Shake Hands with the Devil

At last I will give you my long-promised reflection on Lieutenant-General Roméo Dallaire's book, Shake Hands with the Devil: the Failure of Humanity in Rwanda. It seems that Dallaire has gained popularity — I saw Roméo Dallaire on a news program this weekend, and I even saw his face in the usually lacklustre Spectator a week ago. The reason for the sudden surge (if it can be called that) of Dallaire in the media is not just because of the publishing of his book but also because Dallaire is testifying in the Rwandan International War Crimes Tribunal. The newsprogram was mentioning that Dallaire's credibility was under attack this week as the defence attempted to dismantle his character by painting him as an unstable character prone to mental breakdown. As many people already know, Dallaire suffered a dramatic case of post-traumatic stress disorder. My hope is that these personal attacks will not work and that the war criminal, Colonel Théoneste Bagosora, the Hutu extremist, RGF member, and leader of the ministry of defence, will be served justice.

I could go on and on about the importance of this book but I’ll let Dallaire speak for himself:

"The following is my story of what happened in Rwanda in 1994. It's a story of betrayal, failure, naiveté, indifference, hatred, genocide, war, inhumanity and evil. Although strong relationships were built and moral, ethical and courageous behaviour was often displayed, they were overshadowed by one of the fastest, most efficient, most evident genocides in recent history. In just one hundred days over 800,000 innocent Rwandan men, women and children were brutally murdered while the developed the world, impassive and apparently unperturbed, sat back and wateched the unfolding apocalypse or simply changed channels. Almost fifty years to the day that my father and father-in-law helped to liberate Europe—when the extermination camps were uncovered and when, in one voice, humanity said, "Never again"—we once again sat back and permitted the unspeakable horror to occur. We could not find the political will nor the resources to stop it. Since then, much has been written, discussed, debated, argued and filmed on the subject of Rwanda, yet it is my feeling that this recent catastrophe is being forgotten and its lessons submerged in ignorance and apathy. The genocide in Rwanda was a failure of humanity that could easily happen again.
After one of my many presentations following my return from Rwanda, a Canadian Forces padre asked me how, after all I had seen and experienced, I could still believe in God. I answered that I know there is a God because in Rwanda I shook hands with the devil. I have seen him, I have smelled him and I have touched him. I know the devil exists, and therefore I know there is a God. Peux ce que veux. Allons-y.” — from the Preface.

Some may wonder what Dallaire is referring to when he says that he shook hands with the devil. Dallaire is speaking of his meeting with the leaders of the Interahamwe, a militant wing of the ruling party which was largely responsible for the genocide. Dallaire asserts that he removed the bullets from his gun before he met them so he could resist the temptation to shoot them. After meeting these leaders in order to negotiate humanitarian transfers, Dallaire felt he had negotiated and exchanged pleasantries with the devil. I believe the title of Dallaire’s book is extremely apt, as he received very little information on the motivations of all the various nations, people, and organizations he had to deal with, and with this lack of information came a confusion over exactly who he could rely on.

I am by no means an expert on Rwanda or Burundi and the historical accounts of the genocide and the reasons for the genocide I have read often have extreme and shocking differences. As a student of history I have never seen the need for historiographical research as in the varying accounts of the horrible events that led to the Rwandan genocide. The French blame the RPF, Marxists blame the Tutsi and downplay their extreme losses, realists simplify and try to simply blame tribal hatreds, Tutsis blame Hutus, Hutus blame Tutsis, Belgians blame Dallaire, Republicans blame Clinton and the UN, and on and on the game goes. I like Dallaire’s approach best, he blames everyone. Now, certainly there are differing degrees of responsibility — Madeline Albright certainly doesn’t have as much blood on her hands as a Hutu or Tutsi genocidaire, but the blame does fall on many shoulders. Blinded by racism, ideology, hatred, and apathy the French, the Belgians, the Americans, the Tutsi, the Hutu, the UN, the media, and the entire international community share some of the blame. Dallaire himself has stated that he will die with the guilt of the genocide on his shoulders. None of us can shrug off the genocides in Rwanda and Burundi with a simplistic, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Because any of us who are Christians know the answer to that question. Now you and I certainly don’t share much of the blame for the genocides but we do have a responsibility to speak out and seek justice when tragic events of this nature occur.

I don't think I can give the book a fair treatment in just one small blog entry and I recommend that everyone read it. Not only is Dallaire a true Canadian hero, but the Rwandan genocide is a tragic event in history which should lead everyone to sober reflection.

A Nazirite Receives a Haircut
Judges 21: 15-21 (The New Situationally Edited Revised Standard Version)
And she said to him, "How can you say, 'I love you,' when your heart is not with me? You have mocked me these three times, and you have not received a haircut when I asked." 16 And when she pressed him hard with her words day after day, and urged him, his soul was vexed to death. 17 And he told her all his mind, and said to her, "Fine, I'll get a haircut."

. . . . . . . 19 She made him go to a certain barbershop; and she called a man, and had him shave off the seven locks of his head. Then she began to torment him, and his strength left him. 20 And she said, "Wow, you look dandy, John!" And he awoke from the barber's chair and said, "I do look good, though."

Off to Ottawa, see ya later.

A Brief History Continued

I neglected to mention yesterday that the transferrence of power from Germany to Belgium occurred after Germany fared badly in World War I. Belgium governed the territory as one territory Ruanda-Urundi.

Burundi gained independence on July 1st, 1962. With weak democratic institutions, the Tutsi King Mwabutsa IV formed a constitutional monarchy which was made up of equal numbers of Hutus and Tutsis. In 1965, the Hutu prime minister was assassinated and this triggered a number of destabilizing revolts by the Hutu. In 1966, Prince Ntare IV overthrew his own father and himself was deposed that very same year by a military coup. Capt. Michel Micombero abolished the monarchy and declared a Burundi a republic. A republic did not emerge, however, and Burundi was a military regime. In 1972, there was a large-scale Hutu rebellion and hundreds of thousands of Burundians were put to flight. Instability reigned throughout the seventies. Col. Jean-Baptiste Bagaza seized power in 1976, leading a Tutsi-dominated military regime. Bagaza, a reformer, introduced changes in property and election laws and promoted reconciliation between Hutus and Tutsis.

Bagaza's promising start deteriated when he ws elected head of state as the sole candidate in 1984. Religious activities were suppressed and political opposition was imprisoned. Finally, in 1987, Bagaza was overthrow by Major Pierre Buyoya who then instituted his ruling Military Committee for National Salvation. Tensions rose between Tutsis and Hutus as the Hutu majority clashed with the ruling Tutsi hardliners. An estimated 150,000 people were killed and tens of thousands of refugees fled in the unrest of 1988. Buyoya issued a commission to investigate the causes of the 1988 bloodbath and attempt to create a charter for democratic reform.

In 1991, a new constitution was approved by Buyoya which detailed the need for a president, a multiethnic government, and a parliament. In 1993, Burundi's first Hutu president, Melchior Ndadaye was elected. In October of that year, Ndadaye was assassinated by a faction from the Tutsi-dominated army. Civil war ensued and tens of thousands of people were killed and displaced in the chaos.

The government of Ndadaye regained control and Cyprien Ntaryamira was elected president in January 1994. Finally in April 1994 the airplane of President Ntayarmira and Rwandan president Habyarimana was shot down, killing both men. This infamous act marked the beginning of the Rwandan genocide. While the world glanced in mild interest at the horror in Rwanda, Burundi was plunged into more violence and unrest.

Rwanda also gained independence on July 1st 1962. From 1962 until 1973 Rwanda was ruled by Gregoire Kaybanda. In 1973, a bloodless coup occurred in which the Hutu General, Juvenal Habyarimana, seized power. So while Burundi was ruled by a Tutsi elite after independence, Rwanda was ruled by a Hutu elite under Habyarimana. Habyarimana favoured his own clan and those in prime positions were most often his relations or from his home territory. Apparently, members of this favoured group, theAkazu, or little house, played a large role in the 1994 genocide by commanding the murderous Presidential guard and controlling the hate radio station. Habyarimana and his Akazu efficiently governed Rwanda with tight control. Political and press freedom were severely curtailed but religous freedom was allowed. Tutsis were severely discrimated against and banned from political activity and forced to carry identity cards, a holdover from Belgian colonialism.

The Rwandan Patriotic Front, the Tutsi-dominated rebel force led by Paul Kagame, invaded in 1990. The RPF was mainly comprised of Tutsi refugees who wished to return to their Rwandese homeland. The RPF had been founded in 1979 by Tutsi refugees and had fought as mercenaries in Uganda. Paul Kagame, an extremely intelligent leader and a military genius, made sure he had a number of Hutus among his supporters. He hoped the Hutu would welcome him as deliverer, but this hope was dashed when Hutu elements skillfully manipulated the radio propaganda to spread fear among the people. It wasn't until April of 1994 when moderate Hutus were being targeted by the genocidaires that the RPF found support among the Hutu. This invasion by the RPF led to large-scale mobilization of the Rwandan Governmental Forces (RGF) and in a decision that was to have horrendous results, arms were distributed among civilian officials.

Discontent reigned among the Hutu as the economy was weak and the government oppressive. Habyarimana's party divided itself into hardliners who did not wish to give the Tutsis any conciliation and moderates who were willing to talk. These two elements struggled against eachother and it appeared peace talks would go nowhere. Habyarmina's plane was shot down in 1994, killing him and the Burundian president. Then all hell broke loose.

It is a vast oversimplification to blame the Tutsis or the Hutus for the genocides and killings which began after independence. It is true that the primary blame for the genocide in Rwanda rests with the Hutu elites and the genocide in Burundi lies with the Tutsi elites it is important to realize that both communities have substantial amounts of moderates and in the targeted communities in both countries there are a number of radicals. It is also important to note that in the infamous 1994 genocide in Rwanda, the Hutu extremists and the RGF carried out the worst of the genocides, but the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) a force of Tutsi expatriates was also guilty of war crimes. In both Burundi and Rwanda, leaders have exploited the Hutu-Tutsi tension to justify their monopoly of power. They argue that all people needed to do was to look across the border to see what would happen if the Tutsi or the Hutu gained power.

