Blinded by the Political Spectrum:
A brief inquiry into the constant squabbling that constitutes American politics Michael Seaholm
Undergraduate / Computer Science A quick perusal of the evening news or such prestigious newspapers as the Onion reveals that our political system is positively rife with cockamamie, not to mention general tomfoolery. This alarming revelation is often touched upon by political parties, who attempt to solve the problems within the government by vehemently slandering opposing political parties, a practice that has proven effective for hundreds of years. This is most evident in books written by today’s leading political pundits, with such insightful titles as All Liberals are Terrorists (And Should be Treated as Such,) and All Liberals are Fucking Douchebags, written by Michael “Dick” Savage and Ann “Rather Unenjoyable” Coulter respectively. What causes this drastic polarization of political opinion? How does this affect the government at large? How can I make money off of this information? Hopefully this article will answer these questions and more as we delve into the topic of political parties. Political parties were first created so that when the government ordered a pizza the bill could be divvied up more easily. This divided the people of our nation into two camps, mostly because there were only two types of pizza back then: pepperoni and non-pepperoni. Over the years these two groups were referred to by the over-used labels we all know and love: Liberal and Conservative. There are, of course,
other political affiliations, but no one cares about them. In this country, which we’ve tacitly agreed is the only nation that matters in this report – you either think one way or you think the only other way that is available. This freedom from independent thought is integral to the maintenance and security of our government. And now, here are a few generalizations to make everyone angry. Conservatives are people who strongly believe that we should go back to a simpler time, namely 1836, no matter what the cost. This explains why the symbol for America’s conservative Republican Party is the elephant, inasmuch as any opposition toward their aims is met with an immediate trampling. Notable conservatives include Richard Nixon, Bill O’Reilly, Megatron, and, according to a humorous bumper sticker I saw a few years back, Voldemort. Liberals, on the other hand, believe in the free expression of all ideas as long as they are in accordance with their own, because otherwise things would just suck. The liberal Democratic Party touts the donkey as its symbol, possibly because they were high when they chose it and didn’t realize that their opponents could legally call them a bunch of asses. Famous liberals include Michael Moore, Reverend Al Sharpton, and Hannah Montana. There also exists a political camp known as Libertarians, but no one knows for sure if they exist. They’re like unicorns or an episode of Family Guy that doesn’t feature non sequiturs. The reason I can speak about both of these parties without bias (i. e. viciously insult both of them) is because I am, according to a brief internet survey, a moderate. This means that everybody else disagrees with me and, most likely, wants me to die, possibly by poison. To illustrate what exactly my position would be on certain issues, let’s consider the hot-button topics of capital punishment and abortion. As most of you know, conservatives tend to be pro-capital punishment and
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anti-abortion, whereas liberals tend to be the opposite. Since I am a moderate, I am left with the other two choices available: I can be either anti- or pro-kill everything, probably the latter due to my hatred for sentient life as we know it. Either way, these options make a little more sense, considering that the two most popular stances seem to contradict themselves in terms of figuring out who we should legally be allowed to snuff out. On an unrelated note, I would like to reveal that I am pro-Monopoly, but only if I’m allowed to play as the top hat. Now, some people might feel that the idea of political parties is detrimental to the proper running of a democratic government. In fact, George Washington warned against the use of partisan politics, stating that “you should check yourself before you wreck yourself.” He then demanded that the crowd “recognize.” Even today, Washington’s powerful words fall upon deaf ears as we put increasing amounts of faith into our political affiliations so that voting is way easier. Although I am one for “chilling with my peoples,” as the kids say nowadays, I heartily recommend that when you do vote, be sure to take an active part in your government and choose strictly by what your political standing dictates. Then, give the next person you see a high-five and assure them that you’ve saved democracy. To be perfectly honest, there are numerous people that vote for candidates based on factors other than strict political party guidelines. However, I grew up in a largely rural part of Wisconsin where nearly everyone voted for president, governor, town hamburglar, and nearly every other political post based solely on political affiliation. It was at that time that I learned the importance of being involved in our political system and to participate responsibly in the voting process. It was also around that time that KFC introduced the Snacker, which is basically a tiny chicken sandwich for a low price of one dollar. Both of these events had a significant impact on my understanding of national politics, especially when KFC came up with the highly anticipated Buffalo Snacker. And that’s why I support Optimus Prime and his run for the presidency. Illustration: Ian Kloster
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Sounds From Down Under Ted Waldbilling
Undergraduate / English I bid on this collection off of eBay on a whim. It was only seven dollars and fifty cents, shipped and brand spankin’ new. Apparently, it was the new “hip” dude to listen to in the indie world. Drawing comparisons to DFA label mates and Shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine, Nick Harte, the principle member of The Shocking Pinks, still has some of his own charm. What it means is that Harte’s greatness doesn’t lie in his originality, but in his ability to prove his skills alongside the masters. In fact, The Shocking Pinks’ eponymous is not a debut, nor is it a true “album” by some respects. Signing to DFA just this year, The Shocking Pinks decided to go back and collect previously released material to present themselves to the wider world. Native to New Zealand, Harte has been noticed worldwide since signing, so, in a sense, it’s a pseudo-debut. This method is actually used by many artists for their first album. We are given quite a buffet of style right away in the first five tracks. “This Aching Deal” is a great workout in high-
hat 16ths with noisy guitar-pop. “How Am I Not Myself?” is another shining moment when it comes to drumming, along with a country aesthetic lining the melodic instruments. “Second Hand Girl” is a personal favorite, with guitar bends and delay that recall “Loveless” era My Bloody Valentine. The fifth track, “End of the World,” immediately brings us to Harte’s minimal, hazy side, and is a fitting single. The touching video opens with Harte sitting in the driver’s seat of a serious accident. “I’ve got to find a way to make it all make sense again,” Harte sings calmly as he looks over to see a The Shocking Pink’s woman, presumably dead, all with res- DFA Label Debut: Shocking Pink cue workers cutting the doors away; the ingly good. Harte never steps outside the sparks flying in slow motion. It’s rather chilling, and fitting; the rest of the album boundaries you expect from around the fifth or sixth tracks. But, then again, this feels something like that. “The Narrator” sounds like a curve is merely a retrospective, a self-celebration ball at first, but soon settles into a familiar because Harte’s on DFA now. Hopefully, dancing drone - all juxtaposed with stab- he will continue to develop his abilities bing synth and percussive electronics. The and stick his neck out that much more album continues in a likely fashion, flesh- from the surrounding crowd. ing out different corners to The Shocking Pinks’ possibilities... and while Harte’s Enjoyability - 7 songwriting is consistent and never bad, Originality - 6.2 nothing is “shocking,” either. The album Proficiency - 7.9 isn’t shockingly bad and it’s not shock- Overall Rating - 7.03/10
A Soldier Supports the War Nate Detra Alumni
It seems like a confusing prospect: A soldier, whose life is at stake, supports the war. Why could this be? At this time when it seems like almost everyone is against the war, why in the world would a soldier support it? The answer lies in the principle that I keep discovering over and over again: People do not act in their self-interest; they act based on their ethics. For example, if you are a white person, would you vote to reinstate slavery? Most likely you would vote against it, even though you’d be able to benefit from having slaves; therefore, ethics trump self-interest. Next question: How are ethics determined? There are many answers to this. Parents, schooling, and society are big contributors that come to mind. Nonnegotiable actions are a commonly overlooked dictator of ethics. Nonnegotiable actions are actions that you must take or
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be faced with an onerous consequence. In the case of a soldier, following orders is a nonnegotiable action. Why? Soldiers want to keep their jobs; they want to be able to provide for their families; they don’t want to be court-martialed. Unless they are willing to face a variety of devastating consequences, they will follow orders. Why do nonnegotiable actions determine ethics? Because people want to believe that they are doing something good for the world. Imagine that some people are telling you that what you have done for the last two years is creating problems and resulting in the death of innocent people, and there is a group of people who are saying that you are making the world a better place. It’s much, much easier to believe the people who think you are doing good in the world. Does this mean they are correct? No, but it does make you feel better. This dilemma will push soldiers toward supporting the war because they want to feel like they are doing good.
