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editor
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 Posted: Fri Jan 05, 2007 5:48 pm Post subject: |
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Decreation
Poetry, Essays, Opera
Hardcover
By eclectic Frosback Anne Carson
| Quote: | She is the cleanest girl in the epic. And his emphasizes that, not to say the brutal opacity of his sleep -- whereas she lies transparent: we watch the dream in her head, we know her action before she does, we see her desire prior to itself. Her desire is to find a pretext and travel far from the city, to where the washing pools lie. But this is precisely where Odysseus lies. The night before, at the end of Book 5, he laid himself down "on the edge of the land" to sleep the sleep of elemental life. Life is all he had left. Wife, child, parents, home, ship, comrades, possessions, clothing, youth, strength and personal fame are all lost. He had to cover himself in a pile of leaves to survive the night:
And when he saw [the leaf pile]
much-enduring goodly Odysseus laughed
and lay in the middle and heaped a big bunch of leaves over himself.
As when someone hides a firebrand in black embers
on the edge of the land, who has no other neighbours near,
preserving the seed of fire, lest he have to kindle a light
from somewhere else,
so Odysseus wrapped himself in leaves. (footnote omitted)
(From EVERY EXIT IS AN ENTRANCE (A Praise of Sleep) at p. 34) |
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| Posted: Fri Jan 05, 2007 6:06 pm Post subject: |
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The Story
Hardcover
By Michael Ondaatje
Very sensual Drawings by David Bolduc
| Quote: | i
For his first forty days a child
is given dreams of previous lives.
Journeys, winding paths,
a hundred small lessons
and then the past is erased.
Some are born screaming,
some full of introspective wandering
into the past - that bus ride in winter,
the sudden arrival within
a new city in the dark.
And those departures from family bonds
leaving what was lost and needed.
So the child's face is a lake
of fast moving clouds and emotions.
A last chance for the clear history of the self.
All our mothers and grandparents here,
our dismantled childhoods
in the buildings of the past.
Some great forty-day daydream
before we bury the maps.
(First two pages, originally published in the author's collection entitled, Handwriting, in 1998) |
A perfect choice to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the founding of World Literacy Canada, the purpose for which publication of this special limited edition was intended.
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| Posted: Wed Jan 10, 2007 10:42 am Post subject: |
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The Man with Two Left Feet
Hardcover
By P.G. Wodehouse
| Quote: | "I imagine you know perfectly well why Gussie went to America, Bertie. You know how wickedly extravagant your Uncle Cuthbert was."
She alluded to Gussie's governor, the late head of the family, and I am bound to say she spoke the truth. Nobody was fonder of old Uncle Cuthbert than I was, but everybody knows that, where money was concerned, he was the most complete chump in the annals of the nation. He had an expensive thirst. He never backed a horse that didn't get housemaid's knee in the middle of the race. He had a system of beating the bank at Monte Carlo which used to make the administration hang out the bunting and ring the joy-bells when he was sighted in the offing. Take him for all in all, dear old Uncle Cuthbert was as willing a spender as ever called the family lawyer a blood-sucking vampire because he wouldn't let Uncle Cuthbert cut down the timber to raise another thousand. (From Extricating Young Gussie, the story that introduces Bertie Wooster and his shimmering foil, Jeeves, the ubiquitous gentleman's gentleman, at p. 28) |
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| Posted: Wed Jan 10, 2007 5:00 pm Post subject: |
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The Man with Two Left Feet
Hardcover
By P.G. Wodehouse
| Quote: | I don't think any of these stories got into the posh magazines. There seems to me now something synthetic about them, and there probably was, for when I wrote them I had become a slanter. A slanter is a writer who studies what editors want. He reads the magazines carefully and turns out stories as like the ones they are publishing as he can manage without actual plagiarism. It is a deadly practice.
Shortly after my arrival in New York an editor who had apparently seen signs of promise in the little thing of mine he was rejecting told me he thought I would eventually amount to something. "But," he added, "don't try to write like everyone else."
I did not take his advice. I knew better. It seemed to me obvious that if you are planning to contribute to American magazines, you must write the sort of thing American magazines like. This I proceeded to do. I draw your attention to the story in this book entitled At Geisenheimer's. At that time every magazine in New York was clamouring for O. Henry, so I gave them O. Henry and sat back feeling that this was where I paid my rent at the Earle for another month or so, with something left over for a dinner at Delmonico's.
