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February 28, 2005.
Good afternoon everyone. I'm getting really pissed off about this whole Torture thing, Why are we as Americans OK with this? Most people don't seem to care as long as its "them" and not "us". I don't care if its them or us, its wrong. How long before its us too?

NY Times

It's Called Torture

As a nation, does the United States have a conscience? Or is anything and everything O.K. in post-9/11 America? If torture and the denial of due process are O.K., why not murder? When the government can just make people vanish - which it can, and which it does - where is the line that we, as a nation, dare not cross?
Read the whole story and your comments on the blog

Wow more mail in one day then in a usual week thanks BuzzflashFrom: Rusty Austin
I have an idea about how to initiate a recall of schwarzenegger...what we do is, make the entire thing internet based. People would download and sign and mail in PDF petitions, thereby relieving us from the burden of paying for signatures to be gathered manually. I have already made up all the necessary paperwork, I only need to find 65 people willing to act as proponents, sign th enotice of intent, and put up $50 each to pay the $3000 filing fee. Actually, I already have about 20 friends that are interested, but I have been so busy at my job and that has precluded me from following through. I figure the whole thing can be done for less than $20,000, which is the cost of gathering up the mail and submitting the petitions to the secreatary of state for certification. Even if the recall itself fails, just getting it to the ballot via this method would be a huge victory, and one that could be replicated again and again until he is actually recalled, or finishes his term. Plus, it would keep him so tied down he would be unable to do much of anything else... Anyway if you are interested in becoming a proponent, and/or know anyone else who is, let me know...
Rusty Austin

If you would like to get involved Email Rusty H.L. Responds: Rusty, Sounds like a great idea, You can count me in, and I will post your email on the site, with your email address, and we can see if anyone else steps up. Thanks H.L.

Heres a story from the Smirking Chimp. Its short, and powerful, I'm putting the whole thing up here becuase its so good

Dennis Rahkonen: 'Eddie goes back (but the killing doesn't end)'

The car sped south on Highway 35, heading for the county, where you could get into the bars at age 18. You had to be 21 in the city. It was where all the former high school students who weren't yet officially adults would go to party. Eddie sat in the middle of the old Plymouth's front bench seat, knees forced up near his face by the transmission tunnel.
Beside him were two guys he'd seen around but didn't really know. In the rear were four other dudes. Everyone was already high, laughing and whooping. Eddie didn't remember just exactly how he came to be where he was. But, hell, it didn't matter. This was gonna be fun! A while later they passed a former gas station from probably the Depression years. It was in bad shape, but some longhairs were trying to saw and hammer it into better repair. Eddie heard the driver say Tom and Jeff picked it up for a song and were living there.Eddie recognized it as a little country store somebody started running in the mid Nineties. But all the license plates on the cars parked around had 1973 tags!
"Damn... I'm really fucked up. I've gone back to the past." What's more, Eddie thought everyone else there had gone back with him. Just then the car radio started playing Johnny Rivers' version of Chuck Berry's "Memphis." "Hey!" Eddie called out. "Did any of you catch Johnny Rivers at that concert by the lake two summers ago? Man, that dude had a lot of rockin' good hits!" Nobody answered, but Eddie played air guitar and sang along: "...Marie is only six years old, information please -- try to put me through to her in Memphis, Tennessee." Eddie entered the ramshackle structure, finding that someone had already bought plenty of booze. Between fifteen and twenty boisterous guys and girls were inside, all quite intoxicated. Eddie got momentarily dizzy and sank into a dusty, overstuffed chair. Maybe it was the marijuana smoke wafting through the small, tight structure, but he felt wasted without even having taken a swig or a hit. "Damn!" he exclaimed. "Everybody here is completely out of it. Except maybe that kid in the corner (who was about three or four and plainly bored by the goings on)." The crowd laughed, but Eddie only thought it was in response to his remark.
Just then a pretty girl in a mini skirt plopped onto his lap. It was Angie, a woman he'd worked with for a few years just before and after the turn of the Millennium. "Oh, Angie, you're so hot," Eddie said, as he moved his hand along her shapely calf and taut, tanned thigh.
Angie must have been really wrecked, though, because she didn't say a word or respond in any way. It was almost as if Eddie wasn't even there. Before he had time to give it more thought, a guy with aluminum crutches ambled in, his back turned to Eddie. His movement was labored and obviously painful. "Hey, Brian!" someone called to the new arrival. "It looks like that bastard Nixon is gonna get impeached. Serves him right for what he did to you, and everyone else he kept in 'Nam." The man on crutches wheeled around as he was saying, "That's damned straight, Bill. Damned fuckin' straight!"
Much to his shock, Eddie recognized his own father, who'd lost a leg and suffered other serious injuries in the Central Highlands. The father who committed suicide in '86, after years of worsening post traumatic stress. "C'mon, Eddie let's go home. You shouldn't be here with all these crazy freaks!" the wounded ex-soldier said with mock derision. Eddie got up to comply, but so did the little boy in the corner.
Big Eddie tried to move toward the door, but couldn't. He just watched, helplessly, as his Dad and Little Eddie stepped outside, then disappeared. That's when Eddie woke up in a fearful sweat. He was in a brightly lit, large room with slowly whirling fans on the ceiling. "Where the hell am I!" he screamed. "What the fuck's happening to me!"
An orderly rushed forward to calm him down. "Relax, Captain. It was a rocket propelled grenade. But you'll make it. You'll be going home before too long. A lot of guys won't. Alive, that is. The insurgency sure hasn't let up since the election." Eddie swallowed hard, then turned his head to the right, his cheek against a blood-spattered pillow. There was more blood up by his shoulder...where his arm should have been. Eddie noticed it was missing at about the same time he saw all the other soldiers in the same room, some moaning and crying, some with sheets pulled over their heads. "Jesus," Eddie said barely audibly, having had all the breath sucked out of him.


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