allergies: กันยายน 2008

วันอังคารที่ 30 กันยายน พ.ศ. 2551

Poor Rixs Almanac 8-13-05

Dear Poor Rix: A guy just invited me to a football game. I do not understand this event. Can you explain it? -- Sport WatcherThis game begins with the entrance of referees, people with striped shirts who enforce the rules. Occasionally, someone with striped shirt and long stick may appear, and wander aimlessly. He is a "lost golfer," and must be removed.Next come the cheerleaders, who bounce onto the field, often displaying skimpy uniforms and bare midriffs. And those are just the guys.The girls look even better, and may wave their massive pom-poms to excite the crowd. (We'll discuss pom-poms another time.)Then comes the team "mascot," often a farm animal, or a human dressed like one. Mascot uniforms are sometimes very silly, and not appropriate wearing apparel for, say, a wedding.Next come two teams that wear different colors, plus a helmet to hide their identities from the opponents they'll tackle later. For the next three hours each squad tries to go from one end of the field to the other.Pay attention to the quarterback, who controls the football. Sometimes he throws it to a teammate (a "pass"). Sometimes he hands it to somebody (a "handoff").And occasionally he may tiptoe to the sidelines, and give some cheerleader a big, wet kiss. This is called the "quarterback sneak."There's more to tell, Sport Watcher, but I gotta go. On TV, they're about to show a "quarterback sneak" instant replay.Poor Rix offers bad answers to good questions. Contact him at rixquinn@charter.net.Rix authored the recent writing book "Words That Stick." It's available from <a target="_new" href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1580085768/qid/">http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1580085768/qid/</a>For details on his weekly column, call him directly at 817-920-7999.

The Spare Parts Gremlins

Don't you just love getting a little something extra? Sure you do. Everybody does. That's why Online marketers throw in 36 bonus ebooks with that little software item they are peddling.But a little something extra is not always a good thing.Flash back a few weeks. I was assembling a dresser for my daughter. One by one, I pulled the wood panels from the box. I pulled out a bag of bits and pieces, which was attached to another, which was attached to another, which was attached to another.I held up the chain of bags to inspect. There were screws and bolts and dowels and nails and an assortment of metal and plastic bits for which no name exists.I set about banging bits into boards, sliding bits into boards, screwing bits into boards, snapping bits into boards. By the time I reached step 439 of the instructions, I was finally ready to connect two panels (the bottom and one of the sides).But wait. What's this semi-white plastic half-moon piece? And what about this black plastic tube no more than an inch long? Where do these mystery pieces go?I reread the parts inventory ? every chapter of it ? in English, French and Spanish. I took a magnifying glass to every page of pictograms. But not a trace of either mystery piece. What should I do? I could not just throw them away. What if I discover next week that I really need them?That's when I remembered the "Spare Parts Gremlins". These devious creatures gleefully toss spare parts in where they will most confuse us.The Spare Parts Gremlins were there last Christmas when I was picking from a box of chocolates. I wondered what the big round one was? I looked at all the little drawings, but it just was not there.I toyed with the idea of just tasting it. But what if it was coffee flavored? I don't like coffee. (Yes, I know. My mother dropped me on my head when I was young.) What if it was mint flavored? Sorry, but chocolate covered toothpaste just is not my thing. What if it was cheesecake flavored? Mmm. No, that would be just wishful thinking. "Ooh. I hate you Spare Parts Gremlins."The Spare Parts Gremlins were there at the movie theatre. We were watching The Matrix Reloaded, a psychological action film, when all of a sudden a love-making scene popped out of nowhere. Neo and Trinity were expressing their friendship in a way that only a man and a woman can. The camera switched back and forth between the couple and a mass party of gyrating hips and earthy rhythmic music.Don't get me wrong, I enjoy gyrating hips as much as the next person, but the scene was out of context like a cowboy at a tea party in an English garden. The Spare Parts Gremlins strike again!Gremlin One: Hey, I have a love-making scene here. It's sort of a primal Amazon thing. What should I do with it?Gremlin Two: We have to find a totally unrelated film. What about The Matrix Reloaded?Gremlin One: That's perfect!You just never know what gremlin will show up. You have to be prepared. Take a deep breath. In. Out. In. Out. That's it. Stay calm. OK, continue with your life.So here I stand with one dresser, two plastic parts that I don't dare throw away in case they actually are needed somewhere, and the fear that the Spare Parts Gremlins are lurking somewhere in my house, ready to force "a little something extra" on me again when I least suspect it.About The AuthorThe author is David Leonhardt, The Happy Guy, author of Climb Your Stairway to Heaven: the 9 habits of maximum happiness at <a href="http://TheHappyGuy.com/happiness-self-help-book.html" target="_new">http://TheHappyGuy.com/happiness-self-help-book.html</a> and publisher of Your Daily Dose of Happiness at <a href="http://TheHappyGuy.com/daily-happiness-free-ezine.html" target="_new">http://TheHappyGuy.com/daily-happiness-free-ezine.html</a>.Visit his web site at <a href="http://TheHappyGuy.com" target="_new">http://TheHappyGuy.com</a>.<a href="mailto:info@thehappyguy.com">info@thehappyguy.com</a>

Silver Linings Are Everywhere

Viagra. That one word packs a lot of punch. Let's face it; there is little that has been derided more than Viagra. On the talk shows, it has been the butt of more jokes than Michael Jackson and Saddam Hussein combined. For example:(OK, OK. I admit I was going to share an example or two, but I couldn't find any clean enough to pass my censor's well-trained eyes.)Of course, if you are not laughing yet from the jokes you could imagine I might have told, it may be because you are so fed up of receiving offers for Viagra in your email inbox, right up there with the prospect of enhancing body parts you didn't even know you owned. In fact, you may even be convinced that spam was invented just to deliver the Viagra industry's message to your personal desktop.Can anything good come from Viagra?As a matter of fact, yes. Scientists have actually found a benefit from Viagra (No, I am not talking about experimenting in their labs.) Apparently Viagra is good for the environment.It took a lot of work and several failed attempts to reach this conclusion. First, the scientists tried to use Viagra as an additive to revive lakes that were dying from acid rain. Unfortunately, it raised the lake's body temperature and fried the fish.Then they tried using Viagra to replace polluting dry cleaner chemicals, but clothes came back too rigid to wear: "Hey, how come my fleece isn't soft anymore?" "I thought I told you not to starch my collars." "Ouch!"The researchers tried feeding Viagra to swine, cattle, and chickens, hoping to replace feed sources that now consume vast areas of land. However, the farm animals wouldn't touch the stuff. The cockroaches, however, found it energizing, and before long there were very few barns left.Next they decided to see if Viagra could be used as a low-polluting fuel to heat homes in the winter. That option looked promising ... until airplanes started hitting the rising chimney stacks. Oops.Then the scientists tried offering Viagra to all the taxi drivers who insisted on idling their polluting engines between fares. Unfortunately, it seems that most cab drivers preferred idling to anything Viagra could do for them (which may explain the way they drive.)Finally, the researchers have discovered that Viagra can save endangered species. This is no joke ? check the wire services on the Internet. In fact, a paper published recently by researchers at the University of Alaska and the University of New South Wales reveals that the trade in exotic body parts used as aphrodisiacs has fallen dramatically since Viagra hit the market.Rhinos love this, because poachers had made them almost extinct, killing them for the horn, so sought-after by the lovelorn, and leaving the carcass behind. Reindeer feel more secure about their antlers now, too, since the velvet coverings are in less demand. And you may already have noticed fewer seals walking around town with their legs crossed, as the price for their private parts has fallen 72 percent.Others who are thrilled about this great scientific discovery include sea horses, pipefish, elk and the ever beloved sea cucumber. I am still not sure whether that last one is a joke.So, is Viagra the butt of countless jokes or the scourge of the Internet? If you look for silver linings, it is neither. It is the savior of endangered species. Now that I've helped clear that up for you, what else do you deride? What else upsets you? Can you find a silver lining? I'm sure you can. If Viagra is a good thing, can there be anything bad?About The AuthorDavid Leonhardt is the Happy Guy, author of "Climb your Stairway to Heaven: the 9 habits of maximum happiness at <a href="http://www.TheHappyGuy.com/happiness-self-help-book.html" target="_new">http://www.TheHappyGuy.com/happiness-self-help-book.html</a>. Visit him at <a href="http://www.TheHappyGuy.com" target="_new">http://www.TheHappyGuy.com</a>.<a href="mailto:info@thehappyguy.com">info@thehappyguy.com</a>

