HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: pauls@icecreambar.css.itd.umich.edu (Paul Southworth)
Newsgroups: alt.native
Subject: Re: "Mohicans" review
Date: 15 Oct 1992 17:45:24 GMT
Organization: University of Michigan
Reply-To: pauls@umich.edu
NNTP-Posting-Host: uglymouse.css.itd.umich.edu

Jeff Fields writes
| In article <9401588E0000F466@HWS.BITNET> writes:
| >To Mann, whose movie is based on the novel by James Fenimore Cooper,  
Indians
| >clearly represent that side of the human psyche which is given to rage  
and
| >wanton acts of cruelty.  His hero is Daniel Day-Lewis, a white man  
raised in
| >savagery but saved from barbarism by the love of a pure woman.  As  
alter-ego,
| >there is the Huron, Maquas, depraved and clever, a man only in  
appearance for
| >he was without such human emotions as compassion, humor or fear.   
Maquas is a
| >colonial serial killer infatuated with his tomahawk.
| 
| Mann was only following Cooper's novel. It is he who is guilty of  
historical
| inaccuracy in his unbalanced fictional account of pre-Revolutionary  
America.

Wait a minute.  What compelled Mann to use *that* particular historically  
inaccurate novel?  I assume he had some choice in the matter.  Film makers  
who make films of books romanticizing and inaccurately portraying history  
must take responsibility for repeating the misinformation.  If he had been  
interested in producing a movie that did not perpetuate the misinformation  
it would not have been any more difficult.  He could have (a) chosen a  
different story to work with, or (b) revised the inaccurate material.  I  
very much doubt that he failed to take artistic license with the work in  
other regards.

| Thanks for sharing the real history, but I think you may have missed  
something.
| The film is not an historical documentary. It is based on a 19th century
| novel written to romanticize the 18th century.

And so it is a film created to give a 19th century view of the 18th  
century.  How does that win it any particular respect?  One might also add  
that the 19th century viewpoint presented is a *particular* 19th century  
viewpoint that the filmmaker chose.
Newsgroups: alt.native

Oops! My apologies for posting my previous "Please Help" survey to this
group. It was an honest mistake and won't happen again.

Kingsley
Xref: sparky alt.non.sequitur:340 alt.cascade:2384
From: dfqfrby@shoes.BELL-ATL.COM (Connor)
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.cascade
Subject: Re: Nuprin
Date: 8 Oct 92 23:41:06 GMT
Organization: Bell Atlantic NSI

In article <1992Oct8.203607.22439@tc.cornell.edu>, mdw@theory.TC.Cornell.EDU (Matt Welsh) writes:

> Little. Yellow. Different.
He's my little fellow sniff him
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.cascade
From: mdw@theory.TC.Cornell.EDU (Matt Welsh)
Subject: Nuprin
Organization: Cornell Theory Center
Date: Thu, 8 Oct 1992 20:36:07 GMT

Little. Yellow. Different.

mdw

-- 
Matt Welsh    mdw@tc.cornell.edu        +1 607 253 2737
Systems Programmer, Cornell Theory Center
  "Yow! Up ahead! It's a DONUT HUT!!"
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: night thoughts on live debts & immorality
Followup-To: alt.non.sequitur,alt.fan.gooley
Summary: nobody will get the allusion in the title.  NOBODY!
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 
Date: Sun, 11 Oct 1992 02:39:48 GMT

