Going back a few years when I first moved out of my parents home to live in London, in University halls of residence, I remember feeling more excited than scared. The world of independence, no curfews and late night parties were something that had overwhelmed my senses. I felt extremely elated the first day I had arrived at my flat, knowing that this was the beginning of some exciting times. However, I was soon going to learn that maybe I should have prepared better for the daunting task of keeping up with the rent, doing my own laundry, buying food, cooking, cleaning and actually using the right cleaning equipment for getting rid of the beer stains!
I guess my first month of living in a flat with flatmates consisted of drinking, partying, more drinking and more partying. My first year at University appeared easier than I had expected, as with most students, this year was all about the novelty of entering into the world of university, making new friends and living in a completely unfamiliar area. It could not get any better for me - until one day I checked my bank account and the world of adulthood crashed down upon me. So coming from someone who is experienced in the world of 'being skint' there are a few things one must follow when beginning your new life.
First and foremost, stock up on your cleaning equipment. It is hard living with other people, as they are strangers to you at first and you each have differing habits. This is where you all need to get together when you first move in with each other, get to know each other (over a few drinks), and perhaps establish a routine of some sort. Drawing up a timetable of who will be doing the dishes on what day will not always work, but it is helpful and the finger can be pointed at the one that did not follow the roster. If you are a clean freak, like me, then you may need instigate rules of your own about cleanliness (without being too dictatorial).
Secondly get into a habit of budgeting, give yourself a realistic amount of money to spend so then you will not end up in a difficult situation of not having any money for food. Some people prefer to use envelopes, mark each of the week on each envelope and place a certain amount of money each envelope, forcing them to stick to a tight budget. This is fine, if you know you not be withdrawing any money from the bank, I recommend you stick to a carefully planned out budget and try to stay strong.
Thirdly try to cut down on your shopping for essentials only, keeping one or two days of the week a treat day. It is all very well going to pubs and students union bars with your friends, or shopping for wholesome food, but this can also place a heavy dent on your bank account. I have been in situations whereby I have spent extortionate amounts of money on shopping for food; this is where I had to learn about value for money foods and actually calculating how much I would need in a week. I would also spend a lot on cleaning equipment and products, falling into the trap of spending unnecessarily. So be careful.
Finally, devise a timetable for studying. University is all about finding out more about the big bad world, learning how to budget, meeting new people and enjoying your freedom. However, it is a time for you to work towards a fruitful and prospective career, so I am afraid to say that as much you will like to have fun, it is very easy to lose track of why you are here and end up with your grades suffering. Many have failed their first year at university, some have even dropped out, you want to be the one who stays on and continues throughout the whole of degree course. It is far more exciting to see how your time at university pans out - it gets better each year you are there.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Where is that Mycroft Holmes When We Really Need Him?
As a kid, Sherlock Holmes was my hero. Here was really a cool guy if there ever was one. He knew almost everything about everything and could solve almost any crime, even crimes that had stumped Her Majesty 's best. But even Sherlock had his days.
On those rare but revealing occasions when our good Sherlock was bested, he had to swallow his pride, no small task, and go and seek counsel with his older brother Mycroft. Mycroft lived at the gentleman 's club Diogenes, a place where few members spoke and all sipped their coffee and brandies and read the newspaper and looked at each other through the tops of their eyeglasses. That 's where Mycroft lived. Mycroft also had some sort of government job but his exact duties and functions were unclear.
Sherlock would approach Mycroft and Mycroft would immediately start this sarcastic teasing of Sherlock. Only under the most extreme of circumstances would Sherlock go this route but there were times when he just couldn't get over the hump in the case. Even our man Sherlock could get stumped.
After a fair amount of belittling, Mycroft would give Sherlock the hint and one almost wondered if in fact Sherlock already knew the answer, but just couldn't get it out. And our poor hero Sherlock would slip away dragging his tail and feeling just a little bit wiser but a lot more foolish. Mycroft was Sherlock 's comeuppance and reality check.
Yet curse as he may, Sherlock knew he would use Mycroft again. Sherlock knew there would come another case and he would have to go meekly before his brother and beg. The only thing worse than shame is ignorance.
Now whether Mycroft actually had the knowledge or just real good people skills is the question of the day. In the end Sherlock probably had the imagination and creativity to solve anything but at times just hit one of those mental blocks, as we humans are prone to do.
Did Mycroft actually know the answer or did he know how to structure the perception and question to reveal the answer? Did Sherlock always have the answer already within himself? Was Mycroft really too lazy to do the investigative work?
Would that our man Mycroft were around and on call today to help us out on this one. Like Sherlock we most likely would discover that a good dose of humility is a small price to pay for the right answer. The right answer can mean the difference between a project 's success or failure. The wrong answer can lead one down a Narnian path to the twilight zone of no return.
Mycroft 's secret was he kept getting a bigger and bigger perspective on the problem. At some point, he simply mastered it and moved on. Sherlock would hit dead end and like most of us throw up his hands in despair. Not Mycroft. Mycroft didn't structure the problem that way in his mind so he didn't feel that frustration. Mycroft didn't care. Mycroft just kept trying to get the greatest perspective he could on the problem and then probe Sherlock 's head to fill in the blanks and connect the dots.
Holmes certainly led a more exciting life but clearly excitement was not how Mycroft measured his own life. Mycroft appears to be forever content sitting around the club reading the evening edition. Or the morning edition. Or looking wistfully at clouds of tobacco smoke. The club was Mycroft 's reward for being Mycroft.
So in the end Mycroft probably didn't know the answer. Mycroft was a club rat; it kept him insulated from the cruel and insane world, a world of which our man Sherlock was always knee deep in; rogues and scoundrels and that sort of thing. In the end we have to conclude that Mycroft was nothing more than a well dressed guru pointing the way...and did perhaps Mycroft envy Sherlock?
At any rate we Sherlock freaks would like even tougher cases and to see our man Sherlock having to squirm and run to Mycroft for more brotherly advice. Sherlock seldom squirmed. This is what it 's all about and part of what make both Mycroft and Sherlock tick. Well, at least Sherlock.
With Mycroft it was all just one big crossword puzzle but for Sherlock it was a way of life so that is why Sherlock wallowed in it. Mycroft didn't have to. Sherlock was the populist; Mycroft the aloof landed gentry. Sherlock lived life; Mycroft experienced life vicariously since it was so much tidier that way. Two paths that cross through necessity.
Besides, our Sherlock would never be content with the dull, gentlemanly life of the Diogenes club, right Sir Doyle?
On those rare but revealing occasions when our good Sherlock was bested, he had to swallow his pride, no small task, and go and seek counsel with his older brother Mycroft. Mycroft lived at the gentleman 's club Diogenes, a place where few members spoke and all sipped their coffee and brandies and read the newspaper and looked at each other through the tops of their eyeglasses. That 's where Mycroft lived. Mycroft also had some sort of government job but his exact duties and functions were unclear.
Sherlock would approach Mycroft and Mycroft would immediately start this sarcastic teasing of Sherlock. Only under the most extreme of circumstances would Sherlock go this route but there were times when he just couldn't get over the hump in the case. Even our man Sherlock could get stumped.
After a fair amount of belittling, Mycroft would give Sherlock the hint and one almost wondered if in fact Sherlock already knew the answer, but just couldn't get it out. And our poor hero Sherlock would slip away dragging his tail and feeling just a little bit wiser but a lot more foolish. Mycroft was Sherlock 's comeuppance and reality check.
Yet curse as he may, Sherlock knew he would use Mycroft again. Sherlock knew there would come another case and he would have to go meekly before his brother and beg. The only thing worse than shame is ignorance.
Now whether Mycroft actually had the knowledge or just real good people skills is the question of the day. In the end Sherlock probably had the imagination and creativity to solve anything but at times just hit one of those mental blocks, as we humans are prone to do.
Did Mycroft actually know the answer or did he know how to structure the perception and question to reveal the answer? Did Sherlock always have the answer already within himself? Was Mycroft really too lazy to do the investigative work?
Would that our man Mycroft were around and on call today to help us out on this one. Like Sherlock we most likely would discover that a good dose of humility is a small price to pay for the right answer. The right answer can mean the difference between a project 's success or failure. The wrong answer can lead one down a Narnian path to the twilight zone of no return.
Mycroft 's secret was he kept getting a bigger and bigger perspective on the problem. At some point, he simply mastered it and moved on. Sherlock would hit dead end and like most of us throw up his hands in despair. Not Mycroft. Mycroft didn't structure the problem that way in his mind so he didn't feel that frustration. Mycroft didn't care. Mycroft just kept trying to get the greatest perspective he could on the problem and then probe Sherlock 's head to fill in the blanks and connect the dots.
Holmes certainly led a more exciting life but clearly excitement was not how Mycroft measured his own life. Mycroft appears to be forever content sitting around the club reading the evening edition. Or the morning edition. Or looking wistfully at clouds of tobacco smoke. The club was Mycroft 's reward for being Mycroft.
So in the end Mycroft probably didn't know the answer. Mycroft was a club rat; it kept him insulated from the cruel and insane world, a world of which our man Sherlock was always knee deep in; rogues and scoundrels and that sort of thing. In the end we have to conclude that Mycroft was nothing more than a well dressed guru pointing the way...and did perhaps Mycroft envy Sherlock?
At any rate we Sherlock freaks would like even tougher cases and to see our man Sherlock having to squirm and run to Mycroft for more brotherly advice. Sherlock seldom squirmed. This is what it 's all about and part of what make both Mycroft and Sherlock tick. Well, at least Sherlock.
With Mycroft it was all just one big crossword puzzle but for Sherlock it was a way of life so that is why Sherlock wallowed in it. Mycroft didn't have to. Sherlock was the populist; Mycroft the aloof landed gentry. Sherlock lived life; Mycroft experienced life vicariously since it was so much tidier that way. Two paths that cross through necessity.
Besides, our Sherlock would never be content with the dull, gentlemanly life of the Diogenes club, right Sir Doyle?
The Dynamics and Finer Points of Sleeping in a Yucatecan Hammock
For Gringos, hammocks are for putting up in the backyard at siesta time. Cartoons show a sleeping hammocker getting spun up into his backyard hammock. But for millions of people living in the tropics, hammocks are a way of life. And a way of rest and sleep.
In my earlier years in Veracruz we used hammocks but not nearly as much as we do on the Yucatan peninsula. Here every house has one and usually many; even the most pretentious rich have hammocks since they are so restful and cool.
In Campeche when we stayed with our aunt she had beds for us but they weren't used; everyone preferred the hammock. In Escarcega, our cousin has one in every room just in case he needs a nap. In Cancun, our hotel worker friends sleep in hammocks because their family of six can't fit beds into a 250 square foot apartment. Do the math and you will determine that six beds would leave them with no place to walk.
In many rooms, not just bedrooms on the Yucatan, hooks are embedded on opposite sides of the walls. A hammock can be hung in a matter of seconds if you know what you are doing; if not, better be careful. There is no safety net under a hammock and even dirt floors can be painfully hard.
Taking a siesta in a hammock in one 's back yard is one thing, living with one is another. Some Mexican tractor trailer drivers carry hammocks to string under their trailers when they get sleepy. It 's cooler; they can watch their truck and save money on hotels. In our Maya village most of our neighbors sleep in hammocks. We do too...but not before literally learning the ropes...hammock ropes that is.
But there are issues. In a hammock a pillow is awkward but a blanket impossible. In Quintana Roo we have an occasional 'norte' blow in and with it cold air from the north. If it 's cold forget the hammock; blankets don't stay in place and you most likely will wake up freezing. Or sleep like those hillbilly cartoons with your feet sticking out...so be sure to wear socks.
And if it 's cold, don't forget there is no padding or insulation in a hammock. If you have three blankets on top but none underneath, you will still freeze.
That 's if it 's cold but it 's usually hot in the tropics which is ideal for hammocks and mosquitoes. Mosquitoes can bite you on any exposed skin and that includes the skin lying directly against the hammock. In a hammock, the pests can attack below as well as above. Nothing can be more miserable than getting bitten on all sides at once.
And then there is the somewhat delicate issue of more than one person sleeping in a hammock. Tropical lovers claim that they can easily fit into a hammock in many different positions. Later, after the baby arrives, the baby can sleep there too. The key to multiple hammock occupancy is to sleep crosswise, not longwise. Otherwise the hammock starts spinning and everyone ends up on the floor or ground.
In Chiapas we saw whole extended families stringing up their hammocks all in a row. I guess the family that sleeps in hammocks stays together or something like that. If campesinos or field workers are sent out to work in the rancherias, they sometimes hang as many hammocks as possible in a palapa hut to stay out of the rain. So in a number of ways hammocks work.
True natives will say they can sleep on their stomachs but I don't believe them...unless they can curve their spine backwards, which is intellectually a challenge. Still, whenever we're at our ranch in Felipe Carrillo Puerto and get a bit sleepy, it 's right into the Yucatecan hammock. Yucatan hammocks are considered the world 's finest.
Hammocks are portable but they do require two places fairly close together where it can be hung. A good Yucatecan hammock can be rolled up and stuck in a small bag. For that reason hammocks are used by poorer folk since they don't have to buy a bed and beds take up a lot of floor space. The Gringo versions with a frame to hang it on are ridiculous...lazy Gringos can't find a tree.
The hammocks are also used as cradles and cribs. Newborns are layed crosswise and swung gently just like a cradle. If one literally grows up in a hammock then hammocks become second nature and for many preferable to a bed.
With a good mosquito net the bugs stay out and sometimes in the jungle that 's the most important thing. A good mosquito net can also prevent critters like scorpions and small snakes from paying an unwelcome hammock visit.
In the jungle anything is better than the ground.
In my earlier years in Veracruz we used hammocks but not nearly as much as we do on the Yucatan peninsula. Here every house has one and usually many; even the most pretentious rich have hammocks since they are so restful and cool.
In Campeche when we stayed with our aunt she had beds for us but they weren't used; everyone preferred the hammock. In Escarcega, our cousin has one in every room just in case he needs a nap. In Cancun, our hotel worker friends sleep in hammocks because their family of six can't fit beds into a 250 square foot apartment. Do the math and you will determine that six beds would leave them with no place to walk.
In many rooms, not just bedrooms on the Yucatan, hooks are embedded on opposite sides of the walls. A hammock can be hung in a matter of seconds if you know what you are doing; if not, better be careful. There is no safety net under a hammock and even dirt floors can be painfully hard.
Taking a siesta in a hammock in one 's back yard is one thing, living with one is another. Some Mexican tractor trailer drivers carry hammocks to string under their trailers when they get sleepy. It 's cooler; they can watch their truck and save money on hotels. In our Maya village most of our neighbors sleep in hammocks. We do too...but not before literally learning the ropes...hammock ropes that is.
But there are issues. In a hammock a pillow is awkward but a blanket impossible. In Quintana Roo we have an occasional 'norte' blow in and with it cold air from the north. If it 's cold forget the hammock; blankets don't stay in place and you most likely will wake up freezing. Or sleep like those hillbilly cartoons with your feet sticking out...so be sure to wear socks.
And if it 's cold, don't forget there is no padding or insulation in a hammock. If you have three blankets on top but none underneath, you will still freeze.
That 's if it 's cold but it 's usually hot in the tropics which is ideal for hammocks and mosquitoes. Mosquitoes can bite you on any exposed skin and that includes the skin lying directly against the hammock. In a hammock, the pests can attack below as well as above. Nothing can be more miserable than getting bitten on all sides at once.
And then there is the somewhat delicate issue of more than one person sleeping in a hammock. Tropical lovers claim that they can easily fit into a hammock in many different positions. Later, after the baby arrives, the baby can sleep there too. The key to multiple hammock occupancy is to sleep crosswise, not longwise. Otherwise the hammock starts spinning and everyone ends up on the floor or ground.
In Chiapas we saw whole extended families stringing up their hammocks all in a row. I guess the family that sleeps in hammocks stays together or something like that. If campesinos or field workers are sent out to work in the rancherias, they sometimes hang as many hammocks as possible in a palapa hut to stay out of the rain. So in a number of ways hammocks work.
True natives will say they can sleep on their stomachs but I don't believe them...unless they can curve their spine backwards, which is intellectually a challenge. Still, whenever we're at our ranch in Felipe Carrillo Puerto and get a bit sleepy, it 's right into the Yucatecan hammock. Yucatan hammocks are considered the world 's finest.
Hammocks are portable but they do require two places fairly close together where it can be hung. A good Yucatecan hammock can be rolled up and stuck in a small bag. For that reason hammocks are used by poorer folk since they don't have to buy a bed and beds take up a lot of floor space. The Gringo versions with a frame to hang it on are ridiculous...lazy Gringos can't find a tree.
