Camrose judge J.H. Goss ruled Thursday to adjourn the sentencing to September 4 after one of the teens failed to finish a pre-sentencing report.

Crown prosecutor John Laluk told the judge the report was not finished due to a lack of communication between the teen and the probation officer.

The case comes after two Camrose teenagers pleaded guilty to unlawfully causing pain and suffering to an animal.

The two boys, who cannot be named under the Youth Criminal Justice Act, also pleaded guilty to two counts of breaking and entering. (news)

Sputtering, I asked if Dad was available to the phone.  When he came on the line I demanded to know if he'd heard that particular exchange. "Yeah," he said, "She's right, it's not all that wide."

I'm not looking forward to this trip anymore.

This is bad news, short-and long-term. Short-term, because Godfather's is a diet staple in this house. Godfather's was a not-uncommon destination for Sunday dinner (Grandma Geraghty: please stop spinning in your grave. I promise we'll have roast beef as soon as the temperature gets back below 95F, which should be sometime in November. Maybe.) Long-term, because I figured the day he turned 16, Fins could get a job there and we might be able to keep the house instead of having to sell it to pay the grocery bill. But now, all this is lost.

Jonesing for pizza, though, we went up to Barro's Pizza on Warner Road.  We've been there before, but only on "Barro's School Nights" when they give some pittance of the profits. In exchange, parents get to eat in a small restaurant filled with elementary school kids who are screaming with excitement at seeing their friends who they saw in school mere hours earlier, and will see again the next day.

But the pizza is pretty good.  And they sell beer, which Godfather's did not. 

So we ambled up to the counter at Barros, only to find out from the spacey blonde teenager behind the counter that they don't sell by the slice after 4PM. I wasn't that hungry, so I asked how big their "small" pizza was.  "About, um, ten inches?" she said, "cut into, like six slices?"  Apparently, this young lady thought every question should itself be answered in interrogatory fashion.

Hmm, I mused. I'm not really that hungry. Do you think they could cut it into just four slices?

"Um, no?" said my future fellow National Merit Finalist, "I don't think we can do that? Sorry?" By this time I was rubbing my arm where Diana had thumped me. We ordered our pizza and ate in relative peace, though I couldn't find anyone who was willing to turn down the Hannah Montana TV and turn up the baseball TV. We're never sitting in the kid room again.

I will warn you that the comments are quite vulgar. I must also give props to those on the comment board who had the moral courage to condemn those spewing pointless vitriol- thank you all for standing up to a conmmon decency that knows no political bounds.

Why am I republishing these awful comments?  I think that republishing these comments on this blog can lead to a teachable moment, a moment I will capitalize on next week in a post under the intellectual transformation series.  [Note: All of the below quotes can be found at this thread on the Daily Kos]

"Tony knew that his boss was full of shit and that he was lying to the American people everyday.  He gets no kudos for being a lying sack of shit.  Yes its terrible for his young children, but it is also terrible for the young children of soldiers who keep getting killed because of the bullshit this lying sack of crap spewed everyday from his podeium.  rest in hell." -Rogereaton

One can have little doubt that what the poster (and countless other folks after him) considered "lies" were more likely than not points of political difference- instances where Tony Snow or those he represented drew different conclusions from the same facts.  Yet, Mr. Eaton is more than happy to condemn Tony Snow to the darkest pits of hell because of their political disagreements.  I guess we are lucky this guy isn't actually in charge of who gets what final destination.  Aside: For those of you looking for the proper application of the admonishments against judging others found in the New Testament, here you have a perfect example.

"I am a little baffled by the kind words for Mr. Snow on this blog today. Here was a man who could have used his talents to better the world, and he chose to do the complete opposite. I am not sure how he slept at night. My condolances (sic) to his family, but I can't be sad that he's gone."- unionsally

While I am glad she expressed some concern over Tony Snow getting some rest- since we all know a good nights sleep is an essential part of a healthy lifestyle- some might consider it a tres bit gauche to make sweeping moral claims about the dead.  Perhaps we can all find some way to at least stay quiet if we can't say anything nice about those recently departed.

"You were my favorite of the Bush administration's apologistic (sic) panderers.  You were a good spokesman for the side of evil and if not for your cancer, would have easily had a promising career in televangilism (sic) should you have chosen to pursue one."- Juliewolf

The best that I can say is that perhaps this is an attempt at humor that took a disappointing turn.  Note how she connects Tony Snow with "the side of evil" and suggests a possible career in televangelism- since we all know televangelists are horrible people right?  All I want to know is whether Ms. Wolf was among those who decried President Bush when he called North Korea, Iran, and Iraq an "axis of evil." (A statement I had problems with at the time, although no doubt for completely different reasons. Especially since I do believe that the North Korean governmental system is a clearly evil system.)

"sorry, but when you become the mouthpiece for
a war criminal involved in furthering a worthless
and useless war god will not let you enter heaven.
He sacrificed his moral principles to continue
the useless slaughter of both americans and
iraqis and for that mr. snow god has punished
you.
You are a co conspirator and a liar. And
god will take care of you on your judgement
day.  You lived to 52.  Many of the our
brave soldiers who died for your lies were not
so lucky!"- inthistogether

It seems almost poetic with the odd syntax, but still I can't help but be left disheartened.  Inthistogether (ITT) from the beginning places the keys to heaven in his mortal hands (they are big keys, they must require two hands to hold) and declares that Tony Snow surely won't be admitted to heaven.  Why?  Well ITT provides a list of accusations that include labeling Snow a "co-conspirator" a "liar."  Perhaps uncertain that his/her audience got the point ITT declares three times (a good Biblical number) that: "god will not let you enter heaven," "mr. snow god has punished you," "god will take care of you on your judgement day."  How sad.

By the way, I got tired of putting sic after every word that lacked proper capitalization (including the name of a judgmental God), misspelling, and lack of punctuation so I decided to let it stand as is, sic free.

"His life's work was to demonize liberals and enable the Bush-Cheney agenda of war, torture, war profiteering, illegal surveillance, environmental degradation, climate catastrophe, impoverishing the elderly, keeping health care unaffordable and all the rest.

I hope there really is a hell and he's burning in it right now.

