As you know, an Italian gentleman has challenged the Catholic Church to prove that Christ existed, and, while the case was, somewhat expectedly, tossed out in an Italian court, the plaintiff, undaunted, found a court in Strasbourg that has agreed to hear it. It remains to be revealed who the Catholic Church will designate to defend its historical foundation.
Should we flinch from such a touchy subject and leave you to your own puzzlements? No, dear reader, rest assured that we will never abandon you out of fear to follow whatever the ever-surprising pageant of daily events may present to our fretted brow but smiling aspect. After all, how much more refreshingly salutary it is to realize we can share even the most subtle adumbrations that flit through our evanescent moments of self-awareness.
So what is, in our opinion, the correct question?
We prefer to ask whether belief in Christ, as the Son of God or in any relevant modification, helps people live better lives and deal with the trembling uncertainties that the enormous question mark in the sky about the why and wither of everything, including our mortal selves, still provokes in many a frail human being?
Or is belief in Christ’s divinity more in use to devise liabilities against the natural potential for joy that life seems to be gifted with, while it provides less unshakable hope than one might wish for assured eternal bliss?
What, pray tell, is the answer? Since the two can hardly be hefted into a balance scale, the decision is, agreeably enough, what you, as the decisive individual you undoubtedly are, have determined is your own estimable belief.
Dare we proceed to the evidence for or against what is known as the historical Jesus? What else, ideational companion, would you expect?
First, as you know, the Romans kept engagingly careful histories and prudent civic accounts. Yet there is little mention in the remnants of the Roman record of an existent called Jesus Christ, except one brief notation in a civic record, another in a Jewish history, or a line in a few letters. Some demanding historians, in their histrionics, suppose that, had Jesus performed the wonders He is reported to have accomplished, His existence would have enlarged into an invitingly more elaborate documentation.
Consequentially considered Christian evidence begins with the man who has come to be known as Saint Paul. While he was, unfortunately, too young to have known Jesus in person, it seems he met with the extant personages Peter, James, and John.
We must also come head to headline with the historically disquieting fact that the four Gospels were penned to paper at a later date than we might, in our ideal hopes, prefer: sometime between A. D. 60 and A. D. 120. The Book of Mark, considered the earliest of the four gospels, made its initial appearance about the year 150 AD. While the historic document may well have recorded an oral history or earlier written versions of the story of Jesus, obviously by the time it was penned the scribe never actually broke bread with the central inspiration of his Gospel.
We have not, of course, invented any of the foregoing evidences. We have merely recorded, as accurately as we can in a brief space, what seems to have been passed down over the centuries.
Now, we pass from our wandering deliberations to our initial point.
In the very soul of our hopes and uncertainties, most of us are not excessively concerned about what is historically invariable. We more likely ask what in this wide and chancy world is more helpful, or useful, to us and our fellow uncertain human beings. While it may not be the most piercingly trenchant question, it is certainly the kindest and therefore, in many ways, the most invitingly wise.
By the way, soul of light and wonder, there is also another wrong question we should deliberate with before we conclude. The questioning gentleman from Italy also proclaims that he is an atheist, and we grant him his predilection.
But, one of the surprisingly incisive items the overly commended philosopher William James managed to utter, in his hopefulThe Will To Believe, is that we require just as much information not to believe as it takes to believe.
Once again we must reach for the same handy harp and arpeggiate as follows:
The right question, or so it seems us, is not whether God exists, but whether we can define God in a way we can, with scientific respect, consider valid?
We can only share with you the invitingly unassuming definition that works for us and that, astonishingly, seems unassailably cogent.
And here it is.
Since we, being as logically exacting as we should, cannot dare infer with philosophical propriety that the universe has a “cause,” without the adherents of Davy Hume rushing to inform us that what we, as frequently but not ever fallible humans, perceive as cause and effect may, in fact, be more exactly explicated as usual but not unexceptionable sequence.
So all we can credibly say is that all we behold must have a source – an original or, if you will, an ultimate source – and that we, as placidly accommodated inhabitants of finitude, are willing to consider that source God.
As you might guess, whether or not such a carefully considered God partakes in our everyday lives or has decided we’ve been equipped well enough to manage things on our own – if we would only use the mental and spiritual resources we’ve been given – is, yet again, another question, undoubtedly to be ciphered, yet again, primarily by our own dispositions.
So, interestingly enough, after our exceedingly perspicacious amble through the honed brambles of theological speculation, we arrive, to some extent, where our sometime intellectual companion, ancient Aristotle, left us, that is, with the concept of God as the “First Mover” or “Unmoved Mover.” While his description is obviously a bit more assumptive than ours, it’s reassuringly close enough to make us smile at the inadvertent paternity of his wisdom.
So, lest we trouble you too long in your inquisitive surf of the worldwide Web, we will conclude as follows:
While the daring Italian plaintiff gears up to challenge the divinity of Christ in a Strasbourg court, and the spokespeople of the Catholic Church present their most revered proofs, while the media kern the boiling pot as intemperately as they can, the entire host will all be overwrought about what is, at least to us, really neither the most practical nor spiritually consequential question.
We realize we haven’t been especially humorous in this article, but, if you think about the high subject, such an achievement would have actually been inappropriate.
We also cannot but realize you may be thinking, OK, smarty pants, so what do you think about matters infinite?
Would we ever deny you the inviting knowledge? Never, me bonny lads and lasses!
So here it is. We have a faith not shaken by such perturbations on the largely unmapped sea of certitude, because we have a comforting faith in life – faith that it is, after all, a logical evanescence and therefore an overall benevolence. As part of our faith in it, we believe that, if we take good are of it, we will not only have a much higher likelihood of realizing its resplendent possibilities, but also of helping save it from our own depredations, and, in accordance with our assumpiton of its supreme logic, that whatever made it will, if it takes good care of anyone, take good care of us, who, after all, live in the service of life, accepted as considerately free and capable of exultation. We call this moderate infinite extension of our enlightened commitment faith through life.
Our only remaining hope is that we’ve been able to deconstruct the theological tempest that likely lies ahead into a venue you may observe as, in its inevitable confrontations and triangulations, your informed and wisely unruffled self.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
It Became An All-Night Serenade Crusade
I’m at the age when sleep, especially during the night, is a very fragile commodity. The least little noise arouses my body to full consciousness. I say my body, because I’m not sure my brain is ever conscious. Too much evidence exists to make one believe there aren’t any conscious gray cells in my cranium. At least, that is the opinion of the Gracious Mistress of the Parsonage, which she has expressed on more than one occasion.
The confusing thing about all of this is I have no trouble falling asleep during the day. Just let me sit down with a book in hand, and in no time I am in the world of Slumber-ella. To make matters even worse, the world could explode around me and I would never hear it.
This brings me back to my nocturnal sleeping habits. Why I can sleep during the day no matter what noise is buzzing around me and why I cannot sleep at night when even the slightest noise arouses me is beyond my comprehension.
I’ve tried all the remedies and still find myself unable to get a good night’s sleep. I once tried a nice hot cup of cocoa right before going to sleep, but I ended up spilling it on myself just when I dozed, which had the effect of reawakening me and alarming my wife.
Someone suggested once I try some light reading in bed just before going to sleep. I’m not sure why I’ve never thought of this before, but much to my delight it has worked.
I can’t tell you how delighted I have been to overcome my sleeping problem. There is nothing better than waking up in the morning refreshed from proper sleep during the night.
Then, my nocturnal world came to a crashing, chirping halt.
Three weeks ago come next Thurs- day, an incident happened to reverse all of the progress I made to date. Just as I was putting my book away and snuggling under the covers for a good night’s rest, my wife bolted straight up in the bed and exclaimed, “What’s that noise?”
We listened intently and sure enough, there was a foreign noise in the night.
Whispering, for what reason I don’t know, my wife confided to me, “there is a cricket in our bedroom.” We both held our breath and listened.
Chirp … chirp … chirp.
”It sure sounds like a cricket to me,” I agreed.
Then she said those ominous words that began a nightmare of almost three weeks. “Find that cricket and get rid of it.”
I got up, as any dutiful husband would, and tried locating where the noise was coming from. After 15 minutes of diligent searching I came to the conclusion that there was no cricket in our bedroom and that the noise was coming from outside.
I carefully opened the window, so as to not disturb whatever was out there making that noise. Listening carefully it dawned on me that a new neighbor had moved in to our backyard, precisely the tree right outside our bedroom window.
Chirp … chirp … chirp. Our new neighbor turned out to be a tree frog.
I want it known right here and now that I have nothing against tree frogs. I love animals and critters of all kinds. And normally I’m a congenial, easy-to-get-along-with fellow. I harbor no animosity toward my fellow man, fellow frog, or any of God’s creatures.
I do have one exception to this rule. Every rule has its exception. What would a rule be if it didn’t?
The exception is the tree frog in the tree outside my bedroom window. I’ve tried reasoning with this creature, even issuing an ultimatum. But as to this date nothing has convinced this devilish creature to keep quiet during the night.
All night long — chirp … chirp … chirp.
I’m not sure exactly when it begins, this nocturnal serenade, but every morning at 6:11 he quits while it is still dark so I cannot locate him. I think this is a despicable trick.
For almost three weeks this nightly noise has gone continuously without a break.
Chirp … chirp … chirp.
Along about Wednesday night I was finally getting accustomed to this irritating chirp and was finally able to fall asleep. Then the despicable monster changed his tactics.
He chirp … chirp … chirped as usual and then paused. That silence was like a shotgun blast in the night and my eyes snapped open in full alert position. As suddenly as he stopped he began chirping again.
He chirped long enough to lull me into a false sense of security and just as I was about to doze off again the little rascal stopped in mid-chirp, causing me to come to full alertness again.
He now knows he has a captive audience for his chirp-chirp serenades and there is nothing I can do about it. Sleep, as I once knew it, has become but a fond memory.
As usual, I turned to the Bible for some consolation. By chance I stumbled onto Psalms 127:1-2 (KJV.)
“Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it: except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain. It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrows: for so he giveth his beloved sleep.”
Although many things can keep us awake, there is one sure way to a peaceful night’s sleep … resting in the Lord who promises to give “his beloved sleep.”
The confusing thing about all of this is I have no trouble falling asleep during the day. Just let me sit down with a book in hand, and in no time I am in the world of Slumber-ella. To make matters even worse, the world could explode around me and I would never hear it.
This brings me back to my nocturnal sleeping habits. Why I can sleep during the day no matter what noise is buzzing around me and why I cannot sleep at night when even the slightest noise arouses me is beyond my comprehension.
I’ve tried all the remedies and still find myself unable to get a good night’s sleep. I once tried a nice hot cup of cocoa right before going to sleep, but I ended up spilling it on myself just when I dozed, which had the effect of reawakening me and alarming my wife.
Someone suggested once I try some light reading in bed just before going to sleep. I’m not sure why I’ve never thought of this before, but much to my delight it has worked.
I can’t tell you how delighted I have been to overcome my sleeping problem. There is nothing better than waking up in the morning refreshed from proper sleep during the night.
Then, my nocturnal world came to a crashing, chirping halt.
Three weeks ago come next Thurs- day, an incident happened to reverse all of the progress I made to date. Just as I was putting my book away and snuggling under the covers for a good night’s rest, my wife bolted straight up in the bed and exclaimed, “What’s that noise?”
We listened intently and sure enough, there was a foreign noise in the night.
Whispering, for what reason I don’t know, my wife confided to me, “there is a cricket in our bedroom.” We both held our breath and listened.
Chirp … chirp … chirp.
”It sure sounds like a cricket to me,” I agreed.
Then she said those ominous words that began a nightmare of almost three weeks. “Find that cricket and get rid of it.”
I got up, as any dutiful husband would, and tried locating where the noise was coming from. After 15 minutes of diligent searching I came to the conclusion that there was no cricket in our bedroom and that the noise was coming from outside.
I carefully opened the window, so as to not disturb whatever was out there making that noise. Listening carefully it dawned on me that a new neighbor had moved in to our backyard, precisely the tree right outside our bedroom window.
Chirp … chirp … chirp. Our new neighbor turned out to be a tree frog.
I want it known right here and now that I have nothing against tree frogs. I love animals and critters of all kinds. And normally I’m a congenial, easy-to-get-along-with fellow. I harbor no animosity toward my fellow man, fellow frog, or any of God’s creatures.
I do have one exception to this rule. Every rule has its exception. What would a rule be if it didn’t?
The exception is the tree frog in the tree outside my bedroom window. I’ve tried reasoning with this creature, even issuing an ultimatum. But as to this date nothing has convinced this devilish creature to keep quiet during the night.
All night long — chirp … chirp … chirp.
I’m not sure exactly when it begins, this nocturnal serenade, but every morning at 6:11 he quits while it is still dark so I cannot locate him. I think this is a despicable trick.
For almost three weeks this nightly noise has gone continuously without a break.
Chirp … chirp … chirp.
Along about Wednesday night I was finally getting accustomed to this irritating chirp and was finally able to fall asleep. Then the despicable monster changed his tactics.
He chirp … chirp … chirped as usual and then paused. That silence was like a shotgun blast in the night and my eyes snapped open in full alert position. As suddenly as he stopped he began chirping again.
He chirped long enough to lull me into a false sense of security and just as I was about to doze off again the little rascal stopped in mid-chirp, causing me to come to full alertness again.
He now knows he has a captive audience for his chirp-chirp serenades and there is nothing I can do about it. Sleep, as I once knew it, has become but a fond memory.
As usual, I turned to the Bible for some consolation. By chance I stumbled onto Psalms 127:1-2 (KJV.)
“Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it: except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain. It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrows: for so he giveth his beloved sleep.”
Although many things can keep us awake, there is one sure way to a peaceful night’s sleep … resting in the Lord who promises to give “his beloved sleep.”
Is Your City Among the Nation's 'Funniest?'
If, as the saying goes, laughter is the best medicine, then the United States is one healthy nation.
Research commissioned by Shoebox, Hallmark's irreverent greeting card line, set out to find the hotbeds of humor in America. The result: Americans coast-to-coast love a good laugh.
Since California is home to movie and television studios, it's got to be the funniest state in the Union. Right? Think again. Try Rhode Island. That's right: The littlest state also is the funniest.
The survey ranked America's sense of humor through a humor score, measuring responses in three categories: consumers' humor sources, such as television sitcoms, movies or comics; responses from individuals who consider themselves "funny"; and sales of Shoebox greeting cards in American communities.
Colder Climates, Hotter Humor?
Just what promotes jocularity among Rhode Islanders is unknown, but there are a lot of laughs packed in the Ocean State's 1,214 square miles based on all three dimensions of the survey. Massachusetts came in second, followed by Minnesota, Colorado, Wisconsin and Nebraska.
Illinois, the seventh most humorous state, earns extra smiles by placing four of its cities on the list of the top 20 most humorous cities (Peoria, Champaign, Rockford and Chicago).
The overall No. 1 most humorous place to live? Mankato, Minn., followed by Helena, Mont., at No. 2. Mankato ties with Lansing, Mich., to top the score's Shoebox card sales dimension, while Milwaukee does the most comedy TV- and movie-watching, and residents of Cheyenne and Scotts Bluff, Wyo., are most likely to consider themselves funny.
Laughing last on the Shoebox Humor Score: the warm weather states of Hawaii, Alabama and Arkansas. And as for California, it comes in at 44th in the nation.
Shoebox keeps watch on what makes America laugh so that it can be translated into cards that help people connect. New Shoebox cards are available in Hallmark Gold Crown stores nationwide and wherever Hallmark is sold.
Research commissioned by Shoebox, Hallmark's irreverent greeting card line, set out to find the hotbeds of humor in America. The result: Americans coast-to-coast love a good laugh.
Since California is home to movie and television studios, it's got to be the funniest state in the Union. Right? Think again. Try Rhode Island. That's right: The littlest state also is the funniest.
The survey ranked America's sense of humor through a humor score, measuring responses in three categories: consumers' humor sources, such as television sitcoms, movies or comics; responses from individuals who consider themselves "funny"; and sales of Shoebox greeting cards in American communities.
Colder Climates, Hotter Humor?
Just what promotes jocularity among Rhode Islanders is unknown, but there are a lot of laughs packed in the Ocean State's 1,214 square miles based on all three dimensions of the survey. Massachusetts came in second, followed by Minnesota, Colorado, Wisconsin and Nebraska.
Illinois, the seventh most humorous state, earns extra smiles by placing four of its cities on the list of the top 20 most humorous cities (Peoria, Champaign, Rockford and Chicago).
The overall No. 1 most humorous place to live? Mankato, Minn., followed by Helena, Mont., at No. 2. Mankato ties with Lansing, Mich., to top the score's Shoebox card sales dimension, while Milwaukee does the most comedy TV- and movie-watching, and residents of Cheyenne and Scotts Bluff, Wyo., are most likely to consider themselves funny.
Laughing last on the Shoebox Humor Score: the warm weather states of Hawaii, Alabama and Arkansas. And as for California, it comes in at 44th in the nation.
Shoebox keeps watch on what makes America laugh so that it can be translated into cards that help people connect. New Shoebox cards are available in Hallmark Gold Crown stores nationwide and wherever Hallmark is sold.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Internet, Which Began As Tech Wizardry, Ends Up As Ad Wizardry
The Internet, which began as the inspiration and implementation of technical wizards, has apparently ended up as the playground of advertising wizards. Witness the incessant publicity about such Internet prodigies as Google Adwords. And wherever can you click that an ad doesn’t flash at you, featuring one beast or another, from a barrel of monkeys to a cobra, or glitteraty type –- all in an energetic effort to call your attention to everything from low mortgage rates to cures for erectile dysfunction.
Our own unassuming site is hardly innocent of colorful calculations intended to cajole you into opening your wallet for one irresistible offer or another.
But then that’s the way it is with most things. The begin in brilliance and end up as a business, even when it comes to hocking the volumes that embody the greatest intellectual achievement of the human race.
The descent into pecuniary hustings grows out of the inevitable need for anybody who makes or just prints anything to tell us about it so we might consider purchasing it.
