Wednesday, July 23, 2008
War Crime Poetry
A short piece from the New Yorker regarding Radovan Karadzic's poetry. A short bite: "Like many megalomaniacs, Karadzic fancied himself a poet. (In the mid-seventies, he took a few poetry classes at Columbia University while studying psychiatry.) Infuriatingly, Karadzic managed to release a new book of verse, a novel, and a play while living underground. "
Within this piece is a link to an abstract written by Jay Surdukowski in 2005, suggesting that "Is Poetry a War Crime? Reckoning for Radovan Karadzic the Poet Warrior". In lawyerese, Mr. Surdowski "suggests in particular that the materials at least have evidentiary value in the mens rea determination for genocide, the most significant crime Karadzic has been indicted for and the offense that has been branded the "ultimate crime." "
Wait until the poets start critiquing his poetry!? Then, we'll hear about the crimes to language and the needless death of trees.
For those with patience and a high threshold for seething, here are three of his poems.
An excerpt from one of them, Sarajevo:
"The town burns like a piece of incense
In the smoke rumbles our consciousness.
Empty suits slide down the town.
Red is the stone that dies, built into a house. The Plague!"
Why bother with a trial? Resuscitate old wounds to have him rub sea salt into?
Labels: People
Radovan 24/7
Mr. Eric Gordy, on his East of Ethnia site, is your source for Radovan Karadžić related information, bent to make it even more interesting while staying within the playing field of truth. In this link, he provides info regarding Mr.
An excerpt, revealing the defense strategy: "Karadzic's lawyer in Serbia, Svetozar Vujacic, said his client was in good mental and physical condition. He was not talking to investigators, but "defending himself with silence."
"He is going to have a legal team in Serbia but he will be defending himself (without a lawyer) during his trial at The Hague," Vujacic told Reuters.
"He is convinced that with the help of God he will win.""
This "God" guy Mr. Vujavic is referring to is not the same God we've heard about over here, is it?
Here's Eric's report on the mysterious doings of Radovan Karadžić's other self, Dragan David Dabić. An excerpt, "He did not appear to make a strong impression on his neighbours in Novi Beograd, who if they remember him as well remember him as quiet and polite with a dress sense that was unusual, what Californians might describe as "elegant casual." " These killer despots....always imitating/insulting the California life-style.
Another excellent 24/7 Radovan Karadžić is Finding Karadzic. He provides links to the secret Radovan Karadžić. Karadžić's presence on the Internet is rather spooky, aside from casting even a deeper pall on the alternative health maintenance industry. Check out his Ten Favorite Chinese Proverbs at the bottom of this site. This guy's ego knows no bounds.
Labels: People
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The 'Do is Done
Radovan Karadžić , the noted poet/psychologist/ex-government head/alleged ethnic cleanser/champion hide-'n-seeker has been outed, caught, and whisked away. Poets and psychologists world-wide can now exhale knowing that the truly Bad Boy of their profession will be marched to Th Hague where, at the least, he will be forced to relinquish any ties he had with psychiatry and poetry. A short trip through a photo gallery shows that he has been busy inventing another hairstyle while tucked away somewhere in Serbia. Interesting to note that Mr. Karadžić not only has not lost any of his famous hair but has actually quadrupled its quantity. The black streak running through the top of his pompadour was certainly purposeful so as to not confuse him with Mr. Kaczynski's famous 'do. It is still a mystery as to whether judges or barbers will sit in on judgment of Mr. Karadžić's innumerable charges against humanity and cosmetology.So, here's the newest visitor to The Hague at a "medical" conference.
n.b.: Tip of the Hat to Eric over at East Ethnia, who clued me into the last link, from the BBC. His entry on Mr. Karadžić is worth reading as his sly wit is noted vis-a-vis the Belgrade Transportation System.
Labels: People
No! Not me! (PLEASE, not me!)
