DAMN THAT MR. RUFF
Jason Pettus
You received a nursing degree before you had me or Colin. And all through our growing up, you worked part-time as a "substitute" school nurse for our district. You would come to various schools at various times, whenever the regular nurse would get sick, or go on their cycle break.
God, it was always so great when you'd come and work at our school, 'cause you'd let us skip classes and come hang out in the nurse's office, let us practice popping wheelies in the wheelchair, let us sit around and hit on the student aide. Plus we never had to ride the bus home on the days you'd work at our school.
So you were working on the first day of my eighth grade year. And I went to my 6th period class, Science, with Mr. Ruff, the school's teacher-clown. And I don't even know anymore how, but somehow the subject of you, the nurse, being my mom came up. And Mr. Ruff got this mischievious look in his eyes, and he said, "Hey, you know a really good trick we can play on your mom?"
Mr. Ruff took a two inch splinter of wood off a ruler, and placed it right under the dead part of my fingernail. He told me to squeeze my finger with my other hand, so that the skin would come up and hold the splinter in place. And then he took a pencil and a red pen and drew on the rest of my fingernail so that it looked like the splinter went all the way down the inside of my fingernail down to the cuticle.
"Okay, Jason, here's a pass. Now go running into the nurse's office screaming your head off!"
So I did. "Mom, mom, mom!" I yelled into the secretaries' faces, running into your office.
You took a glance at my finger. "Oh my God!" you screamed out. "Oh my God! What happened to you?" And I started giggling uncontrollably and let go of my finger, making the splinter fall out.
You had a little talk with Mr. Ruff after school that day. But he and I both agreed the next day that it was a pretty funny joke. Even at the end of that year, when Mr. Ruff signed my yearbook, he mentioned it. "That was a pretty funny joke we played on your mom, wasn't it?"
DOING THE JOB
Jason Pettus
I think a lot about my own hypothetical children these days. It's a big reason why I'm writing this book. I think about the way I'd like to raise my children. I think about the ideals, the concepts, that are important to me, and that I'd like to instill into my offspring. I think about the way I'd like my children to be, what their sense of good and bad is, what their sense of duty and honor and hard work and priorities is.
And then I second-guess myself. I think that maybe all those things that I originally thought were important are not important at all. Everytime I think of some specific thing, some specific lesson I'd like to teach my child, minutes later I think that the lesson might just lead my child down the wrong road, might be learned wrong and lead to dysfunction or neurosis or a long-standing hatred of me for ever. And Jesus, if I ever have children, I know already that I'll constantly want to ask my children, over and over throughout their childhood, "Am I doing a good job? Am I getting it right? Am I doing a good job?"
Mom, you did a good job.
GETTING THE JOKE
Jason Pettus
You were frequently left out of the jokes that dad and Colin and I would tell each other. All three of us were into things you didn't really like that much -- Monty Python and the Smothers Brothers and just generally these very dry, very black witticisms.
But one time, once Colin and I were both college-aged, you forced us all to go have a family portrait taken when we were both home on holiday. You dragged our groaning, bitching bodies over to the grade school you work at, and we sat and sat and sat, and finally it was our turn.
And it was one of those typical portrait photographers, those tired, cheesy guys who work assembly-line photo shoots. And he was referring to us in that third-person way that photo guys do that gets you pissed off -- "All right, and let's have older brother stand here, and younger brother, put your hand there, and mom, let's turn our head a little bit, and dad, you stand up nice and straight in the back."
And Colin blurted out really loudly in a sing-song voice, "THAT's not our dad! Tee-hee!"
And you got it. You broke out into loud laughter, just like the three of us usually do. And the four of us all sat there, laughing riotously at the poor, dumb, confused photographer.
It's the only family photo shoot I ever liked.
Tom Racine
cabanaboy10@yahoo.com
This is what we haveÑ
blue dishes, Van Gogh prints,
a burnt out air conditioner, poetry books,
African music, gypsy dances,
you swaying, singing under the fan
against the backdrop of beads in the entrance way
where beyond the bed awaits like the sea calling.
