text:
Welcome to WebmasterWorld Guest from 22.214.171.124
Forum Moderators: not2easy
Then pasted my article.
I contacted Google/Blogger about this and they sent me this email:
Blogger Support
What should I do if the person doesn't take the article down?
[edited by: digitalghost at 2:45 am (utc) on April 21, 2006]
[edited by: rogerd at 2:57 am (utc) on April 21, 2006]
[edit reason] No Email Quotes or Specifics Please [/edit]
--That's an honest "If". I really don't know how Blogger's system is set up.
Maybe someone who has more experience with this can chime in, but my understading of the DMCA is that if they host the content, and you file a DMCA complaint, they must take action of one kind or another.
I have had plenty of experience with DMCA reports and web hosts (not blogs) but maybe this will help. Some hosta will remove the content immediately upon receipt of a DMCA (usually freebie hosts) if you provide enough proof that anyone with eyeballs can tell who the original owner is.
Other hosts will reply to your DMCA with a letter saying they have told the other person to provide proof they own the article. And if they do (even though it may be a lie) the host will do nothing about it and tell you to take the person to court, i.e., they will bounce the ball back in your court.
Sooooo, the more proof you can offer in the original DMCA the better your chances are they will force the other person to remove the content.
Except for official copyright registration of your article the best proof is 3rd party proof. If your article has been online more than a year it will be included in the WayBackMachine so use that as one of your sources as proof that you had it online longer. If you posted it on the internet in a newsletter with dates on it that may be sufficient proof that you posted it first. One method to get good 3td party proof it to get a browser copy of your article (a copy that saves images, code and html) as soon as it shows up in Google's Cache because it also has a date on it.
However, none of those prove who actually wrote it. If you have a Copyright registration Number, that is the best proof.
Then, I went ahead and filed a DMCA with Google (without asking them if I should.) I mailed it all by snail mail and the thing must have been 30 pages long. It wasn't long before Google responded, saying that the situation was rectified. When I checked, the blog was "redone" and fresh. Everything was deleted and a new one was up.
I was happy with Google's quick response but surprised that they allowed the person to keep using their service, given the severity of the violation. Of course, I'm assuming the same person took over the URL, which I do believe is true, but not definate.
Terms of Service
Someone is linking to images on my server, how do I stop this [help.blogger.com]?
Here's [help.blogger.com] their answer:
Blogger is a provider of content creation tools, not a mediator of that content. We allow our users to create blogs, but we don't make any claims about the content of these pages. In cases where a contact email address is listed on the page, we recommend working directly with the author to have this situation remedied.
Additionally, there are measures you can (and should) take to protect your images from being linked to, described in the following articles:
* Apache-Server.com, "Preventing Image 'Theft' [apache-server.com]"
* Webmaster World discussion thread, "Using htaccess to prevent image linking [webmasterworld.com]"
Please follow up with your web host if you have any questions about implementing these techniques.
That's not an answer.
That's an excuse.
(And man, that last line is almost as obnoxious as if they'd said, 'Please reinstall your system software.')
Blogger/Blogspot is a "team in Google [blogger.com]" so I think Rainie's advice is spot-on, particularly seeing as how its TOS [blogger.com] includes the following footer:
"Copyright � 1999 - 2006 Google"
Blogger can 'say' it's not responsible till the cows come home, but when leading blog and group sites accept DMCA notices, and even make it easy to file same, it's outrageous Blogger tries to shirk responsibility.
Instead, by doing nothing, they re-victimize their members' victims.
(Aside: It's even semi-outrageous Google doesn't accept DMCA notice of copyright infringement [google.com] via e-mail. I've filed multiple DMCAs with Yahoo, MSN and MySpace against their members' copyright infringements and they've ALL enabled e-mail filing, and some even web forms. And they've ALL yanked the infringing materials.)
What would happen if you opened several different blogs and posted copyrighted material from some gigantic media corporation? Would they care then?
...though I have found it on several forums (copied and pasted without a link or the author listed). One forum moderator told me that the postings would eventually drop out of the forum so I shouldn't worry.
Suggesting of course, you are the low-life. Shameful, IMHO.


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subset: commoncrawl


text: Hello folks, it's been awhile since I've been on here. I have a few questions about the bronco bass. I play alot of RUSH covers and go for the geddy tone. I played a black bronco at guitar center yesterday, it had a really nice punch, I played a few LEE licks on it and it sounded pretty good. I'm a huge Jazz Bass/Rick guy, I have smaller hands, but love Ricks. So, my question is....would I look silly playing that bass in public? I don't want to go around looking like a kid, playing with a kid's toy. I can't afford alot, but I'm saving up for another 4003, or Geddy Lee signature Jazz. I'm not 100% sure this is the bass I'm going with yet, it is on layaway for a few days at GC, but if I do end up purchasing it..what would you think? I know it's not full scale, but I was playing some pretty sweet riffs...maybe geddy's stuff sounds good on ANY bass, I love the flexability of a short scale, and the look of a long scale. IS there anyway to add elephant ear tuners to the headstock? Also...what could I do for a different pickguard? I've owned/sold probably over a dozen basses throught the last 5 years, I was thinking I'd buy this.....and play it/use it while saving up for something better, fair plan? ANy insight would help, thanks!


text:
|First, some comments by Sam:
Unity is the only way the human race will survive. Below is a story of a Dutch woman, who fled to Russia from Hitler's menace, only to spend 11 years in prison camps. What happened to her could happen to any of us if we allow the forces to maneuver us into that position. Watch for the warning signs and speak out before it is too late.
I've read most of the books on Hitler and his rise to power. Just like the Russian people who became enslaved, the German people also became enslaved. In the beginning, they encouraged what they thought was a way to a better life. And just like the Russian people, the German people eventually were put in a position of fear; fear of saying the wrong thing, fear of their neighbors, the police, strangers, or anyone who might turn them in as traitors.
It was not only deemed unpatriotic to speak out against the government, it became treason; with prison or death awaiting them. It can happen here! Listen to the words of the politicians who stand to gain from their rhetoric. Compare their words with those of Stalin or Hitler, you will find similes. There are many parallels. Before they become all powerful and you (Yes, you! Money, possessions, political positions did not protect the those people.) find yourself worrying about prison or death, speak out.Happy Fourth of July - Let's hope this isn't the last one. May God bless us and the troops fighting for their beliefs, and damn those who cause death and destruction for their own selfish gain.
following speech was given by Hermann Goering at the Nuremberg Trials in
1945. "Of
course the people don't want war. But after all, it's the leaders of the
country who determine the policy, and it's always a simple matter to
drag the people along whether it's a democracy, a fascist dictatorship,
or a parliament or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the
people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That's easy.
All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the
pacifist for lack of patriotism, and exposing them to greater
Peace can never be achieved on any
lasting basis without greater understanding between people. When will
our consciences grow so tender that we will act to prevent human misery
rather than avenge it?
I printed the forward and first chapter of her book on my site to encourage you to read and make yourself aware. You can purchase the book through Amazon. It is not only a true, fascinating story, but it is a strong warning to beware of the possibility of it happening to you. People will read this, laugh and say "This couldn't happen here." People in Germany and Russia laughed too, then one day they awoke to the horror.
In this book, I have described my personal experiences only to the extent that they were the characteristic experiences of a prisoner in the Soviet Union. For my concern is not primarily with the foreigners in Soviet camps; it is rather with the fate of all the peoples who have been subjugated by the Soviet regime, who were born in a Soviet Republic and cannot escape from it.
The Russian people, and the other peoples of the Soviet Union, cannot be equated with the Soviet government. Though they may have brought it into being, they are now the helpless victims of a ruling caste whose arbitrariness they must endure in silence. They have not the slightest chance to control their rulers. It is easy to condemn "the Russians"-but to do so is to do the Russian people a great injustice. For only would-be suicides and heroes can raise their voice against the decisions of their government in Russia. There are few such people in Russia, as there are few everywhere in the world. And it is not only that speaking out is courting death; objectors will be liquidated in absolute secrecy and can be certain that scarcely anyone will ever hear about their resistance.
Let us therefore avoid passing judgment on the Russian people. They are already condemned to the most horrible kind of existence: living in perpetual fear.