The policies and people he supported have had a catastrophic impact on ordinary people around the world." -Expatjourno

The kindly commenter above can find no room in his heart to mourn the death of Tony Snow.  Why?  Well his own comments lists political differences as the main excuse for his anger and vitriol.  Expat also shares the same preoccupation with Mr. Snow's eternal destination that most of the previous posters have expressed.  One wonders if being this angry about a man you never knew whose greatest offense consisted of holding different political ideals is healthy for an individual.

"Another piece of shit who's made a lot of money flakking for executive level criminals.

We should be rejoicing every time one dies.  What is up with all this "sad" crap?

He's just another scumbag who made money ($168,000 to be precise, or tax payer money) by standing in front of the American public and lie to us.  HE made millions doing it on FOX prior to it.  In fact, if he was alive and on TV today, he'd be helping slander Obama.

He helped perpetrate horrible action by this presidency, there is no forgiveness for that.

Some of you seem genuinely more sad about this scumbag's death then the NEARLY DAILY DEATHS of our own soldiers and the innocent Iraqis!!!!!

WHY????  JUST because he was on TV he deserves "respect"?  WHAT THE F*CK FOR?"-Liquid Stoke [I edited the F-words to include an asterisk]

Liquidstoke takes the bile to a whole other level when he not merely expressed an inability to mourn Snow's death, but suggests that we all join him in "rejoicing."  Also Mr. Stoke expresses that Snow's sins are without pardon or forgiveness.  It is times like these that I rejoice to know that there is only one sin that can separate us from God, and that sin has nothing to do with your politics- Praise God for that!

Apparently Mr. Stoke (or perhaps I should call him Mr. Liquid) was not quite done with his cathartic ranting so he responded to another commenter:

"You know, if you come in last during a bank robbery and help load the bags of cash into the get-away car...that doesn't make you less guilty..."-Liquidstoke

Indeed, because Tony Snow was a press secretary for an administration who holds different political views than his own he is the moral equivalent of a bank robber.  Perhaps disheartening isn't a strong enough word.

"I admire the compassion of people who can mourn the deaths of members of the Bushocracy. Since I lack that kinda compassion, I do the next best thing.

Keep my frickin' mouth shut."' Sensibleshoes

While Sensible followed the sage advice that if one has nothing good to say then it is best to keep your mouth shut, there is something quite disturbing here.  His/her hatred of the "Bushocracy" runs so deep and to such an emotional level that he can't "mourn the deaths" of anyone who works for President Bush.  Scary.  But still, kudos for not engaging in the same hateful rants as far too many others.

At this point I despaired to continue....

As it’s usual, we all had our breakfast together, and then Cameo and Mercury picked up their bags and laptops to leave. I sat on my rug near the French-windows, and watched them in their preparation. Then Cameo came to me, kissed my nose to say goodbye, and closed the door behind him. I heard their footsteps fade away and after a little while saw them emerge at the gate. So far, there was nothing unusual in the day. Cameo and Mercury work half-days on Sundays and come home early, so I had this nice feeling making me feel all cozy and sleepy!

But, if I am sitting here writing this story, there must’ve been something different with this Sunday! There was.

As I sat there with my eyelids drooping, ready to lose myself in the rushing crowd of my favorite dreams…I suddenly heard a low, anguished cry of a dog. For a moment I couldn’t place it. Then I saw Cameo go to the culvert near the house opposite ours, and I realized that there was a dog under that low culvert, and he was in pain. As a dog I could understand the plea for help in the dog’s cry, but I wasn’t sure whether Cameo would. I saw Cameo bending to look under the culvert…after what seemed an eternity to me, he turned and I saw his face. I could see the dog’s pain in the mirror of his face!

As a human I couldn’t have heard their conversation as they were quite far, but being a dog, with some effort I could follow it clearly. This is what I heard.

Cameo: …and he is impossible to reach!
Mercury: Is he hurt, or is he just hiding?
Cameo: He’s hurt, and I don’t think that he would survive if he were not taken out.
Mercury: I think he is going to be safe for a few hours…we’ll try to find a solution – the main problem right now is to get him out, and we can’t do it without help.

And so they got into their car, and left!
I sat there on my rug, listening to his cries; wondering what would happen to him now. I knew that Mercury and Cameo couldn’t have done much even if they wanted to – their Sundays are never theirs as there would be people waiting for them!

I also didn’t expect much from the neighbors (except from Terror’s family, but they stay a bit farther up the road.) I really didn’t know what I could do…the agony of being a society dog shreds your heart into little pieces, at moments such as these. I just hoped that Mercury and Cameo would find a solution.

I sat there, looking out; barking a little, hoping that the sound of my voice would help the morale of the stranger under the culvert! I sat there for about two hours…and when my hopes were beginning to fade, I saw an ambulance arrive. A couple of humans got down with some equipment and they pulled the doggie out. He looked so woebegone!

Next I saw our neighbor, a benign man who is a distinguished lawyer (an apparent contradiction but an undeniable truth,) come out of his house and talk to them. Once again, I tuned my ears to catch the conversation.

Our Benign Neighbor: So, do you think he’d survive?
The Ambulance Angel: Yes, definitely.
Our Benign Neighbor: Good.
The Ambulance Angel: Can we meet Mercury? We got a call from her.
Our Benign Neighbor: She’s at work but we know about the call, so we were expecting you.
The Ambulance Angel: We’d like you to sign a form and make a small donation if possible.
Our Benign Neighbor: We’ll be happy to make a donation. Thanks for coming over! You’re doing something great! May God bless you!

Now you’d like to know who the ambulance angels were – right?
Well, they were the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

When Cameo and Mercury came back, I got the whole story from them. They don’t approve of most such apparent-do-gooder agencies (well, memories of their experience of “rescuing” me from the clutches of one such agency, still makes them sick!) – but then they had heard some nice things about this organization; so they googled it up, found the phone number, and made a phone call. These people were so nice, that they asked them for the location and sent the ambulance as soon as they could. They even kept Mercury informed of the progress!

And out Benign Neighbor is an angel too…when Cameo went to them and said that he’d like to reimburse the donation, they refused! They said that they felt good about making the donation.

