime.
Shortly after the sentence was announced on Tuesday, British Prime Minister Gordon Brown and French President Nicola Sarkozy quickly responded.
“I am both saddened and angry at the verdict today…following the sham trial of Aung San Suu Kyi,” Brown said in a statement, adding that the sentence was further proof that the regime is “determined to act with total disregard for accepted standards of the rule of law and in defiance of international opinion.”

Tennessee Tornado

2009-04-11T17:37:00.001-05:00

Ghosts of Burma

2009-01-04T09:50:00.003-06:00

Restless Souls of the Irrawaddy Delta
<-Please click pic.
~Burmese Buddhists traditionally hold two religious ceremonies—Yat Lae Hsun and Thet Pyauk Hsun—to ensure the release of the souls of deceased family members.
Mass ceremonies were held for the thousands who died in Cyclone Nargis
—yet villagers in many part of the devastated delta claim seeing the restless ghosts of cyclone victims.

If you found a friend in God
please ask them for direction
to the places they left the restless souls
to drown in their own damn'nation.

New Orleans, City of Living Metaphor

2008-11-13T03:55:00.039-06:00

~By Editilla O'rilla d'Aphasia
One can often see more of New Orleans in the blink of an eye or casual glance than in all of the photographs, television exposes or movies every shown.
Hidden in plain view, bundling out of flower pots or cool, shaded courtyard gardens behind little wrought iron doors with tiny windows in the middle of them, she is a city of living metaphor, and as such, must be handled with care.
In this city, neither Cliche’ nor Metaphor will honor what they seem in life nor what you would wish of them in death. There is so much here to see, hear, taste and feel. But one must allow the Lady to serve. While necessity may be the Mother of Invention, and camouflage the Art of Survival, New Orleans is a Sashay of Masques.
Even knocked flat on her ass and still down on her knees 3 years after the storm, this lovely city has them all beat for culture and surprise. Did I say "she"? "Her"?
Oh yes, I definitely speak of Her, a Scorpio Woman at that!
Respect her thusly, check expectations at the door...
--and bring comfortable walking shoes.

Due in large part to the city's layout, her placement along several curves of the Mississippi river, New Orleans is shaped like several half-wheels, with streets splayed and crashing together at complex yet interesting intersections, like twisted spokes and broken axles. Yet as one travels away from the river they spread to the edges of the other wheels, merging into equally strange angles.
I know of only a few square neighborhoods, the Quarters being the more famous--though even within its tight confines of only 13 by 7 blocks people still manage to lose their place. But then again, that is why many come to this city, to lose their place and perchance find a new one. It is a great city for reinvention, redirection and restoration. The three "Rs".
With no straight or parallel lines, and no level sidewalks,
New Orleans is not a square city at all.
She is a complex, curvaceous and clever beauty.
This is of course one of the things I love about her.

So, amongst the many methods of orientation one should leave at home when visiting here is any normal sense of direction. This is a truly sensual city, but "direction" is not one of them. Don't get stuck on "normal". Leave normal at home, with your car keys if you can. Just forget them both. I have often met completely sober visitors, normal people, absolutely at a loss as to where they parked their cars--in the middle of the day!
If one can afford to drive here (HA!) then park the damn thing. This is just not a very good town for cars. One does not get away with "making the block" here. Try that and you will get lost every time--even on foot! No. It is best to use the public transit, bikes, or cabs, so you can look about while traveling around from courtyard gardens to cemeteries to art galleries and artists markets to music venues, or entire "music streets" like Frenchman Street where there are at least six or seven really great local live music bars in just the first couple of blocks. And of course restaurants.

Cliche as it may sound, one of my favorite ways still to see the city, or just get around, is on any of the street cars.
We do not call them "Trolleys".
It was a Street Car Named Desire.
The St Charles line runs from downtown all the way through the Garden District and Uptown, then turns at the river on Carrolton Avenue for about another mile or so. Then pay again and ride back the other direction. Depending on traffic, the ride might last two or three hours for the whole trip. When catching one downtown, it is always good wait to get on the 2nd one since there are usually two in a row as they tend to get pretty full (with tourists:) You will want to snag a window seat on the right side for both directions.
I prefer the very back if possible, where the conductor sits when going the other direction. There is only one seat (the conductor's) but more windows, a wider view, and usually more room. If with a companion or group, all take window seats. Don't screw around with visiting each other, lest you make the city jealous. (Y'all can do each other in private back at the hotel or bar or wherever:) Look out the windows. Open the windows. Do not lean out the windows to take the last picture of your life. Shut up and listen. Get your cameras ready, since a good picture will jump out of nowhere here and it will most likely be one of the prettiest and/or the funniest (and tragic) things you will ever see in any other city.

At any point along the trip one may want to disembark for drinks or food or just to walk around. I highly recommend doing this. Get lost in the Garden District and just catch the next car every 15 or 20 minutes. Walk a few blocks towards the river to Magazine Street, where loads of galleries and shops are lined up like beat-up trunks full of treasure from a Ghost Liner.
My favorite shop on Magazine these days is Dirty Coast.
My favorite restaurant on that street amongst many favorites is Joey Ks. One may also be able to get a transfer rather than paying full price again. Ask the conductor. They will tell you anything and most of it will be true. Make sure to ask too if going to somewhere specific like Commanders Palace or someplace off the line. They will holler as you draw nigh.

There is also the Canal Street Car line and another which runs along the river to the bottom of Esplanade Avenue, the downstream border of the French Quarters.
That latter one, I think called "Riverside?", does not seem to be as regular as the other two. The Canal line is wonderful as it runs all the way to City Park, which is worth a trip all its own.
It is one of the largest city parks in the nation and is riddled with bayous and lakes. The city museum is there, as well as a huge sculpture garden.
New Orleanians LOVE this park and you can feel it in the air as very much a "heart" of the city, among her many, many, many sweet hearts.
I have several friends there who happen to be huge old trees. There are also several great local eateries around the park too. Again, ask the street car conductor for advise.
From there I believe one can take a bus straight down
Esplanade Avenue back to Rampart Street at the edge of the Quarters---just in time for cocktails at the Bombay Club !

Editilla O'rilla d'Aphasia
~publishes the daily New Orleans Ladder, a site for New Orleans news, Nola bloggery, videos, poetry, photography, music, food, incessant rantific exegesi on the Flooding of the New Orleans by the Exquixotic Corps of Engineers and humor yea'where'yat, post Kafkatrina Recovery for the City That Care Forgot
and the Presidente left for dead.