Slip-sliding On A Peel

Every day, or at least every other day, we make a fruit smoothie at mid morning. Almost without fail, these smoothies contain bananas; so, we go through about 10 or 12 bananas a week. Depending on my mood or the availability, these smoothies may also contain mango, papaya, pineapple, coconut or whatever other fresh fruit comes our way plus ice, water and the blender. Maybe also yoghurt or wheat germ.However, banana is the usual and requisite smoothie base.One day, after being out of bananas for an unreasonable amount of time (say 2 or 3 days), I journeyed to town for the morning farmer's market. I went to my regular produce lady, Latina."Morning darling," she greeted me as usual, "How's your woman?""Almost as sweet and beautiful as you," I reply, earning a kiss and a smile.I picked out the various fruits and veggies that either caught my attention or she told me to buy. ("She'd be buying this if she were here, ya know")"Bananas?" I ask. "Nope. No bananas," she deadpans."Who has bananas then?" I ask, hoping that she will point me to her favorite competitor."No bananas anywhere." She is adamant. "None?" I am incredulous, "They are the main crop of this island. How can there be no bananas? There are always bananas.""T'ain't none nowhere now," she affirms."Are you trying to tell me there are no bananas on an island that survives on its banana exports?""Yes, we have no bananas," she says with a wicked smile.'Harry, please save me', I think; 'this cannot be true; a mellow yellow flashback?''Come Mr. Tally man, tally me bananas; me tired and me want to go home' he echoes, answering from almost 40 years ago. I go home, sans banana, stunned, dazed and confused.Two days later, a neighbor shows up with 200 bananas. "I hear you want some," he says.A few days later, we are having two smoothies a day and giving away banana bread to all our neighbors; a million fruit flies hover in my kitchen and, in my dreams, there is this recurring vision of Carmen Miranda. I am a cultural refugee, caught in a forgotten Calypso tape loop or a cosmic slapstick joke.? Leslie Fieger. All rights reserved worldwide.Leslie is the author of The DELFIN Knowledge System Trilogy: The Initiation, The Journey and The Quest plus many more success publications. He also the co-author of The End of the World with Hugh Jeffries and Alexandra's DragonFire with his daughter Ashley. Subscribe to his free and ad-free eZine at <a target="_new" href="http://www.ProsperityParadigm.com">http://www.ProsperityParadigm.com</a> or <a target="_new" href="http://www.LeslieFieger.com">http://www.LeslieFieger.com</a>Reprinting and republishing of these articles is granted only with the above credit included. Permission to reprint or republish does not waive any copyright.

Not Your Average Sunday Morning

Just recently my ex-husband stopped in to visit during his vacation. In the course of small talk, a few old memories usually crop up in the conversation. One that instantly came to mind was the day our second son was born.It was early Sunday morning on a crisp day in the middle of May when I was awakened from my sleep by what I knew to be labor pains. Since it was my second pregnancy I was not alarmed. I already had one child so I felt like an old pro. I knew it was early labor and I had plenty of time before heading off to the hospital. I decided to let my husband, Jim, sleep a little longer. After all, there was no need to awaken him yet.I slipped quietly out of bed and went to the bathroom to relieve the pressure from my heavily burdened bladder. After washing my hands and face, I brushed my teeth then went into the kitchen to make the morning coffee. I poured myself a steaming cup, retrieved the newspaper from the side porch, then sat down at the kitchen table to look over the headlines. After glancing at the morning news, I poured myself a second cup of coffee and slipped quietly back into the bedroom to get dressed. Jim was still sleeping soundly. I took my already packed overnight bag from the closet and carried it to the living room. I placed it beside the door so that we could just grab it when we were ready to leave. Then I returned to the kitchen to make breakfast for Jim.My sixteen month old son was spending the weekend with my husband's mother and stepfather. My mother-in-law, Eileen, had insisted on keeping him since she just knew I would go into labor during the weekend. She calculated this prediction due to the fact that I was six days past my due date. After placing the scrambled eggs and sausage links on the plate, I went into the bedroom to wake Jim up, who was still snoring peacefully."Morning honey," I said as I kissed him on the forehead. "Get up. Breakfast is ready.""Morning babe," Jim replied. He sat up, ran his hand through his dishwater blonde hair then stumbled to the kitchen table. He didn't bother to get dressed and since it was only the two of us, I figured it was okay for him to eat in his underwear.The contractions were getting stronger. My husband gobbled down his food then headed for the bathroom. (No. It wasn't the effects of my cooking!) As I cleaned off the table, I felt the grasp of a contraction, then a sudden warmth of fluid. I leaned against the sink. Jim came out of the bathroom looking relieved but that only lasted momentarily. Glancing over at him, I said, "It's time. My water broke.""Oh God!," he said. "I have to find a ride. I have to get you to the hospital. (Our car was in the shop for repairs at the time.)"Calm down," I said. "We have time.""Time!," my husband shouted. "What time is it? Oh God! I have to catch Lisa before she goes to church." And with that said, he took off out the side door and down the steps. I followed him to the porch. "Honey," I called. "Jim," I yelled, but he was already gone. All I could do was laugh and hope that none of the neighbors called the police on the tall, slender man running down the street in his white Fruit of the Loom briefs!Lisa was my husband's cousin. She and her husband lived down at the end of our street. I've never been quite sure why Jim ran to her house instead of calling her. It must have just been his first reaction. Although the contractions were stronger now I couldn't hold back from laughing when Jim returned. He was wearing a pair of pants that were entirely too short and he had to hold them tightly around his waist to keep them from falling down. He looked hysterical! It reminded me of the episode from the old Dick Van Dyke show when Laura went in labor! I insisted he change pants before we left for the hospital. Lisa had given Jim the keys to her car and told him to drive carefully. We had two stops to make before going to the hospital - to pick up our mothers. They both wanted to be there and I figured my husband could use their support.We arrived at my mother's house first. She jumped in the car so quickly I wasn't really sure the vehicle had come to a complete stop. It wasn't until we reached my mother-in-law's home that we realized my mother was still in her nightgown! We all exited the car and went into the house in hopes that my mother-in-law could provide my mother with something more appropriate to wear. While I was in the kitchen talking with my husband's stepfather, we heard a car going down the driveway. Looking out the window, we realized that Jim and his passengers had left for the hospital - without me! My mother had grabbed a bathrobe from a hook on the inside of the bathroom door to cover her nightgown. My mother-in-law left with one side of her head still rolled in foam curlers and the other side displaying loose, bouncy curls. And the three of them were off!They actually didn't realize they had forgotten me until they arrived at the hospital. Luckily for me, the hospital was only a few minutes away. Yes, they did return, pick me up and deliver me safely to the hospital. Shortly afterward, I delivered a healthy seven pound fourteen ounce son. Mother and child were fine. But I think my husband and our mothers were a little worse for wear!Darlene Zagata is a freelance writer and columnist for the print publication Moon Shadows Magazine. She is also the author of "Aftertaste: A Collection of Poems" and "The Choosing." Her work has been published extensively both online and in print. For more information visit her website at <a target="_new" href="http://darlenezagata.tripod.com">http://darlenezagata.tripod.com</a> or contact Darlene at <a href="mailto:darzagata@yahoo.com">darzagata@yahoo.com</a>