The hammocks are also used as cradles and cribs. Newborns are layed crosswise and swung gently just like a cradle. If one literally grows up in a hammock then hammocks become second nature and for many preferable to a bed.
With a good mosquito net the bugs stay out and sometimes in the jungle that 's the most important thing. A good mosquito net can also prevent critters like scorpions and small snakes from paying an unwelcome hammock visit.
In the jungle anything is better than the ground.
Call Of The Mall--The Seasons Of Shopping
My wife and 15 year-old daughter are shopping addicts. It’s unquestionably their favorite way of mother-daughter bonding. By comparison, a request from me to my daughter to go for a hike, my favorite way of father-daughter bonding, is met with rolling eyes and the inevitable question, “How long will it be?” My daughter has been under the tutelage of my wife since she was three and was awarded her Master Shopper Certification at age 11 years, 1 month, 2 days, just a two months shy of the world record 10 years, 11 months, 26 days. I don’t begrudge them this pleasure, but I am envious (maybe that’s why I’m writing this).
My wife and daughter get more pleasure out of shopping for clothes than most people do from a $40 meal, even if they come home with one $15 item (which is rare). Or, as Tammy Faye Bakker once put it, “Shopping is a lot cheaper than a psychiatrist.” When they return home from a shopping foray, my daughter tries on her purchases for me and tells me how much of a discount she got on each. Somehow $20 off a $70 sweater doesn’t have the same impression on me as it did on Abercrombie. But I smile and tell her how “cute” it is. By now I have learned that any other reaction is futile. My wife, by comparison, learned long ago not to seek my approval of her purchases; the first time I see them is when she wears them.
I shop for clothes occasionally. For me, the operative word is “need.” For my wife and daughter, the operative word is “want.” When I define a need, I visit the store that carries the item, purchase it and leave. In, out, done. My wife and daughter never feel satisfied until they have visited every clothing store in the mall and made sure they got the “cutest” items at the lowest prices. The economist in me calls this “maximizing shopping utility.”
I used to point out to my wife and daughter that they can only wear one thing at a time, and that one-fifth of humanity has only one change of clothes. This was a total waste of breath; what was I thinking? Both have closets stuffed to the brim with “cute” clothes. Fortunately these closets are not overly large and so they are forced to recycle (my consolation). Other than shoes, I cannot ever recall them ever recycling a clothing item that was worn out, which has always seemed to me the prime reason for buying new clothes in the first place. I sometimes think our family alone keeps the Salvation Army in business. I know it’s just a matter of time before the IRS audits us and disallows our massive writeoffs to charity.
My only other consolation is that my wife has a fairly advanced case of what she calls “shopping bulimia.” After she buys an article of clothing she brings it home and tries it on again to see if she “really likes it.” Fortunately, she changes her mind on about about 20 percent of her purchases, which she then returns to the store for a refund or credit. This enables her to experience the joy of buying some items without them ultimately costing anything.
Due to their diligence, my wife and daughter have on rare occasions actually had the peak shopping experience they refer to as the Shopping Miracle. This is when an expensive item, sometimes one they’ve had their eyes on for months, has been marked down for the third or fourth time, usually to about one-third of its supposed “retail value.” Such occasions, which generally happen only to truly serious shoppers, are the source of immeasurable delight, satisfaction and conversation.
Over the years I have noticed a pattern to their shopping which delineates the year much the same way that football seasons do. In early May, Pre-season starts. This is when they “need” new summer clothes and good deals can be had on winter clothes. My daughter has grown another inch and “cute” new fashions titillate their shopping senses. They have held off since last season and the call of the mall can no longer be denied.
Pre-season runs until August, when Regular Season gets underway. School is just around the corner and the justification for new purchases has never been stronger. Surely my daughter can’t be seen wearing the same things she wore last year! With the kickoff of Regular Season, my wife and daughter will often migrate beyond their normal shopping territory to other, more distant malls in the metro area. Our local mall can be completely shopped in a solid long day, but other malls open up whole new worlds of shopping opportunities.
Just about the time the Regular Season seems to be winding down, my wife and daughter catch new wind with the arrival of November and Christmas buying. Having largely fulfilled their personal shopping needs, they can now shop for others! It doesn’t get any better than this—shopping and altruism combined. For the next seven weeks they are intensely focused on purchasing just the right gifts for all of our friends and relatives. It is now when all the advance work of the previous three months comes into play and when I have to remind myself that yes, in spite of their continual absence, I do have a family.
Regular Season ends in a flurry of buying in the week preceding Christmas. They shop to the point where the thought of purchasing actually begins to lose some of its allure and then, thankfully, comes Christmas morning—the Big Purge. In a period of 90 minutes, all they have worked for in the previous seven weeks is disgorged from its wrappings and ooohed and aaahed by the relatives. For my wife and daughter, this is the pinnacle of the shopping year, knowing that all those days spent shopping has brought pleasure to so many others.
For a few brief days after Christmas there is a shopping lull. The thought of driving to the mall, of entering another store, of spending more money actually feels a bit distasteful. But then the Christmas gift certificates my daughter has received begin to gnaw their way into her awareness and she is gradually restored to normalcy. Plus the incredible deals at the post-Christmas sales beckon. And so they enter Post-season. It’s back to the mall, back to the shopping, but I can tell by the weariness in their voices and the brevity of their shopping forays that their hearts are not in it the way they were in Regular Season.
Post-season is gratefully short; it runs for only about a month. By the end of January, my wife and daughter are fully sated and ready for a break. The feet sore, the checking account depleted, Off Season begins. For the first few months it is actually a welcome relief—no more malls, no more shopping. Despite the sales, the appeal just isn’t there. But as the weather warms, the coats and sweaters are stashed away. The desire for new adornment is refreshed and renewed with the emergence of spring greenery, and the call of the mall once again beckons in the distance.
My wife and daughter get more pleasure out of shopping for clothes than most people do from a $40 meal, even if they come home with one $15 item (which is rare). Or, as Tammy Faye Bakker once put it, “Shopping is a lot cheaper than a psychiatrist.” When they return home from a shopping foray, my daughter tries on her purchases for me and tells me how much of a discount she got on each. Somehow $20 off a $70 sweater doesn’t have the same impression on me as it did on Abercrombie. But I smile and tell her how “cute” it is. By now I have learned that any other reaction is futile. My wife, by comparison, learned long ago not to seek my approval of her purchases; the first time I see them is when she wears them.
I shop for clothes occasionally. For me, the operative word is “need.” For my wife and daughter, the operative word is “want.” When I define a need, I visit the store that carries the item, purchase it and leave. In, out, done. My wife and daughter never feel satisfied until they have visited every clothing store in the mall and made sure they got the “cutest” items at the lowest prices. The economist in me calls this “maximizing shopping utility.”
I used to point out to my wife and daughter that they can only wear one thing at a time, and that one-fifth of humanity has only one change of clothes. This was a total waste of breath; what was I thinking? Both have closets stuffed to the brim with “cute” clothes. Fortunately these closets are not overly large and so they are forced to recycle (my consolation). Other than shoes, I cannot ever recall them ever recycling a clothing item that was worn out, which has always seemed to me the prime reason for buying new clothes in the first place. I sometimes think our family alone keeps the Salvation Army in business. I know it’s just a matter of time before the IRS audits us and disallows our massive writeoffs to charity.
My only other consolation is that my wife has a fairly advanced case of what she calls “shopping bulimia.” After she buys an article of clothing she brings it home and tries it on again to see if she “really likes it.” Fortunately, she changes her mind on about about 20 percent of her purchases, which she then returns to the store for a refund or credit. This enables her to experience the joy of buying some items without them ultimately costing anything.
Due to their diligence, my wife and daughter have on rare occasions actually had the peak shopping experience they refer to as the Shopping Miracle. This is when an expensive item, sometimes one they’ve had their eyes on for months, has been marked down for the third or fourth time, usually to about one-third of its supposed “retail value.” Such occasions, which generally happen only to truly serious shoppers, are the source of immeasurable delight, satisfaction and conversation.
Over the years I have noticed a pattern to their shopping which delineates the year much the same way that football seasons do. In early May, Pre-season starts. This is when they “need” new summer clothes and good deals can be had on winter clothes. My daughter has grown another inch and “cute” new fashions titillate their shopping senses. They have held off since last season and the call of the mall can no longer be denied.
Pre-season runs until August, when Regular Season gets underway. School is just around the corner and the justification for new purchases has never been stronger. Surely my daughter can’t be seen wearing the same things she wore last year! With the kickoff of Regular Season, my wife and daughter will often migrate beyond their normal shopping territory to other, more distant malls in the metro area. Our local mall can be completely shopped in a solid long day, but other malls open up whole new worlds of shopping opportunities.
Just about the time the Regular Season seems to be winding down, my wife and daughter catch new wind with the arrival of November and Christmas buying. Having largely fulfilled their personal shopping needs, they can now shop for others! It doesn’t get any better than this—shopping and altruism combined. For the next seven weeks they are intensely focused on purchasing just the right gifts for all of our friends and relatives. It is now when all the advance work of the previous three months comes into play and when I have to remind myself that yes, in spite of their continual absence, I do have a family.
Regular Season ends in a flurry of buying in the week preceding Christmas. They shop to the point where the thought of purchasing actually begins to lose some of its allure and then, thankfully, comes Christmas morning—the Big Purge. In a period of 90 minutes, all they have worked for in the previous seven weeks is disgorged from its wrappings and ooohed and aaahed by the relatives. For my wife and daughter, this is the pinnacle of the shopping year, knowing that all those days spent shopping has brought pleasure to so many others.
For a few brief days after Christmas there is a shopping lull. The thought of driving to the mall, of entering another store, of spending more money actually feels a bit distasteful. But then the Christmas gift certificates my daughter has received begin to gnaw their way into her awareness and she is gradually restored to normalcy. Plus the incredible deals at the post-Christmas sales beckon. And so they enter Post-season. It’s back to the mall, back to the shopping, but I can tell by the weariness in their voices and the brevity of their shopping forays that their hearts are not in it the way they were in Regular Season.
Post-season is gratefully short; it runs for only about a month. By the end of January, my wife and daughter are fully sated and ready for a break. The feet sore, the checking account depleted, Off Season begins. For the first few months it is actually a welcome relief—no more malls, no more shopping. Despite the sales, the appeal just isn’t there. But as the weather warms, the coats and sweaters are stashed away. The desire for new adornment is refreshed and renewed with the emergence of spring greenery, and the call of the mall once again beckons in the distance.
Squat Toilets Are Not Meant For Women Over 30!
At my age I thought I'd seen it all. But, after living in Thailand for a year I gave thanks to my mother for seeing that I was potty-trained in the good ole' U.S. of A.
A few days after arriving in Bangkok, I was shopping at Robinson 's Department Store. I'd been having some bladder problems, and as many 50-something women find, their lower internal organs begin to drop, droop, sag, bag and demand attention; and we don't ignore it when we feel the familiar sign of wet knickers.
I spotted the unisex sign for "Toilet." I'd heard rumors about squat toilets; thankfully my hotel was kind enough to offer sparkly white Western sit-down toilets. Dare I try this? Logic told me to head back to my hotel, but I had to weigh the time it would take in a tuk-tuk (picture a motorcycle with a bucket seat in the back, held in place by a tin cover), and I didn't think my bladder would appreciate it. I chose the squat toilet. I mean, how bad could it be? This was Robinson 's , an international upscale chain.
I peeked inside. I wanted to turn and flee. I gagged. Think Kansas City Stock Yard meets Los Angeles County Landfill. I held my breath until I felt faint. I thought about trying to breathe through my mouth but decided it might be better to smell than to taste. I had to do this. There was no backing out now. I gave my kegel muscles a huge clench and duck-waddled inside.
There it lay, the ubiquitous Eastern squat toilet, waiting for the next feeble foreigner. It was a hole cut in the tile floor, with porcelain inside the hole and a thin porcelain ledge around the top to stand on. The sides were dappled with droplets of doo-doo in various shades of black, brown and ecru.
For my American sisters who have never traveled to a foreign country that offers these contortion contraptions, let my story serve as a high-level travel alert.
I studied this enigma and tried to decide on the best point of entry. I stepped up closer to the beast. Wait! How is a woman supposed to squat on this thing? If you're wearing long pants they need to be pulled down, along with your undies. To where do you pull them? If you pull them down just a little, you'll pee on them. So, you must get into a kind of stooping position, then pull them down just past your butt cheeks and squat. While squatting, you have to pull them down a little more and tuck them under your knees. You also need to hike them up far enough so the bottoms don't touch the filthy floor. Then you squat-walk towards the hole.
But what if you have on a full skirt or muumuu? You have to pull the front of the skirt up and wad it under your chin, then grab the back of the skirt and wrap it around your waist and try to make a cute little square knot to hold everything in place. And while you're trying to maneuver yourself into position you have no idea where your feet are with all the clothes piled up around your torso.
You scan the room for a toilet paper. Nada! You panic! But wait, over in the corner you spot a spigot with a hose and pail ready and waiting for the nice little butt lavage. This is Asia, girlfriend. Forget about using paper to pat your tu-tu dry. Water is the cleanser of choice.
It 's now time to conquer your fears � and damp drawers. You're going to need an Olympic score of ten on your mount, and hope your feet hit the indents and not the hole. The porcelain is wet. The floor is wet. There is no paper. You start to pray. You hike up your skirt, wrap it around yourself, drop your drawers and tuck them behind your knees, and make the jump.
You made it! Now you're on and in the squatting position. You wonder if you can keep your balance long enough to empty your bladder. It freezes. It 's not going to cooperate. It trickles out one drop at a time, punishing you. Your back hurts, your thighs are screaming and your hamstrings are losing ground. Your purse handles are between your teeth as you try to dig out a piece of tissue with one hand while the other is flailing overhead for balance. One wrong move and you could do a pratfall onto the filthy, wet floor, or, the unthinkable � the hole.
Your bladder quits pouting and finally empties; it 's now time to dismount. But how? You realize you have to get up, and you must do it before the store closes. There 's nothing to hang on to. Both arms are now flailing about, your teeth are losing their grip on your purse handles, and your clothes are tucked into your wrinkles. You must prepare for your dismount before you fall face forward or ass backwards. You know you'll have no help from your burning thigh muscles. You give a giant heave and fling yourself up and out of the crouched position.
Yes! You made it! I'm sure everyone in the store knew I'd successfully landed my dismount when they heard me yell, "Thank you, Buddha!"
Ultimately, I suppose that the squat toilet is a great idea when it comes to the process of elimination. That is if you're in your 20s and practice yoga every day. I missed these criteria by about thirty years. Suffice it to say I wouldn't want to be caught with my knickers around my ankles with a Candid Camera crew hovering in the wings.
(Reprinted with permission from A Broad Abroad in Thailand by Dodie Cross).
A few days after arriving in Bangkok, I was shopping at Robinson 's Department Store. I'd been having some bladder problems, and as many 50-something women find, their lower internal organs begin to drop, droop, sag, bag and demand attention; and we don't ignore it when we feel the familiar sign of wet knickers.
I spotted the unisex sign for "Toilet." I'd heard rumors about squat toilets; thankfully my hotel was kind enough to offer sparkly white Western sit-down toilets. Dare I try this? Logic told me to head back to my hotel, but I had to weigh the time it would take in a tuk-tuk (picture a motorcycle with a bucket seat in the back, held in place by a tin cover), and I didn't think my bladder would appreciate it. I chose the squat toilet. I mean, how bad could it be? This was Robinson 's , an international upscale chain.
I peeked inside. I wanted to turn and flee. I gagged. Think Kansas City Stock Yard meets Los Angeles County Landfill. I held my breath until I felt faint. I thought about trying to breathe through my mouth but decided it might be better to smell than to taste. I had to do this. There was no backing out now. I gave my kegel muscles a huge clench and duck-waddled inside.
There it lay, the ubiquitous Eastern squat toilet, waiting for the next feeble foreigner. It was a hole cut in the tile floor, with porcelain inside the hole and a thin porcelain ledge around the top to stand on. The sides were dappled with droplets of doo-doo in various shades of black, brown and ecru.
For my American sisters who have never traveled to a foreign country that offers these contortion contraptions, let my story serve as a high-level travel alert.
I studied this enigma and tried to decide on the best point of entry. I stepped up closer to the beast. Wait! How is a woman supposed to squat on this thing? If you're wearing long pants they need to be pulled down, along with your undies. To where do you pull them? If you pull them down just a little, you'll pee on them. So, you must get into a kind of stooping position, then pull them down just past your butt cheeks and squat. While squatting, you have to pull them down a little more and tuck them under your knees. You also need to hike them up far enough so the bottoms don't touch the filthy floor. Then you squat-walk towards the hole.