2008-10-02T18:42:00.012-05:00

Three Little Bigs
~From Rope-A-dope Collaborative
~Review by Editilla O'rilla d'Aphasia
The Tao begot one.
One begot two.
Two begot three.
And three begot the ten thousand things.
~Tao Te Ching
Just ain't alot ya'can say about Zen now is there, eh? HA!
But, still, we try and such is the Joy and Life of Art for yer oh'so humble Editilla. It is one of the few things these days which begs me pause, breath or a second thought as arguably the last thing I have to keep the hellhounds at bay...
--disrailed Post Apocalypse NO.
Fine Art speaks for itself for me.
She takes care of fools and errant troubadours.

The picture above may not be quite "Life'sized" though the Books thereof are truly so, weighing in at perhaps 1/2 oz in toto, and 4 1/2 X 3 1/2 inches...
about the size of a cigarette case.
But, then again, how "big" does an expression have to be to carry "Life" or reconnect us with our reality? The smallest thing we use as our singular identifier used to be the Thumb Print. Now each of us can be had for a nano's ass, all the way up to Steven Hawking's diagram of Universe as a four dimensional manifold, which looks co(s)mically like that famous Zen Thingy: o
Hence, the idea of printing and publishing a book run "Thumb'sized" has always struck me as novel.
(Sorry, couldn't help that one:)(Foot In Mouth Disease)
But to show my own hand here,
I wash them every time before handling one of these...
--Gorgeous ...Little ...Darlings.
They are Hand Made. They are a Sight To Be Held.

What, Friends, Is A City?, by Mark Yakich,
is printed, as each member of the tryptic, in an edition of 96.
Y'all better hurry then and call these folks at Rope-A-dope...
(--as such wondrous pieces of work won't wast wong!:)
Small vineyard, High Quality Vintage. Gourmet. Vajra Diamond.
This edition of 96 is for 8 poems, which are placed 4 to a section, which itself (each section) is folded together as its own book, and hand bound.
These are contiguous placements that unfold in such a surprising way to give just 4 poems, their own of 2 Books in 1.
Nola Book Fair bookmakers of course know how this works, how the design and structure, the physicality of a Book --when so ingeniously applied-- will hold and present and preserve 1 Word as well and informatively as if it held 1000 words. But, it just delights Editilla to no end like opening a treasure puzzle.
Of course you will just have to hold it to feel the Author's name impressed on the hand silk screened covers. Just Beautiful.
But Mark Yakich's writing inside speaks even more so.
Here is one that grabbed me like a wrench:

After one draws a hundred
bodies from the river one
knows what all bodies look
like naked: it's not bone
here, a kneecap there.
But what if
you've never
drawn
a body?

The Painting, by Kate Schapira, paradoxically continues Rope-A-dope's 96 Unfolding of Literature. Paradox, the twin sista of Irony, in that The Painting is a Book. That is what I want to ultimately present here: each of these books and everything from their makers is A Work of Art on its own.
However, unlike so many "Pretty Books of Poetry" these works would not exist without the marrow they carry inside
which makes bleeding real.
In this, these bones are some of the prettiest I've seen dance.
Only this time the Book folds out into 5 squares to lay as an equilateral cross upon which to read the 4 poems hung there.
I just like to sit and look at the damned thing!
It has this regal deep purple inset sheet at each end, set in an off gray/blue cover which is itself impressed with designs and a simple color drip as if something bizarre spilt across it from the inside...Hell, I really have a hard time describing an Artifact which is so goddamned beautiful. Natural sensuality happens all over da'place in New Orleans in the blink of the eye on a sideways glance, but to think of these books as Made...
--just leaves Editilla speechless.
They speak for the damned and the blessed Sinn Féin.
Get Down! Get Back Up Again!
Really, I wish I could play music like this:

like age, alteration and handling
the painting as blue and pink smears
as women, men and trees, dresses and baskets
as series of visits or payments
as mustard and dark brown smears, later

as wall of the room that doubles
as bed and cardtable room, folds,
reopens, divides

Case Fbdy. by Kate Shapira, actually holds enough poems for a Table of Contents: 16. I saved this one for last since we know something of cutting up words (albeit where talented people use a scalpel Editilla generally goes for a chainsaw:) And, I have a link to another favorite Book not like this but much older and along the same lines: A Humument by Tom Phillips.
I recommend y'all read all about what he did, but the coolest thing for me was taking a rather stolid, misogynous, racist, effete Victorian novel and transforming it into a completely different way'mo'betta story... --by covering each page with a painting and leaving open to view only certain "randomly" chosen words to tell the tale. Really something lemme toll'yaz.
Here in Case Fbdy. Ms. Shapira states:
"The titles and some of the language in these poems come from a found page of text from a medical journal
or a book of unkown author, title, or date
(but presumably published after 1887)."
Weellll that about says it all, eh? HA!
Editilla always hangs onto any book which gives me a word to look up on the first glance. This time the word is: Fluctuant.
While one may think they know what a word means, I've learned with all things Rope-A-dope it behooves one to check it out.
(And Everyone Loves Medical Journal Stuff Right? Riiiight!:)
Kate Schapira knows how to use a scalpel:
At intervals
Coughing removes the streaks
on linen, replaces the blood.
If you were to. Rings, fluctuant,
are essentially chronic. In
sight of. Your held. No
room. There'll be no scar
to see. Procedures are
uncertain, syrups are soothing,
the doctors are very local. At intervals
the pin holds you to it and rages
in you, and reminds you. You're
in. They're sure. You will.
The table, covered in oilcloth,
will make a complete recovery.

We hope to have let this Fine Art speak for Itself here.
They did not ask me to do this "review". And like any good friend or fine thing, I can not recall how or where I ran across
Rope-A-dope Press. But, Editilla wonna toll'ya one thing:
we hope you all run your finger across them too. Soon.
I could go on and on about the Talent and Technological Dexterity behind these amazing these little books.
Why don't you all just check them out.
Gotta be the cheapest Book Shipping around.
Thank you so much to all the Authors, Artists and
Bookbinders of Rope-A-dope Press.

Thank y'all,
~Editilla O'rilla d'Aphasia

8-08-88~~8-08-08 McCommunism

2008-08-08T11:22:00.006-05:00

"McCommunism."The Olympics: Unveiling Police State 2.0 ~Naomi Klein
~The games have been billed as China's "coming out party" to the world. They are far more significant than that. These Olympics are the coming out party for a disturbingly efficient way of organizing society, one that China has perfected over the past three decades, and is finally ready to show off. It is a potent hybrid of the most powerful political tools of authoritarianism communism -- central planning, merciless repression, constant surveillance -- harnessed to advance the goals of global capitalism. Some call it "authoritarian capitalism," others "market Stalinism," personally I prefer "McCommunism."