But I am good and finish most of the meal
of artichoke leaves
and salmon
and grapes and strawberries,
but not all is eaten
as I ooze the strawberries
onto your breasts
and kiss the sweet ocean
and enterÑ
behind the beads
where
another fan awaits
and Cuban songs,
the cat purring
and the heat of a
summer
Florida night
with you.
Jason Pettus
I have a feeling... well, we've never talked about it -- but I have a feeling that you thought I was gay. After all, I was an extremely late bloomer. I didn't even have my first date until I was in college. When I was in high school, I didn't go out very much, and when I did, it was always with other men who exhibited the same effeminate traits that I naturally exhibit.
I have a feeling that you struggled with this while I was in high school. I imagine you getting the first inklings of the idea, being confused, being defensive, going into denial, finally accepting, just like any parent of a gay child must do. I imagine you practicing being able to stand up and declare, "I love my gay son" when the time came when I would finally come out of the closet.
It's funny. I have plenty of gay friends now. Well, I guess I always have. And over half of my friends have parents who haven't come to grips with it yet. My friends actually are gay, and their parents won't admit it, won't let them bring their lovers home. Some of them won't even let their own children come home.
And you. You were completely accepting, completely loving and ready to take your gay son into your life. And I'm not even gay.
LITTLE GIRL
Jason Pettus
I know that there's a part of you that always wanted to have a girl. You've never told me outright, but there have been plenty of clues.
When I was growing up, you were always trying to get me to let you fuss with my hair, try new styles. I, of course, being a male, would never let you.
You were absolutely heartbroken when I decided not to go to prom. You still bring it up, even to this day, when I am twenty-eight years old. We'll see a particularly dapper man in a tuxedo, like at a wedding reception, and you'll say, "Now see, YOU could've looked like that if you had gone to prom! I can't believe you didn't go to prom!"
You would always get really excited when we went shopping for new clothes. However, I happened to love new clothes, so that one worked out well.
Now, sometimes, you try to have female bonding moments. Once, at another wedding reception, you had a little bit to drink, and you whispered, "You know, Jason, everytime I have a glass of wine now... I have hot flashes!" And I was, "Jeez, mom, don't tell me this stuff!"
Sometimes I want to apologize for not being a girl, or at least that you weren't allowed to have one male child and one female. I know there's nothing I could do about it, I know you wouldn't accept my apology, I know you love me just as much as you would any girl. But still, sometimes, when I see you really wanting to have a female bonding moment, I want to take your hand and apologize to you for never having the chance.
I had my own ring
but on days IÕd forget to wear it.
You had your own vows
but your memry seemed to fail you.
You were foreign to me:
a frightening foreign,
an exciting foreign.
Do I know your name?
Do I care?
Let me just take off my ring,
I thought,
and put it behind
the frame on the dresser
where I cannot see it
tonight.
I was only resigned to the thought:
if I forgot myself with you,
if I was lost with you,
I would only remember again
and soon find myself.
alexandria rand
I was watching Oprah today and a woman said she came from a dysfunctional family, that she was beaten when she was little, that her mother wouldnÕt tell her who her father was. And I heard another woman on a talk show say that there are so many dysfunctional families that it seems to be becoming the norm Ñ that dysfunctional is becoming functional.
And then I see a commercial on t.v. from the Church of Latter-Day Saints that tells your family to communicate and shows a picture of a man teaching his son to ride a bicycle and I have to leave the room.
And then I watch a movie with a scene where the father hugs the daughter and tells her he loves her and I cry.
I was working in another room while my parents were watching t.v. in the living room. They must have heard a stat that said one in five children are abused. IÕm the second child of six in my family.
Well, I heard my mother say to my father, gee, that would mean that one of the kids was abused. And then she said, I didnÕt abuse any of them, did you? And father said, no.
I think thatÕs when he proceeded to say that that figure is probably for lower class families, and not families like ours.
And I just stopped my work for a moment. A moment of peace. A memorial, you could say.
He doesnÕt think I know. But I do. How about sexual abuse? Yes, I remember. Twenty years later, and the thought still brings tears to my eyes. How about emotional abuse? Yeah, IÕd call what youÕve done to me abuse. You still have to power to make me cry at the drop of a hat.