The Flip Side
Should soldiers be held responsible for following ethically bankrupt orders? Of course not! As stated earlier, they are following nonnegotiable orders. Those who have not already chosen to support the war unconditionally are left with the choice of extreme guilt of having assisted in the killing of innocent citizens or the belief that the war is justified. I say ditch this dichotomy and join the anti-war movement. The soldiers cannot be held responsible. The leaders alone must bear the guilt. They are the ones who give the orders, not those who follow them. In other words, leaders are the only ones who are not bound to nonnegotiable actions. The soldiers must band together and stand against the war. No soldier should ever die or have to see a fellow soldier die in an unjust war. These brave men and women are willing to fight and die for us and I say no one should ever call on this tremendous power, this great sacrifice, unless the cause is pure and just.
Friends Don’t Let Friends Overuse the Word “Douchebag” Andy Boden
Undergraduate / Political Science I was planning on writing something relatively trivial for this issue, but then I read Jake Everett’s “National Walk-Out on Your Country Day.” I felt conflicted reading his article for several reasons. One reason is that he supports the war in Iraq, and I don’t. Secondly, he comes across completely headstrong with his accusations and name calling. Thirdly, his entire article comes from the point of view of someone who has first-hand experience in war, and therefore people who don’t have any similar experiences shouldn’t dare take the opposing position, let alone exercise their right to protest. But I digress. Before I go any further, I would like to let Mr. Everett know that I appreciate him. I have a great deal of admiration for people who are so selfless that they would make the ultimate sacrifice and put themselves through hell, despite what the real cause happens to be. However, just because I have the utmost appreciation for people like Mr. Everett, I am not obligated to take their point of view seriously. Even though I may be the one to have the audacity to argue against a marine, I still have every right to express what I feel is justified; even if it means my views may contradict the views of someone who is “one thousand times better than [I] could ever hope to be.” In saying this, I have a few suggestions that I would like Mr. Everett to consider.
First, please stop with the false notion that opposing the war means “walking out on the country.” I am sick and tired of all these false dilemmas of “You’re either with us or against us.” There are many intelligent people in this country who have figured out that opposing an invasion of a country on false premises doesn’t mean supporting the hijacking of airplanes and flying them into skyscrapers. You may think that it’s insulting that people would protest a war without actually experiencing it, but I find it insulting that people like you would compare people like me to people like Osama bin Laden. Secondly, please understand that when we protest the war, we actually come out in support of people like you. One of the main points of why we protest is so that we can at least try to make sure that people like you don’t have to see charred corpses of American contractors strung from bridges, or take cover behind a humvee while being fired at by AK-47s and RPGs, or put on 80 pounds of gear to walk for six hours in 140 degree heat to deliver supplies to the Iraqi people, or see your brothers killed in the line of fire. Just think about it. People like you still do all these thankless tasks, but for what? To stay in a war that has no end in sight? To stay in a war where the country is being run by an incompetent government that is unwilling to meet bench marks or make efforts to end sectarian violence? To stay in a war that protects private capitalist interests while our gas prices actually go
up? To stay in a war to fend off insurgents when there are insurgents in plenty of other countries (and maybe the best way to take care of these insurgents is to look to places like Afghanistan or Pakistan to cut off the central leader of the insurgents)? Or to stay in a war because George Bush doesn’t want to admit that he has failed as a national leader? Also, it doesn’t take a YouTube video to make us understand that war is a horrible thing, and the image of the Iraqi people tearing down Saddam’s statue doesn’t overshadow all the bloodshed that went along with it. Finally, if you don’t already, you need to understand that your point of view is not representative of the entire U.S. armed forces. I know people who have served in Iraq and have experienced some of the same things you have, and they are so bothered by it that they struggle to talk about it. You cannot have a megalomaniacal view of “I’m right, you’re wrong, because I served and you didn’t,” when I can easily talk to people who have also served and tell me the exact opposite. I don’t want to be your enemy, Jake; I’d much rather have you as a friend. We may have a difference of opinion, and you may have done something extraordinary, but I’m not going to back down from expressing my views in fear of you disagreeing with me or calling me a douchebag. It has been 1679 days since the Declaration of Mission Accomplished in Iraq. May peace be with you.