8888 Poem..”Peace and justice are indivisible” ~Burma Sitmone

Twenty Years ago..
There was No Internet
There were No Cell Phones..
To tell the truth of what actually happened behind…
The invisible wall of the World’s Biggest Jail Known as Burma…
There were killings of innocents..
The day and date were known among Burmese as 8888!
more here

Burma Night Train

2008-04-28T23:38:00.027-05:00

Take that Burma Night Train
All the way to Mandalay.

Take that Burma Night Train
All the way to Mandalay.

Go find that Nobel Lady!
Go knock on her front gate!

If you want to talk of freedom
turn off your T.V.
If you want to speak of freedom
You had better turn off your T.V.
And if you want to Speak to Freedom...
You'd better talk to Aung San Suu Kyi!

I say Aung...San...Suu...Kyi!
I say Aung.. San...Suu...Kyi!
If you want to Speak to Freedom
You'd better to talk to
Aung San Suu Kyi!

You might take a bus
You might take a plane
You might make it or bust
You might go insane
but we gonna pull that Burma Night Train
all the way to Mandalay!
Go find that Nobel Lady!
Go knock on her front gate!
Knock On Her Front Gate!

Take that Burma Night Train
all the way to Mandalay.
Take that Burma Night Train
all the way to Mandalay.
Go to find that Nobel Lady.
We going to knock on her Front Gate!

'Please use your liberty to promote ours"

Kyay Zoo Pyu Pea .... Koo NyiBar
Kyay Zoo Tin Bar Dae
Om Mani Padme Hum

By Bruce Biles (c) 2007
Update 5/30-Due to rather quick interest in this song, I would like to offer it to be copied non-profit by anyone who would do the honor of keeping the music "in the pocket" and true to its composition, to spread and share and perhaps motivate the world to go to Mandalay, find Aung San Suu Kyi
--and Knock On Her Front Gate.
Any "profits" gained by my application of the copyrights will go
from me to Aung San Suu Kyi and any group promoted on the Burma News Ladder, founded by James Boyce--and without which I would have never been introduced to and hence fallen completely in love with the people of Burma.
It is to their joy,
To Freedom For Aung San Suu Kyi,
that I wrote and dedicate this song.
Please feel free to email me from profile.
Thank you,
Bruce Biles

Al Gore: Aung San Suu Kyi, Burma Needs You Now

2008-04-27T07:00:00.002-05:00

Please feel free to copy, share and email
AlGore@algore.com
carterweb@emory.edu
post@nobelpeacecenter.org

Dear Albert Gore,
Congratulations on being awarded such a high honor!

Can you now join President Carter and call on all other Nobel Peace Prize laureates to gather together in Burma and demand en mass to meet with imprisoned fellow laureate Aung San Suu Kyi?

You must be prepared to remain in Burma until she is released from house arrest, the monks are released from prison, the people are free to assemble and Democracy is restored.

This is a situation which surely requires direct and timely action from the Nobel Peace Prize community.
We must be able to respond faster than this or we will forever be on the defensive against such oppression.

You guys have the world watching and need to strike now.
I know that you must have each others telephone numbers.

Aside from her years under house arrest and in prison, as a fellow Nobel Peace Prize winner Aung San Suu Kyi is under intense pressure by the brutal junta to meet with them under their conditions, and therefore legitimize their massacre of the people and monks. The junta continues to spin and deny this heinous assault on human rights with rallies, propaganda and expensive PR.

What is the point of having the Peace Prize if you cannot come to the aid of a fellow laureate who is imprisoned simply for being democratically elected?

If this illegal junta can get away with this then why can't any other regime imprison any one of you any time, any place they want for however long they want, as evidenced with Aung San Suu Kyi?
If you don't believe me then go and ask Than Shwe and the other criminals raping the land and people of Burma.
Demand a meeting with your fellow Nobel Laureate. Now.

Please gather together all of you Nobel Laureates and go to Burma and support Aung San Suu Kyi and Democracy in Burma.
You must demand justice for the people there, before we have to demand justice for all of you over here.

I don't mean to sound flippant but if you guy's can't stand up to this now, then we are all truly lost!

Please go to Mandalay. Find the Nobel Lady.
And knock on her front gate!

Thank you again for your hard work,
om mani padme hum,
écrasez l'infâme!

Thirst for power on the Mekong

2008-04-26T23:17:00.006-05:00

In searching for articles to post on the Burma News Ladder
I discovered this piece of a few years ago, which had been reposted on the blog linked below. Such an expose on the Mekong River further illustrates Burma's place as a lynchpin of China's foriegn policy. What is more I found yet another thread to the tapestry of commerce covering the people of Burma.

By Lynne O’Donnell
01/06/2004

Since colonising Tibet in 1959, China has ripped out virgin forests, dug up minerals and metals, and dumped nuclear waste with little regard for the fragile ecology of the Tibetan plateau. To date, warnings from Tibetans and their advocates abroad about the damage caused by half a century of unchecked exploitation have so far been largely unheeded by the international community, but the latest stage of China’s development is set to end the silence the Chinese Communist Party has interpreted as global approval for its quest for wealth and power.

There’s not much left in Qinghai these days. Gone are the roaming herds of Tibetan antelope, white-lipped deer, Mongolian gazelle, wild oxen and donkeys. Deep craters scar the earth, which is no longer a lush carpet of grass and wildflowers. Few birds wing across the deep blue sky and any water that is left in the mostly dried-up river beds is black and deadly. There are hardly any people here, apart from a few poachers on motorcycles who slaughter the remnants of the once- great herds of Tibetan antelope, or chiru, for the fine fur that makes illegal shahtoosh shawls for the graceful necks of the fashionable demi-monde. Springs that used to refresh nomads and their herds of sheep, goats, yaks and horses have disappeared, grassland has been replaced by rocky desert, mountainsides have collapsed and the surface of the arid earth is pockmarked with abandoned excavation sites.