	She oozed along the table at the Ethiopian restaurant, absorbing
heavy metals from the tablecloth and arousing the waitresses to a killing
frenzy.  An elephant-sniffer upset a flask of 1-molar sodium citrate over
her, making a blue crab off Nantucket miss its 4:30 PM appointment with
its psychiatrist in Honolulu the previous day, and she began to emit gamma
rays.  The penguin-man in the saffron-colored sari heard the Geiger counter
in his groin start to tick, and he rushed over to her, inflamed with propane-
fired love and heartburn for her.
	They killed everybody rather than pay their bills, and they went
gently into the steaming wench-lit dawn, breaking ostrich eggs over each
other's heads and reciting the Liturgy of the Hours.  I took absolutely no
notice of them at any time, and as they walked past it was as if they were
invisible to me, although I vaguely recall a scent of a production of _La
Traviata_ with bison in all the starring roles and a chorus of chrome-plated
elk.  I simply squelched along, absorbing paving bricks through my right heel
and excreting them as little spheres of pure carbon 12 from my left nipple,
ignoring as well the hordes of admiring headless children who gamboled
about me in tight geometric formations, the overflights of jet-propelled
dolphins, the mariachi band playing "See, the Conquering Hero Comes" in
boogie rhythm, and the cold weather.

Nark., look, I can't go on like this; most of you have stopped reading these
anyway and I can't say that I blame you
gooley@netcom.com
mgooley@advtech.uswest.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.cascade,cso.freshmen
From: mbur@nyx.cs.du.edu (MAC)
Subject: Re: blah
X-Disclaimer: Nyx is a public access Unix system run by the University
	of Denver for the Denver community.  The University has neither
	control over nor responsibility for the opinions of users.
Organization: Nyx, Public Access Unix at U. of Denver Math/CS dept.
Date: Thu, 15 Oct 92 05:56:28 GMT


Hey!  Why did you create your own fan newsgroup?
Xref: sparky alt.non.sequitur:387 talk.bizarre:34434
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
Subject: author soup wets the sporran
Date: 16 Oct 92 15:46:13 GMT
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest)


	I tried to write an epithalamium but it kept coming out as an
epiphyllum, so I gave up and sold it to a woman in the Falklands (sorry,
Las Malvinas) who lives with a ram and is an internationally-known breeder
of spineless cacti and husbands.  I attribute the failure of the marriage
to this and to my spleen, which kept going to small motels in tiny towns
in the American Midwest and renting the most expensive room, to which it
lured innocent local maidens and transformed them into sluttish members
of all-girl semi-groups.
	I told my girlfriend about this one day when we were having lunch
next to "The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory," moved for the
occasion from the Dali Museum to the local Wendy's.  She was a tall, leggy
black woman that day, and the sight of her slender but powerful fingers
gripping the Big Mac (air-lifted by Sikorsky Flying Crane [tm] from a
Hardee's in West Palm Beach, Ontario) drove me to quenchable lust -- she
put down the burger and sprayed me with the portable lust extinguisher she
carries when in especially attractive forms.  "You should have married
Fergie yourself," she said in her false but excellent Breton accent which
I cannot reproduce by mere mis-spellings of words, or by any means mechanical
or electronic without the express perversion of the copyleft holder.
	"I was an iguana at the time," I reminded her.
	"She would have liked that," she said, her skin turning lighter
and her body becoming slightly shorter.
	"Perhaps," I said, and pecked with my new beak at the Skin Free
Colonel Sanders Leg on the Louis 27th table between us.  Dave Thomas
slit his own throat as we watched, and bled automatic transmission fluid
as he crumpled into a wad of newspaper.
	"You don't depreciate the finnier things in life," she said, her
skin now like fine white porcelain: hard, cold, shiny; in order for her
to talk her face had developed slits so that her jaw could still move
despite her rigid skin.  She gave me a ginger-scented glance and suddenly
I was eating roast Edward Albee.
	"Don't I turn into a fish at this point?" I asked.
	"You don't deserve it," she said, now a perfect china doll.
Suddenly she shattered, and Laird Ranald Mac Donald, singing the song
about him as a sort of leitmotif and heavy Motif (tm) as well that ran
only under X10, came in and swept up the pieces as I wept crocodile
tears gathered from real Australian saltwater crocodiles as supposedly
fought by Colonel Paul Hogan as Crocodile "Up with the bonnets of Bonny"
Dundee in a disgusting film of stale orange maramlade fortified with
Scotch in preparation for the horrible experience.
	I at last attained Fahrvergnuegen (tm).

