Stephanie Nielson, "Recapturing Beauty", and the WSR: BYU's Social Deficit

Tonight’s presentation of Stephanie Nielson’s story by the Women’s Services and Resources provided a perfect example of what constantly plagues social services at BYU, and the WSR in particular: underestimation.

The Wilkinson Center ballroom was filled to capacity (both wings), with the aisle-ways and hallways behind the ballroom packed. That's over 1,700 people. Fire marshals and plain-clothes officers, as well as Wilkinson Center staff members, were constantly asking people to relocate or to make a path to follow fire codes. Forty-five minutes into the presentation, a significant portion of the standing audience was asked to move to the Garden Court where audio was being piped in through a speaker system.

The projector screen constantly shut on and off, leaving half of the Mormon Messages video, played before Nielson’s presentation, totally without video. The actual presentation itself began about a half an hour late, due to problems with overcrowding and technical issues. The video was not ready to go, the power point presentation was not ready to go, the projector screen kicked on and off, the audio needed to be fixed and tested, the printed program was almost completely wrong, etc., etc. I could go on, but I do not wish to.

Tonight’s presentation kick starts an events series called “Recapturing Beauty”. This is a great, great message. The series focuses on freeing women from conventional standards set by wholesale media. It focuses on encouraging women to come to terms with their bodies and to not identify themselves solely through their image.

This message is progressive for BYU. In 2009, the Women’s Research Institute was shuttered, which left the University with no social services tailored to its vast population of women (I could not locate any set female student population for BYU online; if anyone knows this number, please inform us). The WSR acted as successor and it’s clear to see that it has no clue what the demand and need for women’s services on campus are. Services listed through the office are support groups dealing with pornography, and eating disorders. There is also information regarding reproductive health, date rape, educational workshops, and relief society messages. At the event there were posters for private consultations to help students deal with sexual abuse and body image issues. These are not advertised on the website.

A comprehensive women's resource center is a vital part of a University's dichotomy. BYU provides its students with an incredible education. However, its social services are more than lacking. One of its most obvious failures is its inability to render invaluable social services to its female student population. I do not understand how to state this more clearly.

Hopefully in the future, the WSR will prepare a little better. Hopefully in the future they’ll be a little more sure of what services they can offer women on campus. Really, hopefully in the future they’ll be a little more sure of what services female students on campus NEED rendered.

Will this push to provide BYU women with support groups, yoga, zumba, a “10-Day Challenge” (of unstated intention), and lecture series be as hastily prepared as tonight’s presentation? I hope not. That would only further impoverish the already meager resources for female students here at Brigham Young University.

I do not wish to criticize the efforts being made too harshly. This really is an amazing push on behalf of the WSR. It's only the beginning though. There exists a deficit and I think the people sitting in the Wilkinson Garden Court, listening to the audio of Stephanie Nielson, felt that they were only getting half of the service they expected.

For more information on Women's Services and Resources, visit their website or their blog.
For more information about Stephanie Nielson and her message of inspiration, visit her blog.

-A Dude At BYU
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IC Thursday: Voces inocentes

Today we're discussing Voces inocentes or, in lay, Innocent Voices. The 2004 movie focuses on the militaristic uses of children in the Salvadoran Civil War. The Salvadoran Civil War was South America's second longest civil war, running from 1979-1992.

Why we should care: Well, the U.S. had a pretty big role in the Salvadoran Civil War. Under the administration of three presidents, the U.S. sent seven billion dollars to El Salvador, mostly in favor of the Salvadoran military working to put down the liberal coup. The U.S. involvement in El Salvador's internal conflict was silent until a National Guard death squad raped and killed four American nuns and a laywoman in 1980. President Carter suspended all aid, at the time, until domestic right-wing groups pressured for continued support. They won out and the U.S. resumed its dumping of money into the complicated and bloody conflict.

Why we should care even more: The movie isn't really about the war, so much as it is about the orphans and child victims of the war. Set in 1980, the same year that the issue came to the fore in the US, the movie follows Chava and his mother Kella as they fight the forces of destruction to keep their family together. The movie is a microcosm of the problem of child victimization by military conflicts. There's no way to accurately discuss this issue in a short amount of time. Suffice it to say that children have been used for militaristic purposes since the beginning of time in nearly every culture (including the U.S.! WEE!!!)

There are a few ways children are used in the military: 1) Combat soldiers. The kids, as young as 7 in Kurdistan, participate as full members of a nation or movement's standing army. This means they hold weapons, kill people, and often rape and pillage with glee.

2) Non-combat soldiers. These kids often serve as messengers, lookouts, spies, and sources of misinformation. They also serve as sexual slaves for military leaders and common soldiers.

3) Body shields. They are used as human body shields during fire fights. They are also scouts for mines.

4) Propaganda. Saddam Hussein used children as young as 10 in his Fedayeen Saddam or "Saddam's Men of Sacrifice". These were the kids with the red bandannas tied around their foreheads, holding Kalashnikovs in the Gulf War. You may have heard about them from the news; that's because they were both combat soldiers and a propaganda tactic.

As I said, this problem is far too complicated and wide-spread to state succinctly. So watch the movie. It will give you a pretty accurate account of the life of desperate families involved in wars that the United States will support but never take part of. It'll also give you a pretty good look at situations that we will never have to experience and probably feel like we don't want to think about. That's why International Cinema rules. These are more than movies. Go and be affected.
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Local Yokel Jason Chaffetz May Be D.C.'s New Boss

Jason Chaffetz (pronounced "Cha-fey") has said a lot of things over the years. He's advocated internment camps for illegal immigrants. He runs in districts he doesn't live in. He has sided with 9/11 "truthers". He also has no idea what Stephen Colbert actually said in his Congressional testimony and refused to participate in the hearing, even though he was on the subcommittee.

And if the GOP wins a majority this November, he'll run the Federal Workforce, Postal Service, and the District of Columbia Subcommittee of the House Oversight and Government Reform Committee. Here's their website. Fun! What does this thing actually do?!

"The Committee on Oversight and Government Reform is the main investigative committee in the U.S. House of Representatives." (sourced) Oh.

Dems and Republicans alike are worried about Chaffetz' rise to power in D.C. He's power-hungry and charismatic. He also doesn't pull any punches.

Read more about Jason Chaffetz and this potential implications of the power shift in the House this November here. (Kudos to Alex Baca for throwing me a word and for probably writing for us in the future)

Also, vote. Seriously. VOTE. If you don't vote, I will never, ever let you complain about politics in the future. I'll call you a hypocrite and a total douchebag, and probably punch you right in the teeth.
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The Short List Without Commentary: How to Read Jan Scharman's Argument Against Subsidized Bus Passes

This is a condensed list (without commentary) of Jan Scharman's defense against reduced cost bus passes at Brigham Young University. Given Sept. 20, 2010, and found in full here.

1. “…the number of BYU Ed Pass holders has decreased through the seven previous years of the program, including this past year by 21 percent. BYU student and employee usership of the discounted bus passes has reached 20 percent in past years, however, last year approximately 13 percent of students and 6.6 percent of employees used the passes.”

It's not clear if Sister Scharman is saying that student pass holders have decreased by 21% within the past year, thus making the number of student pass holders 34% for the year previous to the decline OR if she’s saying that over the 7 years of the pass’ existence, the student use has decreased 21%, making it an average loss of 3% per year.

2. Students used the bus pass only for local riding (primarily).

3. Bus pass price with the UTA has been raised too much for the system of self-sustaining to continue without University funding (something that it has done the past two years, including this year).

4. UTA is not willing to negotiate a lower price.

5. BYU has already tried charging for parking and future attempts would “not be successful”. Citing the fact that students wouldn’t be discouraged from parking near campus on residential streets, often to the dismay of residents, Scharman closed the door on that option. Additionally, “In surveying the campus community, we found that many said they still needed to drive to campus because riding the bus was not an option, either for a lack of bus routes or scheduling challenges.”