The practice goes back a long way. For instance, remember the village smithy? Even he thought to hang out a sign that said something like, “Horseshoes Made, Saddles Mended.”
The most we frazzled recipients of all the advertising hootenanny can do is hope for occasions when the attempt to extract our funds is done with taste and, when inspiration allows, imagination that invites us to attend.
Our own unassuming site is hardly innocent of colorful calculations intended to cajole you into opening your wallet for one irresistible offer or another.
But then that’s the way it is with most things. The begin in brilliance and end up as a business, even when it comes to hocking the volumes that embody the greatest intellectual achievement of the human race.
The descent into pecuniary hustings grows out of the inevitable need for anybody who makes or just prints anything to tell us about it so we might consider purchasing it.
The practice goes back a long way. For instance, remember the village smithy? Even he thought to hang out a sign that said something like, “Horseshoes Made, Saddles Mended.”
The most we frazzled recipients of all the advertising hootenanny can do is hope for occasions when the attempt to extract our funds is done with taste and, when inspiration allows, imagination that invites us to attend.
Independence Fever
1. What event do Americans celebrate with a national holiday on July 4th?
A. George Washington’s birthday
B. King George III’s ascension to the throne of England
C. Formal adoption of the Declaration of Independence from England
D. Official signing of the Declaration of Independence
C. Formal adoption of the Declaration of Independence from England
TOPICS: The official signing actually took place over several days.
2. What country celebrates a national holiday in July in honor of an 1867 act that unified the nation?
A. United States
B. Canada
C. Russia
D. Korea
B. Canada
TOPICS: On July 1, 1867, the British North America Act unified Upper and Lower Canada, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia as the Dominion of Canada. The holiday was formerly known as Dominion Day but changed to Canada Day in 1982 when the Canadian Constitution was changed.
3. What country celebrates an independence day that originated 13 years and 10 days after America’s July 4th holiday?
A. Australia
B. Canada
C. England
D. France
D. France
TOPICS: Bastille Day is a national holiday in France celebrated on July 14th. It dates back to the outbreak of the French Revolution in 1789.
4. Every revolution worth its salt has a flag for its supporters to display. What do you call a person with an expert knowledge of flags?
A. Vexillologist
B. Flagman
C. Flatulent
D. Flagellin
A. Vexillologist
TOPICS: It doesn’t make much sense until you think about revolutions. After all, vex means to agitate and you must admit a rebel flag will do that to the powers that be.
5. In 1581, the Dutch provinces within the Union of Utrecht declared their Independence from what nation?
A. Spain
B. Belgium
C. England
D. Germany
A. Spain
TOPICS: Political dissatisfaction combined with growing Protestant support caused the movement, although this battle for Independence lasted decades and was not won easily.
6. Bernardo O’Higgins was a famous revolutionary leader for what country?
A. Chile
B. Ireland
C. United States
D. None of the above, he was made up by The QuizQueen
A. Chile
TOPICS: He was a Chilean revolutionary leader and in fact declared Chile independent of Spain in 1818, although somewhat prematurely as the last Spanish forces were not expelled until 1826. He was named director general but his rule did not outlast the Spanish as he was ousted by popular opinion in 1823.
7. Between 1821 and 1829 the people of Greece battled for their independence from what empire?
A. Catholic
B. Roman
C. Russian
D. Ottoman
D. The Ottoman Empire
TOPICS: An uprising fifty years previous had failed, but during the intervening years the empire had weakened and the mood of the world had shifted to sympathize with rebels following the American and French revolutions.
8. What country celebrates its Independence Day on September 16 in honor of a martyred priest’s failed attempt to overthrow the government?
A. Ireland
B. Italy
C. Mexico
D. Spain
B. Mexico
TOPICS: Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla led a crusade to free Mexico from the oppressive Spanish colonial government in 1811. His memory was honored after Mexico attained independence in 1824.
9. How many colonies were there at the start of the American revolution?
A. 3
B. 13
C. 23
D. 33
B. 13
TOPICS: No Americans better have missed that question…
10. What country marks August 15, 1947 as its Independence Day?
A. Guatamala
B. Australia
C. Puerto Rico
D. India
D. India
TOPICS: That day marked the end of British rule in India.
11. January 1, 1912, marks what important event in Chinese history?
A. The end of imperial rule
B. Establishment of the Republic of China
C. Establishment of the People’s Republic of China
D. Establishment of the People’s Democracy of China
C. Establishment of the People’s Republic of China
TOPICS: The new Republic of China was inaugurated on that date (under a Republican form of government) although the end of imperial rule would be acceptable (even thought that ended by all effects some time in late 1911. The People’s Republic of China (under a Communist form of government) was not created until 1949.
12. The Russian Revolution of _____ resulted in the formation of the creation of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics?
A. 1895
B. 1905
C. 1917
D. 1927
C. 1917
TOPICS: There was a Russian Revolution of 1905 that did earn some concession from the Czar but did not end the rule of Czars. That event came about in 1917. If you think that is nit-picky just be glad I didn’t ask what month (as there were both February and October revolts in that year!).
A. George Washington’s birthday
B. King George III’s ascension to the throne of England
C. Formal adoption of the Declaration of Independence from England
D. Official signing of the Declaration of Independence
C. Formal adoption of the Declaration of Independence from England
TOPICS: The official signing actually took place over several days.
2. What country celebrates a national holiday in July in honor of an 1867 act that unified the nation?
A. United States
B. Canada
C. Russia
D. Korea
B. Canada
TOPICS: On July 1, 1867, the British North America Act unified Upper and Lower Canada, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia as the Dominion of Canada. The holiday was formerly known as Dominion Day but changed to Canada Day in 1982 when the Canadian Constitution was changed.
3. What country celebrates an independence day that originated 13 years and 10 days after America’s July 4th holiday?
A. Australia
B. Canada
C. England
D. France
D. France
TOPICS: Bastille Day is a national holiday in France celebrated on July 14th. It dates back to the outbreak of the French Revolution in 1789.
4. Every revolution worth its salt has a flag for its supporters to display. What do you call a person with an expert knowledge of flags?
A. Vexillologist
B. Flagman
C. Flatulent
D. Flagellin
A. Vexillologist
TOPICS: It doesn’t make much sense until you think about revolutions. After all, vex means to agitate and you must admit a rebel flag will do that to the powers that be.
5. In 1581, the Dutch provinces within the Union of Utrecht declared their Independence from what nation?
A. Spain
B. Belgium
C. England
D. Germany
A. Spain
TOPICS: Political dissatisfaction combined with growing Protestant support caused the movement, although this battle for Independence lasted decades and was not won easily.
6. Bernardo O’Higgins was a famous revolutionary leader for what country?
A. Chile
B. Ireland
C. United States
D. None of the above, he was made up by The QuizQueen
A. Chile
TOPICS: He was a Chilean revolutionary leader and in fact declared Chile independent of Spain in 1818, although somewhat prematurely as the last Spanish forces were not expelled until 1826. He was named director general but his rule did not outlast the Spanish as he was ousted by popular opinion in 1823.
7. Between 1821 and 1829 the people of Greece battled for their independence from what empire?
A. Catholic
B. Roman
C. Russian
D. Ottoman
D. The Ottoman Empire
TOPICS: An uprising fifty years previous had failed, but during the intervening years the empire had weakened and the mood of the world had shifted to sympathize with rebels following the American and French revolutions.
8. What country celebrates its Independence Day on September 16 in honor of a martyred priest’s failed attempt to overthrow the government?
A. Ireland
B. Italy
C. Mexico
D. Spain
B. Mexico
TOPICS: Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla led a crusade to free Mexico from the oppressive Spanish colonial government in 1811. His memory was honored after Mexico attained independence in 1824.
9. How many colonies were there at the start of the American revolution?
A. 3
B. 13
C. 23
D. 33
B. 13
TOPICS: No Americans better have missed that question…
10. What country marks August 15, 1947 as its Independence Day?
A. Guatamala
B. Australia
C. Puerto Rico
D. India
D. India
TOPICS: That day marked the end of British rule in India.
11. January 1, 1912, marks what important event in Chinese history?
A. The end of imperial rule
B. Establishment of the Republic of China
C. Establishment of the People’s Republic of China
D. Establishment of the People’s Democracy of China
C. Establishment of the People’s Republic of China
TOPICS: The new Republic of China was inaugurated on that date (under a Republican form of government) although the end of imperial rule would be acceptable (even thought that ended by all effects some time in late 1911. The People’s Republic of China (under a Communist form of government) was not created until 1949.
12. The Russian Revolution of _____ resulted in the formation of the creation of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics?
A. 1895
B. 1905
C. 1917
D. 1927
C. 1917
TOPICS: There was a Russian Revolution of 1905 that did earn some concession from the Czar but did not end the rule of Czars. That event came about in 1917. If you think that is nit-picky just be glad I didn’t ask what month (as there were both February and October revolts in that year!).
Dolphins Know Each Other By Name
Dolphins, which we already know are unusually bright, especially for mammals without arms or legs, are apparently even smarter than we suspected. In a recent study of dolphin behavior, it was determined that the clever mammals can make a series of squeals and squawks that another dolphin will recognize as his or her name.
What has not been widely reported is, the dolphins, once their ability to talk was discovered, were willing to engage in a far more detailed description of their plans. It seems they have determined, in their affable way, that the oceans, as presently polluted, are incapable of providing a hospitable home for the long-term. So they've concluded they must eventually move out onto the land.
Their first efforts to excape the thrall of the ocean, which were mistaken by us as their sonar gone awry, left a number of them washed up on beaches where they, unfortunately, expired. As a result of these unfortunate experiences, they’ve learned that the adaptation will take some time.
In an effort to give evolution a boost, they’ve begun to imitate some of the more simple-minded activities we landlocked humans indulge in, among them, Saturday night poker.
So now, on any given Saturday evening, the leaping over-achievers can be seen gathered round a reef, gaming away.
As they continue to prod their genes, they expect to imitate increasingly complex human activities and eventually move onto the land as our equals, if not something even grander.
As one unusually forthcoming dolphin confided to a researcher, “Hey, if the finny ancestors of human beings could learn to live on land, what’s to stop a bunch of intelligent mammals like us from figuring it out?”
What has not been widely reported is, the dolphins, once their ability to talk was discovered, were willing to engage in a far more detailed description of their plans. It seems they have determined, in their affable way, that the oceans, as presently polluted, are incapable of providing a hospitable home for the long-term. So they've concluded they must eventually move out onto the land.
Their first efforts to excape the thrall of the ocean, which were mistaken by us as their sonar gone awry, left a number of them washed up on beaches where they, unfortunately, expired. As a result of these unfortunate experiences, they’ve learned that the adaptation will take some time.
In an effort to give evolution a boost, they’ve begun to imitate some of the more simple-minded activities we landlocked humans indulge in, among them, Saturday night poker.
So now, on any given Saturday evening, the leaping over-achievers can be seen gathered round a reef, gaming away.
As they continue to prod their genes, they expect to imitate increasingly complex human activities and eventually move onto the land as our equals, if not something even grander.
As one unusually forthcoming dolphin confided to a researcher, “Hey, if the finny ancestors of human beings could learn to live on land, what’s to stop a bunch of intelligent mammals like us from figuring it out?”
Diving For Treasure In My Own Living Room
So, time arrived for replacing the living room furniture. Grandpa and I had our same sofa, loveseat, extra chair, tables, and lamps from our thirty-five years of marriage. Still leaning toward denial, we agreed blue remains our favorite color, not one person has fallen all the way to the floor in our chair yet, and parts of the lampshades still block the view of the bare GE 100 watt lightbulbs. Besides, right before the delivery men appeared at my fingerprint-smudged storm door with newly purchased pieces, I had a moment to examine our old stuff and found unexpected reminders of times gone by such as marbles, crayons, Barbie arms, Chapstick tops, and chewing gum wrappers.
After I turned one of the seat cushions on the loveseat over, I discovered a dim outline of our daughter’s first post-potty training accident. Of course, under that same cushion, as well as the others, I collected treasures I thought were forever gone. The first to catch my eye was the yellow edge peeping out from the upholstery of grandbaby’s last pacifier. How well I remembered searching house, yard, and car for that life-giving piece of equipment.
In fact, I can still imagine Grandpa heaves and sighs when he pulled at the carpet edges searching for the prize. After that, he removed the slats off every bed in the house and disassembled the complete frames. About to attack our living room furniture, he paused when our daughter emphatically assured him the baby had gone nowhere near that room. Instead, he turned his attention to the kitchen and hauled out the stove, refrigerator, and cabinets from the wall. There he found nothing more substantial than the only known copy of Great-Great Granny’s famous teacakes recipe that had landed on Plymouth Rock with the Pilgrims, which was buried among artsy dust bunnies that had self-formed, waiting to petrify into immortality. However, just before Grandpa started to peel the wallpaper in the bathroom, Grandbaby went to sleep for the first time without her snookie overhanging the corner of her lips. Her mother insisted the pacifier as no longer needed and threatened to have Grandpa committed if he continued his manic search.
Ahh, such memories. And then there are the tables. Oh, the tables. One big long scratched outline creeping toward a heart shape rested right in the middle of the coffee table. That blemish Grandbaby created proved to me, “Grandpa luvs Grandma now and forever.” Yet, since I interrupted the meant-to-be eternal sculpture, we were forced to live with the half-heart over the years. Another of Grandbaby’s canvases originated on the end table surface where she used the edge of her Fourth of July flag pole to etch a sunflower so that we would always have fresh flowers in our living room.
Before I could continue my walk down memory lane via the Sears Roebuck special deal of thirty-five years ago, the movers began replacing my lifetime of picture backgrounds, Good Housekeeping display tables, permanent grape juice rings, and foot propping coffee table with clean untarnished wooden pieces of beautifully upholstered fabric. Nostalgically, my only hope springs from an image of a great grandbaby of the future sneaking her yellow snookie through the cracks before Grandpa forgets how to handle his trusty Craftsman tools.
After I turned one of the seat cushions on the loveseat over, I discovered a dim outline of our daughter’s first post-potty training accident. Of course, under that same cushion, as well as the others, I collected treasures I thought were forever gone. The first to catch my eye was the yellow edge peeping out from the upholstery of grandbaby’s last pacifier. How well I remembered searching house, yard, and car for that life-giving piece of equipment.
In fact, I can still imagine Grandpa heaves and sighs when he pulled at the carpet edges searching for the prize. After that, he removed the slats off every bed in the house and disassembled the complete frames. About to attack our living room furniture, he paused when our daughter emphatically assured him the baby had gone nowhere near that room. Instead, he turned his attention to the kitchen and hauled out the stove, refrigerator, and cabinets from the wall. There he found nothing more substantial than the only known copy of Great-Great Granny’s famous teacakes recipe that had landed on Plymouth Rock with the Pilgrims, which was buried among artsy dust bunnies that had self-formed, waiting to petrify into immortality. However, just before Grandpa started to peel the wallpaper in the bathroom, Grandbaby went to sleep for the first time without her snookie overhanging the corner of her lips. Her mother insisted the pacifier as no longer needed and threatened to have Grandpa committed if he continued his manic search.
Ahh, such memories. And then there are the tables. Oh, the tables. One big long scratched outline creeping toward a heart shape rested right in the middle of the coffee table. That blemish Grandbaby created proved to me, “Grandpa luvs Grandma now and forever.” Yet, since I interrupted the meant-to-be eternal sculpture, we were forced to live with the half-heart over the years. Another of Grandbaby’s canvases originated on the end table surface where she used the edge of her Fourth of July flag pole to etch a sunflower so that we would always have fresh flowers in our living room.
Before I could continue my walk down memory lane via the Sears Roebuck special deal of thirty-five years ago, the movers began replacing my lifetime of picture backgrounds, Good Housekeeping display tables, permanent grape juice rings, and foot propping coffee table with clean untarnished wooden pieces of beautifully upholstered fabric. Nostalgically, my only hope springs from an image of a great grandbaby of the future sneaking her yellow snookie through the cracks before Grandpa forgets how to handle his trusty Craftsman tools.
Crime Prevention And Horse Sense
The city of New York has discovered that using horses to help police the city is a boon of such magnitude that it has decided to double the number of equine public servants in its stable.
It seems that an officer on a horse is not only more visible and imposing. He’s even more likable.
A horse is also wonderfully inexpensive to maintain. As The New York Times reports, the dutiful subordinates require “$10 a day for hay, grain, and bedding material.”
A spokesman for the family in Canada that trains the horses stated, “They can gallop through traffic, go the wrong way up one-way streets, and they’re great for community relations. I mean, you can’t exactly pet a cop car. Or a police dog, for that matter.”
Petting a friendly horse aside, discussion of their ability to speed here and there, an inevitable concomitant of law enforcement in Gotham, leads us to the contemplation of what we, as cringing pedestrians, would rather be run over by – a police car or a police horse.
We are not expert in the comparison, but if pressed, we think we’d choose the horse. While they weigh about 1,000 pounds apiece, the average patrol car weighs quite a few multiples of that.
But it seems to us the real deciding factor is choosing between being flattened by one to four tires as opposed to being stomped on by one to four hooves.
All things considered, we think that, by choosing the horse, we might expect a somewhat higher rate of survival.
It seems that an officer on a horse is not only more visible and imposing. He’s even more likable.
A horse is also wonderfully inexpensive to maintain. As The New York Times reports, the dutiful subordinates require “$10 a day for hay, grain, and bedding material.”
A spokesman for the family in Canada that trains the horses stated, “They can gallop through traffic, go the wrong way up one-way streets, and they’re great for community relations. I mean, you can’t exactly pet a cop car. Or a police dog, for that matter.”
Petting a friendly horse aside, discussion of their ability to speed here and there, an inevitable concomitant of law enforcement in Gotham, leads us to the contemplation of what we, as cringing pedestrians, would rather be run over by – a police car or a police horse.
We are not expert in the comparison, but if pressed, we think we’d choose the horse. While they weigh about 1,000 pounds apiece, the average patrol car weighs quite a few multiples of that.