I was mistaken. It turned out that American magazines didn't like the sort of thing American magazines liked, - at any rate my version of it, and every one of these stories had to find a home in the pulps, which would take anything if you were not fussy about the price.
It is rather stimulating to reflect that all those haughty periodicals which rejected me have long been dead, while I, though inclined to puff a bit if I walk upstairs too fast, am flourishing more like a green bay tree than anything I can think of. It just shows... I can't at the moment put my finger on what, but something. (Concluding paragraphs of the preface to the 1971 edition written by Wodehouse at age 90 - so there!) |
Classic Plum originally published in 1917.
Yes, and then there's this bit:
Wodehouse on Wodehouse
Hardcover
| Quote: | ... I go in for what is known in the trade as light writing', and those who do that - humorists they are sometimes called - are looked down upon by the intelligentsia and sneered at. When I tell you that in a recent issue of the New Yorker I was referred to as 'that burbling pixie', you will see how far the evil has spread.
These things take their toll. You can't go calling a man a burbling pixie without lowering his morale. He frets. He refuses to eat his cereal. He goes about with his hands in his pockets and his lower lip jutting out, kicking stones. The next thing you know, he is writing thoughtful novels analysing social conditions, and you are short another humorist. With things going they way they are, it won't be long before the species dies out. Already what was once a full-throated chorus has faded into a few scattered chirps. You can still hear from the thicket the gay note of the Beachcomber, piping as the linnets do, but at any moment Lord Beaverbrook or somebody may be calling the Beachcomber a burbling pixie and taking all the heart out of him, and then what will the harvest be? (From Over Seventy, Chapter Seven, Some Thoughts on Humorists, pgs. 539-540) |
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| Posted: Tue Jan 23, 2007 4:31 pm Post subject: |
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Poetry Like Bread
Poets of the Political Imagination
from Curbstone Press
Hardcover
Edited by Martin Espada
| Quote: | Who Understands Me But Me
By former U.S. maximum-security prison inmate,
Jimmy Santiago Baca
They turn the water off, so I live without water,
they build walls higher, so I live without treetops,
they paint the windows black, so I live without sunshine,
they lock my cage, so I live without going anywhere,
they take each last tear I have, I live without tears,
they take my life and crush it, so I live without a future,
they say I am beastly and fiendish, so I have no friends,
they stop up each hope, so I have no passage out of hell,
they give me pain, so I live with pain,
they give me hate, so I live with my hate,
they have changed me, and I am not the same man,
they give me no shower, so I live with my smell,
they separate me from my brothers, so I live without brothers,
who understands me when I say this is beautiful?
who understands me when I say I have found other freedoms?
I cannot fly or make something appear in my hand,
I cannot make the heavens open or the earth tremble,
I can live with myself, and I am amazed at myself, my love,
my beauty,
I am taken by my failures, astounded by my fears,
I am stubborn and childish,
in the midst of this wreckage of life they incurred,
I practise being myself,
and I have found parts of myself never dreamed of by me,
they were goaded out from under rocks in my heart
when the walls were built higher,
when the water was turned off and windows painted black.
I followed these signs
like an old tracker and followed the tracks deep into myself,
followed the blood-spotted path,
deeper into dangerous regions, and found so many parts of myself,
who taught me water is not everything,
and gave me new eyes to see through walls,
and when they spoke, sunlight came out of their mouths,
and I was laughing at me with them,
we laughed like children and made pacts to always be loyal,
who understands me when I say this is beautiful?
(-- pgs. 44-45) |
The best of an occasionally powerful collection.
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| Posted: Mon Feb 26, 2007 10:30 am Post subject: |
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Harrowsmith Country Life
Canadian Edition
Magazine Subscription
The Canola Capers
Manitoba farmers try to nab crop rustlers
By Jason Santerre
October, 2005
| Quote: | WINNIPEG - Farmers in southern Manitoba have a mystery on their hands - and they're keeping a close eye on their fields until they find the answer, name, who's been stealing their canola? Indeed, entire crops have vanished.
