HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: gford@waikato.ac.nz
Newsgroups: alt.native
Subject: Re: RFD: soc.culture.native.america
Date: 15 Dec 92 16:23:45 +1300
Followup-To: news.groups
Organization: University of Waikato, Hamilton, New Zealand

In article  warkent@ltisun14.epfl.ch (Ken Warkentyne) writes:
> Concerning "native", "indigenous", and "aboriginal".
> 
> My Concise Oxford has the following definitions. My comments enclosed
> in square brackets.
> 
> "native" (noun)
>   1. One born, or whose parents are domiciled, in a place; local
>      inhabitant; (Australia) white born in Australia. [so much for
> 
> "indigenous" (adj.)
>   Native (esp. of flora and fauna), belonging naturally. 
> 
> "aboriginal" (adj.)
>   1. Indigenous, existing in a land at the dawn of history, or before
>      arrival of colonists. [the best option, in my opinion -kw]
> 
> "aborigines" (noun, plural)
>   First inhabitants, or those found in possession by colonists.

Kia Ora,
   Here, in Aotearoa the term "indigenous" is preferred. Both aborigine, 
and native are terms with less positive connotations due to their use by
colonialists. I only recently learnt the term "First People/Nation".

I believe there was a New Zealand Native organization early this century -
I don't think any Maori ever belonged to it...

At present, there is little chance of a soc.culture.nz.maori, but there 
may be some interest in 

soc.culture.indigenous or soc.culture.native

Na
Greg Ford 
gford@waikato.ac.nz   -- Aotearoa
Newsgroups: alt.native
From: beaver.cs.washington.edu!gnosys!tamvm1.tamu.edu!HWS.bitnet!HWS1!MIHALYI
Subject: Northern Exposure
Date: Fri, 18 Dec 1992 21:25:00 GMT

Original-Sender: HWS.bitnet!HWS1!MIHALYI

I've learned much from the discussion of the portrayal of Indians in film...now
what about television...I'm thinking of "Northern Exposure".  I saw an episode
around Thanksgiving time...I missed the beginning but tuned in to see the
Indians pelting the white folk with tomatoes, evidently as some skewed symbol
of retaliation for genocide.  THe whites smiled and said thank you.  I took
that to mean...go ahead and act it out, we'll let you, and at the same time
we'll keep the jobs of doctor,  store owner, DJ, radio station owner, and mayor.
Later, I had to turn the TV off when Marilyn, the native woman who works as
receptionist for the ultra-neurotic doctor, talks with the doctor about the
invasion and says that the coming of the Europeans was not all bad, after all,
they brought technology and Ben and Jerry's ice cream.  Fleischman says to
her, "You know about Ben and Jerry's ice cream?"  She replies,  "I've seen
ads."

I am interested to hear what Indians think of this program.

        Mary Mihalyi

        mihalyi @ hws.bitnet


Newsgroups: alt.native
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: hiatus
Organization: Netcom Online Communications Services (408-241-9760 login: guest)
Date: Mon, 21 Dec 1992 02:32:13 GMT

I'll be trying not to post anything for a while.  It's either give up
posting or neglect my job.

Send mail to mgooley@advtech.uswest.com if you must.

Mark.
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: marble marmots from time _in memoria aeternam_
Followup-To: misc.misc
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 
Date: Fri, 11 Dec 1992 22:10:41 GMT

	Three months of vacation as the hymn tune "St. Theodulph" had left
him squeaky clean and refreshing, if still woefully tired (cheap bias-ply
retreads with 500,000 miles on them).  He was a bundle of nerves, or perhaps
a ganglion, unready to face his shape-changing secretary, his coprophagous
wife and daughters, his pet rattlesnake, and his responsibilites as a
mother and a vampire bat's genitals.  Even his loyal ATM card made noises
like a magpie and his Homburg was not trustworthy.
	He drove himself to the office with a five-iron, landing on the green,
and putted himself into the entrance hole for a birdie, to the quiet applause
of the assembled (in Japan by Mexican guest laborers crammed into dainty
little geisha costumes which made them targets for rape by drunken businessmen
sick of karaoke) crowds.  In the bathroom mirror he smiled at his 432 dimples,
and rolled up the corridor to his office.
	His secretary was having another teenager day, acne-spotted and
cheap-perfumed and girlishly-dressed, chewing vile-smelling bubble gum
and drinking cola instead of coffee.  Her golden hair had mouse-brown roots
by Alex Haley.  "Gluten morning," she said, hurling at him a lump of dough
made from high-gluten flour.  It missed and adhered to the elephant whose
side formed most of one wall of the outer office and inner sanctum.
	"Something a bit more mature?" he said.  She stuck out her tongue
and gave herself the face of an ancient crone and a ten percent cut in pay,
and he slid under the door to his private office, shared with five hundred
other low-level, low-life, low-cholesterol, low-fat, and loquacious loquat
managerial managers.

