HOW TO HAVE A GOOD TIME BY: Mr. Smith (Bower)
BY: Mr. Smith (Bower)
So. You find yourself stuck in a foreign country. In an airport or a train station. Speaking not a word of the language and listening to the homeless man beating on his out of tune guitar at the entrance, some version of Come Together right now over me. He got a no snip snopp oh yeah over me. And you need sleep. But your traveling partner still has yet to arrive. Note to travelers, a midnight arrival signifies a new day and a day later on the ticket. You have 24 hours to blow but must stick near the train station. Those benches over there look inviting, you curl around your rucksack to fend off the slippery fingers of the heroin addicts in desperate need of goods to sell and drift off into a half dream world, where your mother shouts “ding dong sam a sam a sam 17.50 arrival ding dong”. The man sleeping next to you on the opposite bench is eyeing your sleeping bag and pad. He speaks to you in his tongue and you inform him that you have no idea what he is saying since you are a self centered American. This man with ski boots on his feet and a garbage bag full of his belongings speaks perfect English. America huh? I went there once, Texas was a big place, warm, and someone stole all my bags, my clothes, my food, my money, everything. A good trip though. He is homeless now. You ask him were he sleeps at night around here. A shady looking park where his pals suck down the alcohol based mentholated spirits for camp stoves for kicks, a neon sign illuminating your wooden bench bed with the time. He teaches you to cheat the system. How to get into a pay toilet without paying a coin. Your eyes and head and body hurt from waiting on that bench, having to carry your human sized pack whenever you take a walk around, too cheap to pay for a locker. You still have 12 hours to kill. It is cold out of the station it is McDonalds out of the station and you have never seen anything like this outside of the station. Everyone seems dressed up, looking good for the trip, first impressions are oh so important when you step off that mode of transport searching for the company who should be waiting for you. Bet you every one here knows how to make rice. Two parts water to one part rice, put the water in the pot, bring it to a boil, toss in the rice, bring it to a boil, cover, turn down the heat
So. You find yourself stuck in a foreign country. In an airport or a train station. Speaking not a word of the language and listening to the homeless man beating on his out of tune guitar at the entrance, some version of Come Together right now over me. He got a no snip snopp oh yeah over me. And you need sleep. But your traveling partner still has yet to arrive. Note to travelers, a midnight arrival signifies a new day and a day later on the ticket. You have 24 hours to blow but must stick near the train station. Those benches over there look inviting, you curl around your rucksack to fend off the slippery fingers of the heroin addicts in desperate need of goods to sell and drift off into a half dream world, where your mother shouts “ding dong sam a sam a sam 17.50 arrival ding dong”. The man sleeping next to you on the opposite bench is eyeing your sleeping bag and pad. He speaks to you in his tongue and you inform him that you have no idea what he is saying since you are a self centered American. This man with ski boots on his feet and a garbage bag full of his belongings speaks perfect English. America huh? I went there once, Texas was a big place, warm, and someone stole all my bags, my clothes, my food, my money, everything. A good trip though. He is homeless now. You ask him were he sleeps at night around here. A shady looking park where his pals suck down the alcohol based mentholated spirits for camp stoves for kicks, a neon sign illuminating your wooden bench bed with the time. He teaches you to cheat the system. How to get into a pay toilet without paying a coin. Your eyes and head and body hurt from waiting on that bench, having to carry your human sized pack whenever you take a walk around, too cheap to pay for a locker. You still have 12 hours to kill. It is cold out of the station it is McDonalds out of the station and you have never seen anything like this outside of the station. Everyone seems dressed up, looking good for the trip, first impressions are oh so important when you step off that mode of transport searching for the company who should be waiting for you. Bet you every one here knows how to make rice. Two parts water to one part rice, put the water in the pot, bring it to a
The Origin of Halloween Compiled by Eileen Roltsch