Spineless Liberals? No, Uncompromising Leftists
Ryan Milbrath
Undergraduate /Broadfield Social Studies The National Student Walkout Day against the War in Iraq never intended to criticize the troops involved, but rather an Imperialist War in Iraq. In the article opposing the walkout, the author cited several subjective experiences to back up his reasons for supporting the war. I find it tough to argue against a subjective argument; an argument based on a single person’s viewpoint, because I cannot prove whether what you personally experienced proved that Iraqis support the war or not. However, I will provide objec-
tive arguments; arguments formed from a wide range of sources, to form a comprehensive critique of the war in Iraq. I will ask a couple questions to illustrate my points. Why do we call the Iraq War an Imperialist War? Well the definition of Imperialism comes from V.I. Lenin. Lenin explains in Imperialism: The Highest Form of Capitalism, that countries using capitalism, or in this case corporatism, use war or force to create new markets. These new markets create and export capital back into the original country. Given this definition let us apply it to the war in Iraq. The very news source of the military www.militarynews.com,
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indicates that private companies, like Halliburton, received contracts from the government to rebuild the infrastructure of the country. One of these companies, a firm run by American George H. Lee used money intended to support the troops of Iraq to fuel his own private enterprise. Thus, since Iraq controls very little of the contracting to rebuild the infrastructure, that we destroyed, an export of capital from Iraq to the United States occurs. Since force was used to create an export of capital, the Iraq War is an imperialist war. Why do we say the war in Iraq has to do partly with oil? Well a New York
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Times article in 2007 by Antonia Juhasz indicated that a new oil law if passed in the Iraqi parliament, would shift control of the oil into the hands of transnational companies like Exxon-Mobil and Chevron. The companies, according to the law, would not have to invest their earnings in the Iraqi economy, partner with Iraqi companies, hire Iraqi workers, or share new technologies. Thus, who really benefits from Iraq’s oil? Given this informa-
tion, it appears fruitless to say the Iraqis supported us, so we should support our policy, when our policy dictates that we destroy their economy. Again I remind all soldiers that it was never our intention to protest soldiers. It was our intention to protest a war driven by Imperialist motives. For me, I find it ludicrous that as a country we can spend 468 billion dollars on this war, and we can’t even find the money to pass a bill
which would expand national health insurance for children. It makes little sense for a predominately working class military, to pay 468 billion dollars in taxes to fund the war, face possible death, and further destroy the economic and political stability of a country. The author is a member of the campus organization Socialist Alternative.
Another Spineless Liberal: Response to Jake Everett David Smuhl
Undergraduate / History I agree with you. War is ugly; war is probably one of the ugliest things in the world. It is not fun watching people you know go overseas, and worrying about if they will come back. It’s not fun to hear about American and Iraqi casualties. Dictators are no good, and democracy is the foundation of a just society. I am sorry that you saw what you saw, and did what you did, you never should have had to go through it, no person should have to go through war. That is exactly why I oppose war. The problem with the War in Iraq is that like you said, “Honestly, I don’t know the current reasons behind the war.” If the majority of Americans don’t know why we are at war and if even one
soldier doesn’t know why they are putting their life on the line, we should not be fighting. The rumors of WMDs hidden under royal palaces and nuclear warheads sitting in everyone’s backyards have been proven wrong. Saddam is dead, and we know now that the insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan are fighting with weapons given to them by our own country. So now here we sit well into the war with casualties mounting, wondering how the hell we got into this mess, and how we are ever going to get out. While the first question has already been answered with a resoundingly unpleasant answer (the American public was lied to) the answer to the second is yet to be seen. So what are we to do now? How about we open a serious dialogue about why wars are started and who does the fighting and why? The time for name calling and trash
talking is long past and if we ever want to get out of Iraq it is time to realize the mistakes of our past and work to fix them. Or how about we take action? The anti-war movement has all but been abandoned in a time when the war is more unpopular than ever, and the Democrats have shown that they are no better alternative than the Republicans. Yes, it looks like a very bleak future right now, but there are a lot of people still out there working towards a better country where the voice of the people is acknowledged, and more and more you will find that they aren’t siding with either the Democrats or Republicans. As for me, if refusing to choose between acceptance or ostracism, placation or subjugation, Democrat or Republican, means I’m walking out on my country, then show me the door.
I Am Addicted to the Word “Douchebag” Jake Everett
Undergraduate / Creative Writing I will admit that I was surprised that I received three responses to my last article but, as I said, I’m more than happy to argue with any of you. Well, those weren’t my exact words, but I’m sure you all got the point. Mr. Boden, you seem to have gotten the idea that I compare war protesters to terrorists. I would certainly not compare you to Osama Bin Laden. All I was trying to say is that I don’t believe you have sufficient information on the subject to protest it. You also said that my “point of view is not representative of ” all military. I realize this. However, most of those that I know feel as I do, and I’m going to assume
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that I know more service members than you. When you say that you “come out in support of people like [me]” I have to take issue with that. This goes for Mr. Milbrath as well. Both of you stated that you have no problems with the troops, just the war. That’s the problem, though. If you don’t support what a person is doing, then you really don’t support the person. If you say that you don’t support America, or America’s war, or the government, then you’re talking about me, because I was an agent of America. If the war that I was fighting for America was wrong, then the things I was doing were wrong, then I was wrong. Mr. Smuhl, you say that “no person should have to go through war.” I agree completely. However, I didn’t have to.
The Flip Side
I signed up voluntarily, knowing that I would more than likely end up in Iraq eventually. The same goes for the men I worked with. We were not drafted; that was just our job. So don’t oppose war for my sake. Also, you misunderstood what I meant when I said that I don’t know the reasons behind the war. What I meant was that the president’s reasons for going to war didn’t matter to me because I knew, personally, why I was fighting and why I supported the war. Due to my 400 word constraint, I’ll have to leave points unanswered, but thank you all for actually having the courage to stand up for what you believe in. As for the rest of you that don’t support the war but didn’t weigh in, you’re still douchebags.