Mark., sigh
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.prose,alt.religion.kibology,alt.fan.matt.welsh,alt.slack
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
Subject: histamine cocktails served by waitresses disguised as boys
Date: 20 Dec 92 20:47:35 GMT
Followup-To: alt.pets.chia, alt.sex.carasso, alt.fan.matt.welsh
Organization: Netcom Online Communications Services (408-241-9760 login: guest)


	Until he was six years old, his parents dressed him in a
succession of skin-tight dog costumes which forced his body to grow
into a canine shape: his hands and feet grew into the shape of paws,
his skull and jaw grew elongated, his limbs grew into dog-legs (#4
and #9, 240 yards and 275 yards respectively, both par 3 except when the
pin is placed three feet under the green).  Whenever he tried to imitate
human speech, they rubbed his nose in his own droppings and whipped him
into a meringue.
	A man from the phone company realized that he was a human child
in a dog suit and contacted the child-abuse authorities.  The neighbors
had been aware of it all for years but liked the way he would eat other
dogs' feces from their yards without depositing any there himself.  The
authorities took him from his parents, and being experts on child abuse,
went about it with much greater dedication and effort.  They put him in
better-designed dog suits that ensured a properly canine shape to his
ribcage, and even paid for plastic surgery to eliminate some human features
and create a tail from his coccyx, some artificial joints, and some
back muscles and ligaments.  Once he had shed his deciduous teeth and
leaves, they had dental work done to make his teeth approximate a dog's.
Better costumes, more surgery (including work to decrease the size of
his genitals), and continuous abuse made him vicious and subhuman by
the time he was eighteen.

Mark., sigh
gooley@netcom.com
Xref: sparky alt.non.sequitur:847 talk.bizarre:42393
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: librarians changed into supermodels by Martian invaders
Followup-To: alt.spleen,alt.sex.carasso
Organization: Netcom Online Communications Services (408-241-9760 login: guest)
Date: Sat, 19 Dec 1992 21:42:11 GMT

	She ordered a _deus ex machina_ from Carolina Theatrical and
Theological Supply, and at the end of her date she was in full fig and
a derrick named Derek lowered a Cupid with cupidity, who fired an arrow
straight into her boyfriend's heart.  With his dying breath he gasped out
his love for her.  Fortunately he had also ordered a _deus ex machina_,
and an autogyro from Austria lowered Apollo, who brought him back to life
and charged his insurance for the house call.  And so they were happily
married by a gurgling stream and a minister of the Church of Satan,
Scientist, founded by Morris Baker Eddy Current in 1953 in Ciudad Juarez
after six days of eating nothing and drinking only tequila mixed with
rabbit droppings.
	Their married life was happy: each attempted the other's life at
least three times a week, she habitually disguised herself as Mickey Rooney
and he disguised himself as Elanor Roosevelt, and they lived on walnut
rissoles and Velveeta, washed down with Vichy water.  He worked as a
waitress and she lounged about the house designing booby traps to catch
him in.  On the job he whetted his knife inobtrusively and stole the other
waitress' tips and shoes, thinking of how to ambush or burning bush or
George Herbert Walker Bush his wife.
	I heard about this charming couple.  Disguised as a Lutheran
minister I broke into their house and tarred and feathered her.  Disguised
as a cheap prostitute my assistant, Valerie "Legs" Phelan dropped by the
Byelorussian restaurant (in Minsk) where he worked and tarred and feathered
him as well.  This did nothing to make their marriage happier, but "Legs"
and I thought it a lot of fun.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Xref: sparky alt.non.sequitur:832 talk.bizarre:41786
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
Subject: beavers are socialists when near Trondheim
Date: 15 Dec 92 16:44:43 GMT
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest)


