Courtesy Wave

My cousin Armando and me

2006-11-26T06:43:00.000-08:00

This is a funny picture from my most recent trip to Sonnino. My wife and I got back two days ago! The picture was taken in my family's butcher school right off the piazza.
HREF='http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/723/452/640/813451/Spain%20and%20Italy%2011.06%20147.jpg'>

Giro d'Italia..an amazing bike race

2006-05-08T08:39:00.000-07:00

The Giro d'Italia bicycle race has just started up and this sight has some of the best coverage I have seen. The Giro is the second biggest race after the Tour de France.

Cycling - Eurosport

Ask James

2005-08-15T12:39:00.000-07:00

Dear James,

I have an etiquette question. I hope my problem doesn't seem to "caty". I've been blessed with a very successful career in the entertainment industry. I got my break as the cat on the "Hang In There" calender/poster/mug and the scored a feature role in the "Meow Mix" commercials. And while I like being pet as much as the next pet, it has gotten to be a bit much. When people recognize me on the street, they feel it's ok to just come up and pet me. With one or two people this is fine, but thirty people is excessive. And every day. I don't want to hiss or bat at them, but they can be downright rude(and aggressive!). How can I satisfy my loyal fans and maintain my healthy, shiny coat? Please advise.

Sincerely,
Mittens

--------------------------
Dear Mittens,

I must admit: at first, I had a hard time reconciling your very real dilemma and my overarching contempt for celebrities. I mean, who doesn't get sick of people like Barbara Walters or Neil Diamond complaining about all of their "problems"? I mean, please. That said, I do admire your work. "Meow Mix" is both nutritious and delicious, and your "Hang In There!" poster demonstrates not just endurance and a real strength of spirit, but it also shows just how much can be accomplished without opposable thumbs. Kudos to you.

Given your work, then, it should go without saying that you would be inundated by an adoring public. The trick lies in finding a balance between accepting their appreciation for what you have done and safeguarding your own privacy. The obvious and classic choice would be developing a cadre of various disguises that you may wear or not wear depending on your tolerance for petting and cooing on any particular day. Any costume shop should carry the requisite funny-nose-glasses, hats, and feather boas. Another, more contemporary option would be to implement some kind of registration and lottery for your fans. Encourage people to register at your website (where they can also find fun facts and share their memories of you in an interactive forum), and then hold a monthly or even semi-annual lottery for the chance to "Win a Playdate with Mittens!" (Of course, playdates would need to be strictly monitored for appropriate conduct, and winners would need to be carefully screened by your security detail, but I hardly need to tell you this.) This way, you can have strict control over your personal space, while also selling the names and personal information you collect from your fans to credit card companies for a little extra cash.

Best of luck to you. Your meow massages my heart.

James

Damm this is funny

2005-06-06T07:56:00.000-07:00

Check this out...so true!

German police baffeled by Bush poo-flags : SF Bay Area Indymedia

Ask James

2005-04-06T06:32:00.000-07:00

Dear James,

I have a problem with a friend of mine. This friend recently purchasedan article of clothing that he/she believes is 100% cashmere. As a "fashionista" myself, I can see that this article of clothing is clearly not 100% cashmere, but merely a cashmere blend. Should I confront myfriend about his/her mistake or should I let them go on misleading themselves and others. I want them to be happy but I also don't to devalue those of us who purchase non-blended cashmere products. Andfinally, does my love of cashmere make me a pansy?Please give council.

Tippy

Dear Tippy,

I am sure that your friend appreciates your deep concern for him/her, while also deeply resenting your secretiveness and underhanded way of trying to solve your problem. Dear Abby would probably suggest having a constructive dialogue about it, but this is not that kind of advice column.

That said, I think I can help you. Many articles of clothing, excepting most socks, have a label nestled somewhere inside them. This label contains lots of useful information about the article of clothing, including the brand name, the size, its country of origin, any special instructions for the care of said article, and of course its composition. (In many shirts, the label is along the neck line, in the back. On scarves, it is usually near one end. I'm pretty sure that cashmere pants and underwear are not widely available.) If the article of clothing in dispute is, in fact, real 100% cashmere, then the label should read "100% cashmere." Any clothing maker worth a dime, especially brand name clothiers like Louis Boston (to pick one at random), would, 1. never manufacture a cashmere blend, and 2. even if they did, they would certainly not be dishonest about it. So, trust the label. But how to read the label on your friend's article of clothing?Easy. In a non-threatening way, confront your friend and ask him or her if you can just sneak a peek at the label on their article of clothing. In a society with frayed social norms like ours, people actually appreciate - or at the very least are no longer surprised - by direct questions like this. (That said, if the article is some form of cashmere underwear, try starting a conversation about clothing labels, specifically underwear. This is good lunchroom small talk.) If the label indicates that the article is a cashmere blend, try not to make your friend feel inadequate or ashamed. Instead, smile warmly and say, "Wow, blends are so realistic these days!" If the label indicates 100% cashmere, do not be afraid to touch it. Connoisseurs of cashmere generally wear it and draw attention to it because they like to be touched, possibly because they need human contact more than the rest of us."

Finally, regarding the question of pansy or not pansy: I'm afraid it is not nearly as simple as your devotion to cashmere. Pansyhood - or pansiness, as some call it - is complex and difficult to define. However, it is generally accepted that any one of the following characteristics will make a person mostly pansy: standing too close to other people on a crowded train, chewing food before swallowing it, or drinking water. Wearing cashmere only makes a pansy more pansy.

Thank you for Asking James.

This happened to my friend Gordon...no, really...