6. The school has 6,000 bike racks and a Hertz Rental car program which allows those 21 and up to rent a car from campus on a reservation basis at $6 per hour.

Do these sound like good reasons to cut off a service which would help all students (read: those with disabilities as well) get to school, cut down on needless driving, and reduce your chances of getting hit by a car on campus?

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The Girl's Father

The house was spacious and white and there were columns along the porch. John could see them gleaming through the windows behind the faces across the table from him. The legs were artistically uneven and they shifted every time he leaned forward to impress upon them the gravity of the situation.

“She hasn’t left her room for days.”

“What is it you want from us?”

“Just an apology. That’s all.”

“From our son.”


John tried to look them both in the eyes at the same time. He looked at them both back and forth when he spoke. It made him nervous. He couldn’t look at either of them for very long before shifting to the other. They were so clean. They both had bright thick hair and white teeth and green eyes. Their fingernails were smooth and there were sharp creases in their clothing. The man’s cufflinks glinted when he cracked his knuckles. He cracked something every time he spoke.

“Why don’t we all have something to drink?” said the woman. “Would you like something to drink?” She had a large mouth and she bared her teeth like a lion when she spoke. Her teeth were as white as walls and beautiful to look at, the way they contrasted with her lipstick. “What would you like to drink?”

“Just water, thanks.” John leaned back in his chair and the table clunked.

“Nonsense,” said the man. “We should all loosen up a bit. Bring out the wine, Daphne.” His wife stood up and smiled generously down at John. He scooted forward in his chair and tried to return her grin. He met her eyes and her mouth twitched. She went for the drinks.

She came back with a dark bottle and three Bordeaux glasses. She set them down on the table and pushed one towards John. She had a ring with a large diamond on her middle finger. The light coming in from the windows glared into John’s eyes and he blinked, surprised. She smiled again and got to work on the cork. She twisted the screw in and pulled it out with a pop that sort of echoed in the room. The smell of the wine filled the air. Daphne poured liberal glasses for she and her husband. She put the bottle down next to John.

“Help yourself.”

John poured a small amount but didn’t drink any.

“Thank you, dear,” said Arnold. He picked up his glass and smelled it and smiled to himself before drinking. “Great stuff isn’t it?” He gestured at his glass. “If I told you how we got this—well, you wouldn’t believe it.” John quickly took up his own and sipped.

“Yeah, wonderful,” said John.

“Do you like wine, John?”

“Yeah, it’s good.”

Arnold nodded and sniffed at his glass again.

“Or are you more of a beer man?”

“I like this fine.”

“Daphne, do we have any beer?” said Arnold.

She looked over her glass at her husband and raised her eyebrows. She drank.

“This is great, thanks a lot,” said John. He took a larger drink.

“You’re welcome, John,” said Daphne.

Arnold and Daphne enjoyed their wine. They drank it quickly and their glasses were half-full when Arnold spoke again. He put his hand to his chin and pushed till his neck popped. “Well, we’d better get down to the dirty business, shouldn’t we?”

“Yes,” said Daphne. “Tell us again, John, what it is you think happened.”

“It’s pretty simple,” said John. He leaned forward and the table shifted again. His glass nearly tipped but he caught it.

“Should we get a few coasters, Daphne?”

“Look. It’s simple,” said John. “Your son’s been bullying my daughter—“

“Caroline?” said Daphne. She looked at John with her eyes half closed and serene.

“Yes. Your son needs to leave Caroline alone. And I think he should apologize to her.”

“Really?” Her teeth were still so white, even with the wine. John could smell her perfume. Arnold finished his glass and sighed contentedly.

“Expensive stuff, this—we shouldn’t let it go to waste, John. Would you like another?”

“He hasn’t finished his yet, dear.”

“Well, we shouldn’t let it go off.” He poured himself another glass and topped off Daphne’s goblet. “We’ve gotten off track. John, you were saying?”

“I just want your son to apologize. That’s all. I’m thinking of moving her to another school.”

Daphne inclined her head to her shoulder. Her smile never left her lips. Her lipstick was brilliant.

“Do you really think that will help things?” She said.

“What do you mean?” John pushed his glass to the edge of the table.

“Don’t you think your child will bring similar problems to every other school?”

“My daughter isn’t the problem. I’m sorry, but it’s your son.”

“Our son tells a different story than Caroline does, John,” said Arnold. “He says your child harassed him. He says she tried to kiss him.”

Daphne smiled widely at Arnold.

“For God’s sake, dear, you don’t have to beat around the bush like that,” she said. She turned to John. “You call your child Caroline, do you? Did you pick the name or did she?”

“Her name is Caroline. She picked it. That’s her name,” said John. “She also says your boy won’t call her Caroline.”

“Well really, why should he?” said Daphne. “That’s not her real name, is it?” She downed the rest of her drink.

“Dear.” Arnold placed his hand on her knee and patted it. “It’s alright.”

“No it isn’t.” she was still smiling but her knee quivered under her husband’s hand. She spoke quietly. “It’s not alright for some freak to sexually harass our son.”

John stood up and knocked the table. The glasses and bottle crashed to the floor. The wine spread out and began sinking into the carpet. John clenched his fists. Daphne looked up at him. Her eyes were cold.

“Not a problem, not a problem,” said Arnold, standing up and brushing himself off. “We’ve got something for this, don’t we, dear? It’s a sort of marker. Stains will come right out.” He left the room and Daphne and John stared at each other. Her teeth were maddening.

“I’m sorry, John, I don’t know what could have come over me. But when one’s child is being attacked, physically or otherwise, you just can’t help but lose yourself in the heat of the moment. Wouldn’t you agree?”

John bent down to retie his boots. The steel toe was poking out through the leather on the left one. His hands kept fumbling till he got them tied. He stood up.

“You just tell your son to leave my boy alone. I’m not looking for trouble.”

“You may have found it, John.” She kept on smiling and John left the house.

He picked up the battered lunch cooler he’d left on the porch, threw it in the bed of his truck, and climbed into the driver’s seat. Sitting in the sweltering truck, John could smell the oil and dirt worked into the upholstery. He leaned his head on the steering wheel and tried to force down the lump rising in his throat. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a dog-eared photograph of Caroline wearing a blue ribbon. It was a school photo. John fingered the edges of the picture for a minute, finally put the keys in the ignition, and went to pick up his child. He held the photo in one hand while he drove, his grip slowly tightening. By the time he arrived at the school, it was crumpled. But he smiled and kissed Caroline when she got into the truck.

Tim Slover is a writer living in Salt Lake City, currently attending the U of U.
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Two Parts of A Cycle by Brian Ensminger

Work, With The Day to Come

There are days
where, from the couch, I
hear you move
from room to room
footsteps echoing across the walls
and I imagine your hands, thin
and delicate bone
clearing the table, dusting
a shelf, your finger tracing
the lines of the wet wallpaper
floral and elegant like we
always wanted
and I think of all that’s left
to be done:
floorboards creaky, whining objections
to be replaced, cobwebs in the corner,
those bookmarks and signals of
the places we had yet to reach
where light had not touched, vines
all grown, slipped past the vinyl siding
into the floors and rafters-
Part of me hopes
one day, while we lay in our bed
the rafters with their splintered
spines give way and
we fall
the house with us
all tumbling, catching on itself
the windows snapping out
into sprays of light
snared only for moments
and we fall
the chimney following after
us, like a close friend
only to land with all it’s careful
admonition and push
us into the dirty ground,
pass arrowheads, and
fossilized bone,
so that when friends would
pass by,
all they would see is level ground.