Isn’t this world full of angels? And if there are angels in this world, then this world of ours is a little heaven!

I guess some people might be in a state of suffering or pain..and yet be unable to express themselves and would want to be put to sleep for good!
If you couldn't talk, but you were being tortured in pain, and perhaps couldn't move it, would be too much suffering and it would suck.

Pros
-ending the suffering

Cons
-Perhaps the suffering could end by natural ways, and they die naturally
-They might actually be living some sort of life and be happy with it
-- many people can't get pregnant they are impotent , so if life is so good, should we really end one?

So much has happened for animal protection in the last year, and it's time to gather together to push the cause forward. After the Michael Vick case exposed the world to illegal dogfighting, learn what you can do to combat animal fighting in your community. After the slaughter of sick and crippled cows led to the largest recall of meat in our nation's history, learn what you can do to protect farm animals from cruelty and abuse. As the November election approaches, learn about animal issues that will be on the ballot and how you can pass laws to protect animals. For more information go to TakingActionForAnimals.org.

I signed and was number 1,415,723.  How many more will sign?  Click on the picture to sign the petition.

Ciao Baby...

- Janine, to our driver

Can the crap of a good trip ever outweigh the trip itself? Well, in my experience, no. But it can come pretty close.

We finished our float down the Tsiribihina River without problems, pulling into a small village 2 hours east of the river's estuary around noon. The heat was ferocious and maybe it was this that set the tone for what turned out to be a thoroughly uncomfortable afternoon. We exited the canoes and walked up the steep river bank to have lunch in a small reed shack, simply furnished with rough wooden benches and a table, while Joseph and Coco set to work on preparing lunch. Even in the shade of the hut, we sweated freely. Combined with the throngs of staring, malnourished and dirty children that crowded around us and gawked openly at our every movement the atmosphere was oppressive.

One of the things that has consistently been hard to see on this trip is the cruelty of the Malagasy people to animals. Elsewhere on our African travels, we've seen animals ignored, like the dogs and cats of Egypt, for example, or put to work, as with the dogs of the Lesotho or Malawi farmlands. In this latter situation, the animals are treated, if not like members of the family, at least with the respect they deserve as contributors to the communal or family good. But in Madagascar, dogs are treated with heartbreaking callousness. All over the country, we saw dogs literally starving to death. Their ribs and hips poking hideously almost through their skins, their eyes devoid of anything resembling life or hope. But it's one thing to see an animal starve - in this country, people live on such slim margins that perhaps they truly cannot afford to nourish anything beyond themselves, I won't judge that. It's another to see someone go out of their way to pick up a stone and hurl it at defenseless sleeping mutt, to laugh at its yelp of pain, to look for another rock or place a well-aimed kick if the yelp is not loud enough. We saw this a lot in Madagascar, and as much as I loved the place, I have no hesitation in condeming the Malagasy people for their cruelty in this regard.

So, maybe the post-river trip got off to a bad start when a starving mother dog wandered by our shack just before we sat down to lunch, trailed by a wobbling pup that could barely keep itself moving. As she sniffed the ground harmlessly, one of the kids gave her a kick that raised a pitiful howl that I'm surprised she had energy to give. Janine's face was pale with anger. "For a people that request so much compassion from the world, they sure don't have any for one of the few creatures beneath them on the food chain," she said with a clenched jaw. The next time the dogs came by, we called them over and fed them hunks of bread and left over spaghetti from our lunch, right in front of the kids, who were obviously hungry themselves. I have no idea if this was the just thing to do. I have no idea if it imparted a lesson to the watching children. 9 chances out of 10 that dog and its pup are dead today and we only prolonged the inevitable. But I can tell you that it felt like the right thing to do.

Even so, we were in a bit of a sour mood when our 4x4 pulled up to take us northwest from the river to Belo-Sur-Tsiribihina. As our truck was loaded, our guide Coco approached us with a request that we take on more passengers for the next half our journey - a tour of Tsingy de Bemaraha National Park. Apparently, the 4x4 rented by a French couple for their trip had broken down and they were now without means of transport to the park. Under normal circumstances, giving someone a lift anywhere wouldn't be a problem, but the road to Tsingy was a notoriously shitty 6 hour drive. Our Land Cruiser was big enough to comfortably carry our current party of 6 (driver, Coco, Janine and I and Valerie and Geraldine). But with 8, it would not be nearly as much fun. The four of us discussed the situation and agreed that we would certainly give the couple a free 2 hour lift to Belo-Sur-Tsiribihina. From there they could arrange onwards transport to Tsingy or take a Taxi Brousse down south to the big town of Morondava. We communicated this to Coco and off we went to pick up the couple.

When we found the couple at their hotel, Coco performed a neat little trick. Instead of advising them of our decision as we had requested, he pretended as if our conversation had never happened and trotted the couple out in front of us, making us explain ourselves to them and feel, of course, like complete jerks for not taking them with us to Tsingy. For Coco, of course, this was all about money - he could make more of it by cramming two more people into our truck. So with the two French travellers in front of us, he applied all the pressure he could to get us to take them on. And of course, eventually, we relented.

And it sucked. The two travellers were nice enough. But crammed into the truck like tinned weiners, our drive to Tsingy the next morning (which started at the ungodly hour of 3:30 a.m.) was as uncomfortable as I knew it would be. I've written extensively about bad African roads before, so I won't bore you with the details of the trench-like ruts and grave-sized potholes. Suffice it to say, the road to Tsingy from Belo-Sur-Tsiribihina was right up there with the worst I've seen in Africa. 6 hours of fatigued, nauseous jostling later and I really had a hate on for Coco for putting us in this situation merely to line his own pockets.