But it seems to us the real deciding factor is choosing between being flattened by one to four tires as opposed to being stomped on by one to four hooves.
All things considered, we think that, by choosing the horse, we might expect a somewhat higher rate of survival.
Crazy student hostel
The State University of Odessa. Late 1980-s. Department of Romance and Germanic Languages. And it means that only five or six rooms out of 50 were occupied by males. I should mention, that this ratio 1:10 really interfered with men’s concentration upon their studies.
I shared my room with a guy from Kiev, Ukraine, Semen Binder. The name speaks for itself. But he has now complexes about his ehtnicity and loved telling us and listening to various stories and anecdotes about Jews. By the way, one author complained of his poor fate that made him emigrate from Ukraine to Russia just to study. Bullshit! There were lots of Jews in our university, and as long as the action took place in Odessa, every inhabitant could be automatically called Jewish.
Well. In one of the rooms draught slammed the door, having left girls living there outside and their keys inside. Girls were wearing dressing gowns and slippers. Getting back into the room through the window posed a certain problem, as it was the fifth floor. Although one of the roommates had another key, she had gone to her town and was coming back only the next day. The only way out was to break the door. But how could delicate girls do that?! They turned to us for help, and we delegate Senya to them. First, he’s about 2 meters high and weights about 90 kilos. Second, his wife-to-be was living in that room.
We took our seats in the first row to be able to advise, but… we had no chance.
Senya runs and… having approached the door jumps up. The show is not for the nervous. Just imagine the body, 90 kilos, in its flight crashing with its head into the door jamb. The head rebounds like a billiard ball, while the body continues its movement, finally knocking out the door. Then everything falls to the ground: The door, Senya’s body, and what has left of his head. Anyway that’s what we were thinking at that moment.
But why does one want to laugh in situations like that?! We’re laughing like crazy, understanding though that something serious has happened. Then we hear the sound of another body falling: One of the girl fainted at the sight of blood. As she admitted later she had seen not only blood, but also brains. Whom should we bring round first?
Luckily, everything turned out all right. Senya got off cheap, with a broken head, a big bump and a slight concussion. But the funniest thing was that in 15 minutes there came the roommate who was to go home and brought the second key.
It turned out that she failed to buy a bus ticket and had to come back.
I shared my room with a guy from Kiev, Ukraine, Semen Binder. The name speaks for itself. But he has now complexes about his ehtnicity and loved telling us and listening to various stories and anecdotes about Jews. By the way, one author complained of his poor fate that made him emigrate from Ukraine to Russia just to study. Bullshit! There were lots of Jews in our university, and as long as the action took place in Odessa, every inhabitant could be automatically called Jewish.
Well. In one of the rooms draught slammed the door, having left girls living there outside and their keys inside. Girls were wearing dressing gowns and slippers. Getting back into the room through the window posed a certain problem, as it was the fifth floor. Although one of the roommates had another key, she had gone to her town and was coming back only the next day. The only way out was to break the door. But how could delicate girls do that?! They turned to us for help, and we delegate Senya to them. First, he’s about 2 meters high and weights about 90 kilos. Second, his wife-to-be was living in that room.
We took our seats in the first row to be able to advise, but… we had no chance.
Senya runs and… having approached the door jumps up. The show is not for the nervous. Just imagine the body, 90 kilos, in its flight crashing with its head into the door jamb. The head rebounds like a billiard ball, while the body continues its movement, finally knocking out the door. Then everything falls to the ground: The door, Senya’s body, and what has left of his head. Anyway that’s what we were thinking at that moment.
But why does one want to laugh in situations like that?! We’re laughing like crazy, understanding though that something serious has happened. Then we hear the sound of another body falling: One of the girl fainted at the sight of blood. As she admitted later she had seen not only blood, but also brains. Whom should we bring round first?
Luckily, everything turned out all right. Senya got off cheap, with a broken head, a big bump and a slight concussion. But the funniest thing was that in 15 minutes there came the roommate who was to go home and brought the second key.
It turned out that she failed to buy a bus ticket and had to come back.
Conversation In An Age Of Confusion
What do people talk about when they all believe different things and nobody is sure what the other person believes?
Then you add to that the usual courtesy that most people don’t want to offend other people, especially when it comes to the topics people disagree about with the most intensity, such as politics and religion, which all but the most foolhardy consider way off limits, at least, in what is referred to as polite conversation.
Actually, the silence of the times is far wider. In fact, the silken muffler of a feared indiscretion is wrapped around virtually every significant area of human thought, from philosophy to economics.
So what are we left with? Certain relatively safe topics, like poetry, unless you’re among poets whose egos are hair-trigger ready to fire back their own preferences vehemently. History might also be a good bet, since the overall tale has been pretty well agreed on, unless, once again, you’re with historians who may be simmering with their own disagreements.
The result? Conversation generally defaults to entrancing topics like the weather. Many spend entire evenings discussing such substitute content as one trifling entertainment or inconsequential entertainer after another. Things get really exciting when someone happens to mention how someone else may look tonight. Then there’s always the daring raconteur who’s arrayed with an evenings worth of sexual allusions.
Listening to such excited vapidity, one’s mind wanders to the legendary salons of France, at their epiphany, home, we read, to forthright conversation about the headiest topics of the time, generally centered around the new insights and old illusions of The Age of Reason.
At vagrant moments, you cannot help but ask yourself if the human race ever get to another time when it has enough beliefs in common to enliven its social occasions with conversations that really are interesting.
Then you add to that the usual courtesy that most people don’t want to offend other people, especially when it comes to the topics people disagree about with the most intensity, such as politics and religion, which all but the most foolhardy consider way off limits, at least, in what is referred to as polite conversation.
Actually, the silence of the times is far wider. In fact, the silken muffler of a feared indiscretion is wrapped around virtually every significant area of human thought, from philosophy to economics.
So what are we left with? Certain relatively safe topics, like poetry, unless you’re among poets whose egos are hair-trigger ready to fire back their own preferences vehemently. History might also be a good bet, since the overall tale has been pretty well agreed on, unless, once again, you’re with historians who may be simmering with their own disagreements.
The result? Conversation generally defaults to entrancing topics like the weather. Many spend entire evenings discussing such substitute content as one trifling entertainment or inconsequential entertainer after another. Things get really exciting when someone happens to mention how someone else may look tonight. Then there’s always the daring raconteur who’s arrayed with an evenings worth of sexual allusions.
Listening to such excited vapidity, one’s mind wanders to the legendary salons of France, at their epiphany, home, we read, to forthright conversation about the headiest topics of the time, generally centered around the new insights and old illusions of The Age of Reason.
At vagrant moments, you cannot help but ask yourself if the human race ever get to another time when it has enough beliefs in common to enliven its social occasions with conversations that really are interesting.
Come Out With Your Checkbook Open
Joey, daring the spotlights that were scanning the warehouse in which he was holed up, took a quick look out the window at the crowd below, and shouted, “Never, you dirty, rotten bill collectors!” Then he ducked back to the haven beneath the sill.
He recently got more into debt than usual – in fact, he found himself surrounded by it – and he was having a restless dream about the multitude of bill collectors who were haunting his mind. Being an old movie buff with smiling memories of Jimmy Cagney, his brain had somehow cast him in a role familiar to all who feel a similar attachment to the Cagney legacy. His black suit was dusty, his white shirt was open, and he had a bottle of whisky beside him, from which he took an occasional reinforcement.
“Joey, do you hear me?” the Verizon customer service rep called through a bullhorn. “This is Verizon.”
“Whaddaya want?” Joey called back.
“This is a final disconnect notice.”
“Already?” Joey replied, and looked down at the pile of bills scattered on the floor. He started to leaf through them nervously and found the Verizon invoice. “I have your bill right here,” he yelled out the window. “It’s only fifteen days overdue. Don’t I get a month or two before you disconnect my service?”
“Not anymore, kid,” the Verizon rep shouted back. “You got a lousy payment record.”
“Yeah, so what do you want me to do about it?” Joey replied, knowing he didn’t have the funds to pay the bill at the moment. He eked out a living as a freelance journalist, and he had only recently come through a period where he had not placed his usual number of articles. Thankfully, he had finally sold a piece to Travel & Leisure.
Just then one of the cops in the crowd lifted his own bullhorn, and called, “Joey, this is Officer O’Hara. Come out with your checkbook open – or else!”
“Or else what, you dirty, stinkin’ copper?” Joey shouted back.
“I’ll tell ya what, kid,” the Verizon rep interposed. “We interrupt your outgoing service. And get this, Joey. Three days later, we interrupt your incoming calls – and that includes your DSL Internet service.”
“No, no, anything but my DSL!” Joey called. “I’m a freelance magazine writer. If I can’t email my articles, I’ll be finished. Have a little mercy, will ya? I’ve been a Verizon customer for over ten years!”
“Sorry, Joey,” the Verizon rep replied, “We gotta go by the rules.”
At that moment, the Con Ed rep reached for the bullhorn, informing the rep from Verizon, “It’s my turn. You’ve had your shot.” Then he bellowed, “Joey, do you know who this is? Con Ed.”
“What are you doin’ here?” Joey asked.
“You know as well as I do. Your electric bill is in arrears.”
“Arrears?” Joey replied. “I’ll give you arrears!” And with that, he mooned the crowd.
“Watch it, kid,” Officer O’Hara called through his bullhorn. “That’s indecent exposure. You could end up in the pen.”
“You think I care?” Joey shouted back. “At least, there I won’t have to pay for my room and board.”
Reacting to that comment, a lawyer, who had been unaccustomedly silent until now, reached for the bullhorn. “Speaking about room and board, Joey, I’m a lawyer with a message from your landlord.”
“No, no, not that, too!” Joey agonized, and, in Cagneyesque style, he made two fists and rubbed his temples with them.
“You’re over a month behind!” the lawyer reminded him, and held up an ominous, legal-size document. “I have the eviction notice right here.”
“An eviction notice?” Joey wailed.
“Yeah,” the lawyer replied. “You gotta vacate the premises!”
Then the Con Ed rep took the bullhorn back, saying, “I wasn’t finished with him.” He turned toward the warehouse in which Joey was holed up. “This is your final notice, kid. If payment in full is not received by today’s date, your service will be discontinued. That means lights out!”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya,” Joey called, and lied. “I put a check in the mail.”
“When did you mail it out?”
“Tuesday.”
“That’s what you said last week, Joey,” the rep shot back, holding up his account record. “I have the evidence right here.”
“But it’s February! Without electricity, I could freeze to death.”
“We regret any inconvenience.”
The lawyer reached for the bullhorn again. “About your electric bill, Joey – don’t worry.”
“Why not?”
He had by now tied the legal document around a rock and held it up. “Because you must vacate the premises no later than three days from the service of this notice.” Then he hurled the stone-bound document toward the window. “Read it and weep!”
It broke through the top of the window and crashed onto the floor. Joey shook the glass fragments off himself, crept over to the recently arrived document, and slipped it off the rock. He looked it over and mumbled to himself, “The pressure, how can I take all this pressure?” Then, with renewed resolve, he called back, “You’ll never take me alive! Never!”
The cop lifted his bullhorn. “Joey, listen to me. This is Officer O’Hara again. Be reasonable. No phone, no DLS, no lights, no heat. What kind of life is that? Do the right thing and come out with your checkbook.”
“I need time,” Joey called back. “There’s a check in the mail.”
The crowd burst into peals of laughter and commented variously, “Not that sorry tale again!”
“No, no, I mean, a check is in the mail to me.”
They laughed even louder.
“You don’t get it,” he said. “For once, I’m tellin’ the truth. You have my word on that.”
“Your word?” the lawyer asked, and laughed even more heartily. “You know what that’s worth? Not a plug nickel!”
“We’ve heard that one before, Joey – heard it too many times,” the Con Ed rep said.
“What is the source of the check?” Verizon asked.
“I sold an article to Travel & Leisure magazine. A major piece. They owe me almost three grand.”
“Did you say almost three grand?” Verizon wanted to know.
“You heard me,” Joey confirmed.
“When is the alleged check due?” the lawyer demanded.
“Any day. Accounting told me it’s in the mail.”
“In the mail?” the lawyer said, with a cynically sympathetic glance at the reps. “No dice, kid. What kind of chumps do you think we are?”
“But it’s Travel & Leisure, not some two-bit gazette. They always pay on time.” Then he reconsidered his options. “If that’s not good enough, how about this? I’ll take care of all of you out of my checking plus account.”
At the mere mention of that resource, the Citibank rep took the bullhorn. “Not so fast, Joey. This is Citibank. You already used up your checking plus.”
“All of it?” Joey asked.
“Worse, kid. You crossed the credit line. Today, we had to bounce three checks.”
“Not that! Anything but that!”
“Sorry, kid, we didn’t have a choice. Admit it. You’re at the end of your rope.”
“Just so I know, who were the checks to?”
The Citibank rep looked at Joey’s account. “The Chinese Laundry, the Korean fruit market, and Blockbuster.”
“Blockbuster? How could you do that to me? I’ll never be able to rent a DVD again.”
“Tough luck, kid. You didn’t give us any choice.”
“But I’m a good customer. I’ve been with Citibank since I came to the Big Apple.”
“Yeah, and you’ve racked up quite a history with us. I’ve got the whole sorry tale right here.”
“Come on, have a little mercy, will ya? Increase my line of credit. I’ll pay you back. You know I’m good for it.”
“Can’t be done, kid, your credit score is too low.”
Now, a matronly woman worked her way up to the front of the crowd. “Please, let me talk with him,” she pleaded
“Who are you, lady?” Officer O’Hara asked.
“I’m his mother.”
“His mother? That’s all you had to say.”
He turned to the reps. “We’re givin’ her a shot.”
The Citibank rep handed her the bullhorn, saying, “Good luck, lady.”
She turned toward the warehouse and looked up at the window. Straining to see through the glare of the spotlights that traced across the fa×—ade, she called, “Joey?”
He looked up. “Is that you, Ma?”
“Yes, Joey.”
“Look, Mom, I’m sorry about this, but I’m in trouble, big trouble. I got in over my head. ”
“I know, son.”
“There’s only one way out for me. I know I’m a grown man and I hate to ask, but can you spot me a grand? I’ll pay it back, I promise.”
“I would if I could, son. But I don’t get my social security check until next week. How about a hundred? I can eat baloney sandwiches until then.”
“A hundred?” Joey asked. “Did you say a hundred, Ma?”
“Yes, Joey. I’m sorry. It’s the best I can do.”
“That’s all right, Ma. You keep it. I’m in too deep. You can’t help me anymore.”
“You know I love you.”
“Yeah, I know, Ma. I’m sorry I didn’t do better in life.”
Just then a mail truck drove up, with the horn honking like a bugle. The crowd turned toward it. The mailman jumped out, mail in hand, and announced, “Never fear, the mail is here!”
“Don’t tell me?” Joey called. “You got my check?”
The mailman took a telltale white envelope out of the handful of other missives and held it up proudly. “I got it right here, Joey.”
“Did you hear that, you dirty rats?” Joey called back, and stood up, dusting himself off. “I got the check.”
“Mind if I take a look?” the lawyer asked with the usual skepticism.
The mailman held the envelope up like a billboard.
The lawyer studied it, and affirmed, “It’s from Travel & Leisure all right, and, from the look of it, I’d say it’s definitely a check.”
A hubbub rippled through the crowd.
“Did you hear that?” the Verizon rep commented. “He got the check.”
“What do you know? The kid got the check,” the Citibank rep admitted.
Joey walked out of the building, a free man, and made his way to the crowd. He reached out and took the check from the mailman. “Thanks, buddy.”
“Just doin’ my job,” the mailman replied.
Then he headed for his mail truck with an irrepressible heroic swagger.
“Oh, Joey, I’m so happy for you,” his mother effused.
“Thanks, Ma,” he told her, and put his arm around her.
The lawyer, becoming instantly cordial, reached his arm around Joey. “Problem’s good as solved, kid. Just pay up and you can stay.”
“And you can count on Con Ed to provide all the electricity you need,” the rep assured him.
The Verizon rep winked, and added, “We’re your phone company. You know that, Joey. You got all the service you want, including your DSL.”
“And about your checking plus account,” the Citibank rep told him. “We’re gonna find a way to work around your credit score so we can give you an increase.”
“Really? Hey, whaddaya know? Just goes to show you what an ordinary guy like me can accomplish when he gets a check.”
He tore open the welcome envelope and looked at the little piece of paper that had just saved him from a fate worse than death. Then he kissed it and held it up for all to see.
“I’m a free man! Free of all my most pressing debts.”
With that realization, he smiled and slipped into a much more deeply satisfying sleep.
He recently got more into debt than usual – in fact, he found himself surrounded by it – and he was having a restless dream about the multitude of bill collectors who were haunting his mind. Being an old movie buff with smiling memories of Jimmy Cagney, his brain had somehow cast him in a role familiar to all who feel a similar attachment to the Cagney legacy. His black suit was dusty, his white shirt was open, and he had a bottle of whisky beside him, from which he took an occasional reinforcement.
“Joey, do you hear me?” the Verizon customer service rep called through a bullhorn. “This is Verizon.”
“Whaddaya want?” Joey called back.
“This is a final disconnect notice.”
“Already?” Joey replied, and looked down at the pile of bills scattered on the floor. He started to leaf through them nervously and found the Verizon invoice. “I have your bill right here,” he yelled out the window. “It’s only fifteen days overdue. Don’t I get a month or two before you disconnect my service?”
“Not anymore, kid,” the Verizon rep shouted back. “You got a lousy payment record.”
“Yeah, so what do you want me to do about it?” Joey replied, knowing he didn’t have the funds to pay the bill at the moment. He eked out a living as a freelance journalist, and he had only recently come through a period where he had not placed his usual number of articles. Thankfully, he had finally sold a piece to Travel & Leisure.
Just then one of the cops in the crowd lifted his own bullhorn, and called, “Joey, this is Officer O’Hara. Come out with your checkbook open – or else!”