And there is a lot about you IÕm sure I donÕt know.
According to my figures, weÕre above average.
gabriel athens
helena wolfe
November 16, 1998
there are certain rules people follow
and they claim to have beliefs
on a given subject
but they choose not to think about
their beliefs
let me repeat that,
they choose not to think
I know that this one
person says he's concerned
but my phone isn't ringing
and yes, he called me once
since I've been trapped
in this cage
he hasn't called me twice
i see the scene
marina arturo
Every once in a while
I see the same scene again:
I lay in the bed
the field of daffodils
with you draped over me
folding over me
conforming to my body
like a rustling curtain
rippling in the breeze from an open window.
I do not sleep.
I couldn't,
I would never want to.
Our contours interlock,
our limbs intertwine.
Your breath rolls down my stomach
like the breeze that brought you to me.
I take your hand,
and although you sleep
you seem to hold me
with all the intensity you possess.
And with each beat of your heart,
with your heat,
comes the cool night air in the wind
caressing me
until the light from the morning sun
awakens our silhouette.
shannon peppers
November 28, 1998
okay, it's one thing to say that whales are not smarter than humans
because they can't build buildings, or they can't get drunk
and if you want to think of it on just those levels
you have every right
all people can think when you say that is
that whales don't have opposable thumbs
and they live in water
which makes the construction of building a little difficult
we forget to think that creatures can live in words
or worlds that are different from our own
sydney anderson
December 15, 1998
there are times
when you feel a loud thunderous boom
and you think everything is going to be destroyed
and you can hear the destruction
you can see its remnants
and the world is crashing all around you
and there are times when you see that
and want to fall to pieces
until you get a glimmer of hope
and then you cling on to those glimmers of hope
because you swear that is all you've got
and now that i live here and see the places
i used to frequent
i think of bad things that have happened to me
bad things here, bad things there
and then i think of the nice things you did for me
the way you used to be so good to me
still looking back i think about
how cute you were and how nice you were
i wasn't looking for the football player type
and you just happened to be that adorable
and i knew that you were a good guy
even if you were a football player
but you were worth it
yes, i made you suffer, never meaning to
my friend andy in school called you mister superman
because he never saw you
and he knew you were a football player
i still have photos of you, ones i used to keep in my wallet
because i was not willing to let go of every image of you
well, not that fast, that is
and i don't know if we were that adorable together
yes, after all the pain I go through, I still think about you
and how smart you were, how strong you were
after all this passed time
it's not necessary to tell these stories out loud again
i know these stories
because in so many ways they were my silber lining
my glimmer of hope
my ray of light, like a hand from God
in the sky coming down to save me
well, i want to remember this all
and i want someone to share this with me
LOVE BUG
Jason Pettus
I have a memory that's older than my oldest memory, but I don't know if it's real or if I made it up.
When I was three, I put my arm through the backdoor window, you told me. I was running around the house, acting like Superman, my arms straight out in front of me as I soared through the air, battling evil. And, you said, I whipped right around a corner and put my arm straight through the backdoor window.
And my arm got cut right on the wrist, right on one of those veins you can see if you flex your muscles. And there was a tiny little fountain coming out, spurt, spurt, spurt, and you freaked. You were trying so hard to stop the bleeding.
And then your friend who was over at the time noticed a bloodstain at the top of my arm. And you took my shirt off, and up there, near my shoulder, was a gash over three inches long. Which, for a three-year-old, is a pretty big gash.
And you and me and your friend jumped in your friend's car and she drove the three of us to the hospital, you on the verge of complete panic.
What I never told you was that I've always had this tickling of a memory in the back of my brain, as long as I can remember, of riding around in Herbie the Love Bug, from the old Disney films. I am in the back seat and Herbie is going up on its two left wheels, and then its two right wheels, over and over, each time it takes a turn. I had always thought it was a dream I had once had as a child.
So one day a couple of years ago I asked you if you happened to remember the kind of car your friend drove us to the hosptial with.
"Hmm," you said, "I think it was a Volkwagen. Yes, it was a Volkswagen Bug."