We are Spaces Once Filled with Others

Abandoned houses by the interstate
“I suppose we’ll have to do something about the carpet. That leak left some mildew in the padding,”
and each time we peel back the
old wallpaper
falling in chips and dirty strips
we find names written
by some forgotten hand
“1905, James and Samantha”
and labor as we do
first primer then coats of
beige, something calm
“Maybe Venetian molding? Wouldn’t that look nice?”
and I went with my ax
into the backyard, found the biggest tree
cut it down to make a bed
for the daughter we planned
and you throw a record on, something
to lift the must
of work and dusty fingers
“I’ve always loved these old singers. Billie and Frank.”
and we stop to marvel
let it all rise up, the sounds all
scratched and warm, our
eyes eager and cinematic and I
at you
at the fruit of our labor
at the work of my hands.
This one will stand, hold firm.
This one will stand

Brian Ensminger is true blue, Ethel. You can find him here. And this is what he looks like! What a cool dude!
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Upcoming Events: Bare Bones Cares

We've been thinking a lot about things lately, especially the concept of community-building. That's what this magazine is about and we are going to dedicate ourselves to doing that more. Thus, here are some community events that you can participate in to make Provo and BYU a better place - one that's much more fun to live in.

-Now: Hey! Cities throughout Utah have recently been passing anti-discriminatory acts that help protect the rights of homosexuals in Utah. The Church actually endorses these laws! Woah! There's a petition going around that advocates for such laws to be brought to Provo, which would be awesome because why not give people equal opportunities in jobs/housing/education/etc? Sign that petition here if you want some modicum of equality and progressiveness brought to Provo, UT. Also, reading material.

-Sept. 29: Stand For The Family Opening Social. This is a BYU sponsored club that addresses and begs open discussion about issues of marriage within the Church. If minds shall be opened, they shall be opened politely and within the system. You should go if you're interested in hearing Randy Bott speak, which is always fun.

-October 8th: We're having an outdoor projected movie night thing at The Parlour. We'll be watching the classic Stop Making Sense. Come and watch one of the greatest movies ever made, eat some food, and drank some dranks.

-October 20th-21st: UVU is holding their Clothesline Project. This is a great way to get involved and become more knowledgeable about the overwhelming problem of rape in Utah.


-Every week the USGA, a group of BYU and UVU students dedicated to discussing the issue of homosexuality in the Church (one does not need to be gay to go, do not worry), meets Thursday at 7 PM in 120 TMCB. Here is their facebook page.

-International Cinema is great and every Tuesday they have lectures. Next week is Eliza's uncle! LOL! Here is their website. Go to these because they are more than movies.

We hope this helps and we'll be more proactive in the future about getting things together. If you ever have an idea for an event or something interesting and helpful going on in the community (we totally slacked on getting the word out about India Fest and the Latin Fest, SRRY), PLEASE let us know and we'll advertise the heck out of it.

And now... here is a picture of Steve Martin's twitter.

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A Barry Rowen Production

It's a great feeling when you think you've got something figured out and it slips out of your grasp. Barry Rowen, keep making things that confuse the hell out of me.
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Screenshots of Confusion: Virgin Isles Edition

We here at Bare Bones love when Behavioral Targeting goes wrong.

Tired of the hustle and bustle of living in the repressive, dog-eat-dog, patriarchal society of Afghanistan? Worn out from the undue stress that goes with getting acid splashed on your skin by Taliban soldiers who don't feel that women should be able to go to school? Does it feel like all you do is work, sit in traffic, and get acid splashed on you, day in and day out?

Treat yourself to a refreshing Caribbean vacation, maybe our newest 'Acid Recoup' package. Splash yourself with the cool waters of relaxation!

If you have equally misguided advertising instances, please screenshot that and send it to us at barebonesmagazine[at]gmail[dot]com!
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The Case For a Biological Origin For Homosexuality: A Recap

Did you miss the lecture last night? That's really sad, you know? Because it was an outstanding presentation by Bill Bradshaw, Emeritus professor of Microbiology and Molecular Biology.

Oh but look here!

Bill Bradshaw/The Case For A Biological Origin of Homosexuality

We have the audio of the lecture, courtesy of the Mormon Stories Podcast people (who do great work). So if you have an hour and forty minutes, go ahead and give it a listen. A download is available through Soundcloud, or here.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The room buzzes as Bill Bradshaw steps in front of the crowd. He's an ex-football star and he looks every bit of it. To say he occupies space is an understatement. He owns it. He calms the packed room with the click of his dual projectors and begins unpacking rudimentary biological principles. He is not there to banter or win you over. His breath comes, often, in huffs in the midst of his sentences. He's out of breath, whipping transparencies from the projectors, standing over the front two rows of students as he speaks into the various microphones and recording devices held into the air. He is a man possessed.

"It's not nurture. It's nature." He's slapping his hands together.

There is a tenderness to Bill Bradshaw's character that cannot be easily apprehended. His frame, though large and capable, seems to shrug off its weight and size. He is humble and direct - gentle and honest. Brother Bradshaw's compassion for this field of study is clear. He does not wish to succor you into agreeing with him. He never even asks you to. He states clearly and openly the limits to the statistics presented, as well as the limits of his own knowledge. His manner of speaking is concise, and yet he lacks a sort of rhetorical flare. He is obviously used to knowing what he's talking about, however he often seems out of words. This carries into his question and answer section. He is very careful and considerate of his answers, retreading over territory already stated and confirmed in order not to say anything undue or out of line. Though he does not have all of the answers to the questions posed, it is clear that he cares. He cares about the treatment of those in the Gospel who are gay. He cares about how they see themselves. He cares about making a change for the better. As he states, his aim is to encourage open discussion about this matter in the LDS community. He is there to begin this conversation, not to end it.

What of the facts, then? And what are we to make of them? If a person is born gay, is biologically different from a heterosexual, then how does that effect their approach to society, themselves, and God? And, more importantly, how can this knowledge help that person come to better understand themselves?

The facts are not irrefutable, but they are convincing. We do not have all of the answers, but we have some good ones. And, better yet, we have the beginning of an understanding that humanizes the demonized. That brings the marginalized into the conversation.

The best part of last night wasn't watching Bill Bradshaw throw transparencies at the desk, muttering about what he'd like to say but can't. That was great, but certainly not the defining moment. No, the best part was watching the faces in the room getting lost in thought as Dr. Bradshaw discussed the origins of life. It was the clenched jaw of the student when he asked quietly about what he was to do in order to deal with the homophobic literature being sold in LDS bookstores. It was the lost look of a girl, slumped in her seat on the far side of the auditorium. It was the wince of a student when the word suicide carried through the lecture hall.

Likewise, the best part of this recording is the hushed, whisper-y silence that carries on its droning conversation behind all of the explanations and facts and closed throats.

"Find out what's true and don't be afraid to express it. Isn't that what the purpose of this university is?"
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International Cinema Thursday: Chungking Express and Russian Ark



Since pretty much everything ever has already been said about Russian Ark, let me go ahead and cite the only fact that you need to know in order to want to see it. The entire 96 minute movie is a single steadicam shot. Don't know what that means? It means that the whole movie is acted out with no cuts, shot editing, or time lapse. It's basically a sprawling, intricately choreographed play. Absolutely amazing. See it tomorrow or twice on Saturday.


Chungking Express is a film by Wong Kar-wai, who is to Chinese cinema what Akira Kurosawa was to Japanese cinema. It has been called one of the best Asian films of all time by Sight & Sound Quarterly.

The Chinese title (重庆森林) literally translates to "Chungking Jungle" which should instantly remind you of The Asphalt Jungle. Don't think of that though, because it's entirely different.

What you should think of is the fact that so much of this season's movies at IC are dedicated to understanding and portraying Chinese culture. Just this week is a movie about Yundi Li. Next week is From Mao to Mozart. We're exploring Chinese cinema and culture and it's because of films like Chungking Express which provided the necessary Westernized touchstone for America to begin its (albeit distant) love affair with China all over again (I'm lookin' at you De Quincey). Produced by Quentin Tarantino's Rolling Thunder Pictures, it's pretty easy to see why it would be warmly received by 90's hipsters (with goatees).