“Or else what, you dirty, stinkin’ copper?” Joey shouted back.
“I’ll tell ya what, kid,” the Verizon rep interposed. “We interrupt your outgoing service. And get this, Joey. Three days later, we interrupt your incoming calls – and that includes your DSL Internet service.”
“No, no, anything but my DSL!” Joey called. “I’m a freelance magazine writer. If I can’t email my articles, I’ll be finished. Have a little mercy, will ya? I’ve been a Verizon customer for over ten years!”
“Sorry, Joey,” the Verizon rep replied, “We gotta go by the rules.”
At that moment, the Con Ed rep reached for the bullhorn, informing the rep from Verizon, “It’s my turn. You’ve had your shot.” Then he bellowed, “Joey, do you know who this is? Con Ed.”
“What are you doin’ here?” Joey asked.
“You know as well as I do. Your electric bill is in arrears.”
“Arrears?” Joey replied. “I’ll give you arrears!” And with that, he mooned the crowd.
“Watch it, kid,” Officer O’Hara called through his bullhorn. “That’s indecent exposure. You could end up in the pen.”
“You think I care?” Joey shouted back. “At least, there I won’t have to pay for my room and board.”
Reacting to that comment, a lawyer, who had been unaccustomedly silent until now, reached for the bullhorn. “Speaking about room and board, Joey, I’m a lawyer with a message from your landlord.”
“No, no, not that, too!” Joey agonized, and, in Cagneyesque style, he made two fists and rubbed his temples with them.
“You’re over a month behind!” the lawyer reminded him, and held up an ominous, legal-size document. “I have the eviction notice right here.”
“An eviction notice?” Joey wailed.
“Yeah,” the lawyer replied. “You gotta vacate the premises!”
Then the Con Ed rep took the bullhorn back, saying, “I wasn’t finished with him.” He turned toward the warehouse in which Joey was holed up. “This is your final notice, kid. If payment in full is not received by today’s date, your service will be discontinued. That means lights out!”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya,” Joey called, and lied. “I put a check in the mail.”
“When did you mail it out?”
“Tuesday.”
“That’s what you said last week, Joey,” the rep shot back, holding up his account record. “I have the evidence right here.”
“But it’s February! Without electricity, I could freeze to death.”
“We regret any inconvenience.”
The lawyer reached for the bullhorn again. “About your electric bill, Joey – don’t worry.”
“Why not?”
He had by now tied the legal document around a rock and held it up. “Because you must vacate the premises no later than three days from the service of this notice.” Then he hurled the stone-bound document toward the window. “Read it and weep!”
It broke through the top of the window and crashed onto the floor. Joey shook the glass fragments off himself, crept over to the recently arrived document, and slipped it off the rock. He looked it over and mumbled to himself, “The pressure, how can I take all this pressure?” Then, with renewed resolve, he called back, “You’ll never take me alive! Never!”
The cop lifted his bullhorn. “Joey, listen to me. This is Officer O’Hara again. Be reasonable. No phone, no DLS, no lights, no heat. What kind of life is that? Do the right thing and come out with your checkbook.”
“I need time,” Joey called back. “There’s a check in the mail.”
The crowd burst into peals of laughter and commented variously, “Not that sorry tale again!”
“No, no, I mean, a check is in the mail to me.”
They laughed even louder.
“You don’t get it,” he said. “For once, I’m tellin’ the truth. You have my word on that.”
“Your word?” the lawyer asked, and laughed even more heartily. “You know what that’s worth? Not a plug nickel!”
“We’ve heard that one before, Joey – heard it too many times,” the Con Ed rep said.
“What is the source of the check?” Verizon asked.
“I sold an article to Travel & Leisure magazine. A major piece. They owe me almost three grand.”
“Did you say almost three grand?” Verizon wanted to know.
“You heard me,” Joey confirmed.
“When is the alleged check due?” the lawyer demanded.
“Any day. Accounting told me it’s in the mail.”
“In the mail?” the lawyer said, with a cynically sympathetic glance at the reps. “No dice, kid. What kind of chumps do you think we are?”
“But it’s Travel & Leisure, not some two-bit gazette. They always pay on time.” Then he reconsidered his options. “If that’s not good enough, how about this? I’ll take care of all of you out of my checking plus account.”
At the mere mention of that resource, the Citibank rep took the bullhorn. “Not so fast, Joey. This is Citibank. You already used up your checking plus.”
“All of it?” Joey asked.
“Worse, kid. You crossed the credit line. Today, we had to bounce three checks.”
“Not that! Anything but that!”
“Sorry, kid, we didn’t have a choice. Admit it. You’re at the end of your rope.”
“Just so I know, who were the checks to?”
The Citibank rep looked at Joey’s account. “The Chinese Laundry, the Korean fruit market, and Blockbuster.”
“Blockbuster? How could you do that to me? I’ll never be able to rent a DVD again.”
“Tough luck, kid. You didn’t give us any choice.”
“But I’m a good customer. I’ve been with Citibank since I came to the Big Apple.”
“Yeah, and you’ve racked up quite a history with us. I’ve got the whole sorry tale right here.”
“Come on, have a little mercy, will ya? Increase my line of credit. I’ll pay you back. You know I’m good for it.”
“Can’t be done, kid, your credit score is too low.”
Now, a matronly woman worked her way up to the front of the crowd. “Please, let me talk with him,” she pleaded
“Who are you, lady?” Officer O’Hara asked.
“I’m his mother.”
“His mother? That’s all you had to say.”
He turned to the reps. “We’re givin’ her a shot.”
The Citibank rep handed her the bullhorn, saying, “Good luck, lady.”
She turned toward the warehouse and looked up at the window. Straining to see through the glare of the spotlights that traced across the fa×—ade, she called, “Joey?”
He looked up. “Is that you, Ma?”
“Yes, Joey.”
“Look, Mom, I’m sorry about this, but I’m in trouble, big trouble. I got in over my head. ”
“I know, son.”
“There’s only one way out for me. I know I’m a grown man and I hate to ask, but can you spot me a grand? I’ll pay it back, I promise.”
“I would if I could, son. But I don’t get my social security check until next week. How about a hundred? I can eat baloney sandwiches until then.”
“A hundred?” Joey asked. “Did you say a hundred, Ma?”
“Yes, Joey. I’m sorry. It’s the best I can do.”
“That’s all right, Ma. You keep it. I’m in too deep. You can’t help me anymore.”
“You know I love you.”
“Yeah, I know, Ma. I’m sorry I didn’t do better in life.”
Just then a mail truck drove up, with the horn honking like a bugle. The crowd turned toward it. The mailman jumped out, mail in hand, and announced, “Never fear, the mail is here!”
“Don’t tell me?” Joey called. “You got my check?”
The mailman took a telltale white envelope out of the handful of other missives and held it up proudly. “I got it right here, Joey.”
“Did you hear that, you dirty rats?” Joey called back, and stood up, dusting himself off. “I got the check.”
“Mind if I take a look?” the lawyer asked with the usual skepticism.
The mailman held the envelope up like a billboard.
The lawyer studied it, and affirmed, “It’s from Travel & Leisure all right, and, from the look of it, I’d say it’s definitely a check.”
A hubbub rippled through the crowd.
“Did you hear that?” the Verizon rep commented. “He got the check.”
“What do you know? The kid got the check,” the Citibank rep admitted.
Joey walked out of the building, a free man, and made his way to the crowd. He reached out and took the check from the mailman. “Thanks, buddy.”
“Just doin’ my job,” the mailman replied.
Then he headed for his mail truck with an irrepressible heroic swagger.
“Oh, Joey, I’m so happy for you,” his mother effused.
“Thanks, Ma,” he told her, and put his arm around her.
The lawyer, becoming instantly cordial, reached his arm around Joey. “Problem’s good as solved, kid. Just pay up and you can stay.”
“And you can count on Con Ed to provide all the electricity you need,” the rep assured him.
The Verizon rep winked, and added, “We’re your phone company. You know that, Joey. You got all the service you want, including your DSL.”
“And about your checking plus account,” the Citibank rep told him. “We’re gonna find a way to work around your credit score so we can give you an increase.”
“Really? Hey, whaddaya know? Just goes to show you what an ordinary guy like me can accomplish when he gets a check.”
He tore open the welcome envelope and looked at the little piece of paper that had just saved him from a fate worse than death. Then he kissed it and held it up for all to see.
“I’m a free man! Free of all my most pressing debts.”
With that realization, he smiled and slipped into a much more deeply satisfying sleep.
Classic Television on DVD bring late night's Carson back to fans
Who could forget the smooth sound of Ed McMahon’s voice announcing with practiced timbre, “Heeeeeeeeere’s Johnny!” each night to millions of Americans as they sat up in their living rooms ready to watch another round of Johnny Carson giving his low-key monologue with the hard-to-resist deadpan delivery that we all came to know and love. Even today in the new millennium, thanks to classic TV DVDs, we are still able to see the comedic genius at work, albeit it doesn’t have to be in the wee hours of the morning.
Johnny Carson’s primary claim to fame was as America's late night king of comedy. For thirty years he hosted NBC television's Tonight Show, and because of his up-to-the-minute monologues, flippant characters and lighthearted sketches he entered more homes via the television than any other performer had ever done before. His late night set provided the launching pad for many budding stars and starlets, gave widespread publicity for hundreds of books, movies and gadgets and never failed to offer a laugh (or two or three) to the millions of viewers tuned in.
Carson was well known as getting his start in the world of magic at a very young age in his hometown of Norfolk, Nebraska. Performing feats of prestidigitation was his first love, but that was interrupted by World War II and a couple of years in the US Navy. After the war, Carson decided to attend college and chose the field of radio as his major. This proved to be a good choice for a young guy who had no idea of the impact that entertainment, particularly television, was about to have on the world at large as well has his home soil. After graduation he started a job as a radio deejay, but shortly thereafter the advent of TV began to take the country by storm.
Starting out with television at its inception must have been an exciting time. Johnny Carson got in on the true ground floor and never left until his retirement some 40 years later. What a mark he left on the industry. His first stint on the visual air was hosting an afternoon program broadcast out of Omaha, Nebraska, called The Squirrel’s Nest. He pretty much had the run of that show doing local interviews, practicing his vast array of characters by performing skits and sketches and learning how to perfect his inimitable timing in the delivery of jokes and stories. Today some of his earliest works can be seen on classic TV DVD selections where a young Carson displays the same endearing grin he charmed audiences with decades later.
Johnny Carson decided to try television in a big way when he made the decision to move to Hollywood in the 1950s. During his fledgling years in Hollywood, Carson hosted a gamut of television shows ranging from such titles as Carson’s Cellar, two different versions of the Johnny Carson Show, and two quiz shows called Earn Your Vacation and Who Do You Trust? During this time he also worked as a writer for the Red Skelton Show. All of this was merely practice for what many say is his greatest achievement - replacing the retiring Jack Paar and hosting the Tonight Show.
It was in the Fall of 1962 that Carson took the seat behind the famous desk that was to be his for the next 30 years. Even though he had a completely opposite style from Paar, Carson did not need long to win over his audience. Before a half year had passed, the Tonight Show ratings were exceeding Paar’s by almost 500,000 viewers. It was an unprecedented event when within a decade and a half on the air, the Tonight Show doubled its audience numbers. Johnny Carson had left his mark on the world and became an icon of classic television. Film critic, David Edelstein, put it so well when he wrote Carson was the “naughty genius of late night”.
Johnny Carson was an entertainer who drew viewers in night after night with his droll expressions, edgy comedic sketches and compelling, humorous interviews. His comedy was as timeless as his slim, dapper, boyish good looks. Through the emergence of classic television on DVD, Johnny Carson’s comedy is being relived by his fans and seen for the first time by a new generation.
Johnny Carson’s primary claim to fame was as America's late night king of comedy. For thirty years he hosted NBC television's Tonight Show, and because of his up-to-the-minute monologues, flippant characters and lighthearted sketches he entered more homes via the television than any other performer had ever done before. His late night set provided the launching pad for many budding stars and starlets, gave widespread publicity for hundreds of books, movies and gadgets and never failed to offer a laugh (or two or three) to the millions of viewers tuned in.
Carson was well known as getting his start in the world of magic at a very young age in his hometown of Norfolk, Nebraska. Performing feats of prestidigitation was his first love, but that was interrupted by World War II and a couple of years in the US Navy. After the war, Carson decided to attend college and chose the field of radio as his major. This proved to be a good choice for a young guy who had no idea of the impact that entertainment, particularly television, was about to have on the world at large as well has his home soil. After graduation he started a job as a radio deejay, but shortly thereafter the advent of TV began to take the country by storm.
Starting out with television at its inception must have been an exciting time. Johnny Carson got in on the true ground floor and never left until his retirement some 40 years later. What a mark he left on the industry. His first stint on the visual air was hosting an afternoon program broadcast out of Omaha, Nebraska, called The Squirrel’s Nest. He pretty much had the run of that show doing local interviews, practicing his vast array of characters by performing skits and sketches and learning how to perfect his inimitable timing in the delivery of jokes and stories. Today some of his earliest works can be seen on classic TV DVD selections where a young Carson displays the same endearing grin he charmed audiences with decades later.
Johnny Carson decided to try television in a big way when he made the decision to move to Hollywood in the 1950s. During his fledgling years in Hollywood, Carson hosted a gamut of television shows ranging from such titles as Carson’s Cellar, two different versions of the Johnny Carson Show, and two quiz shows called Earn Your Vacation and Who Do You Trust? During this time he also worked as a writer for the Red Skelton Show. All of this was merely practice for what many say is his greatest achievement - replacing the retiring Jack Paar and hosting the Tonight Show.
It was in the Fall of 1962 that Carson took the seat behind the famous desk that was to be his for the next 30 years. Even though he had a completely opposite style from Paar, Carson did not need long to win over his audience. Before a half year had passed, the Tonight Show ratings were exceeding Paar’s by almost 500,000 viewers. It was an unprecedented event when within a decade and a half on the air, the Tonight Show doubled its audience numbers. Johnny Carson had left his mark on the world and became an icon of classic television. Film critic, David Edelstein, put it so well when he wrote Carson was the “naughty genius of late night”.
Johnny Carson was an entertainer who drew viewers in night after night with his droll expressions, edgy comedic sketches and compelling, humorous interviews. His comedy was as timeless as his slim, dapper, boyish good looks. Through the emergence of classic television on DVD, Johnny Carson’s comedy is being relived by his fans and seen for the first time by a new generation.
Circus Clowns - Without Skill Laughter Turns Into Disaster
We all love clowning around and playing the idiot bringing laughter to those around us but sometimes our antics seen as bit of fun can turn laughter into disaster. Circus Clowns are similar to that of the jester in many ways in how they entertained crowds of people with performances which included daft tricks and funny doings like face pulling even throwing buckets of water over fellow Circus Clowns.
As funny and hilarious as the clowns pranks are, what you have to remember is, these funny folk are well rehearsed in their profession - it takes years of training to perfect what they do. The Circus Clowns performance may entail death defying stunts which have had to be carefully supervised and pieced together because of the risks taken to claim laughs and giggles. Displays from the Circus Clown can consist of acrobatics where the clown now becomes a stunt man - for example knowing how to break a fall or tumble without causing injury to himself or to other clowns in on the act.
A travelling circus show that come to town will no doubt highlight the main event of entertainment with classic performances from the Circus Clowns. It is quite common for the clown to ask for audience involvement in their circus act where the clown gets a little naughty with the onlookers. Just the mention of the circus is coming to town is enough to start a riot among the happy customers queuing for tickets. Besides all the circus animals like the elephants - lion taming acts and dancing dogs - it is without doubt that it is the Circus Clowns that draw the crowds.
The clown entertains in many different ways, some acts may just be floor shows but others may include bareback horse riding - and it is because of this that any clowning you may have in mind for a friend or friends at a party needs to be well thought through. Clowns take risks but are trained to do so and you are not - so think twice before engaging on any dangerous mission you have planned just to get a laugh.
Fancy funny displays from Circus Clowns are no doubt hilarious just like that of their funny costumes and disguises - but take away the disguise - the ginger wig and cosmetic make up and we have a very serious person that takes their profession just as serious. Clowns are very skilled people.
If you are having a party then consider calling in the skilled to provide the entertainment for you. Warning if you are not skilled then dont take any chances because laughter can turn to disaster which is no laughing matter
As funny and hilarious as the clowns pranks are, what you have to remember is, these funny folk are well rehearsed in their profession - it takes years of training to perfect what they do. The Circus Clowns performance may entail death defying stunts which have had to be carefully supervised and pieced together because of the risks taken to claim laughs and giggles. Displays from the Circus Clown can consist of acrobatics where the clown now becomes a stunt man - for example knowing how to break a fall or tumble without causing injury to himself or to other clowns in on the act.
A travelling circus show that come to town will no doubt highlight the main event of entertainment with classic performances from the Circus Clowns. It is quite common for the clown to ask for audience involvement in their circus act where the clown gets a little naughty with the onlookers. Just the mention of the circus is coming to town is enough to start a riot among the happy customers queuing for tickets. Besides all the circus animals like the elephants - lion taming acts and dancing dogs - it is without doubt that it is the Circus Clowns that draw the crowds.
The clown entertains in many different ways, some acts may just be floor shows but others may include bareback horse riding - and it is because of this that any clowning you may have in mind for a friend or friends at a party needs to be well thought through. Clowns take risks but are trained to do so and you are not - so think twice before engaging on any dangerous mission you have planned just to get a laugh.
Fancy funny displays from Circus Clowns are no doubt hilarious just like that of their funny costumes and disguises - but take away the disguise - the ginger wig and cosmetic make up and we have a very serious person that takes their profession just as serious. Clowns are very skilled people.
If you are having a party then consider calling in the skilled to provide the entertainment for you. Warning if you are not skilled then dont take any chances because laughter can turn to disaster which is no laughing matter
Chinese Hope To Make British Car That Works
Remember the MG? Worse yet, did you ever own one? Then cower in fear. The Chinese bought the MG brand name and are about to open a plant to build the malfunctioning suckers in Oklahoma.