The origin of Halloween dates back 2000 years ago to the Celtic celebration of the dead. A Celtic festival was held on November 1, the first day of the celtic New Year, honoring the Samhain, the Lord of the Dead. Celtic ritual believed that the souls of the dead returned on the evening before November 1, October 31. The celebration included burning sacrifices and costumes. Celts wore costumes and masks to avoid detection by these ghosts. These early events began as both a celebration of the harvest and an honoring of dead ancestors. Halloween spread throughout Europe in the seventh century. It began with "All Hallows Eve", the "Night of the Dead". It is immediately followed by "All Souls Day", a christian holy day. The first lighted fruit was really carved out of gourds and turnips. European custom also included carving scary faces into the gourds and placing embers inside to light them. This was believed to ward of evil spirits, especially spirits who roamed the streets and countryside during All Hallows Eve. The Irish brought the tradition of carving turnips and even potatoes with them to America. Using pumpkins as lanterns at Halloween is based on an ancient Celtic custom brought to America by Irish immigrants. On All Hallows’ Eve, hollowed-out gourds with candles inside were placed on windowsills to welcome home spirits of deceased ancestors and to ward off evil spirits, including a restless soul named "Stingy Jack." Bobbing for Apples is a tradition widely popular a few decades ago. It dates back to ancient roman times in honor of the Roman
the great seaplane chasing its reflection on the river’s metallic surface the great seaplane descended and slid onto the water orange pontoons leaving a triangular wake more perfect than the mirror they disturbed joe ritter 4.8.04 This here adorable little puppydog has submitted to the Pine Press. Why haven’t you? SUBMIT TO YOUR PINEY MASTER! BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE! Send submissions to pinepress@hotmail.com
Pine Press Recipe Share Vegetarian Mexican Lasagna 1 (15-ounce) can pinto, pink or black beans, drained and rinsed 1 (14-ounce) chunky salsa 1/4 C. chopped cilantro 1 clove finely minced garlic 1 (4-ounce) can chopped green chiles 2 C. frozen corn kernels, thawed 2 scallions, minced and some diced videllas 1/2 t. ground cumin 1/2 t. dried oregano 8 corn tortillas 1 1/2 C. grated Monterey Jack cheese serve with chips and salsa sour cream, optional Preheat oven to 400°F. In a large mixing bowl, combine beans, salsa, cilantro, garlic, chiles, corn, scallions, cumin and oregano; mix thoroughly. Oil a 2-quart baking dish and line with 4 tortillas, overlapping if necessary. Spread half of bean mixture in a layer over tortillas. Sprinkle with half of the cheese. Repeat with remaining tortillas, beans and cheese. Bake 20 - 25 minutes, or until cheese is bubbly. Let stand 1 or 2 minutes, then cut into squares to serve. Top each serving with a dollop sour cream if desired. Makes 6 servings. Submitted by Emily Prehoda—Hedrick Send recipes to pinepress@hotmail.com
The Rock & Roll Bass Guitar! Rockin’ your ass all the way back into mamma’s belly! New Album Coming Soon On Duffmeister Records www.duffmeister.net 10/30/04—Flint Local 432
NEW RECORD REVIEWS!Steve O’Connor Proves Those Jerks at Pitchfork Are a Bunch of Fakers!
The Light Wires S/T Tiberius www.tiberiusrecords.com www.thelightwires.com Employing catchy pop-hooks and melodies reminiscent of Mark Eitzel, Elliot Smith and The Gigolo Aunts with a splash of alt-country favorites Wilco, Cincinnati based The Light Wires deliver a promising debut with their eponymous full length on Tiberius. Jeremy Pinell’s voice earnestly conveys his passionate lyrics set to flawless background music effectively capturing the emotional essence of each respective song. There will always be times when you’re seeking out music that could provide a fitting backdrop to life’s quieter moments. The Light Wires stunning debut delivers the goods and then some. They employ every method of song craft from distorted fuzzy guitars to steel guitar always backed by Rick McCarty’s tight drumming. The fourth song “Stewards Of The Earth” provides a shining example of Pinell’s brand of soulsearching lyricism that’s emotionally gripping while not falling prey to cliché. Lyrically, the entire album encompasses a wide range of human emotions from the bittersweet memory, of love gone awry (“Two Caretakers”) to heartbreak, regret, loneliness and despair (“Me In Her Wild Hair”). All told, The Light Wires eponymous debut ranks among the best released this year.