A Brief History of Rwanda and Burundi

Before I begin my promised reporting on Lieutenant General Romeo Dallaire’s book Shake Hands with the Devil I would like to contextualize the genocides by writing a little bit about Rwanda and Burundi’s histories. This will be part one, tomorrow I’ll have part two, and sometime later I’ll write about Dallaire’s book. Many people assume that twentieth-century Hutus and Tutsis are merely carrying on the tribal warfare they have engaged in since time immemorial. In fact, the designations of Hutu and Tutsi had much less significance in the past than they do today. The categories did exist, but they were based on class distinctions more than ethnicity. The Hutu were cultivators while the Tutsi were cattle-herders. A rich Hutu could purchase a number of cows and become a Tutsi and a Tutsi who fell on hard times would become a Hutu farmer. There was some degree of movement up and down the political hierarchy. While it is fair to say that the Tutsis were the dominant aristocrats/warriors it is misleading to claim they were oppressive feudal lords. Evidence points to a more mutually acceptable nature of society as there is no sign of large-scale ethnic killings. In fact, the wars that did occur were against rival kingdoms, some of which were Hutu-controlled. These were not ethnic wars but pitted tribally-mixed militias and armies against each other, and it was not unusual for these militias and armies to be led by Hutu generals. In addition to being important economic and social forces, these armies and militias were strong cultural forces, engaging in poetry, dance, and song. Interestingly enough, the Tutsi and Hutu still share these cultural traits (as well as their language.)

When the colonizers began entering Rwanda and Burundi at the beginning of the twentieth century, the designations of Hutu and Tutsi took on a drastic change. First the Germans and then the Belgians entered the mountainous region of East-Central Africa. Both European nations had firm convictions about racial hierarchy and the superiority of the white race. Now, it was too simple for the Belgians to relegate all Africans to inferior status, they had to create an African hierarchy. The Tutsis, who tend to be taller and slimmer, thoroughly impressed the Belgians as descendants of a long-lost Caucasian tribe. This had much to do with the reluctance of Europeans at this time to credit black Africa with having any sort of civilization: clearly, the highly centralized states of Rwanda and Burundi were an aberration and could only be explained away by pointing to the role of some sort of Caucasian migration from Ethiopia’s rich civilization (This resulted in such ridiculous names as AfricanAryans and Black Caucasians.) It is important to note that Tutsis and Hutus had mixed quite a bit of their blood by this time and although certain differences were apparent, there were many Tutsis and Hutus who did not meet their stereotyped physical attributes. (In fact, Europeans who visited a village in Rwanda recently only guessed two out of seven Rwandan tribal identities correctly.) The Belgians looked at the supposed European-like features of Tutsis and considered them born rulers.

The Belgians did not like the idea of Tutsis and Hutus constantly switching tribes and, in 1926, they made certain that no more tribal movement would occur by issuing identity cards which included an entry for tribe. With this, all the benefits and hopes of the Hutus were lost as they could no longer advance socially and all the little power and authority they had previously was stripped away from them. Later, after World War II, the tactics of the Belgians changed. Belgian Marxists who thought in terms of class struggle encouraged the Hutu “proletariats” to resist the Tutsi “bourgeoisie.” Towards the end of colonization the hierarchy was reversed and the Hutu became favoured while the Tutsi fell into disfavour. Roman Catholic priests armed with the new Catholic social justice teachings of the Young Christian workers readily favoured the Hutu over the Tutsi. Some scholars convincingly argue that the switch in support by the Belgians had as much to do with their changing perspectives as it did with their desire to destabilize those they wished to control.

Sentence Fragments

A columnist in the Hamilton Spectator. She uses sentence fragments. All the time. It gets on my nerves. Is it effective? No. I already hate reading articles about dogs who got hit by cars. Now its cars hitting dogs. Bicycles stolen. Pellet gun shootings. All in sentence fragments. On the front page. Consistently. Yuck. Then again. The Spectator. Not exactly a great paper.

Maybe He Should Read Political Visions and Illusions?

"The great political ideologies of the twentieth century include liberalism, socialism, anarchism, corporatism, Marxism, communism, social democracy, conservatism, nationalism, fascism, and Christian Democracy. They all share one thing in common: they are products of Western civilization. No other civilization has generated a significant political ideology. The West, however has never generated a great religion. The great religions of the world are all products of non-Western civilizations and, in most cases, antedate Western civilization." - Samuel P. Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of the World Order

Oh damned book, History of the Low Countries!
You're out of print, you historical sleaze!
I searched high and low for you, you devil
in every corner and on every level
You, oh antiquated book, fail to see
that I need you for a fourth level history!
E.H. Kossman is your author and a knave
to print too few copies of what I crave
blame the publisher if you will
its E.H. Kossman I want to kill
I know I'm being harsh and unfair
but your utter scarcity I cannot bear
I'm sure Kossman is a nice fellow
and I know I should be more mellow
but when I order a copy of you, you cur
I don't want E.H. Kossman's `93 brochure!
So, you hard-covered pretentious freak
I expect you at my house at the end of the week!

Regards.

P.S. I bet you're not even a good read.

I just updated my blog-links. This isn't a full update but at least I made the effort. I left people out, not because I hate them but because I'm a classic under-achiever and quite pusillanimous about failure. These are all people I know or that I think I know or maybe just people that someone I know knows. Whatever the case, I'm linking them. The list isn't alphabetized as of yet but I will do that when I get around to getting a haircut or maybe later, I dunno.

Mmm, nevermind.

Racism

As some people might know, I am in what has been termed an "interracial relationship." I like to think of the world consisting of one human race divided into a plethora of unique shapes and colours rather than to think of a world consisting of a complex division of races. Unfortunately for my idealism there are many people in this world who enjoy dividing people into separate races and not only categorizing them, but also creating general laws about their behaviour. Because of these people, race does exist.

One of the questions I am often asked when someone finds out that I am dating an African woman is whether I encounter a lot of racism. No one has burned a cross on my lawn, yet, and sometimes I think that is the sort of incident people are fishing for. The racism I have encountered is a lot more subtle, but it still can sting. A member of the K-9 unit ordered us out of a Wendy's because we were "scaring off customers." People have gone right out and stated that I am wrong to be involved with an African woman. One such incident which sticks indelibly in my mind is the seven-year-old who stated matter-of-factly that, "white is for white and black is for black." In order for a child of this age to learn such a thing, I believe they have to be taught by society or an older adult.

Usually, however, the racism is a lot less blatant than even that. Racist jokes are cut off half-way through, not because of my glowering face, but because a friend of mine is jutting his elbow intensely into the side of their unenlightened friend. People refer to my girlfriend and all of the people who share her skin colour as "them" and then proceed to make generalizations like, "I hear black girls are wild in bed." Now, I can't make an empirical judgement on that because, being a virgin, I've never had sex with a black girl or a white girl or an asian girl; and if I had, I'd have to sleep with all of them before I could make a scientific judgement. Still, I can say with reasonable certainty that such a ridiculous statement is merely the manisfestation of a racist's objectified fantasy of black women imposed upon reality. I'm entirely certain there are black woman who are terribly subdued in bed. All this to say that race, although it may shape an individual, does not determine personality or character.

This past summer, at her workplace, my girlfriend was having a lot of difficulty getting any amount of cooperation with one of the managers she had was working with. She finally told her supervisor of her difficulty, not as a complaint but as an explanation. The next day, this manager called her into her office.

After explaining himself he apologized profusely and then defended himself, "I'm not a racist. I've worked with all kinds of people and I've never had difficulty. I've worked with Vietnamese, Pakistani, Russian, and Chinese and even you people, and I've never had difficulty."

"You've worked with Burundian people before?" my girlfriend asked in surprise.

The manager gave her a bemused look of confused perplexion and then continued his defence. My girlfriend was oblivious by this time, completely irate at being relegated to the status of "you people."

I was taught in school that racism was no longer a problem. I remember in grade 4 some East Indian women were invited to share their culture with my class. They spoke about their culture and traditions and then the time for questions began. One of the students raised their hands and asked, "do you have trouble with racism?" One of the ladies answered that yes, she did, and then she explained how one of her neighbours would cross to the other side of the street rather than pass her on the same side of the street. After the women had left my teacher dismissed their story and explained to the class that racism wasn't a problem anymore.

Martin Luther King had made his speech, see? Everyone was equal, see? I won't argue that the rights of visible minorities haven't improved immensely but I will not settle into the comfortable ridiculousness of claiming racism is no longer a real problem. Many people seem to want to confine racism to incidents where the KKK shows up with torches or some local kids scrawl racist epithets on a wall. Racism in Canada often manifests in a sort of "polite racism." This involves polite shunning, polite generalizations, polite refusal, and polite ignorance. Okay, I'll be honest and admit that "polite racism" is an oxymoron and that Canadians are often worse than southern Americans. Why? If a southern American is racist he or she will come right out and tell you, a northern American or Canadian, on the other hand, will constantly hedge.

Canadians shouldn't comfort themselves with the opiate that most people aren't racist. One racist teacher, one racist boss, one racist policeman, can taint an entire institution. Stereotypes and generalizations create distrust and foster hatred. We need to build an atmosphere of love and communication between Canada's vast a varied cultural mosaic.

"Until the colour of a man's skin is of no more significance than the colour of his eyes, this a war." - Robert Nesta Marley, putting the words of Emperor Haile Selassie's 1936 speech to the League of Nations to song.

Rastafarians and Al Wolters

I'll sum up the beliefs of the Rastafarians very briefly and perhaps I'll make a more in-depth post at a later date.

Influenced by the oratory of the back-to-Africa leader Marcus Mosiah Garvey, the Rastafarians adopted Emporer Haile Selassie as God. Marcus Garvey himself never proclaimed this idea - in fact, he condemned it - but the Jamaican workers who heard his message to look to Africa for the coming of their Messiah were thoroughly impressed with the news of Ras Tafari Haile Selassie's coronation in 1930.

The divinity of Haile Selassie was not simply pulled out of Marcus Garvey's supposed prophecy. Selassie himself claimed to be descended from Solomon via the Queen of Sheba. Therefore, Selassie was of the line of David and Rastafarians could pull out all kinds of Biblical prophecies to support their claims to his divinity.