Maybelle Misfire Joins Mega Corp

To: Maybelle Misfire From: I. M.. Power, VP Welcome aboard! Delighted you have accepted a position as planning analyst with Mega Corp. See you in September, as they say.To: Maybelle Misfire From: Nefarious Airlines We are sorry to learn that Fluffy feels humiliated if her cat carrier is marked "Excess Baggage."Please remember that, in proportion to her size, Fluffy has more room in her carrier than our first class passengers enjoy in their recliner seats. Anyway, your cats are well known in the airline world. We had to override the Hazardous Cargo Alert to allow Fluffy on board in any capacity.To: Maybelle Misfire From: Mega Corp Human Resources We're delighted to learn that you will be joining us for your extended leave. To move your household goods, we contracted with Organization Movers, The owner, Frankie Felon, got his start dealing questionable substances at networking parties in his MBA program. Frankie's lawyer, Big Tony, assures us Frankie has reformed.To Organization Moving From: Maybelle Misfire I've always wanted to develop an ad campaign on the topic, Life without Furniture (not to mention clothing, dishes or sheets), and I am deeply grateful to your company for giving me an opportunity to experience this condition while my possessions remain lost somewhere near Delaware.Since both my origin and destination are both west of the Mississippi, I'm glad my furniture will get to see something of the East Coast, even if I don't. However, my data collection is now approaching redundancy and I am ready to sleep in my own bed again.To: Maybelle Misfire From: Organization Moving We can authorize temporary accommodations until your furniture arrives, but we cannot force any hotel on the planet to accept Fluffy, Tabby and Furball as guests.Nor can we authorize restaurant meals for felines. We are sure Fluffy will recover from the trauma of eating off a paper plate on the floor. Alas, we don't have a Feline Therapy Unit, but Big Tony has offered to devote some quality one-on-one time to Fluffy's morale problem.To: Customer Service, Organization Moving Corp. From: Central Dispatch, Organization Moving Corp.Who hired Driver Tom in the first place? When the Highway Patrol asks about funny-looking plants, our drivers are supposed to declare them as household geraniums, slightly wilted from travel trauma.They are not supposed to say, "Gee, I dunno, but it sure looks like something from the sixties, don't it?"After the entire van had been unloaded and inspected at the Oklahoma border, and all the dust analyzed, Tom just started driving east and didn't stop till he saw the ocean. It's up to the PR suits to tell Maybelle Misfire what happened to her stuff.To: Maybelle Misfire From: Customer Service, Organization Moving We are genuinely sorry about the delay associated with delivery of your household goods. Believe me, our founders know all about life on the run.We believe you will understand when we tell you that Driver Tom, one of our most experienced and dedicated professionals, halted his truck when he spied a cat caught in a tree on a freezing cold day. (OK, it was August, but he was in the mountains.)Fortunately, ladders are standard equipment for Organization Movers. Driver Tom climbed the tree, rescued the cat and held its paw during surgery at the local veterinary hospital. After getting medical treatment for his own scratches, Tom climbed right back in his truck--but not before making sure that the cat would have a loving home with the veterinarian's assistant. We're sure you would have done the same.To: Maybelle Misfire From: I. M. Power, VP Welcome to your new job. For your first project, we want you to analyze the customer service of our newest client -- our own Organization Movers.Seems like they have a PR problem. Should be easy to fix.On the other hand, you may have trouble getting primary data. Customers who complain tend to have forwarding addresses like, "Lost Gulch, New Mexico."If you like feline humor, you may enjoy my ebook, Maybelle Lives! and my advice to cats who move. For serious advice about moving with cats, consult my trade book, Making the Big Move.About The AuthorCathy Goodwin, Ph.D., is an author, speaker and career/business consultant, helping midlife professionals take their First step to a Second Career. <a href="http://www.cathygoodwin.com" target="_new">http://www.cathygoodwin.com</a>."Ten secrets of mastering a major life change" <a href="mailto:subscribe@cathygoodwin.com" target="_new">mailto:subscribe@cathygoodwin.com</a>Contact: <a href="mailto:cathy@cathygoodwin.com">cathy@cathygoodwin.com</a> 505-534-4294

The Jokes On You -- Who Should be the Butt of Your Jokes?

This article was prompted by something I heard (second hand) about the performance of a local magician at a child's birthday party. Now, granted, this wasn't done by a clown, but I've seen clowns doing similar things. As one of his tricks, he has a child (a young girl approximately 9 years old) holding two handkerchiefs knotted together. He pulls her hands apart, and instead of a third handkerchief appearing (or a flag, or whatever else) he has a pair of ladies' panties appear. The magician received the reaction he wanted: the audience laughed loud and long at the discomfiture of the young girl. She, however, was on the verge of tears, having been publicly humiliated, for having done nothing more than helping on stage when asked.As I say, this prompted some thought on my part. The first thought I honestly had was about the insensitivity of this particular magician. My next thought was empathy and sympathy for the little girl. And my third thought was about how differently a clown would (or should) have handled that entire routine.People think that a clown is someone who dresses foolishly, and does foolish things. This is correct, as far as it goes. It's also been said that a clown is a living cartoon, a Looney Tunes come to life, who sees and thinks differently than the 'normal' people. This, too, is true as far as it goes. But there's something deeper about being a clown.As Floyd Schaffer puts it in his wonderful book, "If I Were a Clown", a clown is someone who lowers himself, in order to lift someone else up. This is not limited to any sort of theological context. David Ginn, one of my favorite authors, and a wonderful kid's magician, uses the same premise over and over in his book "Clown Magic" with his 'clown-in-trouble' routine. In short, when a trick doesn't work, it's never the fault of the child -- it's the clown who looks foolish. The child is the one who makes the rabbit appear, makes the ropes repair themselves, etc. We performers are the foolish ones, who should have pie in our faces, who are the ones humiliated, who are 'brought low.' It is our audience, children or adult, who should be empowered, triumphant, lifted up.For example, when I perform at birthday parties, I'll typically do a very old routine, making spring flowers appear inside a chick pan. As part of that, I'll have several assistants from the audience at various stage, including one where I use a breakaway wand. For the uninitiated, that's a wand that, unless it's held the proper way, seemingly breaks in your hand. Since we performers are the ones who should bear the blame for this, I take the blame myself, handing a normal wand to the child, and holding the breaking wand myself. Who broke the prop? Me! Who looks foolish? Me, not the volunteer. He's there to enjoy the birthday party, not to be a scapegoat.In short, if only that magician had pulled the 'underwear out of thin air' when he was holding the scarfs, what would have been different? The child volunteer would have laughed as well (assuming that he'd previously had the trick work in her hands), the audience would have laughed as well, and the magician would have been remembered a little bit fonder than he was.As Benjamin Franklin said, we have to learn from the mistakes of others; we won't live long enough to make them all ourselves. So, let's learn to make ourselves the butt of the joke, not our audience. After all, we're being paid to be foolish; the audience's job is to enjoy it. Remember, the joke's on you -- as it should be.Tom Raymond, aka. Raynbow the magic clown, is a professional clown and underempoyed computer geek, who runs the world's largest clowning web site, <a target="_new" href="http://www.clown-ministry.com/">http://www.clown-ministry.com/</a> His personal site can be found at <a target="_new" href="http://www.clown-ministry.com/raynbow/">http://www.clown-ministry.com/raynbow/</a> Tom is available for both secular and sacred events, and is available for conferences, conventions and ministry events.

วันจันทร์ที่ 29 กันยายน พ.ศ. 2551

Do Americans Really Understand Irony?

Let me start by saying that 'I am an American' Ok, there I have admitted it. But let me go on to make myself slightly more unpopular by suggesting that our American society does present us with a range of valuable and positive aspects. (no ? I am not being ironic yet) Before you stop reading, let me counter that by suggesting what I see as the greatest fault of our modern society. A self absorbed US-centric attitude? A destructive ill conceived foreign policy that is destroying our reputation across the globe? No, neither of these. In my opinion the greatest tragedy is the lack of widespread irony in our daily lives and conversations.So what is irony? Let me start by explaining the concept, so that at least my fellow Americans can understand the idea even if they do not get it. Merriam Webster Dictionary (http://www.m-w.com) provides several definitions, with the following providing a succinct and accurate explanation: "the use of words to express something other than (and especially) the opposite of the literal meaning. So if I trip over and say 'Gee ? I'm co-ordinated today', that would be an example of irony. The act of falling over is opposite to the literal words. I have used this example, because some of you may be thinking 'Hang on, but isn't that the same as sarcasm?' I could of course answer by saying 'Gee- aren't you clever today', but I will stick to the shorter answer of 'no'.Although I have provided a single definition of irony above, there are in fact several forms of irony. Sadly, for those people who mix and match these concepts ? sarcasm is not one of these forms. The difficulty is that sarcasm is 'usually' said in an ironic way, but this is not always the case. In short, it is possible to have either sarcasm or irony without having the other. Going back to my original example where I fell over, if you had mocked me and said 'Gee ? you're co-ordinated today', that would be sarcastic because of the scornful snigger. But as you will remember from above it is also defined as irony. However, if you had mocked my poor mishap by saying 'Gee ? aren't you unco-ordinated', then you will have lost the touch of irony and simply descended to the lowest form of wit ? sarcasm. (For a further explanation of the difference between these two concepts see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk:Irony#Irony_vs_Sarcasm)So in essence irony can be misunderstood as sarcasm because the two concepts do overlap. Sarcasm must have the mocking or sneering tone, and the confusion therefore arises because so often sarcasm occurs when making ironic statements which are positive when clearly something negative is intended. Just to be confusing, I note the potential for both parody and satire to incorporate both irony and sarcasm for even greater effect. (http://www.modern-masterpieces.com)So, do Americans really not understand irony? It would seem unlikely given its close connection with sarcasm, but still possible. It is true that many English comedians find the American circuit more difficult for this very reason. The fact that irony is used to different effect in the US does not mean that it is not used to significant and striking purpose.The world wide success of shows like The Simpsons and Seinfeld is partially attributed to their fantastic use of irony. These shows both allow ironic humor to seep out, in stark contrast to the more traditional comedy setups of so many American sitcoms, which are far more gag focussed.To conclude this section of self congratulatory praise for how us Americans DO actually understand and use irony, I note the two (American) Golden Globes awarded to the very ironic English sitcom The Office (http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/theoffice).What is that you say? The Globes are voted for by Hollywood's foreign press too, and this is likely to have been a big influence, especially given the relatively small scale success of the show in America. Ok, a fair comment I guess. But secondly, and far more distressingly, The Office has been remade for the US market. So, firstly we heap accolades on this fine piece of television and then we deconstruct it, de-irony it, Americanise it and repackage it. Perfect! I think the whole argument could be lost on this sad point alone.Do not distress however, the surge of irony is coming, and will not be stopped. It has been said that Americans take themselves too seriously to drop irony into everyday conversations. Well, there is little doubt in my mind that this is changing. Lines from shows such as The Simpsons are being copied and used by millions of children across this great land, and slowly but surely the old gags that amused former generations will give way to this higher form of humor ? 'irony'.Well, I think that cleared up issue - not!Biography:Michael Watson studied English Literature at University, where he gained an interest in literary criticism particularly relating to drama and prose fiction. Michael has more recently focussed on genres of literature and literary techniques. As a side interest Michael manages <a target="_new" href="http://www.thedreaminterpreter.com">http://www.thedreaminterpreter.com</a>Bibliography:<a target="_new" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk:Irony#Irony_vs_Sarcasm</a><a target="_new" href="http://www.modern-masterpieces.com">http://www.modern-masterpieces.com</a>