Why is any of this important now though? I don't know. We could talk about Wong Kar-wai symbolizing a place of Chinese originality with broad appeal in Chinese cinema, the first since Tsang Shu Shuen and Hong Kong New Wave. Or we could discuss how much of a departure Kar-wai's films are from the typical Hong Kong softcore porn or cultist-pandering martial arts flicks.

In the end, does any of that really matter? It's a fun and intriguing film that has, in some way, bridged the gap between the East and the West for the past 16 years and will continue to do so in the future.

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"Biology absolutely has a role in causing homosexuality"

That's what Professor William Bradshaw said in a lecture at BYU in 2004. Tonight, he's probably going to say it again. At least, we hope he will.

Emeritus Professor William Bradshaw will be speaking on "The Evidence For A Biological Origin For Homosexuality" tonight in room 445 in the MARB. The lecture will run from 7 to 9 PM.

This is an important presentation, in our humble opinions, for BYU (even though it's not the first of its kind) as it will educate students about both the scientific process behind claims like this, as well as the Church's official stance on homosexuality. This stance isn't voiced really all that openly, and one can see that if they go to the Facebook event page wall and read some of the strangely outraged comments. Also, they aren't spelled very well and are poorly spaced and punctuated. Fun!

Hopefully Professor Bradshaw will say some good stuff tonight. And hopefully you'll come hear that stuff.

That is all!
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Letters From Mainz Commvnity College: Jan. 5, 1451

We here at Bare Bones have unearthed a sacred text of monumental historical import.

Dear Stvdents and Facvlty,

We in the High Covnsel are mvch grieved to annovnce the fact that we will not be receiving a copy of Rogier van der Weyden's "The Last Jvdgement", as it will not fit into the alcove we had originally provided it on the second floor of the baptistery (near the registrar's office and the water fovnts). We all know how exciting it wovld've been to get something cheery into the hallways once again, especially after ovr copy of "The Carrying of the Cross" was deemed too French for most tastes. We also mvst annovnce that we will not be bvying any excess straw for effigies this winter. We know that this is a major inconvenience to many, bvt we have mvch larger ideas in store.

We are pleased, then, to annovnce that we're going to be vsing all of the excess gold in the coffers to invest in a kick-ass new printing press. These things are going to be hvge dvde. In the interest of providing the college with the latest edvcative tools, we hope yov vnderstand ovr excitement and sacrifices. Think of the pamphlets that can be generated! Think of the information to be shared!

We'll be hosting an open workshop every second satvrday of the month between the office of readings and morning prayer. There yov will be able to discvss whatever ideas yov might want to commit forever to paper throvgh the vse of this incredible and history-changing device. We are trying to be totally cool abovt this thing. Several stvdents have already svggested walking pamphlets, tailored specifically for those of yov who walk for a period of time before mass. That wovld be totally cool.

However, we are trying to stay strict in ovr decision to stay away from matters political and will not tolerate anymore reqvests for "Archbishop Adolph II" pennants.

We hope yov are as excited for the vpcoming year of stvdy and repentance as we. Pray over yovr pvblications diligently. Forever bold will the name on the page read: Mainz Commvnity College.


Archibishop Mavrvs and the Covnsel of the Lady.

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The Trouble With Rape

Fun Facts About Utah:

1) 91.4% of rapes in Utah in were committed by someone the victim knew.

2) The imprint of a species now extinct exists in Utah. Some of biggest dinosaur footprints (of the hadrosaurid) in the world can be found here. But how about those dinosaurs in the state senate, huh? (ed: HAW HAW HAW)

3) 64% of rapes are planned.

4) 32,000 pregnancies result from rape every year in the U.S.

5) Levan, a Utah town, is "navel" spelled backwards, so named because it is in the middle of Utah. Clever!

6) Utah was one of the last states in the U.S. to pass legislation allowing married women to prosecute their husbands in sexual assault cases. They passed the law in 1991 - long after the commercial success of the Disney film, “The Little Mermaid.” Even mer-people could rebel against oppressive patriarchal authority figures before married Utah women! The ocean is pretty progressive.

7) 1 in 3 women in Utah will experience sexual assault in her lifetime. The national average is 1 in 6.

8) 86% of Utah rape victims are raped before their 18th birthday.

9) Utah state law gives birds the right-of-way on the freeway. What a world!

10) Only 9.8% of rapes in Utah are reported to law enforcement, which would mean that one rape was committed every 9.49 hours - if you ignore the 90% of rapes that go unreported.

10) An 11-year-old Utah boy named Fin Keleher has broken a world record: he kept more snails stuck to his face for a 10-second period than the previous record-holder (who managed a grand total of 37). Check out the wacky video! Also, 52% of rapists will be re-arrested within three years of release.

11) Free rape counseling, crisis volunteers, therapy classes, and health services can be reached in Utah County at the Center for Women and Children in Crisis.
Call for 24-hour services: (801) 356-2511

Also, check out this article where Utah wins first prize for having the nation's most raped adult females: 20.6%

(All rape statistics via Utah Commission on Criminal and Juvenile Justice, 2009. Link)

Eliza Campbell plays the blues on her jaw-harp because of things like this.
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An Important Thought About Vertical Horizon's "Everything You Want"

Many of you might know Vertical Horizon's hit song, "Everything You Want", from your middle school days. Heck, maybe even your elementary school days. It is probably stiffly interwoven into the very threads of your childhood, to the point that you have obliterated all meaning and understanding of the song as a unit of expression unto itself. Do YOU know what the song is about, really?

Have no fear. Recently I was listening (and singing along to this song) in a gas station when it dawned on me. Vertical Horizon's "Everything You Want" is the aural expression of 90's self-obsession. It's the reason all of us Millennials are so messed up! It's the very basis of "how we do things now"!

"Everything You Want" was also the basis of all passive aggression in our generation. Think about it.

He's everything you want He's everything you need He's everything inside of you That you wish you could be He says all the right things At exactly the right time But he means nothing to you And you don't know why

And, as if that wasn't enough:

I am everything you want
I am everything you need

I am everything inside of you

That you wish you could be
I say all the right things

At exactly the right time

But I mean nothing to you
And I don't know why

And I don't know why

As front-man Sean Hurley croons "Why? I don't know..." and the song ends, we sit and wonder the same exact thing: why won't this chick understand that he is the man of her dreams? He is right there! It is so obvious!

The song definitely gets deep. Thinking on it, maybe he's speaking rhetorically and it's the world who does not love him. Maybe she's blind? Gay?

Or maybe it's the fact that this guy is a class-A chump who can't get the picture. She might have actually gotten with him if he was a little less needy, or didn't try so hard to say
exactly the right thing at exactly the right time (we all know someone like this, amiright?). The guy seems to be willingly ignoring the fact that this woman does. not. want.

The fact that this guy says things in such a veiled and distant manner probably underlines a central reason why she isn't dating him.

Pour example

"Hey what do you want for dinner?"
"He told you earlier he probably just won't eat. He had a big lunch at that deli downtown. He said it very plainly and wishes you'd remember."
"Why did you eat so late? I told you we were going to eat with the Marcuses."
"Why? I don't know..."
"If you write a song about this I will leave you."

Thinking about these things people.
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Call For Contributions!

Do you read Bare Bones Magazine? Well that pretty much alone qualifies you to contribute to it! Don't hesitate to send in whatever you want. We'll look it over, talk it over, and then put it online for all to see.

Email all submissions to barebonesmagazine [at] gmail [dot] com with something hilarious and award winning in the subject line to let us know you're serious. Serious business people.

