tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62574480389777225692024-03-18T21:07:55.963-07:00The Aluminum Foil HatWe've probably all heard of the remarkable defensive effects of folding aluminum foil and placing it atop one's head. Among other things, it apparently blocks the government and space aliens from imposing mind control upon us. The goal of this blog is to create a forum where we can all remove our foil hats and freely share what's in our minds with one another, no matter how brilliant or insipid those thoughts may be.The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-933746740547955772010-11-01T23:13:00.001-07:002010-11-01T23:16:37.683-07:00Halloween Post Mortem - Some People Suck!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7qxek_hl0rsY5ys6yrm2_0deVE5mY7bXiNzSVwkGqJL2dDVhl9kxVRxGcQ3oVDN46IMKniWhgNWT_dxykgHBlvuQ7OLKIHLVGW6KCdGIPfb0rqrihsyX2UovCkDSJd_kndMRDvJfDbso/s1600/Halloween+2010+001.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7qxek_hl0rsY5ys6yrm2_0deVE5mY7bXiNzSVwkGqJL2dDVhl9kxVRxGcQ3oVDN46IMKniWhgNWT_dxykgHBlvuQ7OLKIHLVGW6KCdGIPfb0rqrihsyX2UovCkDSJd_kndMRDvJfDbso/s400/Halloween+2010+001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534832026754009906" /></a><br /><br />There's a new post on our web site tonight. Please visit "http://aluminumfoilhatsociety.com/" to read it. Also, if you're on Facebook, please visit "Society of the Aluminum Foil Hat" and join.<br /><br />Thanks!The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-55501016931949141952010-10-30T23:36:00.000-07:002010-10-30T23:38:38.590-07:00Trick or Treat?! No. Wait. Let me decide.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhst1Wlky6IgPGDSxo_8LsdW5EOkushqc6yK6AwjkNPXthfu3giAMq9ptkuFMlEmDWNp2gdJr6GHA5cl6IoBFaa8WGlFK_tLc_xoIyjCBjE2_mgyfB_nwrvjJWCMaVdkxurgN7MzVb0o6U/s1600/jackolantern.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 201px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhst1Wlky6IgPGDSxo_8LsdW5EOkushqc6yK6AwjkNPXthfu3giAMq9ptkuFMlEmDWNp2gdJr6GHA5cl6IoBFaa8WGlFK_tLc_xoIyjCBjE2_mgyfB_nwrvjJWCMaVdkxurgN7MzVb0o6U/s400/jackolantern.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534095792487872210" /></a><br /><br /><br />There's a new post on our website. <br /><br />Please go to this link to check it out, and please consider joining "The Society of the Aluminum Foil Hat" if you're on Facebook.<br /><br />http://aluminumfoilhatsociety.com/<br /><br />Thanks!The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-17421276504577469262010-10-24T18:21:00.001-07:002010-10-24T18:22:10.026-07:00At Last, Another Excuse for Napping!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghYxJWtv1VRZLT3SPleK0BnR2GPk1jiS1BeBmmrkjhBtz_F-MRlbxW7jomvncx_wgLEUZy5TfXig3Q4GfW944a1Bsi4PtBSw_yoW-30wpz0r1qlPhUWY9fgDYg63pMAVEdm3oaohEXz68/s1600/Fall+Leaves.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghYxJWtv1VRZLT3SPleK0BnR2GPk1jiS1BeBmmrkjhBtz_F-MRlbxW7jomvncx_wgLEUZy5TfXig3Q4GfW944a1Bsi4PtBSw_yoW-30wpz0r1qlPhUWY9fgDYg63pMAVEdm3oaohEXz68/s400/Fall+Leaves.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531787840005148162" /></a><br />There's a new post to see.<br /><br />Please visit our new web site to review the new and old.<br /><br />Thanks!<br /><br />http://aluminumfoilhatsociety.com/The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-71193417470477262162010-10-10T22:41:00.000-07:002010-10-10T22:43:37.477-07:00Ignorance Is Bliss<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYizGzZZbV5cJlyv3fXgzneLXnCCys7OxiT_Fi007RTOcm81el5rFyNiPOztnHi9LhM4xDQwV8NvcplgU9eAvx3Tn6NC8oodVq_ktvdrPM-qchEAE5qS22Pq5p3ga1va4t2XbeEqj_zA/s1600/John+Wayne+Toilet+Paper.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 384px; height: 340px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYizGzZZbV5cJlyv3fXgzneLXnCCys7OxiT_Fi007RTOcm81el5rFyNiPOztnHi9LhM4xDQwV8NvcplgU9eAvx3Tn6NC8oodVq_ktvdrPM-qchEAE5qS22Pq5p3ga1va4t2XbeEqj_zA/s320/John+Wayne+Toilet+Paper.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526659612192488850" /></a><br /><br />There's a new blog post, but it's on our developing web site. <br /><br />Please visit "www.aluminumfoilhatsociety.com" and if you're on Facebook, please become a fan of our page: Society of the Aluminum Foil Hat.The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-87157788350654794612010-09-06T22:47:00.000-07:002010-09-06T23:56:14.407-07:00If it wasn't for house guests, we'd probably live in a cave.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7E_RN2pSBV7XDkcI535_WbhckU8t9ez5BHe7FpR-EjdL55sC_fROd1-2N2o7EYu9Q_Fdko4S2zojD0myxulx7GhBu2YNeItx5q5YQmBusSEcYx8w74rMv1zwrZwP42hqq1EJ0JHGMjY/s1600/NT3708242.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7E_RN2pSBV7XDkcI535_WbhckU8t9ez5BHe7FpR-EjdL55sC_fROd1-2N2o7EYu9Q_Fdko4S2zojD0myxulx7GhBu2YNeItx5q5YQmBusSEcYx8w74rMv1zwrZwP42hqq1EJ0JHGMjY/s400/NT3708242.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514059308881307266" /></a><br />We had some friends over for a barbecue this weekend, and aside from thanking them for spending their time with us, I'd like to thank them for forcing us to prepare our home for guests!<br /><br />Three years ago, we purchased some picture frames on sale from one of those big-box retail stores that stock everything from car batteries to potato chips. Our newly acquired frames languished neatly in a cabinet all this time, waiting for us to make up our minds about what to put in them, and where to hang them. <br /><br />Suddenly, once we realized our walls would be barren whilst people walked through our home this weekend, we grabbed those frames from storage, cropped a few digital photos, got prints made at the local drug store and SHAZAM, we had chachka displayed for all to see. <br /><br />Mind you, no one probably noticed the frames or their subjects, but that's not relevant. What <em>is </em>relevant is the fact that my children would have probably inherited those frames in our estate decades from now if we hadn't been motivated this weekend to do something quickly as the specter of visitors imminently loomed.<br /><br />Why are we compelled to hold out for perfection when "good" is perfectly acceptable? Is it just us (please say no)? <br /><br />It's not like filling pre-fabbed picture frames, or even hanging them is a <em>permanent </em>act. Those frames can be moved on a daily basis if we're so inspired, and the photos can be swapped-out in a matter of moments. So what's with all the consternation and hesitation? <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXzdbNqbZt6KbxoJNPEBBMtxMxMl_PO3UsZcGR2F1ZTBaEx-MsVYuIKdtT43DifFX631kIhbNT4gTJUphHvFxmIfUhzeD6Xj6xzboWdlbfER7FpWwqf4o88B9eH-5VPTK35zLUpb_SlxU/s1600/600full-the-silence-of-the-lambs-screenshot.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 174px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXzdbNqbZt6KbxoJNPEBBMtxMxMl_PO3UsZcGR2F1ZTBaEx-MsVYuIKdtT43DifFX631kIhbNT4gTJUphHvFxmIfUhzeD6Xj6xzboWdlbfER7FpWwqf4o88B9eH-5VPTK35zLUpb_SlxU/s200/600full-the-silence-of-the-lambs-screenshot.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514061766887481122" /></a>That question, of course, is rhetorical, because it would probably require a qualified therapist and dozens of hourly sessions of psychoanalysis to actually answer why we do what we do, and the contrived answer would probably include some bull shit about my mother or that time that psycho locked me in a pit in his basement and planned to make a suit out of my skin before the FBI showed up and ... oh wait, that was a movie with Jodie Foster. Nevermind.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT84_YtJ-lMS4kv0Et604_oX1VeDs33iHxXebaAC5hERhVvVmDLbBhNF-i-IYMsyPg8BU-hETF4LtT2HqL-Z51PnwwCkW12Xy24ktW34IHbz994W-r-ymnFtTBAENo2iOwTN-LxPKq7TU/s1600/martha-stewart-sitting-in-a-chair.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT84_YtJ-lMS4kv0Et604_oX1VeDs33iHxXebaAC5hERhVvVmDLbBhNF-i-IYMsyPg8BU-hETF4LtT2HqL-Z51PnwwCkW12Xy24ktW34IHbz994W-r-ymnFtTBAENo2iOwTN-LxPKq7TU/s200/martha-stewart-sitting-in-a-chair.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514055754172983026" /></a>To me, our procrastination is the result of a societal conspiracy that has existed for centuries, but only over the past couple decades has been perfected by Martha Stewart and her ilk, requiring home owners to also be museum curators. Why did our home go from our place of residence to a showroom adorned with velvet ropes dangling from shiny brass stanchions? I hate living under the perception that my home and possessions are on display for scrutiny and approval, yet I find myself straightening picture frames as I stroll down the hallway, while yelling at my children for leaving clutter in their respective wakes. <br /><br />Of course, our friends don't actually judge us. What sort of friends would they be if they did? Any pressure we feel, we put on ourselves. I think we actually recognize this, but still, we scrub our home from top to bottom and focus on every decorative detail whenever visitors are coming.<br /><br />So, had it not been for our houseguests, we would have gaping vacancies on our walls, and empty picture frames in our closet. For that matter, the first floor windows wouldn't have been cleaned. The patio wouldn't have been power washed. The patio furniture would still be speckled with randomly deposited bird poo, and the patio dining table would have a large owl pellet in the middle of it. The garage would also be a shambles, and several pillows would be "un-fluffed" at this very moment ... heaven forbid!<br /><br />Thank you dear friends for your unwitting prodding this weekend, for your camaraderie and, most of all, for not noticing the sparse furnishings in our master bedroom. Rest assured, that will be rectified before your next visit.The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-15940565689226065302010-08-26T21:37:00.000-07:002010-08-26T23:36:40.787-07:00You're Entitled to Your Opinion, No Matter How Wrong It May Be<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMjcI8nnO_FftB642_d5ae3jnBES4V_S_eEd_RWgq7ujbgXtMf-TGzhzha12HZR0rqhrmwd6Qit9j-X6vJ3ka7hO7fYWsv2o_viW66tYzQJ9ODsOK-EWmvsCYtUHcnHEL-KMYn7dQLmqg/s1600/708goldfish.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 384px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMjcI8nnO_FftB642_d5ae3jnBES4V_S_eEd_RWgq7ujbgXtMf-TGzhzha12HZR0rqhrmwd6Qit9j-X6vJ3ka7hO7fYWsv2o_viW66tYzQJ9ODsOK-EWmvsCYtUHcnHEL-KMYn7dQLmqg/s320/708goldfish.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509973419525929122" /></a>We have this goldfish named Fillet. At this very moment, he is in the aquarium next to me, swimming from one side of his tank to the other and back again, over and over and over. It's like he's an Olympic swimmer doing laps. <br /><br />All I keep thinking is "Goddamn, Fillet. You're an idiot. Would you please relax?" Then I realize, there are a lot of people like Fillet, and sometimes I'm one of them.<br /><br />Yesterday, a bright friend of mine brought an atrocity to my attention: a book was being used to brainwash seemingly impressionable children. Since I couldn't possibly reach all those children in time to fit them with aluminum foil hats, I dared enter the den of the brain washers themselves.<br /><br />Before we go further on this blog post, it needs to be explicitly noted that I do not begrudge anyone their religious beliefs, or any other beliefs for that matter. I subscribe to the school of thought that everyone has a right to their opinions and preferences, and as long as no one tries to impose their lifestyle or belief system on me, my world is spinning in greased grooves. <br /><br />My issue is when people try to manipulate easy prey, or are themselves intolerant. Case in point, the dastardly behavior of the zealots and lackies who were pushing their brain washing epistle on tykes.<br /><br />The literary drivel in question featured a lovable dinosaur and a furry little monkey taking a guided tour through the Grand Canyon where they found the bible and its teachings. It hurts just thinking about it. <br /><br />Since when did monkeys and dinosaurs start vacationing together, and why must they accept Jesus Christ as their savior? Is there a dinosaur hell and no one ever told me?