Indeed, large swathes of Qinghai, which have been part of China’s far south- west since an armed invasion in 1959, look like the moon. This is the obscene legacy of China’s modern gold rush on one of the most sensitive and important environments on earth – the Tibetan plateau, where 10 of the great rivers of Asia begin their journey through 11 countries. Those rivers – Mekong, Indus, Brahmaputra, Salween, Karnali, Sutlej, Arun, Manas, Yangtse and Yellow – provide water for more than 85 per cent of Asia’s people and almost 50 per cent of the world’s population. The Dalai Lama said in a speech marking the turn of the millennium, ‘Thus, the health of Tibet’s environment is not an inconsequential regional issue; it has a huge global significance warranting international attention.’

Please Read More Here

Pulitzers in Journalism --

2008-04-13T11:31:00.004-05:00

Japanese photo journalist Kenji Nagai as he lay dying -- Sept 25, 2007.

"The prize for breaking news photography went to Adrees Latif of Reuters for his photograph of a Japanese videographer who was fatally wounded in a street protest in Myanmar."

Editor asks~How about a posthumous Pulitzer for Kenji Nagai?

Hat Tip and Thank you to~Kyi May Kaung

Overview of cyber attacks against Tibetan Communities

2008-03-24T21:27:00.005-05:00

Published: 2008-03-24,
Last Updated: 2008-03-24 20:40:40 UTC
by Maarten Van Horenbeeck (Version: 1)

On Friday we reported on targeted attacks against various pro-Tibet non-gouvernmental organizations (NGO) and communities, as well as Falun Gong and the Uyghurs. In this somewhat long diary entry, I’ll break down those attacks and identify the things we’ve seen in working on these since early 2007.

This hopefully helps you identify the risk similar attacks would pose to your organization. The diary does not deal with one incident, but looks at overall findings.

1. The message

The sole goal of the message is to transport the exploit, and to convince the reader to click on it, so the malicious code can execute.

Several social engineering tricks have been seen:

Messages make a strong statement on a well known individual or group, but do not mention its name. The attachment is then named after that individual. A state of 'cognitive dissonance' arises between the reader's pre-existent beliefs and the statement. This urges the reader to click the message;
The writing style of the purported sender is well researched and mimicked;
The content of the document matches the topic of the e-mail message;
Legitimate, trusted, users are sometimes convinced to actually forward along a message back to specific targets;
In a number of cases, “memes” distributed within the community have been reused. For instance, in a “viral” Word document was grabbed from a forum, edited to include the exploit and Trojan code, and forwarded onto other members of the community.
Thank you. Please read complete Article here

A young Tibetan examines Chinese riot policemen standing guard in Kangding county, China (Teh Een Koon/AFP/Getty)

Some Useful Burmese Phrase and Font

2008-03-21T20:54:00.004-05:00

Some Useful Burmese Phrase and Font

Kyay Zoo Tin Bar Dae Ban Bay Dah

Some Useful Burmese Phrase and Font
Some useful phrase and Font can be used in Burmese Blog C-box or Chat Box.
Burmese Font: You can copy and Paste in Chat-Box

English: Hello/Good Day/ Good Morning/ Good Evening
Burmese : Min Gala PahBurmese
Font: မဂၤလါပါ

English: How are you?
Burmese: Nay Kaung Lah
Burmese Font: ေန ေကာင္း လါး

English: Very Good
Burmese: Thake Kaung Par Dae
Burmese Font: သိတ္ ေကာင္း တယ္

English: Bad
Burmese: Ma Kaung Boo
Burmese Font: မ ေကာင္း ဘူး

English: This is Good News
Burmese: Dah Tha Din kaung Bear
Burmese Font: ဒါ သတင္း ေကာင္း ဘဲ

English: I got to go now
Burmese: Thwar Like Par Ong Mae
Burmese Font: သြား လိုက္ ပါ အ ုံး မယ္

English: Thank You
Burmese: Kyay Zoo Tin Bar Dae
Burmese Font: ေက်း ဇူး တင္ ပါ တယ္

English: Please .... help
Burmese: Kyay Zoo Pyu Pea .... Koo NyiBar
Burmese Font: ေက်း ဇူး ျပဳ ျပီး ..... ကူ ညီ ပါ

Google China Internet Filters

2008-03-16T13:29:00.007-05:00

Understanding how Google.cn filters

The anti-censorship community has been hard at work today trying to figure out just how Google’s new Chinese search engine prevents access to controversial content. Nart Villeneuve, pretty much the smartest guy out there working on Internet censorship, offered a post yesterday with some early insights into how sites are being blocked.
One of the observations Nart made: Google.cn is working from a blacklist of URLs, possibly provided by Chinese authorities, possibly generated from following traffic to search results and adding domains that are consistently blocked by the firewall. This blacklist includes activist sites, news sites, homepage hosting and forum sites.
Please read more here.

HOW GOOGLE CENSORS ITS CHINESE PORTAL

~Search for images of "Tiananmen," as in Tiananmen Square, scene of the 1989 student democracy protest, on the China site, Google.cn. Most of the time the results turn up pictures of the Beijing plaza: a flock of birds soaring above the grounds, the square all lit up at night, tourists posing for the camera. Run the same search again on Google.com, the uncensored version used here in the United States, and the images are strikingly different. The highest-ranking results are photographs of tanks rolling into the square to put a stop to the demonstration more than 16 years ago. "Google uncensored shows a bunch of tanks streaming in there," said Danny Sullivan, founder and editor of Search Engine Watch. "Google China has smiling, happy people."
Please read more here.

Race For Tibet

2008-03-15T15:13:00.007-05:00

Race for Tibet~The International Campaign for Tibet invites Tibet supporters to join our Olympics campaign, Race for Tibet, by participating in two events coinciding with the arrival on U.S. soil of China's official 2008 Olympics Torch.
At the University of California in Berkeley on April 7 and at U.N. Plaza in San Francisco on April 8, ICT will engage the public in an examination of China's human rights record in Tibet in this Olympics year.
Read more here.

Exile Group Says 30 Killed in Tibet
~China ordered tourists out of Tibet's capital Saturday while troops on foot and in armored vehicles patrolled the streets and enforced a strict curfew, a day after riots that a Tibetan exile group said left at least 30 protesters dead.
Read more here.

China rolls out tanks to suppress Tibet Protests

2008-03-14T17:18:00.007-05:00

Hundreds and thousands of Tibetans and several foreign supporters held candle light vigil in Dharamsala on Friday, March 14, 2008, to express their solidarity as fellow Tibetans steered strings of protest demonstrations across Tibet against China’s occupation of Tibet.
Tibet.net[Saturday, March 15, 2008 00:14]
Dharamshala: Chinese armed police have killed around 100 Tibetans and injured many others for taking part in peaceful demonstrations, according to unconfirmed sources. These protests have spread from Lhasa to all over Tibet both in intensity and scale.