Of course, Rastafarianism has many more influences which have shaped it into the various sects it encompasses today. Hindu holy men who came to Jamaica as cheap labour brought their spiritual ideas, their ascetic lifestyle, and their appreciation of marijuana to the Rastafarian religion. Marxism, the Afro Athlican Constructive Church , Judaism, Christianity, obeah, and the repatriation movement also exerted influence.

The Bible is also a major influence. Some Rastafarians accept both the Old and the New Testaments while others only accept the Old Testament. Many Rastafarians acclaim what they call the "Holy Piby" which is a book adopted from the Afro Athlican Constructive Church. This gnostic book, which originated from the hand of Robert Athlyi Rogers from 1924-28, is a profoundly Afro-centric scripture.

Rastafarianism recognizes the Ethiopian people as the chosen people of God. Of course, in this sense, Ethiopia is not restrained to the modern boundaries of the state of Ethiopia but to the whole of Africa (The word Ethiopia is derived from the Greek Aithein (to burn) + ops (face). In Greek times, Ethiopian referred to anyone of a dark complexion and it is in this sense that Rastafarians use Ethiopian in.) As the chosen people of God, the Ethiopians disobeyed his will and were stolen from Zion (Africa) and brought to Babylon (the West.) After four hundred years of slavery, reminiscent of the slavery in Egypt, the time has come for the Ethiopians to free themselves from mental slavery and repatriate to Africa. Before, after, or during this repatriation, the Rastafarian can meditate and find their divinity and oneness with Jah (Selassie was/is the perfect expression of Jah on earth in the Rastafarian mind. Divinity and unity can be found in and with every man and woman, thus a Rasta will refer to himself/humanity as I & I to denote this universal experience.)

Now that I have given a cursory treatment of Rastafarian beliefs I can speak of one of the facets of Rastafarianism I find most interesting. Now, I'm not an expert and I may have this wrong, but it's worth a try. Rastafarians often refer to fire in their songs and in their daily life. Fire, for the Rastafarians, will cover the whole earth and burn away all wickedness. This obsession with fire might have a lot to do with the influence of Pentecostal fire and brimstone oratory but there is also an element of Al Wolter's Creation Regained. Now, I'm not saying that the Rastafarians have read Creation Regained, but they might find some things they'd agree with in there.

Sizzla Kalonji, a militant Bobo Ashanti singer drew much criticism when he sang a musical fire upon white attendees at a concert a few years ago. Sizzla defended his musical fire by stating that no one had to fear the fire as it was for purification. Many reggae singers have blazed a "musical fire" on everything from Babylon to themselves. The fire of Rastafari is not a fire of destruction but a fire of purification. Wicked Babylon can be purified in the flames and a conscious Rasta even needs the baptism of fire for purification. The creation is fine, it is the wickedness that needs to be burned out.

Just something I thought was interesting.

A New Year

To celebrate the transition from 2003 into 2004 this year my girlfriend convinced me to go to an acquaintance's party in Stoney Creek. The last two new years had been rather tranquil celebrations and Laurianne convinced me that I owed her some rowdiness.

On that fateful night of December the 31st I picked up some of our friends and headed to the party. After forty minutes of meandering around the suburban wilderness we finally found the Canaanites.

Tickets to the party were approximately ten dollars, and being the generous Dutchman that I am, I paid fifteen, allowing my girlfriend, in the interest of women's liberation, to pay the remaining five dollars. My hand was skillfully marked with a red Crayola marker, my keys were turned over, and I was given a plastic cup with my initials written crudely on it with black Crayola marker.

"Wait a minute," the slightly inebriated door-keeper intoned, "are you going to drink a lot?"

"No," I answered.

"Good," she said, "because you shouldn't drink and drive."

I nodded and followed my friends down the stairs to the basement, impressed with the party's security precautions. The basement was filled with sweaty drunken bodies. Individuals in red shirts cleverly titled Dube's New Keggers Eve Party served as security. With very little imagination I could see these shirts very soon gracing the rack of some local Value Village only to be thumbed through with very little thought by some bargain-hunter.

A lanky shaggy drunken fellow bumped into a zit-faced youth, "Hey, are you drunk?"

"Yeah," said the lanky fellow, "are you?"

"Yeah," the zit-faced youth bobbing in exaggerated inebriation, "I'm absolutely hammered!"

"Alright!" yelled the lanky fellow, and the two of them exchanged a clumsy high five.

I served myself a cup of beer from the keg, in the corner of a former bedroom. An absolutely humungous guy popped me the thumbs-up sign. I took a sip and then I noticed that the humungous guy was back for conversation, "that was kind of retarded wasn't it?"

"What?"

"When I gave you the thumbs-up sign," the humungous guy imitated himself giving a retarded thumbs-up sign, "that looked a little retarded, didn't it?"

"It didn't look to bad," I intoned, smiling.

"Good," the humungous guy smiled back and slapped my on the back with a huge paw. I nearly spilled my beer.

I went back out into the hall. The lanky fellow had his shirt off and was yelling, "at Marcel's party I was the only one who knew how to party!"

Fortunately, the lanky fellow had friends who restrained him and the shirt was soon in its rightful place on his back. A heavy-set curly-hair man in a trenchcoat was telling to girls that he was gay but he wasn't into, "all that gay shit."

I wandered over to the bar and noticed stacks of pizza boxes. I could do with a slice of pizza. There was a sign crudely marked, "50 cents a slice." I was not getting my money's worth.

I walked over to a larger room and noticed a drum kit and several individuals setting up their guitars and amplifiers. Excellent, I would be treated to a concert, maybe I would be getting my money's worth after all. Then the music started.

Now, I like a lot of music and I have paitence with most music, but this was a little too much. With a cacophony of poor rhythm, distorted guitars, and a badly played bass, the lead singer had his shirt off and along with some expletives was roaring such enlightening lyrics as, "I HATE YOU/ SHUT UP/ I HATE YOU," and so on and so forth. The music was not very welcoming.

The lanky fellow was entering the room on the back of a friend, a plastic cup in one hand, "AAAAAAAAAALRIIIIIGGHT!"

The lead singer had become unintelligable and approximately seven people were extremely pumped and forming a mini-moshpit at the front. The lead singer paused for an announcement, "Uh, the party down the street was shut down by the cops, so if all the underage people could stay down here for now that would help a lot."

Then the next song started off with a roaring, "WE DON'T NEED YOU!"

My friends decided to go for a smoke and I decided to accompany them. Outside several people were having a deep philosophical discussion about zippers, the smell of pot heavy in the air. The heavy-set curly haired man in trenchcoat was having a conversation with same two girls, no doubt about the same thing.

My Lebanese friend leaned over to my Quebecker friend, "There's the fag."

The heavy-set man looked up, "I am not a fag," he exclaimed effeminately.

My Lebanese friend was shaking his head in embarassment, my Quebecker friend was doubled over in laughter and then the lanky fellow stuck his head out of the sliding door, "Hey Maurice! I'm coming out."

"You do that," muttered an unenthusiastic Maurice.

The lanky fellow swayed forward and then backwards and then forward and then as he tried to step forward he swayed backwards and disappeared from sight, lying somewhere on the kitchen floor.

Two girls rushed out, frightened by a police cruiser they had spotted driving past the house. I found myself wishing that the police would come and send these underage drinkers into a drunken panic. That would be fun to watch.

We left twenty minutes later, without the cops having shown up at all.

It has been brought to my attention that I have neglected my blogsite for the past while. Shocked at this possibility, I quickly checked my blog to see if this startling revelation was true. As my blog popped into view I came to grips with a heart-wrenching reality: sure enough, my blog had not been updated since December 10. I was sure I had written a blog on December 28, but that imaginary leap in creative excuse-forming was just another one of those false repressed memories.

My real excuse for not blogging is that my girlfriend came down for the Christmas break and I spent a lot of time with her. The time I didn't spend with her was spent reading, sleeping, eating, and visiting friends. Let us just put this behind us and realize that I am back and that is what is truly important.

I suppose an update is in order. I've been reading L. Gen. Romeo Dallaire's Shake Hands with the Devil, his account of his leadership of the UNAMIR in Rwanda and the genocide in Rwanda. This book is a very difficult read for me and I find myself admiring Dallaire's courage and integrity in the face of so much discouragement and brutality. I'll blog more on this book when I finally finish it.

I went to a party for New Year's and I believe that deserves an entire entry by itself. I think I'll juxtapose it with the Christmas party I went to.

My girlfriend tried to give me a haircut but I won. HA! Am not whipped, Mr. Crookall. Oh, and she's reading the copy of Cry, the Beloved Country you so generously gave me for Christmas. She thinks you have great taste and that you know me very well.

Laurianne gave me cologne for Christmas, maybe I smell bad.

Fingernail recovering slowly.

Right now it is extremely cold outside.

I'm sorry, but when someone asked which period we had to choose the political theorists from in Modern Political Theory I nearly lost it.

Peace out, I have class (in more ways than one)

Ever create an entry of such staggering genius that it left you stupified beyond expression? Have you ever lost said entry by some mechanical glitch in the blog program, your genius melting into the depths of cyber-space never to be seen again?

The universe gave an insufferable cosmic groan as I attempted to publish my intellectual acumen only to have the sheer brilliance of it overload the simplistic brain of blogger.com. A server went down somewhere in Seattle and hordes of computer nerds rushed to figure out exactly how their supposedly flawless creation had been bested by the super-intellect of some sort of blogging deity. Somewhere on Wall Street a cyber-stock went down ten points and a sweaty, corpulent stock-broker broke down and cried. A small fissure opened in the fabric of space and time and the entire universe threatened to collapse on itself at this profound and awful injustice. The foundations of MENSA were shaken and the supposed intellectual giants resident there were reduced to shivering, crying, jealous children, screaming like spoiled three-year-olds in the candy aisle at Wal-mart. Somewhere in heaven, Solomon removed his mantle of wisdom in anticipation of handing it down to me.

Well, ok, it wasn't that good, but I'm not too happy.

What is the difference between pravo and zakon?

I doubt the veracity of this, particularly because of the last paragraph, but it is interesting nonetheless.