2005-04-06T06:26:00.000-07:00

Turkey Terrorizes State Troopers

It was a brief but glorious run along an Ohio highway for one ornery turkey.
On Feb. 11, a state trooper pulled over a pickup truck on a rural stretch of road in Hancock County, only to be confronted by a large male turkey that walked out of a field.
Dashboard video shows the angry avian pecking at the officer and chasing him back to his patrol car, reports WCMH-TV of Columbus.
"That's a big bird," his partner says, laughing. "I think he likes you."
Two days later, a driver called to say that the big bad bird had cornered him in his SUV.
Another officer was sent out to investigate — and was also chased back into his car. That dashboard video shows the harassed driver taking pictures.
The testy turkey then jumped on the police car, pecked at the hood and sat down for 20 minutes, all while the terrified trooper was trapped inside.
Finally, someone from the Ohio Department of Natural Resources' (search) Division of Wildlife came by to free the humans from the feathered menace.
Alas, the plucky pecker was put down after five days in captivity, several days before a local woman called to say her pet turkey "Wild Thing" had gone missing, reports the Toledo Blade.
— Thanks to Out There readers Steve S., Katherine L. and Greg A.
Feel Chilly? Roast a Bird
An Orlando, Fla., property management company is feeling heat for telling apartment dwellers they can fight the winter cold by cooking a large turkey, reports WFTV-TV.
"Slow cooking a roast in the oven or baking your favorite cookies can help take the chill off," the memo sent to hundreds of tenants at the Monterey Lake Apartments (search) went on to say.
Apparently, the complex's heat doesn't even kick in until temperatures drop to the mid-40s, and then takes 48 hours to reach full capacity — meaning a lot of warm days are followed by frigid nights at home.
"I have frozen my butt off when no heat has been turned on for an entire week when the temp was in and around the 40s," writes one resident in an online review of the apartment complex.
The heating-via-stove policy makes some chattering teeth quake with anger.
"We have gas. That's very dangerous. What do you want, the whole place to explode?" complained one resident.
The Orange County Fire Department agrees.
"Ovens are used to cook. They shouldn't be used as a heating device," said a spokeswoman.
Reporters from WFTV tried to speak to more residents last week, but were chased off the property.
— Thanks to Out There reader Susan A.
Chuck Chases His Last Car
WHITTIER, Iowa (AP) — A wild turkey who lived life in the fast lane near this eastern Iowa town has died doing what he did best — chasing cars.
The turkey, called Chuck by some and Jake by others, showed up more than a year ago and starting harassing drivers by standing in the road with his feathers ruffled.
Neighbors say the turkey was run over Jan. 31 by a car flying through town that no one recognized. They buried him.
"At least you can't say he lived a dull life," said Shirley Hadenfeldt, who lives nearby. "There's a lot of people who slow down looking for him who don't realize he's gone."
She said Chuck apparently didn't want to bite the hand that fed him. He'd stand aside for farm tractors.
"But let it be a car or semi and he'd be right out there after them," Hadenfeldt said. "I don't know what possessed him."
Hadenfeldt said, sadly, it's been a lot quieter on her stretch of road since Chuck died, and the three hens he attracted "are nowhere around."
Wild Turkeys Living On the Edge
ANETA, N.D. (AP) — A wild turkey flock may be crazy for moving to this town, which claims it holds the world's largest turkey barbecue each summer.
Wayne Short's backyard is a popular hangout for the turkeys. He said he thinks the big birds have been misinformed.
"When they find out we're having turkey barbecue instead of a barbecue for turkeys, they'll be gone like a shot," Short said.

Ask James

2005-04-05T10:59:00.000-07:00

Dear James,
I have a friend who says that every culture has a "Tickle Monster". In my experience, an attack by the Tickle Monster is a uniquely American experience. Can you help clear this up. Also, have you ever heard of"el cosquilleo de la muerte." Please advise.

Sincerely,
Howie
---------------
Dear Howie,

Just reading your question makes my skin tingle with fear. The unfortunate truth is that a sharpened sense of humor has been used as a weapon to devastating effect for decades. This includes joke-telling, funny-face-making, ventriloquism, mime, and yes, tickling. Beginning with the unrelenting French Vaudevillian Corps (FVC) in the First World War, comedians (or aspiring comedians) have been an indispensible part of military operations the world over. FVC troops, bedecked in ensembles far too silly to be photographed, would leap out of the trenches with an overwhelming array of unusual trinkets, ribald songs, and sketch comedy. (Think Carrot Top, only a thousand times worse.) Shell-shocked Germans, at first entranced and more than a little confused, very soon felt the unmistakable thud of their hearts exploding. Allied troops followed up their vaudevillian success in the Second World War with the unexpected discovery of the World\'s Funniest Joke by an unsuspecting greeting card writer in Wales. Translated into German one word at a time by patriotic strudel-makers, it soon left a trail of death across eastern Europe, unlike anything seen since the Bubonic Plague. Thousands, possibly even billions, died as a result.\r\nEl Cosquielleo de la Muerte, literally "The Tickling Sensation of Death," was used to great effect by Castro during the Cuban Revolution. While not a weapon of the battlefield, because of the supreme difficulty of sneaking up behind the enemy, el cosquielleo instead became an unrivaled tool of torture. In fact, its many victims have been persistently unwilling to talk about its effects, even decades after the fact. The silence has been so universal that many experts disagree on whether or not it is just a myth.\r\nSpeaking of which, "Tickle Monsters" have long been imagined as large, ogre-like creatures that prey on the innocence and trust of children. According to legend, Tickle Monsters - often disguised as the children's parents or as other close family members or friends - strike on lazy summer afternoons, sometimes on weekend mornings, seizing on the child and tickling them ceaselessly. Their appetite is sickeningly vast, as many have been known to continue tickling their victims for over ten minutes at a time, despite peals of snorting and rivers of tears. Unfortunately the majority of children make the grave mistake of trying to out-tickle the Tickle Monster, which far from beating the montser back generally only further inflames their fury."

Strangely, espite myriad reports from hundreds of children worldwide, the existence or non-existence of Tickle Monsters still cannot be confirmed. Some experts believe that the victims of Tickle Monsters grow up to become Tickle Monsters themselves, thereby recanting their earlier accusations and contributing to an an irritatingly inconclusive record.
One thing remains clear: this is a deadly serious world, in spite of the attempts of those who attempt to deceive the rest of us with levity.
Oh, and the Tooth Fairy isn't real either. Sorry.

James

Ask James

2005-01-25T10:59:00.000-08:00

Dear James,
I have a friend who says that every culture has a "Tickle Monster". Inmy experience, an attack by the Tickle Monster is a uniquely Americanexperience. Can you help clear this up. Also, have you ever heard of"el cosquilleo de la muerte." Please advise.

Sincerely,
Howie
---------------
Dear Howie,

Just reading your question makes my skin tingle with fear. The unfortunate truth is that a sharpened sense of humor has been used as a weapon to devastating effect for decades. This includes joke-telling, funny-face-making, ventriloquism, mime, and yes, tickling. Beginning with the unrelenting French Vaudevillian Corps (FVC) in the First World War, comedians (or aspiring comedians) have been an indispensible part of military operations the world over. FVC troops, bedecked in ensembles far too silly to be photographed, would leap out of the trenches with an overwhelming array of unusual trinkets, ribald songs, and sketch comedy. (Think Carrot Top, only a thousand times worse.) Shell-shocked Germans, at first entranced and more than a little confused, very soon felt the unmistakable thud of their hearts exploding. Allied troops followed up their vaudevillian success in the Second World War with the unexpected discovery of the World\'s Funniest Joke by an unsuspecting greeting card writer in Wales. Translated into German one word at a time by patriotic strudel-makers, it soon left a trail of death across eastern Europe, unlike anything seen since the Bubonic Plague. Thousands, possibly even billions, died as a result.\r\nEl Cosquielleo de la Muerte, literally "The Tickling Sensation of Death," was used to great effect by Castro during the Cuban Revolution. While not a weapon of the battlefield, because of the supreme difficulty of sneaking up behind the enemy, el cosquielleo instead became an unrivaled tool of torture. In fact, its many victims have been persistently unwilling to talk about its effects, even decades after the fact. The silence has been so universal that many experts disagree on whether or not it is just a myth.\r\nSpeaking of which, "Tickle Monsters" have long been imagined as large, ogre-like creatures that prey on the innocence and trust of children. According to legend, Tickle Monsters - often disguised as the children's parents or as other close family members or friends - strike on lazy summer afternoons, sometimes on weekend mornings, seizing on the child and tickling them ceaselessly. Their appetite is sickeningly vast, as many have been known to continue tickling their victims for over ten minutes at a time, despite peals of snorting and rivers of tears. Unfortunately the majority of children make the grave mistake of trying to out-tickle the Tickle Monster, which far from beating the montser back generally only further inflames their fury."