Towers Of Hanoi S/T EP Barracuda Sound
www.barracudarecords.com Birthed from the ashes of Appalachian Drinking League: Travis Whitton (guitar- ex Appalachian Drinking League), Jon Reinertson (drums- ex Appalachian Drinking League) and Michael Gaultieri (bass guitar) with Rachel Whitton (vocals) rounding out the line-up. There’s a brand new band on the scene fully prepared to bring you the rock with a vengeance. They call themselves Towers Of Hanoi. Their first release, a stunning four track EP clocking in just shy of fifteen minutes, delivers to the listener more raw intensity than other releases quadruple in length that I’ve heard. Within the first few minutes of listening, I was hooked by Rachel Whitting’s chillingly intense soaring vocalswhich are so rare, and such an auditory treat when one hears them in this post-punk world. Their best most captivating track on the debut EP is “It’s Wrong”, containing enraged, passionate lyrics, seemingly directed at not only a rapist, but also providing a condemnation of rape culture
Death of the Baseball God By Friedrich Nietzsche—Zarathustra House
The baseball fan.— Have you not heard of that baseball fan who raised his Budweiser in the waning post-game hours, ran to Fenway Park, and cried incessantly: "I seek The Baseball God! I seek The Baseball God!" —As many of those who were not real Red Sox fans were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter. Has he got lost? asked one. Did he lose his way like Johnny Damon? asked another. Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of John Kruk’s girth? Has his team been moved to a larger market city? emigrated?—Thus they yelled and laughed. The Baseball fan jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. "Whither is The Baseball God?" he cried; "I will tell you. We have killed him—you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up all the cheap-assed beer? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire green monster? What were we doing when we unchained this curse from its Babe? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all curses? Are we not lowering the pitcher’s mound continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying as through an infinite rain delay? Do we not feel the breath of Skoal tinged breath? Has it not become the off-season? Is not a league-wide designated hitter rule continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light the stadium lights in the morning? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the groundskeepers who are burying The Baseball God beneath the first base line? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Baseball Gods, too, decompose. The Baseball God is dead. The Baseball God remains dead. And we have killed him. "How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was the greatest colossus of crash and sultan of swat that Boston has yet owned has bled to death under our cheers and souvenir bats: who will wipe this blood and chew-spit off us? What locker room showers are there for us to clean ourselves? What mighty contests against the Yankees in inter-league play or playoffs, what World Series shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this lifted curse too great for us? Must the Red Sox themselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? There has never been a greater curse; and whoever is born after us—for the sake of
The baseball fan.— Have you not heard of that baseball fan who raised his Budweiser in the waning post-game hours, ran to Fenway Park, and cried incessantly: "I seek The Baseball God! I seek The Baseball God!" —As many of those who were not real Red Sox fans were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter. Has he got lost? asked one. Did he lose his way like Johnny Damon? asked another. Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of John Kruk’s girth? Has his team been moved to a larger market city? emigrated?—Thus they yelled and laughed. The Baseball fan jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. "Whither is The Baseball God?" he cried; "I will tell you. We have killed him—you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up all the cheap-assed beer? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire green monster? What were we doing when we unchained this curse from its Babe? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all curses? Are we not lowering the pitcher’s mound continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying as through an infinite rain delay? Do we not feel the breath of Skoal tinged breath? Has it not become the off-season? Is not a league-wide designated hitter rule continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light the stadium lights in the morning? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the groundskeepers who are burying The Baseball God beneath the first base line? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Baseball Gods, too, decompose. The Baseball God is dead. The Baseball God remains dead. And we have killed him. "How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was the greatest colossus of crash and sultan of swat that Boston has yet owned has bled to death under our cheers and souvenir bats: who will wipe this blood and chew-spit off us? What locker room showers are there for us to clean ourselves? What mighty contests against the Yankees in inter-league play or playoffs, what World Series shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this lifted curse too great for us? Must the Red Sox themselves not become gods simply to
Letters to the Editor Rise Up, Readers! To the Editor: Perhaps the Readers of the Pine Press have had an Experience similar to the one I am about to describe. Imagine one Day that you, illustrious Reader, had just purchased a used Extended Play Record from a Detroit Record Shop. And perhaps you, dear one, so happened to mention said Purchase to a Friend over, say, Tea. And your friend, Sugar Bottom, asked if he could not perhaps borrow said Extended Play Record as he himself has long searched for this purportedly rare Item. Now despite having only just purchased the Record and twice only having listened to her, you, Saucy Lips, made the Loan in good Faith that she would be returned promptly to your Person. But then several Weeks have passed, haven't they, Schnookums? And your Friend has still not returned the Record, even after you had politely requested her Return. This Situation, Nannykins, cannot stand, no, it cannot. Rise up, sweet Reader, rise up. -Michael Langdon P.S. Tim, can I have my Sunshine Fix CD back?
Editorial Staff Editor-In-Chief: Arnold M. Picker Managing Editor: Ed Guthman Opinion Editor: Leonard Woodcock Photo Editor: Daniel Schorr News Editor: Morton Halperin Total Fucking Jerk: S. Harrison Dogole
THE PINE PRESS FALL 04: ISSUE 3
The Pine Press (P.P) is the fortnightly published publication of the MSU Student Housing Cooperative. In opposition to our usual policy of printing our editorial policy in this box, instead here is a letter that I wrote to an unknown individual. To the young man who wrote “Hate East Lansing” on the wall of the men’s room of Espresso Royale Café in East Lansing, MI: It occurs to me, though I am by no means a licensed psychologist or counselor, that you hold within yourself a considerable degree of anger and aggression which, without a healthy outlet such as painting, playing the clarinet, or basketball, has caused you to act out in ways deemed uncouth by polite society. I speak, of course, of your recent foray into the world of bathroom graffiti. There are two distinct ways I see to interpret your pithy exclamation. The first is to read it as an imperative statement. You, the writer, urge me, the audience, to relate to the city of East Lansing, Michigan (home of Michigan State University, this nation’s first land grant university), in a manner usually reserved for Derridian scholarship, John Foster Dulles, my friend Keith who slept with my exgirlfriend, and Nazis. That is, hatred. To this request, I respectfully, yet firmly, decline. The second interpretation calls for me to read the statement “Hate East Lansing” as a declarative description of the author’s personal state, with the subject “I” withheld, compelling the reader to infer its existence. Whether this was a purposeful attempt at clever obfuscation of interpretation is unclear. Nonetheless, if we are to take this reading seriously, it is obvious that you, dear author, are in need of kind words, wisdom, sagacity, if you will: advice. Since you hate the city in which you most likely reside, there are three courses of action that should, in all likelihood, relieve your suffering. They are: move to another city that is less deserving of your scorn, transfer (if you are an MSU student) to another accredited, 4-year university (and if you are partial to the land-grant atmosphere, might I recommend Iowa State or the University of California at Berkley), or, probably most effectively, kill yourself. Do not think me cold hearted. I recognize that you may find yourself the victim of circumstances which, notwithstanding option three, make a transfer or move if not impossible then at least impracticable. Perhaps you moved to our fair city to care for your widowed mother who suffers from a rare form of incurable bowel cancer. Or