Philip of Trier: Part Two Philip Kaveny
Undergraduate / Religious Studies In his own eyes, he had no choice. What else could Philip do? It was all that was open to him. He was a failed scholar. Nothing in the world was worse than that. Maybe being a leper with syphilis, but at least then people gave you alms and didn’t ask stupid questions. And best of all, they left you alone. Philip was failed by his own willfulness, and ruined for any honest work, but perhaps he was ruined before he started, because Philip had an attitude. He was too proud to beg, and too stupid to steal. Somehow, he thought of the peasants’ phrase he had heard once while at a fair in Cologne with his sainted departed aunts. Philip “was about as useless as teats on a bull.” Philip was an alien and knew it. His audience took an instinctive dislike to everything about him. They were like nothing he had ever seen in his very sheltered life. Philip was used to being everybody’s darling, everybody’s golden child, and he was used to being treated like a little prince. By his aunts, before they died mysteriously, some said while under suspicion of witchcraft. They died before they could go before the inquisition. Technically his aunts, Marie and Cleopha, did not lose their estate because the charges were not proven. However, since Philip their heir apparent was one year from eighteen Bishop Roland Trier became his guardian, the executor of his aunt’s estates. Then Philip heard a cruel sounding voice from the audience cry out loudly. “They say our troubadour boy here is from the nobility.” Another voice added, “They say he calls himself Philip of Trier.” The last voice chimed in almost like a grotesque parody of the chorus in a Greek play. “I don’t know for sure what he calls himself, or if he is from the nobility, but yes well he’s shagged himself royally if he thinks he can amuse us.” Philip had never met men like this before. He had no understanding of honest work. He had to feel superior to those who did. All his life he was told, by his aunt Marie and Cleopha, that he was a gentleman, and a gentleman does not earn his bread with his hands or by the sweat of his brow. Now he was to entertain these men who would have none of him, because they were honest working master craftsmen,
journeymen, and apprentices; these men were not the daughters of courtly nobles who swooned over his rhyme schemes, and loved to play with his pentameters. These men would not giggle at each other hiding their faces as Philip fixed his sad steel blue eyes on theirs. Philip of Trier would not be slipping a furtive hand inside their imported silk laced bodices after their stern faced fathers left the room (to wretch) because they could not stand one more moment of Philip’s fain charm, or the courtly ways that came so easily to him. As a matter of fact this was an audience of these same fathers who always suspected the likes of Philip. Philip was clever, perhaps too clever by half again, and it was all catching up and closing in on him. Philip thought of those better days now as he looked out at the audience and saw not a spark of recognition or human warmth in the sea of faces which stretched back 45 meters to the back of the taverns great hall. All he saw was a sea of men, men, and men. These were big ugly sweaty bad smelling men with thick arms and strong knurled hands. Hands with strong smooth leather like quarter inch thick callous, but split half way down like the dried mud of the Mosel river in August. Their hands seemed almost a living contradiction. Though they looked like knotted and twisted roots, strong enough to rip a pewter plate in half if anyone in the house could have afforded one. Yet, their hands could make objects of stupefying beauty. These hands made things, which spoke mutely of a beauty which, seemed beyond their maker’s conception of the world. It was as if God spoke through their hands. Philip of Trier knew not these men yet; he had lived all his life among the things they made. Their fathers and grandfathers built his aunts fine chateaux, and maintained his family’s estates, over a generation. The stone cutters could make stone so thin and veined that it looked like fine parchment as the sunlight shown through it. The sun illuminated it with pinkish hues, with the faintest red tinge almost as if there was blood and veins inside the marble, and perhaps even a beating living heart. The master painters could paint the stigmata of Christ that brought a tear even to the cold eyes of the torturer. The master masons could make a buttressed wall so tall it seemed to brush God’s face, yet so strong it could hold off
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a siege in wartime. The men who Philip spoke to and tried to amuse, were, not the faint hearts of court and fable or great deed with noble heart and intent, but men of the, minute, hour and day; men who would leave nothing of themselves except what touched their hands. These were men who farted loudly, and slapped their thighs afterward, and then strained to do it again. Sometimes they belched in unison as if they were a chorus of louts. These were men who did not joust or fence, but sometimes twisted arms between blazing candles and only stopped when on lookers wretched against the smell of burning flesh, and doused the flames with flagons of foaming beer. These lonely Men had worked all day hard at their trade. These lonely men missed their wives and daughters, but, they were not always sure why. They were on the road away from their families. They were in a bad mood because they could not bring their wenches into the guildhall and a little ashamed because they thought it. They loved the Punch and Judy puppets, and dog and pony shows. They liked part falls, and they liked it when someone dressed as a nun slipped on a banana peel, even though nobody had seen a banana in these parts since the world ended almost twelve centuries before. It was told that the Old World ended right after the Black Visitation who promised to proceed but did not disburse the Second Coming. They were all men because it was a guildhall for masters of a trade in transit. They missed their wives and daughters, (forget their worthless sons who chose the University over honest work.) These sons hoped for a profession that would put callous’ on their genteel posteriors rather than those of their fathers strong ethical hands. That made the guild masters hate Philip of Trier most of all. He reminded them of their sons. Philip wished he were back in the bishop’s study cataloging the hopeless mess of scrolls, and codex in the terrible hodge podge they tried to call a library. But Philip knew he had crossed the River Rubicon when he was cast out of his old life and that he could never go home again. Well Philip thought at least this is better than some places, The Publican makes them go outside to use the outhouse and piss trough, and almost all of them can read the signs that lead them outside to them. Just at that moment the
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Philip of Trier (cont.) crowd fell silent with a rush, which almost took his breath away, all noise in the room seemed to hush, as the patrons just looked at him, waiting for him to say something. Philip started his story in a shrill nervous voice more like a horse girl than a young man did. The house ignored him, they barely looked up from their steins of beer and trenchers of dried bread filled with mutton stew that was too rotten to eat without the spices brought from the from past the edge of the world. As Philip started his tale, he knew he had made a bad choice of material, yet he was drawn by everything about himself to tell this story. Philip knew many others that might pass that night but he chose “Words of a Soldier.” He chose it to throw it in their faces. It was partly an old story that went back thirteen hundred years before the Black Visitation or at least some of it did. He started to recite his story. “My name is Alphonse I have no soul, Almost as if in a dream. “She came to me as if driven by the wind. She came to me last night in my monk’s cell. Clara rent asunder in a single night of passion the fabric of score and ten years of scholarship. She made the scholars dance of realism around nominalism jest, by what she asked. “She begged to kill again. She begged me do again the work I stopped when they found me bleeding and half dead on their steps and gave me sanctuary a score and ten years ago I used to kill men for treasure, now she bade me kill what can’t be killed. “I thought of the brave young men who I knew who had tried before to do her bidding. Men, whose empty eye sockets, begged the noonday sun for mercy through shattered helms, for none dare bury them. Then my heart turned bitter as I grasped that she paid them as she paid the night before. I spoke to her like ice, and asked “Who are you to send men into eternal blackness, what sort of royal slut are you? “She did not answer but she cut me. I felt something hot, biting, and searing, and sharper than any razor against my cheek, and then I saw tiny drops of my blood against my white linen shirt. Then the drops of my blood mixed with the salt
