1,373 miles into the heart of Afghanistan

LA Times:

GUL slowed for a speed bump, and instead of accelerating when a militiaman jumped up with an AK-47, he stopped. Gul opened the driver’s window, apparently weighing the comparative risks of getting shot and getting kidnapped. The gunman stuck his head in, saw me in the back seat and smiled like a dog sniffing fresh meat.

“Get us out of here!” I shouted at Gul, and he hesitated. “Get moving!”

Gul hit the gas. The barrel of the gunman’s rifle clunked off the rear side of the car. Not daring to look back, I tensed for the shot that didn’t come.

Here.

Review: Charles Addams, A Cartoonist's Life

Charles Addams: A Cartoonist\'s Life

Charles Addams, A Cartoonist’s Life, by Linda Davis.
[rating:4/5]

It’s a nostalgic trip back into the previous century, when a guy could make a great living drawing cartoons for The New Yorker. Charles Addams, whose characters include The Addams Family, was an amazing wit. Interesting to find out that at times Addams and the other cartoonists would illustrate ideas from other people:

Frank Modell estimated that The New Yorker bought “maybe three to five [unsolicited gags] a year.” But Addams ideas were hard to come by. (“Dear Mr. Adams,” read a typical letter, “The other day on a highway leading out of Syracuse i saw a girl holding up a sign reading: BINGHAMTON; I AM ON THE PILL. I wonder if you could replace the girl with one of your old hags.”) “People send in little vultures and ideas for cartoons,” as Addams put it; “usually they’ve been suggested at least ten times before.”

Addams’ dark humor is well represented:

Some years earlier, Addams had received a clipping from the Times of London that had particularly pleased him, as it had made one of his old cartoons seem prescient, and he had kept that too. Titled “Man-Sized Meal,” it told of an Indonesian peasant who had been swallowed by a python “more than six yards long, too bloated to move. He was cut open to reveal the peasant’s still-clothed body,” Addams had recounted to Philip French. “So you see, it really does happen. And I thought I’d invented something. Perhaps they were influenced by my cartoon. Maybe the man wanted to be in the picture.”

A fun book, with a series of great Addams’ cartoons as well. They say it all:

Charles Addams, A Cartoonist’s Life, by Linda Davis.
[rating:4/5]

The Naked Guy

NYT:

Eventually the media tired of Andrew Martinez. And so did Berkeley: in the fall of 1992, the school instituted a dress code mandating that students wear clothing in public. Martinez quickly ran afoul of the rule, and after he showed up naked for a disciplinary hearing, he was expelled.

Martinez stuck around the city, hanging out in People’s Park and strolling along Telegraph Avenue, but he wasn’t the same Naked Guy as before. Friends noticed that something was amiss: Martinez had become angry — angry about his expulsion, angry that the media had moved on to other stories, angry that no rich nudist had come forward to bankroll the lawsuit he wanted to file against the university. He started to talk of sinister forces, like the C.I.A., that he claimed were trying to thwart him. He felt ostracized. “I merely need to take off a four-ounce piece of cotton and reveal something that I have, everyone knows I have, half of the population has as well, to change from an average 20-year-old guy to a sex-offending criminal,” he wrote in a book manuscript that was never published.

He began to wander Berkeley pushing a shopping cart filled with rocks. He’d place the rocks at major intersections, trying to disrupt traffic, and he’d make piles of them all over the city so that, as he explained to his girlfriend at the time, “people would have weapons for when the revolution comes.” He seemed to seek out confrontations with the police, once luring them to the co-op where he lived and pelting them with compost. He was arrested on multiple occasions.

Here.

Robert Fisk: Football and violence go together

Independent:

Foer wades in at the deep end with a visit to Belgrade’s top- scoring Red Star, a team nurtured by Serbia’s equally top war criminal Arkan, who took his well-armed footballers down the Drina Valley in 1992 on an orgy of killing, plunder and mass rape. Arkan drove a pink Cadillac and sported a football wife – the gorgeous retro singer Ceca – whom he married in full Serb uniform. Red Star’s pre-war match against the Croatian Partizans – beloved of its fascist president Franjo Tudjman who had adorned the team he once led with wartime Ustashe icons – ended in a pitched battle.

It was Margaret Thatcher who famously described football hooligans as “a disgrace to civilised society” – the very words we later used about the murderers of Serbia. In Glasgow, Protestant supporters of Rangers would sit in separate stands – “We’re up to our knees in Fenian blood,” they would roar in unison – from fans of the Catholic Celtic football club.

Here.

Where to Shoot an Epic About Afghanistan? China, Where Else?

Filming of The Kite Runner, NYT:

In addition to keen eyes Ms. Dowd needed extraordinary patience. She spoke, for example, of having to drink 45 cups of tea with the director of one French-run school in Kabul before the director trusted her enough to let her tour his 25 classrooms. He then granted her all of three mornings to complete her search.

On her ninth classroom, running out of tricks, she asked the students who was the naughtiest kid in class. “There was one child who stood out as the most extroverted, but right next to him there was another boy who was quiet, but who was responding to the scene,” said Ms. Dowd, speaking of an 11-year-old named Kekiria Ebrahimi. “There was a special little moment of energy from him, and it stayed with me. He ended up playing Amir.”

A precociously witty 10-year-old, Ahmad Khan Mahmiidzada, plays the role of Hassan, the servant boy who is betrayed by his best friend, Amir. The boys did not know each other before being brought to western China for the filming, but off camera they became close. And while there is no confusing reality and fiction for either, at a fundamental level the story in which they are acting rubs against the grain of their friendship and seems to trouble them.

Here.

12.11.1986

Note: My short-lived attendance at Ricks College in the small town of Rexburg, Idaho twenty years ago was a defining stage of my life. Mostly for unpleasant reasons. Taking an extremely impulsive anarchist skate punk from California and putting them in the Rexburg of 1986, what can you expect? My being an 18-year-old with the maturity of a 9-year-old didn’t help, either. But it was in Rexburg that I fell in love with photography and abandoned my academic career to follow my passion.

These entries are written from the journals I kept when I was 18. -Trent

Thursday, December 11, 1986

Today was my last day in Rexburg. I was going to drive home tonight. Pam would also be leaving for home, and her boyfriend.

Pam and I went to Pizza Hut for a garlic bread dinner. We talked for a while, and she made me promise not to “scam on Tina” on the drive home (I was dropping Tina off in Sacramento). We went to her place and hung out in her bedroom for a long time. We kissed and talked, we exchanged necklaces. Her boyfriend is coming out next semester and she’s worried that he’ll leave the church if she breaks up with him. She converted him, and I think she’s the reason he’s doing it. I was sad, but I understood; that had been the agreement of the ten-day fling. Ten days only, and this was the last one. It would soon be over. It was starting to hit me hard and then she grabbed my hand and wrote these words on my palm: “Trent… I love you, too.”

I can’t begin to explain how much those words inked on my hand meant to me.

It was curfew. I had to leave her apartment. We still had a half-hour where we could sit together in the lounge. But after that it was time to leave. We kissed a bunch and then I saw that Pam was crying. I was so touched. It made me feel so special. I knew right then that I had never loved another person as much as her.

I left, and parked alone on the hill by the intramural football fields. I cried so hard.

I saw Pam one more time before we left, at 2:30am when I picked up Tina. We exchanged letters, kissed, and I began the seventeen-hour drive home.

(38: The minute I got home I went out into the garage and stuck my hand on the copy machine, to preserve Pam’s words on my hand. And with that photo-copy the series ends.)

12.10.1986

Note: My short-lived attendance at Ricks College in the small town of Rexburg, Idaho twenty years ago was a defining stage of my life. Mostly for unpleasant reasons. Taking an extremely impulsive anarchist skate punk from California and putting them in the Rexburg of 1986, what can you expect? My being an 18-year-old with the maturity of a 9-year-old didn’t help, either. But it was in Rexburg that I fell in love with photography and abandoned my academic career to follow my passion.

These entries are written from the journals I kept when I was 18. -Trent

Wednesday, December 10, 1986

I woke up found that my car was attacked last night. Three tires were slashed and my license plates were stolen. I had the police make a report, got the car towed, and got new tires. I found out later that some returned missionary had been arrested in the parking lot, all hysterical and drunk. A random attack.

SNFU-Shoe spiked my hair (now a mohawk) and we took Tina and Pam to Idaho Falls. We came back and found that our band was playing at a party. It was at Duane’s. We played for a while, then the cops came. Pam had taken off with my car so I had to wait for her return. Some drunk “icky” girl tried to pick up on me, then Pam showed up and rescued me. We went over by K-mart and parked, talking for a while. I knew it was against the rules of our non-committal ten-day fling, but I told her I loved her. She didn’t say she loved me back.

We went to the Galleria just after midnight, getting in free. A lot of people were hassling me about my mohawk, so we left after just ten minutes.

Back at #20, Pam and I were in the front room. Roommate Charlie come out and wouldn’t leave, trying to be a chaperone. After a half-hour he finally left and we made-out on the couch, then went to sleep on my bed.

Review: Tiger Force

Tiger Force: A True Story of Men and War

Tiger Force, Michael Sallah and Mitch Weiss,
[rating:5/5]

This is a harrowing book. Especially reading it now, looking back on Vietnam with an eye on Iraq. Tiger Force was an elite group of US special forces working in free-fire zones in Central Vietnam. Some of these units were investigated (though never charged) with war crimes against Vietnamese civilians. All the stories you’ve heard of GI’s collecting necklaces of ears, elderly farmers beaten down with rifle butts, and even baby-killing are all here in graphic detail. And while I couldn’t put the book down, it left me feeling ill. The descriptions make you feel like you’re there, sweating with the soldiers in the Song Ve valley:

It wasn’t long before the team leader began complaining about the Song Ve. The platoon should be hunting VC, and instead they were stuck looking for villagers…The blisters on their feet were starting to break into open sores, and the men were constantly complaining of the overwhelming smell of manure blowing from the rice patties, where the villagers used animal and human waste to fertilize the fields. Two of the newcomers had carelessly pulled leeches from their legs earlier in the day, leaving wounds so deep the medics were worried about infections setting in.

Private Gary Kornatowski was already hobbling from the cuts in his shins left by the nasty green creatures. When he took off his boots earlier in the day, he had noticed his legs were covered and had quickly begun pulling off the leaches with his hands. The whole country was a collection of vampires, large and small.

The book covers the unit’s apparent devolution into barbarity as they lose comrades and realize that their task is impossible:

There were no real rules and regulations anymore. Half the unit had grown long, scraggly beards and had cut the sleeves off their uniforms. Kerrigan, Ybarra, and several others were openly wearing necklaces of ears, and others were carrying severed ears in pouches. Whenever the smell of rotting flesh was too strong, Ybarra would toss away his current necklace and make a new one from ears he carried in a ration bag filled with vinegar.

Most of the men had lost a great deal of weight, their faces gaunt, ribs protruding when they peeled off their shirts. At least a dozen were hooked on amphetamines and constantly pestered the medics for daily allowances.

The last third of the book leaves the jungle and covers an Army CID investigation in the atrocities. Though it seems obvious that their commanders had to know what was happening, and at least two soldiers admitted to murdering civilians, no charges were ever filed:

Charles Fulton was even more revealing, because he not only admitted to tossing grenades into a bunker but later heard the cries of the people underground. No one, he said, bothered to help the wounded Vietnamese. He freely admitted there were no weapons or signs of Vietcong.

Aspey wondered, Could this have been a routine practice? It violated the Army’s policies and procedures and the Geneva conventions. Worse, because there were so many bunkers, no one would ever know how many in the province were turned into mass underground graves.

He wondered with a growing sense of dread how far up the chain of command this case went.

Tiger Force, Michael Sallah and Mitch Weiss,
[rating:5/5]

Seen On The Streets of Tehran

Wooster Collective:

One of the most interesting email correspondences we’ve maintained this year is with a group of Iranian graffiti writers living in Tehran. While the communication hasn’t been easy, every time we open an email from A1one we feel like the reason for updating the Wooster site has been re-confirmed to us.

The images above were sent to us a week or so ago with the line – “It was th worst work in Tehran,,, some about Mind Control by Our Gov ,aome a teasand joke with the Voting which is in friday to choose Islamic leaders comity..”

Here.

12.6.1986 – 12.8.1986

Note: My short-lived attendance at Ricks College in the small town of Rexburg, Idaho twenty years ago was a defining stage of my life. Mostly for unpleasant reasons. Taking an extremely impulsive anarchist skate punk from California and putting them in the Rexburg of 1986, what can you expect? My being an 18-year-old with the maturity of a 9-year-old didn’t help, either. But it was in Rexburg that I fell in love with photography and abandoned my academic career to follow my passion.

These entries are written from the journals I kept when I was 18. -Trent

Saturday, December 6, 1986

We rented a VCR and three movies: “Hitcher”, “Party Animal” and a tape of Captain America cartoons. Pam had faked her way into an overnight pass, so she was out for the night.

At about 3am, Pam and I went in on Joe’s bed. We made out and around 4am we went downstairs to my room at #20 and went to sleep in my bed. It was the first time I had ever shared a bed with a girl and I don’t think I ever fell asleep. Pam was out, and the whole night I was so worried about disturbing her peace that I just laid awake trying not to move.