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnvHVTqVQ24mLhMBbVemF02v7Ychc_MXWtUs_ckAJwFOahHIAgjHE1BNupHnK3edwVUTzGvmKhPXhOKX9JlQEd6lwjdR530WOiAT3HFvZ8YxEQ8tGV494wNdOyQt6Z87O7Q7US7PgxkAE/s1600/images+(7).jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnvHVTqVQ24mLhMBbVemF02v7Ychc_MXWtUs_ckAJwFOahHIAgjHE1BNupHnK3edwVUTzGvmKhPXhOKX9JlQEd6lwjdR530WOiAT3HFvZ8YxEQ8tGV494wNdOyQt6Z87O7Q7US7PgxkAE/s200/images+(7).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509973093634570338" /></a>Attempting to patronize children with such brain-poison is ludicrous. Anyone who has children knows how intuitive they can be, and how suspicious they are of "lessons" being imparted with the subtlety of a flame thrower. Children are not going to read this book and think "gee whiz, I should go read the bible." If they're anything like my kids, they're going to read the book and be disappointed because, at no time did the monkey fling poo at an unsuspecting dinosaur. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6J07sp6bMml1EoK5jLGKVd0HtLuwsogDB2Ery9L4K9nmKdwDOUK356S2dteGqAt6RtjqWtMiTRit1FBYLZDwfcg82h9h3aAsSjuuQ5DpGaC5dAigD-Pr7crPFnDqYlQnkUU9djQ7NjpM/s1600/images+(6).jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6J07sp6bMml1EoK5jLGKVd0HtLuwsogDB2Ery9L4K9nmKdwDOUK356S2dteGqAt6RtjqWtMiTRit1FBYLZDwfcg82h9h3aAsSjuuQ5DpGaC5dAigD-Pr7crPFnDqYlQnkUU9djQ7NjpM/s200/images+(6).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509972858436690450" /></a>I remember as a kid, someone gave me a stack of Archie comic books. We didn't have comic books at home, so this was a big deal to me. No sooner did I begin reading them, I realized these were not legitimate Archie comic books at all, but rather pseudo-Archie comic books trying to shove religion down my throat. I was a kid and I was appalled, not merely by the transparently offensive attempt to trick me into buying into some message, but also by the fact that now there was no way Archie was ever going to have sex with both Veronica and Betty, because he'd probably have to get married before he'd have sex, and therefore be forced to make an "either/or" choice. I was never able to look at Archie, Jughead, Moose or the rest of the gang the same way again. <br /><br />Not only did I not fall prey to the author's mind control, but I actually had a strong desire to shun this and any other religious suggestion. Most children probably foster the same contempt for such manipulation, and will do the exact opposite of what is being suggested. <br /><br />So why produce this book at all, if it's not going to elicit the desired result?<br /><br />We entered an on-line discussion group to find the answer to that question, and we were greeted with hostility and intolerance. <br /><br />Instead of debating the matter, or offering a logical defense for their tactics, the believers attacked us personally, asking how we could be so foolish as to not share their faith, and then instructing us to retreat back to the primordial ooze from which we had crawled. To this, we responded with requests for tolerance and an honest exchange of opinions, but were met flatly with contempt. This behavior was shocking, because at no time did we exhibit any sarcasm or silliness ... well, ... still, they were mean to us.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZyXW3Qo01FXbv4Lv1CdVIXIcBoliWLHDB7Nom8y_0Q0YHQ_2SFy-l0kB2Ou2kxf5nVCFCUgJPKuGvvXKSEGLq6zQWWtjrVhYuLpP-LreAjz3hPwsI9mDecldY2fBYkg_MReN-jna9ac/s1600/images+(8).jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZyXW3Qo01FXbv4Lv1CdVIXIcBoliWLHDB7Nom8y_0Q0YHQ_2SFy-l0kB2Ou2kxf5nVCFCUgJPKuGvvXKSEGLq6zQWWtjrVhYuLpP-LreAjz3hPwsI9mDecldY2fBYkg_MReN-jna9ac/s200/images+(8).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509974682082387746" /></a>Fanatics don't do tolerance. Try convincing a staunch conservative to consider a liberal's agenda, or vice versa. Try enticing a militant vegan to taste a cheeseburger. Try getting a zealous Christian to consider an evolution that does not include god, a dinosaur, or a monkey traveling companion. You're suggestion probably won't be considered, discussed, or even tolerated. More than likely, you'll be dismissed as a fool, because zealots believe their opinions are right, and any dissenting opinions are wrong.<br /><br />Even in the face of such rejection, though, I suspect I will, just like Fillet, continue to bang my head against the partitions that block me in, hoping to break through and find rampant enlightenment among my fellow man. Until then, I'll be drowning in frustration, and striving to protect young, fertile minds from the mind control of various oppressors. First, I need to get my hands on a boat-load of aluminum foil.The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-81373727223677892522010-08-21T18:11:00.000-07:002010-08-21T20:15:02.293-07:00Brother, can you spare 10 million dimes?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw6UNBkwR9zDDrHzawdJ3uuCqI-r-nOkMK7EU2_POO4fQStW2OIoF9y2r0cYHbksZSl-WlMVlKfdzVHi6qwCF6ANDGe-1I1vNlyODRrsHCf-8dzN95JB9sL2BmjoYhyphenhyphenMN5xUd32CgNktQ/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 331px; height: 219px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw6UNBkwR9zDDrHzawdJ3uuCqI-r-nOkMK7EU2_POO4fQStW2OIoF9y2r0cYHbksZSl-WlMVlKfdzVHi6qwCF6ANDGe-1I1vNlyODRrsHCf-8dzN95JB9sL2BmjoYhyphenhyphenMN5xUd32CgNktQ/s320/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508045980782900082" /></a><br />What's the most addictive commodity known to mankind? Heroin? Meth? Crack? Chocolate? Well, if you ask me, my money is on ... money.<br /><br />Anybody out there have enough money? I didn't think so. <br /><br />All our lives we are taught that there are more important things in life than money, but once we leave school and start into our careers, what's the foremost motivator? Money. Oh sure, there will be some people out there who say the work itself is their reward, and that money isn't important to them, but if that was true, they wouldn't collect the salary at all. No matter what Human Resource studies say, money is the reason why people work. If they didn't need money, potential employees would pursue hobbies, or volunteer at clinics. <br /><br />No one is immune to money. How could they be? Just ask Maslow about his hierarchy of needs. We need it to live, to pay for our food, shelter, clothing, recreational activity, etc. And it seems, the more we get, the more we spend, and then the more we need.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGLAorGLkg2ktJe79sv1BiGCBu_KQmmk9J5wyvr945t_ZYnw4H7IfBlHwQUcMrZ98BU8yG97wxOYi9TQ84tUFduW9kBa_aUMlaAciTHlYW6qDqaG8EeTF6Dvw0p7rqQb8AgXDxZYIiSjY/s1600/images+(4).jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGLAorGLkg2ktJe79sv1BiGCBu_KQmmk9J5wyvr945t_ZYnw4H7IfBlHwQUcMrZ98BU8yG97wxOYi9TQ84tUFduW9kBa_aUMlaAciTHlYW6qDqaG8EeTF6Dvw0p7rqQb8AgXDxZYIiSjY/s200/images+(4).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508047243209238482" /></a>Remember your first car? it was probably a real piece of crap, but you loved it 'cause it was a means toward freedom and independence. As you began to earn money, though, that car was probably replaced with something better, and newer. Ultimately, as time went on, and your earning power improved, you began to buy or lease new cars, and progressively better ones. The same goes for homes, vacations and clothing. <br /><br />It seems the more money we get, the more money we need, because we elect to purchase better, more expensive things.<br /><br />Paychecks are most-addictive of all because, unlike win falls, paychecks are gradual, scheduled enablers, like a morphine drip. Gradually, pay-raise-by-pay-raise, promotion-by-promotion, we take on more obligations - mortgages, car payments, spouses, children, pets, the list goes on and on. No matter our intentions, rarely do we find the will to save the extra money we earn. Instead, we adapt our lifestyles to the new flow of cash. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Yw66aAqwMQ_PJCGm8kzKEkWdI-_ZM8Yp6fwCuSbCVEzLUTuD28lrDWo82Q6LCFnSC4mUZr-V-OtINgyL_STtOuv_sF_qNHh72039_Z0_b5IrQdMuVjv0elDXy35W-ym5HSR_i3k5Gvs/s1600/images+(1).jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Yw66aAqwMQ_PJCGm8kzKEkWdI-_ZM8Yp6fwCuSbCVEzLUTuD28lrDWo82Q6LCFnSC4mUZr-V-OtINgyL_STtOuv_sF_qNHh72039_Z0_b5IrQdMuVjv0elDXy35W-ym5HSR_i3k5Gvs/s200/images+(1).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508047544458158482" /></a>Suddenly, decades later, once we've inflated our standard of living to stupid levels, we realize how precarious our lives have become, how dependent we are upon our current salaries, and how at risk we are if our jobs go away. We all know better-compensated jobs are more difficult to replace than lesser-paying ones, and once that reality hits us, and we recognize the tenuous predicament into which we've gotten ourselves, we start paying pharmaceutical companies for sleep-aids and ulcer medication. <br /><br />If this economy has taught us anything, it's that excessive consumption is foolish, and excessive leverage can be fatal. But, like heroin dealers, banks and employers encourage us to voluntarily put our necks on the chopping block so they can enslave us. The more debt we assume, the more risk we take, but we seem to be oblivious to that when lenders (banks or credit card providers) throw money at us so we can buy necessities like bigger homes, or motorcycles, or trips around the world. Similarly, employers are always pleased when we improve our standards of living, because then they know we are less likely to leave our jobs. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9AF8i9GtSvqI77inSi9Cr6wGVR4Ru4Guw8aPaxN2SaURoRObv9jJLpn0BpMOUF5BKzPKK6wb1VehPrxpadZA33cgykw8kcLG0W722kJ1IU2OVneNJeq3TvKKL0v3XEPZCSzrhJZLehkY/s1600/images+(5).jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 192px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9AF8i9GtSvqI77inSi9Cr6wGVR4Ru4Guw8aPaxN2SaURoRObv9jJLpn0BpMOUF5BKzPKK6wb1VehPrxpadZA33cgykw8kcLG0W722kJ1IU2OVneNJeq3TvKKL0v3XEPZCSzrhJZLehkY/s200/images+(5).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508048389638180322" /></a>One employer during my career spent weeks trying to convince me to have children. At that juncture in our lives, my wife and I lived in a humble home and we both worked. My employer saw me as a flight risk and actually told me they'd be more comfortable with me as an employee if I had a family. See? They're heroin dealers - "c'mon, take my product; I'll give it to you for free, for now, until you can't live without it. Then I'll own your soul!!!"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrkeRDYJHbJl7ZQj3zp7wfEKN9i5IVVAnedqp3exSHyIeAJ0lvWgOLtxJgWVD4EsJfib8Rv6DpL7q-qAzSkVLKse5co-A-36rGXeFDCDMLRzuiPWMVw7HJRkB4JvV3nk53a2NcBamI7Bs/s1600/images+(2).jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 284px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrkeRDYJHbJl7ZQj3zp7wfEKN9i5IVVAnedqp3exSHyIeAJ0lvWgOLtxJgWVD4EsJfib8Rv6DpL7q-qAzSkVLKse5co-A-36rGXeFDCDMLRzuiPWMVw7HJRkB4JvV3nk53a2NcBamI7Bs/s320/images+(2).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508048736620088642" /></a>So where's the 12-step program for recovering money-holics? After the last two years of economic futility, how many of us look back and regret our frivolity of the past decade? And for those of us who recognize our problem, how many will remember this when the economy improves, and how many of us will forget and bury ourselves further in debt and insist on buying that 24-carat gold Mercedes Benz Convertible with diamond-encrusted door handles?<br /><br />This is a conspiracy of the highest order, my friends, and not even aluminum foil hats can protect us when the enemy is within us.The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-79853651529132502362010-08-13T21:37:00.000-07:002010-08-14T00:24:32.737-07:00Men and Women, together ... WHY?! Part 1Why do men and women live together? Certainly, procreation is important (as are the acts leading up to it), but aside from that, why??? We're really incompatible beings. Case in point? Road trips.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh1qTASk0CdiY6O-_2A1NbGaDiM3B5T6UYQBlgVokeuutqGUPHwAYCGOA3MOio9RuCInk0iSI0rBt7ZEsk84BWFJ0bIRZdA7TiLmwjAeRRbp3rRTnF2wydp1AA0ABsXBDhGDZLEq2T_iI/s1600/norman-rockwell-going-and-coming-posters.