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ocean of her tears. “I blinked and she was gone; now I was alone with no place to go. Who was I, who am I, was I a scholar, am I killer, the world has changed so much, my feet and legs take over, they remember what my mind does not.” Philip stopped and waited for a response from anyone in the hall. His mind flashed back to much better times when he was twelve or five years old. Philip had met kindly old bard named Beagle who sometimes visited Philip’s aunts and once told Philip what the world was all about. What he told Philip was that he was meant to be a Bard, or even a courtly troubadour. He also told Philip how one stayed alive in the process. Philip remembered how Beagle became very grave. He was about fifty, which was very old for anyone that was not royalty. So Beagle knew enough to be listened to. Beagle had liked Philip, maybe because he saw himself in Philip forty years before. He saw himself before the world had taken him to school. He wanted to tell him what the illusion of freedom would cost. Beagle tried to talk him out of a dear and future mistake of leaving the walls of the school, not knowing or understanding what the world was. Philip remembered Beagle’s words spoken almost half his life ago. Beagle seemed almost to speak in his mind. Philip saw the kind soft red face behind a graybeard that seemed to speak only to him out of time. “You must make it interesting enough so that they will do something to make you go on. Buy you a drink, give you a coin. But it was tricky because if you stopped and they hated you they would not let you start again. I really think that this is not your line of work. Philip stay, listen to your aunts, and study with the Bishop. Who knows, maybe you will get to like it. Philip, do as I say not what I did.” So Philip stopped and waited, and waited, but no drinks came nor coins only more silence, and finally from the back of the room two drunken Coopers spoke in very loud slurred voices. Clyde the Cooper shouted “If he starts again wailing like a cow; into the dung heap with him!” George the butcher had a better
The Flip Side
idea. “No, throw him into the piss trough.” The blacksmith and teamster, Thomas Kaveny, who weighed at least thirty stones stood up menacingly. Thomas was so tall his head almost brushed the lowest ceiling beam. He thoughtfully stroked his full red beard, making him look almost like the Norse God Thor and said. “Not the dung heap for him. He is too pretty. I have a better idea. I bet you all I can do it.” Now Thomas Kaveny filled his great chest with air and then with this great boast. “I can throw a barrel of flour across High Street. I can a lift side of an ox cart; hell I lifted an ox off the ground to win a purse of gold. They say my mother fucked Thor who fathered me. I am Thomas Kaveny the Black Smith who eats molten iron and squats nails. My mother was Freya and my father was Thor.” A little voiced said in a stage whisper that everybody but Thomas Kaveny the Blacksmith heard. “Thor, Thor, Thor, Thor your mother was so Thor afterwards she couldn’t walk for a week.” It seemed everybody heard the line but Thomas who just went on working himself up more and more. He wrapped a steel chain around his arm and broke it flexing his great biceps, which were thick around as svelte maid’s waist. Thomas was getting pumped up, as he emptied a yard copper teamster’s flagon of ale in a single draft. Thomas had stolen the show and the audience from Philip. Thomas went on and the audience went wild, “Turned a team of Clydesdales I did, Stopped in its tracks to save a wee lass, who wandered in front of me. Hmm, how far I can throw this pretty lad with a face smooth as a baby’s bum?” Another voice said, “I have sack of silver Washington that says you can’t throw him across the outside yard and into the piss trough. After all it is at least 20 yards.” Their hall broke into kind of roar of pandemonium, as all the voices seemed to mix into a roar, which was working into a fever pitch, as side bets were made.
So I’m feeling pretty ratty right now. I got pretty dialed last night. As a result I will not be putting forth much effort in terms of writing this column. Fuck off. I don’t really remember a sequence of events from last night, more just random images involving me dressed as a trucker, whiskey, Andy Eklof in a bikini top, and a lot of walking. As much fun as that sounds, I will not be writing about last night. Of course, we haven’t played a show in a while either. And our practice space is on hiatus, seeing as I prefer to not be evicted from the premises (thanks duplex neighbors). But I do have a fairly brief, fairly mediocre story. When I was in high school, Jimmy Palmer, Jerod Anklam, and Hockey (Cory Nelson,) and myself started a sort of joke band where we would just screw around and write silly songs. I came up with the end all of metal band names: “Sexual Intercorpse.” One day we were at the skatepark and Luke of Exit Smiling had started some new band. I don’t even remember which one it was at the time. Anyhoo, they had set up a show and Luke asked us if we wanted to play. I explained that we were just a joke, but he didn’t care. Practice got a little more serious. However, about a week or so before the show Jerod’s mom (we practiced at his parents house despite the fact that Jerod was 22 or something at the time) overheard/deciphered what I was saying in one of the songs. There’s just something about the word “cunt” repeated over and over that’ll make someone’s mom kick you out of their house and hold a grudge for 3 years. Didn’t matter. Our best song went like this:
If I die, before I wake I hope your girlfriend’s period is late I’ll come back, from beyond the grave It’s the blood of your first born that I crave Armed with a coathanger I’ll knock at your door You’ll know well what it is for I’ll shove it in, and rip it out And toss your fetus all about And then I would yell cunt a bunch of times.
Dec. 5th, 2007 - Jan. 29th, 2008
I was really into the band Anal Cunt at the time, and basically we were trying to be the most offensive band in central Wisconsin. Mission accomplished. The night before the show I shaved a handlebar mustache for added stage presence. That night I also happened to “attend” a graduation party. I drank something like a bottle of wine, fifteen jello shots, and about eight or nine beers. The girl whose party it was had some pink hair dye left over, so I decided to dye my mustache pink. Bad fucking idea. It got all over my face, and as drunk as I was, I scrubbed the hell out of it and ended up scrubbing my face raw plus the mild chemical burns from the dye. So the next morning I woke up with a tinted pink handlebar mustache and what was essentially scabbed over rug burns surrounding it. The show itself was a blast. The drums were hilarious. The floor tom was a bucket, the snare was patched up with felt, someone had taken a gigantic tin snips to the crash symbol, and the entire thing had to be held in place with a cinder block. Hockey grew a mustache, wore spandex and stuffed a sock down there. Every time I opened my mouth the scabs would rip open. All in all we were pretty fucking metal.