Who are the so-called counterrevolutionaries who make up the majority of the prisoners in Soviet camps? Are they guilty, are they innocent? There can be only one answer. From the standpoint of objective, non~Soviet justice, and from the standpoint of the strictest kind of class justice as well, these people are innocent. Of all the millions of persons in Soviet prisons and camps, very few have consciously taken action against the government in speech or in writing, by demonstrating or by attempting to escape from the Soviet Union. Their number is so small that they are insignificant in the great mass of prisoners. Only after spending many years in camp is one likely, with luck, to meet up with a "genuine" counterrevolutionary.
It is courting error to suggest hard and fast rules about the reasons for imprisonment. The machinery of injustice, once it has begun moving, behaves illogically and wantonly. It is not for nothing that we speak of "blind" terror. Nevertheless, the so-called counterrevolutionaries fall into two main categories.
Those who by reason of their origin, their education, their nationality, their past political behavior or their general cultural level are or could be potential opponents of the regime. This need not mean that they have ever committed the slightest offense. On the contrary, though as members of Soviet society they could not help feeling discomfort, most of them were not even conscious of any such feeling until the moment they were arrested. They did not want to be conscious of it. That is especially true of the members of the Communist Party and the Young Communist League, whose ey9s were opened to the results of their own work only after they were imprisoned.
2)The second, and by far the largest group, consists of "counterrevolutionaries" who were politically and socially neutral and who have obviously been arrested solely to increase the supply of slave labor.
One consequence of all these arrests has been complete intimidation of the people. No one knows what group will be struck tomorrow, whether it will be "undisciplined" workers, or peasants whose harvest proved too small, or national minorities, or "insubordinate" Russians, or government officials, or army officers, or members of the intelligentsia who today are proud of being "proletarian intellectuals" and who tomorrow may be denounced as corrupt cosmopolitans. There is no security foranyone in the Soviet Union, just as the word "security" does nbt exist in the Russian language-the only word covering that concept means "lack of danger."
And so a generation of children is growing up there whose first word is "Talin" (Stalin), and who speedily learn that there are questions which must never be asked, answers which can never be given. Throughout life all the members of a great nation are forced to mask their faces. Millions of human beings struggle to prove their guiltlessness anew every day, without ever being able to prove it comp~tely. For when the day of arrest comes, nothing counts, neither work nor merit, neither heroism nor submissiveness, neither wisdom nor silence. There are so many who die in the camps, and the gaps must be filled.
I have not based this book on any notes I took during my imprisonment. Taking notes is suicidal in the Soviet Union. But during eleven years of imprisonment everything that happens in the world beyond the barbed wire becomes as intangible and unreal as a dream. The only reality is the land of wooden watch towers-our land, the land of prisoners. Reality is the, one white highway along the ridge of the white ravine where the frozen river flows, a highway of loneliness and howling snowstorms which leads straight into the silence of the white forests. If you have shoveled the endless snow upon that road, you never forget it. If you have jolted mile after mile over that road in a jammed truck, incapable of moving your numbed limbs from under your neighbor's numbed limbs, you will not forget that road.
Everything we once knew-lines from our favorite poems, foreign languages, history-more and more vanished from our minds. At last we even forgot how to despair over this sinking down into a dull, brutish indifference. The number of ounces in the bread ration became more important than all the dates in world history. We can no more forget how many ounces were distributed where and when than we can forget those places which often had no names, just a number in kilometers, but which meant life or death to us.
The events I describe are the daily experiences of thousands of people in the Soviet Union. They are the findings of an involuntary expedition into an unknown land: the land of Soviet prisoners, of the guiltless damned. From that region I have brought back with me the silence of the Siberian graveyards, the deathly silence of those who have frozen, starved, or been beaten to death. This book is an attempt to make that silence speak.
Night a few more persons vanished from the hotel which housed the professional revolutionaries from every country of the globe. In the morning there would be large red seals pasted on ~he doors of a few more rooms.
The others waited tensely to see who would be next. Social intercourse stagnated. Ea~h Party member, after returning from meetings where he had inveighed against trait~, spies, and saboteurs, and passed lengthy resolutions calling for the liquidation of the enemies of the people, settled down in his room to brood about the arrest of Comrade Z. Each wondered: Can it possibly incriminate me?
But how could anyone imagine that Z, such an old Bolshevik. . . . Of course Z had once been accused of right deviations from the Party line back in 1923. But after all that was a long time ago, and an accusation wasn't a crime. There must be some other reason for his arrest. The NKVD knew what it was about. But what had he done, what had he done? Could people conceal their true selves so thoroughly? After all, Z was an old friend. That was just it; that could get you
into trouble. The best thing to do was not to associate with anybody.
The guests of the hotel kept away from one another. They began weighing every word carefully before they spoke. They observed one another, slyly, suspiciously. Why did the Party secretary give me that queer look today? And the boss left the office without saying goodby! Are there any charges against me? But I haven't done anything; I'm completely innocent.
They were all innocent, and they were all afraid. They were innocent, and they started up whenever they heard an unfamiliar sound on the stairs. They were innocent, and they tossed sleeplessly in their beds at night.
Until it happened - and the torment of waiting was replaced by the torture of the prison cell. They came at night, when the last worrier in the big hotel had finally fallen asleep.
I started up. Was it a dream, or had someone knocked? There it was again, once, twice, three times-a loud, harsh, insistent knocking. It sounded like the roll of thunder, loud enough to wake everyone in the hotel. A man's voice called out, "Open the door!"
I had to get something on - quickly. I could not find the sleeves of my robe. Why was I trembling so? I had done nothing. I had committed no crime against the state.
Again the impatient, threatening voice: "Open the door!"
Three officers entered. The stripes on their uniforms showed that they were members of the NKVD, the state political police. They were stiff but courteous.
"Your name?"
"Elinor Lipper."
He found the name on the list and nodded. One of the others leafed through a sheaf of papers. He extracted one and handed it to me. All I knew of Russian was the alphabet. But I could make out a few international words. "O-r-d-e-r...A-r-r-e-s-t...."
And my name.
While I dressed the three tall men considerately looked away. I sat for a moment on the edge of my couch, uncomprehending. I was stunned, without a thought in my head. And I felt nothing, neither hope nor fear nor indignation. Then they began searching my room. They did not finish until nine o'clock in the morning.
Instead of taking the elevator they walked me down the six flights of stairs to the street, in plain view of the whole hotel. Familiar and unfamiliar faces stared at me, paled and turned away. No one greeted me; no one indicated that he knew me.
I took my last automobile ride through the streets of Moscow. One NKVD officer sat beside me, another beside the driver. I was taken to Lubyanka, the central NKVD prison in the heart of Moscow. Iron double doors opened. The soldiers on guard saluted. The inside courtyard was surrounded by a high brick wall. The sun glared on the asphalt pavement.
I was inside of the first of my ten Soviet prisons. The first day of eleven years of imprisonment had begun.
Reception in Prison
The first search of my person. An indifferent woman guard "shook me down" with practiced hands. My papers, watch, ring, money, and pocketbook were taken away. Then the iron door of a small cell was shut behind me, and six women began talking to me all at once. I wanted to tell them. that I did not understand Russian; then I realized that my voice was choked with tears. Without a word I sat down in a corner.
That same night I was taken to another prison. Not in an ordinary automobile this time. I sat inside the dark cavern of a prison van that carried me swiftly into the unknown. My stomach contracted with fear. Now they were going to kill me. Nonsense, why should they?
The van raced through the streets.
If I had been arrested for nothing, I could be shot for nothing. Take it easy, take it easy, I said to myself; you're a coward. How hard it was to breathe inside this gloomy box.
The van raced through the streets.
Now they are going to kill me. My forehead was wet with cold perspiration. I clambered out of the van. More iron doors, courtyards, walls and iron doors. I entered the huge vaults of Butyrka Prison. And everywhere there were soldiers, soldiers, and more soldiers.
Each prisoner who is brought to Butyrka Prison is first taken to a room where she must strip naked. A woman guard runs her fingers through the prisoner's hair, examines her ears and nostrils, pokes around in her mouth, looks under her armpits and into her anus, then makes the naked prisoner do knee bends, and finishes with a gynecological examination. All buttons, hooks, eyes, and elastics are removed from her clothes and all pockets and seams are searched. Then the prisoner is allowed to get dressed again.