	She was a flawless statue carved out of marble: it saved her the
trouble of paying taxes, and kept her young and lovely until such time as
her pet vampire bats voted to have her reconverted into a woman of easy
virtue and low drag coefficient.  I stroked her cold breasts and kissed
her stony neck and wished that she were alive again.  Melissa happened by
and giggled at me, and I explained the statue's history.  "That sounds
like fun," said Melissa, and before I could stop her she was off to be
converted.  Several hours later I was at my house in Embrocation Square,
the one with the pneumatic butler and the ruthenium wainscotting, when
a deliveryman showed up with one large box and one small one.  He helped
me unpack them.  One was Melissa, transformed into marble, the other her
clothes and purse and wallet.  I wept as the naked statue, small-breasted
and wearing Melissa's droll smile on its face, was moved to a place of
honor in my living room, which took all our efforts.
	Melissa's lawyer, a can of Spam (tm) animated by a magic spell,
showed up that evening with papers naming me her guardian.  She was not
to be re-animated for at least one year; after that it was up to me.  I
thanked the lawyer, opened him up, got out my booklet of Spam (tm)
recipes, and following one of them with bloodhounds and witch-sniffers
I cut the block of grease and pork into sticks and breaded and deep-fried
them, making "Fishy Sticks."  They tasted vile but I ate them all.
	I had additional marble grown on the Melissa statue using a
process analogous to molecular-beam epitaxy but quite different, really.
I hired a talented lesbian sculptress to carve a new face and figure for
Melissa, and she did an excellent job: Melissa now had the face of a young
Christie Brinkley, sort of, and a centerfold's body.  The very day that
the year was up, I had Melissa changed into a woman again.  After the
shock of seeing her changed form had worn off, she ran, still naked, to
the sculptress, and now they spend half their time sharing a four-poster
bed.  Such is life.
	I am arranging to become a thirty-pound lobster living off the
coast of Maine and Social Security payments.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Xref: sparky alt.non.sequitur:846 talk.bizarre:42361
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
Subject: four great gates hath the driver of Damascus
Date: 18 Dec 92 16:12:30 GMT
Followup-To: alt.spleen
Organization: Netcom Online Communications Services (408-241-9760 login: guest)


	The mermaid costume had stuck and she had found herself able to
breathe both water and air as well.  The gorilla suit had stuck and though
he retained his human intelligence, biological tests determined that he was
really a gorilla.  The Barbara Bush mask had stuck, and the college girl
had aged into a duplicate of the First Lady -- a perfect DNA match.  There
was a whole colony of such people run by the Flatus Foundation, and thousands
more on their lists who had decided to live with their changed forms, which
were not all repulsive.
	A young woman who had made up as Marilyn Monroe last Halloween and
found that the wig, merkin, and so on would not come off, showed me around.
Halfway through the tour a group of residents jumped me and forced me into
a chimpanzee suit, which did not stick.  They tried again with a Dan Quayle
mask, which did, and I became a copy of the Vice-President.  I ran screaming
from the colony -- nobody tried to stop me -- and went to a nearby town
where a transvestite barber gave me a crew cut and a Grand Cru and a motley
crew of pirate companions from Penzance, nearly all noblemen who had gone
astray, or perhaps Astrid.  In leather motorcycling jacket and with a Harley
motor-scooter I looked absurd, but nevertheless a biker chicken on a toy
windup motorcycle became infatuated with me, and I had to kill and roast
her for dinner.
	I had my hair dyed in punk colors and my face tattooed with
cabal-TV symbols like the CNN and TNT logos, and people still thought that
I was the vice-president.  In desperation I went to costume shops and tried
on every mask and costume that I thought might stick, with little regard
for who or what they represented.  When a Mickey Mouse mask stuck I went
to Disney World and offered my services, but they simply sued me for
infringement of copyright.  The minimum-security prison was not that
bad, but I was ridiculed for my appearance.  One day I had a visitor, and
when I showed up I saw a Minnie Mouse, a woman also stuck in a mask.  It
was not love at first sight -- each of use found the other utterly repulsive
and grotesque, but by the time I was let go we deeply hated each other and
began to plot each other's deaths and several shoddy novels.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: thy father's spirits, thy mother's muskellunge
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 
Date: Wed, 16 Dec 1992 18:49:19 GMT