The following is a reprint from The Madison Institute Newsletter, Fall Issue, 1894:

INSTRUCTION AND ADVICE FOR THE YOUNG BRIDE On the Conduct and Procedure of the Intimate and Personal Relationships of the Marriage State for the Greater Spiritual Sanctity of this Blessed Sacrament and the Glory of God by Ruth Smythers beloved wife of The Reverend L.D. Smythers Pastor of the Arcadian Methodist Church of the Eastern Regional Conference Published in the year of our Lord 1894 Spiritual Guidance Press New York City

INSTRUCTION AND ADVICE
FOR THE YOUNG BRIDE

To the sensitive young woman who has had the benefits of proper upbringing, the wedding day is, ironically, both the happiest and most terrifying day of her life. On the positive side, there is the wedding itself, in which the bride is the central attraction in a beautiful and inspiring ceremony, symbolizing her triumph in securing a male to provide for all her needs for the rest of her life. On the negative side, there is the wedding night, during which the bride must pay the piper, so to speak, by facing for the first time the terrible experience of sex.

At this point, dear reader, let me concede one shocking truth. Some young women actually anticipate the wedding night ordeal with curiosity and pleasure! Beware such an attitude! A selfish and sensual husband can easily take advantage of such a bride. One cardinal rule of marriage should never be forgotten: GIVE LITTLE, GIVE SELDOM, AND ABOVE ALL, GIVE GRUDGINGLY. Otherwise what could have been a proper marriage could become an orgy of sexual lust.

On the other hand, the bride's terror need not be extreme. While sex is at best revolting and at worse rather painful, it has to be endured, and has been by women since the beginning of time, and is compensated for by the monogamous home and by the children produced through it.

It is useless, in most cases, for the bride to prevail upon the groom to forego the sexual initiation. While the ideal husband would be one who would approach his bride only at her request and only for the purpose of begetting offspring, such nobility and unselfishness cannot be expected from the average man.

Most men, if not denied, would demand sex almost every day. The wise bride will permit a maximum of two brief sexual experiences weekly during the first months of marriage. As time goes by she should make every effort to reduce this frequency. Feigned illness, sleepiness, and headaches are among the wife's best friends in this matter. Arguments, nagging, scolding, and bickering also prove very effective, if used in the late evening about an hour before the husband would normally commence his seduction.

Clever wives are ever on the alert for new and better methods of denying and discouraging the amorous overtures of the husband. A good wife should expect to have reduced sexual contacts to once a week by the end of the first year of marriage and to once a month by the end of the fifth year of marriage.

By their tenth anniversary many wives have managed to complete their child bearing and have achieved the ultimate goal of terminating all sexual contacts with the husband. By this time she can depend upon his love for the children and social pressures to hold the husband in the home.

Just as she should be ever alert to keep the quantity of sex as low as possible, the wise bride will pay equal attention to limiting the kind and degree of sexual contacts. Most men are by nature rather perverted, and if given half a chance, would engage in quite a variety of the most revolting practices. These practices include among others performing the normal act in abnormal positions; mouthing the female body; and offering their own vile bodies to be mouthed in turn.

Nudity, talking about sex, reading stories about sex, viewing photographs and drawings depicting or suggesting sex are the obnoxious habits the male is likely to acquire if permitted. A wise bride will make it the goal never to allow her husband to see her unclothed body, and never allow him to display his unclothed body to her. Sex, when it cannot be prevented, should be practiced only in total darkness. Many women have found it useful to have thick cotton nightgowns for themselves and pajamas for their husbands. These should be donned in separate rooms. They need not be removed during the sex act. Thus, a minimum of flesh is exposed.

Once the bride has donned her gown and turned off all the lights, she should lie quietly upon the bed and await her groom. When he comes groping into the room she should make no sound to guide him in her direction, lest he take this as a sign of encouragement. She should let him grope in the dark. There is always the hope that he will stumble and incur some slight injury which she can use as an excuse to deny him sexual access.

When he finds her, the wife should lie as still as possible. Bodily motion on her part could be interpreted as sexual excitement by the optimistic husband.

If he attempts to kiss her on the lips she should turn her head slightly so that the kiss falls harmlessly on her cheek instead. If he attempts to kiss her hand, she should make a fist. If he lifts her gown and attempts to kiss her anyplace else she should quickly pull the gown back in place, spring from the bed, and announce that nature calls her to the toilet. This will generally dampen his desire to kiss in the forbidden territory.

If the husband attempts to seduce her with lascivious talk, the wise wife will suddenly remember some trivial non-sexual question to ask him. Once he answers she should keep the conversation going, no matter how frivolous it may seem at the time. Eventually, the husband will learn that if he insists on having sexual contact, he must get on with it without amorous embellishment.

The wise wife will allow him to pull the gown up no farther than the waist, and only permit him to open the front of his pajamas to thus make connection. She will be absolutely silent or babble about her housework while he's huffing and puffing away. Above all, she will lie perfectly still and never under any circumstances grunt or groan while the act is in progress.

As soon as the husband has completed the act, the wise wife will start nagging him about various minor tasks she wishes him to perform on the morrow. Many men obtain a major portion of their sexual satisfaction from the peaceful exhaustion immediately after the act is over. Thus the wife must insure that there is no peace in this period for him to enjoy. Otherwise, he might be encouraged to soon try for more.

One heartening factor for which the wife can be grateful is the fact that the husband's home, school, church, and social environment have been working together all through his life to instill in him a deep sense of guilt in regards to his sexual feelings, so that he comes to the marriage couch apologetically and filled with shame, already half cowed and subdued. The wise wife seizes upon this advantage and relentlessly pursues her goal first to limit, later to annihilate completely her husband's desire for sexual expression.

A Rob Joustra Post in Cockney

After intermission at the concert last night the choristors were makin' their way hammer and tack to the bloody black box. As we were walkin' I seen Guvnor Dijkema and promptly gave 'im two good luck slaps on the buttox. Unfortunately 'arry Vandyke were similarly waitin' there wishin' the choristors a good second 'alf and wen 'e witnessed this 'e muttered in some shock, right, "Robert... behave yorself!", right, wiv all the bloody eye-brow raisin' we've come ter know and luv.

Phobias for Everyday Use

Ablutophobia- Fear of washing or bathing.
Alektorophobia- Fear of chickens.
Allodoxaphobia- Fear of opinions.
Anthrophobia or Anthophobia- Fear of flowers.
Anuptaphobia- Fear of staying single.
Apeirophobia- Fear of infinity.
Asymmetriphobia- Fear of asymmetrical things
Arachibutyrophobia- Fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth.
Bolshephobia- Fear of Bolsheviks.
Bibliophobia- Fear of books.
Caligynephobia- Fear of beautiful women.
Chorophobia- Fear of dancing.
Coprastasophobia- Fear of constipation.
Coprophobia- Fear of feces.
Dendrophobia- Fear of trees.
Didaskaleinophobia- Fear of going to school.
Dutchphobia- Fear of the Dutch.
Epistemophobia- Fear of knowledge.
Euphobia- Fear of hearing good news.
Francophobia- Fear of France or French culture. (Gallophobia, Galiophobia)
Geniophobia- Fear of chins.
Genuphobia- Fear of knees.
Hedonophobia- Fear of feeling pleasure.
Heresyphobia or Hereiophobia- Fear of challenges to official doctrine or of radical deviation.
Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia- Fear of long words.
Homilophobia- Fear of sermons.
Ichthyophobia- Fear of fish.
Ideophobia- Fear of ideas.
Isopterophobia- Fear of termites, insects that eat wood.
Kathisophobia- Fear of sitting down.
Leukophobia- Fear of the color white.
Logizomechanophobia- Fear of computers.
Mageirocophobia- Fear of cooking.
Melanophobia- Fear of the color black.
Melophobia- Fear or hatred of music.
Metrophobia- Fear or hatred of poetry.
Mnemophobia- Fear of memories.
Nephophobia- Fear of clouds.
Nostophobia- Fear of returning home.
Nudophobia- Fear of nudity.
Oneirogmophobia- Fear of wet dreams.
Papaphobia- Fear of the Pope.
Papyrophobia- Fear of paper.
Peladophobia- Fear of bald people.
Pentheraphobia- Fear of mother-in-law. (Novercaphobia)
Phobophobia- Fear of phobias.
Phronemophobia- Fear of thinking.
Pogonophobia- Fear of beards.
Proctophobia- Fear of rectums.
Theologicophobia- Fear of theology.
Urophobia- Fear of urine or urinating.
Zemmiphobia- Fear of the great mole rat.

Jack Van Impe

On Sunday I watched Jack Van Impe's enlightening program Jack Van Impe Presents. The show masquerades as a World News program. A waifish-looking woman with a thin head, big blond hair, and a high pitched voice presents news items and then Jack Van Impe, a jolly beefy fellow with a big smile and a tidal wave of hair parted to the one side, presents "Biblical prophecy" on those events.

As I watched the show I grew increasingly confused (well, more amused than confused.) At one point the woman read a news item about the European Union, after which she read news items on Crucifixes being banned in Italian schools, and the pope condemning this. Then Jack Van Impe began to tie this all into Scripture. It really is amazing how much Scripture Mr. Van Impe has memorized - he punctuates his sentences with Scripture references with machine-gun rhythm. Basically the conclusion that Mr. Van Impe came to was that the antichrist was going to rise out of the European Union which was going to begin the one-world nation and force everyone to wear some sort of repetitive three-digit number on their forehead.

According to his website, Russia is still a force of evil (I thought that ended when Gorbachev, with that mark on his head, lost power), and the nations that oppose Russia include "Tarshish and the lions thereof" - namely Great Britain, the USA, Canada, and Australia and their possessions (I suggest calling it the Anglo-Protestent Union) and the EU (which confused me because Great Britain is part of the EU, no?) who will then set up the antichrist on the throne in Jerusalem and all that jazz.

Citing Jermiah 31:5, Mr. Van Impe claimed the Bible contained airplanes. Jeremiah 31:5 reads: "Like birds hovering overhead, the Lord Almighty will shield Jerusalem; he will shield and deliver it, he will pass over it and will rescue it." Perhaps if you read "like" as "with" than you can have some sort of interpretation of prophecy where the USAF has jets hovering over Jerusalem protecting it from the EU.