I walked down endless corridors and stairways, then more corridors filled with an ominous silence. Infrequently, a low murmuring from one of the cells was audible. Still more corridors. Wire nets were stretched between flights of Stairs to prevent the possibility of suicide as a way of escaping interrogation. An iron door was opened and closed behind me.
The Cell
A collective cell for women. It seemed like a mass tomb. The cell did have windows, but like all windows in Soviet prisons these were not only barred but also masked with boards, so that you could never see anything but a small segment of the sky. Heavy stone pillars rose up to the vaulted ceiling, in the center of which hung a naked electric bulb that burned day and night. The gray stone walls, stained by huge spots of moisture and mold, were alive with thousands of bedbugs. One corner of the floor was covered by inches of water. Some seventy women sat on a platform of rough boards laid about half a yard above the stone floor and covering the entire cell from wall to wall, except for a small space near the entrance. There were neither blankets, mattresses, nor straw sacks. A few lucky women owned prized blankets which they had been allowed to take with them when they were arrested. An oppressive stench took your breath away when you came in; it was the mingled odors of seventy cramped, perspiring women's bodies, and of the moldy stone walls.
I did not know where to step, for every inch of space was taken up by the bodies of half-dressed women. This cell had been intended originally for twenty-four prisoners. It now held seventy; later the number was to increase to eighty and ultimately to ninety-five.
One of the prisoners, called the cell orderly as I later learned, pushed her way through the mob of women and measured out a space for me about sixteen inches wide. Then she gave me a wooden spoon and a tin cup.
Butyrka Prison in Moscow holds an average of thirty thousand prisoners, but it is only one of the five large Moscow prisons for suspects still under examination-that is, persons
Eleven Years in Soviet Prison Camps not yet convicted of any crime. The others are Lubyanka, Lifortovo Military Prison, Navinka Prison and Targanka Prison. The two last-named are also used for criminals; the other three are reserved for political prisoners.
In all the cells in Butyrka the custom is to allot space for each prisoner according to the length of time he has been in prison. The best places near the window are given to those who have been in custody longest. The newcomers are as-signed to the corner near the slop bucket, which in all Russian prisons is poetically called parasha-actually a diminutive of Praskovia, a common woman's name. When a prisoner is taken out of the cell, the rest move up strictly according to the order of their arrest. No exceptions are made for sickness or age.
In general it is amazing to a foreigner to see how little consideration a modern Soviet citizen shows for the aged or the sick. In the tough life of the Soviet Union a person cay} get along only by jabbing hard with both elbows, and apparently no one has the time or the wish to perform even the slightest service for the old and infirm. In addition, nothing in Soviet education inspires young people to respect age as such, without regard for special merits.
From the moment he is arrested the prisoner is kept in constant suspense. No matter what is done to him or where he is taken, he is given no explanation. This permanent uncertainty and complete helplessness in the grip of a silent, uncanny power, produces in every prisoner exactly what it is expected to produce: fear. He begins to fear every change in his condition. Perhaps it may be a change for the better-but he is afraid anyhow. And the NKVD plays with virtuoso skill upon this fear. Even when the prisoner is not called for interrogation, he is never allowed to settle down. The big collective cells are continually being reorganized and the inmates distributed among other cells. At least once a month the entire cell is called out for a physical search, which the prisoners call "the dry bath." Again you are made to strip naked; the last button is cut off your dress; ribbons that you painfully wove out of threads are confiscated, as well as the sewing needles which all the women make out of the teeth of combs. Then again you will be called out for fingerprinting, and again to be photographed for the rogues' gallery. From both these procedures most women returned sobbing.
The prisoners are eternally suspicious of one another, for there is at least one person in each cell who informs the authorities of everything her fellow prisoners say. These informers are also supposed to urge the other prisoners to confess to whatever they are charged with, since there is no use resisting.
Prisoners who are subjected to specially strict interrogations (in other words, physical abuse) are generally kept in Lubyanka or Lifortovo prisons, or in the special section (osoby korpus) of Butyrka, where they occupy single or double cells. But occasionally, as an object lesson to the others, a few of these black-and-blue and swollen victims of long interrogations are put into the collective cells to demonstrate to the newcomers that the threats of the examining judges are not empty talk. But the months of waiting for the first interrogation is in itself enough to wear down the prisoners. Most prisoners enter the cell with the quiet assumption that they are innocent. Soon enough they become anxious, sleepless hysterics who all night long start at every sound and leap to their feet whenever anyone cries out.
For seven and a half months I sat in various collective cells without being called for interrogation a single time, without even having my personal data taken down. At first I expected hourly that my arrest would prove to be a mistake. I pictured the whole scene in detail-how they would apologize to me:"Regrettable error, particularly regrettable since you are a foreigner. .
I sent a petition to Vyshiusky, then chief state prosecutor of the Soviet Union, pointing out that it was unconstitutional to hold a prisoner for more than six months without informing him of the charge against him. My petition was of course not answered.
And so I had plenty of leisure time to look back upon the path that had led me to this prison.
How I Came to the Soviet Union
I heard about Russia for the first time when I was nine years old. A lady who was not particularly well informed told me about a country where there were no longer any rich people or poor people, where everybody had to work equally, and where all received just as much money as they needed for food and clothing.
"Do you like the idea?" she asked me.
"No, I don't," I said after thinking it over for a while.
"Why not?"
"Because then nobody would have money to give presents." When I was eleven years old my father told me and my brother about the Belgian workers' children who had emptied their savings banks to help starving Russian children. Both my brother and I listened to the tale with obstinate indifference, and neither of us rushed off to fetch his savings bank. What did we know about Russia and her famine? Hurt by our heartless reaction, my father silently walked out of the room. I have never forgotten his look of disappointment, although I did not understand his emotion until much later. He was thinking that something was wrong with our normal, secure, middle-class upbringing if it made children so unfeeling about the sufferings of others. (We were carefully shielded from suffering, of course.)
When I was fourteen my schoolmates and I laughed heartily at a teacher of ours who took part in the workers' demonstration on May 1. To think of a teacher making herself ridiculous by
tramping through the streets with such a parade! None of us thought about what might lie behind this parade. But I felt real sympathy for the sorrows of the Dutch fisher women whom I saw waiting at the port on stormy days in November, and often waiting in vain for their menfolk to return.
When a girl-friend asked me whether I had read a certain article in the newspaper, I answered with sixteen~year-old haughtiness that I never looked at the newspapers. "They're all full of filth," I said. My political views at that time were confined to two simple principles: war and capital punishment should be abolished. Why should I waste my time on newspapers when there were Wassermann, Dostoyevsky, Rilke, and Stefan George to read?
When I graduated from high school my principal asked me what I expected to study for. When I told him I was still hesitating between medicine and the liberal arts, he said smilingly, "Why not-editor of a pacifist magazine?" My classmates roared with laughter.
In 1931, when I began studying medicine in Berlin, student life was full of political tensions. The Chinese wall behind which I had lived so peacefully in my native Holland was beginning to crumble. For the first time I met students who were working their way through the university. They spoke enthusiastically about a country where gifted young people could go to school without paying for their tuition. That country was the Soviet Union. (In 1942 fees for higher education were reintroduced there.) We had endless discussions about free love and women's right to have abortions. There was one country in the world which gave this right to women-Soviet Russia. (In 1935 abortion was forbidden by law in the Soviet Uni9n and was declared a crime punish-able by eight years in a labor camp [Paragraph 148]. If the abortion took place after four and one half months of pregnancy the charge was murder and the sentence provided was ten years. Aiding and abetting an abortion was punishable by eight years imprisonment. Later, when I was in camp, I met a woman who had, had an abortion which was not discovered until she was again pregnant. Because of changed circumstances she wanted this second child. She was arrested and the baby was born in prison. She was convicted, given an eight-year sentence, and the baby was taken from her and given to her family at the time she was moved from prison to camp. The baby had been breast-fed, and the sudden separation from its mother was too much for it. It died soon afterward. The woman prisoner brooded and brooded over this: "I am being locked up for eight years on account of an unborn child, but my living child is torn away from me so that it will die...")