The Nanjing Automobile Group, which acquired bankrupt MG Rover Group last year, plans to be the first Chinese automaker to open a factory in the US. The product will be called the MG TF Coupe and will be out in 2008.
Let’s hope they do a better job with the racy brand than the Brits did.
I never did own an MG, but I owned another British car, a venerable Jaguar, that I had repaired at a place that specialized in servicing MGs.
Here is my story, with one caveat. I understand now that Ford bought the Jag brand, it works better.
My old Jaguar XJ 6 sedan was a beauty, prettiest car on the road. Only trouble is the mechanical aspects brought home the idea of a hornet's nest. There were always at least five things going wrong at the same time.
To save money on the upkeep, I used to take it to place that worked on MGs instead of to the Jag dealer. I asked the guy who ran the shop, a wily Irishman, why the cars always had problems.
“Well, you know the limeys," he replied with a ornery glint in his eyes. "A bunch of socialists. So they’re on the assembly line, and they see an engine with a loose screw. So Frank looks at Harry and says, “Harry, would you look at that? A loose screw.”
And Harry says, “Why, yes, I believe you've got that right. It is a loose screw. ”
But do either one of them bend over and tighten it. No. The engine just keeps moving along the assembly line.
Then there was the day I was parked outside the shop, waiting for a space inside the busy place, so I could pull my car in for repairs, when suddenly I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Then there was a huge thump on the side of the car near the sidewalk. I turned and an otherwise normal-looking businessman in a suit had a furious look on his face and was actually kicking my car.
I rolled down the window and, in keeping with the British spirit of the car, I asked calmly, “Excuse me, sir, but why are you kicking my car?”
“I used to own one of these damn things,” he shouted, “and every time I see one I think how many problems I had with it and I get upset.” Then he quieted down, as if the confession let the hottest steam out. “I’m sorry,” he went on, “but I couldn’t help myelf.”
“That’s OK,” I said, “I might decide to kick it myself.”
Then there were the two worst problems I had with it. The drain in the dashboard for the air conditioner used to get plugged. Apparently, it was too small. Anyway, the condensation would build up, and pretty soon I could hear water sloshing in the dashboard. The real problem was, when I turned a corner, the water would rush to one side and pour out of the vent onto my lap or, worse yet, onto the lap of the person who was unfortunate enough to be on the passenger side.
The other rather inconvenient problem was, when I’d be driving down the highway at night and a car would come my way, and I’d push on the button on the floor to dim the headlights, they’d go out completely. That’s right. I’d be hurtling down the highway in pitch darkness, except for the scant illumination provided by the distant oncoming lights. So I’d quickly start slamming at the button, and, after three or four desperate shots, back on would come the headlights.
When I brought the problem to the attention of my world-weary mechanic, he referred to the name of the manufacturer of the electrical setup, as he informed me, “You now what they call the Lucas electrical system, don’t you? The prince of darkness.”
To add insult to injury, I went to the automobile show at the old New York Collesum one year. When I saw the Jag on display, I went up to the dealer in attendance and asked, "Why can’t they make a Jaguar that works right?”
He smiled slyly and gestured toward the sleek, gleaming grey sedan, and just said, “But look at it.”
Yep, if you liked the design, you were expected to put up with the malfunctions.
Last, when the time came that I could no longer stand the wreck, primarily because the radiator wouldn’t stop leaking, I looked in the yellow pages for the places that buy used cars. I saw an ad that said "2000 Cars Wanted."
I called. The guy who answered was very receptive till he asked, “What kind of car do you have?”
“A Jaguar,” I confessed.
“Oh," he said, his voice growing recessive, “that’s the only car we don’t take.”
So I loaded the radiator of the embarrassingly rejected beast up with fresh water and drove it to the nearest dealer in American cars, swearing I’d never buy another import. Fortunately, I arrived before the thing started to smoke and managed to make a halfway decent deal.
I drove out in a new American car. While it didn't turn out to be a flawless mechancial achievement, either, it was at least a hundred times better than the Jag.
Obviously, this article strayed from MGs, but the car was cut from the same carelesss cloth as the Jag. Both brands help account for why, in these sleekly robotic times of exact Japanese assembly, English cars now own even less of the road than Detroit’s.
The Nanjing Automobile Group, which acquired bankrupt MG Rover Group last year, plans to be the first Chinese automaker to open a factory in the US. The product will be called the MG TF Coupe and will be out in 2008.
Let’s hope they do a better job with the racy brand than the Brits did.
I never did own an MG, but I owned another British car, a venerable Jaguar, that I had repaired at a place that specialized in servicing MGs.
Here is my story, with one caveat. I understand now that Ford bought the Jag brand, it works better.
My old Jaguar XJ 6 sedan was a beauty, prettiest car on the road. Only trouble is the mechanical aspects brought home the idea of a hornet's nest. There were always at least five things going wrong at the same time.
To save money on the upkeep, I used to take it to place that worked on MGs instead of to the Jag dealer. I asked the guy who ran the shop, a wily Irishman, why the cars always had problems.
“Well, you know the limeys," he replied with a ornery glint in his eyes. "A bunch of socialists. So they’re on the assembly line, and they see an engine with a loose screw. So Frank looks at Harry and says, “Harry, would you look at that? A loose screw.”
And Harry says, “Why, yes, I believe you've got that right. It is a loose screw. ”
But do either one of them bend over and tighten it. No. The engine just keeps moving along the assembly line.
Then there was the day I was parked outside the shop, waiting for a space inside the busy place, so I could pull my car in for repairs, when suddenly I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Then there was a huge thump on the side of the car near the sidewalk. I turned and an otherwise normal-looking businessman in a suit had a furious look on his face and was actually kicking my car.
I rolled down the window and, in keeping with the British spirit of the car, I asked calmly, “Excuse me, sir, but why are you kicking my car?”
“I used to own one of these damn things,” he shouted, “and every time I see one I think how many problems I had with it and I get upset.” Then he quieted down, as if the confession let the hottest steam out. “I’m sorry,” he went on, “but I couldn’t help myelf.”
“That’s OK,” I said, “I might decide to kick it myself.”
Then there were the two worst problems I had with it. The drain in the dashboard for the air conditioner used to get plugged. Apparently, it was too small. Anyway, the condensation would build up, and pretty soon I could hear water sloshing in the dashboard. The real problem was, when I turned a corner, the water would rush to one side and pour out of the vent onto my lap or, worse yet, onto the lap of the person who was unfortunate enough to be on the passenger side.
The other rather inconvenient problem was, when I’d be driving down the highway at night and a car would come my way, and I’d push on the button on the floor to dim the headlights, they’d go out completely. That’s right. I’d be hurtling down the highway in pitch darkness, except for the scant illumination provided by the distant oncoming lights. So I’d quickly start slamming at the button, and, after three or four desperate shots, back on would come the headlights.
When I brought the problem to the attention of my world-weary mechanic, he referred to the name of the manufacturer of the electrical setup, as he informed me, “You now what they call the Lucas electrical system, don’t you? The prince of darkness.”
To add insult to injury, I went to the automobile show at the old New York Collesum one year. When I saw the Jag on display, I went up to the dealer in attendance and asked, "Why can’t they make a Jaguar that works right?”
He smiled slyly and gestured toward the sleek, gleaming grey sedan, and just said, “But look at it.”
Yep, if you liked the design, you were expected to put up with the malfunctions.
Last, when the time came that I could no longer stand the wreck, primarily because the radiator wouldn’t stop leaking, I looked in the yellow pages for the places that buy used cars. I saw an ad that said "2000 Cars Wanted."
I called. The guy who answered was very receptive till he asked, “What kind of car do you have?”
“A Jaguar,” I confessed.
“Oh," he said, his voice growing recessive, “that’s the only car we don’t take.”
So I loaded the radiator of the embarrassingly rejected beast up with fresh water and drove it to the nearest dealer in American cars, swearing I’d never buy another import. Fortunately, I arrived before the thing started to smoke and managed to make a halfway decent deal.
I drove out in a new American car. While it didn't turn out to be a flawless mechancial achievement, either, it was at least a hundred times better than the Jag.
Obviously, this article strayed from MGs, but the car was cut from the same carelesss cloth as the Jag. Both brands help account for why, in these sleekly robotic times of exact Japanese assembly, English cars now own even less of the road than Detroit’s.
Chicken Rearing 101
Chick: A hatchling
Capon: A castrated male used for meat. (How much could that yield?)
Pullet: A female chicken under one year old.
Hen: A female chicken over one year of age
Rooster: A male chicken over one year of age.
Raising Chickens for the first time can be intimidating. When I first called the Feed Shop, I was trying to sound like a pro. I asked, “Do you sell pullets?” “Yes”, the man replied. “Are they all females?” It’s been an uphill battle ever since.
Pullet parenthood is an much of an adventure as child rearing, only with more feces per pound of body weight. However, I’ve been reading quite a bit on poultry matters. (Yes, my coolness just turned over in its grave.) So if I am correct and I am quite certain I am not, here is how chicken rearin’ goes.
Go to your local feed store and purchase $10.00 worth of chicks and $50 worth of food and supplies. Don’t forget the water dispensers. Buying the metal ones, never plastic is always advised. I have yet to see a metal one.
Next, place the chicks somewhere sheltered, like a bedroom closet. Toss in some highly flammable straw or wood shavings and promptly dangle a glowing heat lamp just above them. Note to self: Update homeowner’s policy.
For the next several weeks feed them 3 lbs of food per day and remove 4 lbs of sh*t per day from the closet. Despite all logic the birds get bigger. As the adult feathers grow in be sure to clip one of their wings. That is one per bird, not just one wing total. If clipping is done late chicks will nest in your toilet. This is a bad thing.
Clipping can be accomplished by tossing your scissors and your body into the heaping mound of chicks, poop and straw. Grab a wiggling screeching bird from the bile pile. Restrain it with one hand. Stretch the wing out with your second hand. Clip off 50% of the wings outer ten feathers with your third hand.
As the birds grow adjust the heat light temperature down by one degree per day. No, this is not actually possible. That’s not my point. You start at 100 degrees for hatchlings then continue down by one degree per day until your bedroom is a minimum of 3 degrees cooler than the spring blizzard outside your window.
Once you have frozen your ear to your semi-cannibalistic down pillow and the chicks have grown their adult feathers, they can be moved outside to the coop. I estimate the initial closet rearing stage to have taken five years.
Before the move, experience the Joy of Wing Clipping one more time. Feather clipping never works the first time. No one knows why. Still, after all the hassle you probably don’t want them to fly the coop in under sixty seconds. Of course, if you’re like me, by this time you may be inclined to pack them each a lunch and leave a stack of Greyhound tickets by the open coop gate.
Regarding habitat construction: Hen houses and chicken coops are a competitive art form. There are a myriad of web sites showing off architectural designs from Chicken Chateaus to Bird Bordellos. The meticulous craftsmanship makes my own home look like – well – like a chicken coop.
Always fashionable, I went with a shabby chic motif for my coop. The nesting boxes are an eclectic mix of stolen milk crates affixed to the wall by anything in arms reach. As for the coop itself, there is a gift for tight chicken wire, which eludes me. Quite frankly, my first attempt at a coop looks like Dr. Seuss dropped a hit of acid, blasted some Jefferson Starship and rolled around on the wire with every Who in Whoville. I think I’ll keep it.
Inferior design aside, I ultimately learned a thing or two. The nesting boxes are supposed to be up off the ground. That is correct. For those of you keeping score you just spent two weeks cutting back the birds flight feathers only to hang their houses in the sky. It’s just sick.
Higher than the nest boxes, you are to build a roost. This is where the birds crap at night so they do not crap on your breakfast eggs. Of course the roost is usually OVER the nesting boxes, so whatever you do, don’t use those perforated plastic milk crates.
For young birds maintain a heat light in the hen house. Then on cooler nights an animal with a brain the size of an bulimic toe nail clipping will make the conscious decision to forgo your nest boxes, bypass the instinctual roost and leap into a tanning bed.
And finally there is the feed regime. I asked several experts and read up on feeding as well. Make sure to give your chickens, starter formula, mash, growth formula, start & grow, brood formula, grit, no grit, scraps, no scraps, goat placenta, nothing suggested on the internet, tetramyaicn, no antibiotics, medicated starter, non-medicated starter and never ever switch in-between.
I may not be Queen of the Coop yet, but I’m working on it. Though I am still a zoologist and I still know Birds 101. Here are two myths I can help with. First, you do not need a rooster to get eggs. Most folk, especially those who have never owned chickens, will advise you on chickens. Each will insist you need a rooster for a while to do his manly duties, then you can slip him in the pot. As appealing as this concept is, your pot is a separate issue.
Roosters are only needed to make fertile eggs. Hens are all that is needed to make breakfast eggs. Fertile eggs are just peachy if raising chicks was such a joy the first time you want to repeat the whole freakin’ process. In addition there is always the risk of breaking a fertilized egg open and finding a 50% formed chick fetus hitting your hot skillet. Yum! Years of therapy will follow.
To keep it straight in your mind consider this: You are going about your life. Suddenly massive balls of calcium start stacking up inside your abdomen. Are you going to hold on to them just because you have not had sex lately?
The second bird myth is totally unrelated so I thought I would mention it. Penguins occur in nature from the Equator on Southward. That is down to the Antarctica, not the Arctic! No, they do not hang out with Polar Bears who live in the Arctic. No, you did not see them when you worked in Alaska, in the Arctic. Those were puffins. No, I am not sorry you look stupid to all those folks you told penguin tales to.
Yes, some penguin species even reside on the Galapagos Islands at the equator (Cold weather would kill them), not floating around on icebergs - and not in the Arctic! Yes, I realize my eggs are not all in one basket. Delusional, close-minded people who insist you need a rooster to fertilize your penguin eggs so polar bears won’t loose their food supply drove me crazy!
Capon: A castrated male used for meat. (How much could that yield?)
Pullet: A female chicken under one year old.
Hen: A female chicken over one year of age
Rooster: A male chicken over one year of age.
Raising Chickens for the first time can be intimidating. When I first called the Feed Shop, I was trying to sound like a pro. I asked, “Do you sell pullets?” “Yes”, the man replied. “Are they all females?” It’s been an uphill battle ever since.
Pullet parenthood is an much of an adventure as child rearing, only with more feces per pound of body weight. However, I’ve been reading quite a bit on poultry matters. (Yes, my coolness just turned over in its grave.) So if I am correct and I am quite certain I am not, here is how chicken rearin’ goes.
Go to your local feed store and purchase $10.00 worth of chicks and $50 worth of food and supplies. Don’t forget the water dispensers. Buying the metal ones, never plastic is always advised. I have yet to see a metal one.
Next, place the chicks somewhere sheltered, like a bedroom closet. Toss in some highly flammable straw or wood shavings and promptly dangle a glowing heat lamp just above them. Note to self: Update homeowner’s policy.
For the next several weeks feed them 3 lbs of food per day and remove 4 lbs of sh*t per day from the closet. Despite all logic the birds get bigger. As the adult feathers grow in be sure to clip one of their wings. That is one per bird, not just one wing total. If clipping is done late chicks will nest in your toilet. This is a bad thing.
Clipping can be accomplished by tossing your scissors and your body into the heaping mound of chicks, poop and straw. Grab a wiggling screeching bird from the bile pile. Restrain it with one hand. Stretch the wing out with your second hand. Clip off 50% of the wings outer ten feathers with your third hand.
As the birds grow adjust the heat light temperature down by one degree per day. No, this is not actually possible. That’s not my point. You start at 100 degrees for hatchlings then continue down by one degree per day until your bedroom is a minimum of 3 degrees cooler than the spring blizzard outside your window.
Once you have frozen your ear to your semi-cannibalistic down pillow and the chicks have grown their adult feathers, they can be moved outside to the coop. I estimate the initial closet rearing stage to have taken five years.
Before the move, experience the Joy of Wing Clipping one more time. Feather clipping never works the first time. No one knows why. Still, after all the hassle you probably don’t want them to fly the coop in under sixty seconds. Of course, if you’re like me, by this time you may be inclined to pack them each a lunch and leave a stack of Greyhound tickets by the open coop gate.
Regarding habitat construction: Hen houses and chicken coops are a competitive art form. There are a myriad of web sites showing off architectural designs from Chicken Chateaus to Bird Bordellos. The meticulous craftsmanship makes my own home look like – well – like a chicken coop.
Always fashionable, I went with a shabby chic motif for my coop. The nesting boxes are an eclectic mix of stolen milk crates affixed to the wall by anything in arms reach. As for the coop itself, there is a gift for tight chicken wire, which eludes me. Quite frankly, my first attempt at a coop looks like Dr. Seuss dropped a hit of acid, blasted some Jefferson Starship and rolled around on the wire with every Who in Whoville. I think I’ll keep it.
Inferior design aside, I ultimately learned a thing or two. The nesting boxes are supposed to be up off the ground. That is correct. For those of you keeping score you just spent two weeks cutting back the birds flight feathers only to hang their houses in the sky. It’s just sick.
Higher than the nest boxes, you are to build a roost. This is where the birds crap at night so they do not crap on your breakfast eggs. Of course the roost is usually OVER the nesting boxes, so whatever you do, don’t use those perforated plastic milk crates.
For young birds maintain a heat light in the hen house. Then on cooler nights an animal with a brain the size of an bulimic toe nail clipping will make the conscious decision to forgo your nest boxes, bypass the instinctual roost and leap into a tanning bed.
And finally there is the feed regime. I asked several experts and read up on feeding as well. Make sure to give your chickens, starter formula, mash, growth formula, start & grow, brood formula, grit, no grit, scraps, no scraps, goat placenta, nothing suggested on the internet, tetramyaicn, no antibiotics, medicated starter, non-medicated starter and never ever switch in-between.