But Tsingy was lovely. A forest of razor sharp limestone karsts (Tsingys) and deep canyons, eroded by water and time. We took a canoe ride down the Manombolo river gorge in dug out canoes, visiting bat caves and looking up at ancient grave sites where ancestors' remains were deposited in the limestone cracks that threaded through the sheer canyon walls. We lunched near the giant Tsingy forest (admonishing our driver when he went out of his way to whip with a stick a starving dog who wasn't even near us) and then took a 5 hour walk through its incredible grey rocky clefts, so sharp and thin that you can tap them and produce the "Tsing!" sound which gives them their name. The trail wound between slates of rock 30 meters high and underneath unfathomable massifs of stone. In these situations, we donned headlamps, crawled, slithered and felt our way back towards the sun. We inched our way up steel and rock ladders attached skillfully to the rock, often using caribiners and mountaineering harnesses to keep us safely on two feet. Finally, we were spit out onto the top of the forest for a panoramic view of its canopy in the late afternoon sun. It was a spectacular view; the yellow sunshine turning the thousands of cold grey teeth to warm shades of red and gold.

It was one of those travel moments that goes a long way to erasing bad memories.

***

"Coco is drunk," Janine said disgustedly. "And high. A good combination of both actually. He can barely stand."

It was true. Our valiant guide, who had stayed behind during our trip to the giant Tsingys in order to guard our belongings from thieves, was practically unconscious and when not unconscious, mostly incomprehenisible. Very professional indeed. Our opinion didn't improve when we heard that another group at our the campsite had been robbed that night. We ate dinner in a moody silence and barely acknowledged Coco when he showed up at our table later, noticeably red eyed.

The fun of this part of the trip had unfortunately been leeched away by the discomfort of the road travel, the unprofessionalism of our guide and our fatigue with the ceaselessly begging children, the mistreatment of the animals and the constant disrespectful use of the term "Vazaha" from even our own guides and driver. We were tired and we just wanted to move on. Valerie and Geraldine were sympathetic and wonderful and we admired them for their ability to shrug off the nuisances that were getting us down. But we still couldn't shake the blues. After dinner, while the French travellers went dancing at a club down the road from our campsite, Janine and I crawled into our tent and slept, exhausted physically and emotionally.

"I hope the baobobs kick ass tomorrow," I said with a yawn.

Janine murmurred something back. But it was the garbled mumble of someone already sleeping.

***

We drove and we drove and we drove. We left Tsingy on the first ferry across the Manombolo river after the standard Madagascar bush breakfast of charcoal tasting coffee, condensed milk and bread, the French delightedly spreading spoonfuls of the sweet, custard like milk over their baguettes. I couldn't bring myself to replicate their love of canned milk, but the ever-adventurous Janine tried it and confirmed that it was good stuff. I told Janine that she was crazy.

After a long day, we reached Madagascar's world famous Avenue of the Baobobs near the end of the afternoon. It was everything we hoped. The stately giants lined the road, rearing their strange trunks starkly against the riotous colours of the late-day sky. Many were over 20 meters. We strolled the avenue hand in hand between bouts of excessive picture taking. It didn't matter anymore that our guide sucked, that we still had two hours of crap road between us and our hotel in Morondava, that we'd paid a lot of money for a trip that hadn't fully lived up to expectations. We were here, now, in this beautiful place, and it was beautiful.

"Worth it?" I asked Janine, watching the sun disappear below the tree-studded horizon, leaving the baobobs silhouetted against a maroon sky.

"Totally." Janine said genuinely, squeezing my hand. "But I'm going to strangle the next kid I see hurting an animal."

Jason

Tuesday, I got back to the office (from Prescott, are you paying attention here?) around 1130. As I sat at my desk, I thought my walls looked a little funny. Two years ago when we built out this side of the building, there were threats to paint my office pink since, as a colorblind person, I'd never know the difference anyway. Jokes were made, and shortly after occupying the office I asked Marcel (one of my managers and a former priest) if my walls were anything but white. He insisted that they were white. Now, two years later, they looked different, but I wrote it off to being out of the office for two weeks, the changes that can happen under fluorescent light, etc. Just to be safe, though, I asked Marcel again, and he said (again) that the office walls were white.

I was out of the office on Wednesday and back in the office today.  Various things confronted me over the course of the day, things over which I had little or no control but which I still had to take care of. Finally, towards the end of the day, I asked Tracey, (an employee with whom I had just finished meeting in my office) what color my walls were.

"Ah, um, er, I, uh, gotta go" was her reply, and she rushed out of my office.

Sonofa...!

I walked out in the hallway to find several people doubled over with laughter.  My office walls were indeed pink.

Julia, my clinical information specialist, had painted them about a week before I returned, and in an office-wide email, sworn everyone to secrecy.  Tim, our CEO, had agreed, and had even brought his wife in to see the damage.  Everyone knew, and no one told me.

So these are the people with whom I work.  The kind of people who would exploit a handicap, the result of a genetic deficiency, for their own entertainment. The kind of people who would take pictures of an entire office so they could get everything back on the walls exactly right after painting said walls a shade of pink light enough to fool the aforementioned handicapped individual. The kind of people who, despite extensive religious training at the Vatican would lie without flinching to their boss about such a thing.

My people.

I am so proud.

*definition here

“Thousands of pet cats in Beijing are being abandoned by their owners and sent to die in secretive government pounds as China mounts an aggressive drive to clean up the capital in preparation for the Olympic Games.

Hundreds of cats a day are being rounded and crammed into cages so small they cannot even turn around.

Then they are trucked to what animal welfare groups describe as death camps on the edges of the city.

The cull comes in the wake of a government campaign warning of the diseases cats carry and ordering residents to help clear the streets of them.”

An extract from MAILOnline written by SIMON PERRY.

Read the whole article:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-528694/Olympics-clean-Chinese-style-Inside-Beijings-shocking-death-camp-cats.html

The Associated Press issued a chilling report Saturday that has ominous overtones for women and journalists everywhere.

The AP headline: Phils’ Myers regains swagger in minors

As a public service, we present archival video of Myers exuding his trademark swagger during a gentlemanly tete-a-tete with Philadelphia Inquirer reporter Sam Carchidi on Aug. 25 of last year:

After witnessing Myers in full-metal-bravado mode, you might find yourself wondering, how did the Philadelphia Phillies' sultan of swagger regain the sense of invulnerability he'd so recently lost?

After racking up a 3-9 record and a 5.84 ERA in 17 excruciating starts and leading the majors with 24 home runs allowed, Myers was dispatched to the minors on July 1 to search high and low for a swagger commensurate with his $8.58 million per annum salary.