I still have the scars, one on my wrist and one near the shoulder. The upper scar is still the same length, still slightly over three inches long. You see, scar tissue never grows. Scar tissue always stays the same length that it was at the time of the accident.
Charlotte Kellison
deluzian@aol.com
I feel the pulse of that poem,
but I can't hear the heartbeat.
But beware of my criticism...
I have ripped my heart out from my chest
holding it out,
offering it,
thumping,
quivering spasms
slimy with blood.
Its cords and connections
squeaking and slurping against each other.
The hot stench squelching breath.
Discovering:
the real heart inspires aversion.
I am learning to accept the discomfort.
I cannot but accept
the hand raised like a shield,
the wince,
the rapid exit without comment.
Ten paces past the metal slam of the auditorium doors
giddy as children,
loud groans,
shudders,
bursts of laughter into the cold fresh air.
Jason Pettus
Dad and Colin and I can really be a bunch of little shits when we get together. Once, we went to our cousin's wedding with a free bar, and the three of us each took our complimentary wooden matchbook and laid out one match everytime we had a drink. And soon there were matches just scattered everywhere, all over the table.
And at a certain point in the evening there was a completely obnoxious little girl running around the reception, getting on everyone's nerves. And dad and Colin and I started talking about how we were going to kill the girl, started discussing possible ways to unobtrusively get rid of the body, drunkenly laughing and guffawing the whole time.
Later, we found out that the girl's grandfather had been sitting at our table, the whole time. And you smiled, put your hands over your eyes, shook your head, and said, "Oh, my guys."
Open Mic Goose Chase
Jason Pettus
She writes about me, and I write about her.
That's the way it works, you see.
She writes about me, and I write about her
and in our obsessive performing schedules we have
it ends up
she reads about me, and I read about her
all over town
Wicker Park, Lincoln Park, Irving Park,
and yes, sometimes, Humboldt Park
she writes about me, and I write about her
and she reads about me, and I read about her
all over town
and the people know
they know that she's writing about me and I'm writing about her
because they are friends of ours
and the scene is incestuous to begin with
because getting older does not mean getting better
and a larger population does not mean a larger dating pool
they know that she's writing about me and I'm writing about her
and if they don't we drop in hints every so often
and they talk
and they giggle
and they say to us
"Hey, didja know she was writing about you last week?"
and
"Hey, didja know he was reading about you over there?"
"And over there?"
"And over there?"
as we hit the dusty trail
of open mics across these big shoulders of ours
and narrowly miss each other
by ten minutes, by five
"God, she was just here, she was just reading something about you"
And sometimes,
sometimes we do end up at the same open mic
where she doesn't read something about me
and I don't read something about her
but we still indeed read to each other
Subtle hints, clues
that I wonder if the audience picks up on
"This next piece is about the way one of my ex-lovers made me feel"
"This next piece is about how important my sexuality is to me"
"This next piece is about how I want to be a writer for a living and if you are thinking of getting involved with me you should understand that up front"
"This next piece is about how I got hurt really badly in a relationship not too far in my past and you better fuckin' pay attention because I don't want any idle flirtation from you because I'm too weak and frail from this previous one to be able to take something that you might be doing just because you're bored and not necessarily actually into it"
Subtle hints, clues
that I wonder if the audience picks up on.
And we sit together
and we laugh
and we drink
and we laugh, and we drink, and we drink, and we talk, and we laugh, and we drink, and we talk and we drink and we laugh and we drink and we drink.
And she goes to the bathroom and my friends run over and say, "Wasn't that piece about... you know, HER? Doesn't she know?"
And I say, "Of course she knows. She writes about me and I write about her. It's how we communicate."