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The Great White Ho-Hum Hype
Andy Eklof
Contemplative Cracker I found myself in an interesting discussion last week, and then later I sobered up and forgot what it was about. I’m relatively sure that the green kangaroo dinosaur thing Bamm-Bamm had as a pet on The Flintstones was involved, but then again maybe not, as I have often found it difficult to determine whether or not my memories are actually real or fictional. In light of this, perhaps the interesting discussion never even occurred at all. Nevertheless, I then found myself relatively entertained in a “well-it’s-notlike-there’s-anything-good-on-TV-so-I guess-I’ll-continue-to-converse-withyou” kind of way. Myself and several acquaintances who may or may not exist yet have a lovely house were, I believe, talking about emo music, which led to me insisting that emo kids must respect Brian Wilson’s Pet Sounds album in order to be worthy of the title, as it was pretty much the first emo album (this is not my own original assertion, but rather one belonging to someone else I know whom I don’t care to name and thus give credit to). This led to a discussion about Charles Manson’s involvement with the Beach Boys, which led to a story about a friend of a friend. Or at least I think that was the train of conversation, but it’s hard to say on account of I was inebriated and/or not paying attention at the time. Anyway, the story is to wit: So-and-so was working with a man of Latino descent, and noticed a sizeable tattoo on his person that read MEXICAN PRIDE over a flag that was most likely the Mexican flag, although he wasn’t too sure because in high school he got D’s in International Affairs. Soand-so remarked that it was an impressive tattoo, to which his coworker responded that he got it because he was proud of his heritage, and that So-and-so should get a similar tattoo. So-and-so stated that because he was white such a tattoo would most likely receive mixed reactions. What’s interesting to me about this anecdote, aside from the fact that it’s not all that interesting, is the truth behind it. As another member of the Caucasian persuasion (as we white folk are known to never refer to ourselves as) I have serious misgivings that I could properly rock a piece of body art that calls attention to
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my ethnic pride, due to both the fact that it would most likely be misconstrued by the public-at-large and also the equally relevant fact that for some reason it just seems like there’s not that much for white people to properly say they’re proud of. Off the top of my head I suppose we could claim the invention of democracy, so there’s one. I believe we also invented the moist towelette, but otherwise that’s pretty much it. What’s so traditionally-EurocentricGod darn frustrating about this is that when I lament about it to people of differing ethnicity, all I get back are shrugs and incredulous looks. I tried talking about it to my friend Leah, who happens to be Korean because she came out of the vagina of a Korean woman after a Korean man stuck his penis in it and did stuff, and she told me I just didn’t understand what it was like to be evaluated on the basis of my skin. Seeing her point I decided, in the interest of bettering myself, to investigate by attempting to simulate her appearance. And so it was that I found myself putting on a bikini and covering myself in Nesquik to disguise myself as a Korean girl. And she was right! I’d never
felt so judged before in my life; it was like everywhere I went, everyone looked at me like I was absolutely crazy. Even other Korean girls! The only living beings who would approach me were dogs, and I couldn’t get them to stop licking me, which was a harrowing experience in and of itself considering I am extremely ticklish and my subsequent fits of convulsive laughter almost made me pop out of my top on a number of occasions. This is not to say that I’m naïve about the presence of racism that still exists today, far from it. Having grown up in a
The Flip Side
small town that was significantly intolerant and uneducated in regards to other cultures, I am all too well aware. For instance, the school cafeterias wouldn’t serve tacos because we weren’t supposed to like black people. So it was no surprise to me to learn about Project Implicit, a Virtual Laboratory sponsored by Harvard to study implicit social cognitions. In other words, they test for biases, and their research seems to indicate that, essentially, everyone is implicitly racist and/or socially biased to some extent, even though most people are afraid to just come out and say so. This is an assertion I have always held
myself; I just didn’t want to be the first one to say it. Basically, you can go to this website (https://implicit.harvard.edu/implicit,) and take one or more of a number of tests that use the sorting of images into categories to gauge your biases. I took the test that measured my bias towards identifying Asian-Americans with Americans versus identifying European-Americans with Americans and learned that I had a moderate bias towards identifying European-Americans with Americans. According to the graph I looked at this means I fall into the majority of Americans who have taken the test, so on behalf of that majority I apologized to Leah, who on behalf of Asian-Americans said we were off the hook. To be honest, while I went to the site thinking that it would reveal racist inclinations in my psyche, I did not expect my bias to be more than slight, and was actually dismayed to learn that this was not the case. On top of my experience as a Korean girl, this left me feeling deeply depressed, and for a while I even thought I had developed a case of the honky-tonk blues, however it later turned out that I
was only undergoing a rare form of temporary color-blindness. Still, all in all I felt pretty bad. I had never actually identified myself as a moderately full-blown racist before, and was now starting to. A friend whom I’m almost certain is not a figment of my imagination suggested that maybe I could try to just be racist towards racists. I knew he was either just trying to make me feel better or fucking with me, but I told him that the idea of being racist towards racists seemed self-defeating. He said, “Well duh!” which let me know that he had been fucking with me after all, which was the conclusion I had been leaning towards to begin with. It was then that I reached an epiphany: if I didn’t like being prejudiced, then from then on I wouldn’t be prejudiced towards anyone, including racists. And just to prove my newfound conviction, I went out and got
myself a racist friend. At first I had some laughs with White Power Elliott, although it became evident rather early on that he was a very bitter individual. He said that a movie had been made about his childhood, but that Hollywood had blatantly twisted the truth. According to him, while he did indeed meet a real live alien, he was not at all heartbroken to see it go; in fact he told me that HE was the one who told E.T. to go home in the first place, and even tipped off the INS about the situation. He blamed the movie’s failure to
accurately depict these events on Steven Spielberg, although he called him by another name. It didn’t take all that long before I started to get sick of White Power Elliott; he was seriously testing my tolerance. Fi-
Dec. 5th, 2007 - Jan. 29th, 2008
nally Leah told me that there’s a distinction between racism and discrimination, and that sometimes it’s a good thing to be prejudiced. I think she was really just saying that because one time she ran into me while I was hanging out with White Power Elliott and got unsettled by the way he didn’t say a word as he stared at her intensely while he crushed up a bag of Reese’s Pieces, then formed the delicious mash of chocolate, peanut butter and candy-coated shell into a swastika on the table we were seated at. But in the end, I stopped hanging out with White Power Elliott. He just got on my nerves too much. And besides, I decided that having a friend who’s different from you just because you want to show people that in spite of that difference you can still hang out with them because you’re not a bigot is actually a pretty bigoted thing to do. Just to be clear on this, I want to point out for the record here that this is not the case with Leah, because I have another friend who is also Korean and I only neglected to mention her sooner because I don’t want to gloat. In any case, I think Leah was right again about how being prejudiced isn’t always so bad. She can be pretty smart sometimes, and I’m not just saying that because she’s Asian; I mean, truth be told, I think I’m probably really a lot smarter than her. But then again, maybe I’m just biased. Photographs: Anne Hines