I'm sure he had a heyday with Iraq being the site of ancient Babylon, there's a lot you can do (read "do" as "abuse") with Biblical prophecy there.

Oi vey.

My Disorganized Thoughts on Terrorism

When I hear the phrase "War on Terror," I cringe. My mind wanders and I begin to think of other cliches such as "War on Drugs", "War on Poverty", "War on Violence", and "War on AIDS." I don't just think of these phrases because they have the same grammatical structure as "War on Terror", but also because they bring to mind the same problems.

For example, the "War on Poverty" is a noble war, a war which should be fought. I, for one, would love to see the poverty problem defeated but I know that this is an impossible dream. This doesn't mean, however, that we shouldn't try to reduce poverty and help the needy. Far from it, we should do all we can to help those afflicted with poverty. We should realize, though, that the "War on Poverty" is an ongoing battle that we must fight until Christ returns. Poverty will never be defeated until sin is completely annihilated from Creation. As such, we should never have a false hope that a certain program or societal structure will eliminate poverty, but we should have a true hope that we can greatly reduce poverty through a certain programs.

Furthermore, the war on poverty needs to be fought correctly. This means that the causes of poverty must be addressed rather than having poverty itself smothered. It's all fine and dandy to talk about the pseudo-Biblical platitude "God helps those who help themselves" - or, wait, I mean it's not. This psycho-blather completely ignores the human reliance on community. No individual can truly make it on their own, and those who claim that they have made it on their own steam are not only blessed with remarkable talent but are also lying. Should we not help those who are underneath the burden of poverty rather than smiling and congratulating those people who are standing on them?

Before I wander off too far and forget that I'm supposed to be talking about the "War on Terror", I'll get back to that topic. The problem with the "War on Terror", for me, is that it is such a mercurial phrase. Who are the terrorists? If there can be no differentiation between those who attack the American military and those who attack civilians, then we have a problem. What is terrorism? If terrorism is the targetting of civilians than the United States is just as guilty of terrorism as those it labels terrorists. In that case, the US should be attacking its own military and the various militias scattered throughout the US (remember Oklahoma? I do, they blamed Islamic fundamentalists at first.) Of course, that would mean that the US would have to admit terrorism is much more complex than they're willing to do. Either that or find some sort of link between the Al Queda and Timothy Mcveigh.

In the same way that the "War on Poverty" needs to address the causes of poverty, so too does the "War on Terror." When American pundits reduce the causes of terrorism to fundamentalism and hatred of freedom it never ceases to irk me. Sure, fundamentalism can be a factor (a generic term if there ever was one) but hatred of freedom? C'mon, people fall for that?

When phlegmatic propogandists make these claims they are ignoring any actual concerns those attacking American imperialism might have. Maybe some of these people actually don't like having their country bombed, gutted, and occupied. Maybe they don't like having someone else imposing their value system or plundering their country's wealth. In attacking terrorism it simply doesn't do to attack terrorists. For every wedding blown apart, for every guerilla fighter mowed down, and for every neigbourhood destroyed by a "smart" bomb there are dozens of new recruits, full of hatred. Can I blame them? Would I reacte differently in such a circumstance? Attacking terrorism in such a way is like a farmer running around his field chasing field mice with a pitchfork . . . at night-time. It's war that simply can't be won if it is waged that way. Of course, I'm assuming that the US actually wants to win the "War on Terror", which I probably shouldn't do.

Now if the US wants to win the "War on Terror", they're going to have to go after the causes of terror. The cause of terror, unfortunately, is not terrorists. It's much more complicated than that, and I feel the US would have to do a lot more than they're willing to do to begin to remedy the situation. I don't think terrorism will ever be eliminated, but we can try.

The good news is, I dislodged my paper from the mud:

Paper update

Here's the metaphorical status of my paper:
.

Anne of Green Gables, the Abridged Version
as told by my thirteen-year-old sister, Rachel den Boer

Matthew Cuthbert stared in horror at the girl before him, “You? You’re to be our adopted child?” Yes!” Ann said a little too cheerily. But then again, everything Ann said was a little too cheery. (Notice there is no “e” on the end of “Ann”. This is for purely unromantic reasons.) Matthew shuddered, wondering what in tarnation to do. He couldn’t take the child home to Marilla, could he? She’d throw a fit! Ann’s lower lip trembled, “You don’t want me, do you? Oh, I knew this would happen! It seems to me that whenever someone is perfectly happy, riding on top of the world, flying with the moon, drinking in the sunlight, they wake up. Oh, I know it’s a perfectly pessimistic view, but it seems to always be true, and that perfect happiness is only an illusion, just a dream, and then something happens to shatter it, like a crystal vase breaking before your very eyes. That happened to me once, did you know? During my traumatic youth- I have no idea what traumatic means, do you? But it sounds so perfectly romantic, don’t you agree? I just must use it, even though my life is not at all romantic. People always poke fun at me for using such big words, but I simply must, because there is no other word to use, and I think it’s downright mean to laugh at a child for merely attempting to talk. But back to what I had been saying, during my traumatic youth I was dusting in one of the houses that took me in and I accidentally- accidentally, mind you- knocked over one of the most prized possessions, the crystal vase that was positioned on the coffee table. I felt like time froze in that horrible moment when the vase was in the air. The lady there could simply not stop yelling, she said that’s what she got for taking in a redheaded orphan. Red hair shall be my end, I feel like I could be in the depths of despair over simply being born with red hair. But still, I did feel glad that the vase did have one moment of perfect freedom, before it shattered into a million pieces. It looked so calm and serene there, flying through the air with not a care for the world. Yes, it’s last moment was it’s best moment, and I feel perfectly romantic that I could have a hand in bringing it about. Though no one could feel perfectly romantic when one has red hair of course. Red hair and freckles, which I think is perfectly awful and I feel most doubly cursed.” (This is only the abridged version of Ann’s speech, I took out about 23 pages worth of other stuff.) It was at this moment that Ann paused for breath, and Matthew, although not at all outspoken, decided that he’d better say something before any more cobwebs grew on his chin. “Well, now, I reckon that is a story, but I guess we had better get going, afore the sun goes down.” “Oh! You mean I am staying with you? How perfectly lovely! I do feel almost truly happy now, Prince Edward Island is such a lovely place to live, and I’ve always wanted a real home!” But before Ann could say anymore, or Matthew could come to adore her, or Marilla could let her stay at Green Gables, or she could have a real home, or meet Diana, or eat ice cream, or go to school, or fall in love with Gilbert Blythe, a huge crystal vase came flying out of the sky and conked her on the head. Ann keeled over, a look of horror (an extremely unromantic one at that) etched in her face. Matthew stood uncomfortably for a minute, then feeling awkwardly that nothing could be done, decided to go back to Marilla and tell her he hadn’ t found anyone at the station.

Moral: No one can be almost truly happy when they have red hair and freckles. They always meet their end early.

I was just finishing up my paper for Early Modern History in preparation for my presentation on Monday when I found out that my Post-Soviet Politics paper is due on Tuesday, not Thursday of next week. Well, at least I have the consolation that by Tuesday at eight o'clock, when I see Rob Joustra's smiling face, I will only have half a paper left.

Papers are really fun in hindsight, but right now I can't truthfully say that I'm enjoying myself.

I took my research books for my Post-Soviet Politics paper to the public library today to have them renewed but they were confiscated by a lazy-eyed librarian reading a pulp-fiction novel. Grrrrr.

I presented on the topic of the Scythians today in Ukrainian History. True to his word, Rob Joustra sat front and centre. Unfortunately for him, the question he intended to ask was stolen by another student. That didn't phase brother Joustra, he just came back with two new doozies. Later he commented that he could have kept me there all afternoon. I don't doubt that he could.

When I speak I often have trouble because my mind blocks out certain words when I seek them or my mind will abandon my mouth to wander off in a different direction when a thought is only half-way out of my mouth. I often have trouble formulating sentences without some sort of mental preparation and this is why I rely heavily on texts. I'm sure with practice I can begin to fix this problem. For now, however, if I want to remain coherent I'll have to rely on pauses half-way into my sentences or reading what I've already written down.

All in all, the presentation went well. I wasn't too nervous (I had Rob Joustra's smiling face to comfort me) and I was confident that I knew the information. I was almost stumped a couple of times on some questions, but I was able to remember what I had read. I think the humour in my presentation helped a bit. Of course, if no one had laughed I think I would have trailed off into a mumbling monotone.

The following is one of the best stories I have found about the Scythians:

The mobility of the Scythians was extremely frustrating for their enemies. In 513 B.C., the Persian king, Darius the Great, raised a force of 700,000 men to crush the Scythian horde as punishment for their raids into the territory of the Medes. He marched into Scythia from the West, fully intent on destroying the Scythians with his superior force. The Scythian tactics were simple, to retreat while the Persians advanced and to attack while the Persians retreated. The Scythians continued to draw the Persians further and further into the steppes, often leaving cattle behind to instill a sense of accomplishment in their enemies hearts. Soon, however, Darius grew tired of chasing the Scythians and sent a messenger to the Scythian king, Idanthyrsus, inviting him to battle and condemning him for his continual retreat.
Idanthyrsus, according to Herodotus, replied that the Scythians only continued to live as they always had. As for their alleged fear he said, “we have the graves of our fathers; come, find these and try to destroy them; then shall you know whether we will fight you.” Finally, the Scythian army approached the Persians and it appeared a battle would occur at last. Suddenly, Herodotus reports, a loud whooping arose as Scythian warriors broke their battle lines and galloped impulsively after a hare. “These fellows have a hearty contempt for us,” Darius is said to have muttered to an aide. Alas, Darius withdrew, and it was not the Scythians, but the Greeks who were to have the historical distinction of soundly defeating the Persians.

Apparently the Scythians had ADD.

Dracula

I'm currently reading Bram Stoker's Dracula. While I suppose it's not a good idea to watch the film before reading the book, I did watch Francis Ford Coppola's 1992 take on the Dracula story yesterday night. The film was far more blatant in its sexuality than the book, but I still thought that Anthony Hopkin's turn as Dr. Abraham Van Helsing was well-done. Equally brilliant was Gary Oldman as the count himself ("I understand you to be a man of good . . . taste".) I laughed out loud at the dialogue between Dr. Seward and Dr. Van Helsing:
Doctor Jack Seward: "You want to autopsy Lucy?"
Van Helsing: "No no no, not exactly. I just want to cut off her head and take out her heart. "
Perhaps some will think of me as no better than Vlad the Impaler, but Anthony Hopkins delivered that line perfectly.