His Holiness The Dalai Lama has issued the following statement today.
"I am deeply concerned over the situation that has been developing in Tibet following peaceful protests in many parts of Tibet, including Lhasa, in recent days. These protests are a manifestation of the deep-rooted resentment of the Tibetan people under the present governance.
As I have always said, unity and stability under brute force is at best a temporary solution. It is unrealistic to expect unity and stability under such a rule and would therefore not be conducive to finding a peaceful and lasting solution.
I therefore appeal to the Chinese leadership to stop using force and address the long-simmering resentment of the Tibetan people through dialogue with the Tibetan people. I also urge my fellow Tibetans not to resort to violence."

OM MANI PADME HUM

Read more here

Unhappy Bad-day to Than Shwe

2008-01-30T12:57:00.000-06:00

Unhappy Bad-day to Than Shwe
Than Shwe is the supreme leader of the Burmese military regime who has been carrying out human rights abuses on the peoples of Burma for over two decades.
2nd February is Than Shwe's birthday and Burma supporters gathering to make sure Than Shwe has an Unhappy Bad Day, rather than a Happy Birthday.
Lanna Action for Burma
www.lannaactionforburma.blogspot.com

Burma Trickle Down Economics

2008-01-27T20:17:00.001-06:00

Thank you Irrawaddy

2008-01-04T16:58:00.001-06:00

2007-11-19T05:47:00.001-06:00

Crucifixion Road Home

2007-08-18T19:59:00.000-05:00

Crucifixion Road Home

Written by New Orleans film maker Karl Demolay, director of the cult classic Zombi!~vs ~Mardi Gras

This is for the city that care forgot...
the city that forgot to care. This city, carelessly forgotten, our party time's behind us now, sensual drums in the dank and virile heat. City of culinary delights, musical giants, simple pleasures, squalid splendors. A city of dust, now shrouded in mold, forever succumbing to entropic bliss on pause. This city of history, a living archive of revelry and regret. The past and the future collide in slow motion. This is the city that must be remembered and rebuilt, this bastion of visceral pleasures and historic decadence. All to our collective delight and nagging melancholia.

This is for the ones that evacuated...
the people who left it all behind. The ones that lost almost everything, or maybe just the one thing they cared about most of all. The ones marooned on highways for far too long, no way home, even as the storm unleashed its initial fury. Those left deserted, no place to rest their heads, thoughts still heavy with guilt or fear or resignation. This is for the people that won't go back, can't go back, afraid of possibility and all of its attendant pitfalls. This is for those that have nothing to return to at all, not one single thing. This is for the ones that relocated, expatriates forced into strange lands with odd customs. This is for the terminally restless, the suddenly homeless, the penniless brave.

This is for the ones that stayed...
the insane, the stranded, the curious tribes, erstwhile survivors and civic warriors alike. Those souls who stayed calm and true despite the chaos, or lost their minds to apocalyptic fancy. Battened down and hunkered low, sipping bottled water with hushed first glances, suspicious demeanors and flashlights at the ready. Proud and defiant holders of the line, sometimes criminal in intent, quick movement on the perimeters, shoot to kill orders...
For all those who were trapped in makeshift shelters, replete with suicides, murders, and rapes: victimization rank and feral. For the bitter end of salvation, acrid tastes on parched tongues dry, even as bids for escape were made.

This is for the politicians...
Federal, State and Local, at once inept and indispensable, some more than others, caught unprepared, unconcerned, unshaven---Playing cat and mouse in a city of smoldering ruins, screams from the darkness of urgent plight, atavism gone awry. Ignorance and obviousness, the slow motion train wreck broadcast for all to see and discuss, obfuscate and ignore. Declarations of me and mine, you and yours, pitted squarely against they and them. This is for too little, too late, the same old song played at precisely the wrong time, over and over. Nagin, Blanco, Brown, Bush, please report center stage to assume the mantle of scorn and blame, everyone gets their turn...
This is for the ones that try to rewrite history or deny it outright, we wish we could deny it all so easily.

This is for the ones that died...
for the loved ones, the foolish ones, the forgotten and cumbersome alike. For the elderly, the infirmed, Vera in her cobblestone grave, the unidentified ones that received no such memorials. And our beloved household pets, loyal until the end. The parks and neighborhood greens, flora and fauna turned to a sepia-tone static gray. The houses, once renowned for their architecture, are reborn as new testaments to the destructive coupling of Mother nature and Human Folly. To the spray-painted X's, harsh and unrelenting, omnipresent in their emergency orange hue: 1 dog dead, 1 person saved. This is for the newest necropolis to rise, our once proud city, our interrupted way of life, breaks in the line of comfortable static. For the evidence of our empire, washed away in the eye of the storm and the turgid, toxic waters that followed.

This is for the ones that rescued...
the Firefighters, EMT's, Police Officers, National Guard. For the people from far and near that just appeared out of nowhere, just wanting to help any way they could, using anything waterborne. And for the locals brave and true, risking life and limb to save just one more person, over and over and over. For all of the endless, tireless, selfless sacrifices and tear jerking humanity. For their shining light of salvation into the boundless dark, onto rooftops, inside of hacked-out attics, out of harms way to higher ground. For beaming from all directions, these beacons of hope, springing eternal and true. This is for all those who lent a hand, however small or large. Our gratitude, more than could ever be conveyed, is all we have to offer in return.

This is for the media...
the good, the bad, the ugly, for the rescuers and the soothsayers, the shelterers and the kind words, for the dispassionate, the doubters, the cynical and the apathetic. The pundits and pontificators, their talking points and bad haircuts, feigning interest at all the scripted moments. For the smiles as the makeup is applied, the vacant suppression of harsh, unforgiving reality in plentiful evidence. The ones that control the present controlling the past controlled the future; as always, blissfully unaware of the consequences...
For the sidebars and scrutiny, the breaking news and tight focus close-ups, hands and mouths reacting in opposite directions, in equal amounts, all from the outside looking in. This is for updates at every quarter of the hour.