I may not be Queen of the Coop yet, but I’m working on it. Though I am still a zoologist and I still know Birds 101. Here are two myths I can help with. First, you do not need a rooster to get eggs. Most folk, especially those who have never owned chickens, will advise you on chickens. Each will insist you need a rooster for a while to do his manly duties, then you can slip him in the pot. As appealing as this concept is, your pot is a separate issue.
Roosters are only needed to make fertile eggs. Hens are all that is needed to make breakfast eggs. Fertile eggs are just peachy if raising chicks was such a joy the first time you want to repeat the whole freakin’ process. In addition there is always the risk of breaking a fertilized egg open and finding a 50% formed chick fetus hitting your hot skillet. Yum! Years of therapy will follow.
To keep it straight in your mind consider this: You are going about your life. Suddenly massive balls of calcium start stacking up inside your abdomen. Are you going to hold on to them just because you have not had sex lately?
The second bird myth is totally unrelated so I thought I would mention it. Penguins occur in nature from the Equator on Southward. That is down to the Antarctica, not the Arctic! No, they do not hang out with Polar Bears who live in the Arctic. No, you did not see them when you worked in Alaska, in the Arctic. Those were puffins. No, I am not sorry you look stupid to all those folks you told penguin tales to.
Yes, some penguin species even reside on the Galapagos Islands at the equator (Cold weather would kill them), not floating around on icebergs - and not in the Arctic! Yes, I realize my eggs are not all in one basket. Delusional, close-minded people who insist you need a rooster to fertilize your penguin eggs so polar bears won’t loose their food supply drove me crazy!
Cell Phones and the Dentist
Don't you just hate people who talk on their cell phones while they drive? Blindly babbling away, not paying attention to the road, endangering everyone nearby … so inconsiderate.
Anyway, today while I was chatting on the phone and driving to the dentist, I got a tiny bit distracted and turned onto the wrong road … twice. But I cleverly figured out a shortcut back to where I belonged and pulled into the parking lot right on time. Unfortunately, it was the parking lot at my doctor's office, not my dentist's.
Now, I've always been a little reluctant to go to the dentist. When I was young, they used to lie to me to get me there. Of course once I knew what was happening I would throw a crying fit — in the car on the way to the dentist, in the elevator on the way up to the office, in the waiting room, in the dentist's chair throughout the entire visit, in the office while my mother paid, in the elevator on the way down, in the car on the way home, and once again when my father came home that night just to be sure everyone knew how I felt about it.
My mother was afraid of the dentist. And she shared that fear and its effects with her children. She picked our dentist based solely on the fact that he would give her lots of Novocain. Lots of Novocain. Much Novocain. Beyond that, she never really bothered about the skills-as-a-dentist thing.
My own theory is that dentistry was invented by Beelzebub, based largely on the fact that our dentist looked exactly the way I imagined a Devil's minion would look. And, oh, by the way, when we were finally done and wanted nothing more than to run as fast and as far as possible, he would smile at us kids, with his coke-bottle-thick glasses making him look popeyed, and hand us each a lollipop. Maybe not the best dentist, but surely a clever businessman lining up return customers.
Today, even after better dentists have shown me that there may possibly be some redeeming value in dental care, I still get a bit unsettled before an appointment. Therefore, I have two things to say about the cell phone thing:
1) It might have been the fact of going to the dentist that distracted me and not the cell phone. I think, maybe, my subconscious was trying to get me to go to the wrong place and miss my appointment completely. Self-protection is a very powerful instinct in times of peril. That could explain it.
2) If it was the cell phone use, I think I deserve an exemption from condemnation because, after all, I was on my way to the dentist. Maybe I wouldn't have been able to talk again when I came out. One little slip of the drill and, oops. Or I could have choked on one of the forty appliances they had crammed into my mouth just before asking me how I was doing.
Either way, I feel completely justified in continuing to judge others if they use a cell phone while driving. Unless, of course, I learn that they were on their way to the dentist.
Anyway, today while I was chatting on the phone and driving to the dentist, I got a tiny bit distracted and turned onto the wrong road … twice. But I cleverly figured out a shortcut back to where I belonged and pulled into the parking lot right on time. Unfortunately, it was the parking lot at my doctor's office, not my dentist's.
Now, I've always been a little reluctant to go to the dentist. When I was young, they used to lie to me to get me there. Of course once I knew what was happening I would throw a crying fit — in the car on the way to the dentist, in the elevator on the way up to the office, in the waiting room, in the dentist's chair throughout the entire visit, in the office while my mother paid, in the elevator on the way down, in the car on the way home, and once again when my father came home that night just to be sure everyone knew how I felt about it.
My mother was afraid of the dentist. And she shared that fear and its effects with her children. She picked our dentist based solely on the fact that he would give her lots of Novocain. Lots of Novocain. Much Novocain. Beyond that, she never really bothered about the skills-as-a-dentist thing.
My own theory is that dentistry was invented by Beelzebub, based largely on the fact that our dentist looked exactly the way I imagined a Devil's minion would look. And, oh, by the way, when we were finally done and wanted nothing more than to run as fast and as far as possible, he would smile at us kids, with his coke-bottle-thick glasses making him look popeyed, and hand us each a lollipop. Maybe not the best dentist, but surely a clever businessman lining up return customers.
Today, even after better dentists have shown me that there may possibly be some redeeming value in dental care, I still get a bit unsettled before an appointment. Therefore, I have two things to say about the cell phone thing:
1) It might have been the fact of going to the dentist that distracted me and not the cell phone. I think, maybe, my subconscious was trying to get me to go to the wrong place and miss my appointment completely. Self-protection is a very powerful instinct in times of peril. That could explain it.
2) If it was the cell phone use, I think I deserve an exemption from condemnation because, after all, I was on my way to the dentist. Maybe I wouldn't have been able to talk again when I came out. One little slip of the drill and, oops. Or I could have choked on one of the forty appliances they had crammed into my mouth just before asking me how I was doing.
Either way, I feel completely justified in continuing to judge others if they use a cell phone while driving. Unless, of course, I learn that they were on their way to the dentist.
By Plane or By Car; On-Screen Entertainment Travels With You
Entertainment and travel are more integrated today than ever before. In fact, two airlines, JetBlue and Song, are using in-flight entertainment as a top selling point with consumers.
JetBlue was the first carrier to debut up to 24 channels of live DirecTV programming in-flight in 2000 and remains the only carrier offering satellite television free at every seat.
JetBlue also plans to offer customers first-run movies, sports and news programming, plus other original entertainment developed by Fox.
These features arrive just as Song Airlines is announcing the addition of pay-per-view to its existing live television on flights.
For those not traveling by plane, there's good news: On-screen entertainment is rapidly expanding to automobiles. According to J.D. Power & Associates, 28 percent of new 2003 full-size sport utility vehicles were equipped with a passenger entertainment system, and 46 percent of consumers are interested in adding rear-seat entertainment to their next car.
Because satellite's broad coverage area reaches not only planes but also automobiles in motion throughout the United States, live satellite television is a new, fast-growing trend in vehicle entertainment. It's made possible by companies like Rhode Island-based KVH Industries.
KVH Industries has created the first in-motion satellite television system, called the TracVision A5, especially for use in passenger vehicles. The system contains a rugged, low-profile antenna and a compact satellite receiver.
The TracVision A5 system can support multiple video screens and receivers and is designed to be a part of a versatile entertainment system that can include DVD players, VCRs and console game systems. It is compatible with DirecTV service; KVH plans to also offer a Dish Network-compatible receiver in the future.
The system is available at more than 800 U.S. retail locations and costs around $2,295. The monthly satellite service fee varies depending on the package selected but is similar to home programming.
JetBlue was the first carrier to debut up to 24 channels of live DirecTV programming in-flight in 2000 and remains the only carrier offering satellite television free at every seat.
JetBlue also plans to offer customers first-run movies, sports and news programming, plus other original entertainment developed by Fox.
These features arrive just as Song Airlines is announcing the addition of pay-per-view to its existing live television on flights.
For those not traveling by plane, there's good news: On-screen entertainment is rapidly expanding to automobiles. According to J.D. Power & Associates, 28 percent of new 2003 full-size sport utility vehicles were equipped with a passenger entertainment system, and 46 percent of consumers are interested in adding rear-seat entertainment to their next car.
Because satellite's broad coverage area reaches not only planes but also automobiles in motion throughout the United States, live satellite television is a new, fast-growing trend in vehicle entertainment. It's made possible by companies like Rhode Island-based KVH Industries.
KVH Industries has created the first in-motion satellite television system, called the TracVision A5, especially for use in passenger vehicles. The system contains a rugged, low-profile antenna and a compact satellite receiver.
The TracVision A5 system can support multiple video screens and receivers and is designed to be a part of a versatile entertainment system that can include DVD players, VCRs and console game systems. It is compatible with DirecTV service; KVH plans to also offer a Dish Network-compatible receiver in the future.
The system is available at more than 800 U.S. retail locations and costs around $2,295. The monthly satellite service fee varies depending on the package selected but is similar to home programming.
Black Humor, College Humor, Blond Jokes, funny pictures
I have had over the years (48 of them) a lot of time to review and participate in many different styles of humor and have studied their various effects on the human psyche. I will convey many of my observations, thoughts and ramblings where humor is involved. Over the next few months I will write on the following topics Cold Humor, Fat Humor, Bad Humor, Tasteless Humor and others.
Black Humor: This is the type of stuff that doesn’t quite make the Darwin’s but leaves the participant alive. In my findings, if it doesn’t kill you, it’s funny. Let me elaborate; as you have no doubt seen some of the horrendous accidents portrayed in the evening news, each of which I think to myself what were they thinking about. It’s clear to me that they aren’t thinking about what they are doing. Let me tell you of one such case I heard several years ago. Several guys were sitting around on the back porch, drinking beer as sometimes guys will do. They were also shooting 22’s at anything that moved. They had been doing so for some time as the local wildlife lay strewn about the place along with the empty beer cans when one of the drunken participants spotted a skunk. Now if you know anything about skunks you know that they are not the perfect prey; they shoot back and although a direct hit by the skunk will not kill, it does take awhile to explain to your significant other the events of your day. I digress; back to the story. The skunk avoided the first 100 to 200 rounds fired by the drunken lot and eventually found haven within a culvert placed in the ground at some angle enabling the skunk to travel back and down in the ground out of the reach of the drunken group. One of the drunkards decided to get the skunk to voluntarily leave his haven by smoking him out. So the drunkards start stuffing the culvert with dried grass and newspaper and lit it afire. The skunk however did not relinquish his hiding space, he stayed in the culvert. The drunkards then thought that because of the angle of the culvert that the smoke had likely not reached the skunk so they decided to make another attempt by pouring gasoline into the culvert. They gathered up the 5 gallon gas can and poured the entire contents into the culvert. Having the gas poured in they attempted to ignite the gas by throwing lit matches into the culvert after the gasoline. The lit matches would burn out before igniting the gas and so one of the drunkards, specifically the one that this black humor is written about, decided the best method of igniting the gasoline would be to climb into the culvert prior to igniting the match, so down he goes. At last he gets the gasoline ignited and what happens next is a thing of beauty. I will paraphrase the newswoman’s interview with witnesses. “He came out of that culvert like he was shot from a cannon, with his hair on fire, leaving a smoke trail that went from the culvert, over the back porch the drunkards had been enjoying all afternoon into the front yard where he lay, clothing smoldering, hair gone and burnt to second and third degree burns about his face and upper torso.” Now that’s funny!
If you would like to see other funny things I have accumulated over those 48 years go to my website and check them out http://www.TheDailyQuip.com/ and please have a humorous day, it’s the only way your going to make it out sane…
Black Humor: This is the type of stuff that doesn’t quite make the Darwin’s but leaves the participant alive. In my findings, if it doesn’t kill you, it’s funny. Let me elaborate; as you have no doubt seen some of the horrendous accidents portrayed in the evening news, each of which I think to myself what were they thinking about. It’s clear to me that they aren’t thinking about what they are doing. Let me tell you of one such case I heard several years ago. Several guys were sitting around on the back porch, drinking beer as sometimes guys will do. They were also shooting 22’s at anything that moved. They had been doing so for some time as the local wildlife lay strewn about the place along with the empty beer cans when one of the drunken participants spotted a skunk. Now if you know anything about skunks you know that they are not the perfect prey; they shoot back and although a direct hit by the skunk will not kill, it does take awhile to explain to your significant other the events of your day. I digress; back to the story. The skunk avoided the first 100 to 200 rounds fired by the drunken lot and eventually found haven within a culvert placed in the ground at some angle enabling the skunk to travel back and down in the ground out of the reach of the drunken group. One of the drunkards decided to get the skunk to voluntarily leave his haven by smoking him out. So the drunkards start stuffing the culvert with dried grass and newspaper and lit it afire. The skunk however did not relinquish his hiding space, he stayed in the culvert. The drunkards then thought that because of the angle of the culvert that the smoke had likely not reached the skunk so they decided to make another attempt by pouring gasoline into the culvert. They gathered up the 5 gallon gas can and poured the entire contents into the culvert. Having the gas poured in they attempted to ignite the gas by throwing lit matches into the culvert after the gasoline. The lit matches would burn out before igniting the gas and so one of the drunkards, specifically the one that this black humor is written about, decided the best method of igniting the gasoline would be to climb into the culvert prior to igniting the match, so down he goes. At last he gets the gasoline ignited and what happens next is a thing of beauty. I will paraphrase the newswoman’s interview with witnesses. “He came out of that culvert like he was shot from a cannon, with his hair on fire, leaving a smoke trail that went from the culvert, over the back porch the drunkards had been enjoying all afternoon into the front yard where he lay, clothing smoldering, hair gone and burnt to second and third degree burns about his face and upper torso.” Now that’s funny!
If you would like to see other funny things I have accumulated over those 48 years go to my website and check them out http://www.TheDailyQuip.com/ and please have a humorous day, it’s the only way your going to make it out sane…
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Beginners Guide To The Internet
Recent studies have shown that there are now well over one hundred websites available on the computernet. This puts it second only to ceefax as a useful source of information. Monkey Empire has rounded up the best of these sites, ones which enhance the life of real people like you, not the spotty bearded freaks that you picked on at school for being computerboys or nerdnspellgirls, no real people who go out and drink alcoholic sugar liquid in crowded town bars and watch soap operas and need to have their behaviour validated by weekly publications littering the news stands like so much used bog-roll. Well this is a virtual equivalent of those c-list simpering shitfests so let me validate your fucking behaviour, that's right I'll tell you where to go and what to fucking do because it will keep you the fuck away from me so that I can continue my work in peace. And when my work is done holy dong you'll know about it. I'll be the god damn mayor of London. Anyway here are the top 5:
Google Founded in 1923 the Google Corporation originally produced radiator hoses and casino chips before entering the lucrative internet search market in 1997. Google is like a thesaurus, simply type in words and it will give you a list of related words from inside your computer and beyond. People who are good at Google (known as Hardcore Googlists) have even discovered that some of these words open up whole new websites, and sometimes even pictures. Google is now so widespread that none other than Leonard Nimoy was once overheard to say "you can find anything on google you really can, may the force be with you".
eBay eBay shot to fame in 1999 when that chick that is really a witch in Buffy the Vampire Slayer managed to buy a special kettle that contained a genie that would save the world from the online auction site. Whilst you yourself may not be so lucky you will be able to get a bargain on the dvd of that very same episode, or maybe some new brasswork for your front door, or a ninja turtle action figure that you have never forgiven your parents for not buying for you when you were 12 years old. Adventurous types may even wish to try selling items that they no longer have use for. eBay is now so widespread that none other than Leonard Nimoy was once overheard to say "you can find anything on eBay you really can, may the force be with you".
The BBCThe Beeb, good old Auntie, The British Broadcasting Corporation, no longer the stuffy 2 channel black and white tv monolith that doesn't start until midday and finishes with the national anthem at teatime oh no the Beeb has been forced to get with the times and after collecting your money and throwing it in a big pile for approximately 60 years when the internet bubble came bouncing along the BBC was ready. It is now estimated that 87% of all internet sites are part of the BBC, this is in addition to their 167 digital TV channels, 2 radio stations and their Sandwich Toaster fast food chain. You give them money so that a bunch of London-blinkered new media tosspots can tell you what to do and you wouldn't have it any other way. The BBC is now so widespread that none other than Leonard Nimoy was once overheard to say "the BBC puts food on my table, it really does, may the force be with you".
MySpaceThe fact that you've made it this far down a Beginners Guide probably means you think that making a wonderful informative website such as this one is beyond your meagre skills. We don't hold that against you, you probably know more about footy or booking holidays in high street travel agents than us, takes all sorts doesn't it really. Well not any more, MySpace is the great leveller, the democratisation of the internet, now anyone can stick their photo online and surround it with flickering animated hearts floating across a purple background with yellow text talking about how you like to go out, watch telly and listen to music. Or maybe you are part of a subculture and you want your page to feature crunchy guitar music on a black background with pictures of you heavily made up to look like a vampire porn-star. Actually though MySpace is a game, you see other MySpace users can make virtual friends and then their picture appears under the "friends" list on your page. The game is to get your face on as many MySpace pages as possible, the one with the most displayed photos at the end of space and time wins and gets to become a baron of the afterlife. So don't get left behind, get on MySpace, get flirting and ego massaging and exchanging naked pictures with people who's age you can't be sure about or you might regret it for eternity and then some. MySpace is now so widespread that none other than Leonard Nimoy was once overheard to say "I've got 28 friends already I really have, may the force be with you".
Bat Ejection Techniques
People lie! They lie about the bliss of rural relocation. They lie about the size of fish they catch. They lie about being there for you. But, mostly, they lie about bats! Such a silly thing, yet no one can admit the ugly truth. “Bats only come into your house. It never happens to me,” friends say. Liars!
Evidence to the contrary exists. Bat visitations have occurred regularly in all three of my country homes. Each was a different style house, in a different town with different surroundings. No way am I the only person this is happening to! I’ll believe the annual summer bat inundation isn’t a part of normal life when butter is fat free and Smucky’s Electric gets back to me with that wiring estimate they promised just prior to the Mammoth die off.