And in a three-city, three-league tour of nostalgic triumph worthy of a Leni Riefenstahl epic, Myers pulled off an unlikely hat trick: In the process of regaining his swagger, he managed to lose games in Triple-A, Double-A and Single-A.

Impressive by any standard, I'm sure you'll agree. Brett certainly does.

“I had to get my swagger back,” told the AP reporter. “I felt like I accomplished that.”

Oh, Brett Allen Myers, how we've missed you.

When he left on his sojourn of self-rediscovery, he was the worst starting pitcher on a team with no shortage of candidates for the dubious role. That miscreant Adam Eaton (3-8, 5.71) took advantage of his absence and did his level worst to overtake him.

But after taking the Brett Myers challenge and getting shelled for 14 runs and 17 hits in two execrable starts, Eaton has been banished to the bullpen as a reward. He's been placed by a portly mediocrity by the name of Joe Blanton.

Swagger or no swagger, it seems that Brett could face stiff competition in his quest to maintain his status as the worst starting pitcher on one of the shakiest, wackiest staffs in the major leagues.

Take Blanton, please. He's compiled a nifty 5-12 record for an Oakland team that is 46-34 this season in games started by pitchers not named Joe Blanton. He has a 4.96 ERA. Better still, if you you subtract the interleague victory he picked up against the swooning Phils (which of course must've made him seem like Bob Gibson on a Ben & Jerry's bender to the Philly brass), this is what Joe's done this year: 4 wins, 12 losses, 5.18 ERA. Then there's Kyle Kendrick, whose ERA soared to 4.87 after getting clubbed by the Marlins on Saturday

As for the reinvigorated Brett Myers, well, he'll stroll into Shea Stadium next week with the old rock star swagger. How he strolls out is another question entirely.

“It’s good to see old faces you hadn’t seen in a while, and they tell you what’s wrong with you and how you used to be," Myers said. "It opens your eyes a little bit, and you say, 'What the heck have I become?' "

What has he become? He said it was unprintable.

Well, you have to admire him for his honesty, if not his swagger.

And hopefully, that renewed swagger will be confined to the ballpark and there'll be no further charges of domestic violence.

If you missed the first one, a little satire from a group that calls itself the Fearless Hyenas will get you up to speed:

And don't look back, Brett, because there's a new kid in town with a swagger all his own ...

This is the best Phillies manager Charlie Manuel could offer when asked about the peculiar desirability of Jowly Joe Blanton, a pitcher Philadelphia's front office coveted so desperately that it gave up three minor leaguers, including one – Adrian Cardenas – generally regarded as the best hitting prospect in an impotent farm system.

He eats innings.

When a guy resembles the end-of-the-line Babe Ruth and is a perennial candidate for baseball's MCP (Most Corpulent Player) Award, calling him an "innings eater" is nothing more than a cruel straight line.

Eats innings? Hah! I'd rather be in Philadelphia!

In the Orwellian doublespeak of major league executives constrained in their search for talent by penny-pinching owners, an "innings eater" is analagous to the response The Fonz offered when Richie told him about a prospective date, a girl who had a good personality: That means she oughta have a bag over her head.

Heyyyyyy!

In the parlance of the times, the euphemism "innings eater" can be loosely translated as "he'll pitch a good many innings, but he won't pitch many good innings."

Is CC Sabathia an innings eater? No. He's a helluva pitcher, a Cy Young Award winner. Tom Seaver? Steve Carlton? Lefty Grove? Walter Johnson? They all pitched a lot of innings, but nobody ever felt the need to brand them with an unfortunate sobriquet like "innings eater."

Can you tell the Hall of Fame Pitcher from the Innings Eater?

No, they were just great pitchers. They threw many, many, many innings, but nobody really noticed because it was possible to lose oneself in the elegance of their craft while they were busy swallowing innings. They had other things to hang their hats on, such as wins, strikeouts and championships and Hall of Fame invitations.

By the time he had reached Blanton's current age of 27, Walter Johnson had distinguished himself as an innings eater of gluttonous magnitude. He devoured 2,442 innings before he turned 27. In three separate seasons, he ate no fewer than 369 innings. But as he'd only given up 1,873 hits during that gustatory flourish, well, it just didn't seem like a big deal. Along the way, he'd won 179 games and fashioned an ERA of 1.62.

Yes, yes, yes. It was a different time. Babe Ruth had only had 10 at-bats at that point and had yet to hit his first home run. So the dead ball era was still very much alive. And yes, it's a trifle unseemly comparing a journeyman pitcher such as Blanton with one of the greatest to ever throw a pitch.

But you get the point.

As for the innings eater in question, Blanton's feasted on 760 2/3 innings in his career to date, given up 810 hits, accrued a 4.25 ERA and assembled a 47-46 record.

At least he's an innings eater. He'll be out scuffling about on the mound for some time, but you'll rarely enjoy watching him go about his work.

It won't be pretty, and sometimes it will be quite painful.

And as often as not, you'll end up with another loss when the day's over.

Today, slavery is rife throughout the world - in fact as you read this two children per minute are being sold. Modern slavery (as it is termed) takes many different forms: bonded slavery, forced labour, forced marriage, domestic slavery and human trafficking for the means of sexual exploitation. Slavery means that a person is abducted, sold or kept against their will; their freedom and human rights are denied them; usually cruelty and violence is employed to beat them into submission, along with threatenings and intimidation.

It reminds me, amongst other things,  how careful I need to be to ensure that I know how and where my clothes are being made and that absolutely no child labour is being used.

Take a look at the website: www.hopeforjustice.org.uk There are some good stories and case studies there.

On November 8th they are organising an event at the NEC called The Stand, it looks fascinating and there are some good speakers lined up.  See www.hopeforjustice.org.uk/thestand for more info.  Maybe I'll see you there.

It is now half past ten and I have been awake for an hour, thus giving me roughly six hours of sleep--despite the fact that I've recently taken to having at least ten hours.  But after my dream...I just couldn't close my eyes again.

You see, for so many years I was abused.  It started young, younger than I can fully remember.  What kind of abuse?  Mental, physical, sexual; I've had it all, though I'm sure I haven't had it the worst.  No matter how bad the experience was compared to others, though, it was devastating to me.