This is for the hospitals...
the nursing homes and hospices unprotected and ignored. Piling the dead or leaving them where they lay, morgues and freezers packed tight. This is for the generators that failed too quickly. No sleep or food or water or sanity or safety or hope. For our doctors and nurses, in hellish conditions, against impossible odds, this is for the ultimate and undying respect they deserve. This is for the thugs storming the gates for drugs and evil kicks on top of everything else happening, brash and ignorant of their crime...
For the hotels and hostels, kicking guest out to fend for themselves in our city gone mad. Inundation and tragedy, fragility and breakdown, the worst vacation, convention, honeymoon ever.

This is for the looters...
for the desperate, the prescient, the survivalist hordes. Scavenging and pilfering, salvaging and hoarding anything and everything of use in seemingly useless times. This is for the business owners, opening their doors wide to allow retrieval of water, food, diapers and formula, keeping their cool and doing the right thing. And for the pharmacies, their good intentions torn asunder by destructive addicts and wasteful ignorance like so many store display shelves. This is for the home invasions, the armed intrusions, for making a bad situation worse, for spreading the fear...
This is for the ones that made it easier even while others made it ever harder by the minute.

This is for the children...
the lost or outright abandoned, the marginalized or used, for the separation anxiety, trauma and tears on long hot nights that just got worse and worse. The unfamiliar and the dangerous, the abusive and profane, forsaking even common sense, for the lack of decency, for the bad examples and poor supervision. This is for the countless orphaned souls, forced to bear an adults pain with no advance warning, no preparation or guidance...
This is for the countless smiles, the innocence and playfulness, the ability to make it all disappear, if only for a moment at a time. And for their will, unbreakable and resolute in its purest form and function. This is for what we owe them, first and foremost; their satisfaction will be our compensation over time.

This is for the survivors...
all of us, if any of us, also still, the huge debt owed to those who didn't. This is for all of us in our sad, sad group, no matter where we are at the moment, home or abroad. For the hopes and dreams, reborn from the ashes of the ones previous, for our Phoenix on the bayou. For the nightmares and shock and ennui, the blank stares and paranoia deep into the night. And the helplessness, constricting, paralyzing, numbing...
This is for finding a way to get out of bed in the morning to go to work, gut your houses and reassemble your lives. This is for those that mourn their dead, their missing, their damaged. This is for all of us that are left to find their way back to some semblance of normalcy and well being in these dark times.

This is for the rest of the country...
witnesses to our plight, shelters in the storm, final arbiters of our collective destiny. This is for all of the numerous benefits and donations, the concerns and the heartfelt sorrow. The letters and emails, the long talks on the phone into those September nights and beyond, the shoulders to cry on and beds to sleep in. As well as the showers and food, simple things like ice and clean clothes. For the religious intolerance, the thought that somehow, we deserved this, that this was God's doing...
This is for the stupidity and hypocrisy, for throwing the first stone when we were down and out. This is for their fatigue, their need to move on, not towards a better understanding, but only to the next sad refrain. For helping us stand, then forcing us to walk away stronger and more assured. This is for those that are rebuilding with us, as well as for the ones that make us want to now more than ever.

This is for the world...
the governments and their citizens, for the superpowers and third-world nations alike. For their offers and advice, their engineers and city planners, the visits of rebuilding and improved protection. This is for the feeling that we weren't alone, that this has happened before elsewhere, only much worse, that it does get better with hard work and cooperation. For the lessons learned and experience shared; the first real promises of something good in uncertain times. This is for the most that we can share, our lessons, our triumphs and defeats, our heartbreaks and celebrations. This is for an open welcome to the grand rebuilding, our glorious comeback and their involvement in all that promises.

This is for the past...
and how not to repeat it. This is for shoddy levees and interrupted communications, driverless buses and improper shelters. For the wild ride to here, the respite in its warming memories, stories and legends yet to be told. The anecdotes and folktales, the ghost stories and the pirates' songs, for history and the curious wisdom it imparts. For the good times, the bad times, the in-between times, we all had them here in this place we called home, no matter if you're local or not. This is for why we still call it home today, even if we won't, or can't be here now. This is for the sacrifices, the sweat and blood, the personal tales of reward and loss. This is for the chance to finally get it right, to learn form our mistakes one more time, to teach others the same as well; it's that precious and rare.

This is for the future...
and the promise that it holds. For the chances in abundance, the endless, limitless boundaries presented. This is for the process of starting over, no matter how long or tough it turns out to be. For the ways to see beauty in the ugliness, to fashion something new and exciting out of something broken and in a state of disrepair. This is for our city, its legacy, our neighborhoods and families, friends and foes alike. For our scenes and cliques, parishes and wards, businesses and hangouts, for the determination to rebuild them all, damn the engines. Our wishes for a better way are here and now, ready and waiting, the concept of building better, stronger, and more secure. All we have to do is make it happen. This is for the here and the here from now on.

So this is for you, in your own private way. For peace, contentment, steadfast resolve in trying times. For dignity and patience, reassuring calm after the storm. This is for the knowledge that you are not alone, no matter how lonely it may seem right now. For your hopeful return to the place we call home, if not now, then in due time...
For the knowledge that she will wait for you, she always has, she always will...
This is for our fair lady, our New Orleans. Past, Present and Future...

How's Your House by Ian Hunter (Song at NOMRF.org)

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...what I sometimes call Bent Synchronicity on the Back Hand Path. (BS on the BHP) Auspicious.

2007-07-24T17:02:00.000-05:00

Regarding bug behavior, the day before Katrina made landfall, almost 12 hrs exactly, the Math Shopper and I were walking my dog Flora on the neutral ground (what we in New Orleans call the grassy median) between Elysian Fields, smoking a nice joint beneath the trees, kickin' logic theorems around like they'z jail-house punks when I spied a dozen fat trademark New Orleans Nightcrawler cock roaches lined up on a tree end to end, nose to tail, completely still but for their long antennae that wriggled about either side like fishing poles off a parade of longboats. These legendary beasts usually stand about 3 1/2 inches long X 2 inches wide? Though rarely seen in broad daylight, you can actually hear them walk across a street. When you do see them (and you will see them) at night, crawlin' across the banquette in the Quarters you must stop, look & listen. More often than not the roach will stop too, as if...considering you. If you somehow find the need, gonads or ova to mount one when it charges, or even manage to Pop It under both feet, every person within a block will duck from the sound of gunfire. {perhaps I embellish juuuust a bit:) But there they were, lined up and down the side of a Live Oak tree. "What the fuck?!?", we wondered. What if they notice us? Should we run now or just back away slowly, no sudden movements? Can they even see in broad sunlight? Aren't they blind, like so many in this city who find themselves somehow awake in the middle of the day? And hey! Why that particular side of the tree anyway and why nearly six feet off the ground? Duuuuherah...it turned out. In the aftermath, we realized from the various & sundry debris nailed into the tree's windward side that the roaches had aligned themselves aerodynamically on the tree's leeward side to ride out the storm's approach, exactly. Bugs know...or at least next time we see nature going so oddly with her own grain perchance we should, errra, pay more attention?.
Ya' t'ink?