Love you! Thanks for reading!
Bare Bones Magazine
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Urban Portraits: From Provo to Istanbul

Personal Points of Reference.

I have been recently putting together a portraiture project which intimately involves the process of meeting and coming to know someone. It aims at exploring the ways in which humans perceive meeting other people, especially in seemingly 'random encounters.' From Eastern Europe to Utah Valley Regional Medical Center, I have sought out opportunities to simply meet and communicate with others that are around me. I try to construct a portrait of the subject which reflects the individual and the meeting in general. This is influenced by countless factors such as the weather, the setting of the encounter or meeting, the nature of the conversation that took place, and how well I knew the person at the time, if at all. In this way, I render a visual representation with various media of not only the subject, but the experience itself.

I love to use art (in the form of visual art, music, film, etc) as a 'point of personal reference.' I am able to measure my personal growth and change against my constantly evolving responses to good art and unmoving truth. So, the 'purpose' of this project might change as time goes on, as I, uh, 'change and learn.' Enough pretentious disclaimer. Enjoy. More coming soon.

"...moved on. Life has a direction. . ."
ballpoint pen, watercolor, gesso, charcoal on cold press
Location: Amarillo, TX
Notes: Old friend from home. Liked her dreads. Talked about a breakup she had just went through. Exchanged life advice. *hadn't met in years.

"london london"
ballpoint pen, watercolor, soy sauce on cold press.
Location: Provo, UT
Notes: Rainy. Everything seemed gray. She was wearing shoes I remember commenting on. Conversation topic rested on how Provo differed from where she was from originally, and how she wants to live in England one day. Maybe I do too, someday. Maybe not. *first-time, happenstance encounter

Taylor Collins probably has a birthday coming up and will gladly accept gifts now.
Bare Bones Flickr.
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BYU Political Review: Saturday Edition

I don't know if the word totally got around, and I'm sorry for being so late on the draw.

However, if you haven't heard: El-Iza and I have been published in the BYU Political Review! And Eliza even got called a "partisan hack" which was enjoyable, to say the least.

Join us in our quest to save the BYU Political Review from subjective, uninformed opinion pieces that undermine intellectual discourse at our beautiful university.

Comment, submit pieces, or just read the articles and tell us to make them better. Eliza is also part of the editorial staff so, you know, your suggestions and concerns will go a long way.

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A Poem That Ends With A Comma

Disclaimer: This post contains foul language.

These kids who born late and early in the morning to labor hour three short contraction long,

To mothers screaming chant and incantation wails of cut umbilical cord and shuddered anesthetic,

To fathers encouraging stood and jubilant leaned whisper push, push, push, here they are!,

Who screamed exit out and calmed when doctors scapel-ed there and stuck them in the bins,

Who were raised fine and right and remember the vivid good of childhood beginning,

Who yelled down apartment wood steps into the heated down streets of dispute,

Who jumped third story roofs to pot-smoked balconies crying and shirt off at empty room windows,

Who spooned with lovers on twin sized mattress and let strangers gape across the courtyard,

Who drove drunk on windy roads into cuffs to police stations asleep on Orphanage and Dixie,

Who strapped bags to bony backs and road pedal into ambulance trunks for sips of the I.V.,

Who sat stoned and giggling at televisions for cheeky platitude and cheap show of what’s real,

Who cried at death and wore black to teary funerals with paternal pass and scatterbrained minds in the pews,

Who cut their hair and grew beards stroked with cigarettes in the hairs to talk on,

Who pierced face with needles hollow watered eyes for trend,

Who bussed to Florida testing out the new and returned sad and dead-eyed for liquor and labor,

taking acid hits in unfamiliar houses and down streets ran for the monstrosity of downtown night and cried pointing to the sidewalks, The answer’s always there!,

Who formed opinions about oil and war with disowned car in the gulf after debate,

Who walked twenty miles home on the girls anniversary in the expanseless dead of road shoulders,

Who fucked outside truck trailers in South Dakota stations for discounted shower steam,

Who bought knives and fought back in the dark alleys threatened on the
complex steps.

Who marveled at Philadelphia square and walked cold into Fall of south side ghetto,

Who ate brownies and danced old warehouses raw with Molly arms strung and stumbled in sold out venues.

Who yelled at passerby safely speeding in the 35 and gave fingers air
with butt mooned,

Who had 3-ways with infatuated love and best friend on pitch-black cupboard with cocks close and faded,

Who woke sober and mistaken in the morning regret like so many times often and to come,

Who greeted summer indulgent pursued women and men in coffee shops and hedonistic grocery stores,

Who dug fire pits and burned, popped, and shot bottle rockets to trees for smoke,

Who at ten watched their father cry television static at the fallen towers on fourth grade sketches,

Who stole alcohol and trust from parents loved spoiled in the garage refrigerator left open,

Who retreated to the West Coast for flimsy jobs in the dry heat of summer and altitude change,

Who botched love lighthearted on a spear of a brunette’s dress with chance and eagerness,

Who contemplated God in foggy bedrooms after good lay,

Who despaired under Academics and dropped four semesters lifted after and parent fit,

Who hammered on typewriters on old paper-print in uneven margins for hell,

Who wore glasses straight lensed and fingerprinted in the light from thrift store on German,

Who stole cheap beer from dumpster factory and urgently ran country hills down,

Who to Mexico flew in pick-up trucks to stranded hitchhiker Indians in the desert passes,

Who sniffed cocaine in full port-o-potties and spasmed with speed and numb race,

Who crashed motorcycles in weary mountain ravines and burned fingerprints on exhaust skin,

Who watched die friends freedom with father and mother and quit job and money for spirit beat, beat, beat,

Who destitute dived into dumpster food scrounging for poverty in drop out squat,

Who read poetry to ringing confidant ears at venues corroded taste and gave the craft away,

Who fought over women fucking in civic backseats with blonde hair and false love,

Who raced naked touched to the future up the silent road in streetlights illuminated,

Who bled on cement crumbled blocks at construction sites lit with rafter floodlights,

Who pummeled and wrestled with father in shotgun home and vowed out the things from his childhood room lingered,

Who loved friends in late cars driving alcoholic high through police-checkpoints.

Who mouth ashen and chapped eyes stared at the low-sky storm of Nebraska,

Who stern and throwing bowling balls at car windshields in driveways and laughed at the cobweb windshield,

Who fucked women in their homes and our home and party homes and stole flat screens for orgasm,

Who woke up alone in strange beds with the shower clouding with bed sheet and body,

Who lied for instant sex and did not answer phone when called a promised date after,

Who broke cellphones on drops of concrete and stumbled lost shirt near backyard fence,

Who smashed car windows on the 4th elbow parked parallel and beat down to the concrete,

Who broke backs falling off R.V. roofs and blacked out to the E.R. with back brace nailed to the wall,

Who punched strangers in the teeth and started seizures for rumor end running demented guilt,

Who went behind backs to make out in lawn chairs outside the city block view,

Who crashed cars hazed, scaring flipped heads and glass voiced as flashed their short life like snap,

Who drenched and mouth dried mooched food from the fortunate and generously,

Who found God in beach balls on sterile beach coves and wrote essays mismatched for audience,

Who slipped off shorts in hotel water and swam free in chlorine blue with pals and long eyed girl,

Who abandoned birthday parties for late night amours and sticks of cigarette,

Who stole money from meters with jackhammer heads and strong swing to shoulder,

Who grew weed on nice porches in cities without check and steady two months kept hidden on the roof,

Who shot pump action bb guns at car windows on the highway and hid behind the apron,

Who threw rocks at train conductors sleeping at the whistle and hiked away at break,

Who in the creek at six killed frogs with sticks and dismembered on the rocks,

Who harassed mothers strolling in the park with flicks and gesture and whisper turns,