She understands this because
we are two peas in a pod
cast from the same mold
long-lost siblings separated from birth
and a thousand other metaphors, none of which exactly work
And we have talked about this
and we have decided that having sex together would probably be a good thing
and hell, it seems like a foregone conclusion at this point, not really much we can do about it
But still, we can't make that final leap
because we are both deathly afraid of losing that
pea
cast
sibling
muse
and all those other metaphors that didn't work the first time
And so she writes about me and I write about her
and she reads about me and I read about her
It is our way of dating
It is our way of having sex
And she gives me a ride home
and we sit in her car
and she says how regrettable it is that we have to separate for the night
and so I say not if you come in
and so she says do you want me to come in
and so I say do you want to come in
And we both know we're going to chicken out
but we're playing a game to see which of us will do it first
which of course... would be me
but as I'm getting out I see a flash of brilliance in her eyes
like tonight was the night she was waiting for me to not back down
like tonight was the night she was waiting for me to insist on her coming in
And I stop and think about that tonight in my bed
typing in my bed
smoking in my bed
as I continue writing about her
as I know that she continues writing about me
spamtime is over
Jason Pettus
well because I'm a quote enquote writer
and because I've got eyes bigger than my stomach
and lord knows it can swallow just about any explanation
as to why I am here
with you at 4 am
with you at 6 drinks past reason
with you and you - him and her
aaaand me clunk
as there's a long pause
too long it's hitting the back of my throat
I'm gagging
and it's almost like the both of your drunk asses are ganging up on me and pressing down on the back of my neck going "take it! take it!"
and because I am sometimes the I that is saying "I"
in stories talking about very interesting the I that might be I
that is what I am thinking
as I watch you two
a wacky duet needing a narrator
the "I" that I will become
taking the whole scene in at once man
swallow baby
and I'm gulping hard cause
as the eye that is looking around nervously
while you two eye each other
and I see and tomorrow
I will spit out "I" as in
"I see what they don't cause they're
too wrapped up in their quote romantic tension enquote moment
that I'm gulping down
I see out the window
weiner boy
who is always sticking it into these
situations at the wrong time
who is not an eye
not I
and they don't wanna
be seeing him
but this is what I
am here for
so I can talk about it"
and weiner boy
who you
and her
have been discussing as her soon to be ex that I
now know all about and will fill in as a key detail
when I talk about it
weiner boy is coming up the sidewalk
about to serve himself up with all the mustard
and I'm thinking
"Just because
I'm a writer
I'm a fool with little better to do
I'm a third no
fourth wheel
on this little drama vehicle
the one who's supposed to drive it on home
for the people I will tell
I'm suppose to spread myself all over this scene
and glup myself down
like some cheap meat substitute
for private moments
post-modernists can't digest
well, spamtime is over
and when he bursts in full of recriminations I can already guess
cause I'm a writer
I will leave"
at least that is what "I"
will tell them that I
thought
well because I'm a quote enquote writer
and because I've got eyes bigger than my stomach
and lord knows it can swallow just about any explanation
as to why I am here
with you at 4 am
with you at 6 drinks past reason
with you and you - him and her
aaaand me clunk
as there's a long pause
too long it's hitting the back of my throat
I'm gagging
and it's almost like the both of your drunk asses are ganging up on me and pressing down on the back of my neck going "take it! take it!"
and because I am sometimes the I that is saying "I"
in stories talking about very interesting the I that might be I
that is what I am thinking
as I watch you two
a wacky duet needing a narrator
the "I" that I will become
taking the whole scene in at once man
swallow baby
and I'm gulping hard cause
as the eye that is looking around nervously
while you two eye each other
and I see and tomorrow
I will spit out "I" as in
“I see what they don't cause they're
too wrapped up in their quote romantic tension enquote moment
that I'm gulping down
I see out the window
weiner boy
who is always sticking it into these
situations at the wrong time
who is not an eye
not I
and they don't wanna
be seeing him
but this is what I
am here for
so I can talk about it”
and weiner boy
who you
and her
have been discussing as her soon to be ex that I
now know all about and will fill in as a key detail
when I talk about it
weiner boy is coming up the sidewalk
about to serve himself up with all the mustard
and I'm thinking
“Just because
I'm a writer
I'm a fool with little better to do
I'm a third no
fourth wheel
on this little drama vehicle
the one who's supposed to drive it on home
for the people I will tell
I'm suppose to spread myself all over this scene
and glup myself down
like some cheap meat substitute
for private moments
post-modernists can't digest
well, spamtime is over
and when he bursts in full of recriminations I can already guess
cause I'm a writer
I will leave”
at least that is what "I"
will tell them that I
thought
Tom Racine
cabanaboy10@yahoo.com
I was standing doing the dishes
after Rebecca and Yuki
invited me over for Sunday omelets
and poetry.