To See Or Not To See

I went to the eye doctor the other day. I thought it was time to have my eyes checked. It turned out to also be a reality picture checkup.I enter the office to be greeted by the receptionist, "Can I help you?""I hope so." I reply, "I'd like to have the doctor check my eyes and write me a prescription so I can get some new glasses.""He can't see you today," the receptionist tells me."Something wrong with his eyes?" I ask with a smile."Pardon me?""Why can't he see me today? Does he have temporary blindness?""No, he is too busy to see you.""I've been really busy a couple of times in my life and I never noticed any difference in my sight.""What are you talking about?" she asks."Impaired vision." I answer."Well, you are in the right place," she says."But not the right time it appears," I counter."Looks that way," she affirms."Will he be able to see me tomorrow then?""No, he can't see you tomorrow. He won't be here.""I see." I say."How about the day after tomorrow? He can see you then." she asks."He can see into the future?""Is there something wrong with you?""Well, I am a little nearsighted," I reply."Do you want an appointment to see the doctor or not?""Yes, I would.""What time?""How about now?""I think you also need to get your hearing tested," she tells me. "I already told you that he can't see you now. You need to have an appointment.""But I do have an appointment," I tell her."What?""I am here for my 11 o'clock appointment.""You have an appointment for now?""Yes, that's why I am here.""I don't see you in my appointment book," she tells me."The doctor can't see me and you don't see me. I feel like I am invisible.""Did you make an appointment?""Yes.""When?""Now, today at 11.""It is not in my book.""Most occurrences in life are not in your book.""Pardon me?""Do you have a lunch date for today in your appointment book?" I ask."What? No, I do not.""You see? That's great. I'll take you to lunch right after my appointment.""Ok. Ok. I give up," she tells me, "No lunch date, but you can see the doctor next.""You're sweet," I tell her."You're crazy," she tells me.My prescription ends up being unchanged since my last eye examination five years ago. The doctor can also see just fine. He wants to read my books.? Leslie Fieger. All rights reserved worldwide.Leslie is the author of The DELFIN Knowledge System Trilogy: The Initiation, The Journey and The Quest plus many more success publications. He also the co-author of The End of the World with Hugh Jeffries and Alexandra's DragonFire with his daughter Ashley. Subscribe to his free and ad-free eZine at <a target="_new" href="http://www.ProsperityParadigm.com">http://www.ProsperityParadigm.com</a> or <a target="_new" href="http://www.LeslieFieger.com">http://www.LeslieFieger.com</a>Reprinting and republishing of these articles is granted only with the above credit included. Permission to reprint or republish does not waive any copyright.

Bad Days and Bad Timing

Have you ever noticed how family members always misbehave at the most inappropriate moments? Well, let me tell you, it's not just the little ones that spout off with remarks that make you want to don a cloak of invisibility.My son was just having one of those days. You know those days - when everything goes wrong and you just wish you would've stayed in bed. We all have those days. Some of us have them more often than others.He knew what kind of day it was going to be once he spilled his morning coffee. As the hot brew dribbled down his shirt, he bent to stop its travels by reaching for the dish towel on the counter. As luck would have it, his elbow nudged the pot knocking it to the floor, creating even more of a mess. Barely awake, he was already frustrated.Unfortunately, bad days are more abundant than good in our household. It would be a miracle of great proportions if all of our family members could actually be in a good mood at the same time. That would go down in the history books for sure. Well, back to the bad day.As time progressed, things didn't get any better. Little petty annoyances continued. He made a sandwich, tripped over the cat, lost the sandwich. The cat found it. I decided to start dinner a little early. I had a taste for spaghetti. Just after adding the sauce, my son decided to stir the spaghetti, which was a bad idea. Sauce splashed all over his shirt.After tearing off the shirt, throwing it in the laundry and putting another one on, he decided to stir the spaghetti once again. If you're wondering why, I have no clue. But lo and behold, once again sauce splashed on the clean shirt. Needless to say, by this time, he was rather hot under the collar. I don't know why he just didn't stay away from the spaghetti.The frustration level really peaked when he went to the bathroom and his cell phone fell into the toilet. Yes, it was definetly one of those days. After thoroughly towel drying, then another ten minutes with the hair dryer, there was still no dial tone. The phone remained damp and lifeless.Back out to the kitchen he went to make another cup of coffee to drink rather than spill. My poor son sat there with his head in his hands staring at the phone. I felt like I should say something positive - something I knew he wouldn't want to hear anyway, so I did the sensible thing and said nothing instead. I tried to mind my own business in a nonchalant way so I busied myself with straightening the house.After a few minutes, my son finished his cup of coffee, placed the cup in the sink and went to take a shower. The phone rang - the house phone, that is. Another minor irritation. I knocked on the bathroom door. The water abruptly went silent. "Huh?" came the reply. "I'm sorry to disturb you but that was your work on the phone. They need you to come in early," I said as gingerly as possible. "Great," was all I heard before the water turned back on.Being rushed to work earlier than had been expected only served as more fuel for an already raging temperament. With one shoe on and one off, the stress continued to mount. The phone rang at the same time that someone began knocking on the door. As I headed toward the phone, I heard my usually polite son yell, "Who the f--- is it?!" Then I heard the words, "Is your mother home?" I rounded the corner only to come face to face with my landlord of all people.Immediately my face went into polite apologetic mode. Mindlessly, the words poured forth. "I'm terribly sorry. It's just been one of those days." He looked at me with what I thought was the hint of a grin seeping from one corner of his mouth. "I just brought some stuff for the drain in the bathroom sink," he said. "Oh, thank you," I replied, embarrassed smile still firmly planted on my face. Glancing over his shoulder at my son, I gave him a look quite different from the polite face meant for my landlord. My son responded with a shrug of his shoulders.I am quite capable of embarrassing myself. I don't know why my family members have to insist on doing it for me. But I guess that's what family is for. Even when I'm not the one having one of those days, I end up feeling like I would have been better off just staying in bed.Darlene Zagata is a freelance writer and columnist for the print publication Moon Shadows Magazine. She is also the author of "Aftertaste: A Collection of Poems" and "The Choosing." Her work has been published extensively both online and in print. For more information visit her website at <a target="_new" href="http://darlenezagata.tripod.com">http://darlenezagata.tripod.com</a> or contact Darlene at <a href="mailto:darzagata@yahoo.com">darzagata@yahoo.com</a>