Who sled down snow steep to crash into trees fractured with ribs and went again,

Who cried alone in bedroom after a friend-full night and could not make out why on the desk,

Who lunged at police and sprinted paranoia later into the impenetrable valley wood,

Who rushed out screen doors hearing the upstairs moan of familiar voice in pleasure,

Who drunk foggy-faced showered with girl in a dirty tiled hole and came on the shower curtain ruffle,

Who blacked out and remembered only the bottoms up, shot, hey! and consequence disappear,

Who descended paths into vomit circled firepits and smiled in smoked green leaf,

Who hollered and whooped exuberant shirtless and run-legged down blind mud to the train bridge looming,

Who fell clean and aware from the cable swing in the creek absent light and concerned feet rush,

Who made out finally with best friend in tent and felt her trembling chest vulnerable,

Who ran from police casually asking for disband and expunge and sound killer,

Who kicked at beer bottles finished window and desperate fist punched walls when gone,

Who took handjobs driving down the slow distracted lane in midnight and wailing radio,

Who beat and tired spin kicked at pathetic hardcore shows and received blow and cuts to the temple,

Who slipped on ice and seat belt off slammed the streetlight into head-hit windshield,

Who downtown watched baseball team lose and outcry the red and drive home in traffic valley,

Who went to the levee with angel to watch her paint the city canvas and asked for her hands only,

Who were called chink and nigger walking the sidewalk from tinted window and from tire shout and from schoolyard fence,

Who stereotyped and college frat house demeaned and on desktop graffiti read,

Who doo-wopped with plugged ears and scratched at sweaty skin in bathroom stalls scrawled,

Who crossed heart loved and stitched small-back loyalty on their shirt only to slip from the day,

Who straightlaced and scolded robotripping car rides with hand freezing in the winter air from

Who stole from the register $200 and quit next day inconspicuously and never received pension,

Who wanted that girl with the braces and crook teeth blow and talked to Carl about the holiness of whores,

Who were thrown from shows for underage drink and wandered warm and off-balance down the high streets of Clifton,

Who flattered and grinned fat-faced girls on bus backs at the late-day drop to eve,

Who abstained from virgins or Madonna and as Lothario quit her for she meant more, Yes, she means more,

Who in night terrors met eyes out the bed, sweating rose nude in drenched sheets,

Who prayed on the bed with arms held gasping for God in the ceiling glow stars,

Who from Columbus to Cincinnati drove hundred and energy shots raced from the sun,

Who touched tip with cunt and open mouthed kiss on the pink walls of the bedroom,

Who drilled peepholes into parent bathroom walls without knowing the better.

These kids!

Who from future raped already tumbled forward and down the drop,

You kids! You dragged old age kids!

Who grappled with bad decision life-lessons on tip of tongues, feeling back like the memories
were full,

These kids, you kids!

Who were raised fine and right and remember the vivid good of childhood beginning,

You destructive kids, you tragic kids!

Who yelled and wailed,

We are weary!

We are not ready for your rest!

Who yelled and wailed,

We are weary!

But we are not the ones faint of heart!,

You kids, these kids,

Nate Myers is a really great guy, you know.
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International Cinema Thursday: Babette's Feast

"Then took Mary a pound of ointment of spikenard, very costly, and anointed the feet of Jesus,

and wiped his feet with her hair: and the house was filled with the odour of the ointment.

Then saith one of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, Simon’s son, which should betray him,

Why was not this ointment sold for three hundred pence, and given to the poor?

This he said, not that he cared for the poor; but because he was a thief,
and had the bag, and bare what was put therein.

Then said Jesus, Let her alone: against the day of my burying hath she kept this.

For the poor always ye have with you; but me ye have not always."

John 12:3-8

Any thoughts?
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The More You Know: Provo Resources

Hey you dummy. It's us. The people who want you to know/do/understand more.

You live (probably) in Provo right? Do you know what's offered by way of civil services in the city? Did you know, for instance, that there's a Women's Shelter? Or a Rape Crisis Center? How about the Easter Seals or Recreation and Habitation (RAH) Centers?

Service opportunities abound people. And not only that but, hey, do you know somebody who's been raped? Or has a substance abuse problem? Or is trying to cope with an unwanted pregnancy? How about postpartum depression? Thoughts of suicide? There are services locally to help out those people in need.

Here's a complete list of those services offered through the City. It will always be stationed on the toolbar of useful links down there on the right-hand side of the page. Use it as needed! Thank you!
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The 5 Things I’m Going To Do as a Result of BYU’s Rental Car Policy:

EDIT: Ok, so I spent some time talking to a lot of people on campus, including student government reps about this issue. So, we talked. Turns out that the Hertz plan was in the works before the UTA renegotiation took place, which means originally this plan was supposed to be a supplementary service in connection with the UTA bus passes. HOWEVER, those who I talked with were pretty uncertain about why exactly the UTA passes were dropped. The main reasons cited were "money" related, which, ok, maybe that's valid. I don't know the University's finances. But what I don't consider valid is the fact that the University has very, very little to offer students who have trouble getting to campus. The University Accessibility Center operates kind of solely on volunteer work, which is great because it means there are a lot of giving and loving people at BYU who offer rides and tutoring to those with disabilities. What's not so great is that, well, it's almost solely based on volunteerism. There isn't really a huge, uh, ahem, monetary commitment to this aspect of the University, and that means that there is a lack of readily available services for students who probably need it more than anyone else. Connecting that back to the Hertz debate: the reason I am still pissed off is because as soon as it was announced that the UTA pass subsidization was canceled, it was announced (rhetorically) that the solution was rental cars. Cars for everyone! That has since been played down, obviously, but not really because in light of the fact that this isn't a service to supplant the UTA bus pass, there still remains the fact that there IS not service to supplant the UTA. So we are left bus-less, shuttle-less, car-filled, and walking. What do you think? Should we have buses back?

1. Drive more.
A LOT more. I mean, I’ve basically been landlocked at my apartment for the past two years, what with all of that strenuous walking I had to do. Walk to the store, walk to the bus stop, walk to school: it never stops! I would have to exercise some sort of forethought about how I would conduct my day, often waking up early in order to shower, eat, and get to campus on time. However, now I can simply wake up five minutes before class and roll up to the building in style – and time! The days of inefficient pedestrianism are over. God created us bipeds, but he didn’t intend for us to stay that way! That’s why he gave us the wheel. The glamorous, oil-fueled wheel. It’s a gas!

2. Park on campus. This is vital because in order to even use one of the four available rental cars that Brigham Young University purchased in order to eliminate the subsidized bus pass system, you have to actually go onto campus and rent them. And then return them to campus. The cars will be forever parked on campus, which means that I have to walk up to campus in order to get to the car so that I can then drive to campus. This is far more efficient and useful than offering a free bus pass to students of the University because buses are totally gay. Also, you get a specialized spot that only YOU are allowed to park in! Which is the perfect solution to those nasty, overcrowded parking lots. I mean, often times there are no spots at all to park in! Who wants to deal with that? Not you, the proud semi-owner of a rented car.

3. Buy more gas. Gas, gas, gas. Oil, oil, oil. I’m going to purchase more oil from the Chevron-Texaco company than I know what to do with, thus fueling my patriotic love of all things in the name of Capitalism. In order to afford both the car and the gas to power it, however, I’m going to need to probably get another job. Which is alright because it’s just another cog in the wheel of society, really, spinning around and around, bleeding money into the economy.

4. Sleep in the car when I get kicked out of my apartment because I couldn’t pay the rent. Priorities first people. Cars first.

