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Grrrrrrr - What is bugging you today?!
(1714 Messages in 172 pages - View all)
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1700.       busyb
117 posts
 24 Sep 2010 Fri 05:44 pm

 

Quoting Daydreamer

 

 

Forget it! It´s pointless to spend so much on a pushchair you don´t know you´ll like in 3 months (unless of course money is not an issue for you). I remember looking for a pram for my son and the prices in M&P started from 800 euro. No way! I decided to buy something way cheaper - you just have to see that the child can lie comfortably flat for the first 3 months or so. then you can buy a new one that´s less of a pram and more of a pushchair. One thing I hate are travel systems, especially when women use car seats for walks. It´s not the healthiest way for a newborn. They should lie flat, not curled up.

 

Don´t worry Daydreamer, I don´t intend to pay £819 for a push chair, even if I did have that sort of money I still wouldn´t. It´s ridiculous, not to mention it wasn´t even that nice looking anyway {#emotions_dlg.lol}

 

1701.       girleegirl
5065 posts
 20 Oct 2010 Wed 01:49 am

I am here and no one is here to play with me!!!  {#emotions_dlg.rant}{#emotions_dlg.rant}{#emotions_dlg.rant}{#emotions_dlg.rant}

1702.       Elisabeth
5732 posts
 20 Oct 2010 Wed 04:44 am

 

Quoting girleegirl

I am here and no one is here to play with me!!!  {#emotions_dlg.rant}{#emotions_dlg.rant}{#emotions_dlg.rant}{#emotions_dlg.rant}

 

Well, if you were around more often the chances of having someone to play with would increase!{#emotions_dlg.razz}

1703.       thehandsom
7403 posts
 20 Oct 2010 Wed 07:39 pm

 

Quoting girleegirl

I am here and no one is here to play with me!!!  {#emotions_dlg.rant}{#emotions_dlg.rant}{#emotions_dlg.rant}{#emotions_dlg.rant}

 

Unmei-de-Lange liked this message
1704.       girleegirl
5065 posts
 20 Oct 2010 Wed 08:11 pm

 

Quoting thehandsom

 

 

 

 Being as one actually has to have a mind to have it played with this comment is meaningless coming from you.  {#emotions_dlg.bigsmile}

1705.       thehandsom
7403 posts
 20 Oct 2010 Wed 10:01 pm

 

Quoting girleegirl

 

 

 Being as one actually has to have a mind to have it played with this comment is meaningless coming from you.  {#emotions_dlg.bigsmile}

 

 

Admins, mods!! Help.. This is a sheer personal insult!!

This is a quite sophisticated personal attack!!

Mind your own mind!! ok? {#emotions_dlg.you_smartass}

{#emotions_dlg.razz}

1706.       Elisabeth
5732 posts
 20 Oct 2010 Wed 10:05 pm

 

Quoting thehandsom

 

 

 

Admins, mods!! Help.. This is a sheer personal insult!!

This is a quite sophisticated personal attack!!

Mind your own mind!! ok? {#emotions_dlg.you_smartass}

{#emotions_dlg.razz}

 

 Would you like me to start deleting from the little comic you inserted that insinuated GG was playing mind games?



Edited (10/20/2010) by Elisabeth

1707.       girleegirl
5065 posts
 20 Oct 2010 Wed 10:10 pm

 

Quoting Elisabeth

 

 Would you like me to start deleting from the little comic you inserted that insinuated GG was playing mind games?

 

 No Lis please don´t!  I quite like my perky cartoon boobs!  {#emotions_dlg.shy}

1708.       girleegirl
5065 posts
 22 Oct 2010 Fri 12:29 am

Some psycho set my favorite local shopping mall on fire!!!  Cry

He locked himself into a video game store and set a fire.   The mall was evacuated and it took about an hour before police got him out.  Then they thought he might have left a bomb in the building so they didn´t want to endanger the firefighters and held them back. 

The fire didn´t seem to be that bad at first because the automatic sprinklers kicked on but it has suddenly burst into flames!  {#emotions_dlg.wtf}

1709.       TheAenigma
5001 posts
 11 Nov 2011 Fri 07:42 pm

The fact that, until I went out to buy Tunci a present, I never realised you could get Ataturk Mugs   All those missed years that I could have been drinking my coffee from one

 

1710.       alameda
3499 posts
 20 Nov 2011 Sun 07:49 pm






LIFE, I found myself thinking as a line of Alameda County deputy sheriffs in Darth Vader riot gear formed a cordon in front of me on a recent night on the campus of the University of California, Berkeley, is full of strange contingencies.  The deputy sheriffs, all white men, except for one young woman, perhaps Filipino, who was trying to look severe but looked terrified, had black truncheons in their gloved hands that reporters later called batons and that were known, in the movies of my childhood, as billy clubs.


The first contingency that came to mind was the quick spread of the Occupy movement. The idea of occupying public space was so appealing that people in almost every large city in the country had begun to stake them out, including students at Berkeley, who, on that November night, occupied the public space in front of Sproul Hall, a gray granite Beaux-Arts edifice that houses the registrar’s offices and, in the basement, the campus police department.