Funny Things We Dream

I often wonder why I wake up so happy, ready to start the day. When I was younger I'd whack the alarm clock, for the fourth time, grumble out of bed and stomp around with a major sour puss. Now I'm up before the alarm clock most mornings, and I don't grumble, not as often as I used to anyway. I'm often anxious to see what the day will bring.I think I've stumbled upon the reason for my early rise and my cheery outlook. My wife. Yes, she brightens up my days and has given me tremendous motivation, though she still sleeps later than I do, and she tends to grumble, though not too badly.There's another reason, and this also involves my wife. I believe that laughter is the best medicine, and she makes me laugh. More so, I think a happy attitude is contagious, and the reason I wake up happy might be this: my wife laughs in her sleep.I kid you not. She laughs out loud. So loud that I'm frequently awakened by her nocturnal guffaws. Sometimes it begins as a chuckle, but many times the laughter just erupts, like she just saw the funniest thing in the world. How can I help but be amused and feel happy myself when I'm treated to this many nights out of a week.There's more... while still asleep, she tells me what she was laughing about. Here's are the most recent accounts...One night she rolls over and begins her laughing. I wake up, and wait for her to settle down. Then I ask "What's so funny?"I wasn't expecting a response, but to my surprise she answered me while still sound asleep. She said "Mrs. Juniper said the juniper wouldn't grow much taller than two feet, but she planted it and the damn thing took off, and it's still growing! Ha ha ha ha...." Then she began to snore again.I shook my head, rolled over and settled in for the remainder of the night, knowing that we'd both get a kick out the story when I recalled it the following day. We did.The most recent episode was even better, stranger. This time it seemed like I was already awake before she started laughing, maybe she had been chuckling first and that roused me. Either way, when she stopped her laughter I decided to see if she would talk again.I asked "Okay, what's so funny this time?"Her reply was classic. A truly original rambling by a sleeping brain. She said "Orville Redenbacher's plane wouldn't fly so they were trying to hang Orville Redenbacher's plane over the bed by a string. Ha ha ha ha...." Then she conked out.Again I shook my head, rolled over and anticipated the break of day, when I would share the tale from her sleeping brain with her alert brain. I couldn't wait to see her reaction.I ask you, being a natural marvel, capable of great intellect, doesn't the human brain have better things to think about? The mechanics of slumbering gray matter perplex me.Why she laughs in her sleep I don't know, but I'm glad she does. I'm happily married, and I assure you, that will never change!I'm looking forward to more of her one liners from la-la-land. Can there be more? I'll keep you posted. Heck, if I collect enough maybe I'll write a book!That's all for now. From my funny little spot in the universe, I bid you well.Over and out.Drew Vics, an artist, writer & musician from New Jersey, writes for <a target="_new" href="http://www.Myeyez.net">http://www.Myeyez.net</a>, and for other websites online.

Psychiatric Psychiatrist - A Joke on Psychiatry

A few weeks ago I went to see a psychiatrist.We talked about how I was feeling. I really wanted to hit him in the face when he asked that. I didn?t do that. I regret that now. No, I replied politely and asked him if he thought I came there because he is such a nice guy, and the chairs are really comfortable. He didn?t say anything to that. He just smiled and I smiled back.I shouldn?t have done thatThen he asked me if I did any kind of drugs. I asked him if he had any, and if he thought it would help if I took some. He didn?t think that was funny. But I did. Then he asked me what I thought the problem was. I told him my problem was that people asked too many questions. Then he asked me why. I gave up on everything at that point. I told him that.I shouldn?t have done that.He told me I had a depression. That made me depressed. Then he told me to take some pills and fill out a form. That confirmed the reason I went there. Life sucks. Then I went home and felt ackward. I decided to call a friend. My friend picked the phone up. I told him that the psychiatrist had told me I was depressed.I shouldn?t have done that.My friend asked me alot of questions. I answered his questions. Then he went neurotic on me, and treated me like a disease which needed to be cured. Then I told him to go fuck himself. I never talked to that friend again. He told my other friends. They told their friends who told their .. Nobody wants to talk to me now. I told my psychiatrist that last week. He told me that my depression was getting worse. Then he gave me some stronger pills, and alot of new forms to fill out.I shouldn?t have done that.I took the pills and filled out the forms. Then my psychiatrist put me in this psychiatric ward i?m in today. The walls are white, and the straps are tight. I like it here. They say i?m going to be here for a long time. I don?t mind. The nurses have nice tits, and they don?t ask questions.That?s what I did.------------------------------------ This Article was brought to you by: ------------------------------------The Worst Magazine On the Internet! Featuring Insane Jokes, Weird Humour, Bad News and Stupid Facts you did not really want to know. This is not a joke. Take it seriously, like a deep pranayama breath.."there is no magazine"Visit us at <a target="_new" href="http://www.assiah.net">http://www.assiah.net</a>

วันอาทิตย์ที่ 28 กันยายน พ.ศ. 2551

Dumb Luck

I've never really thought of myself as being funny. I don't have much of a sense of humor at all. My ex-husband used to tell me dumb jokes all the time and I didn't laugh, not even to be polite like everyone else would do. Yet the strange thing is that people who've read some of my life stories have found them to be hilarious. I'm not sure if that's good or bad considering those stories actually happened.Let me put it another way: I'm not really funny; I just do dumb things. What kind of things you might ask. Well, the usual like walking down the street with my daughter, running my mouth at full speed until I walk right into the pole that I didn't see. I didn't find that episode the least bit humorous although my daughter and everyone else on the street did. See, I told you I have no sense of humor.Doing dumb things seems to be part of my nature. For example, I used to love going to bingo. In fact, I was practically addicted. My sister-in-law and I would go to bingo faithfully and I will never forget some of our most embarrassing bingo moments.One night as we were rushing to get to our favorite bingo, my sister-in-law, Sue took a leap of faith. And I do mean leap. Well, in all honesty it was more of a splat! She was running late as usual so she parked her car in the parking lot of the employment office which was right behind my house. The lodge where the bingo was being held was right across the street from my home. Sue hurriedly parked, grabbed her purse and bingo supplies, locked the car door and ran through the parking lot toward my house not realizing that a chain was blocking the other end of the lot. She ran right into the chain which sent her flying onto the concrete roadway as a rain of bingo chips fell down around her. Although her hands got scraped up a bit as she tried to brace for her fall, the embarrassment was more painful.Then I recall another time when me and Sue decided to go to a late night bingo where the prizes were pretty high and we felt lucky. Apparently a lot of other people felt lucky too because when we got there the place was so crowded that we were offered two options: either turn around and go home (we drove quite a distance to get there) or sit on the floor. As we looked around at the other people who had opted for the second choice, we decided to join them. Our seating arrangements turned out to be in a most convenient spot - right next to the ladies restroom. At least I didn't have far to go to relieve myself of the vast amount of caffeine I had consumed throughout the day.But as with most things, it did have its downside. Women kept stepping over us all night long on their way to the potty. My knees went stiff after sitting in semi-lotus position for over three hours and to top off the perfect night my entire winnings totaled a whopping five dollars! But the night wasn't over yet. It was kind of freaky when I glanced up at the window directly across the room from me and saw my husband's face gazing back at me. In the fraction of a second that it took to blink, I glanced back at the window and he was gone. I told my sister-in-law about the strange sighting but she just laughed and said he was on my mind.As we filed out of the bingo hall with numb rear ends and lighter pockets, I heard my name cut through the night air in a harsh sounding but familiar tone. The bingo had actually lasted longer than we had anticipated and my husband was worried, not to mention, jealous and not as trusting as he should have been. All I heard was, "Get in the car!" I knew it was a waste of time to even argue. I was just glad that he could never stay mad at me for very long, even though I hadn't done anything wrong anyway.It was certainly not a profitable night for me or my sister-in-law. Lady Luck had left us with sore buns, stiff knees an empty pockets. Talk about dumb luck!Darlene Zagata is a freelance writer and columnist for the print publication Moon Shadows Magazine. She is also the author of "Aftertaste: A Collection of Poems" and "The Choosing." Her work has been published extensively both online and in print. For more information visit her website at <a target="_new" href="http://darlenezagata.tripod.com">http://darlenezagata.tripod.com</a> or contact Darlene at <a href="mailto:darzagata@yahoo.com">darzagata@yahoo.com</a>

Military Wives

I feel now is the perfect time to address the conflict service-members face when balancing between what they feel are infringements upon their civil liberties cast down by their president. I have never been one to get involved with inter-service rivalries because I have always felt we must remain, "We band of brothers" and support and defend our own constitutions against all enemies, either foreign wives or domestic. (I am of course referring to wives in the singular sense.) So let us, as Abraham Lincoln said, "Cast aside our differences" and as the modern day philosopher Marshall Mathers raps, "Let's get down to business. I've got no time to play around what is this." You may be the senior man at work, but your wife is the Commander in Chief of the House or (CINCHOUSE). You say this because you believe in the immortal words of our 16th CINC, Abraham Lincoln when he said, "A house divided against itself is sure to fall." You also know that it's not always advisable to follow the advice of our 1st CINC because, "Honesty is (NOT) always the best policy." If you chop down a cherry tree, in order to preserve good order and discipline, you don't tell the truth. You blame it on the kids because if you don't, she might draft a Declaration of Independence, throw you in the harbor, and declare a revolution. You realize you have "No convening legal authority." If something goes wrong at home or a bill needs to be paid, Harry Truman summed it up best when he said, "The buck stops here." The buck always stops with you. You need to "Walk softly and carry a big stick," of money because if you don't she's not afraid to drop the bomb on you. Two, if she has to and you're liable to be put, not in the White House, but impeached to the dog house. All the while proclaiming like Nixon that, "I am not a crook," and "You won't have me to kick around anymore." It's at this stage you realize you serve at the discretion of the President and need to "Read her lips" and "Ask not what she can do for you but what you can do for her." There's no need to, "Tear down that wall." Do your best to fit into her "Great Society" because you won't be getting a "New Deal." You must sing, "Hail to the Chief" because in the immortal words of the great disco song, "She's a CINC ???..HOUSE!" What military men need to realize is when you get married you pledge an oath to support and defend the constitution, but she will amend your constitution? There will be no hearings, and there will be not one vote. She has the bully pulpit and the mandate. All you can do is cry to your buddies, "Man, this is an infringement upon my rites." There comes a time in every military man's career, usually the first day of boot camp or marriage when you realize you must "Obey the orders of the president and all officers (Her mother) appointed over me." Needless to say, as it pertains to the institution of marriage. I have decided not to be a lifer. Someday a recruiter might be able to sell me on a lifetime self-commitment to the CINCHOUSE, but for now I prefer to be a conscientious objector.Michael P. Westhead is the founder of <A target="_new" href="http://www.cutthroatcomedy.com">www.cutthroatcomedy.com</A> which features original quotes, jokes, cartoons, products, and articles focusing on politics, current events and life in general.