While I was at Berlin University I worked during vacations in the municipal hospital. For the first time I saw human misery close up. With other students I helped distribute milk among the children of the unemployed. To this day I can see an unemployed epileptic's six children staring at us with dumb suspicion, the oldest about ten years old, all with colorless
faces, overlarge heads and rachitic legs. Once your eyes were opened to social injustice it was impossible for you to shut them again, especially during the years 1931 and 1932 in Berlin. Men out of work loitered on every street, and political discussions went on at every street corner.
What first led me to socialism was a purely emotional reaction to this misery. It was only later that I fortified my belief by reading theoretical writings on socialism. The menace of the Nazi monster with its hateful ideology was coming dangerously near, while the Social Democratic government of Germany retreated step by step before it. It seemed impossible for a thinking person not to take a stand. I entered the "Red Student Group."
I thought I was casting my lot for a social order which would use modern technology for the benefit of the masses, rather than for a privileged upper crust, by nationalizing the land and the means of production:
A social order which by intelligent application of technology would make possible a six-hour working day and a five-day working week (achievements of the Russian Revolution which have long since been abolished), with the leisure time thus saved being used for the development of the individual personality.
A social order which would not resort to war to further its ends, because its people felt linked with the masses all over the world. Which recognized force as an evil and would use it only in the period of transition and only against those who used force against it.
A social order which freed its artists, architects and scientists from concern for their daily bread, so that they could devote their full energies to their artistic and scientific tasks.
A social order where there was no incentive or cause for
crime because all men were guaranteed a minimum livelihood that would enable them to live like dignified human beings. A few criminals would still exist, the heritage of former social conditions, but they would be re-educated rather than punished. We assumed that born criminals were relatively rare and that there would be very few such pathological cases.
That was and is my conception of socialism. For the sake of this ideal I left Germany in 1933. The same ideal impelled me to go to the Soviet Union in 1937. There I worked for two months in a publishing house that specialized in foreign literature. (Until 1934 I had tried to continue my medical studies in Italy, but I was unable to get the necessary academic documents out of Germany.)
After my first two months I was arrested.
The political path that had led me to the Soviet Union was perfectly clear, perfectly straightforward. Nothing I had done, said or planned could have justified my arrest. My only fault was my boundless naivete' in imagining that the Soviet Union was the realization of my ideas.
Even today, after my return from the Soviet Union, the idea of socialism seems to me the most reasonable solution to the social problem and its achievement the only guarantee that wars can be averted in the future. But today I know that the Soviet Union has no interest in the realization of this idea. The Soviet Union has betrayed socialism to the world; it has drowned the idea in blood. A believer in socialism cannot believe in the Soviet Union, for it is impossible to defend the slaughter of millions of innocent human beings and to claim at the same time that one is striving to benefit suffering humanity.
But at that time I did not yet know this. At that time I sat in my cell completely dazed, and waited. And I endured what thousands of women in this same prison endured. I was shifted from one collective cell to the other. I picked up Russian and heard my fellow prisoners' stories. Each new story that I heard made me see more and more, until at last I realized what I vainly tried not to realize: that all these people were as innocent as I was. Then my own suffering began to merge into the vast suffering of them all.
It is impossible to enumerate all the grotesque charges that bring people to Soviet prisons. Every one of the stories I have set down here is the story, with slight variations, of thousands and tens of thousands of unhappy Soviet people.
The Inmates of My Cell
In 1937 and 1938 about half of the inmates were Communist Party members or Young Communists. Three fourths of these were members of the Russian Communist Party; the rest be-longed to the Polish, Latvian or German parties. There were also some Hungarians and Rumanians. The rest of the inmates were housewives from every segment of the population. Some of them had been arrested on informers' charges; others because they were the wives of more or less prominent men.
Mrs. Rakovski, the wife of Soviet Ambassador Rakovski, was a Rumanian, a white-haired, sickly woman who suffered severe heart attacks every few weeks. Her neighbor in the cell was a dark-eyed, dark-haired, and stately woman, the wife of Prince Obolenski, who for years held a high position in the Soviet state and was a frequent visitor of Stalin's. Then there was a frail, slender, nervous person, a former student of philosophy, who was the wife of Alexander Serebrovsky, head of a huge copper trust. There was a full-bosomed woman with dyed blonde hair who tripped around the cell on high heels. She was the wife of Commander Silko. Lacking face powder, she powdered her nose with tooth powder when she was called to interrogations. This did not help her; like the others she was sentenced to eight years in camp for belonging to the family of a traitor. Rebuchkova, the wife of a high state functionary, was a woman in her fifties who had obviously been very beautiful in her youth. She suffered from gallstone attacks and would writhe on the floor~ screaming piteously. Lisa Geller, who had worked for the Soviet Trade Mission in Berlin, wept bitterly about her two small children whom she had left behind. The first wife of a member of the government, Meshlauk, was a woman of about forty with a tight-lipped, unyielding face. She was a fanatical communist and a person of great self-assurance. On suspicion of espionage she was sentenced to eight years in camp; she died of dysentery in 1938 while in the transit camp at Vladivostok. Mrs. Kossior, who had accompanied her husband on a foreign mission to Berlin, attempted suicide the night after she was convicted and sentenced to ten years for counterrevolutionary activity. She served her sentence in a Siberian camp near Mariinsk. Voronova, who was assistant to the People's Commissar for Light Industry, had formerly been a textile worker. By means of devotion to her work and absolute submissiveness she had risen to her high position. She was sentenced to ten years in prison for counterrevolutionary activity. In memory of her husband she had never remarried. He had died during the Civil War when the Whites surrounded and set fire to a stable in which he and his soldiers had barricaded themselves.
The secretary of Madame Stassova, chief of the International Red Aid (MOPR), was named Shvalova. When she was placed in our cell she did not speak to anyone and refused to answer our questions about events in Spain. She thought that we were all dangerous counter revolutionaries and that she alone was innocent. A military court sentenced her to fifteen years imprisonment. She was sent to Kolyma in northeastern Siberia and stayed there until she died at the beginning of the war.
Irina Kun, wife of the famous revolutionary Bela Kun, was given eight years on suspicion of espionage. She too was sent to Kolyma. She was frail to begin with, became incapable of work in Kolyma and was finally transferred to an invalid camp at Mariinsk.
These names represent only a portion of all the revolutionaries or the wives of revolutionaries whom I met in prison and camp. All of them, after more or less brutal interrogations, were given long prison sentences, whether or not they renounced their husbands, whether or not they had lived with them during the years before their arrest, whether or not. they had children or were pregnant. They were convicted and sentenced even when their husbands had committed suicide a year before their arrest-as was the case with the ballet dancer, Madame Lercher, of the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow. This charming, cultured dancer was an altogether unpolitical person. For a short time she had been married to a people's commissar of light industry who committed suicide after the first big Moscow trial in 1936. After his death he was accused of Trotskyism. A year later Madame Lercher was arrested on the same charge and sentenced to eight years in camp on account of her marriage to a man who had held a high post up to the moment of his death and who had been branded as a traitor only after his suicide. It was terribly moving to watch this woman persisting with dance exercises and gymnastics. Losing her suppleness meant for her losing her livelihood, and so she kept up her routines in the furthermost corner of the cell, because all such exercise was strictly forbidden. Her eyes filled with the sadness and the resignation of the prisoner, she moved her feet with magical lightness and performed lovely figures and pirouettes on the rough boards of the cell.
One prisoner who was a great consolation to us was Berta Alexandrovna B. A kindlier person than this near-sighted, enormously well-padded woman could not be imagined. Again and again she got into difficulties with the cell orderly because she could not lower her loud, hearty voice; she was always shouting encouragement to someone, with her head thrust close to the other's face so that she could see her. Her glasses had been taken away, of course, for anyone who had glass might use it to cut open her veins.