One of my sisters in particular gets a kick out of telling people I am a witch attracting bats to my home like anorexics migrating to the Cannes Film Festival. She does it to be ornery – a competitive sport in my family. Of course, I could get even by pointing out right here in my very public essay that she is my OLDER sister by a DECADE. However, I am too peaceable and well centered for such adolescent behavior. Besides, you are here to learn another fine country skill – the Bat Ejection Technique (BET).
Lesson 1 – Why BET
Rural dwellers should all master BETs. Realtors will never admit to the Coloptera inundation plaguing the West. Property values would tumble! Amidst all this denial, a seamy cover-up has formed. Copies of Bat Removal for Dummies are burned at country BBQs and members of the Society of the Dead Elk deliver bat traps to farms under cover of darkness.
As my town’s resident City Idiot, I chose to break ranks. If Cidiots are not taught to deal properly with winged rodentia, both will suffer. Bats will be ‘baseballed’ into walls with brooms. If not, Cidiot homes will overflow with wiggling blankets of screeching critters. Folks will be driven back to the burbs in droves. Quite selfishly - I need newbies to stay in the country. Please don’t leave me alone out here! Take notes.
Lesson 2 - History of the BET
For whatever reasons bats enter homes in pairs. My hypothesis is; one holds the dog door open while the other flies through and vise versa. Attempts to document this behavior have been hampered by the presence of innumerable dogs kissing my eyes shut when I stake out the laundry room floor. Nonetheless, like bats to Noah’s ark, they arrive by twos.
Throughout history Novice Bat Ejectors dispelled unwanted intruders with the pacifistic Zero Interference Technique (ZIT). For a true ZIT open all windows and doors and cower on the floor waiting for the bats to fly back out. I researched the effectiveness of this method at my first country home. There are three problems with this technique:
Bats never leave as easily as they enter. A person could learn Arabic before the ZIT clears matters up.
Heat leaves houses quite quickly resulting in cold ZITs.
Bats tend to turn up in the middle of the night. Sleep deprivation is a direct side effect of ZITs.
Lesson 3 – Modernization
Athletic newbies frequently combine the open window/door approach of a ZIT with a more proactive approach. They jump around with a blanket in an attempt to herd bats outside. This is the Comforter Herding Ejection Technique (CHET). A good CHET take two people. Even then CHETs are hard.
Bats do not know they shouldn’t fly around the blanket.
The technique is rendered totally ineffective when your husband, who is suppose to hold the opposite side of the blanket, does a “stop, drop and roll” every time he spots a bat from thirty yards away.
At night neighbors can see you, but not the bat. So there you are running amuck in your PJs. The doors and windows are wide open as you spiraling over furniture with your flag-like fabric in tow. Meanwhile your underwear-clad man is having what is apparently some version of repeating epileptic seizures. And you, you cold-hearted bitch, you just keep on dancing.
Lesson 4 – BET Evolution
Bat invasion number three of year number two was a turning point for me. For some bizarre reason I was washing the morning dishes. We must have been out of coffee. Obviously I was not quick-witted enough to get out of dish duty. Suddenly, I heard the high-pitched chatter of a bat straight over my head.
The space over my cabinets is where all my gigantic jelly-making kettles are poised. Grabbing the step stool, I hovered near and listened. Something was in my stoneware – dark, like a cave, the crafty little bugger. Please, don’t let it get airborne. I have to go to town this morning, I thought. There was no time for the traditional CHET dance.
My cerebral light bulb clicked on. Hey, It’s easier to catch bats when they aren’t moving. A Nobel Prize for would be mine. Apparently washing dishes has some net value after all. I slid a plate over the stoneware rim and took my captive out side.
Plate removed, an upside-down shake and plop. The bat was on the ground. I watched for a moment making sure my son’s devil cat did not turn up. Finally, the bat orientated itself and flew off with chatter. Dam, I’m good, I mused. Then I turned and took two steps towards the door. Gasp! Leap! Curse!
Something bad hit my bare foot. Reflexes took over. I went for a field goal. Another bat had been in the jar. Curse! Hebbie Jebies! Will I never learn? Twos, always twos! Scratches, tiny claws on my foot - it was all to early. First dishes, then this.
The traumatized bat landed several feet away. It took a good five minutes before the winged menace recovered enough to fly off. Headed for town, I left a note for my son. “Finish the dishes.”
Lesson 5 – BET Mastery
I learned two things that morning. First, generic dish soap sucks. Second, a motionless bat is the best bat to catch. Chasing them in flight is a fool’s game. In retrospect Samuel, my Great Pyrenees, had attempted to point this out earlier that spring.
Hearing one of the midnight riots, I ordered all my dogs out. There was no need to look for the cause. I knew by then what the combination of barking and a synchronized chase meant at 1 a.m. Ho hum, more bats in the house. The other dogs complied. Sam however stood there looking sleepy, stubborn, sad and guilty.
Anyone who owns a Pyrenees knows this is their natural state. Just as I demanded, “Samuel, go!” I spotted the diminutive little wing sticking out from under his massive front paw. Here Mom, a motionless bat is the best bat to catch. He is a genius!
BET Summary
Grab a teacup or the aquarium net and a saucer
Wait for a landing
Cup/net over the Bat
Saucer or magazine carefully slid under
Out the door it goes
Hee Haw! With practice you’ll be back in bed before the underwear-clad epileptic knows your gone. You can BET on it
Evidence to the contrary exists. Bat visitations have occurred regularly in all three of my country homes. Each was a different style house, in a different town with different surroundings. No way am I the only person this is happening to! I’ll believe the annual summer bat inundation isn’t a part of normal life when butter is fat free and Smucky’s Electric gets back to me with that wiring estimate they promised just prior to the Mammoth die off.
One of my sisters in particular gets a kick out of telling people I am a witch attracting bats to my home like anorexics migrating to the Cannes Film Festival. She does it to be ornery – a competitive sport in my family. Of course, I could get even by pointing out right here in my very public essay that she is my OLDER sister by a DECADE. However, I am too peaceable and well centered for such adolescent behavior. Besides, you are here to learn another fine country skill – the Bat Ejection Technique (BET).
Lesson 1 – Why BET
Rural dwellers should all master BETs. Realtors will never admit to the Coloptera inundation plaguing the West. Property values would tumble! Amidst all this denial, a seamy cover-up has formed. Copies of Bat Removal for Dummies are burned at country BBQs and members of the Society of the Dead Elk deliver bat traps to farms under cover of darkness.
As my town’s resident City Idiot, I chose to break ranks. If Cidiots are not taught to deal properly with winged rodentia, both will suffer. Bats will be ‘baseballed’ into walls with brooms. If not, Cidiot homes will overflow with wiggling blankets of screeching critters. Folks will be driven back to the burbs in droves. Quite selfishly - I need newbies to stay in the country. Please don’t leave me alone out here! Take notes.
Lesson 2 - History of the BET
For whatever reasons bats enter homes in pairs. My hypothesis is; one holds the dog door open while the other flies through and vise versa. Attempts to document this behavior have been hampered by the presence of innumerable dogs kissing my eyes shut when I stake out the laundry room floor. Nonetheless, like bats to Noah’s ark, they arrive by twos.
Throughout history Novice Bat Ejectors dispelled unwanted intruders with the pacifistic Zero Interference Technique (ZIT). For a true ZIT open all windows and doors and cower on the floor waiting for the bats to fly back out. I researched the effectiveness of this method at my first country home. There are three problems with this technique:
Bats never leave as easily as they enter. A person could learn Arabic before the ZIT clears matters up.
Heat leaves houses quite quickly resulting in cold ZITs.
Bats tend to turn up in the middle of the night. Sleep deprivation is a direct side effect of ZITs.
Lesson 3 – Modernization
Athletic newbies frequently combine the open window/door approach of a ZIT with a more proactive approach. They jump around with a blanket in an attempt to herd bats outside. This is the Comforter Herding Ejection Technique (CHET). A good CHET take two people. Even then CHETs are hard.
Bats do not know they shouldn’t fly around the blanket.
The technique is rendered totally ineffective when your husband, who is suppose to hold the opposite side of the blanket, does a “stop, drop and roll” every time he spots a bat from thirty yards away.
At night neighbors can see you, but not the bat. So there you are running amuck in your PJs. The doors and windows are wide open as you spiraling over furniture with your flag-like fabric in tow. Meanwhile your underwear-clad man is having what is apparently some version of repeating epileptic seizures. And you, you cold-hearted bitch, you just keep on dancing.
Lesson 4 – BET Evolution
Bat invasion number three of year number two was a turning point for me. For some bizarre reason I was washing the morning dishes. We must have been out of coffee. Obviously I was not quick-witted enough to get out of dish duty. Suddenly, I heard the high-pitched chatter of a bat straight over my head.
The space over my cabinets is where all my gigantic jelly-making kettles are poised. Grabbing the step stool, I hovered near and listened. Something was in my stoneware – dark, like a cave, the crafty little bugger. Please, don’t let it get airborne. I have to go to town this morning, I thought. There was no time for the traditional CHET dance.
My cerebral light bulb clicked on. Hey, It’s easier to catch bats when they aren’t moving. A Nobel Prize for would be mine. Apparently washing dishes has some net value after all. I slid a plate over the stoneware rim and took my captive out side.
Plate removed, an upside-down shake and plop. The bat was on the ground. I watched for a moment making sure my son’s devil cat did not turn up. Finally, the bat orientated itself and flew off with chatter. Dam, I’m good, I mused. Then I turned and took two steps towards the door. Gasp! Leap! Curse!
Something bad hit my bare foot. Reflexes took over. I went for a field goal. Another bat had been in the jar. Curse! Hebbie Jebies! Will I never learn? Twos, always twos! Scratches, tiny claws on my foot - it was all to early. First dishes, then this.
The traumatized bat landed several feet away. It took a good five minutes before the winged menace recovered enough to fly off. Headed for town, I left a note for my son. “Finish the dishes.”
Lesson 5 – BET Mastery
I learned two things that morning. First, generic dish soap sucks. Second, a motionless bat is the best bat to catch. Chasing them in flight is a fool’s game. In retrospect Samuel, my Great Pyrenees, had attempted to point this out earlier that spring.
Hearing one of the midnight riots, I ordered all my dogs out. There was no need to look for the cause. I knew by then what the combination of barking and a synchronized chase meant at 1 a.m. Ho hum, more bats in the house. The other dogs complied. Sam however stood there looking sleepy, stubborn, sad and guilty.
Anyone who owns a Pyrenees knows this is their natural state. Just as I demanded, “Samuel, go!” I spotted the diminutive little wing sticking out from under his massive front paw. Here Mom, a motionless bat is the best bat to catch. He is a genius!
BET Summary
Grab a teacup or the aquarium net and a saucer
Wait for a landing
Cup/net over the Bat
Saucer or magazine carefully slid under
Out the door it goes
Hee Haw! With practice you’ll be back in bed before the underwear-clad epileptic knows your gone. You can BET on it
Basketball For Short People: Basket To Be Lowered
ince the 1950s, when short but fast players had a chance of making it onto a professional court – such as the legendary Bob Cousy of the Boston Celtics, known for startling innovations like dribbling and passing behind the back – the sport has been dominated by ever taller athletes, starting with the arrival of Wilt, The Stilt, Chamberlain.
Now, The National Basketball Association has come to realize that the trend to tall has demoralized people of who fall within the usual range of human height and that it has positively devastated short people.
Compared to the slam-dunking ways of the seven footers, these distressed athletes just can’t get people interested in watching them hoop it up. As a result, interest in the game as a participation sport has waned, and the association is concerned that, as fewer people work up their excitement about playing it, fewer of them will pay to see it.
In an effort to return basketball to the widely poplar place it held in the minds and hearts of the American public before it became the exclusive province of players whose mothers are suspected of stretching them as infants, the association is considering legitimizing a court just for people of average height, with a special accommodation for shorter people. The basic plan calls for the basket to be lowered by one foot for players from 5’ 6” to 6’ 6” and two feet for people who are even shorter but still imagine slam-dunking the ball and hanging from the hoop in a celebratory manner.
When the new rules go into effect, virtually everyone will finally be able to play the game in as dramatic a fashion as today’s seven footers.
For now the plan calls for limiting the innovation to amateur players, but the association confides that if fans once again take an interest in watching average-size people play the game, there is the potential to establish an entire new league, made up of speed merchants who are only eye-high to a current pro’s elbows.
Now, The National Basketball Association has come to realize that the trend to tall has demoralized people of who fall within the usual range of human height and that it has positively devastated short people.
Compared to the slam-dunking ways of the seven footers, these distressed athletes just can’t get people interested in watching them hoop it up. As a result, interest in the game as a participation sport has waned, and the association is concerned that, as fewer people work up their excitement about playing it, fewer of them will pay to see it.
In an effort to return basketball to the widely poplar place it held in the minds and hearts of the American public before it became the exclusive province of players whose mothers are suspected of stretching them as infants, the association is considering legitimizing a court just for people of average height, with a special accommodation for shorter people. The basic plan calls for the basket to be lowered by one foot for players from 5’ 6” to 6’ 6” and two feet for people who are even shorter but still imagine slam-dunking the ball and hanging from the hoop in a celebratory manner.
When the new rules go into effect, virtually everyone will finally be able to play the game in as dramatic a fashion as today’s seven footers.
For now the plan calls for limiting the innovation to amateur players, but the association confides that if fans once again take an interest in watching average-size people play the game, there is the potential to establish an entire new league, made up of speed merchants who are only eye-high to a current pro’s elbows.
Baby Boomers Moderate Exercise; Notice Scarcity of Seniors In Marathons
Baby boomers, who exercise more than any generation before them, have been flocking to orthopedic surgeons to tend to their aching tendons and joints.
As news of the growing need for surgical intervention spread, a number of boomers have found the willpower to moderate the intensity of their workout routines.
Personal experience has also confirmed the wisdom of moderation. For example, one inveterate marathoner was shocked by the surprising perception that there were not a lot of senior citizens dashing across the finish line in the New York Marathon.
He began to wonder if at a certain age less strenuous activity might actually be, not only the better part of healthcare, but all that’s generally possible. He also began to ask himself if seniors who persisted in intense physical challenges like the marathon were absent at or near the finish line because they literally dropped by the wayside. He dismissed that possibility, because it really brought into question his hope for up-to-the-last-minute youth.
He shared the possible advisability of moderation with a fellow boomer, who happened to be his girlfriend. She agreed to take it into consideration but required proof of the astonishing comeuppance. So, while working out at her gym, she looked around and noticed, to her amazement, that there were not a lot of seniors sweating along with her, especially on the running track and in the weight room.
Most unsettling of all, she noticed that a confounded lot of the runners looked younger than she did.
She dared to break the stunning revelation to a friend, who told her boyfriend. Since hot news has a way of making it through the boomer vine, soon the bewildered generation was abuzz with the invitation to moderation.
Being serious about their health, many have researched the bone-crushing consequences of persistent over-exercise and have discovered that that they really should take it a little easy on themselves, especially since many of them are flirting with age 60. It seems that if they can persuade themselves of the wisdom at least some moderation they will go a long way toward preserving their knees, ankles, and assorted joints, tendons, and muscles. They could also save on visits to the surgeon.
As expected, however, hard-line boomers are adopting an over-exercise-until-you-drop attitude.
As one recalcitrant member of the group said, “Hey, it’s like exercising came with the genes. I can’t change my routine anymore than I can change my feet, which wake up every morning, ready to run for miles.”
This group is so determined they plan to exercise excessively, even if it means hobbling into old age due to self-inflicted hobbling. As another member of the over-exercise or you’re over-the-hill group stated, ”Look, if I’m going to need a knee replacement or two, I might as well be one of the first in my generation to get one.”
As news of the growing need for surgical intervention spread, a number of boomers have found the willpower to moderate the intensity of their workout routines.
Personal experience has also confirmed the wisdom of moderation. For example, one inveterate marathoner was shocked by the surprising perception that there were not a lot of senior citizens dashing across the finish line in the New York Marathon.
He began to wonder if at a certain age less strenuous activity might actually be, not only the better part of healthcare, but all that’s generally possible. He also began to ask himself if seniors who persisted in intense physical challenges like the marathon were absent at or near the finish line because they literally dropped by the wayside. He dismissed that possibility, because it really brought into question his hope for up-to-the-last-minute youth.
He shared the possible advisability of moderation with a fellow boomer, who happened to be his girlfriend. She agreed to take it into consideration but required proof of the astonishing comeuppance. So, while working out at her gym, she looked around and noticed, to her amazement, that there were not a lot of seniors sweating along with her, especially on the running track and in the weight room.
Most unsettling of all, she noticed that a confounded lot of the runners looked younger than she did.
She dared to break the stunning revelation to a friend, who told her boyfriend. Since hot news has a way of making it through the boomer vine, soon the bewildered generation was abuzz with the invitation to moderation.
Being serious about their health, many have researched the bone-crushing consequences of persistent over-exercise and have discovered that that they really should take it a little easy on themselves, especially since many of them are flirting with age 60. It seems that if they can persuade themselves of the wisdom at least some moderation they will go a long way toward preserving their knees, ankles, and assorted joints, tendons, and muscles. They could also save on visits to the surgeon.
As expected, however, hard-line boomers are adopting an over-exercise-until-you-drop attitude.
As one recalcitrant member of the group said, “Hey, it’s like exercising came with the genes. I can’t change my routine anymore than I can change my feet, which wake up every morning, ready to run for miles.”
This group is so determined they plan to exercise excessively, even if it means hobbling into old age due to self-inflicted hobbling. As another member of the over-exercise or you’re over-the-hill group stated, ”Look, if I’m going to need a knee replacement or two, I might as well be one of the first in my generation to get one.”
An Efficient Commute
This morning, as usual, I was pressed for time. I had to be to my "9 to 5" especially early and I woke up late. Instead of rushing around more than I already had been, I thought I would take the time to finish my "getting ready for work rituals" in the car. After all, I have seen countless others in my rearview mirror and beside me in their cars do the same, so why can't I?