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SOA Protest
David Steinfeld
Undergraduate / Psychology Finally I had the chance to do something. I still remember the days when I was sitting in a chair in front of the TV or in front of my computer back in my small hometown in Germany learning about the fact that the Bush administration had decided to invade Iraq. Other times they decided to go after illegal immigrants with vigilante groups. I recall being so frustrated and pissed off because I felt like I couldn’t do anything to prevent injustice from happening. Yes, I could have started my own rally and felt good about myself, but what difference would it have made? America and its government were over 8,000 miles away from me. It would have been like throwing a bouncing ball into an infinite abyss hoping it would bounce back some day. But here I was, finally back in America for my college years and among 11, 000 other people in Columbus Georgia on November 18, 2007. Our objective: The closure of the School of the Americas located at Fort Benning, Georgia and to commemorate those who had become victims of the SOA in Latin America. It was the day we had all been anticipating for so long. When we got out of the bus each of us received a white, wooden cross that had a name of a victim of the SOA on it. I was carrying a cross that read “Francisca Carlos.” She was 18 years old when she was killed. It felt eerie. Her age was close to mine. She could have been here right now, but instead some reckless, ruthless motherfucker trained by an inhuman institution had decided to deny her the future I had and to take her life away. For what? A large crowd was already gathering in front of Fort Benning. Before we could
enter the protest scene we were stopped by a few women who measured the length of our crosses. Apparently our crosses were too long and thus considered a weapon so that we had to break off a few inches from its bottom. I didn’t really know that you could hurt a person with a thin layered, long cross. My cross was indeed a weapon now since its bottom was now so sharp and spiky that I could have stabbed someone with it. Once we had shortened our crosses we moved further into the masses. Dennis Kucinich was one of the few speakers who opened the ceremony. There were several important things he said but what I remembered most from his speech was that he would no longer use war as part of a foreign policy and also, that he would close down the SOA if elected president. Jim McGovern had a great speech as well and assured us that he would continue urging Congress to close down the SOA. After all the speeches were over the funeral procession for the victims of the SOA began. A group of four speakers on stage held a list in their hand and read their names aloud. Every time a name was said aloud via the microphone we raised our crosses and chanted: “Présenté.”It was incredible. After an hour my arm felt numb due to all the raising of my arm, the list seemed to go on for infinity. Overall the atmosphere of the funeral processing was held in equanimity, hardly anyone spoke. In between the processing there were different parades. One parade consisted of people dressed as nuns with paint over their faces, transporting caskets made of paper with them for the nuns who had been killed by the SOA. When we reached the fence that separated us from Fort Benning I put my cross into a hole in the fence among a thousand other white crosses and wished that Fran-
cisca would rest in peace. It looked like all the white crosses had absorbed all the grey color of the fence. There was no grey spot left to be seen. The amount of victims seemed to be multiplying and all of this because of something that was taking place behind this fence. One of the most stunning moments I can recall during the protest was an older woman from an organization called “The Raging Grannies.” She was holding a dead baby doll in her hand (Yes, babies were killed by the SOA as well, can you believe that?) and tears were streaming down her cheeks. On the one hand I could feel how the sadness was ripping her heart into pieces, but on the other hand I felt that her sad expression was so impressive, moving and a beauty in itself. Such an honest, passionate display of grief! I wanted to hug her and take some of her sorrow away. The funeral procession was nearing its end. Numerous speakers, poets and musicians went on stage giving us each a presentation of their great, unique creativity. Overall, it had been a marvelous day. Eleven-thousand people had decided to make a difference and it was a great experience. Some of you might think why do we even bother? Is the School of Americas ever going to be closed? We don’t know. It might take years. What I know is that for the last 17 years people have been fighting hard to attain this goal, and that this year Congress was only six votes away from closing it down. I think with every new year more Americans seem to become aware of all the injustice that occurs in this world, and choose to do something against it, and part of it includes ending the School of the Americas. We are getting there…
More SOA Reflections Betsy Lorenz
Undergraduate / Social Work On November 18, 2007, outside the gate of Fort Benning, Georgia, I participated in a peaceful demonstration along with over 11,000 other people. We were protesting against the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Coopera-
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tion, formerly known as the School of the Americas (SOA), where the U.S. military trains its Latin American counterparts in combat, counter-insurgency, and counternarcotics. One thing that struck me about this experience was the mix of people protesting; I would estimate that perhaps half
The Flip Side
of the demonstrators were members of Christian groups, and they came to represent those groups. Now I am certainly not a Christian, and there have been several times when I found myself at odds with Christians when it came to defining the morality of laws and policies, but in this instance I found myself marching
Reflections. . . (cont.)
side by side with priests, nuns, and other college kids who happened to be very much Christian. And we were there each for our own reasons, but all with the same purpose: to call for the closing of the SOA. For once, “The Christians” and I were on the same side, fighting for the same cause. It felt kind of good, but it was also somewhat unsettling to realize that something that is wrong enough to draw out the hippies and the Christians en masse hasn’t been shut down yet. And it doesn’t appear that the government plans on shutting it down anytime soon. Jody Williams, who won a Nobel Peace Prize for her work in removing landmines, has been quoted as saying “There will always be a fundamental difference between thinking militarily and thinking morally.” I completely agree with this statement; violence breeds violence. The SOA trains military minds; it trains young, intelligent humans to effectively carry out military operations and military rule- using military thinking. Want to know a fun fact? Osama Bin Laden was trained at the SOA. So was Manuel Noriega, who spent the last umpteen years in federal prison in Miami on drug trafficking charges. The U.S. military maintains that torturers and extortionists can come from any school; it isn’t the SOA’s fault that its graduates have such a horrible track record when it comes to human rights violations and war crimes. And yet, one of their training manuals outlines the most effective torture methods. And surprisingly, a demonstration of 11,000 people didn’t even warrant stories on the national news. Coincidence? I think not, but that’s a whole new can of worms that I don’t really want to get into.