Yuki leaned over the dish water and
whispered, “We should get together someday soonÑ
we could have sex.”
I chuckled and answered, “Perhaps after our first
coffee together.”
Later, I walked Yuki out to her car,
“I'd like to go home with you and
have sex all night, but I have to get
up early tomorrow and teach Spanish.”
“Yeah, that's OK. I'll call.”
“My birthday is in October, I'm Aries,” she said,
and she went off somewhere talking about Jupiter
rising and left me standing there for
6 minutes. "What's your birthday?" And off
she went againÑMars to Leo descending somewhereÑ
as I scanned the sky.
"Come here, I finally said softly. Come here."
She moved in close.
I took her by the shoulders and gently
turned her around.
"Look over there. What's that?"
"That? That's the full moon," she said.
We both laughed,
and I held her close
as we stood watching it
in silence.
THE NIGHT I FOUND OUT ABOUT MY SECRET BROTHER
Jason Pettus
I was constantly trying to sneak in on you and dad's dinner parties. Even when I was a little boy, even then, I found the witty dialogue of adults so much more fascinating than all the pointless drivel the kids my age would talk about. There was something so completely entrancing about it, the way the adults would talk about politics, and the truth, the way they would so casually toss around curse words without a second thought.
However, the point of the dinner parties was always, and will forever be, to get away from the kids. So everytime I'd try to sit down and listen, you would politely scoot me off to bed. But I would sneak back out. I would sit right there at the crook right next to the refrigerator, lean my head forward so that I could hear all the cool, sexy banter between the grown-ups. Oh, the things I could tell you.
So, one night I was doing that, and you and dad were talking about how "difficult" it was.
"We weren't sure we'd ever be able to have one again," one of you said.
And someone asked you something, and you said, "I just woke up one day and there was blood everywhere."
And it slowly dawned on me that I used to have a brother, and that he had died. Later in life, I would put it all together and realize that you had had a miscarriage.
I've thought about this a lot since that night. A lot. I've thought about the fact that I was supposed to be the younger child, and I wonder what that would be like. I wonder what my brother would have grown up to be like. I've thought about the fact that Colin would most likely not exist if my other brother had lived, and I wonder what that would be like. As I've turned into an adult, I've thought about what a horrible, horrible experience that would be, to be a twenty-five-year-old boomer in the middle of the Camelot years, newly married, just moved to the suburbs, your first home, life completely on track, when one morning you wake up to a pool of blood between your legs and a dead child. I think about how similar experiences have driven many, many young couples apart, made them divorce, about the long-lasting terror it produces in some women, to the point that they would never get pregnant again. I wonder if I was twenty-five and had a miscarriage, if I would have the courage to try again. I don't know.
There was a couple of hushed lines in the living room, and then you said, "It was the most difficult thing I've ever been through." And then there was silence. And then I went back to bed.
Jason Pettus
When I was little and you and dad would fight, you would go into the bathroom to cry. You would make sure that the door was closed before a tear would fall. I assume that you didn't want to upset us, to see you in that state.
But I remember this. I remember these incidents very clearly, the soft sounds of your sobs coming from behind the door. And I wanted to hug you, tell you that everything was going to be okay, just like you did so many times for me.
When you're with your family, there's no reason to hide the pain. They understand.
Hasn't Happened Yet
aeon logan
December 3, 1998
there is so much in me that is ugly
people can give me compliments
but it is never enough
it's never what i want to hear
it would be nice if the right someone
came along and told me everything
I needed to hear
but that hasn't happened yet
people keep trying to make me feel better
they talk about the sunrises and the
stars in the sky and the babbling book
when I look right over my shoulder
I should see the beauty in things
well, I never get to the beauty part
I never get there
so no, I don't know what the answers are
so no, I don't know where the optimism is
and I don't know how to make things better
what is veganism?
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don't consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.
why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.
so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.
A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.
vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444
MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)
functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen
We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.
The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST's three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST's SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does "on the road" presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061