After the evening count, when each of us lay with her head between the often none-too-fragrant feet of her neighbor (we lay alternately, one with head and one with feet toward the wall, to take up less space), we could hear for a long time Berta Alexandrovna whispering loudly to her neighbor. It was a gross breach of regulations, but like many of us
suffered from insomnia. Now and then someone made her way awkwardly over the sleeping bodies to the bucket. We waited in suspense for Berta's turn to come. At last, slowly and majestically, the huge figure in the lavender dressing gown would rise. For a long time she would stand hesitantly looking for a free space for her first step. The massive raised leg would hover threateningly over the innocent sleeper; the near-sighted eyes appeared to detect an inch of clear space; and then she stepped down. There followed immediately the terrified shriek of the first victim. Berta, who was always considerate of everyone, would murmur an alarmed apology. The same ritual would be repeated, and she would take her second step, and then her third, each time convinced that she had really found a passage, and each time stepping on a head or stomach with the sureness of a somnambulist. Ten steps - ten cries of agony, curses, angry shouts, but rarely ,a helping hand. Ten times Berta, growing more and more disconcerted, would murmur polite apologies. It was very funny, and very sad.
Every morning she also took advantage of the confusion in the cell, as we prepared for being let out into the washroom, to try a few forbidden gymnastic exercises. She could not resign herself to this ban, for even during Tsarist times when she had served her first prison sentence, she had been allowed daily calisthenics. At that time she had been an active social revolutionary like her husband, who had also been arrested, although both had abandoned political action after the creation of the Soviet state. In order not to make trouble for their two sons, she and her husband had made no attempt to influence the children politically The sons had followed the regular course of Soviet youth, belonging first to the Pioneers, then to the Comsomols, the youth organization. Both became engineers and both were arrested in 1937 - because their parents had been arrested.
In spite of her family tragedy Berta had never lost a deep interest in other people, other countries, and in art, literature, and above all poetry. Her particular type of cultivated revolutionary has by now practically died out in Russia. The last representatives of the class vanished behind prison walls during 1937 and 1938. Foreigners who always think of Russians as anamalgam of Dostoyevsky and Gorky would be bitterly disappointed today. The search for truth, the urge to understand the meaning of life, is wholly alien to the younger generation which has passed through the school of the Communist Youth Organization. For them, all problems have been solved; there is a standard answer to every question. The language of these intellectually impoverished young people is larded with ready-made phrases. They quote Stalin instead of thinking for themselves; they derive their opinions from Pravda editorials. They are arrogant and complacent, and everything that pertains to them is the greatest thing there is: their country, their power, their leader. Theirs is also the greatest misery and oppression, but they are unaware of this, for they have never known anything but Soviet life. The members of this younger generation have neither sympathy nor understanding for their elders; there is no bond between them. If anyone puts forth a thought which does not fit into the pattern laid down by Stalin, they do not argue against it, but they react with such suspicion of the other's true intentions and hidden thoughts that he quickly learns to keep his ideas to himself. They are primitives who hate the unfamiliar.
There were a number of arrested Young Communists in our cell, and their attitude toward Berta Alexandrovna was a combination of suspicion and contempt. She spoke several foreign languages fluently and could become as enthusiastic about Michelangelo's sonnets as they about the dubious successes of the Five-Year Plan. Everything about Berta's emotional and intellectual world was foreign to the Young Communists, and therefore Berta, who had spent years of her life in Tsarist prisons for the sake of her ideals-was an enemy to them.
People like Berta Alexandrovna were doubly isolated. They were alone as every prisoner is, and they were cut off from the mass of the prisoners. Later I saw her again at Kolyma, when we had both been ten years in prison. Her grayish hair had turned snow-white; she had lost a great deal of weight, and folds of empty skin hung loose all over her body. Dead tired, she dragged her still-ponderous legs back to camp from work every evening. She was n6t likely to think of calisthenics now; every movement was a wearisome effort to her. She no longer talked about poetry; her eyes no longer flashed with emotion-they too had been dulled by suffering. Her husband had died in camp; her older son was also dead; she did not know what had become of the younger son. Soon she would be free. Free to crawl into a corner somewhere and die.
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course the people don't want war. But after all, it's the leaders of the
country who determine the policy, and it's always a simple matter to
drag the people along whether it's a democracy, a fascist dictatorship,
or a parliament or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the
people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That's easy.
All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the
pacifist for lack of patriotism, and exposing them to greater
This speech was given by Hermann Goering at the Nuremberg Trials in 1945. Have an enjoyable holiday weekend as we celebrate the birthday of this once glorious Republic. May God bless us and damn those who cause death and destruction for their own selfish gain.


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Editor: "Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, -- That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness."
The words above are not mine, they are from the Declaration of Independence that a group of people crafted some 233 years ago, to declare us free from the oppression and taxation of the British Empire. The representatives of the 13 colonies had a vision of freedom and justice, with a government elected for the people, by the people, to protect those rights.
Today, instead of living in a free society in which our rights are guaranteed by that government, we are being assailed by laws only created by those elected to enhance their power over us, and the burden of the taxes imposed by those same elected officials and foolishly spent in support of its own corruption.
Since the last election it seems all three branches of our government are hopelessly broken.The two parties want only what is good for the government with complete disregard for will of the governed. A revolution is way past due. I believe such a desire is held by many of this nation's citizens, and if those that supposedly represent those same citizens don't soon wise up there are going to be dire consequences.
Rich Heckman
St. Augustine
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Dolce Far Niente: Sweet Do Nothing
We are aware of a fascination with doing nothing that burns among us like a small rebellion inside our workweek souls. It has tangible representations in the hammock, the smell of last night's campfire smoke in your jean jacket, a rucksack. It has been named: dolce far niente, siesta, walkabout, bum. It is the culture of hippies and surfers and Buddhist monks and its presence in a people tends to have a direct correlation to contact with the natural elements. It is not to be confused with lazy - it is the liberation from an obsession with productivity. It is a revolutionary act rather than a dereliction of duty. It is a declaration of total freedom to say "now, I do nothing for a little while."
We the people of El Cosmico would like to believe that we can achieve this occasional freedom together. We offer simple, unique accommodations that promote sitting on porches, naps and other moments of non-action. We have a hammock grove. Our trailers feature discreet outdoor bathing opportunities because we believe that everyone should have the chance to be naked outside once in a while without fear. We limit the reach of our wireless internet to our lobby HQ to give our guests the opportunity to be disconnected from technology when they want to. For our campers, whom we believe have a unique understanding of this notion of temporary freedom we seek to attain, we offer several bath houses with solar and traditional showers as well as an outdoor communal kitchen to supplement your nomadic experience. Our lobby lounge offers an indoor/outdoor place for intrepid travelers to come together to share stories and a beer.
Marfa and the Big Bend Region provide the optimal backdrop upon which to practice this drop-out experiment. Strangely, the vast landscape of the high plains desert gives a sense of being adrift on an endless sea. The expanse of the night sky has a tendency to stun and bewilder. There is rumor of mystical dancing lights nearby, the source of some speculation. Within an hour's drive lies an Apache watering hole turned public swim club – you, like the Indians, find it by looking for the cottonwood trees that tell of water underground. The Big Bend state and national parks offer a range of beautiful opportunities to experience the nature of the region. Marfa is an active cattle ranching town and cowboy sightings are frequent. It also happens to double as an international arts Mecca, so if you feel like doing something, we rent bikes and it's an easy flat ride to the various galleries and the famed Chinati Institute. When the call to action beckons, El Cosmico also offers a variety of happenings that afford the opportunity to get your hands dirty and create. We recommend both in appropriate doses.
Take the long open road. Turn at the blinking four-way light. Welcome to El Cosmico.


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POTSDAM – The Ukulele Club of Potsdam kicks off the Fall season with a meet-up and jam session at Tim's Comic & Game, 6 Main St. at 5 p.m. on Friday, Sept. 10.
Ukulele enthusiasts of any ability from newbie to expert are welcome to attend.
Some loaner instruments will be available.
Come out and enjoy the fun – ukulele style.


text: Orphan Pazus life is changed when one day the beautiful Sheeta literally falls out of the sky. Round her neck she wears a glowing crystal, a relic of the mighty Levitation Stones that once kept ancient cities floating in the air. Caught up in a race between sky pirates and sinister government agents, Pazu and Sheeta go in search of Laputa, the last of the fabled castles in the sky.Hayao Miyazakis homage to Jules Verne and Jonathan Swift, Castle in the Sky was the first feature film from the now legendary Studio Ghibli. Combining the Japanese master directors twin obsessions of eco-thriller and aerial escapades, its combination of a treasure hunt and a fight against evil make for an unforgettable adventure.Featuring the voices of Anna Paquin, James Van Der Beek and Mark Hamill.Special Features:Complete Feature Length Storyboards (Alternative Angle).Original Japanese Trailers.Studio Ghibli trailer reel.Textless Opening and Closing Credits.The History of Castle in the Sky.Check stock and price


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A firestorm of closures and changes tore through Santa Fe's restaurant scene in the past year. From a high elevation, it looks like utter devastation.