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 384px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh1qTASk0CdiY6O-_2A1NbGaDiM3B5T6UYQBlgVokeuutqGUPHwAYCGOA3MOio9RuCInk0iSI0rBt7ZEsk84BWFJ0bIRZdA7TiLmwjAeRRbp3rRTnF2wydp1AA0ABsXBDhGDZLEq2T_iI/s320/norman-rockwell-going-and-coming-posters.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505147226749358018" /></a>This morning, my wife and I loaded the children into the family wagon and embarked on our 100 mile journey home after a week in the mountains. This trip can be made in anywhere from an hour-and-a-half to two-and-a-half-hours, depending on weather conditions, time of day, traffic, and one's tolerance for collecting speeding tickets. <br /><br />As a male of the species, any road trip in excess of one hour is a time trial - a battle between man, conditions and the clock. <br /><br />No, there's no prize to be awarded for completing the journey in record time, nor is there any deadline to beat. Once the motor is running, the clock begins ticking, and getting home more quickly than ever before becomes a personal challenge - a chance to set the bar higher so that next time, the challenge can be even greater. <br /><br />Automotive journeys require a combination of strategy and tactics. Any slower-moving vehicle ahead of us must be passed if it is impeding our pace. Passing requires familiarity with the road, knowing where passing zones are, and where visibility is optimal. Tactically, when the passing zones are at hand, maneuvering around the slower vehicles amidst opposing traffic requires deft moves and nerves of steel. <br /><br />Fundamentally speaking, once a vehicle is successfully passed it can never be permitted to overtake you in the future. It must disappear into the rearview mirror, never to be encountered again. For this reason, <span style="font-style:italic;">our </span>vehicle can never pull over for a bag of Slim Jims, a fountain soda or, heaven forbid, an impromptu dispensation of urine. Every pit-stop is an opportunity for those behind us to get in front of us; therefore, stopping must be avoided, except under the most-dire of emergencies! <br /><br />My wife has been taking car trips with me for nearly three decades, and even though the rules have never been discussed, she has inferred from my behavior how such trips transpire - beverages and snacks must be pre-loaded into the cabin, and all human emissions must be dispatched before we depart. Based upon experience, the methods employed during these marathons should not be an issue, unless the free radicals occupying the back seats create some sort of disturbance. <br /><br />Our youngest is rarely an issue. He can be a distraction, between his portable video games and the excessively loud Kids Bop tunes on his ipod, but all-in-all, he's an intrepid traveling warrior. <br /><br />His older brother is the real wild card.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjueTsYOP_Fyr-rFMJtOsgby7CsWKLCFdiRhaO8OVmEHDVjEXrpZjDePYii-togu8VxG-cKE8Pig-u0YF8hGb2wChU63qx7zCCMtObMyOtY8XxHOSByDqsLdCzWmVzpZPIujQDs7TbdrfI/s1600/Car_Sick.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjueTsYOP_Fyr-rFMJtOsgby7CsWKLCFdiRhaO8OVmEHDVjEXrpZjDePYii-togu8VxG-cKE8Pig-u0YF8hGb2wChU63qx7zCCMtObMyOtY8XxHOSByDqsLdCzWmVzpZPIujQDs7TbdrfI/s200/Car_Sick.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505150371208407778" /></a>Our oldest has never traveled well. He's a human puke machine. Bulimics send him fan mail. Today, ten minutes beyond the mid-point of our journey, our boy loudly "ralphed" into a Wal-Mart bag (which we always keep handy for just such situations). This explosion marked the moment when our well-orchestrated, record-setting jaunt home began to unravel.<br /><br />I had just passed a slow-moving vehicle, and was on the verge of passing another when my wife insanely suggested I pull over so she could attend to the boy, and secure our new vomitous cargo.<br /><br />PULL OVER?!!! <br /><br />If I pulled over, I'd immediately surrender the two positions I had just gained after several minutes of plotting and scheming. Pulling over was not an option. By doing so, I would certainly forfeit my shot at the record, squandering the last hour-plus of strategic/tactical mastery. I couldn't accommodate her. There was no practical basis for doing so.<br /><br />After pointing out two separate locations on the shoulder where I could have pulled off, my wife realized I was not willing to yield to her absurd request. Resigned to my resolve, she unbuckled herself, turned around in her seat and dealt with the issue at hand, wiping the boy's face, taking control of the bag and tying it off. All the while, she chided me for putting her at risk, and for hitting a bump which splashed a little bit of the yak onto her hands before she could secure the bag.<br /><br />To me, this was all inconsequential. The situation was manageable, and didn't mandate any sort of detour. I offered encouraging comments to my son, and soldiered on, undaunted, never breaking stride.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqItAOogfLqJ-T9fk8zSj617hD6UtTT3ZU0knqPB0fwuoG8DLcRUztcqsP-aFVIsA68Xp_EH3nxT-WXD6ufEP5pEKUCPRxQ-jlVboCkMSoQQsSUv8FIAtF6g_QrJlIn7rT7vVlvSY2xuI/s1600/silent+treatment.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 295px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqItAOogfLqJ-T9fk8zSj617hD6UtTT3ZU0knqPB0fwuoG8DLcRUztcqsP-aFVIsA68Xp_EH3nxT-WXD6ufEP5pEKUCPRxQ-jlVboCkMSoQQsSUv8FIAtF6g_QrJlIn7rT7vVlvSY2xuI/s320/silent+treatment.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505147515555237522" /></a>The rest of the ride was eerily quiet. At first, I thought my wife had grasped the reality that we may be on the verge of setting a new travel record, and was maintaining cabin serenity so I could concentrate on heel-toeing through the curves, and accelerating when the traffic opened up, but then I began to suspect she was perturbed for some reason. Perhaps what gave her away was her muttering under her breath about smelling vomit, hoping the bag wouldn't leak, and what a juvenile moron I was.<br /><br />Ultimately, we reached our final destination about twenty minutes slower than the record. Not to make excuses, but the conditions today were less than optimal, and the various distractions that occurred during the trip took their toll. Regardless, the trip was not a failure. I had made a few good passes, had managed some of the hairpin turns with notable acumen, and turned in, if not a record-setting effort, a respectable one. <br /><br />Overall satisfied with the trip, I shut the vehicle down, closed the garage door, and everyone disembarked.<br /><br />Once my wife and kids rushed into the house to relieve their bladders, I proceeded to relieve the car of its cargo. When I brought in the first load, I caught my wife's gaze. She was at the kitchen sink, feverishly washing dried vomit off her hands, wrist and sleeve. - fact is, upon reflection, I don't think it was so much a gaze, as a glare. She had stopped talking to me all together by this point, and was completely unreceptive to my titillating attempts to strike-up conversation.<br /><br />See? There's the problem, incarnate. Even after three decades together, we're really not on the same page.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXnUcN_QvZLXcCLDVwYemj_30t-0bSGGLW0AAs4auLKlGUuVG_lihC4RQBCQKoGyIUBBO8YjCpBQ5CbI-plH66qHhyZtzj_4fFVFYAZMHHdRgQSoVd-BAyBgt3QDcdEjwFPOEgPgkDaY/s1600/men+celebrating.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXnUcN_QvZLXcCLDVwYemj_30t-0bSGGLW0AAs4auLKlGUuVG_lihC4RQBCQKoGyIUBBO8YjCpBQ5CbI-plH66qHhyZtzj_4fFVFYAZMHHdRgQSoVd-BAyBgt3QDcdEjwFPOEgPgkDaY/s200/men+celebrating.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505159350526922786" /></a>If my wife had a "y" chromosome, she'd have never suggested I pull over so the family could collect itself after my son's digesting detonation. A male co-pilot would have opened my son's window and instructed him how to throw up out of a moving car ( a lesson that would serve him well when he's college-aged). - no need for a bag, whatsoever!<br /><br />Then, upon reaching the finish line, we'd reflect upon some of the more momentous incidents from the journey, and either strategize how we could travel more quickly in the future, or anecdotally rejoice over various passes or driving exhibitions. <br /><br /><br />Women are wired differently. They're just as likely to pull off to the side of the road to take photos of the scenery, or eat a picnic lunch as they are to scramble to manage a liquid belch. When put on the spot, they never seem to recall an individual car that was passed, or a precarious powerslide that placed the vehicle on the verge of plunging into the river.<br /><br />Men are inherently competitive, and recognize such a trip as an opportunity to beat the clock and perform various feats of driving heroics. Women see it as a chance to spend time together and drink in the surrounding scenery, as if the destination is somehow less important than the journey itself.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGDDnYxWWkPK53CebvRHRLtwA3nFq7hLelfaOBNeYDYAwAPune_VJx6TCyKRfQ2PsyJVt0P3H5KUIRZKeiymjAtJDrSCVVIsj5rWeGigNBLoHtZf0ICto39tGD7-3R6aK6VPzxdr8Zm3w/s1600/man+and+woman+fighting.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 195px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGDDnYxWWkPK53CebvRHRLtwA3nFq7hLelfaOBNeYDYAwAPune_VJx6TCyKRfQ2PsyJVt0P3H5KUIRZKeiymjAtJDrSCVVIsj5rWeGigNBLoHtZf0ICto39tGD7-3R6aK6VPzxdr8Zm3w/s200/man+and+woman+fighting.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505156727091081858" /></a>There're infinitely more reasons why men and women are ill-suited for co-existing. For today, though, let's file car trips as just another obvious example.The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-19839357993591309072010-08-04T16:49:00.000-07:002010-08-04T18:01:40.956-07:00Does the fact that we wear clothes and animals don't mean we're the superior race on the planet, or is it the other way around?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgouTlp5najmme_rIyaonsKad0SSXz9HSiMRnMYhE6SmOG5hyphenhyphen-0w70Vn3u_2FFaaCjOCJUJB2pIBQ15SQXHDq9XIAaoQounV0A2vMP2-rA9yQm22n24UGh91F3uF7ZQLBuuhNNmqj6WROs/s1600/superhero.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgouTlp5najmme_rIyaonsKad0SSXz9HSiMRnMYhE6SmOG5hyphenhyphen-0w70Vn3u_2FFaaCjOCJUJB2pIBQ15SQXHDq9XIAaoQounV0A2vMP2-rA9yQm22n24UGh91F3uF7ZQLBuuhNNmqj6WROs/s400/superhero.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501719383258793730" /></a>We think we're pretty special, right? After all, we have opposable thumbs. We innovate. We have created art, literature, philosophy, industry, consumerism and houses that big bad wolves can't blow down. We have created alternative means of transportation, and various systems to monitor our uses of it (ie: freaking traffic cops!!!). <br /><br />Top THAT animal kingdom.<br /><br />What have the animals produced? Oh sure, beavers create dams, and birds create nests, but monkeys fling poo for goodness sake. <br /><br />Seems like a pretty open and shut case, but perhaps we're looking at this all wrong.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzt2aRae5gFq-9j6hEHEMxI4vX-uSrFFGRVPxbukjaXisv-C1lMAztPS57IBKriCw_0OmMtUd4SwOIz8vWfO6fwFNuS9wRKBQOzsq-GwhAcQ2c8H20I2JMXl3pdMZr9gF1MGVmq57KYM/s1600/farting-cow.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzt2aRae5gFq-9j6hEHEMxI4vX-uSrFFGRVPxbukjaXisv-C1lMAztPS57IBKriCw_0OmMtUd4SwOIz8vWfO6fwFNuS9wRKBQOzsq-GwhAcQ2c8H20I2JMXl3pdMZr9gF1MGVmq57KYM/s320/farting-cow.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501719216771956082" /></a>The animal kingdom is far from perfect, but with the exception of bovine flatulence, I really can't come up with too many ways animals are steering our planet toward an early demise. We, on the other hand, act non-sensically and have screwed this blue marble up beyond all recognition, and are threatening to obliterate it all together.<br /><br />We produce emissions and waste that is defiling the Earth and the air. We voraciously consume artifical foods that make us fat, then exercise and diet to diminish our girth. We pay to plant grass and eradicate weeds, then we pay to fertilize and irrigate the grass, and then we pay to have it cut it down every week. And instead of going outside and engaging in activities, we turn on the television and watch reality TV. Worst of all, we have created incendiary devices that can vaporize the planet many times over.