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The Family Dog

Posted 8 April 2003, 1.18 am by Alexa

My family is obsessed with the dog, and that's putting it lightly. From an outsider looking in, we look like our entire existance revolves around the dog! He's a fat little black Scottie with an under bite and a bunch of strange quarks.

During the summer, here in Arizona, it can get pretty hot, way up the in hundreds. My dog, Loki, likes to jump down onto the first step of the pool, and dig. Just dig like mad, as hard as he can, for hours. Then, he hops out, see's how much water he has knocked out, and jumps back in and keeps digging. He plays with empty cardboard boxes, too. Whenever we finish a carton of sodas we give him the box they came in. And he tears that mother fucker to shreds! Sometimes he'll open up the pantry, drag out a FULL box and attempt to play with that. Or, if there are no boxes, he'll go right for the tupper ware.

I have a point here, just stay with me for a moment. My best friends dad told me that animals have no personality. They can not make desisions and that they are not self aware. My dog is self aware. He KNOWS he is the dog. He knows he gets fed table scraps after we eat because he is the dog. He knows he has to go outside to take a shit and he knows he will never be as tall as us, or drive, or ever get his nuts back.

He has a personality too, damnit! He has a rubber chicken that is his favorite. And no matter where he is, if you ask him to find it, he knows where it is. Granted he isn't a genius, but he has a personality. I know we like to think that we are the center of the universe and everything revolves around US, but the only real leads we have are opposable thumbs and vocal chords.

Road to Perdition

Posted 3 April 2003, 4.02 am by Jake

I rented this movie, expecting a sub-par, cut-and-dried Hollywood piece of garbage. The only redeeming factor seemed to be its origin. Seeing as how Road to Perdition originated as a graphic novel, I was afraid that this would turn out to be another disappointing comic movie. You can safely say that I approached this one with a bit of caution and boatloads of pessimism.

I’m glad to say that my expectations…well, they received a hearty kick in the nuts and were shoved away to somewhere special. This film is yet another excellent tour-de-force from director Sam Mendes (American Beauty). The cinematography is lush and expansive as well as gritty and constricted, depending on the mood of the scene. The score flows along nicely with the movie, switching from dark, ominous orchestral pieces to light jazz bits as if it were nobody’s business. But it is somebody’s business, you see.

Business is what Tom Hanks is all about in this one. He plays as Michael Sullivan, a moody and relatively quiet hitman whose world is rocked within the first 30 minutes of the film, and who is thrust into a new situation with new responsibilities. One of these responsibilities being his twelve year-old son, Michael Jr., who eventually discovers that his father’s profession is nothing as it seemed. The vagueness of his father’s confidant (and foster father) John Rooney (Paul Newman) is stripped away, revealing Rooney to be an aging crime boss with a strong sense of solidarity with the men that he employs. But that solidarity doesn’t even last long, thanks to some complications between Sullivan and Rooney’s son, Connor (Daniel Craig). These complications lead to the aforementioned world-rocking that Sullivan and his son must plunge through in order to save themselves and get revenge… Jude Law plays an especially disturbing role as Maguire, a photographer who moonlights as a gun-toting hitman on the search for Sullivan and his son. The performances of each of the actors are what give this movie its edge, and there are some genuine, powerful moments that may have fallen idle at the hands of any other group.

The premise of the story is great, putting emphasis on character development while throwing the characters through a relatively diverse set of situations, ranging from light-hearted (the ‘learning to drive’ scenario) to somewhat disturbing (Michael’s grim discovery of the truth behind his father’s profession). I would have liked to have seen the plot to be a bit more drawn out in places, and that seems to be its only shortcoming in my eyes. There are several surprises during the movie, and the plot twists are powerful, wrenching and contorting Sullivan and his son into quite a few different quandaries.

Aside from its (minute) flaws, it's a smooth film with some qualified veteran actors. I was slightly disappointed with Paul Newman towards the end. Although he does a convincing job of portraying a man torn between his biological and his adopted son, he seemed to start out strong and sort of fade out...however, that could have a good bit to do with characterization as far as the story is concerned.

If you’re looking for an atmospheric drama with some strong performances and an excellent storyline, go get Road to Perdition. And you’d better not regret it, or I’ll load up the boys and we’ll come over for a little “friendly chat”. Now excuse me while I go find a kick-ass Tommy gun.

And now for something Completely Different!

Posted 2 April 2003, 4.25 am by Assassin13

For anyone who is a little bored and has nothing better to do. I really got a kick out of this one.



She's Come Undone

Posted 2 April 2003, 2.24 am by Alexa

'She's Come Undone' is almost a self help book. It really makes you feel a little less pathetic. It's an 'Oprah Book Club' book, but don't let that discourage you! As sad as it is, and as long as it is, it really is a fast read. The story plot is a womans journey through life. Sex, drugs, rape, gay/lesbian relationships, hippies, and rock and roll. The author is Wally Lamb, and for a man, he can describe certain points in a womans life perfectly. I liked it a lot. At one point I actually cried. The first time, I might add, that a book has made me cry since 'Where the Red Fern Grows'. Classic. Or as Roach would say "Fucking epic"


Posted 1 April 2003, 2.23 pm by Shaggy

I point and say the word. Everyone agrees, nod their heads, and repeat the word. A stone has been named "Stone" and all have agreed.

I take her palm. I should not be doing this, she is not the woman I love, but I do it anyway. I touch her palm with the tips of my finger, and tell her that the tinglie feeling she has is, that feeling of skin on skin, is what I want to represent with words.