¡A la Mesa! was murdered by the economy. Tulips toppled. Mauka had a meltdown. Café Dominic crumbled. The Mission Café & Sweet Shop went AWOL. El Nido got nixed. The Railyard Restaurant & Saloon steered off its tracks. Café Paris' Maginot Line broke because of high rents. James Campbell Caruso's Delicasa was decimated. Torino's @ Home took off. Corazón's kitchen had a coronary. Xiclo stopped turning. Tacos Juárez headed south. The Original Realburger was routed. The Pink Adobe got punk'd. The Pub & Grill at Santa Fe Brewing Company restaurant sealed its taps indefinitely.
There's more, but it gets depressing, especially when you factor in the former digs of Honnell's Late Night Burger's bulldozing for a new Taco Bell, Cafe Cafe's burglary, Amavi-owner David Sellers' departure, the Ore House's lost lease on its signature position above the Plaza, and Carlos White of Carlos' Gosp'l Café fame's sad death.
But a closer, ground-level view reveals that, just as the carnage of a forest fire encourages healthy new growth, Santa Fe's culinary future is bright despite the burn.
One of the brightest spots is chef Joel Coleman's phoenix-like rise from the ashes of Mauka to helm Koi and put an even finer point on his unlikely but excellent Asian/Hawaiian/Southwestern tapas fusion.
Café Dominic's empty shell will soon be occupied by Whole Hog Café, opening up the delightful possibility of old-timey showdowns between its Memphis-style barbecue and the smokey, Texas-style served up by Cowgirl BBQ, just across Guadalupe Street.
El Nido's death was short-lived. Tom Vimont of Steaksmith at El Gancho promptly revived the Tesuque legend. Corazón sealed a deal with Backroad Pizza to provide pies for bar zombies in sudden need of solids. Xiclo was replaced by Pho Kim, which, in addition to serving authentic Vietnamese pho, offers gigantic bahn-mi sandwiches for less than $6. If it starts offering a vegetarian version, a lot of people will be even happier. Tacos Juárez was consumed by Tacos Adelitas, which, as it turns out, is nothing to complain about.
Most importantly, The Pink Adobe was barely cold before the Hoback family wrestled it back from the corporate goons who ran the iconic operation into the ground. Yes, you can get popcorn there again.
The Ore House will move its operations to the location currently occupied by Milagro 139. I'm sure some folks will miss Milagro but, between the two, The Ore House comes first.
Miraculously, Amavi became a better restaurant after Sellers' departure. Chef Megan Tucker, with a heavy commitment to local food, is kicking ass and taking names—or at least reservations.
A similar transformation occurred at Max's. The food has always been excellent at the secretive little American bistro, but chef Mark Connell has taken the menu to a whole new level—one that must be wantonly consumed to be believed.
Bagelmania was stolen back by its original owner, Jeffrey Schwartzberg, and reopened as the New York Deli Upper East Side. Schwartzberg's hammy AM radio ads for his two NYD locations are enough to put you off your appetite, but the two shops are otherwise good, especially for breakfast.
But it's not only resurrections, reversions, swaps, expansions and transformations that make Santa Fe's future look good—it's the new operations and boot-strap entrepreneurialism that promise a new, healthy food forest.
We took some losses, but we gained Dulce, O'Gelato, an insane cupcake posse, the food carts Slurp and Nile Café, and a host of other new efforts. And if you need to get really excited about eating out in the new year, just remember Eric Stapleman and new-to-Santa Fe chef Harris Brazina's impending noodle bar, Shibumi Ramen Ya, and the dreamy notion of Aqua Santa chef and owner Brian Knox's cheap burger joint somewhere between Chicago Dog Express and Vinaigrette.


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SALT LAKE CITY — Higher standards and expanded programs.
That's what one Utah state senator wants for preschoolers and he's put forth a plan modeled after a successful program in the Granite School District to make it happen.
State Sen. Aaron Osmond, R-South Jordan, wants to set aside $5 million each year of a five-year pilot program that would provide money to school districts willing to raise their standards for preschools.
To qualify for a grant, a district's preschool program would have to limit class size to no more than 20 students, with one adult for every 10 children. Teachers would be required to have either a bachelor's degree or a child development certification.
The program's curriculum would include research-based high quality early childhood standards and schools would be required to conduct ongoing professional training of teachers, frequent assessment of students and significant data collection.
The High Quality Preschool bill, introduced in the interim legislative session Wednesday by Osmond, is based on a preschool program at Granite School District, which received part of its funding through a grant from the U.S. Department of Education.
Assessment data from students in three academic years were evaluated by researchers at Utah State University, who deemed that the high-quality standards implemented by the district had resulted in "statistically significant" improvement for both student performance and classroom output.
Brenda VanGorder director of preschool services for Granite, said the district's program serves 3,000 students at a cost of $1,500 per child. She also said there is a wait-list of more than 1,100 students to enter the program.
Osmond told the members of the Education Interim Committee that because of the need for classroom space to house students, school districts would be required to partner with private preschool education providers when possible.
"Most schools won't even be able to accommodate this without that partnership," he said.
Osmond said the $25 million budget shortfall that the Legislature faced this year is among the obstacles facing the proposed legislation, as well as philosophical disagreement on whether the state should be involved in publicly funding preschool education.4 comments on this story
"There are those that feel that preschool is nothing more than a government-funded daycare solution," he said.
But the program would target students who are most at risk for academic failure – particularly those from low-income households or English language learners – and would curb the growth of special education costs, which have ballooned to more than $300 million each year.
"We have an opportunity to mainstream these students and save significant money down the road," he said. "It results in a net reduced cost in special education down the line for the state of Utah."
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have to take all that into consideration when looking at the cost factor," she adds.
Do your research. Knowing the history of a fitness or health center before you join or even visit can be crucial in avoiding headaches. Contact your local consumer protection office, state attorney general, or Better Business Bureau to find out whether they have received any complaints about the business. Also, a simple Google search can yield some useful information about a particular company. Look at message boards to see if there are any common gripes and praises.
See a doctor. Before going to the gym or starting any weight loss program experts recommend getting clearance from your primary care physician. "You need to find out if you have any medical conditions that would prevent you from joining a particular program and whether or not a particular program is able to meet your needs," Riggs-Brown says.
Think about convenience. Sure, the gym looks nice and the muscular arms of that eye candy of a personal trainer can be a great motivator, but if a training center is out of the way or has inflexible hours then you can consider your membership money misspent. "People spend thousands of dollars on packages and they find out they can't fit it in the schedule the way they'd like to," says Andrus. Brown-Riggs suggests weight loss centers and gyms should be close to home or work. "The first thing to consider is proximity," she says. With so many excuses not to exercise – too tired, too busy, don't want to mess up your hair, etc. — you don't want to distance to add to the list.
Negotiate, negotiate, negotiate. Prices and packages are not set in stone, and with this ailing economy, people are cutting back on luxury items and that includes gym membership. "Some [gyms] will let you go month-to-month instead of a whole year," says Andrus. "Find out other deals going on. If they're not willing to come down in the price of a monthly membership, ask for extra training sessions or coupons that they have at the gym store," she says. But she cautions against signing up in January.. "It's the classic [New Year's] resolution, there's always a peak in registration from January to March," which means companies are less likely to be flexible with membership deals during this period.
Know your history. Before signing up to any weight loss program think about what has and hasn't worked in the past, says Andrus. "If you sign up to the South Beach Diet plan and don't cook, that's not good choice," she says. "How realistic are your diet plans?" Andrus also recommends looking for programs that include support networks. There are also online support networks including Ediets.com CalorieKing.com and a host of online communities and chartrooms.
There's no quick fix. Say no to diet pills "The thing you really need to be aware of are any places selling you supplements or pushing some sort of weight loss pill," she says. "If an experienced nutritionist


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John Leguizamo has never been afraid to make audiences squirm. As the Latino comic once said, "That's my philosophy: Offend them all equally. You know we all have something wrong with us!" Leguizamo blasts into town to share his hilarious characters, jarring life commentary and personal anecdotes in a show called An Evening With John Leguizamo.