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcPLeaHBRZl4CoXn4NM_EyAPBJSi7hBAWIe60ZqW_wIDeSpspT6f2P2dSJUvgiEJ9WO4YXxzjPNfYg4ks5p0mVoz7ZGojYFCEDB3PzF7-CDBT-Nhf6qq_1qkviMTDecoFNDy0p6jxaxKw/s1600/yoda.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcPLeaHBRZl4CoXn4NM_EyAPBJSi7hBAWIe60ZqW_wIDeSpspT6f2P2dSJUvgiEJ9WO4YXxzjPNfYg4ks5p0mVoz7ZGojYFCEDB3PzF7-CDBT-Nhf6qq_1qkviMTDecoFNDy0p6jxaxKw/s200/yoda.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501718981406437042" /></a>Frankly, as the supreme beings on the planet, we're pretty shitty role models. <br /><br />When's the last time you saw an animal stressed-out about making it's mortgage payment, or buying a new car to compete with the one the neighbors just drove home, or waiting in line for the newest iPad/Pod, etc? Come to think of it, when's the last time you saw one wearing clothes (excluding those poor miserable canines whose owners dress them in silly outfits), or plying a date with alochol and food to get sex?<br /><br />No wonder the aliens are studying us so intently. They're not trying to enslave us; they're trying to alter our path before we ruin all the good fishing holes!The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-37107932175526624792010-07-24T12:46:00.000-07:002010-07-24T13:50:06.562-07:00Your Eyelids are Feeling Very Heavy ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDazV4r5kDS2bVm1zC870iTHA0tv8MFhIY7oBJVURsHOBdYCiWW6ZCA92qCnwtJeCyA5gyBT_sdKUbVtqRQrmSDXjfJiHGF8K_WLCo65cnB8g5jDILUt-wVHwNypTDv9dqzOgGvbqJ3-Q/s1600/images+(1).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDazV4r5kDS2bVm1zC870iTHA0tv8MFhIY7oBJVURsHOBdYCiWW6ZCA92qCnwtJeCyA5gyBT_sdKUbVtqRQrmSDXjfJiHGF8K_WLCo65cnB8g5jDILUt-wVHwNypTDv9dqzOgGvbqJ3-Q/s400/images+(1).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497566454787593362" /></a>There are innumerable occasions when sleep seems to reach a level of importance beyond necessity; however, two particular occasions over-ride all others – when one is in a hospital bed, or seated in an airplane.<br /><br />A few years ago, my wife delivered our youngest child. He was bashful, and didn’t emerge until the wee hours of the morning. Of course, by that point, my wife had been awake for a particularly eventful and exhausting 24 hours, and although she felt compelled to handle her new bundle of joy, all she really wanted to do was kick everyone out of the room so she could sleep. <br /><br />Since I had to work that day, I kissed her goodbye after the din of birth wound down to a routine hum and went home to shower and prepare for my day. I returned in the afternoon, only to find my wife sobbing at my arrival.<br /><br />I don’t care who you are, no man feels any sort of ego boost when his mere presence is greeted with tearful bursts of dismay by his significant other.<br /><br />Once she stopped hyperventilating, my wife informed me that it wasn’t my image that caused the crying jag, but rather the fact she had collected less than twenty minutes of continuous sleep since I had left several hours earlier. I was dumbfounded by that comment because it seemed counterintuitive to me. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqdDm8LTN72YENCRuCM9fgIT1ufzAeeiBbxZ8O2t2W4z9cQiTOKiY8EIoRGsQyL5Eo6lBDqbPpJKjLrCdt4P4va10eibWdoLLJdViJ_ybwM5QRXgzOW0wbYpUHK7bZaK8wWopAYKKsOro/s1600/images+(4).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 316px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqdDm8LTN72YENCRuCM9fgIT1ufzAeeiBbxZ8O2t2W4z9cQiTOKiY8EIoRGsQyL5Eo6lBDqbPpJKjLrCdt4P4va10eibWdoLLJdViJ_ybwM5QRXgzOW0wbYpUHK7bZaK8wWopAYKKsOro/s320/images+(4).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497576752864342290" /></a><br /><br />What’s the best thing for most patients to do in a hospital? I would have assumed “sleep” would be the correct answer.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnmaNkozPYip-fBvOYWW9VKOlPJFiT8ZNTMnx4RX-ii3Yp7yesEFJvc0Ov-dpxPdGvc3XA_fpt64XbR-XVkkiERu7pOR-NWOn7VcyZ6nVn3GUOs1qvpdiw_609fYqcQWk50rGOg8H6CN4/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnmaNkozPYip-fBvOYWW9VKOlPJFiT8ZNTMnx4RX-ii3Yp7yesEFJvc0Ov-dpxPdGvc3XA_fpt64XbR-XVkkiERu7pOR-NWOn7VcyZ6nVn3GUOs1qvpdiw_609fYqcQWk50rGOg8H6CN4/s200/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497567429625714034" /></a>In reality, it seems hospitals staffs are downright maniacal about keeping exhausted patients awake. Nearly every half hour, or so, someone would come into my wife’s room and ask her some inane question (like waking her up to ask her if she needed to take any medication to help her sleep). Every time a doctor or nurse’s shift would end or begin, like the changing of the guard at the palace, the job-swappers would bid farewell or greet her, depending upon whether they were coming or going. It seemed there were around 6,000 medical employees assigned to that floor, and by all indications, shifts changed every 45 seconds.<br /><br />Of course, legitimate reasons for waking her were also interspersed throughout the day – blood pressure checks, visits by breast feeding advocates, bringing the baby in periodically for feedings or to help with crossword puzzles, etc. <br /><br />By the time I got there, my dear wife was fatigued beyond the point of insanity. I literally thought she was going to commit homicide when the haplessly well-intended maintenance employee woke her up to see if she had any questions about how the television worked. <br /><br />The first decent moment of slumber she enjoyed was two days later in the car on the way home from the hospital.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9LAFLwnmfoRXM70-othjXjPZG_avcp26cc948XMUEw4apUUe2OM3qFAiJailjnfQMNqrB4CMt9cWxkuSptv1QQDbFlVIvZByIM3fM0V9lwIQr-mHGfGfUS9fgngr4kk2_1pEL6rdqoVQ/s1600/Polyphasic-Sleep.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9LAFLwnmfoRXM70-othjXjPZG_avcp26cc948XMUEw4apUUe2OM3qFAiJailjnfQMNqrB4CMt9cWxkuSptv1QQDbFlVIvZByIM3fM0V9lwIQr-mHGfGfUS9fgngr4kk2_1pEL6rdqoVQ/s200/Polyphasic-Sleep.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497566656124774962" /></a><br />This same practice, let’s call it “Slumber Interruptus,” is practiced 30,000 feet above the Earth in confining airplanes everywhere.<br /><br />Being a passenger on an airplane is an incredibly uncomfortable experience, but that’s a rant for another day. One of the most-recommended measures for surviving the “air travel experience” is entering virtual hibernation – going to sleep as quickly as possible and staying asleep, ideally until the second before the doors open and it’s time to step off the plane. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiW4_sh4i1Dm_97h1N3QWUg4X-Inyrw4I8IzwOSkASoQKAc5Z7dkFuzW5lW6GeAZc3Lz4SSW-3WEqLGmBWjMyN2IiHDgo6J2oDrGVnF72W7vqheXQ-QeynWiHTvGufTYaefYb7djTHdZg/s1600/images+(2).jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 201px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiW4_sh4i1Dm_97h1N3QWUg4X-Inyrw4I8IzwOSkASoQKAc5Z7dkFuzW5lW6GeAZc3Lz4SSW-3WEqLGmBWjMyN2IiHDgo6J2oDrGVnF72W7vqheXQ-QeynWiHTvGufTYaefYb7djTHdZg/s200/images+(2).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497570042662937474" /></a>The goals of the flight crew are quite different. Their actions prove their intent is to keep you awake by any means possible so you can’t help but consciously endure every single monotonous instant of flight. <br /><br />Once you’re seated, if you nod off, you’ll be awakened by flight attendants reminding you to move your seat to an up-right position, or slide your bag under the seat in front of you, or turn off various electronic equipment. Moments later, as you feel yourself lulling back into a stupor, you’ll be abruptly shocked by the unnecessarily loud recitation of the plane’s many safety features, how to fasten your lap belt, and what to do when the plane begins plummeting toward the Earth and cups and hoses (and likely luggage) drop down into your lap from the overhead compartments.<br /><br />Finally, story time ends, and as you begin your next futile venture into la-la land, the chipper pilot comes across the public address system to welcome you aboard, confirm your destination, share how long the trip will be and how high the plane will be traveling above the planet, and then thanking you for traveling with him and his crew.<br /><br />This time, you don’t bother trying to fall back to sleep right away. You groggily wait several moments to be sure everyone has said their piece and you can finally be left alone. <br /><br />Satisfied that the interruptions have ended, you successfully return to a state of placidity – eyes shut, dreams in full swing – when, suddenly, the drink cart slams into your kneecap, waking you with a start.<br /><br />The words “I’m sorry” are replaced by a disapproving glare from the flight attendant and the phrase “you need to keep your arms and legs in” <br /><br />At this point, you surrender. Between the oafish flight attendants, the territorial row mates vying for elbow and knee room, waling children, loud-talking strangers and the unmistakable odor of people who have fiendishly removed their shoes and freed their sweaty, stocking feet, you realize this trip, and every one like it, will be excruciating reminders of why man was not meant to fly.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh2rDaIptam1ZWa9qADTBX87LNXvStK1bdSsTswELVPC0gInsLDdpXr6L6z4WRnAADJRL357r68KcQYITycoOIVw9gQlqWmu_dw3eJFs46boeJ2ywdvcTAdZDNyQDSI_MTrSjQAX4mu9M/s1600/images+(5).jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 181px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh2rDaIptam1ZWa9qADTBX87LNXvStK1bdSsTswELVPC0gInsLDdpXr6L6z4WRnAADJRL357r68KcQYITycoOIVw9gQlqWmu_dw3eJFs46boeJ2ywdvcTAdZDNyQDSI_MTrSjQAX4mu9M/s200/images+(5).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497577022405176274" /></a>All I wanted to do while I wrote this was sleep. Instead, the flight attendant repeatedly assaulted me with the beverage cart. She and the large man seated next to me spilled cranberry juice on my pants, and the pilot provided up-dates regarding our geographical location at twenty minute intervals.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />130 years ago, to cross our nation, settlers pushed and pulled handcarts, livestock and grumbling spouses and offspring across hostile territory, for weeks or months at a time, enduring natural hardships and occasional native attacks. – lucky bastards.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXT95qEDldqF24KFToGNRZUbwTrkcA_0s8OMMefY2FfQBi75dUXw9D5pk4E2YPaz6WDnF2AE_UN3RMvvcsDlDq0ALlZ0RVXCjWt5LyJaMiYDt3GbUin7Hd8JWYOQrc9ANcfrzMa94ktCQ/s1600/pioneers.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXT95qEDldqF24KFToGNRZUbwTrkcA_0s8OMMefY2FfQBi75dUXw9D5pk4E2YPaz6WDnF2AE_UN3RMvvcsDlDq0ALlZ0RVXCjWt5LyJaMiYDt3GbUin7Hd8JWYOQrc9ANcfrzMa94ktCQ/s200/pioneers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497568059925084386" /></a>The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-32145694075379748572010-07-19T20:10:00.000-07:002010-07-20T08:28:39.821-07:00Honey! Have You Seen the Broom???<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDu1e2Lwp0OBWHRFoDQAR_pyGB874KmPC9xBFOCEqCb8lEGcK53nU9voXnXmePnNMXs2o83wOr9_ni6-rQ2QKkZVSzdo5BFye98oJgeZ8gg6n_Nwe1hTtvDVTe4Vgnau_qTRihVsOAL7E/s1600/witches2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 384px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDu1e2Lwp0OBWHRFoDQAR_pyGB874KmPC9xBFOCEqCb8lEGcK53nU9voXnXmePnNMXs2o83wOr9_ni6-rQ2QKkZVSzdo5BFye98oJgeZ8gg6n_Nwe1hTtvDVTe4Vgnau_qTRihVsOAL7E/s320/witches2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495833631192084162" /></a>July 19th has not always been kind to the fairer sex. Just ask Sarah Good who perished on this date in 1692 in Massachusetts after failing to convince a judge, a jury and a vengeful crowd of fickle townsfolk that she was not a witch. Fortunately for her, Monty Python was not there doling out sentences, and instead of being burned at the stake while wearing a carrot for a nose, she was hung. Of course, regardless the method, the result was still the same. <br /><br />It's been nearly 320 years since that ill-fated moment in history, and now, Cathleen Miller of Chicago Ridge, Illinois has been arrested. Apparently, the 40 year-old mother has been accused of getting her 14 year-old daughter's young male friends drunk, high and laid. Testimony alleges she had intercourse with two of the teens, oral sex with another, and merely fondled a fourth.