Dec. 5th, 2007 - Jan. 29th, 2008
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Saturday December 8th 11 am-noon – Planetarium Program: “Mr. Genius Tours the Solar System!” - Planetarium, Phillips Science Hall - The local favorite is back! 1 pm-4:30 pm – Senior Bachelor of Fine Arts Exhibition – Foster Gallery, Haas Fine Arts Center
Wednesday December 5th 9 am-5 pm – UWEC Ceramic Students Annual Christmas Sale – Ho-Chunk Room, Davies Center 7:30 pm – BASSically BRASS & the Trombone Ensemble Fall Concert – Gantner Concert Hall 8 pm – UAC Cabin – Jazz at Night – Free 8 pm – Discussion & Support Group for those with loved ones serving in Iraq or Afghanistan – WAGE Center, Schofield 30 – All meetings are confidential
Thursday December 6th
5-7 pm – Karaoke - Higherground 6 & 8:30 pm – Campus Film: The Lives of Others - Davies Theatre - Tickets available at the Davies Service Center and at the door 7:30 pm – Prometheus Bound – Riverside Theatre, Haas Fine Arts Center
Friday December 7th 10 am-4:30 pm – Senior Bachelor of Fine Arts Exhibition – Foster Gallery, Haas Fine Arts Center 11:30 am & 8 pm - UAC Cabin Featured Artist : The Buffali – The Cabin, Davies Center 6 & 8:30 pm – Campus Film: The Lives of Others - Davies Theatre - Tickets available at the Davies Service Center and at the door 7:30 pm – Prometheus Bound – Riverside Theatre, Haas Fine Arts Center 8-11 pm – “So You Think You’re A Rock Band?” Lip-Synching Competition – Higherground
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6:30-11:30 pm – Hmong Student Association Battle of the Bands – UWEC Davies Center – $8 7:30 pm – Prometheus Bound – Riverside Theatre, Haas Fine Arts Center 8 pm - UAC Cabin Featured Artist: The Buffali – The Cabin, Davies Center 11 pm – Club Mercury Dance Party – Higherground
Sunday December 9th
9 am-5 pm – UWEC Ceramic Students Annual Christmas Sale – Ho-Chunk Room, Davies Center
11 pm – Club Mercury Dance Party – Higherground
6 & 8:30 pm – Campus Film: The Lives of Others - Davies Theatre - Tickets available at the Davies Service Center and at the door
1 pm-4:30 pm – Senior Bachelor of Fine Arts Exhibition – Foster Gallery, Haas Fine Arts Center 1:30 pm - Prometheus Bound – Riverside Theatre, Haas Fine Arts Center 2 pm & 5 pm – Holiday Concerts – Zorn Arena – Performed by various music ensembles 6 & 8:30 pm – Campus Film: The Lives of Others - Davies Theatre - Tickets available at the Davies Service Center and at the door
Monday December 10th 10 am-4:30 pm – Senior Bachelor of Fine Arts Exhibition – Foster Gallery, Haas Fine Arts Center
Tuesday December 11th 10 am-4:30 pm – Senior Bachelor of Fine Arts Exhibition – Foster Gallery, Haas Fine Arts Center 4 pm – Discussion & Support Group for those with loved ones serving in Iraq or Afghanistan – WAGE Center, Schofield 30 – All meetings are confidential 7-8 pm – Planetarium Program: “Adventures Along the Spectrum” – Planetarium, Phillips Science Hall 7pm – Flip Side Meeting – Wisconsin Room, Davies Center
The Flip Side
Wednesday December 12th 8 am-4 pm – SIFE Blowout Sale – UWEC Davies Center, Council Fire Room 10 am-4:30 pm – Senior Bachelor of Fine Arts Exhibition – Foster Gallery, Haas Fine Arts Center
8 pm – Cabin Calamity-UAC Talent Showcase – The Cabin, Davies Center 8 pm – Live Group: Girl’s Night Out - Higherground - Eau Claire Women’s A Cappella Group - $5
Sunday December 16th
7:30 pm – Prometheus Bound – Riverside Theatre, Haas Fine Arts Center
1-4:30 pm – Senior Bachelor of Fine Arts Exhibition – Foster Gallery, Haas Fine Arts Center
Thursday December 13th
3 pm – Chippewa Valley Youth Symphony: Enjoy a Symphonic Journey – Gantner Concert Hall, Haas Fine Arts Center – Call for Cost
10 am-4:30 pm & 6-8pm – Senior Bachelor of Fine Arts Exhibition – Foster Gallery, Haas Fine Arts Center 5-7 pm – Karaoke - Higherground 6 & 8:30 pm – Campus Film: Joyeux Noel - Davies Theatre Tickets available at the Davies Service Center and at the door 7:30 pm – Prometheus Bound – Riverside Theatre, Haas Fine Arts Center 8 pm – NOTA Open Poetry & Prose Reading – The Cabin, Davies Center
Friday December 14th 10 am-4:30 pm – Senior Bachelor of Fine Arts Exhibition – Foster Gallery, Haas Fine Arts Center 6 & 8:30 pm – Campus Film: Joyeux Noel - Davies Theatre Tickets available at the Davies Service Center and at the door
6 & 8:30 pm – Campus Film: Joyeux Noel - Davies Theatre Tickets available at the Davies Service Center and at the door
Monday December 17th 6:30 pm – “Monday Movie Madness for Teens” – Eau Claire Room, L.E. Phillips Public Library
Tuesday December 18th (“Nuttzzing! We can not finds zee fun tings for you to do. Go out and do tings by your self!” – Calendar Girl)
Wednesday December 19th 8 pm – Discussion & Support Group for those with loved ones serving in Iraq or Afghanistan – WAGE Center, Schofield 30 – All meetings are confidential
7:30 pm – Prometheus Bound – Riverside Theatre, Haas Fine Arts Center 8 pm- Open Mike – The Cabin, Davies Center 10 pm – Club Mercury Dance Party – Higherground
Submit Your Events!
Saturday December 15th 11 am-noon – Planetarium Program: “Mr. Genius Tours the Solar System!” - Planetarium, Phillips Science Hall - The local favorite is back! 1-4:30 pm – Senior Bachelor of Fine Arts Exhibition – Foster Gallery, Haas Fine Arts Center 6 & 8:30 pm – Campus Film: Joyeux Noel - Davies Theatre Tickets available at the Davies Service Center and at the door
To better serve our readers, all Student Organizations, Departments, Students, Faculty, Staff, and Community Members are welcome to submit events or activities for inclusion into our calendar for FREE. The deadline for events in the next issue is Jan. 24th Send events to Phil Kolas at: kolaspn@uwec.edu
7:30 pm – Prometheus Bound – Riverside Theatre, Haas Fine Arts Center
Dec. 5th, 2007 - Jan. 29th, 2008
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