It is also the place where students almost 50 years ago touched off the Free Speech Movement, which transformed the life of American universities by guaranteeing students freedom of speech and self-governance. The steps are named for Mario Savio, the eloquent graduate student who was the symbolic face of the movement. There is even a Free Speech Movement Cafe on campus where some of Mr. Savio’s words are prominently displayed: “There is a time ... when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart, that you can’t take part. You can’t even passively take part.” 


Earlier that day a colleague had written to say that the campus police had moved in to take down the Occupy tents and that students had been “beaten viciously.” I didn’t believe it. In broad daylight? And without provocation? So when we heard that the police had returned, my wife, Brenda Hillman, and I hurried to the campus. I wanted to see what was going to happen and how the police behaved, and how the students behaved. If there was trouble, we wanted to be there to do what we could to protect the students.

Once the cordon formed, the deputy sheriffs pointed their truncheons toward the crowd. It looked like the oldest of military maneuvers, a phalanx out of the Trojan War, but with billy clubs instead of spears. The students were wearing scarves for the first time that year, their cheeks rosy with the first bite of real cold after the long Californian Indian summer. The billy clubs were about the size of a boy’s Little League baseball bat. My wife was speaking to the young deputies about the importance of nonviolence and explaining why they should be at home reading to their children, when one of the deputies reached out, shoved my wife in the chest and knocked her down.


Another of the contingencies that came to my mind was a moment 30 years ago when Ronald Reagan’s administration made it a priority to see to it that people like themselves, the talented, hardworking people who ran the country, got to keep the money they earned. Roosevelt’s New Deal had to be undealt once and for all. A few years earlier, California voters had passed an amendment freezing the property taxes that finance public education and installing a rule that required a two-thirds majority in both houses of the Legislature to raise tax revenues. My father-in-law said to me at the time, “It’s going to take them 50 years to really see the damage they’ve done.” But it took far fewer than 50 years.


My wife bounced nimbly to her feet. I tripped and almost fell over her trying to help her up, and at that moment the deputies in the cordon surged forward and, using their clubs as battering rams, began to hammer at the bodies of the line of students. It was stunning to see. They swung hard into their chests and bellies. Particularly shocking to me — it must be a generational reaction — was that they assaulted both the young men and the young women with the same indiscriminate force. If the students turned away, they pounded their ribs. If they turned further away to escape, they hit them on their spines.


NONE of the police officers invited us to disperse or gave any warning. We couldn’t have dispersed if we’d wanted to because the crowd behind us was pushing forward to see what was going on. The descriptor for what I tried to do is “remonstrate.” I screamed at the deputy who had knocked down my wife, “You just knocked down my wife, for Christ’s sake!” A couple of students had pushed forward in the excitement and the deputies grabbed them, pulled them to the ground and cudgeled them, raising the clubs above their heads and swinging. The line surged. I got whacked hard in the ribs twice and once across the forearm. Some of the deputies used their truncheons as bars and seemed to be trying to use minimum force to get people to move. And then, suddenly, they stopped, on some signal, and reformed their line. Apparently a group of deputies had beaten their way to the Occupy tents and taken them down. They stood, again immobile, clubs held across their chests, eyes carefully meeting no one’s eyes, faces impassive. I imagined that their adrenaline was surging as much as mine.


My ribs didn’t hurt very badly until the next day and then it hurt to laugh, so I skipped the gym for a couple of mornings, and I was a little disappointed that the bruises weren’t slightly more dramatic. It argued either for a kind of restraint or a kind of low cunning in the training of the police. They had hit me hard enough so that I was sore for days, but not hard enough to leave much of a mark. I wasn’t so badly off. One of my colleagues, also a poet, Geoffrey O’Brien, had a broken rib. Another colleague, Celeste Langan, a Wordsworth scholar, got dragged across the grass by her hair when she presented herself for arrest.


I won’t recite the statistics, but the entire university system in California is under great stress and the State Legislature is paralyzed by a minority of legislators whose only idea is that they don’t want to pay one more cent in taxes. Meanwhile, students at Berkeley are graduating with an average indebtedness of something like $16,000. It is no wonder that the real estate industry started inventing loans for people who couldn’t pay them back.


“Whose university?” the students had chanted. Well, it is theirs, and it ought to be everyone else’s in California. It also belongs to the future, and to the dead who paid taxes to build one of the greatest systems of public education in the world.


The next night the students put the tents back up. Students filled the plaza again with a festive atmosphere. And lots of signs. (The one from the English Department contingent read “Beat Poets, not beat poets.&rdquo A week later, at 3:30 a.m., the police officers returned in force, a hundred of them, and told the campers to leave or they would be arrested. All but two moved. The two who stayed were arrested, and the tents were removed. On Thursday afternoon when I returned toward sundown to the steps to see how the students had responded, the air was full of balloons, helium balloons to which tents had been attached, and attached to the tents was kite string. And they hovered over the plaza, large and awkward, almost lyrical, occupying the air.


Robert Hass is a professor of poetry and poetics at the University of California, Berkeley, and former poet laureate of the United States.

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