Suite Marigny

2007-07-22T23:52:00.000-05:00

I can smell jazmine

covering this morning

like a wide cotten bed sheet
of white class lace.
And I taste
her breath of coffee
and cigarettes
and Maryjane
and Bloody Mary coughing
on the banquette by the gate

of this courtyard in the Marigny.
I lay me down my soul to sleep.
But the heat won't let me.
so I lie
awake
and dream...

...of a dog park,
well, a bald green lot
with two trees
beside the coffee warehouse.
You can see the bags
loading in off the docks.
You can feel it on your skin
when they roast it up.
There the people gather
with their very best friends
and drink in the shade
and talk with the wind
while this flat bywater sunrise
finds them
laying down
their entire lives.

There was a time
when all these houses built from barge wood
gave strong men right lively hood
as they flooded in
from the river.

You may know the sounds
of unbroken belief
with a bucket of seed
and the pigeons beside you
as you slide down
the wet stones of the street
to a little cafe'
named for the goddess of flowers
where the Eight Ball lines up
with a Lucky 13
and Snake Eyes and Diamonds
and Demons in Chains
and the Angel waits
for St. Ann to begin
with her mask made of sorrow
and her laugh made of sin.

So when I die
do please carry me
down Royal Street
with a brass band
and a second line beat
by the courtyards in the Marigny
i lay me down
my soul to sleep

Clock Face Socrates

2007-03-08T01:10:00.000-06:00

Clock Face Socrates

I've got a clock in my face
and it is laughing
at this time and space
it finds lacking
a will to arise
some shake to awaken
that drive to arive
on this road so taken.
I ain't got it today
to fake my karma death,
stand behind a waterfall,
breath beneath its weight.
I can always find a way
away from my self.
No one has to pay me
for That!

I've got plants in my place
and they like me
better when I play
or when I am writing
my comedy
of Socrates
of his alleged death
'er the possibility
that they gave him Belladona
to fiegn his martyr's wish
and stole his ass away
on a stretcher.
Then he wakes with his friends
though he thinks he's gone to heaven
or where ever the Greeks
sent their questioners.

I asked my mama
if she could find me
a pair of Black Cow Boy
Boots to take the stage
in any nieghborhood
on any crowded street
in any antique doorway
where ever the people
freely meet...
Lest they bust me playing music
in The City That Care Forgot
and fine me a hundred dollars
and say they better not
find me playing music
in the Quarters after dark
and that goes for your little dog,
Flora
and that goes for you little dog
too!

Aphasia Novella

2007-03-08T00:20:00.000-06:00

Aphasia Novella

I hope well.
I've shifted over
to more music
since my writing seems
to go native.
Gone to ground!
So my spirit Simon Says.
I just needed a little real food!
Something fierce! Something weird...
Something fun...
Some kind word
from an old soul
from the old school
in the dark woods,
I found Iron John
by the still pool
waiting...
for the wild boy.

Drop me a line.
I seem to've dropped off line lately.
Hard Work! & No Play!
have uncoiled my sence
of taste & timing
so I write...on paper
and my right hand shakes.
I read words worth nothing
to no one but me.
Still you never know who listens
and you never know who reads
though you might catch them dancing
and you might hear them
singing.

I want to sit like an uncarved
block of wood,
waiting for Goddess to make me
useful.
May be a statue. Perchance a cup
to hold peoples' memories
or the body of chaos.
ring!
She staddles the altar!
ring!
Bathed in Howoly Water!
ring!
With her hands she pours
the blood of the vine
through my porus heart.
You may know the sound
of the broken leaves
and I may watch the way that they fall,
as we climb to the top of our sacred tree
and we wait for the stars to follow!

Red Emma

2007-03-05T00:47:00.001-06:00

Red Emma
She like her coffee
Hot!
Strong as the revolution,
Sweet as Love.
With just a little cream?
To top it off.
To top it Off!

Put a sock in your mouth,
Never say a word.
Just stand there
And speak to a crowd
With the greatest silence
They ever heard.
Take a Quiet Scream
Into a Roar!
To top it off!
To top it Off!
...and we sing...

~chorus~
"If I can't dance I don't want to come to your revolution!"
If we can't dance, how're you gonna make me
Come?

I caught her out the other night,
Down on Castro Street,
Hanging up some button boards,
Still trying to legalize it!
She dropped a dollar in my case.
Said she liked my subtlety.
She was dancing when she walked away,
And I could hear her sing,
With just a little green
To top it off!
To top it Off!

Johnny Got His Gun

2007-03-01T18:36:00.000-06:00

Johnny Got His Gun
inspired by Dalton Trumbo
My love, my country,
cries out to me, son
save me from reality.
No arms, no legs, no sight to see,
how I served my country,
now she's screwing me.

Still the VA hospital is a cat house affairdirty bed sheets, scurvy, cheap medical care

and the vets they lie and at the walls they stare
placing bets on the cock roaches racing there.

We've had nuclear power plants
that don't work at all...
but nothing for the vet who did
or his child, The Agent Orange Kid.
We've had money for new highways
& church-schools to bare...
but nothing for the vet who did
or his child running lonely
or his wife running scared.

So what about the soldiers
who fought and died,
drifting away with the Mekong tide.
Hell, they're dead & gone
so let's forget about them,
their wives, their children.
They were honorable men.
If all you want to do is live & let live
my love, my country well fuck you then,
because right or wrong our soildiers
they fought for us all
and the blood of America
tackes care of its own!
And the love of America
takes care of its own!

Mad Night's Mourning Spin

2007-02-27T10:28:00.000-06:00

Mad Night's Mourning Spin
{like a mad irish poet}

Bright morning light a'finding me
underneath some stairs asleep
where that Mad Dog's done taken me
away again.
While them thoughtless whores
and their washed-up scores
of this mad night's mourning
spin by me
I can see their nickle plated price tags
and count their baby-cake grins.
And the glad thing is
that no one knows me,
hear, no one can call
my name.
But the sad thing is
this show is going
and my friends aren't here
to see the game.
Well its saxophone players & pastry bakers,
juggling fools & candy takers,
little niggers dancing a tap dance
in thier worn-out black shoes.
And the wild wings of the sidewalk preacher
with the wino from thier park bench bleecher
jeer the crown chunkin' small change
like it was made of precious gold...
like it was made of precious gold!