I wonder if anyone has felt the same way I do. Confused, and longing for connection, I wonder if anyone else has thought to themselves "the greatest connection is the sensual; what you can touch, taste, feel, et alia, this is what humans were made for. We are companions to each other, and that is the purpose that we so strive for."

I am sure my thoughts, however, require a great deal of leisure. I am positive, after all, that those in Iraq, whether American or of the soil, do not feel the same way. Connection with a bullet is no connection at all.

I write the woman I love a poem. It reminds me that, while I can lust for another, while I can feel that I am connecting in a way tantamount to love with another, I cannot take her for granted. She is the True love, the first, the alpha and the omega, and I love her truly. The other, the girl whose palm I touched, is a connection, yes, but a connection of a different sort, no less important, of the same potential, but not of the same game. Only one person, after all, can own my body, mind, and soul. After that, the soul is simply diluted.

Who knows what damage I have done to my soul for the temptation? Yet, I know now that it was a justifiable one. The outside world is a strange and treacherous journey. I do not connect easy. I am not made of the same thoughts as anyone else: I am my own, separate world.

I think someone wrote a song once about what happens when worlds collide...

I think I have lost the connection I once had with the girl whose palm I touched. It feels bad, granted... but somehow, it was to be expected. There can only be one connection outside of language that I truly and honestly have: the love that exists between myself and my girlfriend.

I can admit it, but I do not have to like it. That is why, when I return home, I sit, think, and write... I have written a thousand stars, and I will write a thousand more, until the sky is filled, and people can look up and say: My, but I wish I could connect with the sky above my head!

Perhaps they even might connect with me.

Violet & Claire

Posted 26 March 2003, 5.02 pm by Elyse

Violet: A seventeen-year-old girl raised in Hollywood by rich parents. Wears black. Wants to make movies. Ambitious, constantly writing her screenplay. Falls for a rock star. Likes cocaine.
Claire: Another seventeen-year-old, from the midwest. Dreams of faeries. innocent to a fault. Writes poetry. Violet calls her "Tinker Bell."

I think the reason I liked this book is because it's one of the few I've read where the characters seemed real.Most books about teenage girls are bullshit. Maybe I wanted to be Violet. Maybe I have a little too much in common with Claire. All I know is that I couldn't put it down until I had finished it. It's a girly book, sure, but not one of those cheesy Judy Blume, comming of age stories. A quick read, I recommend this book by Francesca Lia Block to all the girlies who need a little excitement in their lives.

The Death of a Kind

Posted 25 March 2003, 7.48 pm by Shaggy

There was a man who was a nice man,
The last the world had ever known
Or ever will. He woke one day, alone
And found himself in a strange land.

"We'll use him as our posterchild,
We'll bleed him for his holy blood,
And when he cannot give any kind,
We'll kill him, and drop him in the mud."

Job wasn't tested by God, he was picked on,
God had fun picking on the "little weiner,"
As he liked to call him, and it was precisely
His goodness that was his curse

Faith means little, but it is all the man had,
All the man had ever known,
All that the man could condone,
And precisely what made others mad

The man gave kisses, and got back spit,
Gave love and got back violence,
Gave his heart and mind and received nothing
But a certain set of eyes, beautiful in their tear-stains

The hammer has beaten the man,
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust
Now the man is underneath our feet,
A part of us.

The man would smile if he had a mouth, but all he has is mud and shit. But he remains, he stands, even if he is walked on.

Even dead men can stand and sing in chains.


Posted 25 March 2003, 5.50 am by Acheron

I often sit down and try to write something, inspired by some pseudo-civic sense of obligation, nostalgia, or maybe just boredom. So I sit and I stare blankly at the keys or at the screen. At such moments I am possessed by a sudden self-awareness. Even though I search in vain for "good writing ideas", I still manage to take a good look around.

My room is a cluttered mess. I'd estimate that there are at least 300 cds here, and certainly enough books to obscure the floor. Papers are thrown everywhere. Many people I know are possessed by the sudden urge to clean and tidy. I look around and I don't see a mess... just, say, that corner of cardboard I ripped off a box as a makeshift mouse pad (it didn't work at all), or a slim wedge of newsprint (an old crossword). Are these things out of place, or do they have no place? I didn't build this room. It's not even my home. I cannot claim this space as my own, nor any space for that matter.

I am a mess of mixed media. With so many odds and ends about, it becomes hard to focus. Anything written is somehow tied to the drone of the tap outside. The tap stops and I hear countless fans. Beneath it all, musing, is that subdued, elegant voice: the monophony of my thoughts. It shifts through the mentors: an old teacher, a long-forgotten friend...

I often sit down and try to write something - that is to say, I try to sort my clouded mess of opinions and focus. It rarely works. In these moments of clarity, though, I am taken by two questions: why is anyone still convinced that certainties remain? and why must every aspect of our common existence be named and shelved?

I suppose I walk many paths, or none at all, or the nameless few.

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Doggybag/baggy_dog is an artist living and working in Barga, Italy. Click here to read about this piece in his own words.

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Hey Cris, it's as busy here as it was at the end - which is to say, not at all

I wish I could new you guys was here in the beginning of 2020 LOL

OMG I was feeling nostalgic and I can’t believe that AKP is still here! So how’s it going ?

Props to Green Mamba for bringing the weirdness


80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.


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