The book is still far better and I don't recommend the movie.

Why is Keanu Reeves the same befuddled character in every movie?
You waan fi know Keanu's best line? "I have offended you with my ignorance. I am sorry."

Even though I haven't finished the book yet, I did come across an interesting quote which relates to the limits of empirical science and, yes, also (unintentionally?) the danger of rejecting that same science. Dr. Van Helsing (a Dutchman!) is confronting Dr. Seward's inability to account for the strange blood loss of Lucy Westenra:

"`You are a clever man, friend John; you reason well, and your wit is bold; but you are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears hear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account to you. Do you not think that there are things old and new which must not be contemplate by men's eyes, because they know - or think they know - some things which other men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it want to explain all; and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to explain. But yet we see around us every day the growth of new beliefs, which think themselves new; and which yet but the old, which pretend to be young - like the fine ladies at the opera. I suppose you do not believe in corporeal transference. No? Nor in materialisation. No? Nor in the reading of thought. No? Nor in hypnotism -'

`Yes,' I said. `Charcot (the teacher of Freud) has proved that pretty well.' He smiled as he went on: `Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes? And of course then you understand how it act, and can follow the mind of the great Charcot- alas that he is no more! - into the very soul of the patient that he influence. No? Then, friend John, am I to take it that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion be blank? No? Then tell me - for I am student of the brain - how you accept the hypnotism and reject the thought-reading. Let me tell you, my friend, that there are things done today in electrical science which would have been deemed unholy by the very men who discovered electricity - who would themselves not so long before been burned as wizards. There are mysteries in life. Why was it that Methuselah lived nine hundred years, and "Old Parr" (Thomas Parr, said to have lived between 1483 and 1635) one hundred and sixty-nine and yet that poor Lucy, with four men's blood in her poor veins (from transfusions), could not live even one day! For, had she live one more day, we cold have save her. Do you know all the mystery of life and death? Do you know the altogether of comparative anatomy, and can say wherefore the qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others? Can you tell me why, when other spiders dies small and soon, that one great spider lived for centuries in the tower of the old Spanish church and grew and grew, till, on descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps? Can you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and elsewhere, there are bats that come at night and open the veins of cattle and horses and suck dry their veins; how in some islands of the Western seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day, that those who have seen have describe as like giant nuts or pods, and that when the sailors sleep on deck, because that it is hot, flit down on them, and then - and then in the morning are found dead men, white as even Miss Lucy was?'"

Oh, and a word of advice. If you are going to read Bram Stroker's Dracula, and you're a sensitive fellow like me, you might want to read the book while you're wide awake. I had a fairly strange dream after falling asleep reading Dracula. I'd elaborate, but I don't really remember the dream's plot (if dreams can have plots), I just remember seeing the count and he's not the nicest guy.

Scytho-Amazonian Possibilities

"The role of women and family is largely a mystery. A tale passed on by Herodotus recounted how a marauding band of Amazons clashed repeatedly with a Scythian contingent near the Sea of Azov. Discovering their foes were female, the Scythians dispatched their most virile young horsemen to make love, not war. The goal, according to Herodotus, was to breed new warriors. The women were easily seduced but not so easily domesticated. Rebuffing the Scythians' marriage proposals, the Amazons explained: `We are riders; our business is with the bow and the spear...but in your country...women stay at home in their wagons occupied with feminine tasks, and never go out to hunt, or for any other purpose.' Ultimately, Herodotus reported, the two groups rode off together and founded their own tribe. The women continued to dress as men and to hunt and fight. Although Herodotus' tale has long been taken as fiction, archaeologists in recent years have found the remains of a number of heavily armed Scythian women. Their weapons could be ceremonial, yet the graves are numerous enough, writes Esther Jacobson of the University of Oregon, a leading expert on Scythian art, `to allow one to conclude that there was in Scythian society a place for women to take up a warrior's role.'" - Smithsonian, March 2000 v30 i12 p89.

Inspirational Quotes

Bushisms

Update:

Laurianne has officially been declared a non-visitor.

Dr. Koyzis should not mention the word Confederacy in Political Science anymore, it only encourages Jake.

Someone said my fingernail needs vitamins, why is only one fingernail effected then? Huh?! Genius?!

I'm sleepy and my feet are cold.

I officially love Redeemer (the institution.)

I love the other Redeemer, too.

My forehead's itchy, but I'm typing so I won't scratch it just now.

My forehead is no longer itchy.

Jake Belder should be commended for confronting the "Rock of Gibraltor." Although I don't believe speeding between bumps will solve anything and I think the letter will only further encourage mean-harted attempts to further damage the bottoms of small cars, I do believe that mound of concrete has to go.

I saw a massively obese squirrel yesterday eating pieces of a smashed-up pumpkin. This squirrel didn't run away as I approached, he waddled. HE WADDLED!

Rob Joustra, thanks so much for the rides. I'll buy you a coffee some day, and we can discuss the tribes of Central Asia.

Richard Greydanus, we should take the bus ride together sometime. We both have an appreciation for the scenery.

I like pizza.

I don't have a favourite movie.

Well, see ya later.

In the spirit of Dr. Koyzis' Atlantis posts:

Afro-Atlantean Theories

Colonel Braghine also believes that the ancient Ethiopians were in some way related to the lost continent of Atlantis. This is by no means a novel hypothesis, and we shall have something to say about it. The Greek historian, Proclus, tells of the the visit of a certain Krantor to the Temple of Neith in Sais, a famous Eyptian city. The priests showed Krantor columns of hieroglyphs telling the story of Atlantis and its peoples. Proclus cited as another authority on the history of Atlantis, The Ethiopian History of an ancient writer named Marcellus. Skylax of Karyanda, a famous Carian navigator, told of how Phoenician mariners traded with the Ethiopians of the Island of Cerne, in the Atlantic Ocean. At a later time Diodorus Siculus specifically stated that western Ethiopia was inhabited by Atlanteans. The German scholar, Eugen Georg, a keen student of the Atlantis question, seems to think that the Atlanteans were Ethiopians, for he tells us, "The new age that began after the disappearance of Atlantis was marked by the world-wide dominance of Ethiopian representatives of the black race. They were supreme in Asia and Africa . . . According to occult tradition, Semitic peoples developed wherever the immigrating white colonists from the north were subjugated by the black ruling class, and intermixture occurred, as in oldest Egypt, Chaldea, Arabia and Phoenicia." (The Adventure of Mankind, pp. 121-22, by Eugen Georg.)

Professor Leo Frobenius held that there was an ancient Atlantean culture, but he did not believe there was actually an island in the Atlantic Ocean, known as Atlantis. Frobenius located Atlantis on the West Coast of Africa; for he unearthed ruins of palaces and beautiful statuary in Yorubaland, a territory between the Niger River and the Atlantic Ocean; and he heard among the Yorubans legends of an ancient royal city and its palace with walls of gold, which in the long ago had sunk between the waves. "Yoruba, with its channeled network of lakes on the coast and the reaches of the Niger; Yoruba whose peculiarities are not inadequately depicted in the Platonic account - this Yoruba, I assert is Atlantis, the home of Poseiden's posterity, the Sea God by them named Olokun; the land of peoples whom Solon declared: `They had even extended their lordship over Egypt and Tyrrhene!'" (The Voice of Africa, Vol. I, p. 345, by Leo Frobenius.) This learned Africanist also speculated that the ancient Yorubans had cultural links with the ancient Mayas of Central America. "I cannot finish," to cite his own words, "without devoting a word or two to a certain symptomatic conformity of the Western Atlantic civilization with its higher manisfestations in America. Its cognate features are so striking that they cannot be overlooked, and as the region of the Atlantic African culture is Yoruba . . . it seems to be a present question, whether it might not be possible to bring the marvelous Maya monuments, whose dates have been deciphered by our eminent American archaeologists, into some prehistoric connection with those of Yoruba." (The Voice of Africa, Vol. I, p. 248.)

It has been suggested by the editor of the revised edition of Donnelly's Atlantis tha thirteen thousand years ago, before the destruction of the Atlantean continent, "the West and Central African civilization must have been a magnificent spectacle." (Atlantis: the Antediluvian World, p. 223, by Ignatius Donnelly, edited by Egerton Sykes.) If the conclusions of Frobenius have any validity, ancient West Africa was Atlantis. "This tradition of western situation of Ethiopia survived into the Middle Ages," Colonel Braghine notes, "at least we observe that one of the medieval maps calls the Southern Atlantic Oceanus Ethiopicus." (The Shadow of Atlantis, p. 214, by Colonel A. Braghine.) That this is a fact, we have no doubt, for on page 16 of Africa's Gift to America, the author has reproduced a copy of a map published in 1650, which shows the South Atlantic as "The Ethiopic Ocean."

- From John G. Jackson's Introduction to African Civilizations

My girlfriend recently complained that I don't mention her very often on my blog. I am still under the impression that she doesn't even read my blog, but to test my hypothesis I will dedicate this entire post to her. If my girlfriend has a mixture of rage at the mention of her middle name and joy at my sweetly sentimental sap then I will know that she actually reads my blog. Otherwise I can continue to leave her conspicuously absent from this area of my life . . . If you just read that, Laurianne, I was joking.

Laurianne Armel Munezero was born on August 16, 1983 in Bujumbura, Burundi, the eldest of four children. As a child, Laurianne grew up speaking Kirundi, a Niger-Congo language spoken by both the Tutsi and the Hutu in Burundi (who, incidentally, also share the same culture.) When she began school she learned French, a Romance language spoken by Francophones. This means that Laurianne is tri-lingual and that her boyfriend, John Paul den Boer, must suffer in monolingual agony while she chatters away with friends and family, his name popping out recognizably every few minutes.

I will learn French.

I met Laurianne when my mother asked if I could give my sister and another girl a ride to their youth group. One thing led to another, and eventually I was a permanent volunteer for that particular job. I thought Laurianne was beautiful and I enjoyed talking with her. After several months of having known eachother, Laurianne asked my sister to subtly hint that she was interested in a date.

