Entries Tagged 'open thread' ↓

Monday Morning Open Thread

Our main page, http://pumapac.org is experiencing technical difficulties, so we’re blogging here until it’s fixed.

What’s on your mind?

We’re HERE

We’ve MOVED! to a bigger and better blog: http://pumapac.org

If that site is not loading for you, then we are here in the graffiti NYC subway car. Welcome.

 

UPDATES:

11/7/08, 10:59pm edt: back up at http://pumapac.org

11/7/08, 10:35pm. We’re HERE again. Weirdness tonight. Please blog here at our lovely vacation cottage until I figure out what’s wrong.

 

11/4/08 AT 6:07PM

SERVER IS BACK — WE’RE BLOGGING AGAIN HAPPILY AT

www.pumapac.org

THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE!

ALERT!: 11/4/08 5:00pm est. Main Blog Page is down — not sure why. We’re working as hard as we can to fix the problem.


Please blog here until then.


(nice to have a cottage, huh?)

Take it next door!

11/1/08 2:26pm eastern: We’re back over at www.pumapac.org

sorry for the inconvenience — still working out some link kinks on the main pages.

UPDATE: We are back here! Until we fix the link — get commenting downstairs until we’re back up next door!

We’ve moved the blog over to the main website, www.pumapac.org, for technical and security reasons.

Nothing has changed — your username and password is still the same, all the posts and comments are still there.

Just click HERE to get to the new page and start blogging.

If you are having ANY problems logging in to the blog, please email me at murphy@pumapac.org or type a comment below and I’ll get you set up.

Thanks,

Murphy.

Do you see any Pumas in this picture?

I somehow missed this story about Hillary supporters raising $8 million for McCain/Palin.

Add to that this story by a conservative Republican columnist who doesn’t believe the Poll Hype and claims that the MSM’s ignoring of the Puma Movement is a huge story in and of itself.

Oh and Hillbuzz reminds us that Chicago is the Murder Capitol of the USA this year, AGAIN!

Yay Barack! yay political leaders of Chicago! You’re Number One!

What about this picture. Do you see any pumas here:

That’s right — you don’t. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any there. In fact, the country is CRAWLING with Pumas. Tons and tons of Pumas. In every city and town.

Join us! Click HERE!

Saturday Flyer Day

Pumatize the town Folks! Download flyers, business cards, book marks, cards etc HERE.

There are 10 more days in this election. You’re an American citizen.

Act like one!

Today is a new day; be wonderful to each other!

You lookin at me?

Workin that last nerve this week. Back off, Suckas.

Join us at The Lion’s Share right now, 8-9:30pm eastern.

Click HERE for Puma United Radio (PURrrr!) to listen live!

Call-in Number: (347) 539-5420!

Overnight Art

“Let a man get up and say, Behold, this is the truth, and instantly I perceive a sandy cat filching a piece of fish in the background. Look, you have forgotten the cat, I say.” — Virginia Woolf

“I may sometimes be willing to teach for nothing, but if paid at all, I shall never do a man’s work for less than a man’s pay.” — Clara Barton

Let Them Eat Lobster

Thanks to alohapuma for the flyer. We’ll have it uploaded to the ACTION CENTER soon so you can print it out from home and distribute.

Pretty + Funny? Pretty Funny!

I’ll dig with it. Saturday, poetry.

 

Digging
 
 
  Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.   

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it. 

Seamus Heaney