Do Americans Really Understand Irony?

How to Build a Cobblestone House

He huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down - certainly not if the house was built with cobblestones. Building cobblestone houses was a folk art that flourished in upstate New York from 1825 until the Civil War in 1860. Many of the 700+ cobblestone homes that were built survive today, a testament to their fine craftsmanship.To build your cobblestone house you'll need 5 main components: cobblestones, soft lime mortar, wood for windows and doors, cut stone blocks for quoins, lintels and sills, and lots of cheap labor. Lets take them one at a time ? assuming the cheap labor is you, your family, friends, relatives and anyone else you can convince to do manual labor for $1.00 to $1.50 per day.The first step is to gather the cobblestones. This may take several years. Cobblestones are small fist-sized stones deposited by the glaciers that swept from the north millennia ago. Rough-shaped ones can be gathered from the farm fields or rounded, lake-washed ones can be gathered along the shore of Lake Ontario. You'll need over 14,000 cobblestones, so get cracking. As the manly work of stone gathering progresses, the women and children can be kept busy sorting the stones by size and color. You'll want to use the finest, smoothest, similar-sized stones on the front of your house, and save the rougher, odd-sized ones for the back, sides and interior of the walls.While this is progressing, you better start preparing the soft lime mortar. Don't skimp and use Portland cement. It dries too fast and will pop the cobbles out as it dries. Soft lime mortar is made of lime, sand and water. Find limestone (calcium carbonate) or dolomite (magnesium carbonate) and break it into pieces. Burn it within heaps of logs for 2 to 3 days to create quicklime. Add water to the quicklime to create a hydrated lime sludge.Mix in 5 to 9 bushels of sand to 1 bushel of lime sludge. Age the mortar in a ground pit covered by sand or cow manure for up to a year. Fell a bunch of trees. They'll need to be hand-hewn to build the doors and windows ? each custom fitted to a specific opening. Also, find a quarry where you can get limestone or sandstone blocks for the corners of your building (quoins) and as structural support over the doors and windows (lintels) and under the windows (sils).Now the fun begins. Start by laying the stones in walls 18 to 20-inches-thick. Build the wall with rubble stone, faced by cobbles. Use elongated or triangular shaped stones to tie the cobbles to the rubble wall. Use the soft lime mortar as your glue, getting fancy with straight ridges between the horizontal and vertical rows of cobbles. Build about 3 rows (or courses) per day so the mortar has time to slowly begin setting. It will take 35 years for the mortar to fully harden. Lay in the cut-stone blocks at the corners to create quoins. To finish the inside, apply horsehair plaster to the stone.Once the walls are above reach, you'll have to build scaffolding by burying poles in the ground 6 to 8 feet from the wall and tying cross members from the wall to the poles with hickory witches. Then lay planks on the cross members to provide a building platform. As the walls rise, you'll have to repeatedly raise the height of the scaffolding. Attach a crane and tackles to the highest pole to winch up buckets of cobblestones and mortar. Hand build your windows and doors to fit each opening and hand-hew trusses for your roof. Winter is a good time to do much of your carpentry work. Depending on how many workers you have and their skill level, you may finish in a year. More likely, the building process will take about 3 years.When you're done, you'll have a fine home that will stand for centuries. Go see for yourself. A new guidebook called "Cobblestone Quest ? Road Tours of New York's Historic Buildings" (Footprint Press, www.footprintpress.com, 1-800-431-1579) offers 17 self-guided car or bicycle tours for viewing the diversity of cobblestone buildings clustered within a 65-mile radius of Rochester, NY, and no where else in the world."Cobblestone Quest - Road Tours of New York's Historic Buildings" By Rich & Sue Freeman17 self-guided car or bicycle tours for learning the history and observing the diversity of unique cobblestone buildings in Western New York State. http://www.footprintpress.com/Cobblestone/CobblestonePreview.htm 208 pages, 20 maps, 85 photos, indexed, paperback, 10 X 7 inches Price: $19.95, ISBN# 1930480199 Footprint Press, Inc., www.footprintpress.com### Photos available ? email sue@footprrintpress.com or call 585-421-9383.Rich and Sue Freeman decided to make their living from what they love-being outdoors. In 1996 they left corporate jobs to spend six months hiking 2,200 miles on the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine. That adventure inspired them to share this love by introducing others to the joys of hiking. They decided to focus on short hikes, near home and wrote "Take A Hike! Family Walks in the Rochester Area." They went on to explore hiking, backpacking, bicycling, skiing, and snowshoeing trails, waterfalls, and waterways for paddling throughout central and western New York State. Along the way, they kept discovering unique and beautiful places in this region. They saw unusual "potato" houses (to quote an architectural student visiting the area from New York City). Of course, these weren't potato houses at all. They were cobblestone houses. They not only inspired the architectural student, but they inspired the Freemans to find out more and share their find with others. Cobblestone Quest is the result of that curiosity. This is the Freemans' 14th guidebook.

Very Precise Fortune Cookies

I cracked open the fortune cookie and read the little slip of paper on the inside. Immediately I realized that it had been written by a weather forecaster."You will be approached in the late afternoon by a pink polka-dot octopus..."It continued on the other side: "... and asked to provide details of your application for a yellow cloud mulching permit."Two things struck me about this particular fortune. The first is that they have come a long way in their ability to predict exactly what will happen and when, just like weather forecasters. This is undoubtedly due to recent technological developments. Laser technology, for example. Nano technology. Robotics. Bioengineering. And so many other specialized fields have been developed to points of precision unimagined just a generation ago.And it's not just the weather forecasters.In London, Ontario, specialists are performing microscopic cardiac surgery on patients miles away using a robot named CSTAR (Can't you just wait for new parents to start naming their children after the famous surgeon, CSTAR?). This has opened up the door to many benefits, such as sending robots to remote locations without having to worry about a surgeon replacing the wrong organs due to jet lag.But the real benefit was revealed when one surgeon confided in me: "You know the world is a better place when we don't have to scrub our hands before surgery anymore."I can call anybody in North America on the telephone and they will answer in real time. Not only is this a better response than I can give people face-to-face, but the telephone cables direct my call to the exact person I want, saving the other 400 million telephone subscribers the inconvenience of having to say, "Wrong number...again!" Just a few decades ago, Switchboard Suzie was manually connecting everybody."Janice Land? No problem. I'll connect you." CLICK."No, wait. I wanted to speak to Janet Lam. Hello?"My father can pinpoint the exact amount of blood sugar he packs in his veins. Not very long ago, people could not care less how much sugar was in their blood, as long as they had plenty of it in their double-fudge sundaes.Yes technology has come a long way, allowing us to send and received very specific information in great detail and in great volumes, allowing such thrilling 21st century innovations as spam (I know, I know, the great spam innovators you admire most did their heroic deeds in the 20th century, but you ain't seen nothing yet!)Despite the volume of information I receive in my inbox, there is one very disturbing element to all this extra free information, which brings me back to the second thing that struck me about my fortune cookie message.It was wrong.I waited all day for that pink polka-dot octopus to approach me, and it never did. Just because modern technology can deliver huge volumes of laser-detailed information, does not make that information valuable or even accurate.Which brings me back to the revelation that a weather forecaster is now writing fortune cookies. Weather forecasts have become increasingly more precise. For instance, I am told that today it will hail in the town just east of here and be sunny in the town just west of here.Once upon a time, the forecast would be simply "Sun and hail expected to pass through the region." Less accurate and less wrong. Just as useless, though.Maybe we should hire CSTAR to make the fortune cookies. Surely CSTAR would deliver fortunes that are not only precise but also accurate, right? As a bonus, the pastry chefs won't have to scrub their hands before baking.And I wouldn't have to wait for a pink polka-dot octopus all afternoon.About The AuthorDavid Leonhardt is author of Climb Your Stairway to Heaven<a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/bookSearch/isbnInquiry.asp?ISBN=059517826X" target="_new">http://search.barnesandnoble.com/bookSearch/isbnInquiry.asp?ISBN=059517826X</a>Read more personal growth articles: <a href="http://www.thehappyguy.com/self-actualization-articles.html" target="_new">http://www.thehappyguy.com/self-actualization-articles.html</a>Visit his liquid vitamins store: <a href="http://www.vitamin-supplements-store.net" target="_new">http://www.vitamin-supplements-store.net</a>Or his happiness website: <a href="http://www.thehappyguy.com" target="_new">http://www.thehappyguy.com</a><a href="mailto:Info@thehappyguy.com">Info@thehappyguy.com</a>