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.prose,alt.politics.gooley,alt.fan.asprin
From: mdw@theory.TC.Cornell.EDU (Matt Welsh)
Subject: Re: One Line Bio: Matt Welsh
Followup-To: alt.flame,alt.non.sequitur
Organization: Cornell Theory Center
Distribution: usa
Date: Thu, 15 Oct 1992 00:22:58 GMT

In article <1992Oct14.233341.15380@newshub.sdsu.edu> dunster@sdsu.edu (mark dunster) writes:
>
>I am I the only one who hates the creation of these useless new groups, by
>people with giant egos?

Probably not. I didn't create the group, however. Am I the only one that
hates boneheads who flame without reading up on all the facts?

Nope.

mdw
-- 
Matt Welsh    mdw@tc.cornell.edu        +1 607 253 2737
Systems Programmer, Cornell Theory Center
  "Yow! Up ahead! It's a DONUT HUT!!"
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.prose,alt.politics.kibo
From: mdw@theory.TC.Cornell.EDU (Matt Welsh)
Subject: Ojibway Pancakes and a Free Nez Perce Mug
Organization: Cornell Theory Center
Date: Wed, 14 Oct 1992 22:53:41 GMT


Ojibway Pancakes and a Free Nez Perce Mug

Every Sunday morning I take a brisk walk down to Tapeworms 'R' Us to pick up
a fresh batch of leeches to cure my various day-to-day ailments, such as
headaches, aphasia, lack of ego, or menopause. On the way back I also drop by
the apiary for a $5 special on a Bucket o' Bees (you stuff 'em, you buy 'em)
to wear as a beard for the rest of the afternoon. The problem with mixing
my bumblebee-beard-wearing habit and bleeding is that I can't use a standard
over-the-counter anticoagulent to help the leeches along, or the bee
stings just keep hemorrhaging. After this vigorous self-treatment I am usually
wiped and either spend some time alone with myself (as spending time alone
with anyone else is more difficult), call up a bunch of friends and go on an
impromptu bungee-jumping trip, or if all else fails I'll pick up the 
Betty Crocker's Cookbook and just bake 'til I drop. This latter option is
my favorite of the three, as it allows me to really create something-- with
my own imagination (subsidized by Betty Crocker's expertise, of course)--
with my own hands. When I cook, I can break free from the abstruse confines
of publicly-available cuisine, that most hated periphery that bounds the
question "What's for lunch?", that which Nietzsche called "The Anti-Christ
of the Eatery", which might at first glance seem like a conumdrum, but as
we scrutinize the metaphor more closely we see EXACTLY what he meant: leaving
food preparation to some small caste of a culinary priesthood, if you will,
is essentially putting the rest of us in a tight Limbo of not being decide
what food is available to us at any given meal.

True, it may seem like a small point, but just think about how many times YOU 
would have rather had Roast Eel Flambe for dessert but, lo and behold, it just 
wasn't on the menu. Even Betty Crocker doesn't know how to fix that one, and 
if she did, she'd never print the recipe in her cookbooks. This kind of 
information is a clutch of well-guarded secrets shared only within the chef's 
cabal. By bringing my exotic (and often improvised) delicacies surreptitiously
to the people, I am breaking those frail supports holding up the careers
of a generation of gourmet chefs. Before long most of them will be finding
new rewarding jobs in the field of car maintenance, and then I can begin
to work on them too. Jiffy Lube, here I come.


mdw
i have no joke, i just like to say "epigrammatic"
-- 
Matt Welsh    mdw@tc.cornell.edu        +1 607 253 2737
Systems Programmer, Cornell Theory Center
  "Yow! Up ahead! It's a DONUT HUT!!"
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.cascade
From: jem@calypso.uucp (Jonathan Magid)
Subject: Re: Nuprin
Organization: University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill
Date: Wed, 14 Oct 1992 22:17:41 GMT

In article <1992Oct9.005909.13535@msuinfo.cl.msu.edu> johnson@cps.msu.edu (Graham K. Johnson) writes:
>In article <1992Oct8.203607.22439@tc.cornell.edu> mdw@theory.TC.Cornell.EDU (Matt Welsh) writes:
>>Little. Yellow. Different.
>Spittle Jello is for rent.
Rattle velvet Elvis, Dent! 