But what if you have on a full skirt or muumuu? You have to pull the front of the skirt up and wad it under your chin, then grab the back of the skirt and wrap it around your waist and try to make a cute little square knot to hold everything in place. And while you're trying to maneuver yourself into position you have no idea where your feet are with all the clothes piled up around your torso.
You scan the room for a toilet paper. Nada! You panic! But wait, over in the corner you spot a spigot with a hose and pail ready and waiting for the nice little butt lavage. This is Asia, girlfriend. Forget about using paper to pat your tu-tu dry. Water is the cleanser of choice.
It 's now time to conquer your fears � and damp drawers. You're going to need an Olympic score of ten on your mount, and hope your feet hit the indents and not the hole. The porcelain is wet. The floor is wet. There is no paper. You start to pray. You hike up your skirt, wrap it around yourself, drop your drawers and tuck them behind your knees, and make the jump.
You made it! Now you're on and in the squatting position. You wonder if you can keep your balance long enough to empty your bladder. It freezes. It 's not going to cooperate. It trickles out one drop at a time, punishing you. Your back hurts, your thighs are screaming and your hamstrings are losing ground. Your purse handles are between your teeth as you try to dig out a piece of tissue with one hand while the other is flailing overhead for balance. One wrong move and you could do a pratfall onto the filthy, wet floor, or, the unthinkable � the hole.
Your bladder quits pouting and finally empties; it 's now time to dismount. But how? You realize you have to get up, and you must do it before the store closes. There 's nothing to hang on to. Both arms are now flailing about, your teeth are losing their grip on your purse handles, and your clothes are tucked into your wrinkles. You must prepare for your dismount before you fall face forward or ass backwards. You know you'll have no help from your burning thigh muscles. You give a giant heave and fling yourself up and out of the crouched position.
Yes! You made it! I'm sure everyone in the store knew I'd successfully landed my dismount when they heard me yell, "Thank you, Buddha!"
Ultimately, I suppose that the squat toilet is a great idea when it comes to the process of elimination. That is if you're in your 20s and practice yoga every day. I missed these criteria by about thirty years. Suffice it to say I wouldn't want to be caught with my knickers around my ankles with a Candid Camera crew hovering in the wings.
(Reprinted with permission from A Broad Abroad in Thailand by Dodie Cross).
A Week In The Life Of A Projector Installation Engineer
The world of projector installation has kept me busy for some time now. Not a vocation as such but I do like to take a pride in my work. I've seen the inside of all manner of schools and teaching institutions during this job. From the upper class private schools who use projector installation for inbuilt cinema entertainment to the local comprehensives who have just discovered technology.
Last week, we went to a nursing college in the nearby town who wanted projector installation carried out in their gynaecology department. At least I'm past the stage of giggling at things like this, unlike some of my colleagues who found it difficult to keep their minds on the job.
Next week should be more interesting. We've just won a contract to carry out projector installation in a chain of pubs. I reckon there'll be a few late nights there! Apparently, they intend to set up a loop of films to be projected for their customers.
The first day goes without a hitch, we've assessed the area to carry out the projector installation, had a few beers, acquainted ourselves with the barmaids (public relations, and all that) and will go back tomorrow to make a start.
The next day consists of preparation, the essential part of any job, get this right and everything else will fall into place. We stop for a well deserved lunch time drink and a ploughman 's . Stomach lining is good. It means we can drink more beer and still work.
Day three and the boss has been moaning. We should have moved on to the second pub by now but I explain to him we want to get this first one spot on to set a precedent for the rest. He 's not really buying it but I assure him the projector installation will be complete today.
Of course, we have to start the day off properly and a liquid breakfast is the order of the day. Around eleven o'clock, we unload the van and get all the kit inside. Dave starts messing about, prancing around in front of the projector screen when the boss walks in to check on progress.
I've managed to calm him into thinking that it was just high jinks at the excitement of getting such a big project and I have it all under control. He leans towards me, clearly trying to sniff test me for alcohol but I make my excuses about getting on and execute a swift exit.
Moving out into the main room, it seems the beer has been flowing more freely than ever and a virtual party is under way! I dart across the room in an effort to save the screen they have been attempting to erect in a half inebriated state. I call for Mick to come and help but I get a slurred message from under a table somewhere that Mick is indisposed, out the back with a barmaid!
I just reach the screen as it tips forward. Catching it, I suddenly realise the full extent of the amount I have consumed myself and the room begins to spin. The screen crashes to the floor, upturning tables and spilling ashtrays, lit cigarettes and John 's whiskey all over the floor.
Within seconds the carpet is alight and panic breaks out. Thankfully everybody gets out safely.
No surprise to find out that in the following week 's local paper three vacancies have arisen for projector installation engineers.
Last week, we went to a nursing college in the nearby town who wanted projector installation carried out in their gynaecology department. At least I'm past the stage of giggling at things like this, unlike some of my colleagues who found it difficult to keep their minds on the job.
Next week should be more interesting. We've just won a contract to carry out projector installation in a chain of pubs. I reckon there'll be a few late nights there! Apparently, they intend to set up a loop of films to be projected for their customers.
The first day goes without a hitch, we've assessed the area to carry out the projector installation, had a few beers, acquainted ourselves with the barmaids (public relations, and all that) and will go back tomorrow to make a start.
The next day consists of preparation, the essential part of any job, get this right and everything else will fall into place. We stop for a well deserved lunch time drink and a ploughman 's . Stomach lining is good. It means we can drink more beer and still work.
Day three and the boss has been moaning. We should have moved on to the second pub by now but I explain to him we want to get this first one spot on to set a precedent for the rest. He 's not really buying it but I assure him the projector installation will be complete today.
Of course, we have to start the day off properly and a liquid breakfast is the order of the day. Around eleven o'clock, we unload the van and get all the kit inside. Dave starts messing about, prancing around in front of the projector screen when the boss walks in to check on progress.
I've managed to calm him into thinking that it was just high jinks at the excitement of getting such a big project and I have it all under control. He leans towards me, clearly trying to sniff test me for alcohol but I make my excuses about getting on and execute a swift exit.
Moving out into the main room, it seems the beer has been flowing more freely than ever and a virtual party is under way! I dart across the room in an effort to save the screen they have been attempting to erect in a half inebriated state. I call for Mick to come and help but I get a slurred message from under a table somewhere that Mick is indisposed, out the back with a barmaid!
I just reach the screen as it tips forward. Catching it, I suddenly realise the full extent of the amount I have consumed myself and the room begins to spin. The screen crashes to the floor, upturning tables and spilling ashtrays, lit cigarettes and John 's whiskey all over the floor.
Within seconds the carpet is alight and panic breaks out. Thankfully everybody gets out safely.
No surprise to find out that in the following week 's local paper three vacancies have arisen for projector installation engineers.
Stories From The IT Support Industry
For those who work in the IT support industry there is a constant flow of funny and sometimes hilarious cases of clients who really do have no clue at all. Before you laugh too hard however please remember that not everyone is IT proficient. Often they come from a generation where machines had gears and if you did something wrong; it was a fast way to lose a finger.
In an attempt to counter the thousands of mindless phone calls they get daily, software writers are considering removing the 'press any key' command in installation software. This is because so many people take the time to ring IT support services to ask the question, where is the 'any key?'
One IT support worker remembers a client who had rung with a pretty generic problem. The worker told the client to right click on the Open Desktop; the client duly did this and told the IT support technician that nothing had happened. After repeating the process with no success the technician asked the client to tell him exactly what he had done. The answer came that he had written the word click on his notepad twice and was astounded that nothing had happened.
Another legendary anecdote from the IT support industry is of clients who call to enquire why their documents are not printing. It is only with a close inspection that technicians find the user has been playing with the font colours and inadvertently changed the type colour to white. IT support technicians now check this as a matter of course before further trouble shooting.
A classic from the annals of IT support stories is of users complaining their computer will not register mouse or keyboard movements. On hearing this, the technician often says that the computer is 'frozen.' Usually the next day the tech guy rings to enquire how the computer is doing; responses range from some clients covering the CPU with a coat to some placing the CPU by the fire and melting all the internal components.
During the infancy of email, IT support companies were sadly inundated with calls enquiring if emails needed stamps. Of course those who are somewhat behind the forefront of the technical revolution are going to query such matters. It makes the IT support industry interesting and occasionally frustrating to work in.
It is amazing considering the cost of IT support that people phone in with such foolish queries. One phone operator received a call from a client who had just inserted an instillation disk and the prompt screen had come up; apparently they had rung just to ask what to do next. The rather tiresome client was subsequently told, 'Have you tried hitting the 'next' tab'?
The frustration that some IT support workers inevitably feel occasionally spills out and clients must take the brunt. One story of a man who had spent over an hour with a user trying to solve a relatively simple problem snapped. When asked for advice he said 'Turn off your PC, pack it in its box and take it back to where you bought it.'
When the user went on to ask what he should tell the shop staff the frustrated technician told him to say, 'I have brought it back because I am too much of an idiot to use it.' Unsurprisingly the tech guy was sacked the same day after a barrage of complaints.
The level of stupidity amongst service users is understandable in some cases. Those of us without detailed knowledge of computers are usually wary of delving into things we do not understand. That said some of the requests that IT support workers receive are beyond a joke, a little common sense should always be applied to a problem before ringing the technical support team.
In an attempt to counter the thousands of mindless phone calls they get daily, software writers are considering removing the 'press any key' command in installation software. This is because so many people take the time to ring IT support services to ask the question, where is the 'any key?'
One IT support worker remembers a client who had rung with a pretty generic problem. The worker told the client to right click on the Open Desktop; the client duly did this and told the IT support technician that nothing had happened. After repeating the process with no success the technician asked the client to tell him exactly what he had done. The answer came that he had written the word click on his notepad twice and was astounded that nothing had happened.
Another legendary anecdote from the IT support industry is of clients who call to enquire why their documents are not printing. It is only with a close inspection that technicians find the user has been playing with the font colours and inadvertently changed the type colour to white. IT support technicians now check this as a matter of course before further trouble shooting.
A classic from the annals of IT support stories is of users complaining their computer will not register mouse or keyboard movements. On hearing this, the technician often says that the computer is 'frozen.' Usually the next day the tech guy rings to enquire how the computer is doing; responses range from some clients covering the CPU with a coat to some placing the CPU by the fire and melting all the internal components.
During the infancy of email, IT support companies were sadly inundated with calls enquiring if emails needed stamps. Of course those who are somewhat behind the forefront of the technical revolution are going to query such matters. It makes the IT support industry interesting and occasionally frustrating to work in.
It is amazing considering the cost of IT support that people phone in with such foolish queries. One phone operator received a call from a client who had just inserted an instillation disk and the prompt screen had come up; apparently they had rung just to ask what to do next. The rather tiresome client was subsequently told, 'Have you tried hitting the 'next' tab'?
The frustration that some IT support workers inevitably feel occasionally spills out and clients must take the brunt. One story of a man who had spent over an hour with a user trying to solve a relatively simple problem snapped. When asked for advice he said 'Turn off your PC, pack it in its box and take it back to where you bought it.'
When the user went on to ask what he should tell the shop staff the frustrated technician told him to say, 'I have brought it back because I am too much of an idiot to use it.' Unsurprisingly the tech guy was sacked the same day after a barrage of complaints.
The level of stupidity amongst service users is understandable in some cases. Those of us without detailed knowledge of computers are usually wary of delving into things we do not understand. That said some of the requests that IT support workers receive are beyond a joke, a little common sense should always be applied to a problem before ringing the technical support team.
The Two Marble Stress Reduction Therapy Plan or 'What Me Worry'?
Before video games we kids played with marbles. There were 'funsies' where the participants would simply play for the fun of it. Then there were 'keepsies' or a type of wager where the loser lost his marbles thus introducing many an innocent child to the risks of gambling in a brutally cruel world. There were many variations in between and we played most of them with great vigor, learning a lot about ourselves and each other in the process.
Fast-forward many years to the Chinese metallic "worry balls" or at least that is how they are marketed in Chinatown. A little bigger than golf balls, the idea is to put the two balls in the palm your hand and rotate them, using only the one hand, without touching balls. This is no small task especially if you have small hands or are a bit awkward or have just drank a half dozen martinis.
The concept is similar to the Feldenkreis physical therapy method: focus on something else and the intensity of your primary and immediate problem diminishes. When one twiddles these Chinese worry balls then they somehow get distracted from their worries, cares, problems, challenges, hassles and aggravations. This worry ball therapy does not solve problems or even eliminate worries; the attention is simply momentarily focused away from the stressor.
The real problem with the Chinese metallic balls is they are just too big. They are awkward, need a travel case and can't be carried in a business suit pocket without bulging. Some of the balls actually have a type of internal bell so when the balls are moved they make a noise. Not so with a couple of marbles. Advantage marbles.
The purists will say that marbles are too small and present no challenge so attention is not diverted from worry and anxiety. But purists are often wrong. If regular marbles are too small for you, use the larger sized 's hooters'. While slowly rotating two marbles in the palm of your hand may not seem overly challenging it does keep one 's frazzled mind occupied and at least part of the brain in a less distressed state. If nothing else it gives the poor overworked hippocampus a short break.
As usual the experts don't know how all this works but in their defense nobody else knows either. The clump of gray matter known as the brain does not work like the pragmatists hope it would work. This has been a problem since some men thought they knew more than other men. And women. What little is actually known has something to do with tactile sensation, attention, coordination and current mental condition. And faking out a lot of cranial neural circuitry also known as the black box.
If we look at the computer or informational model of the brain for insight we can quickly see that logic really doesn't compute because the brain itself really doesn't care. In the computer brain model, information is taken in, processed internally and then either put into memory or exhibited outwardly as behavior. This computerized brain model tells us nothing about neural chemistry or extended neural circuitry but it tells us a lot about the dynamics of cause and effect. The bad news is the dynamics look mostly to be smoke and mirrors.
The biggest advantage of the two marble therapy is low cost. Depending on the quantity, marbles can cost several cents to maybe a dime apiece. For two dollars you can get a year 's supply of worry marbles so that even if you lose them or they are stolen by jealous colleagues you can resupply rather quickly. And you can always pop into the toy store for a new bag. What therapy is cheaper or more convenient?
The most outstanding feature of the two marble therapy is marbles can fit in your pocket or purse or laptop case. You can hide them and bring them out when you feel the urge. Or not. You can twiddle them while waiting to give that big presentation or during your kid 's soccer match. People might look at you a bit oddly and you can explain or not; if you must explain just tell them it 's a new top secret brain plasticity builder. Odds are they will readily accept that explanation because they have no idea what brain plasticity means.
An added plus is if you drop your marbles at an embarrassing moment you can always remark that you 'must be losing your marbles.' Those near you will snicker and chortle and probably think you are an odd sort but be assured you will emit strong markers that you have a well developed sense of humor. And a good sense of humor can offset many character defects.
By the way, have you seen any stray marbles rolling around?
Fast-forward many years to the Chinese metallic "worry balls" or at least that is how they are marketed in Chinatown. A little bigger than golf balls, the idea is to put the two balls in the palm your hand and rotate them, using only the one hand, without touching balls. This is no small task especially if you have small hands or are a bit awkward or have just drank a half dozen martinis.
The concept is similar to the Feldenkreis physical therapy method: focus on something else and the intensity of your primary and immediate problem diminishes. When one twiddles these Chinese worry balls then they somehow get distracted from their worries, cares, problems, challenges, hassles and aggravations. This worry ball therapy does not solve problems or even eliminate worries; the attention is simply momentarily focused away from the stressor.
The real problem with the Chinese metallic balls is they are just too big. They are awkward, need a travel case and can't be carried in a business suit pocket without bulging. Some of the balls actually have a type of internal bell so when the balls are moved they make a noise. Not so with a couple of marbles. Advantage marbles.
The purists will say that marbles are too small and present no challenge so attention is not diverted from worry and anxiety. But purists are often wrong. If regular marbles are too small for you, use the larger sized 's hooters'. While slowly rotating two marbles in the palm of your hand may not seem overly challenging it does keep one 's frazzled mind occupied and at least part of the brain in a less distressed state. If nothing else it gives the poor overworked hippocampus a short break.
As usual the experts don't know how all this works but in their defense nobody else knows either. The clump of gray matter known as the brain does not work like the pragmatists hope it would work. This has been a problem since some men thought they knew more than other men. And women. What little is actually known has something to do with tactile sensation, attention, coordination and current mental condition. And faking out a lot of cranial neural circuitry also known as the black box.