5. Wash the car. Every day, for hours. When I’m in class, I’ll day dream about waxing and buffing the fender. It’ll be the perfect outlet for my raging sexual repression and the intense self-loathing I’ll have developed by that point. Standing outside of the Cannon Center, I’ll just wax and buff and wax and buff. Then I’ll harness the power of The Sprinklers, the ever-present, weeping Sprinklers of Provo which rain down upon the earth with life and vitality, bringing forth crop after crop of edible and life-sustaining grass. Yes, The Sprinklers will then bring life to my automobile rented from the Hertz Rental Car Corp., as it shines and sparkles in the midday sun, reflecting back into my eyes the almighty truth of both the Gospel and Capitalism. I’ll blink hard to get the glare from my retina and in the darkness there will shine bright the impressed image of those two great goddesses holding arms and staring at me with infinite wisdom and love. God Bless America and God Bless My Car. But only for $8 per hour.

For more information on how to rent one of the four available (ultra-stylish and devastatingly classy) automobiles from this blessed union of Church and Private Enterprise, go here.

Alex Christman is CARS CARS CARS!!!!
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I Am An Idiot By Daxson Hale: 99 Most Beautiful Names

So far, I have not been very dedicated in my personal quest to become more cultured and intellectually-awake. I am easily distracted and actually pretty lazy. If you read my previous piece, you know a little about what inspired me to want to change. Of course, wanting to change and actually changing are two completely different creatures. Since I haven’t been seeking out opportunities to be enlightened, these opportunities have not, of course, stopped to knock at my door. I’m also a bit of a procrastinator and on top of being busy with schoolwork and social life, I’ve found a few too many excuses for not going in search of artistic and intellectual experiences.

Today, however, I was walking through the Harold B. Lee Library on campus. I noticed a poster for an art exhibit and, for some reason, my feet brought me to the Special Collections area to see the display. This is very unlike me, since I tend to follow the masses with my head down thinking about how cool my shoes are.

I found myself at the entrance to the exhibit. Nothing amazing struck me, nothing big and spectacular was on display; just a few glass sculptures on white pedestals. The exhibit is called “99 Most Beautiful Names” by Andrew Kosorok, an artist and a sculptor who specializes in stained-glass art in the traditional Western style. “99 Most Beautiful Names” is a reference to the Qur’an, which states that God is called by 99 names which describe His attributes. There are currently eight of Kosorok’s sculptures on display. Also featured are a slide-show of Islamic calligraphy and a beautiful 18th century Qur’an in a glass case. Not many of these 99 names have yet been completed; of these, seven were on display: “The Birth”, “Inspirer of Faith”, “Reliever”, “Greatest”, “Compeller”, “Victorious”, and “Thou Art the Voice of the Lord, and His Trumpet”, as well as one entitled “99 Names” as an introductory piece.

Kosorok, according to his own summary posted in the exhibit, stated:

“My personal response to each Name, a synthesis of research and discussion with members of Sunni, Shi’a, and Sufi communities, is sculpted with cold-worked flat glass, a traditionally Occidental medium. The sculptures are tangible records of my personal struggle against prejudice and ignorance, and allow me to share my journey towards understanding with others.”

Kosorok speaks mainly of ignorance and prejudice when it comes to religion but the same principles must apply to all aspects of life. His undertaking of this project resonated with me in particular because the “personal struggle” of which he speaks is not all that different from my own quest to become more enlightened and aware, though I was approaching the change I desired through art, literature, and music, while he looked at man’s deepest-held beliefs and then turned them into art. When looking at this exhibit I was touched with a sense of reverence for Muslims’ regard for God. Kosorok’s diligent inquiry and search for understanding within the feelings and reverence applied to these Names and attributes, to the Qur’an, and to God Himself resonated deeply. I find it incredible that I am so ignorant, along with most Americans, to the beliefs and practices of Islam ( whose members make up nearly one-fourth of the population of the world). I know I don’t know enough about their religion. I know I probably should have done more research and study before writing about how I believe we should all be more aware of others’ beliefs and chastising every ignorant person for their stupidity. I am an idiot, after all. Most of what I know about Islam (and I’m assuming most Americans know about as much as I on this subject) is that they pray a lot, they worship Allah, some of them have beards, and some of them are terrorists. That is sad. Let’s look at Christianity with that same level of depth: Christians pray a lot, they worship God, some of them have beards,, and some of them are terrorists (for example, the Crusades, Irish rebels in England in the 80’s and 90’s, etc.). It’s amazing how much we have in common.

In the news is this man, Reverend Terry Jones, who planned to hold a Qur’an-burning ceremony on the ninth anniversary of the September 11th attack on the World Trade Center. Thankfully, he’s now announced that his bonfire will be cancelled “based on assurances” [false ones, I might add] “that a planned Islamic center and mosque near ground zero in New York would be moved” according to a CNN article. However, I still think it’s crazy that this level of “Christian” zealotry exists. “Allah” is merely the Arabic word for God. Arabic Christians use the same word in their worship services. It’s the same God we worship. I don’t know if Reverend Jones has read the Qu’ran, most people don’t know that it speaks of what we conceive of as traditionally Judeo-Christian figures, such as Adam, Enoch, Noah, David and Solomon, Moses, and even Christ himself. Would this knowledge make a difference to Terry Jones? Maybe. Maybe not. But I feel that once we make an effort to understand even the most basic beliefs of others, we will begin to realize that world religion is a tapestry. Every thread is important to the rest as part of a whole.

Reverend Jones probably has the best of intentions. At least I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt here. He also has the constitutional right to do whatever he wants to the Qur’an. But, in my personal opinion, he is an idiot just like me, except much more misled. If you believe that Muslims are so dangerous, why are you trying to piss them off? When there’s a man with a gun to your face, you don’t comment on how silly his jacket looks with his shoes, and you especially don’t try and start his jacket on fire to make your point.

I applaud Mr. Kosorok for conveying not only his own respect and reverence for God through his sculptures but also his yearning to understand another faith, another people and culture. I encourage everyone who can to view the exhibit before it is taken off display next week.

This exhibit really did inspire me. It inspired me to learn more about Islam and other religions. It inspired me to open my eyes to the beauty in other parts of the world. I’m also more motivated now than ever to continue my search for depth in my life; however, from now on I won’t ignore the source of all good things: human spirituality and the individual’s quest for personal expression. I’m working now on writing some poetry of my own (which will be published here shortly) but I’m having troubles. Making art is... an art. I’m sure my poetry will be ridiculous. Stay tuned.

For more information on the “99 Names” exhibit, see here.
For an interview with Mr. Kosorok, read this.
And for Mr. Kosorok’s own feelings on this work, click here.

Daxson is currently majoring in television and oreos at Brigham Young University. Yeah, he's double-majoring.

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International Cinema Thursday: Pablo Neruda

Brigham Young University has the oldest weekly campus cinema program in the country, beginning its operations in 1968. Every week three films from around the world are shown daily, with the exception of Sunday and Thursday. And hey! Every Tuesday there is a 4:00 PM lecture on one of the films from either resident professors or visiting lecturers. Here at Bare Bones, we love the IC. It's so awesome, like woah. That's why we're dedicating Thursday to International Cinema, giving you information about a film not covered in Tuesday's lecture.

Today let's talk about
Il Postino.

Il Postino is the tale of a lovesick mailman who stumbles into life of exiled poet Pablo Neruda. Born Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto, the infamous Chilean communist and poetic Romeo of the 20th century takes the role of mentor and guide to postman Mario; a role that would later prove to be both beneficial and heartbreaking.