Here is my sister being subtle: "Hey John, Laurianne wants to go on a date with you!"

I said yes and began brainstorming for the perfect date. A good friend from work gave some valuable advice. He knew me well and told me that if I didn't want an awkward date I would have to keep talking. Now, that means saying intelligent things, not the first thing that pops into my head so I knew it was going to be difficult. Fortunately, the only thing that went wrong on that date was that I locked my keys in the car and had to force the window open while Laurianne stuck her arm in an attempt to unlock the door. Now, that mistake would have been understandable if I had not left the car running the whole time. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! (picture Chris Farley hitting himself in the forehead a la Tommy Boy )

Not a good start to the first date but Laurianne laughed it off and we've enjoyed three years and four months of eachother ever since.

Laurianne is about a head shorter than me. She has a beautiful smooth face and gorgeous brown eyes. When she walks, she walks with dignity and pride, with the regal bearing of a princess. Although she humbly dismisses it, her great great grandfather was a king of many lands in Burundi. What a wonder that a woman with such good posture would deign to give her attention to a man with such bad posture.

Laurianne's voice is soft and kind, like a warm gentle breeze. Her attitude is often the same, a gentle warmth and friendliness that extends to every person she meets (unless they prove themselves unworthy.) Don't be fooled into thinking Laurianne is all sugary sweetness because there's a spicy side to her. Laurianne once kneed a fellow in the balls when he got too fresh with her. And never ever think she's soft because she's far from it. That warm gentle breeze can become a torrential downpour of righteous rage. The thing that sucks is that she is, in fact, hardly ever in the wrong (I'm not saying that because I'm whipped, I'm saying that because she is, in all actuality, usually in the right.)

Laurianne, ndagu kunda cane.

In addition to being the official Cathedral Door-Nailing Day, today is also Halloween.

This is the time of year when many Christians sit back and remember the days, not so long ago, when their ancestors were pagans. Frantically trying to blot out such horrid memories, they will retreat to their darkened homes and write furiously against Satanic revelries while they tremble every time the dreaded voices of greedy children emanate from behind their closed door.

Druids once remembered the beginning of winter on this date. Druids! Forget Getafix from the beloved Asterix and Obelix comics and think more along the lines of a cackling evil-eyed old man with a penchant for spitting and collecting odd pieces of animal anatomy.

Druids not only remembered the beginning of winter on this date but also gave ANIMAL SACRIFICES. No doubt goats were involved because when people sacrifice goats, that means they're EVIL. Make no mistake, druids were entirely EVIL because they invented Halloween.

Thus, it is rather obvious that this particular day, October 31, is an evil one. This is the one day of the year when Satan works his hardest to destroy little children by attacking them with all manner of devices - demons, razor blades cleverly hidden in apples, Satanic ceremonies, and far too much sugar. By celebrating Halloween, Christians are celebrating pure unadultered EVIL as the druids did so long ago.

Christians, I'm afraid, will just have to wait patiently until the virtuous holiday of Christmas approaches. That glorious day when Christians remember Mithras . . . er, Christ, and all of society unites to celebrate by purchasing so many useful things for themselves. Christmas is truly the last defensive barrier against the encroaching pagan influence. Thank mammon!

I wore a shirt my mother bought me once which said "Yo Quero Jesus!" Just like the Taco Bell commercials. I thought the shirt was hilarious, and since I didn't take Christianity seriously at the time I didn't mind comparing Jesus to fast Mexican food.

My sister has a shirt with a UPC label underwhich it says, "Jesus Saves."

Makes me think of Jesus clipping coupons, or using some sort of points card.

I always cringe at "Jesus slogans" thrown carelessly across shirts. My mom bought me a shirt that says, "I may be having more FUN than you are. John 10:10."

The shirt doesn't have the actual verse on it. What the brilliant designers of this shirt are hoping is that I can wear this shirt and be walking down the street when suddenly an unbeliever, struck by the slogan will angrily query, "What do you mean you might be having more fun than me?"

Once this has occurred I can carefully recite, "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that you may have life, and have it to the full." Then I can proceed to explain to them why my life is so fun because Jesus came to give me a full life. Then the unbeliever can be saved because he wants to have fun like me.

Designers like this never think that maybe their shirt will be worn by a mopey Christian, a Christian, like me, who looks more like he's taking it easy than having a blast, or maybe even a Christian who will wear their shirt and proceed to run the Muslim infidels down with his longsword (slaughtering a few Jews and Byzantines along the way.)

My point is, Jesus shouldn't be a trite slogan thrown across a shirt with some flashy graphics, but he should be your whole life.

Suffering
*warning* some readers may find this disturbing. I hope they do. *warning*

Yesterday evening I had the privilege of visiting my good friend, Michael*, who also happens to be my girlfriend's uncle. I had intended to visit another friend but since he wasn't home I dropped by Michael's house instead. Laurianne's entire family is extremely hospitable and Michael is no exception. I always feel a genuine warmth when I arrive at his apartment and the hours fly by as we visit eachother.

Yesterday, after discussing several other matters, we began talking about suffering. Michael recounted how, just the day before, his friend, an unbeliever, had asked him the age-old question, "why does God allow suffering?" His friend then launched into a story of how his friend, a Tutsi, had suffered greatly when he was hung upside-down by his ankles, forced to watch his wife and daughter raped and brutalized, and, finally, left hanging until he suffocated to death.

I could tell Michael had a difficult time retelling the story, but he continued. He had told me previously how he had been part of a group in Burundi which sought justice and peace. Whenever there was a report that a slaughter of Tutsis or a slaughter of Hutus had occurred, the group Michael belonged to would go to the scene of the crime to record how many had been killed and who had committed the killings. This might seem like an ineffective way to combat genocide but it wasn't. With the documentation which the group was creating, those who committed the crimes or considered committing crimes grew fearful. Now that their crimes were recorded, they were no longer faceless criminals but could be charged for their misdeeds someday. The group was comprised of both Hutu and Tutsi and sought to bring both sides of the conflict to justice.

This organization continued to operate as usual. Michael was invited to a conference in Kigali, Rwanda. Just before he arrived, the entire group he was travelling with was gunned down. Although Michael's leg was shot and mangled, he manage to survive by pretending to be dead. He was the only survivor.

Michael was eventually transported to a hospital in Brussels so that his leg could be operated on. There were a number of Tutsis in the hospital with him, most of them former soldiers. Michael continued by telling me some of their disturbing tales.

One soldier told him how he had been chasing a Hutu woman who had led the slaughter of Tutsis. She had committed many crimes but in perhaps the worst one she had gone to a school, separated the Tutsi children from the Hutu children, and had all of the Tutsi children shot. This particular soldier had, with his comrades, been pursuing this woman for years when they finally caught her. There were many soldiers who wanted to kill her as they had anticipated bringing her to justice for quite some time. Finally, a man whose brother and sister had been killed under her direction convinced everyone he deserved the chance.

This man had her put in an oil drum, the insides still slick with oil. Carefully, he had the drum heated so that it did not catch fire but caused the woman much suffering. When they finally removed her from the barrel she was so burnt that she had swollen to an impossible size. Then he told her to run, but as she ran he lit a match and tossed it at her. She literally exploded.

I'm sure most people are familiar with the typical action movie where the villain receives an extemely painful death as recompense for all of his crimes. These scenes are designed to thrill the viewer into saying, "Yes! Justice has been served!"

The empty feeling I had in the pit of my stomach after hearing the story of the exploding woman was likely just the opposite effect directors like Paul Verhoeven desire in their films.

I could tell Michael, too, was disgusted at what had been done to the woman. Yes, she was a criminal who had done horrid things and yes, she probably deserved much worse; but justice had not been served. There was no restoration, there was no joy, there was no judgement, there was no true justice. She had been made to suffer in a way that few people ever have to endure, and she was still a human being who deserved a fair trial.

Another story Michael had told me previously involved a friend who had served in the government army. His friend was on patrol with his fellow soldiers when they spotted a sack hanging from a tree. As they approached they noticed this sack was soaked with blood which was dripping slowly into a puddle on the ground. Apprehensively, the soldiers cut the sack down and opened it up. Inside was a pile of bloody babies. Some were dead, some were writhing in pain. Hutu soldiers had tossed the babies into the sack, hung it from a tree, and beat it with their rifle butts until the grotesque sport no longer satisfied their hatred.

To hear or even to read about such a horrendous act cannot possibly compare to actually seeing such a nauseating spectacle. Michael's friend, out of his mind, picked up one of the living babies from the pile of infant corpses and placed it in his jacket. For the next three days, with blind madness, he sought revenge with the baby tucked into his jacket. Finally, on the third day, the baby died and Michael's friend went truly insane. For the next six months he was confined to a psychiatric hospital.

The capacity for truly grevious atrocities that the human being possesses never ceases to amaze me. When I hear of the brutality, the pain, and the suffering imposed upon and endured by so many people throughout the ages, I can't help feeling a certain sense of despair. I despair at the hatred and the sin which fuel so many horrors throughout the world. I despair but I have hope. I know that my Redeemer lives and I know he is alive in people like Michael.

Despite losing family members, despite all the horror he experienced and heard of, Michael is not at all bitter. I am extremely conscious of his pain when he recounts the horror he knows of . . . but he told me yesterday that he cannot hate because of that pain. Michael has told me many times that he finds comfort in his Christianity. He says his real desire is for peace with his Hutu brothers and true justice for Burundi.

When Jesus tells us to love our enemy, I think of Michael's forgiveness and desire for reconciliation in his country.

*Michael is not his real name.

Today I read a little bit about the Ethiopian famine and then I ate a humungous mound of back ribs at Montana's.

I felt somewhat evil.

*sigh*

Today in Ukrainian History Dr. Payton mentioned that the history department at Redeemer is going to go through some changes. They're looking at the possibility of a HIS 103 and HIS 104 hybrid which would be a sort of super-Western history course. HIS 107 would still be an option and there'd be a new offering - HIS 105, World History.