The first time I couldn't even remember, but my aunt told me, because at that time, she and my newly adoptive dad nearly had me taken away from my mother.  A man with facial hair, my mother's boyfriend at the time, "tickled mean" down there.  My mother denies this; she became angry and mentioned my aunt when I brought it up; but apparently I stated this to a room full of people at the time, and when they looked I was all red down there.  This is not an area that either my aunt or my newly adoptive father would lie about, especially since, at the time, my newly adoptive father had a beard and I wouldn't let him near me until he shaved it off.  At the time, my mother said it wasn't possible, that she would have woken up if he left the bed at night.  One problem with this, my mother sleeps like the dead, I practically had to assault her whenever I'd get her up in the mornings.  This denial kept on until they threatened to have me taken away, then she got rid of the guy.

It continued with my sister's father, but we'll get back to this later.  After him it was my sister's cousin, when I was about 13.  I remember "playing doctor" with him when we were younger, and apparently he remembered to; it was something I'd actually wanted to forget.  But he brought it up years later when I guess suddenly he decided it was time to play again.  He'd asked to feel my breast when everyone was over and we were both down in the basement.  I said "fuck no," he told me to be quiet or they'd come down there...I was quiet and stood still like a good little girl.  Later in his room, he shoved my hand down his pants and made me hold him; my mother came to the door, so I had an excuse to pull my hand away, but she didn't come in.  At the time, I hated her so much for not knowing, for not coming in and beating that little snot's brains in.  Later, he was angry, saying I had to do it again because my mother had interrupted.  Sometime after that, I went over to his house because he offered to let me play on the computer; I went--for some reason I still kind of idolized him.  We were alone; I was staying next door at his grandmother's at the time, his parents were gone and his brother was at his grandmother's playing with my sister.  While I was messing around on the computer, he slid into the chair behind me; I thought he just wanted to sit.  He pulled me back several times, my rear flush with his crotch and I squirmed forward, until finally he pulled me back and held me.  He undid my belt, and I pulled into myself, as I'd learned to do when I was frightened; and next thing I knew he was messing around in there, grinding into me from behind.  I waited for it to be over, because I hated myself so much, for not being able to stop him and because my body still responded despite my fear.  When he finished, I ran to the bathroom; I wanted to clean myself so bad, but I wanted to escape even more.  I almost climbed out the bathroom window, but then I realized how foolish I was; there was nowhere for me to go but back to his grandmother's and she wouldn't believe me.  So, I left through the front door, after he stopped me to make sure I wouldn't tell.  I promised him I wouldn't, but then later I burst into tears and let it out when my mother tried to make me go back there again.  When she confronted the family, they called me a liar and disowned me completely.  And, of course, his main excuse was "we're not really cousins," so I was never really a part of that family anyways.  He's married now, imagine that.

Shortly after this, an older guy on the school bus did it; except this time he didn't have to hold me down, I just sat there and took it.  By this time I'd it was pointless, so I just drew into myself.  I stared straight forward and didn't react, hoping he'd just go away; but I think the guy in the seat across from us knew what was going on and thought I was willing...I felt so filthy.

But the longest and most traumatizing experience was definitely with my sister's father.  He is, perhaps, why I drew into myself and didn't fight; and he is the reason for a lot of my problems.
He lived with us for roughly 11 years; 11 years of torment.  I guess, in a way, he had his reason: I wasn't his daughter.  It started before my sister; I know because, in that apartment full of little black crickets, there was no sibling, and I actually had my own room.  They say this was probably when I was around 3-4 years old.  I remember falling out of bed countless times, tangled in my sheets and screaming from nightmares.  I remember his friend bringing in a puppy that licked my face to wake me up and then defecated beneath my little kid table--which I got in trouble for.  I remember eating a whole round of watermelon by simply plopping my face into it and getting in trouble for that.  I remember eating King Vitamin cereal in the hallway while I watched him scream at my mother--something about cleaning the house--and getting screamed at myself when I spilled it; but I simply continued to eat it off the floor and watch until he left, slamming the door, and my mother broke down crying.  I remember them saying I was acting like a baby, so I was going to be treated like one, though I don't remember what I'd done.  He and my mother held me down and put a burp cloth on my like a diaper, pinning it in place.  I wasn't to take it off for the rest of the day, and it was to be my bathroom.  I think I simply held it in, because I don't remember soiling myself, and I only kicked it off at night because I was afraid the pin would stick me--my mother got after me for that in the morning. 
But the thing I most remember about that time was this...  I don't remember where my mother was, but we were alone in their room, both naked.  He had me watch some sort of sex tape, it looked like an instructional video.  And then he made me "kiss" it until he was ready--he called it his buddy--and then asked where I wanted the aftermath.  When he was done he said, and this is the nicest I ever remember him being, "now go get some wipes and wipe daddy off."
I kept that to myself for so many years, until my mother, for some odd reason, asked me if he'd ever done anything to me and told me that if I told her she could keep him away.  I've always wondered how she knew to ask, but I told her.  She got after me for not telling her, but then later when she decided to let him come back--when he was supposed to be gone for good and us three girls were doing so well on our own--she said that she'd told him and that he was really sorry that it had happened but it wasn't him.  She said this must have been when she was off on flood duty (army) and that he'd had a friend over at the time that looked almost exactly like him.  I hated her so much for this excuse.  I hated her for wanting sex so much that she'd put her children and herself at risk again.  I simply hated her, but I hated her even more later when she told me that I probably just dreamed it up.  But then, I'd been steadily growing to hate her over the years, each time she let him come back.  He'd hit her, he'd hit me, he watched porn on the couch with my little sister, grew pot, cooked the dangerous stuff, and got us kicked out of our homes so often; yet all she seemed to care about was having a man around for sex.  And one wonders why I hated the very thought of sex for so long.
He punished me a lot; most of the time I hadn't even done anything.  He gave me a rasberry once, when his friend was over, and laughed; I thought it was funny, so I did it back at him; he rose in a sudden fury, screaming at me; I ran down to the basement and hid behind my mother, but she just let him pull me out from behind her and watched as he tanned my hide even harder for running.  Then there was a time I got grounded; I wasn't even allowed to go to the bathroom.  He said that if I had to go I was to stick my rear out my window--right beside the road--and go.  Later that night I woke up, emptied my underwear drawer, and went on the pile I'd made.  I even got in trouble for being sick once with the stomach flu--as I was often for that space of time--because he said I was faking because I wanted attention.  The punishments were countless, and most of the time my mother just stood there nearby in a state of denial, pretending nothing was happening, just as she pretended nothing had happened when he hit her with a two-by-four or tried to choke her and take me and my sister away.  Sometimes I think I could almost completely forgive her if she would just admit that she was there and ignored or took part in it, but she won't, so I guess there is no reason for me to forgive.
As you can imagine, I didn't have the best relationship with my sister because of this.  He treated her like a princess, while I was both a slave and a "whipping girl."  She talked about how beautiful she was, and how she was going to be so smart, while I was ugly and was often punished for reading so much.  I had to clean up her messes, take her punishments.  And she was born I barely got to see her; he didn't want me anywhere near her or my mother when she was holding her.  Thus, for a while I hated her for being his spawn and for being treated so well.  We've gotten over this, now that I've been adopted and am living elsewhere, but I still regret hating her for so long.
But anyways, after she threw my sister's father out for the final time, she told us "from now on, I'll ask you girls before I let a man in my life."  Or something to that affect.  Another promise broken.  After a month of chatting online with this new guy, she makes us move down to southern West Virginia so she could marry him.  I told her I didn't like the guy, after all, he'd let me borrow some of his clothes to sleep in and then said "you look sexy in my clothes."  What kind of sick pig says that to a 13 year old?  He also hit on one of my friends online.  But she wouldn't listen; I think she called me paranoid.  And now she's in another mess because she doesn't believe in divorce and doesn't have the money to move away.  My sister is miserable back there, whether she'll admit it or not, and I'm afraid she'll end up on the road that I was on for so long.  Crying herself to sleep at night; feeling hurt, betrayed, and hated all the time; and sometimes just wanting to kill herself to escape it all.  Even if I trusted that pig around her, the area itself isn't good for her, not with the way people raise their children, especially their sons, there.  I want to help her, but it's a neverending situation that seems to have no solution at the moment.