-- 
Jonathan Magid     jem@SunSite.unc.edu       SunSite Administrator
Virtual pizza Delivery (tm)::faxed in 30 cycles or less or you get it
----------------------------------------FREE!!!-----------------------
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.beer,alt.timewasters
From: mdw@theory.TC.Cornell.EDU (Matt Welsh)
Subject: Re: agony sauce over Blaise Pascal's grave
Organization: Cornell Theory Center
Date: Wed, 14 Oct 1992 05:10:41 GMT

In article <1992Oct14.031328.7578@netcom.com> gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley) writes:
>Excuse me.
>
>I just had a beer.
>
>I can't write when I'm the least bit drunk.  Arguably I can't write even
>when I'm cold sober, but let's not get into that.
>

It's okay, Mark. Go back to the fridge, have a few more, and come back
and post when you're really toasted. I'd like to see if there's any improv...
er, uh... I'd like to see the results.

mdw

-- 
Matt Welsh    mdw@tc.cornell.edu        +1 607 253 2737
Systems Programmer, Cornell Theory Center
  "Yow! Up ahead! It's a DONUT HUT!!"
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
Subject: diced liberties in xenon sauce with chips
Date: 9 Oct 92 15:37:10 GMT
Followup-To: alt.non.sequitur
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest)


	I was at a fish-scented point in my life, working as an orgasm in
a brothel in Havana.  The whores tipped me well, often as much as 45 degrees,
because it was easier faking it than having me.  One day I got careless and
became nausea, and a whore, one Marmaduke, vomited on her best client, who
fortunately was aroused by it, paid her double, and married her to his
favorite brand of tequila so that he could enjoy her always.  I was fired
out of contempt and a 160mm howitzer named Felipe, and landed in La Jolla,
where Dr. Seuss based Yertle the Turtle on the smell of my groin after he
met me in the Scripps Memorial Hospital and Institute of Oceanography, where
the Paraguayan authorities had placed me -- a drunk tank for substance-abusing
dolphins and sea lions.
	Kindly agents of the Church of Satan of Latter-Day Damned (the
morons!) provided me with a Debbie Boone costume and a means of escape.
But I politely refused, and languished for minutes until a middle-of-the-road
fringe radical conservative splinter group, known variously as the Stoned
Cetacean Liberationist Front, the Drunk Dolphin Rescue Command, and Fred,
burst into the facility riding stolen Discover (tm) cards and turned the
walls into chocolate bars and the nurses into Penthouse Pets (tm).  They
were full of chagrin, bile, cheap seltzer water, and corn chips at having
released me as well, but while they were deciding on what recipe to use
me as an ingredient in, I turned into a sea otter hooked on methadone and
headed for the Atlantic, hitching rides aboard supersonic transports, ox
carts, hit music videos, and commercials for Kentucky Fried Flying Fox
(ever so popular since my operas _Der Fledermausmann_ and _Der Fledermausmann
kommt wieder_ were made into films of high-density polyethylene with a
wide variety of commercial, industrial, and defense applications accepted
from three to five in the morning on Saturdays).
	I ended up on display in the Bronx Zoo, with fish, sexy female sea
otters, hourly doses of various opiates, and sardine-flavored Metamucil (tm)
to take care of the consequent diarrhea and sexual arousal.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: new-face department at Target garbage dump
Followup-To: alt.non.sequitur
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 
Date: Tue, 13 Oct 1992 01:59:02 GMT