	Something was strange about the can of corned beef.  The label
looked bleached, but so did the metal, as if its very quality of being
metallic had been drained from it.  The can shuddered.
	He picked up the can gingerly, rubbing his hands with crushed
ginger root beforehand, and placed it in the middle of his kitchen.  It
shuddered again and began to grow.  It assumed a vaguely human shape
within a few minutes, and shortly after that it resolved itself and the
dissonance into an attractive young woman dressed as a bride.  "Our
wedding's at two," she said.  "You're not even dressed yet."
	"I'm not marrying you," he said, "if only because of the foot-
painted rabbits."
	"I'll get Valerie," she said, and pointed to him.  He stood up
mechanically, aided by the robotic kitchen chair, and over a period of
menstruation and five minutes became a charming croquettish young maiden
in deep-fried pink organdy and orgasmdy, wearing the expression for a
muslin fundamental frequency.  The resulting woman tried to scream, but
as is usual with men transformed into women in these boring old stories,
it came out as a delightful little laugh.  The kitchen changed into the
basement of the local Temple of Ba'al, full of bridesmaids and mothers
with infants that they were waiting to sacrifice, and the bride pointed
at the original Valerie, changing her into a handsome groom currying
favor and curry-combing a horse in his care.  The groomsmen carried him
off and threw him into a vat of rotting dung mixed with stale urine and
Mexican beer, an old Ba'alist tradition started the week before by a
pat of butter in a cheap diner.
	After the wedding vows were exchanged the false Valerie recovered
her free will and set fire to the Temple.  Only she left the building;
everyone else stayed as a sacrifice to Ba'al.  She got a job as a cabbage,
and when St. Patrick's Day rolled around she ended up distributed in many
plates of corned beef and cabbage at a genital-fitters' ball.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: collating agaves laugh bitterly at Cher's eyebrows
Followup-To: alt.fan.matt.welsh
Organization: Netcom Online Communications Services (408-241-9760 login: guest)
Date: Fri, 18 Dec 1992 15:35:07 GMT

	In her Spamdex (tm) Superheroine (tm) suit -- Flatulent Woman --
she was often mistaken for a prostitute.  A solicitous solicitor solicited
her one solstice, and she cut loose with a toxic fart that killed him in
seconds and sent hundreds of people to area hospitals.  Out of the suit
she was an ordinary woman who belched a little more often than most people.
She worked as a receptionist in a dentist's office when she was not being
Flatulent Woman and fumigating criminals from their hideouts.
	He fell in love with her when he went to have his teeth cleaned.
During the subsequent root and Erie canal work her sweet little face was
always before him, because she'd taken it off, hung it on the wall where
he could see it, and put on an attractive Chinese face to confuse the
patients in the waiting room.  When she returned to put it back on, the
dentist, Dr. Cannibal, had just finished with him.  "Do you believe in
love at first sight?" he blurted out, tongue-tied from emotion and local
and county anaesthetic.
	She turned to face him, faceless.  She put on her usual face and
said, looking at him, "I do now."  They were married the next week.  She
revealed her secret identity by putting on her Flatulent Woman costume
on their wedding night.  He smiled and peeled off his skin, revealing
himself to be Urinating Woman, a pale beauty in bright yellow Spamdex (tm).
Fortunately they were both lesbians at heart, and formed a powerful
crime-fighting team fond of smelly and wet homosexual acts, at least
until they were defeated, along with Excremental Man, by the infamous
Mr. Toilet.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: heretical cheese sculpts itself into Christie Brinkley
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,misc.misc
Organization: Netcom Online Communications Services (408-241-9760 login: guest)
Date: Thu, 17 Dec 1992 16:59:28 GMT