The world is quite a large place and the amount of information the history of the world covers is dauntingly massive and complex. Therefore, a course which purported to cover the history of the world would either have to delve deeply into a few interesting civilizations or give an extremely superficial treatment to world events. (A course on European history is already complex, the world is that much larger) Whatever the case, I don't envy the person who has to attempt to create the outline for that course. Although I was thinking that a world history course could be tied together by an examination of the impact of European colonialism. This, of course, is still a Eurocentric way of looking at the world but it would help make the course easier (but still daunting) to organize. Also, such a course would help students see the historic roots of many of the developing world's problems.

I've always wanted more variety in Redeemer's history courses but I've also realized that Redeemer's size limits that possibility. While it would be superb to have entire departments dedicated to African, Asian, Middle Eastern, and Meso-American history, Redeemer just doesn't have enough students for those tantalizing departments. Besides, even if Redeemer were large enough, I would not be able to take all of those lovely courses. Hopefully Redeemer can begin to have sporadic courses in some of these areas as I'm sure they've attempted to do. For now, however, I'll just try to educate myself.

Dr. Payton mentioned that Redeemer is also considering hiring a historian to lead the study of North American history. Excellent. I may have to adjust my schedule.

Now, on a more somber note, Dr. Payton said that Dr. Van Dyke will be retiring at the end of the next school year. I could dedicated a whole blog to that professor, but I would feel like an apple polisher. Nevertheless, Dr. Van Dyke has become one of my favourite Redeemer personalities and a man I have a deep respect for. Fortunately, he's not gone yet, but Redeemer won't be the same without him.

I'm in the process of writing a paper on European views of non-whites in Early Modern Europe. While it can be extremely disheartening to read about racist imperialism and slaughter, there are many moments where a European displays genuinely humane actions or when the tide turns, so to speak.

I came across a "turning tide" today while I was skimming Noel Mostert's monstrous book Frontiers: the Epic of South Africa's Creation and the Tragedy of the Xhosa People. I've barely made a dent in the book but I did come across a story I found very intriguing.

In 1510, the Portuguese were stopping for water near modern day Cape Town. Some of these Porguese went to a Khoikhoi (or San, Bushmen, or derogatory Hottentot) village in order to obtain fresh meat. The Khoikhoi felt they deserved more in the barter than the Portuguese were willing to offer and so the Khoikhoi helped themselves to what they felt was fair. There was a small skirmish which saw some of the Portuguese receiving bloodied faces and some broken teeth (I'm not sure how hard it is to knock out the teeth of a man with scurvy, but it dented Portuguese pride nonetheless.)

This humiliation was more than the Portuguese could bear. They were soldiers and sailors who had just finished displaying their predominance over powerful Middle Eastern and Asian nations and they weren't going to allow themselves to be bullied by a bunch of "ignorant savages." Around 150 Portuguese set out (without armour or firearms) and raided the Khoikhoi village, seizing cattle and children. Unfortunately for the Portuguese, a wind had sprung up and their boats had moved further along the beach, lengthening the distance they had to cross.

The Khoikhoi cared little about their cattle, they could call them back using various whistling signals, but when the Portuguese stole Khoikhoi children . . . well, you know how parents are about their children.

The Portuguese, armed only with their lances and swords, were no match for the angry Khoikhoi with their trained war oxen. The Khoikhoi attacked "so furiously that they . . . came into the body of our men, taking back the oxen; and by whistling to these and making other signs (since they are trained to this warlike device), they made them surround our men . . . like a defensive wall, from behind which came so many fire-hardened sticks that some of us began to fall wounded or trodden by the cattle."

Approximately half of the Portuguese force was killed by the rampaging war cattle and the furious Khoikhoi. In the words of Noel Mostert, "Fallen at the hands of those they considered the least of men, they were victims of their own contempt."

I know I shouldn't laugh, but . . .

Sufferer

The man’s face is pale and blank,
his hollow eyes strain to see
and I smell the odorous rank
of human mortality.
Emaciated ribs jut
from the man’s sunken chest;
crimson blood drips from a cut
which yellow gangrene congests.
His thin body convulses
as his swollen belly gasps.
His weak heart barely pulses
as his swollen throat rasps.
I watch him with contempt
but his face reveals no shame
as his bony arms attempt
to support his rakish frame.
The man’s anaemic lips flutter
and his mouth it forms a word
which his voice quietly mutters
. . . but the man cannot be heard.

(c) John den Boer, 2002

I'm back from O-dot. I tried to write a little bit of an update from there but my girlfriend's keyboard has some crazy French thing going on so that my punctuation was all messed up. I'm not claiming to be some sort of punctuation expert or grammarian, but it is nice to have the feeling you're typing like a professional Englishman. I suppose I could've attempted some sort of French-language blog but it would get a little redundant with me repeating my age, how I'm doing, and my name. Besides, I don't know the French word for fingernail.

I drank Heineken from a can for the first time ever.

Anyhow, I had an excellent time in Ottawa. Somehow, my girlfriend suddenly learned how to cook. Her earlier claims to an aversion towards cooking gave me the impression that the extent of her culinary expertise didn't go beyond Kraft dinner and omelletes. She cooked me pasta with shrimp and she shelled the shrimp herself. Removing the guts from those underwater creatures made her vomit, but she did it anyway. She didn't just vomit because she was disgusted, she vomitted because she loves me. Oh, and the food was excellent.

I went to a Burundian festival on Saturday night. I wouldn't say it was as much of a festival as it was a exposition of African music. I enjoyed mixing with my friends, eating, drinking, and boogeying like a man who's ancestors have been rhythmically repressed for four hundred years.

My good friend, John Luimes, gave me a ride home. He drove all the way from Renfrew to Ottawa and back to Renfrew just for me. How much did the whole trip cost? One coffee and a junior bacon cheeseburger from Wendy's. Pretty good.

Oh, and the Confederates are losing the fingernail war to the Union troops, which is a bad thing (in this case.)

I've just added Chris Crookall's blog to my linked blogs. I had the indistinct pleasure of living with Chris during our first year. I'd like to say that we hit it off right away but Chris really didn't seem to notice that I lived in the same dorm as him. I was referred to as, "that poofy haired guy" and when someone phoned or rang for me Chris would yell out, "Is there a guy named John who lives here?"

Then we put some boullion cubes in Dan Vanhartingsvelde's juice bottle and Chris has remembered my name ever since.

The count is going up.

I'm horrible at mathematics but I've just come up with a word problem.

John is about to head to Ottawa for a pleasant weekend with his girlfriend. Assuming that John is a typical student at Redeemer University College, how much work will he be assigned just because the homework gods are angered at him abandoning them for three whole days and finding pleasure elsewhere?

Equation: W = C + BP (G x D x A)

W = Work (measured in hours, multiply by 1.5 if individual is a slacker like John)
C = Classes
B = Books
P = Pages
G = Angry gods
D = Days away
A = Anticipation (measured in litres)

The following is a song from one of my favourite dancehall reggae artists, Bounty Killer. Those of you who listen to popular radio may have heard his song with No Doubt called "Hey Baby," which basically is a song about . . . nothing. Anyhow, I find the following song a lot more meaningful giving voice to the frustrations of the man dubbed the Poor People's Governor.

Look
Bounty Killer

Intro
People are dead!
People are dead!
Dead, that’s what I said
the plan must be led
the hungry must be fed
Hey yo, ya lo, I be looking
through all the despair over here.
Hey yo . . . nobody cares
take a look in my house
would you live in there?
Huh, hey yo, ya lo
look at my shoes can you see my toes?
Well that’s how this trouble goes,
nobody knows.

Chorus>
Look into my eyes,
tell me what you see?
Can you feel my pain?
am I your enemy?
Give us a better way,
things are really bad,
The only friend I know
is this gun I have.
Listen to my voice,
this is not a threat
Now you see the nine
are you worried yet?
You've been talking 'bout'
you want the war to cease .
But when you show us hope,
we will show you peace

Verse I
Look into my mind
can you see the wealth?
Can you tell that I
wanna help myself?
But if it happen that
I stick you for your ring
don’t be mad at me
it’s a survival thing.
Look into my heart
I can feel your fear
take another look
can you hold my stare?
Why are you afraid
of my hungry face?
Or is it this thing
bulging in my waist?

Verse II
Look into my life
can you see my kids?
And let me ask you this,
you know what struggle is?
Well in this part of town
survival is my will
for you to stay alive
you’ve got to rob and kill
Look into my house
would you live in there?
Look me in the eyes
and tell me that you care.
Well, I made up my mind
to end up in the morgue
I know I’d rather die
a man than live like dog!

Look down at my shoes,
can you see my toes?
this struggle that we live
nobody really knows
stop and ask yourself
would you live like that?
And if you had to then
wouldn't you bust gunshot?
Look into the schools
tell me how you feel,
you want the kids to learn
without a proper meal
then what you have in place
to keep them out of wrong?
If them drop out of school
dem a go bust them gun.

Over the summer I slammed my finger in the door. It was one of those moments where you know it doesn't help to bash your wounded finger against the wall but you do it anyway. Several days later my fingernail fell off. I had always wondered how a fingernail looked without a nail but when it finally happened to me I wasn't so much fascinated as I was worried that I might have scurvy.

After consuming copious amounts of fruit I proceeded to wait. It was then that I noticed that there was a thin layer of fingernail still attached to my finger. This fingernail was so thin that it, in fact, looked like skin. I was happy to know that I was not completely without my beloved fingernail but I was still slightly disappointed to find out that I had not actually viewed that finger in its full naked glory.

Over time, my fingernail began to grow back at its original thickness. I was pleased until I noticed that it was no longer the pleasant pink of my other fingernails but more of a pinkish-red. I decided I would allow this fingernail to express its individuality so that it could serve as reminder of the physical superiority doors have over fingers. I proceeded with my day-to-day activities until I suddenly noticed that my fingernail was 4/5ths of the way back to normal. Then, without warning, disaster struck. The northern region of my fingernail rebelled, turning from that beautiful pinkish red colour to an off-white. I briefly thought of my confederate friend, Jake, but then I recalled that it was the southern region that had rebelled and not the northern one. I realized there was no parallel to draw from, and I despaired.

Lately, I've noticed the advance of the southern reddish-pinkish front against the off-white menace and I rejoice. Someday my fingernail will be restored to its former glory. Don't worry, I'll keep you posted.