Anyways, why am I writing this?  Why didn't I get any sleep?  Because I had another nightmare last night.  I was back with my mother and she'd let Greg come back.  He'd made her leave me out in the country with no way to find them, and then somehow I was with them again later.  He was after us with a gun; he'd managed to trick the first police officer into leaving; but then a female officer came.  Somehow we ended up in the room of a house.  My mother wasn't there, just me, my sister, and the officer.  I was trying to hold the door shut and he was trying to break in, yelling angrily at me from the other side.  He kept stretching the bottom of the door somehow, to push things in.  He pushed a guitar through and told my sister to come with him.  She said she was going him, and it hurt so much; I felt so betrayed.  But I started yelling at her about all the things he'd done to me and she changed her mind and stayed.  He pushed a pig under the door and kept screaming at me, telling me to open the door.  I yelled back, insulting him and telling him what a filthy, sick, loser he was, among other things.  And my sister kept chanting, "that's what we are."  He pushed another pig through the door, and while it was open wide enough, began to squeeze through himself.  I tried to push him back, clawing at his neck, and I could feel his skin beneath my fingers, sweaty and slick.  I was screaming for the officer to shoot him--she had his gun--but he was pushed back before she could.  Then he burst in and lunged at me; she shot him once, hitting him in the heart, and he fell bleeding.  She dropped the gun and walked away with my sister, but I picked the gun up, afraid he might get up.  I screamed at him to admit what he did and apologize, pointing the gun at him.  But he just said "No...You liked it."  And I started screaming at him, asking how I could possibly like all those things he did to me.  I wanted to shoot the hell out of him, make him hurt, but no matter how angry I was, I couldn't do it.  I dropped the gun and started crying; and then I woke up.

This is the most I've ever been able to fight back, even in a dream, but it was still a nightmare nonetheless.  Since him, I've had several relationships; but they were always short because I was always treated like a sex object.  None of the guys ever asked my permission; they didn't notice I was scared; they never took the hint when I'd squeeze my legs together; and then they'd wonder why I broke up with them after only a week.  My experiences taught me not to trust anyone, and when these males would treat me just like the ones who hurt me in the first place, there was no way I was going to keep them in my life.

I'm so sick of men thinking that all girls want sex.  I'm sick of them thinking they don't have to ask because we want it and it'll feel good, so that makes it ok.  They don't consider the fact that some of us have been hurt and really need a more gentle approach.  And even if we haven't been hurt, what right do they have to do anything with our bodies without our permission?  Watch for the signs, you can tell if we're scared, and ask us in the first place.
My last relationship taught me that not all guys are like that.  He asked me before doing anything, afraid that he'd hurt or scare me; he didn't want to do anything unless he was sure I was fine with it.  I'll thank him everyday for that, even if he never comes back to me, because he helped me get over so much of my fear.  I think so many men could learn from him.

And no, I'm not saying that all men are bad; women can be just as bad.  So, to everyone out there who touches a child in anything more than parental affection; to everyone who beats their child or partner; you're filthy, you're scum, there's no excuse for you, and the rest of the world is pretty much sick of you.

And to the people who haven't quite made it to that point, but don't stop to consider their partner(s) feelings...just...try to have some consideration please.  We're not all willing right away, treat us with love, with respect; don't just walk on us like we're dirt, because someday you might just be put in our place.

And finally, to all of the mothers out there in denial...your children really need you to put them first...and to admit your wrongs and repent.  Becoming a mother means giving up selfishness in order to do everything possible to raise and protect the next generation; and if you're not willing to do that, then you never should have had kids.

Sorry if it died down toward the end...but I can't really bring myself to say much more on the subject at this time.

Until next time...

--Liri

Now in Australia, all the abuse to dogs and other animals is coming out in the open with a television show called R.S.P.C.A. which is making all Australians sit up and take notice. People are now reporting over breeding and abuse cases more often with the R.S.P.C.A. on television.