Suite Marigny

2007-02-26T11:08:00.000-06:00

Suite Marigny

I can smell Jasmine
covering this morning
like a wide cotton bedsheet
of white class lace.
Still I tasts her breath of coffee
& cigarettes & mary jane
& Bloody Mary coughing
on the banquette
by the gate...

of this courtyard in the Marigny.
I lay me down my soul to sleep.
But the Heat won't let me.
So I lie
awake
& dream...

of a dog park
well, a bald green lot,
with two trees
beside the coffee warehouse.
You can see the bags loading
in off the dock.
You can feel it on your skin
when they roast it up.
There the people gather
with their very best friends
& drink in the shade,
& talk in the wind
as this flat ByWater sunrise finds them
laying down
their entire lives.

There was a time
when all these houses built from barge wood
gave strong men right livelyhood
as they flooded in from the river.

You may know the sounds of unbroken belief
with a bucket of seed and the pigeons beside you
while you slide down the wet stones of the street
to a little cafe' named for the Goddess of Flowers,
where the 8 Ball lines up with Lucky 13,
& Snake Eyes & Diamonds & Demons In Chains.
Still the Angel waits for St. Ann to begin
with her mask made of sorrow,
& her laugh made of sin.

So when i die
please carry me down Royal Street
with a brass band and a 2nd line beat
to a courtyard in the Marigny
...to lay me down
my soul to sleep.

new orleans, spring 2005

Factjack!

2007-02-25T00:37:00.002-06:00

Factjack!

by Bruce Biles
New Orleans, Feb. 2007

I know what you're going to say, that if one listens too much to what "They" have to say then pretty soon one will begin to sound like...one of Them. We know there is a "Them" (at least I do) and we also know They will go There and do That. However, by its own cultural longevity, a "saying", in truth, can transcend what any individual or ruling junta may say about reality. Thus the saying: "You don't always know what you've got until it's gone." contains a certain efficacy of both Opinion and Fact that I would like to address: the reality of pain...at the begining of Mardi Gras, still eighteen months after "The Troubles" in the City That Care Forgot and the President left to die.
As in Joni Mitchel's song, "Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. They Pave Paradise, Put Up A Parking Lot!", I entertain no Opinion as to whether anyone may or may not know what the have, in the first place, let alone what the have lost. While I don't remember ever falling in Paradise (perchance as I have always thought that one falls from Paradise) I can attest to Fact as to falling Down in a parking lot. It hurt. I suppose that in either place, some locations more than others and to differing degrees---all verifiable, the pain is real. We may or may not enjoy it. I don't want to get into any one's personal inclinations...different strokes for different folks and all that... BUT, when I fell face-down in a larking lot, it hurt. Try it and I doubt you will disagree with me on that one. Pain is Real, not opinion. That's a fact, Jack!
Now let us deal with what we stand to lose should we allow our Feckless Ruling Junta to get away with leaving New Orleans to die after Hurricane Katrina and the subsequent flooding and total breakdown of civil order. Day after day, as the water rose and became viscous with everything laid down over the decades, in a city nearly 200 years old, I waited for rescue. Not simply relief but rescue from absolute American mayhem. No police. No fire department. No sewage system. No emergency response. I listened to a single available radio station out of Baton Rouge nearly a hundred miles away and heard our Feckless Ruling Junta's Friends (who had been appointed as reward for political contributions rather than experience in the field) in charge of our country's Emergency Response, say that help was on the way, that they had everything under control. They said, "Trust us! Don't 'ya think We know how to manage a little disaster here? Don't you people know how to spell: Homeland Security?" Fact? Opinion? Ya' Think? To think or not to think means that we have already lost. That's a Fact, Jack. Do you have an opinion of what went down in this beautiful city where its inhabitants would recognize their own unique neighborhoods by the scents of jazmine vines climbing to the tops of the telephone poles. Do I care? {Will I turn into a neo-conservative bully by continuing to ask myself questions rather than addressing & answering any of yours factually?} No. I do not care for your opinion. I was there in Paradise. I fell down in the parking lot. It hurt as the Romance of it all broke my goddamned heart like watching The Crucifixion. Hence, whenever our Feckless Ruling Junta's friends---especially top $dollar$ ones---ask us to trust them I can feel the ill wind of pestilence coming for this country like the smell of shit in a dead man's eyes or the sound of flies buzzing out of his mouth. By its very nature, trusts in this or any Ruling Junta involves not Fact, Jack, but Armed Opinion. It requires Factjack!
This is what I call our Neck-less Ruling Junta's aggressive movement towards authoritarian doublethink management style. Factjack. Oh, can't you just bellyfeel it? Do you get the idea as well that by merely looking at the word it seems to obliterate meaning for miles around? Factjack involves the Theft of Fact by Armed Opinion. Fact: a verifiable statement of reality + Jack: to quickly, forcibly pry something loose with the intent to steal it. As with a Carjacking, one could be waiting at a traffic light, on their way to work during an Presidential election, when suddenly an armed criminal opinion steals their morning view with a campaign billboard which smears the Democratic presidential candidate and thrice-decorated Vietnam veteran---on his own war record---paidforbytherepublicanCommitteetoRE-EelectthePresident--- cowards who in fact hid themselves from military service. That's A Factjack!
It is a Fact that our Reckless Ruling Junta sent our army into another country, espousing a Babylonian labyrinth of daily shifting Opinions of Facts---no longer about why we invaded that country---but Opinions of Facts as to who in that country disagrees with our invasion of it and why they want to kill us. Not much argument about the Fact that they continue to kill us or the Fact that we invaded their country and continue to kill them---lots more of them.
It is a Fact that our Spineless Ruling Junta withheld even recognition of the devastation wrought by one of the largest man-made disasters to have ever hit this country for reasons and motivations of their own. It is a Fact that They left Me to Die in the City when They saw a Time to Kill It.
So our Restless Ruling Junta continues to ask us to trust them. They say they know what they were doing in Iraq, as they knew what they were doing in New Orleans. I say that is a Factjack! I say cell phone pictures from a torture prison are worth a thousand words. I say that to leave New Orleans like an open wound will lead to the fatal infection of our entire body politic.
That is a fact, Jack!
Lassezes Le Bon Temp Roule'!!!