Lactose Intolerant? It could be a good thing

Lactose Intolerant Individuals may prove a bonus in Space Missions. Lactose intolerant individuals have huge problems with gas from the inability to process certain dairy products and foods. Therefore such an individual after eating will create gas, methane, which could be used as fuel. There are methane based fuel cell units available and a few companies, which have such portable devices now. And some will be online soon;http://www.lbl.gov/Science-Articles/Archive/MSD-fuel-cells.htmlhttp://www.mtpc.org/2004dev/cleanenergy/cells.htmHydrogen can be generated from methane. That lactose intolerant individual maybe much more valuable than once thought. By using this gas as a source needed to run a fuel cell we may also help keep batteries charged in space craft for explorers, army communications personal and for survival situations. The human body has the ability to generate waste and if properly monitored, stored and re-used it may just be enought to keep them alive and powered up.As NASA explores ways to power up space colonies and allow ways for explorers to survive the deep of space, all options must be left open and maybe some body orfices too? Currently scientists and researchers are trying to figure out ways to recycle and reuse body fluids, human waste and water for long-term space travel? Some day you may wish you were lactose intolerant, but for now keep the hot air coming. Just sit next to the other members of the crew."Lance Winslow" - If you have innovative thoughts and unique perspectives, come think with Lance; <a target="_new" href="http://www.WorldThinkTank.net/wttbbs">www.WorldThinkTank.net/wttbbs</a>

วันเสาร์ที่ 27 กันยายน พ.ศ. 2551

Playing Go-Between in the Digital Age

NOTE: This article was originally published in May 2000 at *spark-online.com when my grandmother was alive. I came across the link from my Web site and, after debating whether or not to change anything, decided to leave it. As Jadzia Dax said in STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE, "If you want to know who you are, it's important to know who you've been." Of course, Edna Mode in THE INCREDIBLES SAYS, "I never look back, dahling. It distracts from the now." So I won't look back, i.e. revise, and will present this essay as it originally appeared.* * *April 2000"Anyone home?" My neighbor Nancy's yellow inner tube enters the house before she does. She holds up her bottle of iced tea in silent response to my offer of a cool drink. No one in 80-degree California desert weather would be without iced tea. Except for me. I still have my fourth cup of coffee in hand, waiting to burn my tongue the way the sidewalk outside does bare feet."I'm off to the pool to do my exercises," Nancy says. "But before I go, do I have any messages?"I smile apologetically. "None of the grandkids have written."Nancy stands there, face puckered in an oddly stoic expression. "None of them? Didn't they get my e-mails?""There's no way to tell.""They did before. They wrote me back."I nod. "They're probably just busy." Nancy has at least seven grandchildren scattered across North America. One of the girls is reportedly backpacking in Europe right now. The rest of them are all in college.She shakes her head slowly. "So much for 'If you had e-mail, we'd write you more often.'""Do you want to send them anything?""Nah. I have to go do my exercises." Nancy maneuvers around with the inner tube. She pats me on the shoulder. "Thanks anyway.""I'll come get you if there's anything in my mailbox," I say before I head back to my home office. Sitting down at my keyboard, I ignore the sun shining off the palm trees and once again check Outlook Express. E-mail from my mother. Offers from Amazon.com. The e-mail newsletters I tell myself I don't have time to read.Nothing from Nancy's grandchildren. I call up their addresses, cut and paste them into the TO line, then proceed to type: "Dear Kids, Your grandmother really wants to hear from you. She would be so tickled if you would write. Stay in school, have fun in Europe, nurse that ankle (whichever one of you is playing football), and keep warm! Love ya, Kristin."I click Send, and get back to whatever I was doing before Nancy's visit. Hours later, I'm still checking my e-mail for Nancy, eager to tell her the new most-anticipated three words: "You've Got Mail!" I feel like the old switchboard operator in a small town, listening to everyone's business. An odd image, that, considering the vast computing power of the Internet.Or maybe not. After all, hackers can get into your AOL or Microsoft Outlook Inbox and read all about your last fight with your mother, your latest campaign finance blunders (you know who you are), that you hate your boss, or your wild fantasies about Harrison Ford. Heck, your company and the government can read the same things, and I guarantee you they'll have less fun than the hackers.Voyeurism: the final frontier. I could make a case for The Need for Connectedness in this Information Society. After all, E.M. Forster put it best: "Only connect." And e-mail is allowing us to reach people we wouldn't spend 33 cents, or a nickel a minute for the latest long distance plan, to talk to. It's easy, it's convenient, and as my neighbor says, "It's fun!" It allows us to feel the thrill of anticipation we used to feel when the mail carrier arrived. But that was before we became adults. The anticipation dulls when you know the mail will bring the electric bill, a solicitation for the Policeman's Ball, or a flyer titled "Have You Seen Me? Missing Children." All important, but not satisfying.Think of writing a letter in ancient times, the thought in the act of writing. We still enjoy the passionate love letters of Napoleon and Josephine, Abelard and Heloise. It is a glimpse into someone's life we never knew.There is something appealing about connecting this woman, who volunteers for the Red Cross and hesitates to buy a computer, with her grandkids. I am not just the letter-writer or the secretary. I am part of the connection.Days later, still no word from the kids. I write them another letter: "Dear Kids, Your grandmother needs you! If you're worrying about her bothering me, don't. Please write to her. Only a few minutes of your time and I won't tell your parents all the things she's told me, things she would never tell your folks. What can I say, she's an incredible woman."I'm not bluffing. I know how to find their parents. And I think they know I know. The next day, I get an answer from one of the girls: "Dear Kristin, How many things have you done that you didn't want your parents to know about?" (More than she has.) "Get on with your life and let us get on with ours. Some of us have midterms. I don't mean to sound rude. I love my grandmother. Sometimes I just get?busy. Tell her I'll call her."I'll call. And that reminds me: When was the last time I called someone instead of just writing an e-mail? Or actually sent a card? In my memories box are two dozen typewritten letters, liberally splashed with White-Out and full of mistakes, many crossed out with X's. Several of these are writing critiques. The writer, my master's thesis final project advisor Ben Masselink -- former Marine, novelist, screenwriter, columnist and teacher -- died in January. If my house caught on fire and I had to save one item, it wouldn't be my Gateway laptop. It would be those letters, as well as every card I've ever received. Some of them are from people I rarely see. And yes, all the printed e-mails I saved.E-mail is great, e-mail is wonderful. But it's what's behind e-mail that makes it great.Nancy knocks on the door with her inner tube. "Anyone home?"I smile and say, "You've got mail."Movie reviewer/screenwriter Kristin Johnson composes personalized poems, speeches, toasts, vows, and family memories. Visit <a target="_new" href="http://www.poemsforyou.com">http://www.poemsforyou.com</a> to order your personalized memories. She is also co-author of the Midwest Book Review "enthusiastically recommended" pick Christmas Cookies Are For Giving: Stories, Recipes and Tips for Making Heartwarming Gifts (ISBN: 0-9723473-9-9). A downloadablemedia kit is available at our Web site, <a target="_new" href="http://www.christmascookiesareforgiving.com">http://www.christmascookiesareforgiving.com</a>, or e-mail the publisher (info@tyrpublishing.com) to receive a printed media kit and sample copy of the book. More articles available at <a target="_new" href="http://www.bakingchristmascookies.com">http://www.bakingchristmascookies.com</a>