	She massaged the inside of my sinuses with her flannel tongue, and
I vibrated at 12.5 Hz from sheer perversity.  Suddenly, with a smell of
Cajun-style cantata, she was gone.  I looked in all the obvious places:
the tank of a basement toilet in a house in Houston in 1956, a bottle of
Get Plastered! brand chocolate-flavored vodka in an antique shop on Mackinac
Island, the left ventricles of a dozen randomly-selected blonde women in
Quito, under the Mickey Mouse Masturbates sheets at the bottom of my
linen closet, and her apartment -- no sign of her, and I had spent an
agonizing ten minutes.
	I ran out into traffic, grabbed hold of a Reichswagen Beatle and
dragged it to the kerb with one hand and the power of British spelling
(which also kept me out of gaol), peeled back the bonnet or hood, and
yanked off the pure silver ignition wires.  Sure enough, she was the
spark plug in the third cylinder: shiny, new, plated with the London
Palladium.  I removed her, replaced her with a spare Boche plug from a
concealed compartment in my left shoe, tightened her replacement with
the handy torque wench of my Slovakian Navy Pocket-Battleship knife,
replaced the ignition wires with a cheaper set I had thoughtlessly hidden
under my toupee, smoothed out and replaced the hood or bonnet, bribed
the hapless motorist with a pewter Krugerrand, and by catching a passing
case of influenza took her back to my secret lavatory.
	Changed back into a woman, she sat on my one-legged old Percheron,
Muffy, her lips red and her eyes in a pout while I nipped round like an
obese Japanese (apologizing for the ethnic slurring) to the pawn and bishop
broker to sell the silver wires.  The broker was a girl of five with the
face of a woman of thirty, no doubt borrowed from her mother, and instead
of giving me cash she exchanged the wires for an Angstlichen bishop, the
bishop of Bath and Shower.  I took him home by inner tube while he tried
to convince me that God does not exist, and when we arrived my lady-hate
had swallowed Muffy -- only the single hoof protruded from her mouth, and
I put my lips to hers and bit it off; it was nicely chewy and delicious.
	The bishop kept yammering about funny mentalists and evil Papists
and not even my copies of the _Summa Theologica_ and the _Summa Contra
Gentilis_, bound in stainless steel and lethal in the right hands, could
shut him up.  So we put on our Maori cannibal costumes and prepared to
cook him, but she lost her nerve and fled -- the last I heard of her she
was an internationally famous opera singer who had been knighted by the
steam-fitting queen of Englebert.  But I pressed on, and in minutes I had
a complete set of artificial fingernails.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Xref: sparky alt.non.sequitur:335 talk.bizarre:33285
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
Subject: freeze-dried love in a girl costume
Date: 8 Oct 92 15:09:00 GMT
Followup-To: alt.non.sequitur
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest)