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0VXINj0xeMMOBZ4o_xWDNhjvNG0SpJ091_KQ7fI70oxvPJ35ZZZSFoFcu_eORx9asW3StWo0Udl6Yw7TdqniBdKlnSouVeaZaJqK83I2MayAYy8lRM2iOvvNQ9Fc7_uK4Nvl046XmWCs/s1600/cathleenmiller_370x278.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0VXINj0xeMMOBZ4o_xWDNhjvNG0SpJ091_KQ7fI70oxvPJ35ZZZSFoFcu_eORx9asW3StWo0Udl6Yw7TdqniBdKlnSouVeaZaJqK83I2MayAYy8lRM2iOvvNQ9Fc7_uK4Nvl046XmWCs/s200/cathleenmiller_370x278.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495838566484036914" /></a>Of course, the parents of the boys are outraged, and for good reason. As a parent of two young boys, I find her behavior reprehensible and would seek full legal recourse if my children were involved. However, if I was a 14 or 15 year-old boy, I would have been hanging out at Cathleen's house ... <span style="font-style:italic;">a lot</span>!<br /><br />Ironically, both of these July 19th events began as crimes against youths, though there is some skepticism about the whole witch saga. <br /><br />Compelling testimony exists to support the young boys' claims against Cathleen, but back in the 1690s, teenaged girls provided nothing more than theatrics and fanciful stories to play upon the superstitions of the adults within their communities. Sarah Good was little more than a homeless wife, and mother of a 4 year-old daughter. She actually delivered an infant while in prison, but only after both her husband and daughter were forced to testify against her. Her infant didn't survive her time in prison, and the 4 year-old (Dorothy, AKA Dorcas) was imprisoned as an accused witch as well. She was released when she was 5, but displayed the effects of that psychological trama for the remainder of her days - go figure!<br /><br />So what of this? Is there some sort of karma on this date of which women should be aware? Unlikely. The messages here are probably a little more mundane and sensible.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDnH0mXnuZrz2ml4Fb8UM-idwpNzaMV0FGacr8TZz01c7QhrwqPFUTN9T9d5wdybluaa0ifNuC8OautA-_tHazMVIcd2V71snjWn3jcQgW9nMaCvUm96_M9UF1S0btu20J3DUkFaW7kTI/s1600/633604621891984562-Innocent.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDnH0mXnuZrz2ml4Fb8UM-idwpNzaMV0FGacr8TZz01c7QhrwqPFUTN9T9d5wdybluaa0ifNuC8OautA-_tHazMVIcd2V71snjWn3jcQgW9nMaCvUm96_M9UF1S0btu20J3DUkFaW7kTI/s200/633604621891984562-Innocent.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495837244061147858" /></a>First of all, we all need to recognize the power of suggestion, especially when it is being convincingly shared by a cherubic young girl. No matter the story's basis in truth, if it is compelling enough, some people will tend to believe it. And if enough people believe it, they may act on it. And if, by some horrible twist of fate, the fictional tale accuses you, be sure you have some traveling cash handy and a quick escape route picked out. <br /><br />The only thing worse than being caught doing something wrong is being convicted of something you didn't do. Just ask Sarah!<br /><br />The second lesson is <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">use your freaking head</span></span>!!! When your child brings friends home for a playdate, don't seduce them.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2dklKqK3lHt5K21Y-FLce2F4vhBMD9s9vRccriede7lc4uHCrzTgMQ-AErCONf6OcdkYD-o6Q9AuIe75_BGAdJ6qyOTAXzhiuxgeZ0VfVIEdy5SqbyUf9LpUMhi86LPeTBIq0Xg3gig4/s1600/The_Graduate,_Leg_Shot.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2dklKqK3lHt5K21Y-FLce2F4vhBMD9s9vRccriede7lc4uHCrzTgMQ-AErCONf6OcdkYD-o6Q9AuIe75_BGAdJ6qyOTAXzhiuxgeZ0VfVIEdy5SqbyUf9LpUMhi86LPeTBIq0Xg3gig4/s200/The_Graduate,_Leg_Shot.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495842009876216258" /></a>Ann Bancroft was an incredibly sexy woman, and Dustin Hoffman was a lucky son of a bitch to be propositioned by her, but that was all just a movie, and besides, Hoffman's character had just graduated from college, not 7th grade. <br /><br />Cathleen is a very disturbed woman, but she's not alone. How often do we hear stories of school teachers having affairs with the young boys or girls who have been placed in their care? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZKRhpCdHQPScoUer5qGMVHUo5IClYbLQ-9OjuYB7M-FpuY8diXF_kWJm54Mrv3jorSKk_407R0Hs9hF2g06GgsTNJZTvjyJ8vxxH5t9P2FW2GGuXnnSRM_hU0sRXO_VB5HGCC9BmKL8/s1600/nerd3.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 194px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZKRhpCdHQPScoUer5qGMVHUo5IClYbLQ-9OjuYB7M-FpuY8diXF_kWJm54Mrv3jorSKk_407R0Hs9hF2g06GgsTNJZTvjyJ8vxxH5t9P2FW2GGuXnnSRM_hU0sRXO_VB5HGCC9BmKL8/s200/nerd3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495834245417419218" /></a>The weird part is, the teachers usually aren't physically repulsive. They <span style="font-style:italic;">should </span>be able to find age-appropriate partners (like this guy), although, to be fair, those hypothetical partners may not be as interesting as the youngsters since I don't know many 40 year olds who still play Chutes and Ladders, or build LEGOs. Well, for the sake of clarification, I don't know any 40 year olds like that who don't still live with their mothers ...<br /><br />The world is, and always has been, a very strange place, and after a span of 317 July 19ths, it appears we haven't made any progress toward restraint or sanity.<br /><br />And to think, all this time we've been afraid of Alien anal probes and mind control, when the real threat was an administrative clerk in a small Illinois town ...The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-72322768533589736482010-07-15T19:43:00.000-07:002010-08-04T20:45:55.550-07:00Yesterday's Calendar is so ... "Yesterday"Let us reflect, for a moment, upon the concept of obsolescence - when something is no longer desirable and is en route to being obsolete (ie: useless).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJaqei7b7iEWBha0fnVXqKdKpVMIxyGrLPBf37cfJ3O37eyBzqmoRZjJWb_ROWst18KTeUNYXQywwS8iYlU-lSCu9CsIBrVurwBli5tpmQQekIz60yqCsHnYihnGqsZXb5IGj3Meistvs/s1600/774.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 127px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJaqei7b7iEWBha0fnVXqKdKpVMIxyGrLPBf37cfJ3O37eyBzqmoRZjJWb_ROWst18KTeUNYXQywwS8iYlU-lSCu9CsIBrVurwBli5tpmQQekIz60yqCsHnYihnGqsZXb5IGj3Meistvs/s200/774.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494362267076914354" /></a>In 1970, my father ordered a "Granada Gold" Pontiac Catalina (exactly like the one Ron Burgundy drove). This was exciting stuff. During that era, cars were custom-ordered, so we waited weeks for the assembly line workers in Detroit to nap their way through the process of producing this land-barge. When the big day finally arrived, we took delivery of our shiny new leviathan, but only after we inspected it for defects, which took a long time, because the thing was as poorly produced as a closed-circuit high school news broadcast. <br /><br />The windshield and rear view mirror were cracked. The rear bumper was lop-sided. The paint was chipped. Neither the electric clock, nor the gas gauge functioned, and the air conditioner compressor wouldn't kick-on. The list of deficiencies went on and on, and could have filled a college blue book.<br /><br />We scheduled time with the service department to get all the punch-list items addressed, and then we piled into our new prize and drove home. That night, before retiring to bed, my older brother and I begged our dad to let us steal one last glimpse of our family's shiny new conveyance. Dad acquiesced, probably because he wanted an excuse to take another look himself, and we opened the garage door. <br /><br />It was like we were slapped in the face with a wall of stench. Fortunately, neither of my parents were smokers, because if they were, I'd be writing this to you from the afterlife. Our new car's fuel tank had a leak, and purged its entire 27 gallon gas supply onto the garage floor. <br /><br />The next morning, the dealership retrieved the behemoth with a tow truck, and for the next several months, that car resided in the dealer's garage more often than it did in ours. All the while, we were provided "loaners," which was cool for me and my brother, since my parents got to drive virtually every model in Pontiac's vast arsenal - all of it was complete rubbish. <br /><br />Strangely, my parents took this in stride, because it was par for the course. This is what one endured when taking possession of a new car. Cars were practically hand-made, and the lack of quality was chalked-up to human error.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdjqjp2DgQ4uu8gAtxqbB3JqWTVMx487eljfHPyI5y_1ZtIstiOlm5_GO7DFkhCnphikI3gLozZasJiTU61VIdxL8n9CtaVHAsoZNhe3o3vIaoi6mmt-OszbgcQh2lES9SQJTqm3vhvQ/s1600/1574R-0781.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 135px; height: 204px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdjqjp2DgQ4uu8gAtxqbB3JqWTVMx487eljfHPyI5y_1ZtIstiOlm5_GO7DFkhCnphikI3gLozZasJiTU61VIdxL8n9CtaVHAsoZNhe3o3vIaoi6mmt-OszbgcQh2lES9SQJTqm3vhvQ/s200/1574R-0781.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494363745873267282" /></a>Although it was nearly ten years, and 80,000 miles before we parted company with that car, it began deteriorating pretty much the first time the key twisted in the ignition, and it qualified as dilapidated junk by 1976. That rolling street turd squeaked so loudly, it could be heard coming from a block away, and it evolved into a bottomless pit of embarrassment for us whenever mom would drop us off or pick us up at school. <br /><br />Back then, this rapid deterioration was attributed to planned obsolescence (the assumed conspiracy that automakers intentionally made junk so buyers would have to replace one generation of refuse with the next generation in short order - 3 to 5 years). Whether planned obsolescence was intentional or not was irrelevant, because the end result was the one manufacturers desired - a predictable sales volume, year-in and year-out.<br /><br />Then the Japanese came along and screwed everything up with their fuel efficiency and product reliability. Damn them right to hell!<br /><br />After a couple decades of trying to swim up-stream, American automakers, through bankruptcies, near bankruptcies, and ever-diminishing market shares finally conceded to the tide and began producing respectable products. Now, it seems only cars produced from the former Eastern Block, or China are unreliable crap, and a new car can run forever if properly maintained and used. <br /><br />Well, that created a whole new problem - if consumers purchased reliable cars that lasted decades, why would they replace them? Please welcome the marketer's new tool: <span style="font-style:italic;">functional</span> obsolescence, where a product may still work, but it possesses few of the features that entice today's buyers.<br /><br />How is that possible, you ask? Isn't a car, by its nature, merely a motorized box with wheels that enables one to travel from one location to another and back again (the back again part doesn't apply to French or Italian cars)? Well, sure, in its most-basic form that's true, but most-consumers now seek things like "crumple zones," and air bags, and anti-lock brakes, and back-up sensors, satellite navigation systems, MP3 connections, satellite radio, rear-seat DVD entertainment systems, heated/air conditioned seats and steering wheels, and blah blah blah ad nauseum.<br /><br />And as if that wasn't devious enough, now, automakers have taken the next step and begun to entice consumers with an alternative to the revered internal combustion engine with hybrid systems that support the traditional motor with electric ones. Then there are the cars that eschew the internal combustion engine entirely and operate solely on electricity or hydrogen. Some cars retain the internal combustion engine, but replace fossil fuels with stuff produced from corn. As such alternative methods of turning a crank are adopted, more functional obsolescence will exist.