Background: Neruda, in addition to being a world-renowned poet from the age of 17, also played the role of statesman. As the Spanish Civil War broke out in 1936, Neruda was acting consul for Chile in Madrid. His experiences in the war indefinitely turned him pro-communist, and he was quite vocal in his support for Pedro Aguirre Cerda, a radical who ran for and won the Chilean presidential office in 1938. What follows is a period of about five years in which Neruda moves about the world, writing and speechifying, while making the acquaintances of Russian assassin Vittorio Vidali, Mexican painter and assumed Communist conspirator David Alfaro Siqueiros, and Soviet leader Joseph Stalin, among other large and intriguingly unpronounceable names. In 1943, Neruda returned home to Chile and was awarded a position of Senator in the northern part of the country. In 1946, radical presidential candidate Gonzalez Videla jockeyed hard to get Neruda to manage his campaign. Neruda followed through and Videla won the election. However, almost immediately Videla turned on the Communist party, alienating the working class as well as influential party members such as Neruda. In 1948, Neruda gave a speech entitled
Yo Acuso (lol), which condemned Videla outright. Neruda was then officially exiled as the Communist Party was banned from the state, and he took off on a whirlwind tour of the globe, all the while composing and publishing his observations and poems.

Connection: The movie takes place in 1952, the final year of Neruda's exile. He is with his Chilean singer-lover who also helps out in Mario's education, and basically just sings and twirls in Neruda's bedroom the whole movie. While Neruda's stay on the island is fact, the whole of the story is fiction. The film takes firm hold on Neruda's vibrant and well-known love poetry and translates that into a character who plays wise teacher and affable mentor; more like a living embodiment of Neruda's poems than Neruda himself. It's interesting to note that, though the character of Neruda is, in general, one-sided and dimensionless, some of his less easily understandable aspects rub off onto Mario. The whole movie is a well-executed piece of Italian camp, much in the vein of Guiseppe Tornatore. Mario learns from Neruda, Neruda learns from Mario, there is a bit of sad-faced camera mugging, and
cut. However, the ending takes us into a place that is strikingly beautiful and much more bold in its understanding of the effects that poetry, politics, and real life function together. Neruda was an complex and intense man. He ran with a circle of radicals, revolutionaries, and artists, many of whom had blood on their hands. And yet, here he is in the pristine sunlight of Italy, graciously leading a postman to love. It's almost laughable the way the film decides not to deal with Neruda's obvious demons. An American equivalent might be having Hunter S. Thompson coach a pair of young lovers into marriage. However the saving grace for the film comes at the end, which brings us closer to the truth and realization of the man Neruda truly was. I can't help but equate the effect of the film's narrative arc to that of Neruda's poems. We are taken in easily and let go with silence ringing in our ears.

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the dwarfs at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still break the currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless singer,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.
It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!

-Pablo Neruda
from Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair

For more information on International Cinema, check out their website, or this. If you like this feature, let us know. If you don't, let us know.
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Someone's In The Kitchen With Mohammed: This Week's Sacrilicious Recipe

Terry Jones, a pastor in a tiny church in Florida, is reportedly planning to burn copies of the Koran with his congregation as a way to commemorate the anniversary of 9/11 on Saturday. General Patraeus, the top U.S. commander in Afghanistan, has advised against this delightful party activity, pointing out to the Associated Press that the act “would undoubtedly be used by extremists in Afghanistan — and around the world — to inflame public opinion and incite violence." In addition to the fact that soldiers and U.S. officials who work directly with the extremists connected to 9/11 advise against Terry Jones' little bonfire, it seems pretty obvious that grossly offending followers of a major world religion isn't the best way to ease the tension that leads to terrorism. Or intolerance. Or violence against religious extremists (like Jones' congregation, for example?)

But Patraeus' larger point is something that nobody else will say out loud: Terry is about to commit a vast culinary faux pas! While more unconventional cooks might appreciate the flavor of a rich, meaty Koran steeped in that unmistakable gasoline-scalded charcoal taste, exposing the book to extreme heat is not the best way to enjoy the delicate flavor of this sacred religious text. An alternative approach: the Koran s'more. Allow the sides of the book to become lightly toasted in the potent heat of American pride. The edges will caramelize slightly, allowing you to add thick candy wedges of your own religious text (a Book of Mormon Bar can be delightful), and melt the two together. Seal with crackers of justice and common sense. God Bless America.

Text sourced here, picture sourced here.

Eliza is the Paula Dean of religious tension.
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Bare Bones Magazine Presents: A Failure

Really guys?

JK!!!! We actually had an awesome time here at The Parlour. In fact, we live-casted the whole thing. If you've got about four hours, check out the party here. In the future we will always be live-casting because it was probably the greatest ever, so subscribe to our channel.

Thanks for coming out guys and to those who missed this one, keep your eyes wide for future events.

Special thanks to Archie Crisanto, Brandon Riggs (of The Lucky Crickets), and Kevin Jr. Partypartyparty!
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Church Ball

Last night Chris and I lifted his dad’s keys to the church. Mikey helped us make our very own; no one else would do it because the key said, “DO NOT COPY.” It didn’t matter. Now we could get in and out as we pleased.

The light from the stage shone onto the basketball court. It felt better to do this in the dark. Tables with shining white cloths were huddled in the corner of the room; someone was getting married tomorrow. Today they were just in the way.

The basketball court was alive with the sound of shuffling feet. Chris and I picked the teams, five on five. Shirts and skins. We stripped in preparation, our bodies all shiny and new. Then we played.

Our games aren’t like the ones on TV. This is Mormon church ball. The same game might be played in prison, if there weren’t so many guards.

Call your own fouls. Elbows were expected. Pushing, reaching in, and rough-handled shots are normal. The only taboo is traveling.

Only pussies called fouls that didn’t draw blood.

My pale skin glistened with hard won sweat. All ten of us sparkled under the stage lights like Stephanie Meyer’s vampires. The court feels like a sauna before long.
All of our sweat makes the room feel humid, like the minutes before a storm.

There was a hustle and flow to the movement of the ball. Squeaking sneakers and the dribbling ball make a music that echoes through the hall. Our grunting and calls sound out in tribal rhythm. The ball flies through the air amongst elbows and knees on its planned trajectory. The ball hits the rim with more of a feeling than a sound.

And I jump.

So does Chris. He throws his elbow toward me and catches my nose with a pop and a sound like grating sand. Bright red blood sprays with my breath. I drop to the pine
and the game moves on.

“What the heck man?” I said, jumping to push the offender.

“That was clean!”

“Clean? My ass!”

“You’re too much of a pussy to play the game then you should just go home.” Chris pushed me with all his might.

“ I’m not a pussy, I can kick your ass.”

“Bring it on cock muncher”

We dance like in middle school, too far to touch, but still too close for comfort. The room is filled with rancorous shouting like speaking in tongues.

“Fight, Fight, Fight, Fight, Fight!”

Chris’s hand flies to my face and my body freezes. I watch in slo-mo as my nose flattens again. Tears and blood flood the floor as I hunch over, gasping in pain from the reopened wound. Chris finds my chin with an uppercut that blows blood all over his hands and bare chest. The shiny white table cloths are sprinkled like spray-paint. I drop to the ground and the room buzzes. Chris stands victorious; proud like a statue. I feel hands pull me up from the ground and start to drag me off the court.

The light flickers and sparkles as I gasp for breath, starved for oxygen.
I pick myself up, sprint at Chris and drive him to the ground like a football player. Deep hard packing sounds fill the room as his face turns into hamburger. My hands are like hammers, each stoke driving in his nose like a nail. His gasps turn to gurgles and then, silence. The shouting has stopped. The room sounds like death.

Lamoni runs and grabs his phone. The ambulance is on its way.

Paul and Alma drag Chris outside leaving a trail like dripping bread crumbs. Chris’s blue eyes stare at me out of broken sockets as he’s dropped out of doors. Alma pins a note to his chest because we’re afraid he won’t be recognizable. The court is quiet and stained. The once-white table clothes lay still. The lights from the stage sparkle and shine as we all make off like thieves. I run until my legs feel like rubber, and my heart pumps battery acid. The siren of the ambulance sings from the church parking lot and I know it won’t be long until different sirens sing for me.

Mike Youngberg is a writer living in Salt Lake City, UT and is our resident Chuck Palahniuk.
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