"John Leguizamo has established a career in comedy, film, theater, television and literature that defies categorization," says Sarah Kaskel, a spokeswoman for the comedian. "With boundless energy, endless creativity and an inimitable visceral style, [he] takes the entertainment world by storm on his own terms."
Born in Bogota, Colombia, and raised in New York City, Leguizamo first made a name for himself as an off-Broadway sensation with his one-man shows Mambo Mouth and Spic-O-Rama; he hit the jackpot in 1998 with Freak, which earned him an Emmy Award and two Tony Award nominations. He last came to Denver in the summer of 2001 with the sold-out John Leguizamo Live! national tour, which was later turned into the Broadway smash Sexaholix...A Love Story.
On film, the versatile Leguizamo has portrayed characters from Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec in Moulin Rouge to the voice of the lovable Sid the Sloth in the animated Ice Age. Other credits include To Wong Foo: Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar, Carlito's Way, Summer of Sam, Executive Decision and William Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet.
Now busier than ever, Leguizamo just completed shooting and starring in his directorial debut, Undefeated, a drama for HBO about a young Latino boxer. He is currently filming the movie Sueño, the story of a Mexican immigrant who finds love and a sense of community by forming a band, as well as an independent feature, Crónicas.
Leguizamo will take the stage tonight at the Paramount Theatre, 1621 Glenarm Place; the doors open at 7 p.m and the show begins at 8. Tickets are $32 to $49 and can be purchased at www.ticketmaster.com or by calling 303-830-8497. Log on to www.hob.com or call 303-892-7016 for details. -- Julie Dunn
Celtic Fiddle Festival honors Johnny Cunningham
The Celtic-music community lost a great one when saucy Scottish fiddler Johnny Cunningham passed away in December. He was one of the naturals, first as a driving force in the band Silly Wizard, and later as a solo act. His participation in the touring Celtic Fiddle Fest, a 1992 collaboration with fellow fiddlers Kevin Burke and Christian Lematre, was so successful that the trio eventually recorded three CDs together and repeatedly toured the world. Cunningham may be gone, but the good news is that the fest is not. It has segued into the Celtic Fiddle Festival: A Tribute to Johnny Cunningham, with French-Canadian fiddler André Brunet and guitarist Ged Foley (a veteran of the Battleship Band, House Band and Patrick Street) paying beautiful homage to the late musician. The new lineup hits the Boulder Theater, 2032 14th Street, Boulder, tonight at 8 p.m. for a tour-de-force evening that includes Burke's Sligo-style Irish virtuosity, Lematre's Breton dance music and Brunet's wild and woolly New World jigs and reels. It's a must if you like Celtic music: "The young Quebeçois fiddler is an absolute joy to watch, and Kevin Burke is as silky-smooth as ever," says Green Linnet Records' Judith Joiner of a recent performance. Cunningham, we're sure, would agree.
Tickets are $17 to $20; call 303-786-7030. The group also plays March 5 at the Rialto Theater in Loveland; for more information call Celtic Events, 303-777-0502. -- Susan Froyd
Sweet Harmonies
A cappella isn't what it used to be. While you can still find barbershop quartets warbling a chorus of "Sweet Adeline," vocal harmonizing has grown to embrace every musical genre from jazz to gospel and doo-wop to classical. Nowadays, you're just as likely to come across a quintet rocking out to Led Zeppelin, with one of the members performing a vocal percussion that sounds startlingly like a drum.
"There's a whole a cappella counterculture," says singer/adman John Farmer. "You won't find it on mainstream radio, but there's a very broad audience, and its popularity has been growing."
Aficionados of the instrument-free art form will have the opportunity to check out some of the best vocal stylists from a seven-state region at 7 p.m. tonight, when the Gates Concert Hall (2344 East Iliff Avenue) hosts the 2004 Rocky Mountain Regionals of the Harmony Sweepstakes A Cappella Festival. Eight groups have been selected to participate; the winners will go on to perform at the national finals in San Francisco.
Tickets, $18 ($14 for students and seniors), are available by calling the University of Denver box office, 303-871-7720, or Ticketmaster, 303-830-TIXS. -- Karen Bowers
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Potty Mouth
George Carlin keeps firing comic salvos
Comedian George Carlin pissed off the Federal Communications Commission long before Miss Jackson did, and he used nary a nipple -- though he did say "tits." That was one of the seven dirty words banned by the FCC that Carlin cited in his classic comedy routine, "The Seven Words You Can't Say on TV," decades ago. The saucy septet echoed all the way up to the Supreme Court, which issued a ruling in 1978 on Carlin's freedom-of-speech battle with the FCC. These days, if the tally on Carlin's website can be believed, that naughty list is up to 2,443 words. But the expanded vocabulary just gives the man who once referred to himself as "America's fastest-rising young foole" more ammunition.
In forty-plus years, Carlin has earned ten Grammy nominations and written two books, and he's not done yet. He remains HBO cable gold, recording select performances for the network, and standup specials, movie roles and Saturday Night Live hostings keep him in our living rooms and his punchlines bouncing around in our brains.
Catch Carlin's latest funny words tonight at 7 and 9:45 p.m. at the Paramount Theatre, 1621 Glenarm Place. Tickets, $55 to $65, are available at 303-623-0106, 303-830-TIXS, www.historicparamounttheatre.com, www.ticketmaster.com or the Paramount box office. -- Catalina Soltero


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How did you get into CarpenterS?
Discussion in 'A Song For You: The Carpenters Forum' started by wolfi69, Feb 8, 2015.
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Actress Alia Bhatt is happy as her mother Soni Razdan has returned to the small screen after a long gap. The veteran actress is seen in a new TV show Love Ka Hai Intezaar.
Soni, best known for her roles in shows like Buniyaad, Saahil, Junoon and Aur Phir Ek Din, was last seen on screen in "Aisa Des Hai Mera" in 2006.
"Wohoo finally! All the best team 'Love Ka Hai Intezaar'. So glad to have my mommy back on TV," Alia posted on Twitter on Monday.
Wohoo finally!!!! All be best team #LoveKaHaiIntezaar and @sidpmalhotra !!! So glad to have my mommy back on tv 😀🤗 2:30 guys don't forget!!! https://t.co/kOCAyk7amG— Alia Bhatt (@aliaa08) May 15, 2017
Besides Soni, Star Plus' "Love Ka Hai Intezaar" also features Sanjeeda Sheikh and Keith Sequeira.
Soni is also waiting to begin her next directorial venture Love Affair. She will star in director Danish Renzu's Pashmina alongside Suraj Sharma and Aditi Rao Hydari as well.
On a related note, Alia was last seen in Dear Zindagi alongside Shah Rukh Khan. The movie did decent a business at the box office. She will next be seen in Ayan Mukerji's Dragon alongside Ranbir Kapoor.
(With IANS Inputs)


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Yeltsin's election would hardly be automatic. First he must evade a constitutional two-term limit. Yeltsin's aides argue that since his first election in 1991 was under the old Soviet constitution, he has, under the 1993 Russian constitution, served only once. A more practical problem is support. The business and media coalition that backed Yeltsin in 1996 is no more, and his onetime supporters are no longer sure he is electable -— or desirable.
Why would Yeltsin run again? One answer -- power -- is obvious. Another answer is fear. Other top politicians have in their retirement been hounded by corruption charges and embarrassed by revelations about their private lives.


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The series provides a look at the science behind the physical stunts of escapologist Jonathan Goodwin. No, wait, it's a study of the work an escape artist puts into his craft. Hold on, no, it's just a series of goofy tricks where Rube Goldbergian devices aim to pummel Goodwin and his friends.
I've watched hours and hours of the Discovery Channel series and still can't quite figure out what the point is. Sure, it's plenty fun, and like most Discovery offerings, the rewatchability factor is quite high, thanks to a quick pace, fun stunts, and the undeniable charms of its stars. But just what the hell is this show about?