There was a story here in South Australia, this summer about a woman that was over breeding dogs out by "Sandy Creek". A small town just north, of Adelaide South Australia. When the story hit the news, it was the topic on every one's mind for a long time. Pet owners just could not believe people could be so callous in the mistreatment of animals.

About forty dogs were left out in the sun with minimal water and feed. Sometimes the heat in South Australia can be as bad as Saudi Arabia. The dogs were not clean. Some were so dirty flees, mites were rapid over the dogs and even some had ticks. The Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, was called in over the Christmas Break to collect the dogs. The owners were subsequently charged. About two months later there was a news story. On a brighter note nearly all the dogs that were rescued had been re homed and looking healthy on the Television news. Thanks to our Animal Protection Service in Australia. The animal protection service in Australia also around the world does an exceptional job in looking after mistreated animals.

All off us dog owners or other animal owners, here in South Australia were so sad to think that there is people out there that can over breed dogs. Also not feed them correctly, most of all keep them clean. If only people would remember it is a privilege to own animals, not a right to own animals.

When the story came on the News, I just hugged my dogs and thanked them for the unconditional love that they give me. Sometimes when I try to express how much love I have for my dogs, I can not discuss how I feel, because I am so emotional when it comes to my dogs and their counterparts when they get hurt.

That brings me to the conclusion that I don't understand how people can force the dogs to over breed or mistreat them. People should have to apply for a licence to keep animals as pets. Mistreating animals is in the same category as mistreating a child.

There is a lot of other stories here in Australia, that we do not know about, but they are out there. If only they could read or watch stories on television to know how we all feel about these people whom use puppy mills.

This is a YouTube video about dogs crying on their way to Guangzhou (Canton)-market..

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FEiaXaV5TkM

So, some things I learned about fish:

1. Fish are a lot smarter than people think.  I sometimes lied to myself, thinking that fish had tiny brains and it wasn't a big deal.  But, studies have come out that fish have the same brain capacity as dogs.

2. Fish flesh today is badly contaminated with toxic chemicals that are known to cause cancer and brain degeneration and is also the most likely of all foods to make you sick from bacterial contamination. Yum!

3. Fish accumulate toxic mercury in their flesh as a result of industrial pollution, and the side effects of mercury posioning include finger curling, cognitive impairment, and coordination problems.

4. You can still get omega-3 fatty acids from foods like walnuts and flaxseeds, which are a lot safer for you.

5. Fish are still tortured when caught. Which makes me so mad is that there are no regulations or rules based on how to treat fish.  They have no rights at all.  So, fishermen are allowed to hook a fish and gut it while it is still conscious without even a slap on the wrist. That is appalling! They are frozen to death, or crushed by the weight of being piled on top of one another.

6. And finally, "dolphin safe" is about the biggest crock.  Even if they are not caught in nets, they may be hit by propellers while trying to feed on fish, they may be driven into shallow water, and fishermen may slaughter them anyway.

From pictures I've seen on how fish a treated, don't think I can eat another sushi roll (unless it's vegetarian!) =) My next step will be to become vegan... but I think that will take more time.

Folks, It's High Time We Said to Japan: Enough Is Enough!

NO MORE WHALING!

Here's a report that caught our eye earlier. It's about two environmental activists who have been charged with stealing a box of whale meat in Japan while conducting a covert operation to expose the Japanese whaling authorities ... We [CASF Members] don't necessarily agree with Greenpeace tactics, or trust their management [because of their abject failure, or lack of commitment, in making the world a better place, or achieving any lasting objective, whatever;] however, the anti-whaling activists have our support!

A lactating mother and her calf? Why, they taste better together? Japan has said the pictures were misleading and did not show a lactating mother and her calf. (Australian Customs Service)

Japan charges Greenpeace members over whale theft

TOKYO (Reuters) - Environmental group Greenpeace said on Friday two of its activists had been charged with stealing a box of whale meat while conducting a covert operation into suspected cases of embezzlement.

The public prosecutors office in Aomori, northern Japan, charged Junichi Sato and Toru Suzuki with theft and trespass, the group said in a statement.

Workers rest after butchering a Baird's Beaked whale at Wada port in Minamiboso, southeast of Tokyo, June 28, 2008. Whales emerged the big losers as a weeklong International Whaling Commission meeting wrapped up in Chile on Friday, conservation groups said after anti-whaling nations failed to halt No. 1 hunter Japan. REUTERS/Toru Hanai (JAPAN). Image may be subject to copyright. See FEWW Fair Use Notice!

A spokesman for the Aomori Public Prosecutors Office declined to comment.

Greenpeace had used the meat as evidence when complaining to prosecutors that members of Japan's whaling fleet crew shipped large quantities of the meat home, which they said amounted to embezzlement.

Japan has come under fire from environmentalists and foreign countries for its whaling program. The government says its whaling is for scientific research purposes.

Commercial whaling was banned under a 1986 international moratorium, but Tokyo has campaigned for a lifting of the ban, saying whaling is part of the country's cultural tradition.

A recent poll showed that a majority of Japanese support whaling, although whale meat is now less popular among the public than in the past.

The country's fleet caught only 551 minke whales compared with a planned 850 in its latest Antarctic hunt, after obstruction by anti-whalers. (Source)

Japan says its whaling is legal and part of its culture.

We Say: NOT ANYMORE!

Let's Stop Japan Whaling!

Related Links:

• Sea Shepherd
  

Kidman and husband country singer Keith Urban welcomed Sunday Rose Kidman Urban into the world on Monday in the US.

According to the news, Sunday is Kidman's first biological child - what were the other? Vegetables?

I suppose the poor little creature is lucky that all she was lumbered with was "Sunday", at least it's not on the same scale of things that could be dragged up from the past like Zowie, or some of the other monstrosities that could only be given to celebrity vermin offspring, because if they had to go for a job interview (like normal people) then the potential emoloyer would take one look at the name on the application, consider they were being made a fool of, and discard the application without further consideration - the amusingly named offspring would either die of starvation because they could earn their keep, or have to go somewhere like the European Court of Human Rights, and have their parent found guilty of some form of cruelty, and be forced to pay for their keep for the rest of their life.