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqvKbCzRoioyKKIaEzav8jd5ESgVbnI7C3LRgLYynYKHwdgIcziHXdg4GReXB80tJWeR3Go0-Yb3CNdYna2vJA22-R-L4as1H5B93BYTcgRN6abvn68w4upAxPuo0KqW2zx2YTvE-SaMI/s1600/typewriter_270x268.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqvKbCzRoioyKKIaEzav8jd5ESgVbnI7C3LRgLYynYKHwdgIcziHXdg4GReXB80tJWeR3Go0-Yb3CNdYna2vJA22-R-L4as1H5B93BYTcgRN6abvn68w4upAxPuo0KqW2zx2YTvE-SaMI/s200/typewriter_270x268.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494362024474819074" /></a>Where did the auto industry learn such diabolical techniques of consumer manipulation? From the technology sector, of course. Anyone out there still using an IBM with a 286 processor and Windows 95? Probably not. It seems every year or two, we are coerced into replacing our computers because the hardware isn't fast enough, doesn't possess enough storage capacity to operate in the current world, and is operated by software that is no longer either supported or capable of performing even the most-mundane tasks. <br /><br />Case in point? In 2007, the first iPhone came to market. Three years later, Apple is selling the iPhone 4, and every prior generation of that product is considered to be nothing more than a doorstop. <br /><br />Who's to blame for this? To quote Pogo:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK-EXhZzDOo84jaCjl7I9vBZxLc3tNws8cZJf6dUQ5fOpVtY4PqcD4rE45bIuAUW_1wpEKyHLe6bOrO4JVHX5muG6aKOcuYeK9_rxhnfsNGEYN8riTx690ZxKAXgpdWZdS6QS3i1qDYY4/s1600/pogo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:right;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 384px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK-EXhZzDOo84jaCjl7I9vBZxLc3tNws8cZJf6dUQ5fOpVtY4PqcD4rE45bIuAUW_1wpEKyHLe6bOrO4JVHX5muG6aKOcuYeK9_rxhnfsNGEYN8riTx690ZxKAXgpdWZdS6QS3i1qDYY4/s320/pogo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494366471760253890" /></a><br /><br />If we weren't such chattel, we'd scream "no mas" and stop buying the latest and greatest gizmos and doohickies, but we can't control ourselves, and the marketing gods know this. They realized long ago that we are goldfish with feet - if it's shiny, we must have it.<br /><br />Sadly, we are the architects of our own economic demise, and if we're not careful, we're going to buy ourselves straight into destitution. Beware, my savy cohorts, for there is poverty in them thar iPhones, and iPods, and Sat Navs, and 3-D LCD Flat Screen TVs that are only about a half inch wide. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6bhhLHly-iF3Tdwkm3QtK63qnk8pJjVZonTS9o-czUuc5_T1zUWhl1bvSOdh23rvt0Xn5xVnSgN8X8BwDhisG5Vopx-1r-FBbBh5uo7paT1CSSMCvFrMA1k9251gDmDsgV7AzIqfB4FI/s1600/3dmovie.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6bhhLHly-iF3Tdwkm3QtK63qnk8pJjVZonTS9o-czUuc5_T1zUWhl1bvSOdh23rvt0Xn5xVnSgN8X8BwDhisG5Vopx-1r-FBbBh5uo7paT1CSSMCvFrMA1k9251gDmDsgV7AzIqfB4FI/s200/3dmovie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494361710357730002" /></a>Have you seen one of these things by the way? They're amazing. I just order two - one for each end of my Jacuzzi soaking tub. They came with complimentary Blue Ray DVD players, and an amusement park-style popcorn maker ...The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-62089861762680341762010-07-12T16:28:00.000-07:002010-07-12T20:08:41.822-07:00Not Happy? We've Developed a Pill for That ...Sir Isaac Newton is renowned for identifying three basic laws of physics. Not to take anything away from the importance of his first two laws, but today we're going to focus on his 3rd law, and how it applies to pretty much everything, especially the effects of technology. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN47B7GvSpSnKyxrfzllJwIwdwzUCamu1q_QweO-8UilVrx575YlA8HtCTWpt5OLbsnp7q3Gi-AvCduDU25unW3LeKiWK-gDGJFMes5uP6igicFlPx1nkNrfqFkCJJs7kkubZNq274byk/s1600/tug-o-war.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 158px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN47B7GvSpSnKyxrfzllJwIwdwzUCamu1q_QweO-8UilVrx575YlA8HtCTWpt5OLbsnp7q3Gi-AvCduDU25unW3LeKiWK-gDGJFMes5uP6igicFlPx1nkNrfqFkCJJs7kkubZNq274byk/s200/tug-o-war.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493214973337422530" /></a>According to Newton's 3rd law, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction - a yin for every yang, if you will. In the case of technology, for every instance of improved efficiency, I submit to you there is something else in the queue waiting to consume whatever benefit has been created.<br /><br />As an example of efficiency, let us contemplate the simple act of sending a note and receiving a response from a client.<br /><br />Twenty-five years ago, when corporate dinosaurs roamed the Earth, faxes and "mobile phones" were novelties; e-mail and the internet didn't exist, and no one except Bill gates had a computer on his or her work desk. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2LG6hxJ2TzB69oc-4WEkbBVyemF9x1yNkJcInM7eeYL188lgOtyTQ_uie37OfbD9NvPpBd-EpFscg8wXIiQIP1IGwXH21da0Ojfs7KlMuIAPdw1vDjPpR3b6MaGhTcU4FgH9SA264Cgs/s1600/presidents-secretary-1947-ne.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2LG6hxJ2TzB69oc-4WEkbBVyemF9x1yNkJcInM7eeYL188lgOtyTQ_uie37OfbD9NvPpBd-EpFscg8wXIiQIP1IGwXH21da0Ojfs7KlMuIAPdw1vDjPpR3b6MaGhTcU4FgH9SA264Cgs/s200/presidents-secretary-1947-ne.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493215204222608114" /></a>Back then, if you wanted to send something to your client, you had to write a note on a piece of paper and place it in your communal, chain-smoking secretary's "in-bin." The paper would migrate down to the bottom of the stack, and would be returned to you, typed, three days, or six packs of cigarettes later, whichever came first. You would then review the letter and re-submit it with changes, realizing full-well it would take another few days to get re-typed and returned to you. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijYq6_LY4Pa4PC7CiqseFw2UZOcZH5WXLVl1olSj0gjU5CUiQ4TidMdoctuM2ysUonzajkDuuUCfL9NrKyERjh9o6rfnpgE9-3slVaFRX04oH5TB5yv3Ox9WcyPBMEjyOr1lI04ZhAPa0/s1600/800px-Cig_disposal_manila.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijYq6_LY4Pa4PC7CiqseFw2UZOcZH5WXLVl1olSj0gjU5CUiQ4TidMdoctuM2ysUonzajkDuuUCfL9NrKyERjh9o6rfnpgE9-3slVaFRX04oH5TB5yv3Ox9WcyPBMEjyOr1lI04ZhAPa0/s200/800px-Cig_disposal_manila.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493215398981864050" /></a>After two or three edits, and a week-and-a-half's time, the letter would be placed in an envelope and dispatched to the mail box. Three days later, assuming the envelope was properly addressed and the correct amount of postage was placed on it, your letter would arrive on the desk of the intended recipient. He or she would read it (you hope), draft a response, submit it to a secretary for processing, and you would receive something a week later. All together, the entire process would take about three weeks.<br /><br />Today, even the most intellectually taxing e-mail can be composed, edited, proofread and sent in about an hour, and a response will be received sometimes within moments. <br /><br />This is incredibly efficient, and equally frustrating. See? Newton's 3rd law in action.<br /><br />Why is this frustrating you ask? Well, before this spectacular efficiency became common place, the world had a different pace. Expectations were more reasonable. When you told someone you'd send them a proposal, the intended party expected that proposal would arrive in a matter of weeks, not hours. Now, not only do your clients expect you to turn everything around in minutes, but every one of your clients expects that level of responsiveness all at the same time. <br /><br />So if we're this much more productive, we must be incredibly effective, successful and happy, right? Well, I haven't noticed that. Have you? <br /><br />I mean, sure, we get a lot more done in less time, but are we more profitable? I don't think we're happier.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigMCl8C-twmAhWviruVIGZOavML3YaNAMeMHujyuucvUC8GDLuFyzkzxAD7rK_4EKEYMYW6Fptot1gPkPURSMgLflpcHFUs3FuCnfjGniGBJXzLEvKISHpGnq0JFt_3otwdPtyepzPrg/s1600/VacuumCleaner.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigMCl8C-twmAhWviruVIGZOavML3YaNAMeMHujyuucvUC8GDLuFyzkzxAD7rK_4EKEYMYW6Fptot1gPkPURSMgLflpcHFUs3FuCnfjGniGBJXzLEvKISHpGnq0JFt_3otwdPtyepzPrg/s200/VacuumCleaner.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493216358866310370" /></a>Technological advances have always been sold on the promise of happiness - "instead of beating the rugs outside with a stick, m'am, you could purchase this Suxdeluxe vacuum cleaner and have your carpets cleaner, quicker. You'll be much happier with all the time you'll save."<br /><br />Well, ask any haus frau, and you'll learn all that "saved time" got used up doing the dishes, or waxing the floors, or beating the laundry in the creek with a rock. The fact is we've just replaced doing one task with three tasks within the same hour, and productivity is not the same as happiness. <br /><br />I remember the peace and quiet we would enjoy years ago playing golf. The links was a place of desolation, surrounded by nature and friends. It was five hours of disconnection from the rest of the world, where we could focus our frustration on poor play and the simple betrayal of the 14 clubs in our bags. That tranquility has been shattered, first by pagers, then by cell phones, then by smart phones. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ4ZlCiUldbJVQ7Z_rDw5Pd2US9CAGaRnMGRkCpCgo3FJNs-RVk9Ae2v2i_Tyd36opyQpfj46lT-YahiJ7cpxqO2R_KZsKvkXGSaIxIyqgbPqbeGWIvFPRzElOdaJ4VIM8jdZeUGHXyNM/s1600/tiger-woods-texting-bp.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 223px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ4ZlCiUldbJVQ7Z_rDw5Pd2US9CAGaRnMGRkCpCgo3FJNs-RVk9Ae2v2i_Tyd36opyQpfj46lT-YahiJ7cpxqO2R_KZsKvkXGSaIxIyqgbPqbeGWIvFPRzElOdaJ4VIM8jdZeUGHXyNM/s200/tiger-woods-texting-bp.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493217305767023538" /></a>Today, it's routine to wait for a playing partner to compose and transmit a text or e-mail before lining up a putt. Our sanctuary has been invaded and over-taken by the convenience of technology, and the simple joy of golfing with friends has been lost forever.<br /><br />I would submit to everyone that technology does not always improve our lives. To the contrary, I think it creates angst. We're all so accessible, now, that we can never be away from work. Downtime is a lost commodity. <br /><br />Today, more than ever before, we are at the world's beck and call every hour of every day. Clients feel no sense of compunction for e-mailing or calling us at all hours, any day of the week, and expecting us to respond immediately, because they realize we're probably reading e-mails in the check-out line at the supermarket, or while we're waiting for the traffic light to change.<br /><br />Of course, I'm taking an extreme position, here. Not all technology is bad. Certainly, Mankind's discovery of fire, and the wheel, and breast augmentation have had positive effects on society, but where are we on the Bell Curve? Perhaps we've gone beyond the point where technology makes things better, and have entered the realm where change only makes things different. <br /><br />To harken back to Newtown's 3rd law, what have we gained? In recent decades, through computer advances, we've gained better access to one another, at greater speed. <br /><br />What is the equal, and opposite force? Since virtually nowhere is safe from work demands, it appears the yang is our profound loss of privacy and freedom.The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-53128994884169774942010-07-10T22:33:00.001-07:002010-08-04T16:42:47.320-07:00Everyone who's funny, take one step forward ... not so fast, you.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZQplTUGzc7fxyWdgmmCa0dbBEGcy_BdoIg45aD3gNc-D7y4MwI5pfp2yoFalY-Be6ncobI_KKXfo-w4zyVep-OKSeKK_WnIp7mctwU5TbCYwjtUK_UBgvaqQW7h6sS3WAmc2vmmSEgQ/s1600/bush-laughing1223057795.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 384px; height: 379px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZQplTUGzc7fxyWdgmmCa0dbBEGcy_BdoIg45aD3gNc-D7y4MwI5pfp2yoFalY-Be6ncobI_KKXfo-w4zyVep-OKSeKK_WnIp7mctwU5TbCYwjtUK_UBgvaqQW7h6sS3WAmc2vmmSEgQ/s320/bush-laughing1223057795.