When "One Way Out" premiered as a one-off special in April 2008, it knew precisely what it was: a one-hour pilot episode about an escape artist, his latest challenge, and the clever prep work behind it all. At the center was British escapologist Goodwin, who had already made a name for himself across the pond courtesy such programs as "Dirty Tricks" and "Death Wish Live." "One Way Out" brought him to the States alongside college pal (later dubbed "chief collaborator") Mikey Nelson and ace engineer Terry Stroud; Stroud's job was to build an office that could be flooded with water, from which a well-bound Goodwin had only minutes to escape before drowning.
The special had all the hallmarks of your average Discovery presentation: lots of build-geek talk about the technical problems inherent in filling a massive metal container with over twenty tons of water, lots more science-geek talk about the human body and what it can endure, plenty of footage of Goodwin and Nelson hammering out pre-stunt tests, and constant reminders to never, ever, ever try this at home, or at work, or anywhere else you might be thinking of drowning yourself in a bathtub with an anvil and bungee cords.
Better still, there wasn't a hint of the gaudiness of a "secrets revealed!" show - Goodwin isn't an illusionist, so there's no magic to debunk. Indeed, Goodwin has a pretty high failure rate, and he's not ashamed of it, leaving the show to become a warts-and-all look at how these professionals train their bodies and minds.
In January 2009, Discovery premiered a revamped "One Way Out," this time as a ten-episode series. But so much had changed: the episodes were reduced to a half-hour; narration was streamlined, with Goodwin doubling as our first-person host (fixing the pilot's most notable problem: multiple narrators, with multiple points of view); and, most notably, more pre-trick stunts were added, some of them only thinly related to the "final" stunt.
This is the series' biggest trouble, as all those extra stunts and tricks and neat-o side ideas weaken the focus of the show. Too few of the series' episodes have a consistent purpose - in "Bee Stung Brit," Goodwin prepares to cover himself in bees but must first learn about what bee stings do to the body and why; "Dizzy Limit" uses escapes from various spinning devices to examine centripetal force. In both cases, the information is ample and the theme is clear.
The rest come across as too random, too on-the-fly. "BMX Bounce" features a string of stunts resulting in Goodwin hitting something (or, more often, vice versa), intended to be a study of force and impact but barely covering it; while it's all quite fun to see the wacky contraptions Stroud's built to, say, crash a heavy door onto Goodwin's trapped noggin, the whole episode lacks a purpose other than "here are some ways we made up to comically hit people." (The big finish, in which Nelson rides a bicycle at full speed toward Goodwin, is one hundred percent Johnny Knoxville, without much in the way at all of scientific education.)
Usually, the science being taught comes to us as a mere aside, as it's likely episodes were planned merely by their stunts and not educational value: "OK, I'd like to have a car run over my head this week. Any science chatter we can toss in there in between?" Most evident of this is in "Long Way Down," where the trio can barely be bothered to discuss notions of drag and lift while practicing how best to break a fall. (And even without the science, the episode is all too random, leaping from stunt to stunt with only the thinnest of connections.)
I assume Goodwin and company planned on crafting little more than an extension of his British programs, but had to shoehorn educational elements in once Discovery came along. The result is fabulous entertainment - Goodwin is a crackerjack host, and his stunts truly dazzle - muddied by attention-deficit concepts, with a too-quick running time that keeps the action from building enough speed to really get going.
Discovery and Image collect all ten episodes, plus the 2008 pilot/special, onto a two-disc set. The two discs are housed in a single-wide keepcase with a hinged tray.
Most notable about these episodes is their length. The numerous, insanely redundant "coming up next" bits that plague most Discovery titles have been thankfully removed; however, that leaves the episodes with an average running time of twenty minutes each.
The episodes presented here are:
Disc One: "Bee-Stung Brit," "Ice Trap," "Dizzy Limit," "Long Way Down," and "Human Catapult."
Disc Two: "Buried Alive," "BMX Bounce," "Trial by Fire," "Car on My Head," and "Bird-Brained."
Video & Audio
Barring the occasional use of underwater/in-the-coffin/etc. cameras and their grainy footage, the 1.78:1 anamorphic widescreen transfer looks very good here, at least as good as it looked during its original broadcast. Like all Discovery shows, colors are straightforward and detail is sharp but not showy.
The soundtrack is a simple Dolby stereo mix, which delivers an adequate balance of dialogue, narration, and music, just fine for a documentary series. Optional English SDH subtitles are provided.
As mentioned above, the hour-length pilot/special is included, although it's treated here as an eleventh episode, as part of the "play all" function.
Discovery's wondrous "The World Is Just Awesome" promo plays as both discs load. One of the best commercials I've ever seen, its inclusion anywhere is always welcome.
Final Thoughts
With more screen time to flesh out his ideas, or at least focus them, Goodwin might've stirred up a real keeper. As it is, "One Way Out" offers plenty of fun and the sporadic educational moment (ever wonder how cell phones vibrate, and what that has to do with washing machines? Stay tuned!), which is enough to make it well worth watching, but not enough to make it worth buying. Rent It.


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Losing 100 pounds is not easy! This audiobook is not filled with the latest promises and solutions for fast weight loss. You can find plenty of other books on those topics if you're not ready to give up the roller-coaster ride just yet. What you will find here is a series of blueprints to help you to find the motivation and tools that you will need to go the distance with any weight loss plan. This audiobook is written by a "regular" woman losing 100+ pounds who has found a number of strategies that have helped her to finally start a weight-loss plan that has actually become fun and inspiring. This blueprint can help you, too. If you're ready to lose the weight and change your life, whether it's 100 pounds or 20 pounds, then How to Lose 100 Pounds is for you!
©2014 P. Seymour (P)2014 P. Seymour
"Best weight loss collection!!!"
I absolutely love this series. So awesome to have them all together on audio.
There a lot of motivation books out there but this one really hit home. Weight loss is just as mental as it is physical. She's been there and shares from her heart
There weren't any characters
Weight loss the old fashion way
"It motivated me!"
I really enjoyed the series! It has helped me get motivated to make some changes and take small steps towards my goals. It was very easy listening and very helpful! Good luck to anyone reading the book and struggling with weight issues! We CAN do this and this book is a great resource!
Practical roadmap for taking off a significant amount of weight. Will listen to this resource repeatedly.
"Very Inspirational!!"
I too need to lose 100+ pounds. This book series has helped me see where I failed before. It has helped me understand it's not a race. By taking notes (because a bit of a nerd in that area) I have made an outline to help me focus. And the best thing is that IT'S ATTAINABLE GOALS!!!
Thank you Paula for sharing your story, what worked for you and the resources you used!!
"Smart detailed advice on weightloss"
I have listened a few times especially book six. I appreciated her honesty and candor regarding her own struggles and set-backs on her journey.
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Oh, my. This is bloody delicious. It's also my third coconut Oolong in a week.
I'm at that point where I have so many teas that I can't recall what's in my cupboard, and that the less-than-stellar ones never end up getting used. So there is just a backlog of mediocre teas I try to force myself to drink while the new ones and samples pile up.
And THEN I realized that I had a Tao Tea Leaf voucher expiring March 1. Oh dear. I knew I wasn't going to have time to visit the store in the couple days I had left to use it, so an online order it was. I'd never tried anything from them before and obviously don't have any big vacancies in my collection, so I thought lots of samples was the way to go. This left me with the box that arrived today, full of no fewer than 20 samples and three 25 g bags. It's also left me still never having visited the store, though their online customer service was really great. They were helpful by e-mail and my tea came very nicely packaged and quickly, with a 5% off coupon.
Anyway, this tea. I was going to save it until I finished the Tealish Coconut Bongo, I was. But when I opened my Tao package I lost all control and opened the packet for a sniff. It was so overwhelmingly aromatic that I immediately had to have some. I'd just boiled the Zojirushi so I went gong fu with this one, so it's not really a direct comparison to the two previous coconut Oolongs I've had. But it's enough to say that it is very similar. The same sweet, toasted coconut flavour on top of fresh green Oolong. These might be my two favourite flavours in the world, so I'm pretty ecstatic to see that there seems to be a coconut Oolong niche out there. I think I may become obsessed with trying every one I can.
The only thing striking me as any different about this tea, apart from its general awesomeness, is how vibrant the Oolong is. Green and (subtly) floral, and impossibly creamy and silky-smooth. It steeps a really bright yellow-green, and tastes incredibly fresh. I will have to try it Western-style soon.