Strangely, espite myriad reports from hundreds of children worldwide, the existence or non-existence of Tickle Monsters still cannot be confirmed. Some experts believe that the victims of Tickle Monsters grow up to become Tickle Monsters themselves, thereby recanting their earlier accusations and contributing to an an irritatingly inconclusive record.
One thing remains clear: this is a deadly serious world, in spite of the attempts of those who attempt to deceive the rest of us with levity.
Oh, and the Tooth Fairy isn't real either. Sorry.

James

Fainting Goats

2004-08-20T11:21:00.000-07:00

You think you've had a tough day. Try being a fainting goat.

Goats hit ground whenever startled
By J. STEVEN DILLON STAFF WRITER (from The Courier - Findlay, Ohio - 8/30/03)

Nine-year-old Meeghan Kelly of rural Fostoria had more to worry about than the other contestants in the junior fair goat show Thursday. She had to keep Sugar, her goat, from fainting. No kidding.

Meeghan, a member of the Biglick Buckeyes 4-H Club, has three Tennessee fainting goats at the Hancock County Fair, and a fourth back at home. But her ordinary-looking goats aren't so ordinary. They have a genetic condition known as myotonia congenita, and will drop like flies if they are scared or startled -- hence the name.

"They fall rigor mortis stiff," Meeghan's dad, Chris, explained Friday. "Their tongues hang out, their legs stick up in the air and they look like they're dead." Fortunately, the "spell" lasts for only a short period of time and doesn't cause any lasting harm. "We've had a vet tell us it (fainting) is good for them because it causes them to stiffen, and then loosen their muscles," Chris said. "It's almost like an exercise for them."

Historically, fainting goats have a noble past, having served as "sacrificial lambs" for other barnyard animals. According to goat lore, shepherds would often mix a few fainting goats in with their more valuable sheep to protect the flocks from predators. When a wolf or coyote approached the herd, the frightened goats would faint -- unwittingly sacrificing themselves for the sheep, which would scamper away unharmed.

The Kellys discovered fainting goats while looking for a companion for their horse, Tymer, a Tennessee Walker, who had grown lonesome on the family farm after their dog died. Last year they bought Bailey, a male fainting goat, after locating him through the Internet in southern Indiana, and liked him so much (so did Tymer) that they acquired Sugar, a female, early this spring.

Sugar arrived pregnant, and a week later gave birth to twin female kids -- Blizzard and Snowball. It was soon decided that Meeghan would make Sugar her first 4-H animal project, and take her to the county fair. Luckily, Sugar didn't drop during Thursday's goat show, and Meeghan placed sixth out of 11 contestants -- good enough for a pink ribbon to go with the blue one she earned for best variety goat.

"I was pretty nervous," Meeghan said. "I was hoping Sugar wouldn't faint for the judge." On Friday, Meeghan, dressed as a cowgirl, and Sugar, wearing an Indian costume, were second in the "Best Dressed Goat Contest." This weekend the pair will compete in the goat milking and obstacle course competitions.

Needless to say, the fainting goats have been getting plenty of attention in the goat barn. "A lot of people have stopped and want to see them faint," Meeghan's mother, Jill, said. "It doesn't hurt them, but we don't want to overdo it. What we've been doing is showing them pictures we've taken of them after they faint."

Different things will cause the goats to faint. Snowball is the most prolific fainter, and routinely passes out at changes in her environment. "Sometimes she will go down five, six or seven times just coming out of the barn," Jill said. Blizzard is more susceptible to movement. She fainted once when a grasshopper flew by her. Sugar, meanwhile, freaks out when stepping on anything soft but has learned how to faint without falling to the ground -- which makes her more suitable for showing. "She'll stiffen up and freeze, but won't go down like the others," Jill said. "I guess that comes with age."

The Kellys, who plan to attend the National Fainting Goat Convention in Tennessee in October, hope to increase the size of their goat herd in the future. Fainting goats are said to have been introduced to that state in the 1880s by a migrant worker from Nova Scotia, and are still raised there, primarily for meat. "They are very popular in Tennessee," Jill said. "Breeders there actually make them faint on a regular basis to build up their muscle tone to improve the quality of the meat."

Fainters are growing in popularity elsewhere, too, largely due to their novelty. "The first time you see one of them drop, you're hooked," Jill said. "With us, one just wasn't enough. We had to have more."

And if that's not enough, you can catch all of the latest news about Fainting Goats - or join a worldwide brotherhood of fellow Fainting Goat Fanatics - at the website of the International Fainting Goat Association at www.faintinggoat.com.

Finally, A Members-Only Jacket Worth Owning

2004-08-20T11:08:00.000-07:00

Poetry for the Masses

2004-08-18T08:57:00.000-07:00

It has been widely circulated elsewhere, but no home or office in America would be complete without a nicely framed copy of this poem. To write your own, using the most updated material, borrow from the list posted at http://slate.msn.com/id/76886/ and then post a comment here. But in the interest of preserving history and as a public service to all, enjoy the original:

MAKE THE PIE HIGHER
by George W. Bush

I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty
and potential mental losses.

Rarely is the question asked,
Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the Internet become more few?
How many hands have I shaked?

They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.
I know that the human being and the fish can coexist.
Families is where our nation finds hope, where our wings take dream.

Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize society!
Make the pie higher! Make the pie higher!

compiled by Richard Thompson, Washington Post

One Vegetable's Hidden Lessons

2004-08-17T13:42:00.000-07:00

Who among us has never picked up a zucchini, held it in our hands, and wondered, "Why do I feel such crushing despair?"

Well, folks, now there's an answer. Consider:

Zucchini's Twenty Metaphors

When you think you have seen the last zucchini, a co-worker brings one to work, gleefully offering it to you, or a neighbor drops by with one in hand. In my work metaphors count, and so while I do not eat them I have found a use for zucchini. It is a metaphor.

GUILT is twenty ways like zucchini (though unlike the zucchini, guilt flourishes year round.)

People plant it whether they like it or not. Having it grown, and even flourish, is often more obligation than choice.
The yield is always more than expected.
People try giving it away, and to their great surprise others accept, often with a smile. It means they were taken by surprise, or that they would feel worse saying "no."
If they were just being polite, it becomes their's none the less.
Giving it away seems not to diminish one's own supply.
Having grown or accepted it, people try - usually without success - to disguise it.
The more they have, the more ways they try disguising it, pretending it is something else, something really good for you, and the more they try the more others recognize it for what it is.
No one wants to be seen throwing it away -- it was, after all, a gift, and it was supposed to be good for you.
Friends and neighbors are suspicious of those who have none.
They are more suspicious (though envious) of people who want none, and say so.
Trying to bury it, denying it was ever yours, causes more to grow.
If at first you liked it, it was not long before you had had enough.
It is never as good as you wished it might be, but you are not surprised.
Those who might accept a little, are always offered more.
Even when people have grown a crop of their own, they can seem open to the offer of someone else's - another instance of politeness gone astray.
It is not something where there are "fair shares." It is not equally distributed, and you can always seem to have much more than you felt you deserved.
Even when grown, packed, stored, or preserved by an expert, it is in the end still zucchini.
You do have choices about accepting it when offered. The first "no" - or "no, thank you" - may be the most difficult to say. After that, it is only practice.
It would be okay to grow instead a smaller crop.
Better still to plant something you might prefer.

