March 09, 2007

I got hacked.....and I'm back

So I checked my site earlier tonight, and it got hacked. By stupid, moronic, immature people who may or may not be the "terrorists" they claim to be. BFD. It took me 30 seconds to get rid of their stupid crap. How lame can you be, copying an index.html file over?

Anyway, the hackers pissed me off, and so now I think I'm back. I'd gone off for a while because I had nothing interesting to say, but now I need to get back to posting, just for the hell of it.

So, you 733T HAXXORS......kiss my butt......

Posted by Paul Cooper at 11:49 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

December 08, 2004

My car passes 190,000 miles


So, Skylab III (my car) crossed the 190,000 mile barrier. Not a big deal, but I've never owned a car that made it that far, and I'm not likely to again. So here's a picture of my odometer to commemorate the experience!

Taken while driving SLOWLY in the right lane on Miami Boulevard. I'm goofy, but I'm not stupid.

Posted by Paul Cooper at 10:00 AM | Comments (0)

November 12, 2004

Kevin Sites' Iraq Blog

Kevin Sites|blog

Kevin Sites is a correspondent for NBC who's embedded with the troops in Irag. I don't care which side of the war you're on, this site is a must read. The blog is in his words, and is NOT affiliated with NBC in any way. If you really want to know what it's like being a soldier in Iraq, monitor this blog. I'll be adding it to my Links sidebar list as soon as I have a chance. Here's a taste of what's you'll read:

I am not a military or American cheerleader, not a mouthpiece signed on to some institutional agenda whether I believe in it or not. I am here to ask the hard questions of the people who make the hardest decisions; ones that result in people dying or people being killed. I must remember as one journalist advised, "write in your notepad every day 'I am not one of them.'"

Another excerpt:
It is nearly 2am and there are six men, bound and blindfolded on their knees forming a crescent around an armor-plated Humvee. It is their hands that fascinate me the most -- perhaps because I can still see them, little white anemones wriggling in the darkness. Their faces have already disappeared behind dirty strips cloth or snuffed like candles with nylon sandbags. It takes only moments from when they are captured and face down in the dirt, to the click, click, click of the white plastic cuffs noosed around their wrists, It is with stunning swiftness that these Iraqi men, these suspects in a guerilla war against occupation forces become newly crowned dunces in a world where American military, as it so often proclaims, owns the night....

It is strange to me that it is not so much pity that I feel while I am videotaping them, painting them green with the infrared light on my camera, but recognition. I know the position they are in, the dread they feel to be bound and awash in the indecipherable language of your captors, to feel your mouth turn as dry as the desert that surrounds you, to wonder if this will be the hour of your death -- or to wonder if the hours to come will make you wish it had been, to know that at this moment you are helpless and hopeless and that the question of whether you have any control over your own destiny has finally and irrefutably been answered.

Near the end of the war my CNN team and I had been in the very same position. But we were captives of the men American forces now hunt down -- Saddam's Fedayeen militia. We had pushed too hard to be the first journalists into Tikrit, the last major city not fallen to coalition forces. Thirty kilometers from our prize, at a checkpoint near a village called Amulbedi, we are forced from our vehicles at gunpoint and told to lie face down on the road. Their leader, a middle-aged man wearing a red head scarf called a kaffiyeh and a dirty trench coat, looks at me and says in Arabic, "This one is surely an American spy."

Then he lowers the barrel of his AK-47 and fires a shot on the asphalt between my legs. I am frozen in place. My colleagues are kicked and punched while my arms are bound tightly behind my back.

My translator, a Kurd from Sulamaniyah named Tofiq looks at me and says,

"Today is the day that surely we will die."

Posted by Paul Cooper at 11:23 AM | Comments (0)