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492528497819384594" /></a><br />Isn't it funny how everyone thinks they're funny? Honestly, have you ever met anyone who openly admits he or she isn't funny? In real life, though, some people are better at some things than others; no one is good at everything, and no single thing is done well by everyone. Therefore, it stands to reason that some people are mis-guided or delusional if they believe they're funny.<br /><br />In the 1982 film "my Favourite Year," Peter O'Toole plays an aging movie star named Alan Swan opposite Mark Linn-Baker's Benji Stone; Stone has been assigned to keep Swan sober enough to perform on television. In one scene, the young Stone asks the aged and experienced Swan: "Do you think there are funny people and not-funny people?" To which Swan replies "Yes. Definitely. On the funny side there are the Marx Brothers, except Zeppo; the Ritz Brothers, no exceptions; both Laurel *and* Hardy; and Woody Woodpecker. On the unfunny side there's anyone who has ever played the accordion professionally."<br /><br />Personally, I agree with Mr. Swan, on all accounts, and have an anecdote I'd like to share here to illustrate that exact point. <br /><br />Back home, there's a local pasta company owned by two brothers, called "P&S Ravioli." The "P" stands for Primo, and the "S" stands for Segundo - that means "first" and "second" in Italian. Those are their names - Primo is the oldest; Segundo is second oldest. There are 8 siblings all together, and they are named ordinally. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">We</span> have two young sons, so for the sake of this blog post, and out of "rispetto" for P&S Ravioli, let's refer to our oldest as Primo, and our youngest as Segundo.<br /><br />Our Primo is a beautiful child with a warm, gentle soul and a great sense of humor. My love for this child is boundless, yet he's about as funny as a technical manual. He tries. Honestly. He does. He laughs all the time, acts silly, and tries to relate funny stories, but in the end, the only person he cracks up is himself. He has a lot of other talents, but I'm afraid he's destined to be a professional accordion player.<br /><br />Segundo is a different story, entirely. He inspires laughter with a look, or gesture. When he <span style="font-style:italic;">tries </span>to be funny, he is, and even when he's not trying, he's still funny. Allow me to expound.<br /><br />One morning before work, I was standing at the kitchen island, deciding whether or not to go back to bed, and Segundo, already dressed for kindergarten, walked into the kitchen with a stuffed penguin in one hand and a plastic Whack-a-Mole mallet in the other. See? You're probably already smiling. Anyway, he held the penguin up and said "Daddy, watch this." He then proceeded to knock the penguin up-side its head with the mallet, and the stuffed critter flew across the room. <br /><br />I asked Segundo why he did that, and he replied that he was the penguin's chiropractor. I suggested that even the most inept chiropractor in the world probably wouldn't slam his patient in the head with a mallet, and Segundo replied that this was a special case, because "this penguin has (insert moment while he visibly searched his mind for the right word) ... TESTICLE difficulties." <br /><br />My wife immediately left the room for fear he'd see her laughing, so I was left alone to fight back the guffaw and explain that the proper term was "TECHNICAL" difficulties. "Technical," not "testicle" ... big difference. Then I put my head down so he wouldn't see me convulsively containing my laughter.<br /><br />This kid does this all the time. He's a natural, and is the embodiment of the difference between people with a good sense of humor, and people who are genuinely funny.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTvuLGLLW26hoMsXb1APxNEsPRholHXMZ4hyAeKEV_2A8NLHEIpvVgdPPdCZeNbE9QBeil0NLiFOUlUxhFtovEcnqjGjRbAXC08P2tJrAcPNhrua52p8DawH2bwIgNMLUkzlK_yiAlL0/s1600/steve_martin_250.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 217px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTvuLGLLW26hoMsXb1APxNEsPRholHXMZ4hyAeKEV_2A8NLHEIpvVgdPPdCZeNbE9QBeil0NLiFOUlUxhFtovEcnqjGjRbAXC08P2tJrAcPNhrua52p8DawH2bwIgNMLUkzlK_yiAlL0/s200/steve_martin_250.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492528607670884466" /></a>Steve Martin is one of those naturally funny people, and 30+ years ago, he said, when people asked him how he can be so f'ing funny, he'd reply that he'd take a slice of bologna and put it in each shoe, and then he'd just FEEL funny. Well, if that's what it takes, I'm afraid a lot of people are going to need to take a number at the deli counter, or they'll need to schedule accordion lessons.<br /><br />I believe O'Toole said it best as Swan: "Dying is easy. Comedy is hard."The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-54169436203488505712010-07-10T13:42:00.000-07:002010-07-10T15:23:29.370-07:00What Van Gogh Didn't Know<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDq35zv56euWHNgMcXdUPeguq3zqBEujq6Kp2gQ9p4eRuKgbZOb1pXtTlujkJ4W1a9pMKX1JUMxiCRvd6sVcNPVtrKxNYBFaO-PdWEeNrje5IY2vAvOgKXGkvTLvfdUE20Y94v9NaSvo0/s1600/plastic-surgery-repair-of-ear-gauging-indianapolis-dr-barry-eppley.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 151px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDq35zv56euWHNgMcXdUPeguq3zqBEujq6Kp2gQ9p4eRuKgbZOb1pXtTlujkJ4W1a9pMKX1JUMxiCRvd6sVcNPVtrKxNYBFaO-PdWEeNrje5IY2vAvOgKXGkvTLvfdUE20Y94v9NaSvo0/s200/plastic-surgery-repair-of-ear-gauging-indianapolis-dr-barry-eppley.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492399532069935346" /></a>For some strange reason, ears have played a memorable role in forming our social fabric. Take the 1888 severing of Vincent Van Gogh's ear; some believe he mutilated himself, while historians believe fellow artist, Paul Gauguin actually cut the ear off with a sword in an effort to protect himself from Van Gogh's attack (Van Gogh was upset that Gaugin was moving away). No matter how it happened, Van Gogh did present the liberated ear to a prostitute, who fainted. <br /><br />Most people remember Van Gogh was an artist, but nearly everyone remembers his ear was lopped off. <br /><br />More recently, an ear took center stage when, in Quentin Tarantino's cult hit "Reservoir Dogs," Mr. Blonde danced to Stealers Wheel, straddled a bound, seated "beat cop," whom he'd captured, and methodically vivisected the cop's ear with a straight razor. Mr. Blonde then tickled himself as he engaged in a brief conversation with the dangling appendage. <br /><br />In every day life, ears face even stranger risks. <br /><br />When I was a kid, only ladies pierced their ears, and even then, many preferred the "clip-on earring" alternative. Of course, those were the days when people wore suits and dresses to baseball games.<br /><br />During my adolescence, defiant rock 'n rollers of both sexes began piercing their ears, and girls began getting a second, or even a third hole pierced in one ear or the other. <br /><br />Today, piercings have evolved to a point where everything imaginable is being pierced, not just ears. Any more, it's almost common place to have a waiter or waitress lisp their way through the day's specials because they have a stud in their tongue.<br /><br />Like tattooing, piercing has become a method for personal distinction, and I marvel at peoples' willingness to undertake such extreme measures to achieve uniqueness. A recent trend, though, makes me laugh. This would be the act of "stretch piercing," or "gauging." <br /><br />Instead of merely piercing one's ear lobe with an 18-20 gauge hole (which is typical), devotees of stretching strive to grow the hole gradually. I assume they do this to accommodate larger and larger jewelry, but oft times, the hole is merely left wide open and the skin flaps in the breeze. As is the case with wire, gauges grow in size as the number decreases. For example, an 18 gauge hole is approximately 1 mm in diameter, while a zero gauge is 8 mm (1/3"). Gauges are measured up to "000" which is 11mm (7/16"), but the holes have been known to get stretched far beyond that size.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvmwQIF2E02UsnUscJUWxKMn0aur3UbmYGnaQmXsj1DbW-DYG1WvJDiajPqgm1qgswQUtdDRrmZLpi0hzZoeTrJDI0TpBp4EyVYPIrZPidvjMPVwaV95cBfekEkVNnBXI5yDjTOhrtkzo/s1600/bmepb486109.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 153px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvmwQIF2E02UsnUscJUWxKMn0aur3UbmYGnaQmXsj1DbW-DYG1WvJDiajPqgm1qgswQUtdDRrmZLpi0hzZoeTrJDI0TpBp4EyVYPIrZPidvjMPVwaV95cBfekEkVNnBXI5yDjTOhrtkzo/s200/bmepb486109.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492403610399815202" /></a> Of course, ear lobes aren't the only things to get stretched. Some people (like this guy)give the works to their septums, while others (like the lady below) expand their lips, but we're discussing ears, here, so I'll try to stay on point. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVI7u2__ZT1g4UOYVwfdLZKehyphenhyphensDwBiz1wQCaYaRk6ThWwqMdbV0qsJMyrtll66f8CcPK3nU1hWBYK6j-4hV28OpFMgrIycgQMDS8K0W7e7RrXhH_lCj2Kg7LpeNGmaPyShl0z1t7S2Fw/s1600/450px-Mursi_woman.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVI7u2__ZT1g4UOYVwfdLZKehyphenhyphensDwBiz1wQCaYaRk6ThWwqMdbV0qsJMyrtll66f8CcPK3nU1hWBYK6j-4hV28OpFMgrIycgQMDS8K0W7e7RrXhH_lCj2Kg7LpeNGmaPyShl0z1t7S2Fw/s200/450px-Mursi_woman.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492403856854502514" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />What strikes me funny about this is not the personal expression, or the whistling that can probably be heard as gusts of wind blow across one's shoulder, but rather the image it conjures in my own mind.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkmf6Sz0DHL-SsE8mQEWj5FTNjD9jlPftUL2VA9SqEMHoMZ4Q3jNrnG0pvtQLsxZ2ftoLjVG25FoINXmsucoY3o-ocFNlMLyCzzFSWQ2kvgnRVF9OFmHMkBPcb1V0qD9QnAtSa9P1tDiU/s1600/aztec-ball-game-2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 137px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkmf6Sz0DHL-SsE8mQEWj5FTNjD9jlPftUL2VA9SqEMHoMZ4Q3jNrnG0pvtQLsxZ2ftoLjVG25FoINXmsucoY3o-ocFNlMLyCzzFSWQ2kvgnRVF9OFmHMkBPcb1V0qD9QnAtSa9P1tDiU/s200/aztec-ball-game-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492399066243134946" /></a>Back in grade school, while learning about the Spanish explorer, Cortes, we learned of a game call Ullamaliztli. As early as 1200 BC, the Aztecs played this game where teams attempted to send a heavy rubber ball (9-15 pounds) through a small (35" diameter), wall-mounted ring 8-10 feet above the playing surface. This is the epic game where it's believed the losing coach, or team, or even the fans would be sacrificed immediately after the match. Over time, though, that theory has come under criticism. Since being sacrificed was considered a privilege, it's believed the WINNING team (or fans or coach) was sacrified. <br /><br />Can't you just hear the conversation at home before that game? "See ya, honey, I'm off to the Ullamaliztli match downtown. I'll either be home for dinner, or sacrificed, depending on how the home team does." <br /><br />Because of my own personal life history, every time I see someone with gauges in their ears, I imagine little Aztecs on that person's shoulders, trying to kick a rubber ball through their hoop. I also imagine little poodles jumping through the hoops at the circus, but that's actually pretty disturbing.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6hAFc6vkp6-Qw0n_3n7VfDaHCQAU8zO4oWKcdy7w_AlcUYd_iEcEwZX9QOQOqXKSzaB-MsO5SYpzcF4A14qp9Y9AfVRszggejg7O5jVq00kWR_m765mNZUPyxbbS4e5gWfPNbUCP2zNE/s1600/unnamed.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6hAFc6vkp6-Qw0n_3n7VfDaHCQAU8zO4oWKcdy7w_AlcUYd_iEcEwZX9QOQOqXKSzaB-MsO5SYpzcF4A14qp9Y9AfVRszggejg7O5jVq00kWR_m765mNZUPyxbbS4e5gWfPNbUCP2zNE/s200/unnamed.