It sounds unbelievable but for canola farmer Raymond Martel, the heists are no joke. He is the latest victim in a series of thefts that involve harvesting the crop while the legitimate owner is out of town. The brazen bandits made off with $50,000 worth of Martel's crop on his farm near Somerset. "They used my own trucks, broke the lock to my machine shed and got away with over 5,000 bushels," he says. Martel had just returned home from holidays to find his empty field. (From The Gazette at p. 98) |
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| Posted: Wed Feb 28, 2007 2:07 pm Post subject: |
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The New Yorker
Magazine Subscription
Studies say
By Hendrik Hertzberg
Dec. 18/06
| Quote: | The "Executive Summary" (of the Iraq Study Group Report) opens with this statement: "The situation in Iraq is grave and deteriorating." And the "Assessment" section - 40 pages of relentlessly declarative sentences - confirms what many capable journalists have reported. It lists what it sees as some of the consequences of a continuation of current policy: greater chaos; greater suffering for the Iraqi people; a humanitarian catastrophe; escalated ethnic cleansing; a broader regional war; Sunni-Shia clashes across the Islamic world; a sharp increase in the price of oil; a still stronger base of operations for terrorists; a reduction in America's global influence; increased chances for failure in Afghanistan; greater polarization within the United States. It lists the "basic services" with which "the Iraqi government is not effectively providing its people," and they are basic indeed: "electricity, drinking water, sewage, health care, and education." And that's the good news, relatively speaking: "In Baghdad and other unstable areas, the situation is much worse.
The Study Group summarizes what it calls the "significant challenges" facing the Iraqi Army in a series of bullet points: "Units lack leadership." "Units lack equipment." "Units lack personnel." "Units lack logistics and support." All of which may be just as well, since there are "significant questions" about whether these units "will carry out missions on behalf of national goals instead of a sectarian agenda." Sound bad? Well, the dolorous accounting of the Army's condition is immediately followed by this:
The Iraqi Police
The state of the Iraqi police is substantially worse than that of the Iraqi Army.
Bada-boom. You can almost hear the rim shot. But there is nothing comic about the details: "Iraqi police cannot control crime, and they routinely engage in sectarian violence, including the unnecessary detention, torture, and targeted execution of Sunni Arab civilians." As for Iraq's Facilities Protection Services, which are charged with guarding government ministries, they are merely, in the words of a "senior U.S. official" quoted in the Report, "incompetent, dysfunctional, or subversive." (-- pgs. 33-34) |
| Quote: | Associated Press
* State Iraq Resolution Opposes More Troops To Iraq
By Colleen Slevin
Feb. 28/07
| Quote: | | DENVER - State senators will be asked to approve a resolution that objects to President Bush's decision to send more troops Iraq but expresses support for military personnel. A revised draft of the resolution provided to The Associated Press Wednesday says the war has resulted in the deaths of tens of thousands of Iraqi civilians, hurting efforts to bring peace and democracy to the country. The sponsors, Democratic Sens. Ron Tupa of Boulder and Ken Gordon of Denver, were expected to introduce the measure later Wednesday. |
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| Posted: Fri Mar 02, 2007 10:57 am Post subject: |
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Monster
Inside the Mind of Aileen Wuornos
With Christopher Berry-Dee
Hardcover
| Quote: | Lee (Aileen Wuornos) often said she liked sex with men, and her sex life with Tyria (Moore) waned enough for Tyria to complain to her best friend about it. Lee herself said that her 'greater love' for Tyria 'wasn't sexual.' The real driving force in Lee's life wasn't sex at all; it was a search for an emotional bond and love - love that she had never really had from her abandoning mother, her emotionally and physically abusive grandfather or, it seems, from the grandmother who failed to protect her from him, and certainly not from the callous young males who had sex with her while she was an adolescent. She was far more familiar with loss than love, having lost her brother Keith to cancer, and having had her baby son snatched from her after she gave birth. Lee found the deep emotional bond she desperately craved with Tyria. Her borderline personality disorder carried with it an overwhelming fear of abandonment. She would do anything to keep her, even kill if needs be, and so deep-seated was her love for Tyria, she would even give up her life to protect her in the years to follow.