[Published in the February/March 1999 issue of "Rural New England Magazine"]

Tell me: what other lessons can wayward vegetables teach us in these troubled times?

Off To Join The Service: Part III

2004-08-11T06:46:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in the army was a need for surveyors, for men who would determine where to put the guns relative to the position of the enemy. After a leave longer than we needed, Jake went back to New Jersey, to Fort Monmouth, where he would learn something about some aspect of a missile, though not enough to be an asset to the operation of it. He would also break his arm playing football, and be re-cycled, a delay that assuring his going to Europe at training’s end.

I boarded a flight to Dallas, a charter I believe. It was an airline I had never heard of, and would never hear of again. We left early and arrived late, transferring then to a smaller plane, one that flew close to the ground and followed the highway leading from Dallas up into Oklahoma. Though it was my first time in a plane, I was sure that this was not how it was ordinarily done. My mother and I had in the previous year been to see ‘Oklahoma!’ and ‘Carousel,’ a double-feature at the Alpine Theater. I had not thought it an omen, but my mother was pleased to see me off to a place where people sang a lot, and sometimes danced. She knew, of course, it was probably not that way, at least not anymore; but, it was better to think of it that way than as a place where even when it snowed the wind was blowing dust on you, a place the government thought might be improved by cannon fire. It was open and could appear bleak, but I liked it. I especially liked it when thinking that the skills acquired would serve me well once I got to Germany.

I was early arriving at Fort Sill by a day or so and waited for enough people to make a company of would-be surveyors. While waiting, I heard a man say, ‘Where can you find a beer in this place?’ Enter John Degnan. John was a football coach and teacher from Middletown, New York. He had a voice suggesting he should be on the radio and a personality that made him seem a friend from the time he said hello – or, in this case, ‘I need a beer.’ John was in the National Guard, and after training would go home to be married and to resume his teaching career. In the meantime we would learn these intricate skills together.

Surveying is intricate. It is geometry. It has theoretical foundations and practical applications. But, in the army’s hands it becomes a question of following the form, filling in the blanks, looking data up in the tables provided, and checking with whomever is in charge. That the theoretical aspect was given short shrift surprised no one. That the applications were limited to where does the gun go and which way does it point made as much sense as it could. The idea was to make us serviceable in eight weeks. It worked.

It was also time to introduce ourselves to Lawton, Oklahoma. It has changed some, but in those days it was a main street beyond which few soldiers seemed to venture, a number of bars where the soldiers were at ease while drinking and a land where real people lived, worked, went to school, and led non-military lives. It was clean, neat, open, and responsive. Some of those living in Lawton worked for the army, or were in the army, but many were as you might find them in any town. Very pleasant, kindly folk.

We never had much money, and even less as the month progressed; but, being broke was no reason to stay on the base. One Sunday morning, to get a free breakfast, John and I went to a service and meal at the Catholic Church, where over pancakes and coffee Charlie Wade, the owner of an automobile dealership, and Father Dan Allen, the pastor, recruited us to coach basketball. I could tell the difference between a basketball and a brick, but was less certain about other aspects of the game. Not John. He knew drills, plays, strategy, motivation and all one would expect of a coach. We became the Coach and the Other Guy. It was fun, and it was away from the base. It lent normalcy to life, and while I inherited the coaching position when John moved back to Middletown, I can only say that no one died as a result of my efforts. The kids won some games, lost others. In addition to the game there was the company of those I met, people like Mr. Wade, Fr. Allen and others of the parish and Lawton community.

Because of our financial status, we attended other free meals. We spent Thanksgiving with Brother and Mother Crockett at their storefront church. We began with polite conversation, a few prayers, a hymn or two, and waiting for others to arrive. When they were slow to appear, we nodded at the message Brother Crockett provided, a religious message entwined with the values and worth of military service. I recall, perhaps incorrectly, how God was pleased and proud to see us in uniform, defending the free world, containing atheistic communism, making the nation almost as proud as God was, and being ready to accept salvation should it be offered. We sang another hymn or two - I’m not sure I knew the words and could only hum the refrain - but Brother and Mother Crockett had enthusiasm enough and nice voices too. While we sang, or hummed, the potatoes were mashed and whipped once more, and the vegetables set to bubble. A little more conversation, a few more salvation stories, another prayer. Still no one else came. I was pleased we had. We were not expected to join the storefront church. Salvation was not on the immediate schedule, though it would, we were assured, be available when we were ready. With no ill feeling, no annoyance at those who had not come, Brother Crockett told Mother that the congregation was fully assembled, to cut up the bird, and to please pass the peas.

Back on the base, training was a practical thing. After a short time, we were in the classroom out in the field. Aiming circles were used to determine angles, a simple device, more manageable than the transit or theodolite we would later see in use. It was a matter of angles and distances and how they related one to another. To measure the angles, one peered into the aiming circle, aligned it on a familiar object – one whose coordinates were already known – then turned it to another, usually a rod held by another soldier, and recorded the angle in the official army book and on the even more official form. The distance was determined by stretching a metal tape from one site to the other, keeping the line as straight as possible. In determining titles for those performing these tasks the army avoided clever or too technical names. He holding the rod was called the Rodman. Those taping the distance were known as Tapers. The person looking into the device measuring angles was called the Instrument Operator.

On one of our earlier problems the instructor picked a soldier to serve as Rodman. He said, ‘Take the rod and go stand alongside that tank out there.’ Off he went. The instructor then explained what we would do, but the explanation became more complex than expected and as we watched the Rodman came to no tank. There was none to be seen. We assumed it could be seen through the magnification offered by the aiming circle. As the instructor talked, the Rodman grew smaller and smaller. Soon he was gone. It would have helped had he known that in this part of Oklahoma a tank was what others call a pond. I suppose there is out there on the range, or even beyond, a very old Rodman still in search of a tank. Or else his bones can be found, leaning forward, rod in hand.

The Tapers were often a Mutt ‘n Jeff team, one tall and the other short. It facilitated going up and down hills, keeping the tape as level as possible. One could hold an end above his head while the other stayed low to the ground if need be. These days, I see no more Tapers when I see survey crews. Their role was even then being replaced by a radio or light signal.

In addition to those out surveying were others who listening to the sound of shots, determining the distance intervening, and so the position of enemy guns. Others tried to measure based on the flash seen as those guns fired. Still others were forward observers, positioned where they could see the shells’ effect and radio back alterations in elevation or charge if the attack was to be successful.