maybe you are an accused felon out on bail who faces imprisonment and an almost certain assumption of guilt were you to, as the saying goes, “skip town.” Possibly you are living under an assumed name in East Lansing through the Federal Witness Protection Program due to your willingness to act as a mob informant and are under strict instructions from your FBI protectors to stay put. If any of the above are the unfortunate circumstances of your quite obviously miserable existence, then I apologize for wasing your time. My sympathy is yours. However, I find it more likely to assume you are a young, white, middle-class male struggling to find something to despise in order to relate to, and therefore justify enjoying bad punk or hardcore music. You hate George Bush, but won’t vote because you hate America. You call yourself an “Anarcho-Communist” despite the inherit oxymoronic, and therefore regular-moronic, nature of such a label. You have attended multiple protests but have never read a newspaper article in its entirety. You once called yourself a “radical feminist” despite your having been party to, or maybe even directly engaged in, multiple date rapes. You claim to abhor racism, yet shudder each time you walk past a group of young black men. You hate your parents but appreciate the rent checks they provide. You are, in short, a piece of human garbage. But then again, this is just a theory. I could be wrong. In closing, I find it fitting to ultimately respond to your declaration with an equally pithy and vitriolic statement: fuck you! Sincerely, Timothy McCarty
The Shortest of All by Dickey Roscombe Millard Fillmore can Do still more than A man much taller than he. He could kill more, man If he had a chill store van Or if he was a baller like me.
...And Taylor Too by Templeton McPopcornBucket William Henry Harrison was so quickly dead. It took him 32 days to kick it in the head. Incumbent Martin Van Buren’s ass sure got iced. We were sad that he died, but John Taylor thought it nice. oh grover (a grover cleveland jingle) by Jehosefat Jinglepants oh Grover I’m hung over with leftovers all over my pullover walk over and give me a napkin, damnit The Op/Ed Limerick by Kelty O'Mick You want to be President Kerry? You should not have mentioned that Mary. Yes, supporters of Bush Are afraid of her bush, But more so that lesbians marry.
Soul Cby Dance Lam Holing Mexicans say that Polk That Polk, he had no soul cCause Polk, he robbed the folk Of Baja -- now they sulk.
Attention MSUSHC! We Have A Job Opening
MSU-SHC is looking for part time help to start around Jan 1. 2005. Tara is graduating and leaving us, and we need someone to replace her. Ideally we will find someone who can work a regular schedule 3 to 4 hours a day and can commit to SHC for one year. The Member Services Coordinator:
-Educates potential members about cooperative living. -Recruits applicants, checks on references, and facilitates contract signings -Provides general assistance to members and to the executive director. -Acts as the office receptionist and supply manager -Works with executive director in maintaining member balances and performing house audits
Requirements -Computer skills that include word processing and excel -A one year commitment -Most importantly, an upbeat person able to “sell” our cooperative community to prospective members -Member of MSU-SHC -Able to work 3 hours a day between the hours of 11AM and 5PM
To apply, please bring a letter to the office by Nov. 8th, telling us about your interest in the position. We’ll schedule interviews for the following week and if at all possible the new person will start while Tara is still here, to help with the training. Starting pay is $8.00/hr.
Don’t Co-Ops Kick Ass?
Although it seems like the year just started, it's time to decide if you're up Don’t Waste Any Time! The Future is NOW! for some more co-oping. Lucky for you, you have decided to become a co-oper already, that youor canNext reserve School a spot and sign a Sign Upwhich for means Summer Year! contract at a later date when you make up your mind for sure.
Oct 1st - Nov 5th: Reserve a spot in YOUR OWN CURRENT
house. You may reserve a spot for your house for the summer '05 contract period and/or '05-'06 school year. This is not the same as signing a contract...you don't have to sign or decide to sign until February 1st.
Nov 8th - Nov 19th: Reserve a spot in ANY SHC house for the
summer 2005 and/or school year '05-'06. Again, this is a reservation, which means you can decide to sign a contract by Feb 1st.
Feb 1st 2005: All reservations expire. If you have not signed a contract, your spot may be given to someone else looking for co-op housing.