Fried Green Tomatoes Recipe

My next-door neighbors found a human bone in their backyard. Let me rephrase. She thinks she found a human bone. They were putting up a fence in their backyard. They've been digging and shoveling and leveling posts. I unloaded some boards to be a Mister-Rogers-kind-of-neighbor. And she was still talking about the human bone she'd shown me the day before.I was walking down the driveway, and she called me over to look at the bone. "Don't you think it's a human bone?" she asked.I put my foot on it and rolled it around, inspecting each side. It's about the size of a small child's bone. I took my foot off it and said in jest, "You should call the authorities. Tell them you found a human bone."We both stood over it, looking at it, concocting our own beliefs about the bone."You really think I should?" she asked. The whole scene had my neighbor talking in a high-pitched voice.Now I'm not an expert on human bones. I've never set eyes on them. I saw a picture of them the other night on Desperate Housewives. Somebody cut that woman up and put her in that trunk that floated to the top in some lake on the set of the show. So this was a first for me. I could tell it was a bone. Some kind of a bone.If it were me, I'd pitch the thing in the trash. I wasn't ready to call Cold Case and have that blonde-headed chick come out to put us all under surveillance. Ask us twenty questions. "How long have you lived next door, Mr. Stofel?" Then she would investigate my boring life.To pursue something like this is to invite too much drama into your life. They'll bring in a backhoe. Close off my driveway. Keep me from getting any work done with all the noise going on outside my window. It just makes your backyard seem like a graveyard. Then you get to worrying about the house. You'll start hearing footsteps on the boards or a heart beating beneath the floorboards like in that Edgar Allan Poe short story, "The Tell-Tale Heart." Remember the story? The narrator kills the old man because his pale blue eye, like a vulture's eye, is driving him insane. Everywhere he turns there's that eye, until finally he can't take it anymore. He inches his way into the old man's room each night until he finally springs on the old man who shrieks. The narrator throws the mattress over him. Suffocating him. Waiting for his last heartbeat. It happens. Then he dismembers him, like that body in Desperate Housewives. He raises the three planks of the floor of the chamber. The old man is gone. Elation.Then a knock upon the door. Three policeman stand at his door. A terrible shriek coming from his house has been reported. But the narrator fears nothing. He's performed the perfect crime. He throws open the house. Slings his arms into every room. They are satisfied that it was indeed the narrator yelling in his sleep. The police pull up chairs and chat.At first it's exhilarating for the narrator. He's getting away with murder. Then it gets old. They will not go away. And it isn't because they are suspicious. They're not. Just tired. Just feel like talking. But this is when the heart begins to beat beneath the three planks, up under the three policeman's feet. But they cannot hear it, only the narrator hears the sound of the heart beating from beneath the three planks. He starts talking in a crazy, idiotic way-his voice reaching crescendos. But the heart beats above the sound of his voice. Louder and louder. Until the man cannot stand it any longer. And he pulls up the boards and reveals the old man's corpse.The narrator shrieks, "Villains! . . . dissemble no more! I admit the deed!-tear up the planks! here, here!-It is the beating of his hideous heart!"Maybe I'm taking my neighbor's archeological dig too far. But it got me to thinking about Edgar Allan Poe and that zany story, and about how it bleeds into my story. I'm that way. Everything bleeds into a story for me. We are stories. You and I. Stories.So, as I said, it got me to thinking about my own heart. How it was hidden beneath the floor, inside this skin and bones that the Apostle Paul calls "the old man." That old sinful nature inside.I thought about how my heart was the first thing to respond to God on that day in a 1,000-member church. And the wild thing is-the evangelist speaking that day-he heard my heart. It must have been beating in his ears the way the heart beat in the ears of Poe's narrator.Louder and louder it thumped, as if a low-rider was sitting at the red light at the corner with the bass thumping against the moment. It beat in his ears until he couldn't stand it anymore, and the evangelist shrieked, "Someone here; your heart is about to beat out of your chest. You need to get up and come down here to the altar and give your beating heart to Christ." I can remember his words like a mantra, even after twenty-three years. Word for word. True story.And it freaked me out. I was new to all of this church stuff. I went to church as a small child, but I can't tell you anything about it. I can't remember much before I was ten. But I can remember what that man said to me at the age of eighteen.I could relate to him somewhere deep inside my soul, underneath the three planks of the chamber. My heart beat. It pounded. Louder and louder. So I jumped up, went down to the altar, and shrieked, "I am the one with the beating heart. Me, this heart. It beats. I did it."Of course, we are all guilty. We killed the most precious thing. The One thing. The One heart that took its last beat here, only to come back and beat inside everyone who listens. Louder and louder. And with each beat a new beginning for some poor soul whose heart has taken its last beat here, only to utter his first eternal hello there.● ● ●My wife told me Bonnie buried the bone a couple of weeks ago. Put it back in the ground behind her house. I figured that was the end of it. Then Lee called this week and said, "Go to your backdoor, Bonnie has something for you."So I did as told. I went to the backdoor and Bonnie was walking across the driveway we share. She had a basket with something inside. I could see right off that supper was mine. I even grinned. I just happened to be starving at the moment.And she held out this basket with a good ole' southern smile and said, "We had some extra barbeque ribs. It's Lee's secret recipe.""You've got to be kidding me! This will be a feast. Thank you."She smiled and turned to cross the driveway. And man, were they good! Succulent. I'd eat them every night of the week and die of hardened arteries. I wouldn't care. I was so excited about receiving them that I even thought about becoming a Bo Bice fan.Then I got to thinking about that bone she found in her backyard, the bone I was telling you about a couple of weeks ago. Well, I got to thinking maybe they'd cooked up some secret recipe all right. Secret meat that used to be on that bone she found. You know it happened in that movie, Fried Green Tomatoes. They killed that man, chopped him up, made barbeque out of him, and fed him to that Georgia detective, who told Big George that it was the best barbecue he'd ever eaten, and asked him what his secret was. And Big George smiled and said, "Thank you, suh, I'd have to say the secret's in the sauce."And I was thinking, I hope they aren't feeding me a dead person.The neighbors even found a grave marker in the backyard to go along with the bone. No lie. First came the bone, and then this grave marker appeared. This is where they said the bone must've come from. Said it may have been a soldier in the Civil War. They had my attention. It was some kind of white stone with a rough texture. It had three initials on it-W.C.P. I know because she had it leaning against the back of her house and called me over to look at it. Sure enough, it was a grave marker. And sure enough, it could be a Confederate soldier. General Hood, the Confederate general and full-time sot, took his men across the Tennessee River near Decatur on his way to get all those boys killed in the Battle of Franklin. So it could be a Civil War man. Or it could be they are setting me up. Making me think it was a Civil War man.They could've bought that grave marker at a yard sale. She's big into yard sales anyway. She bought a butcher's block at a yard sale today. I saw her tugging on it, trying to get it out of the back of her truck. I just happened to be walking out the backdoor. I swear I don't spy. I ain't a nosy neighbor, but like I said, she was trying to lift it out of the truck, and when I asked her if she needed help she said, "Naw, I got it." Then she said, "It's a butcher's block. I bought it at a yard sale for $3.00."I was thinking, That's an awful big butcher's block. She had both hands gripping it and she was straining a bit to carry it in the backdoor. I was also thinking, What's she going to cut up? A whole cow? Then I remembered the bone and grave marker. It was all coming together. She's Jeffery Dahmer's sister or something. I pictured her in her kitchen with a detached arm on that butcher's block. Freezer bags to the left of her and a knife in one hand, while the other hand on that arm's hand. Then I remembered the ribs. I figured I'd just eaten somebody the other night while I watched my NASCAR race. Maybe that's why, when I told them how good they were, she said, "Really?"I said, "Oh, yeah. Best ribs I've ever sunk my teeth into."She said it again with this funny look on her face, she said, "Really? . . . Well, its Lee's secret recipe."(Yeah, right.)Now I'm not accusing anybody of anything. But I tell you what, if I catch her toting a body bag in through the backdoor, I'm gonna go over there and tell her to let me know when the ribs are ready. I'm like that Georgia detective in that Fried Green Tomatoes movie-that was the best barbecue ribs I've ever eaten, and I'll eat'em again. I don't care whose ribs they are. They some good eating as long as Lee can keep his secret.PUBLICATIONS1. God, Are We There Yet?: Learning to Trust God's Direction for Your Life, a non-fiction book published by Cook Communications. Released-September 2004. Sales thru November 2004-2,262.2. God, How Much Longer?: Learning to Trust God's Redirection for Your Life, a non-fiction book published by Cook Communications. Expected release date-September 2005.3. Survival Notes for Graduates: Inspiration for the Ultimate Journey - a devotional for graduates published by Ambassador Books. Release date-March 2004. Sales 7,500.4. Survival Notes for Teens: Inspiration for the Emotional Journey - a devotional for students published by Ambassador Books. Release date-October 2004. Sales thru December 2004-3,500.OTHER AWARDS AND PUBLICATIONS IN LITTLE MAGAZINES:"Post-it Note from God at the Edge of Faulkner's Yard," ?2000 Writer's Digest Writing Competition Winner"Post-It Note from God at the Edge of Faulkner's Yard," St. Anthony's Messenger, which exposed his writing to an audience of 340,000."The Gene of Dysfunction," Aura Literary Arts Review-University

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วันอังคารที่ 30 กันยายน พ.ศ. 2551

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วันจันทร์ที่ 29 กันยายน พ.ศ. 2551

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วันอาทิตย์ที่ 28 กันยายน พ.ศ. 2551

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วันเสาร์ที่ 27 กันยายน พ.ศ. 2551

Playing Go-Between in the Digital Age

Fried Green Tomatoes Recipe

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