Sunday, December 7, 1986

After sleeping in my room, Pam and I woke up at 4pm in the afternoon. But we couldn’t leave the room right away; Jud Miller from the Bishopric was in the front room, and we would have been in trouble if he found out that she was in my room.

I took Pam home and she made me a late breakfast. She also talked me into going to the Christmas Conference message. Pam is, I would say, very religious.

Monday, December 8, 1986

Bought three boxes of magic colors candy cigarettes (Hey man, cool!).

Band practice.

Went to my aunt’s house for dinner. Took Dave and SNFU-Shoe. Ate. Played guitar a little. Left. Went to dorms where we were supposed to be a lot earlier. Gave Tina and Pam Hershey’s Giant Kisses. They were appeased.

Called home.

Lit a smoke bomb in our room.

Millwall brick

Wikipedia:

In the late 1960s — in response to violence at football matches in England — police began confiscating any objects that could be used as weapons. These items included steel combs, pens, beermats, polo mints, shoelaces and even boots.

However, fans were still permitted to bring in newspapers. Larger newspapers such as The Guardian or The Financial Times work best for a Millwall brick, and the police looked with suspicion at working class football fans who carried such newspapers. Because of their more innocent appearance, tabloid newspapers became the newspapers of choice for Millwall bricks.

The book Spirit of ’69: A Skinhead Bible describes the use of Millwall bricks by British football hooligans (not just skinheads) in the late 1960s:

Newspapers were rolled up tightly to form the so-called Millwall Brick and another trick was to make a knuckleduster out of pennies held in place by a wrapped around paper. You could hardly be pulled up for having a bit of loose change in your pocket and a Daily Mirror under your arm.

The book Skinhead says, “The Millwall brick, for example, was a newspaper folded again and again and squashed together to form a cosh.”

Here.

12.5.1986

Note: My short-lived attendance at Ricks College in the small town of Rexburg, Idaho twenty years ago was a defining stage of my life. Mostly for unpleasant reasons. Taking an extremely impulsive anarchist skate punk from California and putting them in the Rexburg of 1986, what can you expect? My being an 18-year-old with the maturity of a 9-year-old didn’t help, either. But it was in Rexburg that I fell in love with photography and abandoned my academic career to follow my passion.

These entries are written from the journals I kept when I was 18. -Trent

Friday, December 5, 1986

After the girls’ curfew a bunch of us, Jeff, SNFU-Shoe, Drake, Dave, Jay, Joe, Jeff, and I got a bunch of weapons and went out looking for rednecks to fight. We were walking down the streets of Rexburg in a large pack, like a gang. For weapons, everyone carried whatever they had been able to find. I was carrying tear gas, another guy had nunchucks, another a skateboard. One guy was carrying a kitchen knife.

We had pre-arranged what we would do if any campus police drove by, and when one did we all scattered in different directions like we were guilty of something. The cop jumped out with his gun and started yelling into the darkness, “I could have shot you!”

We found no further adventure.

Somalia Defeats Rwanda To Win Third-World Cup

The Onion:

“Never have the words ‘win or go home’ provided such inspiration to any team,” Bin-Shakur said. “I am overcome with joy, as well as hunger, and I look forward to bringing the Third-World Cup trophy home to my country.”

The Third-World Cup trophy, an AK-47 coated with gold spray-paint and mounted on a pallet of United Nations staple foods, has already been seized by Somali troops and distributed amongst ranking military officers.

Here.

Islamist Forces in Somalia Are on the Retreat

NYT:

But all that changed last Wednesday at dawn when the Islamists attacked Baidoa from two directions. Witnesses said that their waves of young fighters were summarily mowed down by the more experienced (and older) Ethiopian-backed troops. On Saturday, the Islamists announced that Somalia was now open to Muslim fighters across the world who wanted to wage a jihad against Ethiopia, which has a long Christian history though it is actually about half Muslim.

The next day, Ethiopia struck.

With warplanes and tanks, the Ethiopian military pushed deep into Somalia and began uprooting the Islamists from their positions. Meles Zenawi, Ethiopia’s prime minister, said his country had been forced into war by the Islamists and that Ethiopia would try to neutralize the threat as quickly as possible.

The toll is rising in Mogadishu. At Benadir hospital, crowds of women pushed at the gates to get inside to see their wounded sons and husbands. Witnesses said the hospital’s courtyards were stacked with dozens of corpses buzzing with flies. Some of the women even threw stones at the Islamist commanders visiting the hospital and shouted, “Why have you done this to us?”

Here.