The course having been completed I was ready to go to Germany, but the Army was not ready to send me. Instead, I was to stay at Fort Sill, moving to the Artillery and Missile School, as an instructor; or rather an assistant instructor, with officers providing the more essential information, especially since other officers would be the students.

To be Continued...

Who is "Flat Stanley" and why is he two-dimensional?

2004-07-21T07:36:00.000-07:00

Here's a site that has a Flat Stanley picture gallery...he even visits Afghanistan! Here's an explanation of how Flat Stanely works....there may even be a "Flat James" in the works...who know.

Description:
Students make a paper Flat Stanley and mail it, along with a blank journal, to someone on the List of Participants or to a celebrity or politician. The recipient treats the visiting Stanley as a guest and takes it places. After a few weeks Stanley is mailed back with a completed journal and perhaps some photographs, post cards, and souvenirs. You share with your class what Stanley has done, where he has been and plot his travels on a map. Some classes send out hundreds of Stanleys.Having your class on the list means being prepared to have others send Stanleys to you, too.

Flat Stanley Picture Gallery

Ask James:

2004-07-19T12:16:00.000-07:00

Dear James,

I would like to request an essay that explores the boundaries of personal hygiene in public places. For example, is it ok to cut your nails on the "T", in the office, anywhere outside of your home? Where is it ok to floss ones teeth? How about brushing your hair, is it okay to do that in a room other than the bathroom or bedroom?

In this day of lackadaisical social norms, I look forward to your advice.
-------------------------
Dear Julie,

It's not so much an essay as it is a Friendly Advice Column, but I will do my best to proffer a few answers to your delicate questions.
Social norms are, of course, difficult to determine. Not just because we are living in lackadaisical times, as you so rightly point out, but because many people in our society strain to live up to the same norms as the rest of us. Take, for example, gorillas. No matter how many times we toss them a shameful glance or whisper about them under our breaths they still have the audacity to wobble around completely naked, smacking their lips lasciviously and picking bugs out of their hair. (Dogs also do this, by the way, but at least they pick the bugs out with a bit more discretion. Progress is progress, I suppose.) Because of this relativism, social norms are, to say the least, an inexact science.

That said, let me address your specific questions, as they fall under generally accepted social norms. The gorillas are liable to take issue with these, but we cannot wait forever for them to evolve.

·         Nail-cutting is only ever acceptable in the privacy of your own bathroom or bedroom and in front of the television only when watching a program with a Nielsen rating below two and only then when accompanied by a tissue to catch the nail residue. Nail-filing, on the other hand, is acceptable in polite company when filing nails less than one millimeter in length, except when it seems pretentious. For over one millimeter, see the rules of nail-cutting or see a nail-care professional.

·         As any respectable dentist would tell you, tooth-flossing must be done once a day right before bed, so it is always acceptable, no matter where you are, as long as you precede it with the caveat, "It's okay because I am going to bed in a minute." If you use the caveat and then proceed to stay awake longer than thirty minutes, you will instantly become a pariah, shunned by friends and family and destined to roam the desert with a bag of carrots and no floss for eternity.

·         Brushing your hair is pretty much okay anywhere, except during meals. (Let's hope there are some gorillas reading this one.)

When it comes to social norms, most of the grey area can usually be filled in by asking yourself, "What would a gorilla do?" Give it some careful thought - but try not to lick your lips to lasciviously - and then always, always do the precise opposite.

Thank you for Asking James.

Do I Sound Like A Singing Robot?

2004-07-15T11:48:00.000-07:00

This is funny because my friend is a robot bartender...
-----
A popular bar had a new robotic bartender installed. A fellow came in for a drink, and the robot asked him, "What's your IQ?" The man replied, '150.'

So the robot proceeded to make conversation about Quantum physics, string theory, atomic chemistry, and so on. The man listened intently, and thought 'This is really cool.'

The man decided to test the robot. He walked out of the bar, turned around, and came back in for another drink. Again, the robot asked him, "What's your IQ?" The man responded, '100.'

So the robot started talking about football, baseball, movies, and so on. The man thought to himself, 'Wow, this is amazing.'

The man went out, and came back a third time. As before, the robot asked, "What's your IQ?" This time the man replied, '50.'

The robot then asked, "So, are you gonna vote for Bush again?"

Off To Join the Service: Part II

2004-07-14T07:29:00.000-07:00

I was nominally in charge of the group boarding the evening bus across the river to New Jersey’s Fort Dix. Being in charge meant my name had been at the head of the list at the point where it had been divided into manageable numbers – ten or twelve to a group. Most slept; a few talked; none had a change of heart, deciding against beginning their army career with desertion. That I delivered them safely ended my command. No other would replace it.

We were fed, shorn, given clothing and boots – brown boots and a bottle of dye, the army having changed from brown to black with warehouses full of its World War II and Korean stock. As long as anyone had them they also had dye rubbing off on their pants. The clothes were new, very olive green in color. Not everything fit, and what did would not fit us when we left Fort Dix as trimmer people in another eight weeks. During the first days no one had any idea what to do with us, other than to keep us in or around the place where we were supposed to be. We had tests to see what skills we might possess, though skills were less an issue than how we might fit what the army needed.

Jake showed up and caught up with me by the end of the second day. We were by then a large enough group to be made into a company – about two hundred or so - and there were some interesting people in the group. Tom McGibney, a tall man who could play tunes by flexing his knuckles. All Tom’s songs sounded alike, unless accompanied by singing. He was from the Bronx, a taciturn fellow who let it be known what space he required and what he was unwilling to tolerate, without having to say. A fellow from the neighborhood, Mickey St. Claire, had told me before I left that the best way to enter a unit was to pick out the biggest man and to start a fight with him, a fight that would hopefully be ove r quickly and that would have the other guy unconscious. As nice as Mickey was, his advice would have had me trying to KO McGibney, an impossible task.

There was also Henry Osman, an enthusiastic fellow who became unrecognizable without his glasses, as did all the world to him if he were to take them off, and Alan Lovitch, who would one day sell me a suit at Bonds, a suit with two pairs of pants. Alan was among those who chose military service rather than jail – a common offer in those days – and he had a gift for complaining, for acting offended by reasonable requests, thought it did not seem like whining. Jerry Nadeau was one of a large group who had enlisted in Maine. (People not from New York seemed more inclined to enlist, perhaps not knowing that to be drafted was a less intrusive choice.) Jerry had a wonderful singing voice and would use it to make cry those who had left girls behind, serious romances for guys eighteen or nineteen years old. Jerry also looked like a young Rocky Marciano, which made some believe that Jerry and Rocky were brothers.

There was also a fellow named Bob, whose last name I cannot now recall. He had, he said, left West Point before graduation and was coming back to the army, as an enlisted man. It may have been so, but in the middle of training Bob was taken away by the police. No explanation was given, which gave rise to a number of rumors, all of which concluded that the problem must be someone else’s, since Bob was an okay guy. Also in our company was Lance Norton, who had come from New Jersey to find a career in explosives. His name was most intriguing, especially for those who came from neighborhoods filled with Mikes, Jacks, Steves, Bills and Joes.