If we look at the computer or informational model of the brain for insight we can quickly see that logic really doesn't compute because the brain itself really doesn't care. In the computer brain model, information is taken in, processed internally and then either put into memory or exhibited outwardly as behavior. This computerized brain model tells us nothing about neural chemistry or extended neural circuitry but it tells us a lot about the dynamics of cause and effect. The bad news is the dynamics look mostly to be smoke and mirrors.
The biggest advantage of the two marble therapy is low cost. Depending on the quantity, marbles can cost several cents to maybe a dime apiece. For two dollars you can get a year 's supply of worry marbles so that even if you lose them or they are stolen by jealous colleagues you can resupply rather quickly. And you can always pop into the toy store for a new bag. What therapy is cheaper or more convenient?
The most outstanding feature of the two marble therapy is marbles can fit in your pocket or purse or laptop case. You can hide them and bring them out when you feel the urge. Or not. You can twiddle them while waiting to give that big presentation or during your kid 's soccer match. People might look at you a bit oddly and you can explain or not; if you must explain just tell them it 's a new top secret brain plasticity builder. Odds are they will readily accept that explanation because they have no idea what brain plasticity means.
An added plus is if you drop your marbles at an embarrassing moment you can always remark that you 'must be losing your marbles.' Those near you will snicker and chortle and probably think you are an odd sort but be assured you will emit strong markers that you have a well developed sense of humor. And a good sense of humor can offset many character defects.
By the way, have you seen any stray marbles rolling around?
'The Dating Manual for Old Marrieds' is a Cognitive Behavioral Engineering Helpdesk
Recently psychotherapists and counselors have been recommending that old married couples go out on 'dates' to rekindle their relationship. The purpose of these dates is to create a sense of excitement when the fire has gone out and stimulate local commerce during the recession.
In the pursuit of immense diversification potential and unlimited profits, our R&D team got together over the weekend and outlined a roll play dialogue for an Old Married Couples Dating Training Manual. What was interesting is how this would play out in different regions of the United States.
What we found was that old marrieds dating strategies would have to be customized for approximately 75 different demographic regions nationwide, not including Hawaii and Samoa.
For instance, envision this old marrieds dating conversation at a chic, very West Coast Silicon Valley breakfast table:
"Honey, I want to ask you out on a date," says he.
"You need my permission to ask?" says she, "You either want to ask me or you ask me. After all these years you still can't get it right."
"Well, do you want to go out on a date?"
"I swear to God your seeing that shrink is not doing you any good at all. In case you have forgotten, and God knows I can't, I'm not your girlfriend. Google me and you'll come up with 'wife'; my Google print isn't just pages it 's volumes and they all scream 'wife'."
"Well the counselor said we were supposed to ask our significant other out on a date and it couldn't be a virtual date. The whole purpose is to create a sense of excitement and rekindle old fires if you know what I mean."
"Honey, those fires died when you defragged your hard drive. And just what do you plan to do? Get in our broken down car, drive around the block, ring our doorbell and announce you are ready for our date? Won't the neighbors think you finally fried all your white matter? "
"I guess so, but the counselor said I should do it anyway. Working on improving relationships is an important part of my therapy; sort of like a neighborhood Wifi."
"Really? Somewhere I missed all the RFPs in all this...it 's true I don't check my Blackberry but I'm only in the next room. You used to be considerate enough to at least yell. Is all this that difficult or are we just really that stupid? "
"Could be some of both according to my psychotherapist. I have to completely erase my brain 's hard drive and install a new operating system. It 's going to take about nine years."
"Nine years? You've got to be kidding. And you believed her. She doesn't know what she 's talking about. I'm around you way too much anyway; when I go somewhere I certainly don't care about going with you."
"I love you too, hon. After all these years it still makes my eyes water when I think of how tender we are still with each other."
"Sometimes I think I liked you better drunk. All this rehab nonsense has made you into a mush head. You hardly yell at me anymore...I almost feel like you stopped caring."
"I talked about it with my therapy team and they all agree I should manage my anger and find my own little mental space where I can go and hide when I feel like going ballistic. Or when I feel I need to be with just me."
"May the gods help us...I just wish they would stop filling your head with manure because you're starting to spread it around here."
"Sorry, hon. I try to look at it like spam. If I fill my head with enough spam I can overwrite my buggy mental software and drive out all the evil and spiteful glitches that used to dominate my RAM. It 's harder for evil to grab me if I'm hip deep in spam."
"You fell in, bozo. But all right already, I'll go along with your therapy team and go out on a date with you."
"Great. That will make my team very happy. Where should we go?"
"Either Costco or Ross 's . You said we need to go somewhere exciting."
"What time shall I pick you up?"
"How about let 's go around 10:00".
"That 's too late for a date."
"In the morning, dimwit."
"That 's too early. I think it 's supposed to be 7:30 or 7:45 at night. It 's supposed to be like a teenager date."
"That 's odd because in a certain sense I really do feel like a really stupid teenager right now. So, why don't we just make it 7:38 for good measure?"
"Well 7:38 sounds a bit sketchy but maybe they won't mind. They are really busy so maybe they won't notice."
"Oh no doubt your team is absorbed with much greater thoughts. This oldster dating rehab therapy would never have occurred to me; you have to give them credit for dreaming this one up. And just what does your shrink say about all this?"
"Actually she doesn't say much at all. Mostly she just nods her head and says 'good'. That and 'goodbye, see you next week at the same time."
"I was worried she was going to give you drugs."
"She said I look like I was already drugged and she didn't think I needed any more."
"She 's a real sharpie all right. Why don't you just pick me up at 10:30 and we'll be done with it?"
"What about 7:38?"
"Tell them I already have a date for then although after 40 years of being married to you it seems more like a ball and chain."
"I love you too, hon. What should I wear?"
In the pursuit of immense diversification potential and unlimited profits, our R&D team got together over the weekend and outlined a roll play dialogue for an Old Married Couples Dating Training Manual. What was interesting is how this would play out in different regions of the United States.
What we found was that old marrieds dating strategies would have to be customized for approximately 75 different demographic regions nationwide, not including Hawaii and Samoa.
For instance, envision this old marrieds dating conversation at a chic, very West Coast Silicon Valley breakfast table:
"Honey, I want to ask you out on a date," says he.
"You need my permission to ask?" says she, "You either want to ask me or you ask me. After all these years you still can't get it right."
"Well, do you want to go out on a date?"
"I swear to God your seeing that shrink is not doing you any good at all. In case you have forgotten, and God knows I can't, I'm not your girlfriend. Google me and you'll come up with 'wife'; my Google print isn't just pages it 's volumes and they all scream 'wife'."
"Well the counselor said we were supposed to ask our significant other out on a date and it couldn't be a virtual date. The whole purpose is to create a sense of excitement and rekindle old fires if you know what I mean."
"Honey, those fires died when you defragged your hard drive. And just what do you plan to do? Get in our broken down car, drive around the block, ring our doorbell and announce you are ready for our date? Won't the neighbors think you finally fried all your white matter? "
"I guess so, but the counselor said I should do it anyway. Working on improving relationships is an important part of my therapy; sort of like a neighborhood Wifi."
"Really? Somewhere I missed all the RFPs in all this...it 's true I don't check my Blackberry but I'm only in the next room. You used to be considerate enough to at least yell. Is all this that difficult or are we just really that stupid? "
"Could be some of both according to my psychotherapist. I have to completely erase my brain 's hard drive and install a new operating system. It 's going to take about nine years."
"Nine years? You've got to be kidding. And you believed her. She doesn't know what she 's talking about. I'm around you way too much anyway; when I go somewhere I certainly don't care about going with you."
"I love you too, hon. After all these years it still makes my eyes water when I think of how tender we are still with each other."
"Sometimes I think I liked you better drunk. All this rehab nonsense has made you into a mush head. You hardly yell at me anymore...I almost feel like you stopped caring."
"I talked about it with my therapy team and they all agree I should manage my anger and find my own little mental space where I can go and hide when I feel like going ballistic. Or when I feel I need to be with just me."
"May the gods help us...I just wish they would stop filling your head with manure because you're starting to spread it around here."
"Sorry, hon. I try to look at it like spam. If I fill my head with enough spam I can overwrite my buggy mental software and drive out all the evil and spiteful glitches that used to dominate my RAM. It 's harder for evil to grab me if I'm hip deep in spam."
"You fell in, bozo. But all right already, I'll go along with your therapy team and go out on a date with you."
"Great. That will make my team very happy. Where should we go?"
"Either Costco or Ross 's . You said we need to go somewhere exciting."
"What time shall I pick you up?"
"How about let 's go around 10:00".
"That 's too late for a date."
"In the morning, dimwit."
"That 's too early. I think it 's supposed to be 7:30 or 7:45 at night. It 's supposed to be like a teenager date."
"That 's odd because in a certain sense I really do feel like a really stupid teenager right now. So, why don't we just make it 7:38 for good measure?"
"Well 7:38 sounds a bit sketchy but maybe they won't mind. They are really busy so maybe they won't notice."
"Oh no doubt your team is absorbed with much greater thoughts. This oldster dating rehab therapy would never have occurred to me; you have to give them credit for dreaming this one up. And just what does your shrink say about all this?"
"Actually she doesn't say much at all. Mostly she just nods her head and says 'good'. That and 'goodbye, see you next week at the same time."
"I was worried she was going to give you drugs."
"She said I look like I was already drugged and she didn't think I needed any more."
"She 's a real sharpie all right. Why don't you just pick me up at 10:30 and we'll be done with it?"
"What about 7:38?"
"Tell them I already have a date for then although after 40 years of being married to you it seems more like a ball and chain."
"I love you too, hon. What should I wear?"
How to Get Free Food by Effectively Using the Halftime Exit Strategy
The simple truth is I'm not hung up on me. I don't sit around analyzing myself and what my colleagues or neighbors are thinking or not thinking.
For that reason and several others, some people think I am strange, weird and enlightened. Sometimes all three.
It 's all rather simple because I always know what I'm thinking. And it 's also partly because I already know what some other folks are thinking and don't want to know any more. And partly because I no longer care. OK, OK.
The older I get the more it tends toward I don't care.
I also bore myself because I already know how all my stories are going to end. You know the feeling? And just how can I pick up new material if I'm always the one talking?
I had to do something contrarian and bodacious...like strike up conversations with total strangers.
My secret is I simply refuse to talk about me and insist we talk about them. Want to watch someone eat out of your hand? Ask them to tell you about them.
"Can I get you something to eat or drink?" is one of the first things they say, "Maybe a pillow? Pitcher of martinis? Can I pick up your tab? No one has ever in my whole life asked me about me. Let me tell you all about me. I'm so excited."
"This is the happiest day of my life. I'm so thrilled someone is interested in worthless, useless, gutless moronic embattled me. I've been devoutly praying, meditating and rubbing my crystals so this day would come and it finally has. I am feeling so very blessed and spiritual right now."
Not to rain on the self esteem picnic here but the honest truth is I'm not interested. I'm in it for the food.
So I let them talk while I eat and occasionally nod my head up or down. Blah, blah, blah. I just let them get it out of their system. Blah, blah, blah. I eat and drink all I want and just let them keep going. Blah, blah, blah.
I never stop them until I am finished eating and drinking. Blah, blah, blah. And when that point arrives, I stand up and loudly pronounce 'it 's halftime'.
If you use the halftime exit survival tactic remember to never accept food or drink after your halftime proclamation as you will never be able to leave the premises again having totally lost the element of surprise. You are doomed.
Like the good life, good sequences almost always come down to timing and execution so don't be stupid and blow yours.
By the time they figure out what the heck this clown aka me means by the expression 'halftime' I have already profusely excused myself to the loo, whether I need to go or not, and once given a three step lead I simply cannot be caught.
Just like a well executed bank robbery, the focus is on surprise and escape and not looking back.
You have to start thinking outside your narrow bourgeois box if you want to get ahead in this flea bitten world. And you must understand that in our modern web linked cyber society it is often better to give first and then later receive the backlinks.
The more, the merrier.
So stop whining and focusing so much on yourself. Think leveraged strategy. And focus. In fact, focus on leveraged strategy. And especially focus on backlink paybacks through leveraged strategy.
Afterwards you graciously allow yourself to become immensely popular and everyone adores you and you get food invites to all the really cool and important functions where they also offer you bloated contracts, discounted timeshares in Akumal and their first born quarter horses.
They soon whisper in your ear how the masses will be clamoring for you to run for public office. At least Governor they whisper. At least for Governor...
You humbly decline signing all contracts that are not food or drink related except for Governor and keep your focus until halftime when you can regroup. Governors have to regroup and eat too.
Our national hero Curly of the Three Stooges put it best when he said, 'We ain't normal people, we're morons'. Amen. That 's the one thing we truly know. That 's it.
That 's the enlightened truth. From whence we come. There is no truer statement. Even the Governor knows that. He'd be the first to agree with Curly.
Buddha admitted knowing that too but said that at the end of the day it doesn't matter. If ignorance is its own reward then we should all be rich.
Curly would have agreed since he had such a short attention span, even when he got angry. And you have to admit both Buddha and Curly have some very impressive backlinks.
So don't forget to always be closing, never insult the cook and think leveraged backlinks.
Oh, and by the way, speaking of leveraging some backlinks can you please pass the nachos, amigo? It 's almost halftime...
For that reason and several others, some people think I am strange, weird and enlightened. Sometimes all three.
It 's all rather simple because I always know what I'm thinking. And it 's also partly because I already know what some other folks are thinking and don't want to know any more. And partly because I no longer care. OK, OK.
The older I get the more it tends toward I don't care.
I also bore myself because I already know how all my stories are going to end. You know the feeling? And just how can I pick up new material if I'm always the one talking?
I had to do something contrarian and bodacious...like strike up conversations with total strangers.
My secret is I simply refuse to talk about me and insist we talk about them. Want to watch someone eat out of your hand? Ask them to tell you about them.
"Can I get you something to eat or drink?" is one of the first things they say, "Maybe a pillow? Pitcher of martinis? Can I pick up your tab? No one has ever in my whole life asked me about me. Let me tell you all about me. I'm so excited."
"This is the happiest day of my life. I'm so thrilled someone is interested in worthless, useless, gutless moronic embattled me. I've been devoutly praying, meditating and rubbing my crystals so this day would come and it finally has. I am feeling so very blessed and spiritual right now."
Not to rain on the self esteem picnic here but the honest truth is I'm not interested. I'm in it for the food.
So I let them talk while I eat and occasionally nod my head up or down. Blah, blah, blah. I just let them get it out of their system. Blah, blah, blah. I eat and drink all I want and just let them keep going. Blah, blah, blah.
I never stop them until I am finished eating and drinking. Blah, blah, blah. And when that point arrives, I stand up and loudly pronounce 'it 's halftime'.
If you use the halftime exit survival tactic remember to never accept food or drink after your halftime proclamation as you will never be able to leave the premises again having totally lost the element of surprise. You are doomed.
Like the good life, good sequences almost always come down to timing and execution so don't be stupid and blow yours.
By the time they figure out what the heck this clown aka me means by the expression 'halftime' I have already profusely excused myself to the loo, whether I need to go or not, and once given a three step lead I simply cannot be caught.
Just like a well executed bank robbery, the focus is on surprise and escape and not looking back.
You have to start thinking outside your narrow bourgeois box if you want to get ahead in this flea bitten world. And you must understand that in our modern web linked cyber society it is often better to give first and then later receive the backlinks.
The more, the merrier.
So stop whining and focusing so much on yourself. Think leveraged strategy. And focus. In fact, focus on leveraged strategy. And especially focus on backlink paybacks through leveraged strategy.
Afterwards you graciously allow yourself to become immensely popular and everyone adores you and you get food invites to all the really cool and important functions where they also offer you bloated contracts, discounted timeshares in Akumal and their first born quarter horses.
They soon whisper in your ear how the masses will be clamoring for you to run for public office. At least Governor they whisper. At least for Governor...
You humbly decline signing all contracts that are not food or drink related except for Governor and keep your focus until halftime when you can regroup. Governors have to regroup and eat too.
Our national hero Curly of the Three Stooges put it best when he said, 'We ain't normal people, we're morons'. Amen. That 's the one thing we truly know. That 's it.
That 's the enlightened truth. From whence we come. There is no truer statement. Even the Governor knows that. He'd be the first to agree with Curly.
Buddha admitted knowing that too but said that at the end of the day it doesn't matter. If ignorance is its own reward then we should all be rich.
Curly would have agreed since he had such a short attention span, even when he got angry. And you have to admit both Buddha and Curly have some very impressive backlinks.
So don't forget to always be closing, never insult the cook and think leveraged backlinks.
Oh, and by the way, speaking of leveraging some backlinks can you please pass the nachos, amigo? It 's almost halftime...
Why Non-Dairy Creamer is the Greatest Marketing Coup of All Time
Non-dairy creamer or NDC has to rank as the greatest marketing coup of all time. There really isn't another scam that can quite match up to it 's simplicity, beauty and power.
All other great marketing scams descend linearly in some manner directly from NDC.
From every marketing standpoint non-dairy creamer makes sense. From the consumer' standpoint it is a big fake out but since the consumer is paying the tab he can do what he likes. Did anyone say visualized fake out?
The premise is many fat folks like to put fatty cream in their coffee or tea or even drink it straight up in the bathroom.
Some water it down and call it half and half so they will feel half as guilty when they guzzle it. But they aren't fooling themselves and therein resides the problem.
To confuse everyone the experts call it lactose intolerant but it still means one 's insides not being able to handle cow products.
As a community service and kind gesture to humanity, these savvy marketers want to save the allergic, guilty and obese from the evils of lactose intolerant consumption.
In other words, they saw a market and jumped right in.
Think of these dynamics and do a mental role play: one coffee or tea lover can't use cream because they are hypersensitive to dairy products or weigh 480 pounds or most likely both.
This depressed and distraught individual takes a small container of non-dairy creamer and picks it up examining it carefully. Actually it could be the half gallon size since even the big cartons look alike.
What, you didn't know you could buy a half gallon economy carton of NDC? And just what rock have you been living under all this time?
Visualize this happening in a restaurant while also looking wistfully at a bowl of those little tiny containers marked 'Half n' Half' and not being able to participate so to speak.
Envision that the doctor told you the day before that one more half and half and you would start to grow an udder. Now visualize NDC.
NDC looks and feels just the same. It 's very important to pass that look and feel test so that a bona fide marketing coup is possible.
Without that look and feel there is little credibility; consumers aren't that stupid, right? Pass the look and feel test and the marketing possibilities become very interesting.
Let 's not even get into the saccharin analogy and consider that all those NDC chemicals might indeed cause metabolic disturbances with a subsequent weight gain.
For the self esteem of millions it is best not to mention that consuming NDC actually might cause weight gain by causing trauma to the gastrointestinal tract.
The really important point is that non-dairy creamer does not taste or smell like cream but folks pour it in their cups anyway...chemicals and all. Why? Let 's look at the real reasons.
We use NDC because some marketer says it looks like cream if we visualize it while stirring our coffee; go ahead, be bold and visualize it turning white. And it actually does, or at least sort of does.
With correct envisioning we can see we have something in our coffee and the odds are it has to be cream, right?
Of course, what else could it be? By using the principles of envisioning and visualization and marketing scam theory we have very adroitly just faked ourselves out. Congratulations!
Even if you happen to be one of those literalists that see everything as it is you can trick your auto-suggestion cognition into actually knowing it is not cream but think you're happy about it anyway! The human mind is a very powerful thing.
In the end we all must acknowledge the real service contribution NDC makes to modern society; we need all the help we can get.
So the next time you have coffee visualize yourself pouring non-dairy creamer chemicals into your cup. Visualize pouring some chemicals that may in fact be dairy derivatives causing irreversible damage to your metabolism resulting in sudden weight gain.
The marketers and engineers are certainly planning it that way and they are working around the clock to develop new and innovative products like NDC that further allow you to fool yourself. You know the ancient Chinese saying; there is no fool like one who fools himself.
So why do they do it? They do it because they can just as you do it because you can. Instead of being a real man or woman and drinking your coffee black you have to dump stuff in and make it appear to be something it isn't.
But like the ancient Chinese also said, once a fool always a fool.
All other great marketing scams descend linearly in some manner directly from NDC.
From every marketing standpoint non-dairy creamer makes sense. From the consumer' standpoint it is a big fake out but since the consumer is paying the tab he can do what he likes. Did anyone say visualized fake out?
The premise is many fat folks like to put fatty cream in their coffee or tea or even drink it straight up in the bathroom.
Some water it down and call it half and half so they will feel half as guilty when they guzzle it. But they aren't fooling themselves and therein resides the problem.
To confuse everyone the experts call it lactose intolerant but it still means one 's insides not being able to handle cow products.
As a community service and kind gesture to humanity, these savvy marketers want to save the allergic, guilty and obese from the evils of lactose intolerant consumption.
In other words, they saw a market and jumped right in.
Think of these dynamics and do a mental role play: one coffee or tea lover can't use cream because they are hypersensitive to dairy products or weigh 480 pounds or most likely both.
This depressed and distraught individual takes a small container of non-dairy creamer and picks it up examining it carefully. Actually it could be the half gallon size since even the big cartons look alike.
What, you didn't know you could buy a half gallon economy carton of NDC? And just what rock have you been living under all this time?
Visualize this happening in a restaurant while also looking wistfully at a bowl of those little tiny containers marked 'Half n' Half' and not being able to participate so to speak.
Envision that the doctor told you the day before that one more half and half and you would start to grow an udder. Now visualize NDC.
NDC looks and feels just the same. It 's very important to pass that look and feel test so that a bona fide marketing coup is possible.
Without that look and feel there is little credibility; consumers aren't that stupid, right? Pass the look and feel test and the marketing possibilities become very interesting.
Let 's not even get into the saccharin analogy and consider that all those NDC chemicals might indeed cause metabolic disturbances with a subsequent weight gain.
For the self esteem of millions it is best not to mention that consuming NDC actually might cause weight gain by causing trauma to the gastrointestinal tract.
The really important point is that non-dairy creamer does not taste or smell like cream but folks pour it in their cups anyway...chemicals and all. Why? Let 's look at the real reasons.
We use NDC because some marketer says it looks like cream if we visualize it while stirring our coffee; go ahead, be bold and visualize it turning white. And it actually does, or at least sort of does.
With correct envisioning we can see we have something in our coffee and the odds are it has to be cream, right?
Of course, what else could it be? By using the principles of envisioning and visualization and marketing scam theory we have very adroitly just faked ourselves out. Congratulations!
Even if you happen to be one of those literalists that see everything as it is you can trick your auto-suggestion cognition into actually knowing it is not cream but think you're happy about it anyway! The human mind is a very powerful thing.
In the end we all must acknowledge the real service contribution NDC makes to modern society; we need all the help we can get.
So the next time you have coffee visualize yourself pouring non-dairy creamer chemicals into your cup. Visualize pouring some chemicals that may in fact be dairy derivatives causing irreversible damage to your metabolism resulting in sudden weight gain.
The marketers and engineers are certainly planning it that way and they are working around the clock to develop new and innovative products like NDC that further allow you to fool yourself. You know the ancient Chinese saying; there is no fool like one who fools himself.
So why do they do it? They do it because they can just as you do it because you can. Instead of being a real man or woman and drinking your coffee black you have to dump stuff in and make it appear to be something it isn't.
But like the ancient Chinese also said, once a fool always a fool.
It 's a Pig Thing: My Very Strange and Ongoing Relationship with Pigs
It 's always better to avoid being downwind from pigs. My Maya friend Poot had our permission to put a couple of pigs in back of our village hut. Somehow Poot took couple to mean six. A smelly six at that...especially downwind.
The bad news is the pigs he bought are of the 'Americano' variety and not the Mexican variety. The Americano pigs eat a special feed that Poot later found out make his pigs more costly to raise and so subsequently he will make nothing.
Bad business. The good news is that when they grow a bit more he will sell them and get out of the pig business; forever, we do all sincerely hope.
The bad news too is he can't let them out of their pig pen and he has to clean the pen twice daily. The other bad news is we all have to smell what he cleans up.
He laughs that only the Americano pigs smell bad; the Mexican pigs smell sweet. He says they smell sweet but that is not the case.
Better yes, but sweet no. The Maya do have a sardonic sense of humor and living amongst them one occasionally has to bear the brunt.
In Mexico there is a dark skinned pig that can still be seen in many rural villages and ranchos. These pigs eat corn but mostly roots and weeds and garbage. In fact, these pigs will actually clean up a weedy lot and keep it clean.
And because they are not kept in confined pens, they really don't smell that bad or have to have their pens cleaned twice daily.
The owners keep giving them corn so they won't walk away to another village. Pigs aren't stupid; they follow the corn.
Recently we drove to several Maya villages deep in the jungle with these free range pigs running throughout the village. Even though these pigs aren't marked everyone knows whose pigs they are.
We even remarked how cute the little ones looked if loose pigs in the streets can indeed be called cute. Actually no one pays them any attention except for the senoras that are always shooing them away.
No matter what pigs are dirty and make a mess. It 's a pig thing.
My first night many years back in rural Veracruz was spent inside a hut with a dirt floor. In back there was another 'room' which must have contained farm tools or such. Later the truth was revealed.
At about 2:00 in the morning there was a very loud noise. Pigs. A bunch of them. Maybe ten little ones and four or five big ones. What a ruckus!
If you have never had the pleasure of sleeping with pigs then you probably don't know they sleep in a pile at night. It 's a pig thing.
Several times a night they get up and run around in circles and change positions. And make quite a bit of noise in this social bonding process.
No need to try and figure out what 's going on because it happens to be a pig thing.
To make matters more perplexing the next morning it was clear someone had smeared my motorcycle with mud. In broken Spanish I questioned why someone would do that?
The answer was 'puercos' or pigs which I misinterpreted as thieves or bandidos. They all had a good laugh. Silly Gringo. What kinds of thieves go around smearing mud on motorcycles?
Of course the pigs had wallowed in the mud as pigs like to do and found my motorcycle a good place to scratch themselves, hence the mud.
That skinny Gringo ended up marrying that family 's oldest daughter and to this day they love to tell the story of the skinny Gringo teenager who thought thieves came at night and covered his motorcycle in mud. Silly Gringos.
Needless to say when considering what types of animals to put on my jungle ranch pigs were not a consideration.
They smell, get sick, get stolen and my resident jaguar would kill them off with great regularity. Domestic pigs are so much easier to catch and eat than wild pigs. No match for Mr. Jaguar.
Besides, it might be tempting to just give up on them and have a barbecue. Good eating but not much of a ranching business.
Yet there really is no doubt our paths will cross again. It 's inevitable and it 's fate...along with an occasional BLT or barbecue ribs with the ball game.
It 's a human thing.
The bad news is the pigs he bought are of the 'Americano' variety and not the Mexican variety. The Americano pigs eat a special feed that Poot later found out make his pigs more costly to raise and so subsequently he will make nothing.
Bad business. The good news is that when they grow a bit more he will sell them and get out of the pig business; forever, we do all sincerely hope.
The bad news too is he can't let them out of their pig pen and he has to clean the pen twice daily. The other bad news is we all have to smell what he cleans up.
He laughs that only the Americano pigs smell bad; the Mexican pigs smell sweet. He says they smell sweet but that is not the case.
Better yes, but sweet no. The Maya do have a sardonic sense of humor and living amongst them one occasionally has to bear the brunt.
In Mexico there is a dark skinned pig that can still be seen in many rural villages and ranchos. These pigs eat corn but mostly roots and weeds and garbage. In fact, these pigs will actually clean up a weedy lot and keep it clean.
And because they are not kept in confined pens, they really don't smell that bad or have to have their pens cleaned twice daily.
The owners keep giving them corn so they won't walk away to another village. Pigs aren't stupid; they follow the corn.
Recently we drove to several Maya villages deep in the jungle with these free range pigs running throughout the village. Even though these pigs aren't marked everyone knows whose pigs they are.
We even remarked how cute the little ones looked if loose pigs in the streets can indeed be called cute. Actually no one pays them any attention except for the senoras that are always shooing them away.
No matter what pigs are dirty and make a mess. It 's a pig thing.
My first night many years back in rural Veracruz was spent inside a hut with a dirt floor. In back there was another 'room' which must have contained farm tools or such. Later the truth was revealed.
At about 2:00 in the morning there was a very loud noise. Pigs. A bunch of them. Maybe ten little ones and four or five big ones. What a ruckus!
If you have never had the pleasure of sleeping with pigs then you probably don't know they sleep in a pile at night. It 's a pig thing.
Several times a night they get up and run around in circles and change positions. And make quite a bit of noise in this social bonding process.
No need to try and figure out what 's going on because it happens to be a pig thing.
To make matters more perplexing the next morning it was clear someone had smeared my motorcycle with mud. In broken Spanish I questioned why someone would do that?
The answer was 'puercos' or pigs which I misinterpreted as thieves or bandidos. They all had a good laugh. Silly Gringo. What kinds of thieves go around smearing mud on motorcycles?
Of course the pigs had wallowed in the mud as pigs like to do and found my motorcycle a good place to scratch themselves, hence the mud.
That skinny Gringo ended up marrying that family 's oldest daughter and to this day they love to tell the story of the skinny Gringo teenager who thought thieves came at night and covered his motorcycle in mud. Silly Gringos.
Needless to say when considering what types of animals to put on my jungle ranch pigs were not a consideration.
They smell, get sick, get stolen and my resident jaguar would kill them off with great regularity. Domestic pigs are so much easier to catch and eat than wild pigs. No match for Mr. Jaguar.
Besides, it might be tempting to just give up on them and have a barbecue. Good eating but not much of a ranching business.
Yet there really is no doubt our paths will cross again. It 's inevitable and it 's fate...along with an occasional BLT or barbecue ribs with the ball game.
It 's a human thing.
Begone Doom and Gloomers: Why You Should Stay on the Sunnyside of Life
That 's it. No more sad stories. No more long faces. We just can't take it anymore. We, the moral supporters, staff and affiliates are on strike.
We are on strike against doom and gloomers. We are on strike against those that continue insisting the sky is falling.
There is no joy in Mudville. Nor in Cupertino or Thousand Oaks. Let us hang our collective heads and knash our designer teeth.
Most employees are not happy campers. It really doesn't take much intellect to see if someone is happy and smiling or sad and frowning. It is one of the first things we learn as babies. Duh?
See for yourself in the next business you go into. Simply look and observe if the folks you see are smiling or not. Then, look at the customers present and see if they are smiling or not.
That 's all the effort you need to spend in this portion of your corporate culture analysis.
Then go back to your office or the nearest coffee shop and sit down and analyze your results. Odds are if the employees are smiling, the customers are smiling. If the employees are frowning, the customers are frowning.
Some psychologists call this the mirror effect or the idea that we reflect the behaviors we observe. This is true for most monkeys and probably for most humans since we are genetically 98% alike. At least most of you are...
Imagine going into your favorite pub and the waitress has a long face. Your mind frantically searches through your cerebral database to come up with reasons for the long face.
You stall on 'bad food' and decide it is perhaps best to have a beer now and eat somewhere else later.
Somewhere else where you won't get sick like the waitress.
The truth of the matter is the waitress' four year old poured all of daddy 's cement into the toilet and the sitter wants to know what to do since it is starting to harden. But that is no excuse.
You missed the special of the day, missed the winning touchdown on the widescreen and your favorite pub went bankrupt the next day because your waitress was wearing a long face and all you could think about was E. coli.
Anyway, none of it matters in a gloom and doom world. We need to bottle and sell happiness; who would pay for doom? You may laugh and think it 's stupid and what kind of company creates and sells happiness since we can't even define it?
And just how does one become a joy agent?
Jesting aside you probably know how collective melancholy can kill your business but did you also know it eats into the neurons of your hippocampus thus explaining why all people that constantly frown are perpetual losers?
It 's that simple: frown and your hippocampus turns to mush. That 's what we tell people. Not all of them believe us but that 's our company line.
We also very firmly believe that if we say it enough times even we will start to believe it.
But the honest truth is we just don't like frowners and losers. We strongly suggest you get them out of your workplace before they poison your whole work environment.
Send them on a business trip with a one way ticket.
However if you have been noticing a funny odor for the last several days you may want to check the source out.
Most likely it will be a rotting rat inside a wall but sometimes employees have been known to pass away and not be missed for weeks.
Sometimes management attention span is short and they neglect to check up on their people. It 's always good to keep the thing light by using tricky campaign style buttons that say "We Check Our Employees' Oil Each and Every Day."
So the next time one of your customers asks "Who died?" take it as a constructive criticism and not a perverted death wish or personal grooming insult.
So until then, check your oil every day, keep the faith and don't forget that beautiful smile!
We are on strike against doom and gloomers. We are on strike against those that continue insisting the sky is falling.
There is no joy in Mudville. Nor in Cupertino or Thousand Oaks. Let us hang our collective heads and knash our designer teeth.
Most employees are not happy campers. It really doesn't take much intellect to see if someone is happy and smiling or sad and frowning. It is one of the first things we learn as babies. Duh?
See for yourself in the next business you go into. Simply look and observe if the folks you see are smiling or not. Then, look at the customers present and see if they are smiling or not.
That 's all the effort you need to spend in this portion of your corporate culture analysis.
Then go back to your office or the nearest coffee shop and sit down and analyze your results. Odds are if the employees are smiling, the customers are smiling. If the employees are frowning, the customers are frowning.
Some psychologists call this the mirror effect or the idea that we reflect the behaviors we observe. This is true for most monkeys and probably for most humans since we are genetically 98% alike. At least most of you are...
Imagine going into your favorite pub and the waitress has a long face. Your mind frantically searches through your cerebral database to come up with reasons for the long face.
You stall on 'bad food' and decide it is perhaps best to have a beer now and eat somewhere else later.
Somewhere else where you won't get sick like the waitress.
The truth of the matter is the waitress' four year old poured all of daddy 's cement into the toilet and the sitter wants to know what to do since it is starting to harden. But that is no excuse.
You missed the special of the day, missed the winning touchdown on the widescreen and your favorite pub went bankrupt the next day because your waitress was wearing a long face and all you could think about was E. coli.
Anyway, none of it matters in a gloom and doom world. We need to bottle and sell happiness; who would pay for doom? You may laugh and think it 's stupid and what kind of company creates and sells happiness since we can't even define it?
And just how does one become a joy agent?
Jesting aside you probably know how collective melancholy can kill your business but did you also know it eats into the neurons of your hippocampus thus explaining why all people that constantly frown are perpetual losers?
It 's that simple: frown and your hippocampus turns to mush. That 's what we tell people. Not all of them believe us but that 's our company line.
We also very firmly believe that if we say it enough times even we will start to believe it.
But the honest truth is we just don't like frowners and losers. We strongly suggest you get them out of your workplace before they poison your whole work environment.
Send them on a business trip with a one way ticket.
However if you have been noticing a funny odor for the last several days you may want to check the source out.
Most likely it will be a rotting rat inside a wall but sometimes employees have been known to pass away and not be missed for weeks.
Sometimes management attention span is short and they neglect to check up on their people. It 's always good to keep the thing light by using tricky campaign style buttons that say "We Check Our Employees' Oil Each and Every Day."
So the next time one of your customers asks "Who died?" take it as a constructive criticism and not a perverted death wish or personal grooming insult.
So until then, check your oil every day, keep the faith and don't forget that beautiful smile!
Dumber by Design: We're Feeble-Minded, What 's Your Excuse?
There you have it and we admit we have thrown in the towel. We have lost interest in everything. That doesn't mean we're bored; it just means we have no interests. None. With no interests it 's harder to get bored, no?
At any rate, we have what the cowboys would say 'gone out to pasture'. In other words, our useful and productive days on this planet have since passed. We don't do anything; we just exist and speak a collective 'we'.
If you are as young as you feel, what happens when you feel you are really old? Does your usefulness as marketing fodder diminish as you mentally prepare for your very own final check out time? If adult means the opposite of kid and kid means interested then adult means not interested? That 's us. We just aren't interested in anything, like we have been telling you...
We have been there and done that. We have seen it all and done it all several times already and just aren't interested in anything at the moment and that also includes the foreseeable future. We are what the medical researchers call the "flat lined living"; it might look like something is going on, but believe me, nobody is home. Not anyone that matters anyway...
We became this stupid through great effort and we resent those that demean and belittle our far reaching efforts. It 's in our spirit and in our blood...it 's what we do. We consume, go to the store, go to the clinic, and consume some more. It 's us. Again, it 's what we do. We like to do our fair share to make it all work out hunky-dory for everybody...isn't this a great country?
Well, for most of us it is a great country. Except those that have to live here...ha, just kidding. We also dumbed down by not thinking very much and by not thinking about much of substance. That way we make certain we have nothing to discuss, especially with Dog off the air. Dog was the last truly intellectual informational TV series in our time. Dog was actually the last intellectual thing in our life period. We still talk about Dog.
We all want a dream job like Dog 's old job. Man, did he have it made. But alas, we get what we get, not what we think we deserve. Unfortunately our expectations are usually too high and we feel burned by any result that is less than spectacular, such as our work life. If there is one part of our lives that reeks or isn't spectacular, it 's our work.
We work because we have to. That 's it. We put ourselves in this have-to box and we have no easy way out. So we sit in the trap year after year. Decade after decade. It makes us dumber by design.
That 's us...dumber by design. After so many years, we cease to function on a normal level and get this quizzical look. We don't answer because we don't hear the question, so we look puzzled because we have no idea what the heck you just said. We are so wrapped up in our own little microcosmic universe that we cease to register and record what is actually going on around us. Sorry, we've already checked out. Hence, we appear really thick but in reality, we just aren't home.
But we do try to keep our spirits up, no thanks to others like you. They nag and gripe and complain at every twist and at times are simply unpredictable. And we seem always to get kneed by the unpredictable...
So what else is new? Actually not much. You see, once you have done it all there 's not much left to do. It all becomes a type of repetition and dance of futility. But all is not lost, no, not if we can help it. Our mantra, "I didn't do it!" was, is and shall remain the statement of our faith, belief and hope. With zero expectations we're just thankful for a continental breakfast in the morning. And lots of coffee...after that, what else can one realistically expect?
As that fixed glazed look settles somewhat permanently across our sunken eyeballs we know that it is not a matter of if but only a matter of when. We are in the first stages of our final chapter and are trying to go gracefully and if not gracefully, at least with some sort of low key whimper. And why not? It 's a long time lying in that cold, cold ground, no?
And maybe if we all close our eyes and wish real hard, we can make it all go nicely away at least until tomorrow. Life goes on. But lest we forget, it 's a long time lying in the cold, cold ground...
At any rate, we have what the cowboys would say 'gone out to pasture'. In other words, our useful and productive days on this planet have since passed. We don't do anything; we just exist and speak a collective 'we'.
If you are as young as you feel, what happens when you feel you are really old? Does your usefulness as marketing fodder diminish as you mentally prepare for your very own final check out time? If adult means the opposite of kid and kid means interested then adult means not interested? That 's us. We just aren't interested in anything, like we have been telling you...
We have been there and done that. We have seen it all and done it all several times already and just aren't interested in anything at the moment and that also includes the foreseeable future. We are what the medical researchers call the "flat lined living"; it might look like something is going on, but believe me, nobody is home. Not anyone that matters anyway...
We became this stupid through great effort and we resent those that demean and belittle our far reaching efforts. It 's in our spirit and in our blood...it 's what we do. We consume, go to the store, go to the clinic, and consume some more. It 's us. Again, it 's what we do. We like to do our fair share to make it all work out hunky-dory for everybody...isn't this a great country?
Well, for most of us it is a great country. Except those that have to live here...ha, just kidding. We also dumbed down by not thinking very much and by not thinking about much of substance. That way we make certain we have nothing to discuss, especially with Dog off the air. Dog was the last truly intellectual informational TV series in our time. Dog was actually the last intellectual thing in our life period. We still talk about Dog.
We all want a dream job like Dog 's old job. Man, did he have it made. But alas, we get what we get, not what we think we deserve. Unfortunately our expectations are usually too high and we feel burned by any result that is less than spectacular, such as our work life. If there is one part of our lives that reeks or isn't spectacular, it 's our work.
We work because we have to. That 's it. We put ourselves in this have-to box and we have no easy way out. So we sit in the trap year after year. Decade after decade. It makes us dumber by design.
That 's us...dumber by design. After so many years, we cease to function on a normal level and get this quizzical look. We don't answer because we don't hear the question, so we look puzzled because we have no idea what the heck you just said. We are so wrapped up in our own little microcosmic universe that we cease to register and record what is actually going on around us. Sorry, we've already checked out. Hence, we appear really thick but in reality, we just aren't home.
But we do try to keep our spirits up, no thanks to others like you. They nag and gripe and complain at every twist and at times are simply unpredictable. And we seem always to get kneed by the unpredictable...
So what else is new? Actually not much. You see, once you have done it all there 's not much left to do. It all becomes a type of repetition and dance of futility. But all is not lost, no, not if we can help it. Our mantra, "I didn't do it!" was, is and shall remain the statement of our faith, belief and hope. With zero expectations we're just thankful for a continental breakfast in the morning. And lots of coffee...after that, what else can one realistically expect?
As that fixed glazed look settles somewhat permanently across our sunken eyeballs we know that it is not a matter of if but only a matter of when. We are in the first stages of our final chapter and are trying to go gracefully and if not gracefully, at least with some sort of low key whimper. And why not? It 's a long time lying in that cold, cold ground, no?
And maybe if we all close our eyes and wish real hard, we can make it all go nicely away at least until tomorrow. Life goes on. But lest we forget, it 's a long time lying in the cold, cold ground...
The Strange Case of Dr. Pietro d'Abano or Things Really Could Be Much Worse
Whenever we feel the need to lower our heads in collective depression and despair, we take heart from the simple fact that things can always be worse. To reaffirm this fact of our cruel and unjust life, it helps if we remind ourselves of the imminent Italian physician and philosopher, the venerable Dr. Pietro d'Abano.
The most obvious difference between Dr. P and us is we are alive and poor Dr. Pietro is dead. Long dead. He died around 1316. Almost seven centuries ago. This fact alone should be enough to raise our leaden spirits up out of our collective slumber and into the realm of ignorant bliss as we realize it is far better to be alive than dead. However, this argument is also somewhat weak in that it can only be argued from the vantage point of the living, since the dead don't usually debate. Or at least very well.
If we were all Buddhists at this point there would be far more logic than we need for proof; but we're not, so it isn't. Coming from the Judeo-Christian tradition of 'every tiny little thing is such a very big pain'; we can't let it go so easily. In fact, we can't let anything go very easily. It 's what we do best; hoard stuff.
The good news back then was that Dr. Pietro was a respected professor of Medicine at Padua and was partially responsible for elevating the noble concept of medicine above the superstitious back alleys of sorcery and witchcraft. The bad news is he was tried for heresy and practicing magic by the Inquisition. In fact, it really could have been magic after all since this was some 600 years before penicillin.
But the good news was that our Dr. Pietro was acquitted and freed, no small feat for that day and time. The bad news was he was later charged again with heresy and tried again. The good news was that he had already beaten the previous charges. The really bad news was he died during the second trial. We don't know the cause of death because the Inquisition did not favor autopsies for obvious reasons.
But before even any last rites consideration, Dr. P 's friends, being the typical uninformed blockheads of the early 1300 's , stole his body thinking that the corpse housed something akin to the soul or spirit and was in effect the essence of man or in this case, Dr. Pietro himself incarnate.
When the good Dr. P. was later convicted of his heinous crimes, he was ordered burned at the stake, the usual and customary sentence for such an offense as practicing magic. No big deal. However, since he was dead and his cadaver had vanished, he was ordered burned in effigy, the same or at least very similar thing.
So if in fact the sick and fever ridden Don Pietro had realized he was going to die during his second trial, he also knew his good buddies would more than likely scarf the cadaver to prevent the Inquisitors from inquisitioning it. He also knew he would then be ordered burned in effigy which he somehow would equate with great importance and still thusly die a fearful, dejected and despondent man. Had our Dr. Pietro only known what we the modernly civilized know.
Had Dr. P been enlightened he would have told the judge to do whatever the court wants with his vile cadaver. Modern medicine and modern science has now determined just when the whole thing called life ceases to exist and that point is called the time and date on the death certificate. Death certificates are equal opportunity for all since we all get one, just like the birth one; we are stamped coming in and stamped going out. Having been burned in effigy, it is unclear whether Dr. P. got one going out or not.
So of course this begs the existential question: Can human knowledge that came after Dr. Pietro 's era then be integrated into Dr. Pietro 's ongoing spiritual psyche thus causing it to be nurtured and developed even after his untimely yet expected death? Whew.
The short answer is no but that has never stopped extremists like Don Pietro. For all we know he could still be around so don't be surprised if he shows up at your next potluck or office social. We can't actually say for sure that he wasn't one of those sorcerers with one of those pointed hats...but we can say that he probably stepped way outside the accepted bounds of normalcy for his day and time. It probably wasn't a hard thing to do, remember, Columbus was still two centuries away.
It 's a good guess there is a physical law or rule somewhere that says you can't keep on learning, growing and developing after you are dead. As of yet, there is no proof since there is not much reliable information that has been obtained from dead people. However, it does appear that thanks to the efforts of oddballs like Dr. Pietro D'Abano we are somehow better off today. For instance, we won't be arrested for practicing magic which despite the best efforts of the Inquisition is no longer a crime. Wonder what Don Pietro would say about that.
It is hard to imagine a world without vaccines and public health and a world where burning in effigy really meant something. "And as punishment Your Honor, I recommend the State burn the dead carcass of my miserable client. But until then, it 's party time, OK, Your Honor?" Today we call it cremation.
Such is good and bad, life and death. And the evolving concept of justice. But hey admit it, after comparing your problems to those of the departed Dr. Pietro, just what exactly is your gripe?
And go ahead and admit it, after comparing your situation with that of Dr. Pietro D'Abano, don't you feel better now?
The most obvious difference between Dr. P and us is we are alive and poor Dr. Pietro is dead. Long dead. He died around 1316. Almost seven centuries ago. This fact alone should be enough to raise our leaden spirits up out of our collective slumber and into the realm of ignorant bliss as we realize it is far better to be alive than dead. However, this argument is also somewhat weak in that it can only be argued from the vantage point of the living, since the dead don't usually debate. Or at least very well.
If we were all Buddhists at this point there would be far more logic than we need for proof; but we're not, so it isn't. Coming from the Judeo-Christian tradition of 'every tiny little thing is such a very big pain'; we can't let it go so easily. In fact, we can't let anything go very easily. It 's what we do best; hoard stuff.
The good news back then was that Dr. Pietro was a respected professor of Medicine at Padua and was partially responsible for elevating the noble concept of medicine above the superstitious back alleys of sorcery and witchcraft. The bad news is he was tried for heresy and practicing magic by the Inquisition. In fact, it really could have been magic after all since this was some 600 years before penicillin.
But the good news was that our Dr. Pietro was acquitted and freed, no small feat for that day and time. The bad news was he was later charged again with heresy and tried again. The good news was that he had already beaten the previous charges. The really bad news was he died during the second trial. We don't know the cause of death because the Inquisition did not favor autopsies for obvious reasons.
But before even any last rites consideration, Dr. P 's friends, being the typical uninformed blockheads of the early 1300 's , stole his body thinking that the corpse housed something akin to the soul or spirit and was in effect the essence of man or in this case, Dr. Pietro himself incarnate.
When the good Dr. P. was later convicted of his heinous crimes, he was ordered burned at the stake, the usual and customary sentence for such an offense as practicing magic. No big deal. However, since he was dead and his cadaver had vanished, he was ordered burned in effigy, the same or at least very similar thing.
So if in fact the sick and fever ridden Don Pietro had realized he was going to die during his second trial, he also knew his good buddies would more than likely scarf the cadaver to prevent the Inquisitors from inquisitioning it. He also knew he would then be ordered burned in effigy which he somehow would equate with great importance and still thusly die a fearful, dejected and despondent man. Had our Dr. Pietro only known what we the modernly civilized know.
Had Dr. P been enlightened he would have told the judge to do whatever the court wants with his vile cadaver. Modern medicine and modern science has now determined just when the whole thing called life ceases to exist and that point is called the time and date on the death certificate. Death certificates are equal opportunity for all since we all get one, just like the birth one; we are stamped coming in and stamped going out. Having been burned in effigy, it is unclear whether Dr. P. got one going out or not.
So of course this begs the existential question: Can human knowledge that came after Dr. Pietro 's era then be integrated into Dr. Pietro 's ongoing spiritual psyche thus causing it to be nurtured and developed even after his untimely yet expected death? Whew.
The short answer is no but that has never stopped extremists like Don Pietro. For all we know he could still be around so don't be surprised if he shows up at your next potluck or office social. We can't actually say for sure that he wasn't one of those sorcerers with one of those pointed hats...but we can say that he probably stepped way outside the accepted bounds of normalcy for his day and time. It probably wasn't a hard thing to do, remember, Columbus was still two centuries away.
It 's a good guess there is a physical law or rule somewhere that says you can't keep on learning, growing and developing after you are dead. As of yet, there is no proof since there is not much reliable information that has been obtained from dead people. However, it does appear that thanks to the efforts of oddballs like Dr. Pietro D'Abano we are somehow better off today. For instance, we won't be arrested for practicing magic which despite the best efforts of the Inquisition is no longer a crime. Wonder what Don Pietro would say about that.
It is hard to imagine a world without vaccines and public health and a world where burning in effigy really meant something. "And as punishment Your Honor, I recommend the State burn the dead carcass of my miserable client. But until then, it 's party time, OK, Your Honor?" Today we call it cremation.
Such is good and bad, life and death. And the evolving concept of justice. But hey admit it, after comparing your problems to those of the departed Dr. Pietro, just what exactly is your gripe?
And go ahead and admit it, after comparing your situation with that of Dr. Pietro D'Abano, don't you feel better now?
Civilized Visualization or Worrying About Worrying About Having the Big One
A new study tells us we should stop worrying about worrying as if we didn't already know. It all started when some group of research pointy heads found out that worrying about paying health insurance premiums was causing people to get sick. Their conclusions were the patient was going to be sick anyway so may as well jack up the premiums.
Now we are told if one worries about having a heart attack, one more than likely will have the Big One than if one does not worry about having the Big One. So now we have a worry about a worry, if that makes sense. But of course it does.
It 's simply a matter of civilized visualization. If the baseball player visualizes himself striking out, well, that most likely will be the result. We do know that in the end the survival of the fittest strategy may come down to who can worry less about worrying. Or as my good pal Clem Oakley used to say, 'it 's time for some very, very hard liquor right now.'
Good old Clem, rest in peace. Clem always knew what to do when things seemed darkest. Clem knew how to deal with things like worry. Clem always saw the mug as half filled which for him meant he had just chugged the other half.
But Clem aside, one should worry a lot about having a heart attack, no? Don't you just hate to visualize all that chest clenching and pain and loss of awareness and sensitivity for others? Those having heart attacks almost always are focused on their own needs and entirely ignore the needs of others that are most likely becoming stressed as well.
So now, thanks to folks like you, we have not one but two things to worry about; 1) the Big One and 2) the worry about the Big One. As a consequence we now must spend our days thinking through all our worries and our difficulty remembering them all, which could be a plus or a minus.
Not to cheer too soon, because all this eventually causes new anxiety and probably new worry as well. You know what they say; one little worry leads right to another and nine days later out pops a brand new little baby worry crying its heart out. It 's a cultural thing and an element of pride. Once you really learn how to seriously worry, amateurism simply will not do.
As a sideshow, a whole entire industry will pop up over night teaching everybody and his brother how to cope with worry; 'we don't get rid of it, we just dull the pain.' Sounds like fun. Sounds like another thing to worry about. Somehow we just can't wait to attend all those worry capacity building workshops. As a group, we have found that group worry brings us closer to each other and our common worries. We also recommend it for families with rude and crude teenagers. Talk about worry...bring me the bottle, Clem.
What this all means in the final net net is that we just have to learn to deal with more worry if we want to get the full benefits of a worry based existence. What me worry? Why not, it 's good for you, no?
Well, yes and no. If one worries enough about having a heart attack, maybe one will also change one 's diet and adopt an exercise plan. Or not. So the positive aspect of doing positive things that help prevent a heart attack may in fact offset the negative aspect of worrying about the big one.
So be it. But just because it is, should we worry about it? The unpopular truth is probably so. That 's life. Like the jaguar in the jungle, what you worry obsessively over won't sneak up on you in the middle of the night, right? Who wants to wake up in the middle of the night having the Big One? It 's enough to spoil the entire evening...
No worries for the real worry pro though, adding a worry or two presents no problem. Worries need room to expand and grow if they are to become healthy and vigorous and mesh into the melting pot of full blown anxieties and neuroses. And subsequently aid in the increased dysfunction of both individuals and tribes. What 's not to like about that?
Just remember that things are never as bad as they seem and never seem as they truly are; your problems emanate solely from your peculiarly skewed perceptions. You are somewhat strange. Don't try to blame it on nature or nurture; be a real man or a real woman and simply take the blame yourself. In the long run it 's less painful and certainly less confusing.
Whatever you do, don't blame me. Just remember you were told worry is us and that 's all you really need to know, right? Right?
Now we are told if one worries about having a heart attack, one more than likely will have the Big One than if one does not worry about having the Big One. So now we have a worry about a worry, if that makes sense. But of course it does.
It 's simply a matter of civilized visualization. If the baseball player visualizes himself striking out, well, that most likely will be the result. We do know that in the end the survival of the fittest strategy may come down to who can worry less about worrying. Or as my good pal Clem Oakley used to say, 'it 's time for some very, very hard liquor right now.'
Good old Clem, rest in peace. Clem always knew what to do when things seemed darkest. Clem knew how to deal with things like worry. Clem always saw the mug as half filled which for him meant he had just chugged the other half.
But Clem aside, one should worry a lot about having a heart attack, no? Don't you just hate to visualize all that chest clenching and pain and loss of awareness and sensitivity for others? Those having heart attacks almost always are focused on their own needs and entirely ignore the needs of others that are most likely becoming stressed as well.
So now, thanks to folks like you, we have not one but two things to worry about; 1) the Big One and 2) the worry about the Big One. As a consequence we now must spend our days thinking through all our worries and our difficulty remembering them all, which could be a plus or a minus.
Not to cheer too soon, because all this eventually causes new anxiety and probably new worry as well. You know what they say; one little worry leads right to another and nine days later out pops a brand new little baby worry crying its heart out. It 's a cultural thing and an element of pride. Once you really learn how to seriously worry, amateurism simply will not do.
As a sideshow, a whole entire industry will pop up over night teaching everybody and his brother how to cope with worry; 'we don't get rid of it, we just dull the pain.' Sounds like fun. Sounds like another thing to worry about. Somehow we just can't wait to attend all those worry capacity building workshops. As a group, we have found that group worry brings us closer to each other and our common worries. We also recommend it for families with rude and crude teenagers. Talk about worry...bring me the bottle, Clem.
What this all means in the final net net is that we just have to learn to deal with more worry if we want to get the full benefits of a worry based existence. What me worry? Why not, it 's good for you, no?
Well, yes and no. If one worries enough about having a heart attack, maybe one will also change one 's diet and adopt an exercise plan. Or not. So the positive aspect of doing positive things that help prevent a heart attack may in fact offset the negative aspect of worrying about the big one.
So be it. But just because it is, should we worry about it? The unpopular truth is probably so. That 's life. Like the jaguar in the jungle, what you worry obsessively over won't sneak up on you in the middle of the night, right? Who wants to wake up in the middle of the night having the Big One? It 's enough to spoil the entire evening...
No worries for the real worry pro though, adding a worry or two presents no problem. Worries need room to expand and grow if they are to become healthy and vigorous and mesh into the melting pot of full blown anxieties and neuroses. And subsequently aid in the increased dysfunction of both individuals and tribes. What 's not to like about that?
Just remember that things are never as bad as they seem and never seem as they truly are; your problems emanate solely from your peculiarly skewed perceptions. You are somewhat strange. Don't try to blame it on nature or nurture; be a real man or a real woman and simply take the blame yourself. In the long run it 's less painful and certainly less confusing.
Whatever you do, don't blame me. Just remember you were told worry is us and that 's all you really need to know, right? Right?
Can the New Techies Manage and Maintain Their Vast, Extended Neural Networks?
You know who they are. They wear a tool belt for all their phones and gadgets. They look like a telephone line repairman. They waddle when they walk. They can speak but like all good children they only speak when spoken to. You might try texting them because it 's quicker. Besides, they will tell you they just don't listen very well. They hear just fine, but don't listen. It 's not what they do.
They have been called gadget addicts and worse. You know the argument, video games and virtual reality are the equivalent of drugs. However, drugs only affect the brain and do not actually become part of the neural network, unlike gadgets. Gadgets become part of the flow of the parsed bits and bytes and therefore become indispensable. Take out the gadget and the neural network crashes.
So with the New Techies, the gadgets have become part of the Extended Neural Network or ENN. Taking away these gadgets is like taking away whole sections of the ENN. It 's like surgically removing a chunk of brain; well, sort of.
As a consequence anything and everything that is connected with this gadget simply disappears when the gadget disappears. This can cause a problem since all data of significance run through this device 's chips. This data includes such non-essentials as family, school and other community and personal experiences not including friends.
Adults who don't care about how they look often wear a dumbing down earphone headset and can be seen in public gesturing and talking to themselves. The question is, does this make them feel important or just look more stupid? It sure hurts any chances for finding a date; who wants their conversation played out to everyone in the fruit and veggie section at the local Trader Joe 's ? Is this the type of behavior young people should emulate? Is this the type of behavior one should be exposed to while shopping for basil and artichokes?
Needless to say this New Techie withdrawal from the human race and real time relationships means that the New Techies will become even goofier than their nerdy and goofy predecessors. Staring at a terminal too long used to cause goofiness and now this syndrome has simply coded seamlessly over to cell phones and handhelds of all shapes and colors. How about a little pink one in the shape of a heart for someone you really despise?
It 's easier so subsequently there is little reason for the New Techie to become interested in things like hiking, surfing, football or even dancing. Dancing is especially worrisome as it sometimes creates relationships and relationships are clearly problematic for the permanently sanitized and wired.
As the Greeks said, beware excess. Unfortunately chronic usage of add on devices results in the New Techies' mental circuitry becoming fried. Offshore research has shown the neurons en masse begin to fray and melt into a sort of soft goo paste. This goo or anti-brain matter causes dysfunctional withdrawal from the real world into the safer and less threatening virtual world where nobody gets punched, insulted or called nasty ethnic names. After all, like the Super Bowl, World Cup and Presidential Election, at the end of the day it 's still just a game.
We certainly make it harder on ourselves since we humans are messy creatures creating a lot of fuss and bother and then leaving a bunch of garbage. It 's so much easier just to wire directly into that Extended Neural Network ENN and not have to deal with all the other parts of human bodies that are quite frankly embarrassing to most New Techies. Part of the advantage of being wired is avoidance of physical contact. No icky germs...
But the question remains of just how is elevated art and culture to be transplanted from the worldly wise into a pea sized cerebrum that is constantly bombarded by low-end, sleaze ball digital stimuli? The short answer is it isn't because it can't. The wired brain is not free and inquiring; the wired brain is bored, boring and stuffed with spam. Mostly spam. All irrelevant input and no relevant output. That and gooey anti-brain matter.
But in the net net, it doesn't matter. The inconvenient truth is we are what we think. Or put another way a bit more pessimistically, we are only what little we think. Does it matter that we plug and play into the only conscious freethinking organ we have? How many independently generated new ideas did your liver and kidneys come up with this week? But in the end, if you really think about it long and hard, who really needs those smelly, ugly old frontal lobes anyway?
BTW, did you get my text message about your text message?
They have been called gadget addicts and worse. You know the argument, video games and virtual reality are the equivalent of drugs. However, drugs only affect the brain and do not actually become part of the neural network, unlike gadgets. Gadgets become part of the flow of the parsed bits and bytes and therefore become indispensable. Take out the gadget and the neural network crashes.
So with the New Techies, the gadgets have become part of the Extended Neural Network or ENN. Taking away these gadgets is like taking away whole sections of the ENN. It 's like surgically removing a chunk of brain; well, sort of.
As a consequence anything and everything that is connected with this gadget simply disappears when the gadget disappears. This can cause a problem since all data of significance run through this device 's chips. This data includes such non-essentials as family, school and other community and personal experiences not including friends.
Adults who don't care about how they look often wear a dumbing down earphone headset and can be seen in public gesturing and talking to themselves. The question is, does this make them feel important or just look more stupid? It sure hurts any chances for finding a date; who wants their conversation played out to everyone in the fruit and veggie section at the local Trader Joe 's ? Is this the type of behavior young people should emulate? Is this the type of behavior one should be exposed to while shopping for basil and artichokes?
Needless to say this New Techie withdrawal from the human race and real time relationships means that the New Techies will become even goofier than their nerdy and goofy predecessors. Staring at a terminal too long used to cause goofiness and now this syndrome has simply coded seamlessly over to cell phones and handhelds of all shapes and colors. How about a little pink one in the shape of a heart for someone you really despise?
It 's easier so subsequently there is little reason for the New Techie to become interested in things like hiking, surfing, football or even dancing. Dancing is especially worrisome as it sometimes creates relationships and relationships are clearly problematic for the permanently sanitized and wired.
As the Greeks said, beware excess. Unfortunately chronic usage of add on devices results in the New Techies' mental circuitry becoming fried. Offshore research has shown the neurons en masse begin to fray and melt into a sort of soft goo paste. This goo or anti-brain matter causes dysfunctional withdrawal from the real world into the safer and less threatening virtual world where nobody gets punched, insulted or called nasty ethnic names. After all, like the Super Bowl, World Cup and Presidential Election, at the end of the day it 's still just a game.
We certainly make it harder on ourselves since we humans are messy creatures creating a lot of fuss and bother and then leaving a bunch of garbage. It 's so much easier just to wire directly into that Extended Neural Network ENN and not have to deal with all the other parts of human bodies that are quite frankly embarrassing to most New Techies. Part of the advantage of being wired is avoidance of physical contact. No icky germs...
But the question remains of just how is elevated art and culture to be transplanted from the worldly wise into a pea sized cerebrum that is constantly bombarded by low-end, sleaze ball digital stimuli? The short answer is it isn't because it can't. The wired brain is not free and inquiring; the wired brain is bored, boring and stuffed with spam. Mostly spam. All irrelevant input and no relevant output. That and gooey anti-brain matter.
But in the net net, it doesn't matter. The inconvenient truth is we are what we think. Or put another way a bit more pessimistically, we are only what little we think. Does it matter that we plug and play into the only conscious freethinking organ we have? How many independently generated new ideas did your liver and kidneys come up with this week? But in the end, if you really think about it long and hard, who really needs those smelly, ugly old frontal lobes anyway?
BTW, did you get my text message about your text message?
How To Change An Ink Cartridge
The complicated process of changing an ink cartridge is something that has baffled scientists for many years. Despite developments of so-called 'easy change' ink cartridges, removal and replacement still leave even the most dextrous of us dumbfounded.
It also leaves us covered in ink. Not just a smudge of something that adds colour to your boring office attire and could look pass for a brooch if splashed in the right place but a great big, monstrous indelible ink stain that could pass more for a Rorschach ink block test.
Those who see the indicator come up on our printers to say the ink cartridge is getting low are the ones to 'rush' our printing in the hope that we can get it all done before the ink runs out entirely. This is a little like driving home quickly before we run out of fuel - entirely pointless.
The poor soul to get stuck with an inkless printer is the poor soul who will have to change it, providing he can find no alternative printer in the office to put the dreaded job into someone else 's hands. We take careful note of exactly how the old ink cartridge comes out but these things are designed to frustrate and infuriate.
Once extraction of the old ink cartridge has been accomplished, we are then distracted by a tactical shaking of the cartridge when we realise there is still some in it! We know there will be because manufacturers design things so that we have to replace them before we run out - it 's how they make so much money.
While we are crying the unfairness of this and reeling from the price of a new cartridge, ink cartridge imps enter play, emerging from the depths of the printer to re-arrange all components. If you unexpectedly halt the operation of ink cartridge replacement, you will hear them laughing at you. It doesn't matter that it is only five minutes since you removed the last ink cartridge, this one is not going back the same way.
We get cocky, thinking we know better, that we can remember how the last one came out and with a smug look we approach the printer like we know what we're doing. Ensuring everything is at right angles, we slot the ink cartridge into place and lo and behold, all internal workings of the printer have been reconfigured into an indistinguishable mass.
We adjust, slide, tap and wiggle but we are outwitted by one of the simplest looking lumps of black plastic known to mankind. We take it out, stretch our necks, breathe deeply and raise and lower the elbows - none of which makes an iota of difference.
Approaching again, we are sure we know what we are doing. We wait until no-one is around and then we try brute force. We even talk to it through gritted teeth but still to no avail. This ink cartridge will not fit, it doesn't matter how many times we threaten it with a kick in, it ain't going in.
This is when a man strolls by, takes in the dilemma unfolding in front of him, slots the ink cartridge into place and walks off tut tutting as if we're complete imbeciles. This just goes to prove that it is still a man 's world and the imps in the printer are all male. Best leave it to them.
It also leaves us covered in ink. Not just a smudge of something that adds colour to your boring office attire and could look pass for a brooch if splashed in the right place but a great big, monstrous indelible ink stain that could pass more for a Rorschach ink block test.
Those who see the indicator come up on our printers to say the ink cartridge is getting low are the ones to 'rush' our printing in the hope that we can get it all done before the ink runs out entirely. This is a little like driving home quickly before we run out of fuel - entirely pointless.
The poor soul to get stuck with an inkless printer is the poor soul who will have to change it, providing he can find no alternative printer in the office to put the dreaded job into someone else 's hands. We take careful note of exactly how the old ink cartridge comes out but these things are designed to frustrate and infuriate.
Once extraction of the old ink cartridge has been accomplished, we are then distracted by a tactical shaking of the cartridge when we realise there is still some in it! We know there will be because manufacturers design things so that we have to replace them before we run out - it 's how they make so much money.