As I grabbed my things, I raced out to the car and started on the 32-minute commute to work. As I was brushing my teeth, I realized, I had no place to spit out the toothpaste foam that accumulated in my mouth. So, I rolled down the window and masterfully drooled down the inside of my car. Crest and saliva dripped down the inside of my car door into the power lock and window switches. At least my car has a minty fresh scent to it. I took a swig of orange juice and remembered what vomit tasted like.
Not having a lot of time to worry about my toothbrushing experience, I figured I should do my hair next. One of the nice things about owning a Pontiac Vibe is the 110 Volt AC plug built into the car. Perfect for my wife's hair dryer. Red lights were spaced perfectly to allow me to safely dry my hair. I wasn't about to dry my hair with a towel in the car. That would be just dangerous. The hair paste and styling of my messy spiky hair went off without a hitch.
The final thing on my list to do before work is shave. Now, I won't really go into a lot of detail, but I will say that this was the hardest task of my commute. I made it to work with a little time to spare and the only evidence that I was really hurried this morning was a hairdryer on the passenger seat, dried drool on the driver's side door and shaving cream with beard stubble on the floor mats.
As I grabbed my things, I raced out to the car and started on the 32-minute commute to work. As I was brushing my teeth, I realized, I had no place to spit out the toothpaste foam that accumulated in my mouth. So, I rolled down the window and masterfully drooled down the inside of my car. Crest and saliva dripped down the inside of my car door into the power lock and window switches. At least my car has a minty fresh scent to it. I took a swig of orange juice and remembered what vomit tasted like.
Not having a lot of time to worry about my toothbrushing experience, I figured I should do my hair next. One of the nice things about owning a Pontiac Vibe is the 110 Volt AC plug built into the car. Perfect for my wife's hair dryer. Red lights were spaced perfectly to allow me to safely dry my hair. I wasn't about to dry my hair with a towel in the car. That would be just dangerous. The hair paste and styling of my messy spiky hair went off without a hitch.
The final thing on my list to do before work is shave. Now, I won't really go into a lot of detail, but I will say that this was the hardest task of my commute. I made it to work with a little time to spare and the only evidence that I was really hurried this morning was a hairdryer on the passenger seat, dried drool on the driver's side door and shaving cream with beard stubble on the floor mats.
A Revised History Of Pasta
While Marco Polo, a Venetian, is generally given credit for discovering noodles in China, recent research suggests that Italian pasta in all its glorious varieties was actually discovered in Rome nearly a century earlier, and quite by accident, by a remarkably unlikely epicurean named Julius Amplonius, with the able assistance of an invading barbarian named Klunk, The Great.
The momentous event occurred one afternoon when this portly patrician was dining at a chic restaurant just off the Roman Forum. He was savoring a sip of red wine from Tuscany when a group of alarmed citizens came running by, screeching, “The barbarians are coming! The barbarians are coming!”
Amplonius had witnessed their arrival before, and by now he had made peace with the ancient wisdom, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may be out of food and wine.” It was by such Stoicism that the wise were able to witness the destruction of the Roman Empire while preserving a somewhat peaceful life. So, with a knowing smile, Julius simply raised his glass toward the fleeing crowd.
“What are you going to do, Julie, just sit there and eat?” a citizen who knew him quite well asked.
“Why not?” he replied. “I’m thirsty. Not to mention hungry.” With that, he indulged in another taste of the Tuscan red.
“You’re crazy!” a speeding friend called. “Run, Julie! Run!”
Just then a waitress who doubled as a temptress arrived with Julie’s lunch, which might be described as a plate of proto-pasta. It consisted of a flat, round piece of dough that hung just a bit over the margins of the plate. It had a baked tomato sitting in the middle of it, with a single chunk of parmesan cheese next to it, and around both was a wreath of fragrant basil leaves.
“Enjoy your plano,” she said, putting down the dish, for that is the name the proto-pasta was known by.
“Thank you, gorgeous,” Julius told her, and gave her a pinch.
“Oh, you silly man,” she replied, and, looking about, seemed nervous. “Can you do me a favor, love, and close out your bill now?”
“No problem, you sex kitten,” he said, and reached for his purse. He took out enough Roman coinage to include a generous tip. “Keep the change,” he told her, and pursed his lips expectantly.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, and gave him a luscious but ever-so-brief kiss. Then she hurried off after the other fleeing citizens.
Julius calmly picked up a knife and fork and began to eat his proto-pasta.
Just as he cut off and savored his first bite, in rushed a huge, fur-covered barbarian, with a leather shield and the fateful sword with which he would help Julius discover pasta in many of the varieties we enjoy to this day, from lasagna to angel hair.
“Uh!” he grunted, and raised his sword.
Julius continued to dine. “Uh! Uh!” the barbarian raged, for the sound “uh” comprised much of the everyday range of his proto-language. To attract the attention of the unperturbed diner, he swung his sword in a circle and just happened to whack off the head of a statue of the great Augustus. It crashed to the marble floor.
Julius couldn’t help but notice the decapitation and, placing a leaf of basil on his tongue, said, “That wasn’t very nice. I kind of liked that statue.”
The barbarian could not, of course, understand a word. In an effort to establish a bit of good will, at least long enough to allow him to finish his meal, Julius held up his bottle of wine. “Like some vino?”
“Huh-Uh!” the barbarian managed to say.
“Suit yourself,” Julie told him. “Got a name?”
The barbarian stared at him without comprehension.
“Name?” Julius repeated, pointing to himself and then at the barbarian to illustrate the point of his question.
“Klunk,” the barbarian said.
“I might have guessed,” Julius commented.
“Klunk, The Great,” the barbarian continued, with some intellectual effort.
“Good for you,” Julius told him, and put out his hand. “I’m Julius, The Roman, also known as Julie, The Ample. Have a seat.”
“Huh-uh! I am conqueror – conqueror of Rome!” Klunk managed to say.
“Good for you!” Julie told him, and couldn’t resist asking the most challenging question. “Are you sure you can afford the upkeep? It’s an expensive city to maintain.”
“What is upkeep?” Klunk wanted to know.
“You’ll find out,” Julius advised him. “Now, come on. Have a seat. You’ve had a hard day.” Then he pointed to his dish and indicated a reluctant willingness to share some of his food. “And enjoy some plano.”
Klunk looked down at the plate, and asked, “What is plano?”
“You don't know?” Julie inquired. “Where have you been?”
“Other side of the Alps,” Klunk managed to get out.
“Oh, no wonder,” Julie replied, and decided to educate the deprived soul. “See. This is a plate. Ever hear of a plate?”
“Plate?”
“Instead of eating off the table, or the ground, you eat off of a plate.”
“Uh,” Klunk said, with apparent understanding.
“Now, on the plate we put a flat piece of boiled dough, called plano,” Julius continued, lifting up the edge with his fork to demonstrate. “Then we put all kinds of goodies on top of it. In this case, a tomato, a piece of cheese, and basil leaves.”
“Uh-huh.” Klunk acknowledged.
“All you do is take a knife and fork,” Julius explained, picking the utensils up slowly, so Klunk wouldn’t mistake his intentions and send his head rolling the way of the great Augustus’s marble head. “Then you cut off a piece.” He went through the process and took a bite. “Ah, delicious! Sure you won’t have any?”
“Uh-huh,” Klunk said, holding his ground, and repeated with some effort, “Plano.”
“Excellent!” Julius exclaimed. “You'll be a true Roman in no time!”
“Klunk – a Roman?” the barbarian responded, visibly insulted, and raised his sword high above Julius. Then, unexpectedly, he brought the sword down on the plate and cut the plano right in half. “Now, what do you call it?” he was somehow able to ask.
Julius looked down at the two half-moons, and said, “I think I’ll call that one big agnolotti.” Then he took another sip of wine and smiled at Klunk.
Incensed at his inability to frighten Julius, he raised his sword again and whacked the plate three or four times. “What do you call it now?”
Julius examined it, and said, “This I’ll call lasagne.” With that, he took a bite and savored it.
Now furious, Klunk attacked the plate repeatedly, and demanded, “What do you call it now?”
Julius, despite his indifference to fate, was a bit shaken by all the clatter, and said, “I will name it linguine.”
Needless to say, Klunk swung his sword at the plate with an unprecedented volley of strokes. “What is it now?”
Julius examined the mishmash on his plate. By now, the plano was cut into thin strips, the tomato was diced, and the cheese was grated. After some deliberation, Julius announced, “You made what I will call spaghetti.” Still remaining remarkably calm, at least on the exterior, Julius took his fork and wound some spaghetti around it. Then he took a bite. “Delicious! And fun, too,” he told Klunk.
Enraged at his seemingly imperturbable true Roman, the barbarian now slashed at the contents of the plate until his arms were a veritable blur. Then, short of breath, he sighed, “Tell me what you name that.”
Julius looked closely at the mayhem in his plate. Now, the pasta was as thin as he could imagine it, and the tomato sauce, cheese, and basil were all mixed together. “It is so thin I think I will name it angel hair.”
Klunk became unexpectedly curious and bent toward Julius. “Angel hair? What for? You no angel. You fat Roman.”
Considering how finely the plano was now sliced, Julius could not imagine how much longer it could invite the attentions of Klunk and imagined that his own neck might well be the next object of the barbarian’s fury. Ever the clever Roman, he noticed that, as a result of Klunk’s exertion, his tummy was showing a bit.
Julie was, of course, also aware of the legendary weakness of the barbarian shield, as opposed to the metal shield that accounted for much of the impenetrability of the storied Roman phalanx.
So he pretended to move his knife toward the last remaining decent-size piece of tomato, saying, “No, my friend, I am not an angel.” With that, he quickly stabbed the somewhat exhausted Klunk, and added, “But you’re about to become one.”
Klunk looked down at his sudden, fatal wound with shock and fell to the ground with a thud. His head knocked the table and, if Julius’s hands weren’t so quick, the movement would have upset his glass of wine.
Leaning back and enjoying a sip, he said, “I think I’m gonna call all these things I discovered after my beautiful girlfriend, Pastina.” Then he rolled a bit on his fork and indulged in another mouthful, musing, “I just love Pastina.”
All the names Julius invented that day, with the undoubted help of the ill-fated barbarian Klunk, have come down through the centuries without alteration, except for the categorical appellation, which usage would eventually abbreviate to the more familiar word “pasta.”
The momentous event occurred one afternoon when this portly patrician was dining at a chic restaurant just off the Roman Forum. He was savoring a sip of red wine from Tuscany when a group of alarmed citizens came running by, screeching, “The barbarians are coming! The barbarians are coming!”
Amplonius had witnessed their arrival before, and by now he had made peace with the ancient wisdom, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may be out of food and wine.” It was by such Stoicism that the wise were able to witness the destruction of the Roman Empire while preserving a somewhat peaceful life. So, with a knowing smile, Julius simply raised his glass toward the fleeing crowd.
“What are you going to do, Julie, just sit there and eat?” a citizen who knew him quite well asked.
“Why not?” he replied. “I’m thirsty. Not to mention hungry.” With that, he indulged in another taste of the Tuscan red.
“You’re crazy!” a speeding friend called. “Run, Julie! Run!”
Just then a waitress who doubled as a temptress arrived with Julie’s lunch, which might be described as a plate of proto-pasta. It consisted of a flat, round piece of dough that hung just a bit over the margins of the plate. It had a baked tomato sitting in the middle of it, with a single chunk of parmesan cheese next to it, and around both was a wreath of fragrant basil leaves.
“Enjoy your plano,” she said, putting down the dish, for that is the name the proto-pasta was known by.
“Thank you, gorgeous,” Julius told her, and gave her a pinch.
“Oh, you silly man,” she replied, and, looking about, seemed nervous. “Can you do me a favor, love, and close out your bill now?”
“No problem, you sex kitten,” he said, and reached for his purse. He took out enough Roman coinage to include a generous tip. “Keep the change,” he told her, and pursed his lips expectantly.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, and gave him a luscious but ever-so-brief kiss. Then she hurried off after the other fleeing citizens.
Julius calmly picked up a knife and fork and began to eat his proto-pasta.
Just as he cut off and savored his first bite, in rushed a huge, fur-covered barbarian, with a leather shield and the fateful sword with which he would help Julius discover pasta in many of the varieties we enjoy to this day, from lasagna to angel hair.
“Uh!” he grunted, and raised his sword.
Julius continued to dine. “Uh! Uh!” the barbarian raged, for the sound “uh” comprised much of the everyday range of his proto-language. To attract the attention of the unperturbed diner, he swung his sword in a circle and just happened to whack off the head of a statue of the great Augustus. It crashed to the marble floor.
Julius couldn’t help but notice the decapitation and, placing a leaf of basil on his tongue, said, “That wasn’t very nice. I kind of liked that statue.”
The barbarian could not, of course, understand a word. In an effort to establish a bit of good will, at least long enough to allow him to finish his meal, Julius held up his bottle of wine. “Like some vino?”
“Huh-Uh!” the barbarian managed to say.
“Suit yourself,” Julie told him. “Got a name?”
The barbarian stared at him without comprehension.
“Name?” Julius repeated, pointing to himself and then at the barbarian to illustrate the point of his question.
“Klunk,” the barbarian said.
“I might have guessed,” Julius commented.
“Klunk, The Great,” the barbarian continued, with some intellectual effort.
“Good for you,” Julius told him, and put out his hand. “I’m Julius, The Roman, also known as Julie, The Ample. Have a seat.”
“Huh-uh! I am conqueror – conqueror of Rome!” Klunk managed to say.
“Good for you!” Julie told him, and couldn’t resist asking the most challenging question. “Are you sure you can afford the upkeep? It’s an expensive city to maintain.”
“What is upkeep?” Klunk wanted to know.
“You’ll find out,” Julius advised him. “Now, come on. Have a seat. You’ve had a hard day.” Then he pointed to his dish and indicated a reluctant willingness to share some of his food. “And enjoy some plano.”
Klunk looked down at the plate, and asked, “What is plano?”
“You don't know?” Julie inquired. “Where have you been?”
“Other side of the Alps,” Klunk managed to get out.
“Oh, no wonder,” Julie replied, and decided to educate the deprived soul. “See. This is a plate. Ever hear of a plate?”
“Plate?”
“Instead of eating off the table, or the ground, you eat off of a plate.”
“Uh,” Klunk said, with apparent understanding.
“Now, on the plate we put a flat piece of boiled dough, called plano,” Julius continued, lifting up the edge with his fork to demonstrate. “Then we put all kinds of goodies on top of it. In this case, a tomato, a piece of cheese, and basil leaves.”
“Uh-huh.” Klunk acknowledged.
“All you do is take a knife and fork,” Julius explained, picking the utensils up slowly, so Klunk wouldn’t mistake his intentions and send his head rolling the way of the great Augustus’s marble head. “Then you cut off a piece.” He went through the process and took a bite. “Ah, delicious! Sure you won’t have any?”
“Uh-huh,” Klunk said, holding his ground, and repeated with some effort, “Plano.”
“Excellent!” Julius exclaimed. “You'll be a true Roman in no time!”
“Klunk – a Roman?” the barbarian responded, visibly insulted, and raised his sword high above Julius. Then, unexpectedly, he brought the sword down on the plate and cut the plano right in half. “Now, what do you call it?” he was somehow able to ask.
Julius looked down at the two half-moons, and said, “I think I’ll call that one big agnolotti.” Then he took another sip of wine and smiled at Klunk.
Incensed at his inability to frighten Julius, he raised his sword again and whacked the plate three or four times. “What do you call it now?”
Julius examined it, and said, “This I’ll call lasagne.” With that, he took a bite and savored it.
Now furious, Klunk attacked the plate repeatedly, and demanded, “What do you call it now?”
Julius, despite his indifference to fate, was a bit shaken by all the clatter, and said, “I will name it linguine.”
Needless to say, Klunk swung his sword at the plate with an unprecedented volley of strokes. “What is it now?”
Julius examined the mishmash on his plate. By now, the plano was cut into thin strips, the tomato was diced, and the cheese was grated. After some deliberation, Julius announced, “You made what I will call spaghetti.” Still remaining remarkably calm, at least on the exterior, Julius took his fork and wound some spaghetti around it. Then he took a bite. “Delicious! And fun, too,” he told Klunk.
Enraged at his seemingly imperturbable true Roman, the barbarian now slashed at the contents of the plate until his arms were a veritable blur. Then, short of breath, he sighed, “Tell me what you name that.”
Julius looked closely at the mayhem in his plate. Now, the pasta was as thin as he could imagine it, and the tomato sauce, cheese, and basil were all mixed together. “It is so thin I think I will name it angel hair.”
Klunk became unexpectedly curious and bent toward Julius. “Angel hair? What for? You no angel. You fat Roman.”
Considering how finely the plano was now sliced, Julius could not imagine how much longer it could invite the attentions of Klunk and imagined that his own neck might well be the next object of the barbarian’s fury. Ever the clever Roman, he noticed that, as a result of Klunk’s exertion, his tummy was showing a bit.
Julie was, of course, also aware of the legendary weakness of the barbarian shield, as opposed to the metal shield that accounted for much of the impenetrability of the storied Roman phalanx.
So he pretended to move his knife toward the last remaining decent-size piece of tomato, saying, “No, my friend, I am not an angel.” With that, he quickly stabbed the somewhat exhausted Klunk, and added, “But you’re about to become one.”
Klunk looked down at his sudden, fatal wound with shock and fell to the ground with a thud. His head knocked the table and, if Julius’s hands weren’t so quick, the movement would have upset his glass of wine.
Leaning back and enjoying a sip, he said, “I think I’m gonna call all these things I discovered after my beautiful girlfriend, Pastina.” Then he rolled a bit on his fork and indulged in another mouthful, musing, “I just love Pastina.”
All the names Julius invented that day, with the undoubted help of the ill-fated barbarian Klunk, have come down through the centuries without alteration, except for the categorical appellation, which usage would eventually abbreviate to the more familiar word “pasta.”
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