I am not sure if it was in that company, but I also served for a time with Phil Corner, a musician in real life, who could sleep standing up, and could do so quite readily. The only flaw was his moving, swaying forward and back while dreaming. Had he controlled that he would have done quite well. I later met a man, Ed Miley, who could both sleep and appear interested while standing; and, Ed never moved.

Not everyone was someone I wanted to know. There were in the company, as anywhere, a fair number of morons. There was one, whose name was alphabetically near my own. Because that was the case he was always close to me, next in line or just ahead, doing what I was doing. Because of this, he one day almost shot me while trying to maneuver his rifle. I doubt the shot came close, but it was close enough to unnerve the instructor who was no doubt dreading the paperwork accompanying the slaying of one recruit by another on his watch. I would later appropriate the poor soul’s bayonet, having lost mine and needing to return one to the government at the e nd of basic training. He took it as well as he took most things, wandering up and down the aisle saying, ‘Who’s got my knife!’ In the end, he was not surprised, having long been a victim and having defined himself so. There was also a man who I awoke one night to serve as furnace guard, but he never got up. The furnaces were surely well-serviced, as was everything in the army, but they were also old, and in wooden buildings fire was not always our friend. That he never got up to be the first to smell smoke annoyed me, because he said he hadn’t been awakened. I thought I could really hurt this man, but the incident passed.

Another person toward whom I had a similar feeling was a National Guard specialist, who having served six months was on his two week summer assignment. Our platoon was without an officer, and somehow did not have enough non-commissioned officers (NCO's), meaning that this specialist was assigned to us – or we to him. We did not get along. He seemed not to like me, which I found surprising; but, it seemed only fair that I not like him in return. He took to taunting me during a long march, during which we had to run while carting what seemed like all the equipment we might ever need. Later, he came by to say something was amiss in the tent that Jake and I shared. While he was looking to find something else wrong I told him he would do well not to find it, since it would only annoy me, and he might regret having done so. Or words to that effect. In the midst of my lecture I thought this was how people got into military prisons, but having once begun I thought it only fair to continue. We saw little of him after that evening.

Having no officer assigned, and no regular NCO that I recall, meant we had more freedom than other platoons. We did well with it. The sergeants who filled in were good men and interested in having us be good soldiers. They were helpful, rather than demanding. One tried very hard to teach me marching, something I never did learn. I apparently failed to grasp an essential difference between walking and marching, though I mastered for a time the proper length of a step and the manner in which my foot should come forward. He was pleased. I was pleased. The knowledge did not transfer to the next day’s demands, but it seemed all we could reasonably expect. Perhaps because of my ‘marching disability’ I was not assigned to the infantry, to the ‘Ultimate Weapon’ as the sign had proclaimed at the camp’s entrance. Also against me was being a poor marksman. I recall being told, ‘You could have hit it if you saw it, or if it had stayed where you were aiming.’

Instead, I was sent to the Artillery, to Fort Sill, Oklahoma.

To be Continued...

She's Dating a Women...?

2004-07-13T20:17:00.000-07:00
A lady-friend of mine has recently become involved with someone of the same gender. No big deal you say? Maybe not to you seasoned non-hetro daters. As she has quickly discovered, dating women is not like dating men, on many levels. We got to thinking, what are the questions that any women who's new to non-hetro/queer dating would want answers to. Here's what we came up with. If you have questions you feel like we left out, send them along and feel free to leave a comment.

If I were a women who had just started dating women, I would want to know...

Who calls after the first date?
Who gets to be the one who fears commitment and pulls the "i just got out of a relationship" line?
Who forces who to see "romantic comedy" movies?
How does spooning work?
Who fights to get the other one to meet their family?
Who insists on not being exclusive?
Who feels obligated to pay?
Who wears cologne and who wears perfume? What if you like the same scent?
What happens if you both want to wear the same outfit one day? Does anyone have to open doors or pay?

Poll

2004-07-13T08:11:00.000-07:00

When spooning in bed, it is ok for the woman to be the spooner

Never, there's a reason God created teaspoons and tablespoons

It's a Massachusetts liberal/California thing...

Welcome to the 21st Century

What ever happened to the traditional definition of spooning

Free polls from Pollhost.com

Ask James:

2004-07-12T06:51:00.000-07:00
Dear James,

I recently received a coffee mug from my dog that says "Thanks for being my owner, your grrrrrrrrreat!" I was shocked! A million questions raced through my head. When did he learn to throw pottery (or how to write for that matter)? How did he get the money to buy materials? My wife seems just as perplexed as me. Is this common and I'm the crazy one? Do I need to get him something for his Birthday? How can I find he he can speak too? Please advise.
Thanks,
Mr. Buttons

-----------------------
Dear Mr. Buttons,

Your dog may be talented, but that does not mean that he has good taste. That mug sounds like a mug that only a father could love.

As a cat person myself, your question gives me pause - or, is it paws? Like many cat people, I have always just assumed that dogs are irrevocably stupid, but you suggest that not only are dogs adept at ceramics, but also shopping and the finer points of finance. Upon further research, I have discovered that dogs are in fact extremely underrated. Take, for example, the extremely thoughtful work of scholarship written by Dr. Ranger P. Snufflebutt, himself apparently a dog, A Study of Human Behavior (www.southknoxbubba.net/humanbehavior.htm). Surely, if a dog is able to hold a pencil and form complete sentences, a dog can make - or even buy from an on-line store - a simple trinket like a mug. I say, Bravo for him.

As for gift-giving etiquette, a lot of that depends on what you have been doing so far. Because your dog appears to have given you this mug unexpectedly - or, as professional gift-givers say, "just because" - it would seem hollow and superficial for you to start giving gifts in return if you have never done any gift-giving in the past. Instead, accept your mug graciously and offer him (or her) sincere thanks. Many dogs appreciate a scratch behind the ears, a pat on the butt, or an opportunity to lick your face without you squirming. Then, when the dog least expects it, bring home a special gift (just because) to show that the affection between the two of you is indeed mutual. Gift preferences vary according to breed and personality, so think about something that your dog would like. Maybe a kiln would be appropriate for your particular dog.

As for talking dogs, don't be so naive. Everyone knows that dogs cannot talk.

Thank you for Asking James.

Tree Goats

2004-07-09T06:56:00.000-07:00
Ok, so I made fun of a friend last week for saying that there is such a thing as a "tree goat". But alas, there is. And there's even pictures (and cooking oil) to prove it. Read he description below, you won't be disappointed.

Tree Goats
The trunk of the argan is often twisted and gnarled, allowing goats to clamber along its branches and feed on the leaves and fruit.

The fruit has a green, fleshy exterior like an olive, but larger and rounder. Inside, there is a nut with an extremely hard shell, which in turn contains one, two or three almond-shaped kernels.

When goats eat the fruit, the fleshy part is digested but the nut, because of its hard shell, is excreted. Later, the nuts are collected by farmers to produce oil.