My behaviour recently, that is, the critique of my recent behaviour has been such that it required a singular word to capture its full effect. Based on words spoken to me, it seems this mot juste, doryphore, might just do the trick. No excuses are offered. No explanations of circumstances possibly causing this "Colorado beetle" like behaviour will be given. Either would serve only to provide the fuel for the commenting fire.My own conclusion of this (hopefully short-timed) phenomenon is that being the passenger in a car v. being the driver causes personality changes (hopefully short-termed) that encourages the left side (or is it the right side) of my brain to fully engage its critiquing ability. Though no harm is intended, it seems my quest for efficiency, especially in others, is only successful in making a listener reach a level of displeasure and offense rapidly. Although my (perceived) aim is true, my targets would appreciate more misses than hits. It's an awful thing, this act of being a questing prig. I mean, you'd want the brain surgeon sawing into your skull to be a doryphore while he/she were poking up there in your hippocampus (no matter how small it had gotten. Funny. If you had asked me which part of your brain did get smaller due to this, I would have said, "Oh, yeah that college campus part". But, you didn't ask, so I'll just return to where I had left off...). But after the operation, I doubt you'd want to be confined to a bed and have to deal with the nit-picking medical genius, pointing out all of the errors of your way of living.
I will strive to minimize my role of auto passenger and thus, hopefully, decrease my innate doryphore. I'm way too old to try to change this; I'm at the age where self-suppression works best. That, or carry a large sock o' horse manure to insert in my mouth whenever I get an urge to point out deficiencies.
Perhaps, If everybody did their job, I'd be less cantankerously picky.
See more funny videos at Funny or Die
Labels: People, Self-Therapy
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Unappetizing
In today's NYT front page Travel section article on nudists vacations, some things stuck out (Bad Pun Alert! apologies, in advance). Attention all Naturalists, be ready to shed your attire and your (already de-valued) dollars as opportunities are cropping up for birthday suit holidays. One of the interesting things about the article is the picture. There are, count 'em, 13 people sans maillot, in the large picture and yet, miraculously, not one naughty bit. Well, a tail, yes, but not a bit. How'd the photographer do that? Photoshop and an electronic eraser? "Lots of photos. Lots.", quipped the ever-loving wife, who tartly added that the movement au natural was for "people who want to love their bodies in spite of themselves."In my more youthful days (or is that daze), I'd frequented nude beaches in Croatia and in Greece, so it's not from a non-participatory angle that I've approached this subject. While nude sunbathing is o.k., nude swimming is not something I'd recommend. Nor nude diving, as in "diving from cliffs". Trust me on this. How I've been able to have kids is a true miracle of Nature. An especially painful body-surfing episode on Crete's Red Beach (Yes, that Red Beach) sans Speedo let me know that a little bitty piece of cloth would have been most protective when a wave rises up to smash you face first into friction-laden rocks. The thing about youth and nudity was that gravity was a much kinder mistress back then. Also, the young engine required and processed instantly any caloric intake. No stations along the way situated on different parts of the body, waiting for the locomotive to pull in and take away the sedentary loads. Au natural, like youth, was wasted on the young. So, while my mind is still open to many new possibilities, the door has been closed on leaving my clothes behind. It is you, gentle readers, that I am concerned about. there is so much our eyes and our hearts can take at this point.
A well-placed ad,
Castaways Travel is selling a sail down the Danube in the nude, from Budapest to Vienna to Nuremberg, July 20 to 27, on a 75-cabin river boat. Rates from $2,199 to $2,799 a person (800-470-2020, danubeadultcruise). , at the end of the article was actually the item that set me off about the whole naturalist thing. There you are, strolling along the banks of the Danube, perhaps just after having taking in a slice of the world’s most famous chocolate cake, the Original Sacher-Torte at Café Sacher. What could make the schlagge in your stomach curdle more than an entire cruise ship of over-35 nudeniks stretching and kvetching? Could this be more off-putting than the plunge of the US dollar against the Euro? Cake and nudity, not a good mix.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Too Much Jesus
A couple of weeks ago I was completing one of my year’s scheduled d.j. shift at WVUD. A Sunday morning. A gorgeous and exuberant early Fall day. Blinding sunlight coming off of the hanging-on-for-dear-life yellowed leafs still on the trees. U of D is a gorgeous campus but especially so in the interim period of Summer-Fall. All seemed well on that day.