While we are crying the unfairness of this and reeling from the price of a new cartridge, ink cartridge imps enter play, emerging from the depths of the printer to re-arrange all components. If you unexpectedly halt the operation of ink cartridge replacement, you will hear them laughing at you. It doesn't matter that it is only five minutes since you removed the last ink cartridge, this one is not going back the same way.
We get cocky, thinking we know better, that we can remember how the last one came out and with a smug look we approach the printer like we know what we're doing. Ensuring everything is at right angles, we slot the ink cartridge into place and lo and behold, all internal workings of the printer have been reconfigured into an indistinguishable mass.
We adjust, slide, tap and wiggle but we are outwitted by one of the simplest looking lumps of black plastic known to mankind. We take it out, stretch our necks, breathe deeply and raise and lower the elbows - none of which makes an iota of difference.
Approaching again, we are sure we know what we are doing. We wait until no-one is around and then we try brute force. We even talk to it through gritted teeth but still to no avail. This ink cartridge will not fit, it doesn't matter how many times we threaten it with a kick in, it ain't going in.
This is when a man strolls by, takes in the dilemma unfolding in front of him, slots the ink cartridge into place and walks off tut tutting as if we're complete imbeciles. This just goes to prove that it is still a man 's world and the imps in the printer are all male. Best leave it to them.
My Life Story On The Big Screen!
When the final chapter in my life 's story has been written and work on the screenplay for the movie begins, someone will be faced with the difficult assignment of deciding who will play me on the big screen. It won't be an easy task because it will take an actor of the first water to capture the true essence of me.
My life has had the same assortments of successes and failures, tears, both of joy and of sorrow, grand excitement and heart-rending disappointments as everyone else in this world. I can say though, in all honesty I've never been bored a day in my life!
I guess I've been thoroughly blessed to have survived in this world as long as I have without the benefit of a burning desire for anything, leaving me slightly out of step with all the movers and shakers of this world. Does that mean that I've been without dreams and goals to achieve them? No!
Having no great desire to save the world, cure cancer or control a corporate empire has worked well for me. With only a few exceptions there 's not a thing I would change if I had all this to do over again. There are enough surprises jumping out at us when we least expect it to overcome any thoughts of succumbing to boredom, which I believe is a sin!
Who then, if this epic of human survival were cast today, would I choose for that role of a lifetime? Not just anyone could carry off such an assignment. After much thought, I've narrowed the field down to just a few that could seriously portray me on the big screen.
As my younger self, would be the one I would definitely choose to play me, if for no other reason than he 's the only young actor I can think of at the moment. He 's obviously talented, for I've seen him in several movies, other than "Second Hand Lion," with Robert Duvall and Michael Caine. Dye his hair a little darker and he could be me in my younger years.
Al Pacino would be a favorable choice for an older me. He lives the character and in just a few scenes you forget that he 's Al Pacino. That 's the kind of man who can capture the real Bob Alexander. I can see Al now, smiling as he says, "Say hello to my little friend!" Oops! Wrong movie!
Unfortunately I don't believe this part is crying out for Mr. Pacino. This is the role every actor dreams about, but he seems a little too serious accurately portray me. I've never found a serious situation that couldn't be improved by a little humor. Some believe this to be a flaw in my character but I believe it to be genetic and it 's not my fault! I was born with this affliction.
I think the ability to find humor in the most dire of situation has been passed down to my brother also. A case in point is a dilemma my family encountered when my mother passed away.
As befitting a good country song, it was raining on the day before her funeral and the weather outlook for the next day was more of the same. In addition, when my brothers and I were seated in the funeral home with the director, we found that the day was already booked. There were four interments already scheduled, but the gentleman said that he could squeeze us in at 8:00 a.m. We all determined that this was much too early for such an event.
My brother broke the silence that ensued with, "What 's the chance there will be a cancellation tomorrow?" The funeral director looked surprised and in a shocked voice replied, "I don't think I've ever been asked that before." We all had a good laugh that broke, for the moment, the somber mood that had been cast over the room. Mother would have been proud!
When it comes down to deciding just who will be the lucky fellow to play me, I'll have to go with George Clooney. Not only is he a good actor, he has a wit about him that is reminiscent of my humor. Put that together with his good looks, and he would be the perfect choice to play the role of Bob Alexander.
My life has had the same assortments of successes and failures, tears, both of joy and of sorrow, grand excitement and heart-rending disappointments as everyone else in this world. I can say though, in all honesty I've never been bored a day in my life!
I guess I've been thoroughly blessed to have survived in this world as long as I have without the benefit of a burning desire for anything, leaving me slightly out of step with all the movers and shakers of this world. Does that mean that I've been without dreams and goals to achieve them? No!
Having no great desire to save the world, cure cancer or control a corporate empire has worked well for me. With only a few exceptions there 's not a thing I would change if I had all this to do over again. There are enough surprises jumping out at us when we least expect it to overcome any thoughts of succumbing to boredom, which I believe is a sin!
Who then, if this epic of human survival were cast today, would I choose for that role of a lifetime? Not just anyone could carry off such an assignment. After much thought, I've narrowed the field down to just a few that could seriously portray me on the big screen.
As my younger self, would be the one I would definitely choose to play me, if for no other reason than he 's the only young actor I can think of at the moment. He 's obviously talented, for I've seen him in several movies, other than "Second Hand Lion," with Robert Duvall and Michael Caine. Dye his hair a little darker and he could be me in my younger years.
Al Pacino would be a favorable choice for an older me. He lives the character and in just a few scenes you forget that he 's Al Pacino. That 's the kind of man who can capture the real Bob Alexander. I can see Al now, smiling as he says, "Say hello to my little friend!" Oops! Wrong movie!
Unfortunately I don't believe this part is crying out for Mr. Pacino. This is the role every actor dreams about, but he seems a little too serious accurately portray me. I've never found a serious situation that couldn't be improved by a little humor. Some believe this to be a flaw in my character but I believe it to be genetic and it 's not my fault! I was born with this affliction.
I think the ability to find humor in the most dire of situation has been passed down to my brother also. A case in point is a dilemma my family encountered when my mother passed away.
As befitting a good country song, it was raining on the day before her funeral and the weather outlook for the next day was more of the same. In addition, when my brothers and I were seated in the funeral home with the director, we found that the day was already booked. There were four interments already scheduled, but the gentleman said that he could squeeze us in at 8:00 a.m. We all determined that this was much too early for such an event.
My brother broke the silence that ensued with, "What 's the chance there will be a cancellation tomorrow?" The funeral director looked surprised and in a shocked voice replied, "I don't think I've ever been asked that before." We all had a good laugh that broke, for the moment, the somber mood that had been cast over the room. Mother would have been proud!
When it comes down to deciding just who will be the lucky fellow to play me, I'll have to go with George Clooney. Not only is he a good actor, he has a wit about him that is reminiscent of my humor. Put that together with his good looks, and he would be the perfect choice to play the role of Bob Alexander.
World 's Top 10 Silly Lorry Stories!
Whether it�s down to lack of sleep, a comical attitude or a desire for distractions on a long journey, for some reason lorries and lorry drivers have been the focus of many of the craziest news stories over the last few years. Here is a countdown of the top 10!
# 10 Fast food attack on �go slow� doctor (Czech Republic)
An Austrian doctor lodged a complaint after a lorry driver threw a cheeseburger at him for driving too slowly. But police told Hannes Kohl, from Vienna, that burger throwing was not an offence. He was hit on the head by the cheeseburger thrown by an overtaking lorry driver through his open car window. Dr Kohl, who was on his way to a medical congress in the Czech Republic, said: �I was going slowly but that was no excuse for this outrageous attack.�
# 9 Lorry driver 's sausage mistake (Germany)
A German lorry driver set fire to his cab after deciding to cook himself some sausages while driving. Walter Reckling, 46, was cooking two sausages while travelling in Saxony, Germany, when the cooker toppled over. It set fire to the seat, which in turn set fire to the cab of the haulage vehicle. Reckling was treated for smoke inhalation at a local hospital, where he was also found to have been three times over the legal alcohol limit.
# 8 Smashing grand piano (UK)
A crew of delivery men were red-faced after dropping a �45,000 grand piano off a lorry whilst being filmed. Music lovers spent two years raising cash for the B�sendorfer. Proud organiser Penny Adie, 54, was ready with her camera as specialist removers arrived at an arts centre in Devon. But she watched in horror as it fell 14ft off the tail-lift.
Penny said: �We are numb.� Her husband John, 61, added: �We�ll have to start fund-raising again.� The removal firm refused to comment.
# 7 Dodgy lorry accessories (US)
A controversial Virginia lawmaker is trying to introduce new legislation to ban rubber testicles from being fitted to the back of trucks. Truck drivers who sport fake testicles on the back of their haulage vehicles would risk a $250 fine under his proposal. Lionel Spruill, known for his failed attempt in 2005 to ban baggy pants, said he became concerned when he learned that the truck accessories had got larger as their popularity had increased amongst truck drivers. �How big are they going to go?� he said. �When will it stop?�
# 6 End of the road for unfortunate camel (Sweden)
Police in Sweden believe a dead camel found on a motorway probably fell off the back of a lorry. Drivers called police after seeing the body on the motorway in southern Sweden and initially police presumed it was a moose that had been hit by a car. Officers were surprised to discover the animal was a camel and believe it must have fallen off the back of a lorry and died as it hit the ground. A police spokesman said: �We often come across moose bodies but a camel is a first.�
# 5 Unconventional truck driver (US)
A 50-year-old Californian man pulled a truck with his penis for a British film crew. Martial arts grandmaster Tu Jin-Sheng attached himself to the haulage vehicle and pulled it several yards across a car park in Fremont. Jin-Sheng, originally from Taiwan, is the grandmaster of Iron Crotch, a branch of Qigong said to have 60,000 followers worldwide. Its practitioners are known to lift hundreds of pounds with their genitals to increase energy and sexual performance.
# 4 Excellent mobile phone excuse (Germany)
A German lorry driver escaped a rap for driving while using a mobile phone - after claiming he was using it as an ear warmer. Klein, 43, told the court: �I had an earache and it was being made worse because the cab had not heated up yet. So I grabbed the phone that had been on charge and put it to my ear, and that was when I was stopped by police.� The court accepted his claim after he produced an itemised telephone bill proving he had not been using the phone at the time he was stopped.
# 3 Lorry driver shunts man in a Smart car down the motorway (Germany)
A lorry driver shunted a tiny Smart car two miles down a busy German motorway because he didn't know it was wedged to his lorry. The lorry driver, 53, pushed the tiny car driven by Andreas Bolga, 48, along the busy road and said �I couldn't believe it when I got out of the lorry and saw there was a car stuck on the front of it,� he said. Mr Bolga said: �I tried to drive away but couldn't. I looked up through my sun roof and could see the lorry driver, but he didn't notice me.�
# 2 Truck driver shunts man in a wheelchair down the motorway (US)
A disabled man was taken for a 50mph ride along a US highway after his wheelchair got jammed in the grille of a truck. The back of the 21-year-old man 's wheelchair was scooped up as he passed in front of a truck leaving a petrol station, Michigan State Police said. After four miles, the truck driver pulled over at a truck stop where police caught up and told him about the man on his front end. The man was unhurt - but still attached to the front of the truck. Police said he told them �it was quite a ride�, and complained only that he had spilled his soda.
# 1 Prisoner postage (Austria)
A plucky prisoner wrapped himself in a large parcel and posted himself to freedom from a jail on a lorry. Bosnian Muradif Hasanbegovic, 36, was serving a seven-year sentence for robbery in the Karlau prison near Graz, Austria. He packed himself up in a parcel and other convicts loaded him onto a lorry. Once clear of the prison he broke out of the parcel, jumped off the back of the lorry and fled. The lorry driver told police: �I noticed the tarpaulin had a hole in it just as the prison called me and asked 'Have you noticed anything funny? We are kind of missing a prisoner'. Hasanbegovic has not been seen since.
# 10 Fast food attack on �go slow� doctor (Czech Republic)
An Austrian doctor lodged a complaint after a lorry driver threw a cheeseburger at him for driving too slowly. But police told Hannes Kohl, from Vienna, that burger throwing was not an offence. He was hit on the head by the cheeseburger thrown by an overtaking lorry driver through his open car window. Dr Kohl, who was on his way to a medical congress in the Czech Republic, said: �I was going slowly but that was no excuse for this outrageous attack.�
# 9 Lorry driver 's sausage mistake (Germany)
A German lorry driver set fire to his cab after deciding to cook himself some sausages while driving. Walter Reckling, 46, was cooking two sausages while travelling in Saxony, Germany, when the cooker toppled over. It set fire to the seat, which in turn set fire to the cab of the haulage vehicle. Reckling was treated for smoke inhalation at a local hospital, where he was also found to have been three times over the legal alcohol limit.
# 8 Smashing grand piano (UK)
A crew of delivery men were red-faced after dropping a �45,000 grand piano off a lorry whilst being filmed. Music lovers spent two years raising cash for the B�sendorfer. Proud organiser Penny Adie, 54, was ready with her camera as specialist removers arrived at an arts centre in Devon. But she watched in horror as it fell 14ft off the tail-lift.
Penny said: �We are numb.� Her husband John, 61, added: �We�ll have to start fund-raising again.� The removal firm refused to comment.
# 7 Dodgy lorry accessories (US)
A controversial Virginia lawmaker is trying to introduce new legislation to ban rubber testicles from being fitted to the back of trucks. Truck drivers who sport fake testicles on the back of their haulage vehicles would risk a $250 fine under his proposal. Lionel Spruill, known for his failed attempt in 2005 to ban baggy pants, said he became concerned when he learned that the truck accessories had got larger as their popularity had increased amongst truck drivers. �How big are they going to go?� he said. �When will it stop?�
# 6 End of the road for unfortunate camel (Sweden)
Police in Sweden believe a dead camel found on a motorway probably fell off the back of a lorry. Drivers called police after seeing the body on the motorway in southern Sweden and initially police presumed it was a moose that had been hit by a car. Officers were surprised to discover the animal was a camel and believe it must have fallen off the back of a lorry and died as it hit the ground. A police spokesman said: �We often come across moose bodies but a camel is a first.�
# 5 Unconventional truck driver (US)
A 50-year-old Californian man pulled a truck with his penis for a British film crew. Martial arts grandmaster Tu Jin-Sheng attached himself to the haulage vehicle and pulled it several yards across a car park in Fremont. Jin-Sheng, originally from Taiwan, is the grandmaster of Iron Crotch, a branch of Qigong said to have 60,000 followers worldwide. Its practitioners are known to lift hundreds of pounds with their genitals to increase energy and sexual performance.
# 4 Excellent mobile phone excuse (Germany)
A German lorry driver escaped a rap for driving while using a mobile phone - after claiming he was using it as an ear warmer. Klein, 43, told the court: �I had an earache and it was being made worse because the cab had not heated up yet. So I grabbed the phone that had been on charge and put it to my ear, and that was when I was stopped by police.� The court accepted his claim after he produced an itemised telephone bill proving he had not been using the phone at the time he was stopped.
# 3 Lorry driver shunts man in a Smart car down the motorway (Germany)
A lorry driver shunted a tiny Smart car two miles down a busy German motorway because he didn't know it was wedged to his lorry. The lorry driver, 53, pushed the tiny car driven by Andreas Bolga, 48, along the busy road and said �I couldn't believe it when I got out of the lorry and saw there was a car stuck on the front of it,� he said. Mr Bolga said: �I tried to drive away but couldn't. I looked up through my sun roof and could see the lorry driver, but he didn't notice me.�
# 2 Truck driver shunts man in a wheelchair down the motorway (US)
A disabled man was taken for a 50mph ride along a US highway after his wheelchair got jammed in the grille of a truck. The back of the 21-year-old man 's wheelchair was scooped up as he passed in front of a truck leaving a petrol station, Michigan State Police said. After four miles, the truck driver pulled over at a truck stop where police caught up and told him about the man on his front end. The man was unhurt - but still attached to the front of the truck. Police said he told them �it was quite a ride�, and complained only that he had spilled his soda.
# 1 Prisoner postage (Austria)
A plucky prisoner wrapped himself in a large parcel and posted himself to freedom from a jail on a lorry. Bosnian Muradif Hasanbegovic, 36, was serving a seven-year sentence for robbery in the Karlau prison near Graz, Austria. He packed himself up in a parcel and other convicts loaded him onto a lorry. Once clear of the prison he broke out of the parcel, jumped off the back of the lorry and fled. The lorry driver told police: �I noticed the tarpaulin had a hole in it just as the prison called me and asked 'Have you noticed anything funny? We are kind of missing a prisoner'. Hasanbegovic has not been seen since.
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