Argan oil is slightly darker than olive oil, with a reddish tinge. It can be used for cooking and is claimed to have various medicinal properties, such as lowering cholesterol levels, stimulating circulation and strengthening the bodyÂs natural defences. Internationally, there is some interest in its possible cosmetic uses.

Households that make their own argan oil tend to use if for general cooking. Because it is expensive to buy, others may use it more sparingly - flavouring salads, for example. A few drops stirred into couscous just before serving give it a rich, nutty aroma.

Bottles of what pass for argan oil are sold along the roadsides between Essouira and Agadir, but is difficult to tell if they are genuine. Because the oil commands a high price, sellers are often tempted to dilute it with cheaper oils.

Terrorists Hate our Freedoms: But Which Ones?

2004-07-08T06:43:00.000-07:00
Personally, I hate that terrorists hate our freedom. Here in America, we have so many freedoms to enjoy. I wonder, though, if terrorists hate all of these freedoms or only some of them, and if they only hate some of our freedoms, which ones do they hate the most?(CThomas & JNoon)

Here is a partial list:

The freedom to create television shows featuring hotel-fortune heiresses and children of semi-famous musicians tromping around
America making condescending remarks about people who are not hotel-fortune heiresses or children of semi-famous musicians.

The freedom to watch these same shows.

The freedom to hold competitive eating contests.

The freedom to detain "enemy combatants" for an indefinite period of time in secret without formally charging them with any crime.

The Freedom to carry concealed weapons...oops...they like that freedom.

The freedom to purchase a gallon of soda, with a straw, and call it a Big Gulp.

The freedom to marry whomever you choose ... oh, wait, that's only a freedom in Massachusetts. Thank, heavens!

The freedom to call yourself a doctor, even when you are only a therapist, and pretend that you know diddly about weight loss. (Phil, we are talking to you, here.)

The feedom to change your name to P. Diddy.

The freedom to charge more tha $1 for an item at the Dollar Store.

The freedom to wear rayon, paisley shirts and parachute pants, even though they have quite clearly gone completely out of style.

Off To Join The Service

2004-07-06T13:42:00.000-07:00
A few days ago, a friend of mine was talking to his father about how he got into the Army. This friend was so captivated by his father's tale that he asked him to put it in writing. This my friends, is the first part of that tale.....enjoy!
-------------------------

Germany
Part I

Almost everyone joined something. It may have had something to do with patriotism, though probably not very much. It was instead a way to be somewhere else, doing something different, with people we hadn’t known for years. Most went to the army, some to the navy, and a few became marines. Not to do so meant a person would never have left Inwood. And while it was a wonderful place to grow up, it was not a place to stay, not without having compared it to someplace else and the people to those from other parts of the country, or other parts of the world

It was my understanding, based on the experience of everyone who had ever gone into the army, that one went from Fort Dix to Germany. I expected to do the same, but that was not to be. Instead, I was given the job of keeping the Red Menace, the Communist Horde from invading Oklahoma. As far as I could tell, I was successful.

This adventure began in my sophomore year at Manhattan College. I was in the Business School, not knowing what else to take. I was adept enough to know engineering was not to be my career. I had no sense what a slide rule might do, how electricity worked, what could be learned from blueprints or other such things. Liberal Arts were never considered, in part because I had no real notion what they were, but also because I was reluctant to be either liberal or artistic. The College offered physical education, but that seemed silly and could lead only to teaching gym. So, business it was. I had been majoring in Spanish I and Accounting I, having taken both classes days, nights, and summers. I was on a second round of Statistics, without having an inkling what it meant.

Ours was a Catholic College, and the feast day of the order’s founder, May 15th, was a holiday. I had met my friend Jake, and having nothing else planned, we decided it was the day to become soldiers. He was doing about as well as I in school, and we realized that at the current rate we would graduate and qualify for Social Security in the same week. Jake and I had been in grade school together. We went to different high schools, but came together around football and where we would hang out through adolescence.

Jake was quite capable, and had there been a leader it would surely have been him. He knew what should be done, and how. He was wise, in a crude and funny way. He could sometimes be frightening, as he teetered on the edge of control, as sometimes happened when he was drinking, a behavior that would intrude with greater frequency, but not always. Jake was kind, too, and protective. He wanted things to be right, and done well. He was exuberant, vital, loud, brazen and played football with an abandon that endeared him to teammates and to those watching.

We took the subway to the draft board, somewhere in the forties, on the West Side. They asked when we wanted to go, and we said sometime in June. That would give us time to finish school, if not to pass all of the courses. By being drafted we were committed to two years, rather than three which awaited those who enlisted, and four it they had an interest in the Air Force. On the way home I went by the out-of-town newspaper stand in Times Square, getting the Halifax paper for my father.

The paper was to make available a more benign answer to the question, ‘What were you doing downtown?,’ which it did. My father took it well, and seemed less surprised by the answer. Mother was more distraught, but there was nothing to be done, which made protests useless. I don’t recall her becoming immediately reconciled, but my parents were aware of the limits of wishes when choices were not their own. It was done. When my grades arrived, and I was headed for another round of Spanish and had barely left Accounting I behind, it helped them see that college was not where I then belonged.

On June 25, 1959, I was off to defend the nation, and to see Europe along the way. I walked to the subway with my father, but we were taking different lines. We said good-bye in ways we did so many things. There was no display of emotion, nor had there been when we had left Mother. He headed to work and I to Whitehall Street with the letter of greetings from Selective Service, a subway token taped in the corner. That we were not demonstrative seemed more an act of trust. We accepted, without identifying them, the feelings each might have. We assumed they were good and that we cared for one another as w ell as anyone could, or ever would.

With day under way, I went to meet Jake, who appeared as expected and a bit hung over. At Whitehall Street, we began the routine about which everyone had ever spoken – the physical, a ritual that was less formal and less thorough when administered to groups rather than to individuals, and which focused on the number of arms, legs, eyes and ears one might have, the total being divided by four with those having a score above one and below three passing the test. We spent a lot of time waiting, which it turned out was good training for military life. We got to know whomever was standing where we stood, and most were good company for the time we were together. It was during such a lull that Jake walked by, headed home.

His blood pressure was too high even for the army’s standard. I thought it no surprise, given what he may have drunk the evening before; but, it was still a bit disconcerting. ‘Oh, well’ is, and has been the available response to any number of things; and is, I assume, how I responded to the sight of Mahoney headed home. I wondered how he would be received in front of Schifani’s store by the guys who had just said, ‘So long.’ It would be funny, another of Jake’s misadventures; and it would remain funny only as long as the army found him acceptable on the following day.

To Be Continued.

Ask James:

2004-07-06T07:19:00.001-07:00
Dear James,

I have a friend says that Canada is the place where American fads go to die. Is this true? If so, do Canadians still wear rayon paisley shirts, parachute pants and eat ban muffins? I would also like to become a member of the fashion club that wear those cool “Members Only” jackets. Do you have any idea how one can become a member, the jacket doesn’t indicate?

Thanks,
Harry
-------------------------------

Dear Harry,

Canadians hate being compared to Americans, but they love bran muffins! It would be a bit presumptuous, however, to conclude from this that all American fads limp off to the North to die. Rayon, paisley shirts and parachute pants actually can actually be seen currently circulating in many former Soviet republics, where they are trying desperately to generate a renaissance.

Members Only jackets are a bit more difficult to track down. Trusted sources tell me that these jackets are available only to the most elite members of society - successful third-party presidential candidates, members of the Skull and Bones Society, and left-handed Inuit cowboys. Imitation jackets are available for purchase in dark alleys and from many less reputable on-line merchants, but a safer alternative may in fact be to find happiness in more populist pursuits, such as skeet shooting or complaining about the Shadow Government with other conspiracy theorists.

Many of these conspiracy mongrels can be found in several former Soviet republics, trading in rayon, paisley shirts and parachute pants.

James

Washington DC Highlights (and surrounding area): For Meghan, who just moved there.

2004-07-01T09:03:00.001-07:00
1. The license plates: Taxation Without Representation
2. The Ghana Cafe in Adams-Morgan
3. Andean Tapas at the ChiCha Lounge on U Street
4. The crazy seminary on the grounds of Walter Reed Hospital
5. Riding my bike through Rock Creek Park on he Weekend, stopping at the Zoo.
6. Pharmacy Bar/Cosmos in Adams-Morgan
7. Second Story Books in Rockville
8. Takoma Park on a Sunday
9. Mark's Kitchen in Takoma Park: They have veggie sausages
10. Luna Bar and Grill in Dupont Circle
11. Great Falls (you can even ride your bike there)
12. Contra dancing in Shepardstown, WV
13. Go-Go music: Only place in the world you can hear it
14. Ice cream at Steve's in Dupont Circle
15. Hospital Cafeteria in Takoma Park - it's all vegetarian
16. Caravaggio's at the National Gallery
17. Chili-cheese fries at Ben's Chili Bowl on U Street
18. The HUGE escalators at the Woodly Park Metro stop
19. Playing ultimate Frisbee on the Mall
20. The Spy Museum
21. The Jefferson Monument
22. The skate park in Vienna

FEEL FREE TO ADD TO THE LIST...

Doubting Thomas

2004-06-28T12:51:00.000-07:00
Not that long ago my partner Margie and I were walking to the book store on a warm spring evening. Having recently discovered that I have high cholesterol, I had become very interested in foods that might help me lower it to an acceptable level.

Margie had read something about the cholesterol lowering qualities of of red wine and wondered aloud if grape juice might have the same effect. I responded simply "They think it might, but it's not proven." A gentlemen walking by stopped, turned and shouted at me, saying "It is proven, Jesus is the son of God and you're a doubting Thomas."

Can one believe that Jesus is the son of God but not in the cholesterol lowering qualities of grape juice? How did he know my middle name is Thomas? Should I be eating more fiber as well. It was as if my spiritual health and physical health had come to a crossroads...who would pass, Jesus or the grape juice?

Religion, like grape juice, often creates more questions than it answers.

2004-06-25T12:36:00.000-07:00

.

The Rules of Ice Cream

2004-06-24T10:42:00.000-07:00
I was privy to a conversation today between a father and son in front of the Children's Museum. The son was being lectured on the rules of eating ice cream. I was amazed to find that I had never been taught these rules by my own parents. I now look back in horror on my freewheeling, discipline free childhood filled with improper(and embarrassing)ice cream eating educate. My question for you is, are these all of the rules of ice creams or are their more I am oblivious to? Please help:

ICE CREAM RULES:

I. Your must concentrate on your ice cream. There is to be no tilting of the ice cream or "futzing around" while the ice cream is being consumed. If you fail to concentrate on your ice cream or choose to "futz", the ice cream will be taken away.

II. You must never shove the ice cream in the face if your little brother. If this occurs, the ice cream with either A)fall all over your little brother B)be taken away for breaking rule II. Either way, no more ice cream.

III. You must always have a napkin in hand for drips. If you see that the ice cream is about to drip, you must attempt a maneuver called the "emergency lick". This maneuver involves tilting the ice cream cone (seemingly breaking rule I) and turn is slowly, running your tongue around the edge.

So it is written.....go forth and eat ice cream

Free Form Haikus

2004-06-23T12:31:00.000-07:00
One man's garbage
Is another's treasure
Stinky, stinky dog

If only fools
Fall in love
And George Bush loves freedom...

I want candy
I want candy
All the time

Grrrrrrr!

The bear walks slowly
Stalking its prey
Wacka Wacka Wacka!

FOUND Magazine

2004-06-23T07:29:00.000-07:00
FOUND Magazine

All things lost are found again. This is the recycling of people's lives. Paper, plastic, love?

Word Association with Laura: What does this tell us about her?

2004-06-22T07:49:00.000-07:00
Monkey: Buisness
Jellybeans: Good
Coolito: Momita
James: Peace
Dunkin Donuts: Coffee
Schnauzer: Hot Dog
Tickle: me Elmo
Tinkle: Twinkle
Doogie Howser: MD
Minnesota: Twins
Bush: Laura
The Boston Crippler: What?

Stacky the Clown!

2004-06-22T07:35:00.000-07:00
Stacky the Clown!
This comic strip is for all you folks who love clowns and the things they stack. This is really an untapped area of comedy. Stacked Porcupines, that's funny people!

Ask James

2004-06-21T09:44:00.000-07:00
Dear James,

I am having an moral dilemma. I love Russian candy but hate communism.
Can I indulge in Russian (and Estonian) candy and still love freedom.
Also, it it ever OK to eat candy that has pumpkin nougat in it?

Thanks
Jimi

...................

Dear Jimi,

Thank you for your question. It indeed poses a difficult moral dilemma, but it is not the same dilemma that you thought it was. I will explain.

As you may know, Ronald Reagan saved the Russians from Communism over ten years ago, and even though the Russian Communist Party continues to represent one of the largest blocs in the Russian Parliament, that does not mean that all Russians are communists. On the contrary, there are many freedom-loving, candy-crunching capitalist pigs in Russia today.

Unfortunately, what the Russian-candy-loving public thought was a new dawn has turned out to be nothing more than a shattered dream. Along with the freedom-hating mongrels in France and Germany, Russia opposed the attempted liberation of the Iraqi people - Iraqi people who, as we all know, cherish freedom. This opposition, of course, must mean that Russians love terrorists more than freedom.

But are terrorists communists? And, more importantly, what does this mean for candy consumption?

The good news is that terrorists are not necessarily communists. The bad news is that terrorists hate freedome. And since the Russians love terrorists, they cannot love freedom. And since, thank heavens, you love freedom, you cannot love Russians and must therefore renounce all Russian candy. As for Estonia, they have been rather silent on the whole question, so until their position can be positively identified feel free to consume their many delicious confections and import them - but only after the free trade agreements have been worked out.

Pumpkin nougat, however, is completely evil and a tool of Satan. Never, ever, ever eat it or speak of it again to anyone or you shall burn in hell for all eternity.

Thank you again for Asking James. Please write again.

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