The music I played tended to the same mix of jazz, blues, and R & R. Nothing out of the ordinary was in the style mix, except for the artists filling the play list that morning. I tend to start out the show at 9:00 am with a jazz set or two, usually tending toward various musicians’ cover versions of old spirituals or languorous meanderings of Broadway show tunes, specifically ones in the down low. That morning’s set list began with Dick Wellstood's rendition of Caravan and also included Art Blakey's version of the Ellington/Tizol composition. Even though the university’s radio station is located in the deep bowels of one of the student centers, the effect of the weather that morning still carried through. It was a mellow morning deserving of mellow pensive melodies.
Most times that I do the show, phone calls to the station are of the inquiry type.
"What was the name of that tune you played at 10:00?"
"Was that Diane Washington singing that sassy song?"
"Hey, do you know what yesterday’s U of D football game was?"
Occasionally, there are compliments voiced on the musical jag taken that morning. Sometimes there is reminiscing by a caller who heard a song played that they hadn’t heard on the airwaves in decades, the down-memory-lane services we provide on the all-volunteer all-the-time radio station.
Rarely does anyone call in with complaints because it seems getting one's bile up on Sunday is just not on most folks' Things to Do list. I always figured that Sunday morning, regardless of the weather, is a sit and read and sip coffee type of day for most of the station’s listeners. Girding for the beginning of the week, a last respite before the endless Hear Ye! Hear ye! of tasks unfolds. So, it was with surprise and a total lack of words on my part that I fielded a call that morning that began with the exclamative "What the hell? Is this a religious program? I could turn to Elkton’s (Maryland) stations for that?"
Now, stretching that "religious" adjective to its breaking point, I could understand how he may have thought I’d gone into a conversion mode. The only problem was that the song that finally got on his last God-aversive nerve was Jesus Shaves from the new Roches album, Moonswept.
"What is it with all this Jesus crap?", he protested. (n.b.: this conversation is not invented)
"Jesus crap?". Hmmm, what was he referring to?
"Do you mean that last song, "Jesus Shaves"?", this inquiring mind wanting to know, uhmm, inquired.
"Yeah, that was the capper. "Jesus Saves"!", he self-satisfyingly stated.
"No, that’s "Shaves", not "Saves". Did you listen to the words? It’s about a guy trying to get his life going and…”, I said, adding information to a field in need of some seeding.
"Not "Jesus Saves"?!!?? Well, how about those other ones? They sounded awfully religious.", he blurted, in a voice that was both ticked off and weakening due to facts being presented..
"Do you mean that previous song? The one by Loudon Wainwright III about the South?", I asked..
"Yeah, that’s the one! That’s the one that got me started!", he exclaimed, reinvigorated by the malice of notes.
"But, you know Loudon, right? I mean, in the Gods of Music categories, he’s the God of Sarcasm, the loveable bastard of relationship exposition. That song’s not about religion, it’s about……", I posited.
Silence on the other end and then loud tapping of fingers on a hard surface. Ba ra bum. Ba ra bum. Ba ra bum.
"Look", he came around to, "All I know is what my ears are telling me and what they told me was that you’re playing religious music. What if I was Jewish? I wouldn’t like to hear this Christian stuff if I was Jewish!". So said the non-Jewish what-if-I-was-a-Jew caller.
What could one say? I was lost. He was going down a nasty road throwing whatever rocks he came up along his way because his destination was getting ever blurrier. I grabbed for the playlist and started listing off the songs I'd already played, asking if they constituted some framework for a religious takeover of the Sunday morning show.
"Well, I heard only those two songs. I hadn't been listening to the station but for only 15 minutes. It just seemed too religious…"
I will admit that I have more than a passing love for most albums by The Campbell Brothers, The Blind Boys of Alabama, Aretha Franklin’s spirituals, and even Gregorian chants cd's and, once-twice a year, a shot of Handel’s Messiah. But to say I play religious music would be seriously misunderstanding what music is all about. For a moment there, I started empathizing with those folks who play the heavy metal that drives people off the deep edge (tongue in cheek here, folks). I wrapped an obtuse apology around a harangue on possibly seeking guidance from someone better equipped to handle his anger, say a minister, rabbi, priest, or psychologist and quietly hung up the phone. I then checked and double-checked that the door to the station was securely locked.
This was all a bit too much, jeeeeeeeez!