	The African violets were singing Siegfried Bernstein's _Brixton
Psalms_ in Urdu as the lovely bride walked down the aisle.  I was the
white leather boot on her foul-smelling left foot, and her long toenails
only added to my sufferings.  The marriage disservice was dull and uneventful:
the minister kept changing age and gender, the groom ate the rings in his
happiness and new ones had to be sent by flying camel from Anchorage, a
distinct smell of rotting halibut began to emanate from the foot that wore
me, the photographers kept stapling bridesmaids to groomsmen, the boiler of
the calliope exploded with a silent roar and huge loss of life, the statue
of Baal at the front of the church kept vomiting out half-digested babies,
the mother and father of the bride unscrewed their heads and put them on
each other's bodies (securing them with Loctite (tm)), and the ring-bearer
revealed himself to be Vladimir Lenin, alive and well despite extreme age
and very disappointed in Mr. Yeltsin.  I fell asleep.
	During the orgy at the reception I woke up when the bride took me
off and threw me at an old lesbian flame of hers whose scheme to kill the
groom and assume his identity had been thwarted through the intervention
of Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Chatterjee of the RCMP.  As I struck the
woman on the head I thought about orange crates and what a fine set of
nostrils I should have had.  I found myself in human form again, dressed
in a good tuxedo with aircraft-grade engine studs in my boiled shirt and
rhenium cufflinks.  I ground a waiter's face flat and polished it to a
mirror finish, and examined my features: bright red full beard, twinkling
gray wall-eyes, shoulder-length chocolate-brown hair.  Under the tuxedo
pants I was wearing black fishnet pantyhose, and on my feet was a pair of
high-heeled women's black pumps that were busy delivering irrgation water
at 50 CFM to Matabeleland from Lake Buena Vista (tm).
	The junior bridesmaid had jammed her head up the groom's rear,
using scuba equipment to keep breathing, and the bride was busy replacing
her feet and breasts with slabs of wedding cake.  I left discretely: my
feet I sent out by Pony Express, my legs and thighs by taxicab, my arms
by an arms smuggler from Zimbabwe, my head in an Israeli diplomatic pouch,
and my torso by military catapult.  The Arapahoe hijacked my feet and they
were never seen again because "Wild Bill" Rectum put out the eyes of the
band of Arapahoe (big-band style, after the Dorseys) responsible and then
blinded himself; my other parts gathered in Budapest and were welded together
by Lazlo Dubchek himself, along with a pair of replacement feet taken from an
ostrich.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
From: amoreno@unixg.ubc.ca (Andrew Moreno)
Newsgroups: alt.internet.services
Subject: Re: Internet access to Roper database?
Date: 16 Oct 1992 08:35:21 GMT
Organization: University of British Columbia, Vancouver, B.C., Canada
NNTP-Posting-Host: unixg.ubc.ca

Hello. I need to find references to a German company. Is there a database
listing of company profiles in a telnet or ftp site somewhere?
From: edwardp@cs.umb.edu (Edward P. Piecewicz)
Newsgroups: alt.internet.services
Subject: Hitchiker's Guide to the Internet
Date: 16 Oct 92 23:47:09 GMT
Distribution: usa
Organization: University of Massachusetts at Boston, Dept of Math and CS


Regarding the Hitchiker's Guide, is this a book of some kind, or is it an
RFC that is available from the NIC?

Thanks.

 - Ed
-- 
Internet:  edwardp@cs.umb.edu                                  - guest user -
Member and Activist:  The Boston Computer Society
From: avlsidwb@sn370.utica.ge.com (David W. Bishop)
Newsgroups: alt.internet.services
Subject: Re: sattelite data
Date: 16 Oct 92 17:04:19 GMT
Reply-To: avlsidwb@sn370.utica.ge.com
Organization: General Electric, AESD

In article xo@rivm.nl, ron@rivm.nl (Ron Roozendaal) writes:
>Does anyone know of ftp-servers that contain sattelite data, that are in
>readable format?

Try the following places for satellite tracking data:

nachos.ssesco.com  pub/satellite   --  Dr. Kelso's and Ted Molczan's elements
archive.afit.af.mil  pub/space     --  Dr. Kelso's elements (updated daily)
kilroy.jpl.nasa.gov  pub/space/elements  -- mirror of "nachos"

Dr. Kelso's elements are posted weekly to sci.space

For satellite tracking software:

PC:   ftp.funet.fi  pub/astro/pc/satel/qsat240.exe
UNIX: export.lcs.mit.edu   /contrib/xsat.tar.Z

Does anybody know of any others?

---
                            David Bishop

INTERNET: avlsidwb@sn370.utica.ge.com   | The opinions voiced are mine and
US MAIL:  RR2 Box 183A, Rome NY  13440  | not my company's.
PHYSICAL: 43.150N 75.414E 650'          |