If you have questions, refer to the informative sign with the cow sticking her tongue out at you, ask your membership officer or call Tara in the office at 355-8313. Happy co-oping!
Natalie’s Comic
alie’s mic
Hey Ladies! Protect Yourselves — On The Cheap Ann Victory - Atlantis
Ann Victory - Atlantis
Putting your feet in stirrups and having somebody look at your genitals is probably one of the least exciting things on the yearly to-do-list, and getting the bill makes it that much worse. Being a healthy woman in East Lansing doesn't have to be painful or expensive, as I've learned in my Reproductive Health class at the college of Human Medicine. There are a lot of options available, and many of them are affordable. For annual exams, there are two good options. If you're a student and have insurance, Olin Health Center (on campus) will bill your insurance for a full physical exam. They also have a pharmacy where they can fill prescriptions for contraception for about $15$20, and give out free condoms. If you don't have insurance or aren't a student, Olin can get a bit pricey. Planned Parenthood will do a pap, pelvic, and breast exam and charges on a sliding scale based on income (and face it, we're all broke). They are conveniently located next to Splash of Color at 515 Grand River. They do not currently bill insurance companies, so you will be paying out of pocket. They charge about $16-$19 for contraception, depending on how much you want to purchase at one time. Condoms are free here as well. Planned Parenthood also has a program that lets you get a prescription for hormonal contraceptives without having to have a pelvic exam, called the HOPE program. The only requirement is to go in once a year and discuss how your method is working for you. No stirrups, no undressing, just birth control. What kind of birth control is best? Well, it's something to talk about with your doctor, but there are a lot of kinds out there. Male and female condoms are the only form of birth control that prevent STD's, but they must be used correctly. If you are using confoms, read through the instructions and make sure you are following them... It could change the effectiveness from 75% to 97%. Women can also use hormonal contraception- which doesn't prevent STD's. Depo-Provera, "the shot," only has to be taken 3 times a year and is 99.7% effective, but there are a lot of side effects and takes a long time to wear off. The pill, the patch, and the ring all use hormones taken on a regular basis and are about 99% effective. The pill must be taken daily at the
Putting your feet in stirrups and having somebody look at your genitals is probably one of the least exciting things on the yearly to-do-list, and getting the bill makes it that much worse. Being a healthy woman in East Lansing doesn't have to be painful or expensive, as I've learned in my Reproductive Health class at the college of Human Medicine. There are a lot of options available, and many of them are affordable. For annual exams, there are two good options. If you're a student and have insurance, Olin Health Center (on campus) will bill your insurance for a full physical exam. They also have a pharmacy where they can fill prescriptions for contraception for about $15-$20, and give out free condoms. If you don't have insurance or aren't a student, Olin can get a bit pricey. Planned Parenthood will do a pap, pelvic, and breast exam and charges on a sliding scale based on income (and face it, we're all broke). They are conveniently located next to Splash of Color at 515 Grand River. They do not currently bill insurance companies, so you will be paying out of pocket. They charge about $16-$19 for contraception, depending on how much you want to purchase at one time. Condoms are free here as well. Planned Parenthood also has a program that lets you get a prescription for hormonal contraceptives without having to have a pelvic exam, called the HOPE program. The only requirement is to go in once a year and discuss how your method is working for you. No stirrups, no undressing, just birth control. What kind of birth control is best? Well, it's something to talk about with your doctor, but there are a lot of kinds out there. Male and female condoms are the only form of birth control that prevent STD's, but they must be used correctly. If you are using confoms, read through the instructions and make sure you are following them... It could change the effectiveness from 75% to 97%. Women can also use hormonal contraception- which doesn't prevent STD's. Depo-Provera, "the shot," only has to be taken 3 times a year and is 99.7% effective, but there are a lot of side effects and takes a long time to wear off. The pill, the patch, and the ring all use hormones taken on a regular basis and are about 99% effective. The pill must be taken daily at the
Pine
October 28, 2004
Press
The Baseball God Is Dead!