Lee's value as a hooker, never spectacular, fell even further. When Lee hit the road searching for johns, she would pose as a hitchhiker or a disabled motorist at highway on-and-off ramps - she became an 'exit-to-exit prostitute.' Money was always tight and they were constantly moving from lodgings to lodgings because they failed to pay the rent. Their existence, meagre though it was, became more difficult to maintain. Clearly, something had to change, but getting out of Daytona was not easy. There was never enough money to get to Miami, and the two women now realised that jobs were scarcer than they had first thought. They had blown all their money, and their dreams of good times had faded as quickly. Desperation crept in, and temptation was quick to follow. It is a formula that often leads to crime. In November 1988, Lee was causing problems once again. Using the alias Susan Blahovec, she launched a six-day campaign of threatening phone calls against a Zephyrhills supermarket following an altercation over lottery tickets. (From Part One at pgs. 39-41) |
Dickensian story of America's first named female serial killer, who confessed to having killed seven men in what she claimed was self-defence, looting from her victims anything she found of value to augment the usually paltry amounts of cash in their wallets. Information withheld at trial, including the record of her first victim, a convicted armed sex offender who did 11 years, provides further evidence of the disparities between rich and poor in the U.S. criminal justice system - if more was required.
Monster
DVD
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| Posted: Thu Mar 29, 2007 10:54 am Post subject: |
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The New Yorker
Magazine Subscription
Betrayed
The Iraqis who trusted America the most.
By George Packer
March 26/07
| Quote: | | Millions of Iraqis, spanning the country's religious and ethnic spectrum, welcomed the overthrow of Saddam Hussein. But the mostly young men and women who embraced America's project so enthusiastically that they were prepared to risk their lives for it may constitute Iraq's smallest minority. I came across them in every city: the young man in Mosul who loved Metallica and signed up to be a translator at a U.S. Army base; the DVD salesman in Najaf whose plans to study medicine were crushed by Baath Party favoritism, and who offered his services to the first American Humvee that entered his city. They had learned English from American movies and music, and from listening secretly to the BBC. Before the war, their only chance at a normal life was to flee the country - a nearly impossible feat. Their future in Saddam's Iraq was, as the Metallica fan in Mosul put it, "a one-way road leading to nothing." I thought of them as oddballs, like misunderstood high-school students whose isolation ends when they go off to college. In a similar way, the four years of the war created intense friendships, but they were forged through collective disappointment. The arc from hope to betrayal that traverses the Iraq war is nowhere more vivid than in the lives of those Iraqis. America's failure to understand, trust, and protect its closest friends in Iraq is a small drama that contains the larger story of defeat. (-- p. 57) |
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| Posted: Fri Mar 30, 2007 8:32 am Post subject: |
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The Pastures of Heaven
Paperback
By 1962 Nobel laureate John Steinbeck
Introduction and Notes by
University of Georgia Prof. James Nagel
| Quote: | ...there was little in his (Stienbeck's) early life to suggest the status he was later to attain. He was not an outstanding student in Salinas High School, from which he graduated in 1919...At Stanford University his record was less than exemplary...some semesters he dropped out of school and worked as a common laboror, learning the ways of ranch hands and migrant workers, and later returned to Stanford for a semester or two; he left the university without graduating.
He made an unsuccessful attempt to establish himself as a writer in New York City, but he ended up pushing wheelbarrows filled with concrete for the foundation of Madison Square Garden.
...The manuscript (of The Pastures of Heaven) had been sent to Robert O. Ballou, an editor at Cape and Smith, and he accepted it for publication within three days. Steinbeck received the news on this thirtieth birthday, February 27, 1932, and it was the most encouraging development of his young career, but the euphoria was not to last. In March he learned that Jonathan Cape had gone bankrupt, and his book was not to be published after all. Then, in a fortuitous development, Robert Ballou, set adrift by the failure of the firm, landed a position at Brewer, Warren, and Putnam, and he brought The Pastures of Heaven with him. By May production on the bedeviled volume had resumed under the new imprint, and it appeared in October to very little fanfare, partly because the firm lacked the funds to market it aggressively. Indeed, shortly after publication of Steinbeck's book, this publisher also declared bankruptcy, and Steinbeck made very little money on the project. The Depression, later to figure so importantly in his fiction, had hit him personally...
If the publication of the volume was encouraging for Steinbeck, the reviews were less so, for many critics did not understand the genre and faulted a collection of interrelated stories for not being a novel. (From the excellent introduction, to be read after the stories, at pgs. vii-xii) |
Unbelievably, there are few CD audio versions of the master's works - none of this one - and even fewer films. Somebody please tell Hollywood.