Oh, and as far as future shows, yeah, I'll still be playing that Jesus, uhmm, stuff. Whatever the inspiration for that music is, the music is fabulous.
The music I played tended to the same mix of jazz, blues, and R & R. Nothing out of the ordinary was in the style mix, except for the artists filling the play list that morning. I tend to start out the show at 9:00 am with a jazz set or two, usually tending toward various musicians’ cover versions of old spirituals or languorous meanderings of Broadway show tunes, specifically ones in the down low. That morning’s set list began with Dick Wellstood's rendition of Caravan and also included Art Blakey's version of the Ellington/Tizol composition. Even though the university’s radio station is located in the deep bowels of one of the student centers, the effect of the weather that morning still carried through. It was a mellow morning deserving of mellow pensive melodies.
Most times that I do the show, phone calls to the station are of the inquiry type.
"What was the name of that tune you played at 10:00?"
"Was that Diane Washington singing that sassy song?"
"Hey, do you know what yesterday’s U of D football game was?"
Occasionally, there are compliments voiced on the musical jag taken that morning. Sometimes there is reminiscing by a caller who heard a song played that they hadn’t heard on the airwaves in decades, the down-memory-lane services we provide on the all-volunteer all-the-time radio station.
Rarely does anyone call in with complaints because it seems getting one's bile up on Sunday is just not on most folks' Things to Do list. I always figured that Sunday morning, regardless of the weather, is a sit and read and sip coffee type of day for most of the station’s listeners. Girding for the beginning of the week, a last respite before the endless Hear Ye! Hear ye! of tasks unfolds. So, it was with surprise and a total lack of words on my part that I fielded a call that morning that began with the exclamative "What the hell? Is this a religious program? I could turn to Elkton’s (Maryland) stations for that?"
Now, stretching that "religious" adjective to its breaking point, I could understand how he may have thought I’d gone into a conversion mode. The only problem was that the song that finally got on his last God-aversive nerve was Jesus Shaves from the new Roches album, Moonswept.
"What is it with all this Jesus crap?", he protested. (n.b.: this conversation is not invented)
"Jesus crap?". Hmmm, what was he referring to?
"Do you mean that last song, "Jesus Shaves"?", this inquiring mind wanting to know, uhmm, inquired.
"Yeah, that was the capper. "Jesus Saves"!", he self-satisfyingly stated.
"No, that’s "Shaves", not "Saves". Did you listen to the words? It’s about a guy trying to get his life going and…”, I said, adding information to a field in need of some seeding.
"Not "Jesus Saves"?!!?? Well, how about those other ones? They sounded awfully religious.", he blurted, in a voice that was both ticked off and weakening due to facts being presented..
"Do you mean that previous song? The one by Loudon Wainwright III about the South?", I asked..
"Yeah, that’s the one! That’s the one that got me started!", he exclaimed, reinvigorated by the malice of notes.
"But, you know Loudon, right? I mean, in the Gods of Music categories, he’s the God of Sarcasm, the loveable bastard of relationship exposition. That song’s not about religion, it’s about……", I posited.
Silence on the other end and then loud tapping of fingers on a hard surface. Ba ra bum. Ba ra bum. Ba ra bum.
"Look", he came around to, "All I know is what my ears are telling me and what they told me was that you’re playing religious music. What if I was Jewish? I wouldn’t like to hear this Christian stuff if I was Jewish!". So said the non-Jewish what-if-I-was-a-Jew caller.
What could one say? I was lost. He was going down a nasty road throwing whatever rocks he came up along his way because his destination was getting ever blurrier. I grabbed for the playlist and started listing off the songs I'd already played, asking if they constituted some framework for a religious takeover of the Sunday morning show.
"Well, I heard only those two songs. I hadn't been listening to the station but for only 15 minutes. It just seemed too religious…"
I will admit that I have more than a passing love for most albums by The Campbell Brothers, The Blind Boys of Alabama, Aretha Franklin’s spirituals, and even Gregorian chants cd's and, once-twice a year, a shot of Handel’s Messiah. But to say I play religious music would be seriously misunderstanding what music is all about. For a moment there, I started empathizing with those folks who play the heavy metal that drives people off the deep edge (tongue in cheek here, folks). I wrapped an obtuse apology around a harangue on possibly seeking guidance from someone better equipped to handle his anger, say a minister, rabbi, priest, or psychologist and quietly hung up the phone. I then checked and double-checked that the door to the station was securely locked.