	The bottle of Bordeaux, a 1955 Chateau Jean-Lafitte Cons-Mouton,
had a lovely soprano voice.  It sang country-western hits in operatic
style, and after the performance the magician went to its dressing room
with a raddled old whore, and exchanged their natures, the wine becoming
a thirty-five-ish woman of mature beauty, and the whore becoming one of
the first bottles of Night Train ever produced by the brothers Gallo.
To celebrate the former wine's new-found womanhood, they opened up the
Night Train and poured it into champagne glasses made in the Campagna
by old campaigners from Lake Champlain and Champaign-Urbana, Illinois.
By some freak, the Night Train was tolerably tasty, and they finished
the bottle with toasts in Finnish and the sixteen-slice restaurant toaster
toasting slices of restaurant.
	They went to an all-night vintner in the Rue des Grenouilles
and bought another bottle of 1955 Chateau Jean-Lafitte Cons-Mouton to
replace her former self.  On the way back to the caberet/beret, she
gave it a crash course in singing by dropping it just hard enough that
it would not smash, and by the time they arrived at the dressing room
it could sing almost as well as she had as a bottle.  The dressing room was
almost full of French and Creamy Italians and Ranches and Thousands of
Islands, but they crammed the bottle in.  A few hours later someone
drank it despite its operatic screams.
	They went to the magician's flat tyre in the Avenue Kleber,
then to his puffed-up Nineveh under Les Invalides, and finally they
realized that they were not in Paris but in Pittsburgh in Lower Left
Corner of Saxony.  They changed into a bowl of sauerkraut with human
sausage, and a gang of drunken Zulu warriors ate them.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: cockatoo gears have dynastic ambitions
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,alt.non.sequitur
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 
Date: Mon, 14 Dec 1992 14:44:45 GMT

	He slipped into the farm-supply store costume.  It was comfortable.
The hermits hooked up the power lines, the suicidal gerbils the gas line and
the heating systems, and a staff was shipped, freeze-dried, from Missouri
and reconstituted and equipped with the souls of residents of a local nursing
home.  In a matter of hours he was open, and customers poured in from tanks
of Liquid Consumer (tm) brought in oversea by camel caravan from Damascus.
A few locals showed up to complain that they would never inherit from their
ancient relatives; what with the transmigrations into shapely young salesgirls
just out of high school, those relatives were now likely to outlive them.
He chuckled at them inaudibly.
	Next door a flying saucer fused the ground into a parking lot of
smooth earthenware with yellow lines painted on in glaze, and he saw a
lovely young woman put on a discount store costume.  Buddhist monks hooked
up the power and gas lines, and cars appeared in the beautiful ceramic lot.
The townsfolk were all ceramics freaks, and they came to admire.  He felt
his business slipping away: only the unprofitable farm supplies still sold,
and clothing and candy and household goods began to rot from age.  Local
fads such as udder salve and distemper vaccine sold well, but that was all.
In desperation he started a price war.  His salesgirls were beautiful but
sexual relations with them were impossible in his form.
	His neighbor consistently undercut his prices with a special undercut
saw made by dwarfs in Belgium.  In greater desperation he began to give away
much of his merchandise; she began paying people to take hers away.
	One night he separated himself from his foundation and sidled over
to her.  They got to talking and discovered that they had a lot in common:
they had both been human once, they both sold things, they both purported
to offer discount prices.  It was a night of retail-business passion, and
in the morning they looked rather ragged and opened an hour late.  Sixteen
months later she gave birth to her first branch.

Mark., losing my touch
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.geek,alt.flame,alt.flame.spelling,alt.newbie,alt.fan.matt.welsh,alt.licker.store
From: mdw@db.TC.Cornell.EDU (Matt Welsh)
Subject: Re: Hisenberg Uncertainty Principle
Organization: The Linux Inquisition, Propaganda Division
Date: Thu, 17 Dec 1992 05:17:21 GMT

In article <OSA.92Dec17000317@wilbur.unh.edu> osa@wilbur.unh.edu (Bart Simps.. er.. Oktay Ahiska) writes:
>
>Isn't anyone going to post a flame for spelling H-E-I-S-E-N-B-E-R-G
>vrong? It's H-E-I-S-E-N-B-E-R-G, not H-I-S-E-N-B-E-R-G.  

Or H-E-Y-Z-E-N-B-U-R-G or B-A-C-O-N.

mdw

-- 
Matt Welsh     mdw@tc.cornell.edu     Cornell Theory Center
  "It's a Katana, ya Midwestern Computer Geek." --Tom Payne
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre