Desert Storm chess set, by E. Howard Kellogg, Fuquay-Varina, North Carolina, ca. 1991
Gift of Mr. Kellogg
Wood, plastic, tile, 2 x 20 1/2 x 20 1/2 inches

In August 1990 Iraq invaded neighboring Kuwait to gain possession of its rich oil fields and access to the sea. In retaliation, the United States mounted Operation Desert Shield, condemning Iraq and gathering international support for economic embargoes. When Iraq's leader, Saddam Hussein, refused to budge, President Bush ordered the U.S. military into battle, launching Operation Desert Storm in January 1991. Victory came swiftly, and by the end of February, Iraqi troops were surrendering by the thousands. Polls showed that a stunning 89 percent of Americans approved of President Bush's actions.

With a nephew held hostage in Iraq during Desert Storm, Mr. Kellogg found comfort in making this battle in miniature. After Iraq's defeat–and his nephew's release–he sent it as a gift to the President.

From the National Archives Exhibit Tokens and Treasures: Gifts to Twelve Presidents

Okay so this journal entry is partly for me and partly for people like me who may be searching on the internet for a sentence like "Help! Everyone thinks i'm a lesbian", or "women with hairy underarms" (which I'm telling you now doesn't turn up exactly what I would call self-help pages (although many viewers clearly help themselves to themselves while viewing pictures of hairy womens' *anything*!)) This is going to be a Michael-length ranting journal, so make yourself comfy, gentle reader.

Anyways, first things first, I have nothing against being a lesbian. Fuck! I wish I was a lesbian! Boy I'd be getting some booty then. From both men and women! (More on that later...) I've mentally tried being a lesbian. I like to look at women, sure, but more in our women-worshipping-society way. I both want IT and to be IT (too much Lacan anybody?) I've even hooked up with women and been turned on by it. But not all the way... I guess I would say the same thing some gay women say about being with men, it's nice but something is missing. It just isn't what I want.

Okay, so gay-bashing motives mostly dispelled, let's move on to the evidence.

Why people think I'm Queer, in three parts:

Exhibit A: My Body
1) I'm proudly zaftig: tall, broad, and plentiful. I don't excercise as an activity in itself. If I move (run, walk, bike) it's to get places, if I lift it's to move things. Anything else and I might as well admit I'm a rat on a wheel.
2) Okay, so this should be number 1. I'm hairy. Not circus freak hairy, but just as hairy as my body (maybe even *your* body) would be if left to its own devices. I think this is important because my body grows that hair for a reason. And my society tells me to shave it off for a ton of reasons. Like to make me look pre-pubescent, like a sexless, powerless child. To "remind" myself (read "convince" myself) that my body is nothing like a man's, not as strong, not as hearty, not as virile. Yes, my hairy pits are sexy (apparently to many "freaks" out there on the internet (maybe not so freaky, just the ones willing to go against what culture represses)) and they should be. They are the sign that I am a sexually mature human female capable of reproducing and otherwise contributing my physical strength (and strong physical scent) to the world.

Women are expected to fight our bodies all the time. Fight the fat, fight the hair, the shape, the color, everything. It's pretty convenient. Instead of society fighting our power, we do it ourselves. Talk about internalizing your true social status. I'm supposed to repress everything naturally feminine about my body, just like the world represses the Feminine in the culture at large (anyone who doesn't agree with this thesis about the continued oppression of women need only email me at holly@elmwoodstrip.com for an update on 21st century "feminism". Sorry to be cynical. But Brittany has liberated us right back to the status of temple prostitutes.)

Exhibit B: My Clothes and Attire
This may be the one where I'm willing to admit some of the responsibility. Even my "women's" clothes are suspiciously unisex. Can I be blamed if high-heels give me headaches? What about
corset-style red-sequined cleavage dresses that leave me more breathless than the fellas? Yeah, sure, if it's Halloween (that's funny if you know me.) Honestly "ladies" clothes are expensive, uncomforatble, too delicate to last through more than a year of continued wearing (the true test for any self-repecting article of clothing.) And what about pockets, huh? Ever wonder why women's pants have no pockets? What woman needs to carry the keys to Her own home, Her own car, Her own money. Oh yeah, only Single women and, you guessed it, dykes! (don't confuse this with a conclusion that all women with pockets in their pants are gay... i'm just riffin' here, but) Think about it... (mwah hah hah ha!! (maniacal paranoid laughter))

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My language
As this journal entry can attest to, I don't pull punches when it comes to speaking my mind. Why would I? Everyone has a right to have their hair-brain opinions aired (you are reading this internet journal post after all, so you must agree on some level.) We especially deserve to be heard if our ideas aren't really that hair-brained, or if no one has ever had them and stated them in quite the same way. I'm not going to pretend I'm not smart just to make some lame-ass Y-chromo feel better about himself. Last I checked that wasn't my purpose on this planet. It's all about consciousness-raising baby, for me, for you, pour tout le monde. And language is the only way we have to do it.

So what triggered this rant? Well, of course the not-so-sexual sexual act... I finally, after months and months, hooked up with some boy for a temporarily stimulating interlude. He's not nearly warped enough for me, god bless 'em. He thought the fact that I have a $13 fake black Poe-style raven with real feathers perched in my bedroom was "grim". Well, duh! And he never even really got in touch with my hairy nature, heavens forfend. I think he would have shreiked and kicked me under the bed with the rest of the dust kitties. Anyways, enough about the personal stuff. Here's what was so weird: right up to the point where we were hooking up, he confessed, he was convinced I was gay. He said he wouldn't have flirted with me, danced with me, invited me up to his apartment, if he thought I was straight. At the same time, he said he felt like a creep for hitting on a lesbian. Okay, so he seems like he's about as complicated as I am, granted, and conflicted too, but what's a girl to do, oh what's a girl to do...

Anyways, I have drawn my own conclusions. I think that straight people everywhere owe a great debt to same-sexers for breaking down gender roles for all of us. I don't think Lesbian women make their bodies more like Men's, I think they let their bodies be what they are naturally, Women's, Wemyn's, whatever-- just theirs. They follow their instincts not only with sex, but with gender. Pudgy, skinny, short, fat, tall, spiky, kinky, slinky, ghetto-booty, blue-veined boobies, why can't we all just get along and love the coochie?

wee hoo, this sure is quick! so quick in fact that at the beginning of this message i had to pee pretty bad and i still do but its so quick it really doesn't matter. before in order to generate this much content i would have pissed myself by now! so thanks to you paul. my days of wet spots and plastic seat covers are over!
--off to the lou...

Tonight! On Angel! (da dum daaaah!) When another mysterious package arrives at Wolfram & Hart that recorporealizes Spike (James Marsters), the gang learns that the existence of two living ensouled vampire heroes has created chaos in the world. After Eve (Sarah Thompson) tells them about a prophecy that states that the only way to restore order is to find the Cup of Perpetual Torment that bestows human life, Angel (David Boreanaz) and Spike battle it out for the ultimate prize. A series of flashbacks show the history of Angel and Spike and their relationship with Drusilla (guest star Juliet Landau).

I love my weekly brain drain... too bad it's more drainy than smoky :( ...

Found a cool site today on Cuba while I was searching for info on poet Reinaldo Arenas. Communism is not what its cracked up to be folks, and Fidel is no folk hero. Here's the . Also, take a look at the video of Arenas at this internal page . He says:
"There is a very advantageous position among leftists writers who live in capitalistic countries who enjoy all the benefits of democracy and great profits they earn while attacking democracy while they live in a democratic country. Maybe if those writers lived in a communist country from where they could not get out - they might change the way they think. Since living there, they would not be able to write a word! So for us, who suffered so much in Cuba - it's infuriating to see people enjoy all the security that comes with democracy - getting pleasure attacking it and becoming rich from doing this!" Bad translation, but you get the picture:

Ha Ha! Who's driving an SUV now boys!? ;)
You should check out fueleconomy.gov and verify my research. I'm not trying to be argumentative here (well...), just super bored at work.



I guess I'm just trying to find someway to feel at least a little better (at someone else's expense haha!) about my car which, as I have melodramatically stated on many an occassion, has ruined my life. Tomorrow I have to go to court to defend myself against the charge of "following too closely". If I get a point on my license, then I'm doomed (DOOMED) although I don't know how my insurance could possibly go up any higher. Anyways, as the above figures demonstrate, you can no longer remonstrate me for driving a gas guzzling SUV without admitting that the Malibu is no dream vacation either! Oh! I'm cruel! ;>

While researching a database system at work, I found this online catalogue of 74 IWW protestors from near Seattle who were part of the Everett Massacre of 1916. (I'll paste the story in below). You have to go to the site and look at these amazing photos of the protestors: . Their faces are absolutely present across time:


Jack Leonard, age 27, laborer, born in Kentucky. More widely known as Jack Miller, this defendant was the last known surviving Verona passenger until his death in 1986. A spirited and eloquent spokesman for the IWW until the end, Jack was frequently the subject of Seattle-area newspaper interviews and appeard in the documentary film "The Wobblies".

From the website:
Sunday, November 5, 1916 marked the bloodiest battle in Pacific Northwest labor history. On that day, about 300 members of the Industrial Workers of the World (the I.W.W.) boarded the steamers Verona and Calista from Seattle and headed north toward Port Gardner Bay

The I.W.W. (or Wobblies) planned a public demonstration in Everett that afternoon, to be held on the corner of Hewitt and Wetmore, a spot commonly used by street speakers. Hoping to gain converts to their dream of One Big Union, the Wobblies began street speaking in Everett during a local shingle weavers' strike, encountering brutal suppression by local law officers. Free speech soon became the dominant issue. The number of demonstrators and the violence of the response from law enforcement grew as the weeks wore on.

On November 5th, word reached Everett that a group of armed anarchists was coming to burn their town. 200 citizen deputies, under the authority of Snohomish County Sheriff Donald McRae, met to repel the invaders. The Verona arrived first, pulling in along side the dock. McRae asked "Who is your leader?" When he was told "We are all leaders!", he informed passengers they could not land. A single shot was fired, followed by minutes of chaotic shooting. Whether the first shot came from boat or dock was never determined. Passengers aboard the Verona rushed to the opposite side of the ship, nearly capsizing the vessel. Bullets pierced the pilot house, and the Verona's captain struggled to back it out of port. The Calista returned to Seattle, without trying to land.

Okay so I'm fairly better but not perfect. I wonder in general about the solipsistic self-pitying nature of journaling these days. I think if we had witnessed the great fire of Chicago or roomed with Peggy Guggenheim or something equally exciting we might have had more interesting things to say. But how do I know that YOU aren't someone futurally famous or infamous or at least interesting (which you KNOW you are) and maybe I don't know it and here I am writing about my poopy existence while stories I could be telling about you may someday be valuable to navel-gazing future grad students like myself. Oooh did you see how that circled right back around again! TO ME!
Anyways, the most exciting thing in my life that has been happening lately are my dreams which is not so exciting to you because as the great Built to Spill song says "No one wants to hear/ What you dreamt about/ Unless you dreamt about/ They-em." Well I haven't dreamt about anyone I know but maybe a bit in amalgamations-- no one but everyone I love, hate, hurt, for, fall, frustrate, futile. You know. That guy.
But there was this one earlier in the week, you see I have these fake birds in my room with real feathers. A fake cardinal on my dresser flapping and taking off. And a very grim Crow (courtesy of our Poe party) perched on a curtain rod (qwrok! nevermore!) So I had a dream that there was this strange blue-black bird with a puffy chest who had been mounted on a wooden plaque and hung on the wall but it was ALIVE and it would move around and peck at the air and I was horrified and kept thinking its intestines its lungs how how can I kill it its an abomination oh god should I strangle it or club it... sooo terrible!!!!!
Is that too much of my psyche for all y'all out there? I could talk about sex if I was having any, the acceptable unacceptable conversation to have on not-so-anonymous chat rooms. But here's the scary part. I'm pretty sure my bird dream WAS about sex!!! WAAAAAAAA!!!!!!
Oh also, in regards to my previous posting about giving it all up and moving to a commune, two sundays ago in the NYT magazine saint Noam said something to the extent of "well I wouldn't feel like I was doing the world any good if I just lived in Montana and grew my own food" or something like that. So I'm off to say four Hail Emmas and an Our Guevara to repent...

Waaaaa... i'm whiny today, which is probably why i'm actually going to add a journal entry! gasp! plus i'm looking at another 6 hours left in my 8 hour office day. that's my first complaint. work. why work? why can't we fuel the planet with corn? or better yet, hemp? and what about technology! wasn't it supposed to free us? because its not really work I dislike. i like doing things, making things, modifying my environments, both conceptual and physical, but its the money that alienates me from it all, go figure. i was stressing this morning because i own this new car which means that all my plans have been blown to hell and also, i will always have to work to pay for the piece of shit. a practically new vehicle i just got, and already the fan belt is going chirp chirp chirp, and i really don't have time to deal with it. i know i know. i shouldn't have bought the thing. or i should just sell the thing. but honestly i don't know what to do. i just drive it to school and work and go about my business.

The other put-it-all-into-perpective bit is that my mom just had surgery on monday-- got a new hip since her old one was plum wore out. it was pretty stressful since she was in so much pain after the operation. it really isn't a good thing to see your mom hurting so bad, i hope no one else has to go through it. but the good news is by the next day she was better and in the long run this will greatly improve her life-- no more limp! yeah! my mom is a tough broad. she's been through a lot and always come out stronger, so i think this will be a good change for her.

But being home made me realize how out of the "real" world i am, and how we've always all dreamed of leaving this "real" world for the realer one of living by ourselves on a farm back in the woods. funny that this is my libertarian-family's dream and my ultra-leftist comrades' dreams. why the fuck don't we just do it then! paul and i were saying that if we had added up all the money we've taken out on student loans and had used it to buy land instead we'd have the most beautifullest wind-powered tech-driven off-the-grid commune-ity anyone has ever seen! instead i'm here, toeing the line, contributing my ever-diminshing life force to the academy, an institution just like any other institution, and making no difference in anyone's life except my own, and even then the effects right now seem mostly negative (more debt, more attitude, more platitudes...)

agghhh!! i just want to never own anything (buy anything, or sell anything hee hee) ever again! i just wanna write the great goddam american novel fer chrissakes! is that so wrong?