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| Posted: Mon Apr 09, 2007 1:09 pm Post subject: |
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| Quote: | The Globe and Mail
Dull Toronto trombone
China's got it right: It's losing jobs
By Neil Reynolds
April 4/07
| Quote: | And you thought that we were losing manufacturing jobs to low-wage, mega-menacing China? Try persuading China -- a country that lost more manufacturing jobs in the past decade than all the rest of the world put together. China hit its labour force peak in manufacturing in 1995 at almost 100 million men, women and children. It has since relentlessly shed manufacturing jobs. By 2005, 82 million remained, a loss of 18 million jobs in a decade. By contrast, Canada increased its manufacturing jobs in the same period (according to the International Labour Organization) by 400,000. Unfortunately.
...In manufacturing, you measure success by the number of jobs you eliminate, not the number of jobs you create.
...The remarkable thing is that the deeper the job cuts in the U.S., the faster flowed the rewards. The Bureau of Labour Statistics reports that manufacturing productivity grew 4.0 per cent in 2005 and 5.5 per cent in 2006 -- after increasing through the 1990s by an average annual rate of 3.7 per cent. The U.S. Department of Commerce reports that profits for manufacturers have quadrupled since 2001 -- and now exceed the profitability of the boom of the 1990s.
It's not useful to lament the lost jobs. Through increased productivity, lost jobs finance new jobs -- most of them paying higher wages. It's a post-industrial world out there. More and more, people consume services, not things. In 1950, people spent roughly 70 per cent of their disposable incomes on goods, 30 per cent on services. In 2005, people spent roughly 60 per cent on services, 40 per cent on goods. Jobs in manufacturing must necessarily give way to jobs in education, in health services, in financial services, in entertainment and leisure services. (From the Report on Business, p. B2) |
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| Posted: Mon Apr 09, 2007 2:55 pm Post subject: |
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The Hand of Poetry
Five Mystic Poets of Persia
Translations from the Poems of
Sanai, Attar, Rumi, Saadi and Hafiz
Paperback
By Coleman Barks
Lectures on Persian Poetry by
Inayat Khan
| Quote: | You don't win here with loud publicity.
Union comes of not-being.
These birds do not learn to fly
until they lose their feathers!
(Rumi, p. 96) |
A word about the poet:
| Quote: | | ...He (Rumi) came of a spiritually illustrious line. His father Bahauddin was also a powerfully original mystic. In the Maarif, a kind of visionary diary, the father describes how God would kiss and absorb him like a lover in the night. (From Translator's Introduction, Rumi: Birdsong Moving Through Us Like Rain, p. 74) |
Yeah, we've felt that way, too. Once, maybe.
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| Posted: Mon Apr 16, 2007 9:55 am Post subject: |
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Pictograms from the Interior of B.C.
Paperback
By Fred Wah
Illustrations from the book
by John Corner (see below)
| Quote: | Only three persons and a dog survived
and one man
had the entire map of himself
shot out
others also
lost what had been gained
the winners were heroes
thinking more to win over
than could ever be remembered.
Remember?
(-- p. 24) |
All we remember of Prince George is a cruise ship-style poetry reading that went on half the night with Fred's Kootenay students taking most of the albeit unspoken honors. What's left is this book, which cost 50 cents at a library sale April 14/07 - about a penny a poem.
Pictographs (Indian Rock Paintings) in
the Interior of British Columbia
By John Corner
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| Posted: Mon Apr 23, 2007 11:33 am Post subject: |
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Faber Book of
Twentieth Century Scottish Poetry
Hardcover
Edited by Douglas Dunn
| Quote: | Bless This House
A sampler for Glasgow bedsits
Bless this house, wherever it is,.
This house and this and this and this
Pitched shaky as small nomad tents
Within Victorian permanence,
Where no names stay long, no families meet
In Observancy Road and Clouston Street
Where Harry and Sally who want to be 'free'
And Morag who works in the BBC
And Andy the Artist and Mhairi and Fran
(Whose father will never understand)
And John from Kilmarnock and Jean from the Isles
And Michael who jogs every day for miles
And Elspeth are passing through this year:
Bless them the short time they are here.
Bless the cup left for a month or more
On the dust of the window-ledge, the door
That won't quite shut, the broken fan,
The snowscape of fat in the frying pan.
Bless each burnt chop, each unseen smile
That they may nourish their hopes a while.
Bless the persistence of their faith,
The gentle incense of their breath.
Bless the wild dreams that are seeded here,
The lover to come, the amazing career.
Bless such small truths as they may find
By the lonely night-light of the mind.
Bless these who camp out in the loss of the past
And scavenge their own from what others have lost,
Who have the courage to reach for what they cannot see
And have gambled what was for what may never be.
So turn up the hi-fi, Michael and John.
What is to come may be already gone.
And pull up the covers, Jean and Mhairi.
The island is far and you've missed the ferry.
-- William McIlvanney, pgs. 304-305 |
An acquired taste, like rolled oats.
More Single Malt and Other Good Scotch.
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| Posted: Wed May 30, 2007 5:16 pm Post subject: |
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Slouching Towards Bethlehem
Paperback
By California Dreamer Joan Didion
| Quote: | Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself. Although now, some years later, I marvel that a mind on the outs with itself should have nonetheless made painstaking record of its every tremor, I recall with embarrassing clarity the flavor of those particular ashes. It was a matter of misplaced self-respect.
I had not been elected to Phi Beta Kappa. This failure could scarcely have been more predictable or less ambiguous (I simply did not have the grades), but I was unnerved by it; I had somehow thought myself a kind of academic Raskolnikov, curiously exempt from the cause-effect relationships which hampered others. Although even the humorless nineteen-year-old that I was must have recognized that the situation lacked real tragic stature, the day that I did not make Phi Beta Kappa nonetheless marked the end of something, and innocence may well be the word for it. I lost the conviction that lights would always turn green for me, the pleasant certainty that those rather passive virtues which had won me approval as a child automatically guaranteed me not only Phi Beta Kappa keys but happiness, honor, and the love of a good man; lost a certain touching faith in the totem power of good manners, clean hair, and proven competence on the Stanford-Binet scale. To such doubtful amulets had my self-respect been pinned, and I faced myself that day with the nonplussed apprehension of someone who has come across a vampire and has no crucifix at hand.
Although to be driven back upon oneself is an uneasy affair at best, rather like trying to cross a border with borrowed credentials, it seems to me now the one condition necessary to the beginnings of real self-respect. Most of our platitudes notwithstanding, self-deception remains the most difficult deception. The tricks that work on others count for nothing in that very well-lit back alley where one keeps assignations with onself: no winning smiles will do here, no prettily drawn lists of good intentions. One shuffles flashily but in vain through one's marked cards - the kindness done for the wrong reason, the apparent triumph which involved no real effort, the seemingly heroic act into which one had been shamed. The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others - who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation, which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O'Hara, is something people with courage can do without. (On Self-Respect at p. 142-143) |
| Quote: | Night Ride Home
CD Audio
Featuring Slouching Towards Bethlehem,
Joni Mitchell's musical tribute to the Yeats' poem of 1920,
The Second Coming
|
...and still more loss for pal Didion:
The Year of Magical Thinking
Hardcover
By Joan Didion
| Quote: | Harper's
Magazine Subscription
The Still Point of the Turning World
Joan Didion and the opposite of meaning
By Jennifer Szalai
Photographs by Jason Fulford
November, 2005
| Quote: | On December 30, 2003, John Gregory Dunne, Joan Didion's husband of forty years, sat down at the dinner table and died. A massive coronary event was the sudden cause: "John was talking, then he wasn't."
The Year of Magical Thinking is Didion's memoir of the twelve months that followed, which "cut loose any fixed idea I had ever had about death, about illness, about probability and luck, about good fortune and bad, about marriage and children and memory, about grief, about the ways in which people do and do not deal with the fact that life ends, about the shallowness of sanity, about life itself." John died five nights after their adult daughter and only child, Quintana Roo, was admitted to the hospital with a flu that had turned into pneumonia and then septic shock. They had returned from visiting Quintana, who was then in a coma and would remain in the hospital for another twenty-four days. (-- p. 98) (Quintana Roo died on Aug. 26, 2005). |
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Last edited by editor on Mon Mar 31, 2008 9:36 am; edited 6 times in total |
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