This was all a bit too much, jeeeeeeeez!
Oh, and as far as future shows, yeah, I'll still be playing that Jesus, uhmm, stuff. Whatever the inspiration for that music is, the music is fabulous.
Labels: NaBloPoMo, People, WVUD 91.3
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Husbands, Wives, Cell Phones
A cousin from the Old Country passed this along to me. She's female and a wife, so no nasty comments about misogyny or marriage, please.
Labels: Domestic Burdens, People
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
An Annie Hall Moment
Remember (oh, yeah, I know you all do) one of the many still fresh and insightful scenes in Annie Hall, when this happens? How you wish you can be so lucky to have the expert, the author, the deed-doer right there to pull out from behind the stage?Well, in a recent post, I'd raved about wax.on wax.off's November 2006 release, A Lecture on Geek Mythology. This German group has 14 songs on the album, 13 are in English, 1 in German. I searched for the lyrics to Meine Mitbewohnerin with no luck. Alcessa even volunteered her translation services if I were to come up with the German lyrics.
Well, shades of Marshall McLuhan, who should have left a comment on that entry than the composer and leader of wax.on wax.off, Mr.Thorsten Rott!
If you don't mind, so that you minimize your clicking, here's Mr. Rott's full comment. What a great guy! Here's Mr. Whisky Prajer's post on A Lecture on Geek Mythology. He proclaims it the Summer CD. I can attest that cranking this baby up does (seem) to increase your car's horsepower.
"Hi there everybody,
a friend of mine came across this blog asking me to help you guys with the lyrics of "meine mitbewöhnerin" (notice the rock dots over the o). Well, here is a very rough translation:
"my new roomate (female flatmate/suitemate) looks kind of hot
but unfortunately she´s only dating jocks
she´s bringing a new one home every week
and it is getting worse, it is getting worse – I can hear them in my room
yesterday I secretly watched her take a shower
and stole her favorite pink pair of panties from the hamper
and every now and then I ´m sniffing them and dream about getting in her underwear
I dream of her when I touch myself
.. of my flatmate
for her I even sit down when I pee
.. for my flatmate
we now have an exchange student from Belgium living with us
but unfortunately she´s only exchanging experiences with other girls
but as real kind of guy a still think that I can convert her and make her mine
and in the meantime I hope I can watch them sometime
and I hold her hair back when she again has to throw up drunk at night
I take her to bed and when she is firmly asleep I look at her and touch myself."
Reading this now I have to say it is way less creepy in German. I guess the irony and most of the puns are lost in translation.
Best wishes from Germany
thorsten
And check out our blog at wax.on wax.off.
"
Thanks Thorsten for dropping by and gracing me with my Triple M (Marshall McLuhan Moment).
Labels: People, Recording Reviews
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Truly. Deeply. Sadly.
One of the funniest writers, one of the most perspicacious observers of the political scene, and one of the most dearly loved proponents of truth in the midst of muck, Molly Ivins died tonight. Ms. Ivins' pieces were a joy to read and for those lucky enough to see her occassional public appearances knew she spoke as clearly and humorouosly in vivo as in print. Her measured handling and dismantling of the porcine Bill O'Reilly at a book fair in 2003 was delicious.She will be missed, especially in these days of soft journalism. Not too many columnists left with the ability to chew on an issue and give us the essence, and always with wit. A salve for the unpleasantries.
(Here she is with Jim Hightower on YouTube)
(Here's a piece from the Progressive Magazine.)
Here are 2 fine tributes to her passing.
From Cowtown Pattie.
One from Jim from ArchaeoTexture.
Labels: People
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Borat's Speedo
Here, (yes, you'll click to actually see the pic) is the World Famous Borat (aka Ali G, aka Sasha Baron Cohen) @ Cannes, just in time to resurrect a post of mine from last year, the Summer of Croatia. No amount of slivovica could be poured down my throat to be wearing that.
Labels: Effluvia, Humans, People, Quirks