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492405581547208050" /></a><br /><br />Now, every time you see those gauges you'll probably have similar images. perhaps you should have worn your aluminum foil hat before you started reading this ...The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-91884054180008332352010-07-07T19:42:00.000-07:002010-07-08T07:25:20.390-07:00Driving Miss Dizzy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzP1qPl6nhmi7aBr6r641AMdzE1wz5ZIYmn9ZbL2MBZLCYvhT07wA6oE7C60ay5nw_Y0NwS7H5fJe-BChl1-uXVb4fmj4EeIafGOnOVIry8DhvRO93824haVYUDyWVOFjfxIVKsZbA4ks/s1600/SS_RatFink__ed_in_COLOR_by_DaveIgo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzP1qPl6nhmi7aBr6r641AMdzE1wz5ZIYmn9ZbL2MBZLCYvhT07wA6oE7C60ay5nw_Y0NwS7H5fJe-BChl1-uXVb4fmj4EeIafGOnOVIry8DhvRO93824haVYUDyWVOFjfxIVKsZbA4ks/s400/SS_RatFink__ed_in_COLOR_by_DaveIgo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491379264037706434" /></a><br />This morning, a 75 year old woman in Atlanta Georgia created her own drive-through liquor store. Unfortunately, the liquor store in question already existed WITHOUT a drive-through. <br /><br />This particular lady drove her white Mazda Miata through the front window when she failed to stop at the end of the parking lot. This is the second time she has crashed into this same liquor store. Sadly, a store employee was slightly injured, and more than 1,500 bottles of alcohol were mortally wounded.<br /><br />So what's the first thing that pops into your head? - probably something relating to the diminished driving skills of the elderly, and how something should be done to keep them off our roads.<br /><br />It's pretty typical, I suspect, for one to assume geriatrics shouldn't be allowed to drive. After all, driving is a privilege for those with the faculties to perform and, like it or not, our physical and mental faculties erode over time. <br /><br />Researchers believe our intellectual peak occurs at 22, and erosion begins at 27. - unsettling news for those of us who are decades beyond those particular milestones. One's physical peak occurs between the ages of 28 and 33. Again, bad news for us geezers.<br /><br />In 1900, geriatric drivers would have been of little concern, especially considering how few Americans owned cars back then. At the turn of the last century, the average life expectancy was 47 years, and only 4.1% of the population (a scant 3 million citizens) were over the age of 65. Today's a different story, though. Between medical advancements and peoples' natural desire to linger until the Chicago Cubs win a World Series, the average life span of an American has increased by more than 30 years, and senior citizens now account for nearly 13% of our nation's population (30 million people). That means there are a LOT of people out there who are oblivious to the fact that their turn signals have been on for the last two hours.<br /><br />At the risk of committing ageism, there's probably sound cause for concern about elderly drivers. Several states in the Union share that concern. Illinois, for example, requires every 75 year old driver to take a road test to qualify for a renewed license. Between the ages of 81 and 86, drivers must be retested every other year. After 86, they must pass annual tests. Fifteen states share similar legislation.<br /><br />Well, if the government says it's right, it must be right. Right? Right. Well, maybe ... sort of ...<br /><br />Yes, the elderly tend to be quite wrinkly, but are they necessarily any worse behind the wheel than anyone else? Probably the best source to answer that sort of query is the insurance institute, since their clientele base their premiums on the statistical likelihood of accidents by various demographic groups (age, sex, profession, etc). According to those actuarial gurus, drivers over the age of 85 are statistically as likely to be in a fatal accident as a 16-19 year old driver. <br /><br />Wait. What?!<br /><br />Well, if that's true, then young people with fresh skills and cat-like reflexes are just as dangerous on the roads as decrepit, saggy people, and if that's true why don't these tykes have to take tests every year, also? Are you smelling the conspiracy???<br /><br />Chances are, physical skills are only partially at fault for vehicle accidents. Stupidity probably plays a far greater role.<br /><br />Today, everyone's abuzz about drivers texting and e-mailing and talking on cell phones while behind the wheel of their four-wheeled death machines. Certainly, these modern conveniences are the bane of responsible, attentive driving, but distracted drivers are not a new phenomenon. <br /><br />For years, I spent several hours every day commuting to and from work. I've seen people reading the newspaper while driving, propping novels on their steering wheels, SHAVING (in one case, a guy was shaving his bald head ... with shaving cream and a straight razor), applying make-up, brushing teeth and, of course, eating and drinking. Back in the old days, we didn't need technology to distract us. We could rely solely on poor judgment. Kids today are soft and lack creativity.<br /><br />Oh sure, there are some seniors who need to stop driving, but there are a lot of younger people who should be removed as well. What we should be doing is focusing on improving driving skills, and holding people accountable for their own stupidity - caught reading a romance novel at the wheel of your SUV? No more driving for you. - caught texting? Text yourself a cab, 'cause you're done. <br /><br />The elderly lady in Georgia is a motoring menace, and shouldn't be driving anymore, but would you interpret the story differently if you learned she wasn't merely elderly, but was actually "sexting" as she pulled into the parking lot, and failed to watch where she was going? First of all, you probably threw up a little in your mouth just now, but then you probably realized that there are far worse things to be doing behind the wheel than aging. <br /><br />There's a conspiracy against the elderly because they're an easy target. Let's test them, but then let's test everyone else as well, and then let's not just test to determine physical inabilities; let's also test for stupidity.The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-4817017354224659382010-07-05T15:24:00.000-07:002010-07-05T17:55:27.967-07:00Got ink?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnfBkOFSg2751lnJAAz-PWR4kIL2qSNpe-_4Q4nBcU-M8gdVqfl5zHPaki2oh7ja3umNfMoCMk75jCjuOyJNeVaxNamM1mxYO0MvALhJSpUfeEg2bQdk9Cn9DJ0e3lcAgEjTJfDgramSk/s1600/gth0295l.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 360px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnfBkOFSg2751lnJAAz-PWR4kIL2qSNpe-_4Q4nBcU-M8gdVqfl5zHPaki2oh7ja3umNfMoCMk75jCjuOyJNeVaxNamM1mxYO0MvALhJSpUfeEg2bQdk9Cn9DJ0e3lcAgEjTJfDgramSk/s400/gth0295l.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490580009366374834" /></a><br />When I was a kid, the only people with tattoos were grizzled old sailors with hula girls or anchors turning blue on their forearms, but today, it's practically mainstream to be tattooed with everything from fraternity letters on the ankles of bankers, to rose buds on the shoulder blades of middle-aged soccer moms. <br /><br />The fascination for me is not whether or not someone gets tattooed, but rather how someone commits to a single image that will likely be with them for eternity. <br /><br />Back in 1980, I wore skinny ties and was a fan of Adam and the Ants. That was thirty years and nearly 100 pounds ago. <br /><br />I can't remember the last time I listened to Adam Ant, and if I had gotten a tattoo of him in 1980, between the proliferation of body hair that has subsequently invaded my body, and the abundance of cheeseburger-imposed flab I've collected, "Adam" would now resemble a Salvador Dali version of an Al Qaeda operative.<br /><br />To me, it's a matter of design obsolescence across an ever-morphing landscape. <br /><br />Let's face it; personal taste is totally fungible. One day, you're wearing a gigantic Led Zeppelin belt buckle to hold up your Wranglers, and twenty years later, you're wearing Bermuda shorts, humming "Saturday Night Fever" while lining up a putt at a country club. As long as you have the legs for the shorts, there's nothing wrong with that sort of change. It's natural. We grow up, and external forces help shape us. What WOULD be wrong is NOT changing.<br /><br />Wouldn't you feel ridiculous with a Led Zeppelin (or worse yet a KC and the Sunshine Band) tattoo emblazoned across your forehead while you're plotting that 30 foot putt?<br /><br />Regardless of whether or not society sanctions the tattoo you're sporting, what are the odds YOU'LL still love the sentiment or design as time goes by? To me, that's design obsolescence.<br /><br />And what about how our bodies change as we ... um ... mature. <br /><br />Long ago, I heard a comedian describe a young girl who had the image of a butterfly tattooed onto her firm breast, only to be asked by her grandchildren, years later, to show them her pterodactyl. <br /><br />We're not static billboards - forever long and flat after enduring the tests of time and nature. We're evolutionary beings whose metabolisms and lifestyles change and whose body shapes follow suit - the ever-morphing landscape. <br /><br />Today, people of all ages are plastering themselves with tattoos, and I wonder if anyone has asked them how hey're going to feel about those tattoos in time. Will they want to hide their defiant slogans when they go for that job interview after law school? Will they want to hide their proclamation of love for Jim when they walk down the aisle with Bob? Will they want to hide the lewd, finger pointing character they had tattooed prominently on their arm one drunken evening when they are campaigning to be the president of the PTA years in the future? <br /><br />Some people probably love their tattoos as much today as they did the day they got them, but is that sentiment universal? <br /><br />According to a Washington Post article, 25% of Americans between the ages of 18 and 30 have at least one tattoo. That percentage is about the same for those who are between 26 and 40. Unfortunately, about 20% of people who have tattoos regret getting them, and 6% of the tattooed public is trying to get the infernal things removed. Nearly 70% of those seeking removal are female.<br /><br />And what of cost? It typically costs up to a couple hundred dollars per hour to get tattooed, and removal takes between 5 and 20 sessions, costing $200-$500 per session. <br /><br />There are approximately 50 million Americans between the ages of 18 and 30, so if 25% of them have at least one tattoo, there are 12.5 million tattoed people in that age group. Let's assume each tattoo takes at least two sessions for completion, and we're looking at a total expense from that group of our society of $2.5 billion. <br /><br />Removal for the portion seeking it (6%, or 750,000 people) would be nearly $4 billion. This is big business folks for the nearly 15,000 estimated tattoo parlors dotted across America, and even bigger business for the thousands of laser removal clinics popping up here, there and everywhere. <br /><br />As much as I hated their domineering, oppressive rules in my youth, I have come to appreciate the brilliance of my parents. Their rule: no tattoos or piercings as long as we lived under their roof and relied on them to pay our bills. For better or worse, by the time they were neither housing nor supporting us, we decided to eschew tattoos and piercings. <br /><br />This decision has saved me thousands of dollars, and even though my physique is flabby and hairy, when my shirt comes off at the beach, I don't have "Frankie Says Relax" plastered in large block letters between my shoulder blades. For the sake of everyone, that's probably a good thing.<br /><br />By the way, do sailors get anchors and hula girl tattoos anymore?The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-90710893679037507902010-06-30T18:19:00.000-07:002010-07-01T06:56:52.640-07:00Cashin'-in the Family Jewels<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCUFPjanEbT8yJIQ8CDVWDWR7wCUTcymWD3r9ePAz9-d_UzOtHFoxd9tNtZ-zlMwTbNmcvuKK0OUsd1IrCt88Y69jcE62iMPhheZNm_Fko1iNDwilrDhAH_Dyst683h8GCWESadyTR8A/s1600/funny-dog-cartoon-neutered.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 354px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCUFPjanEbT8yJIQ8CDVWDWR7wCUTcymWD3r9ePAz9-d_UzOtHFoxd9tNtZ-zlMwTbNmcvuKK0OUsd1IrCt88Y69jcE62iMPhheZNm_Fko1iNDwilrDhAH_Dyst683h8GCWESadyTR8A/s400/funny-dog-cartoon-neutered.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488759354506368242" /></a><br />Recently, a friend mentioned she is neutering her male puppy. Since her husband is a friend of mine, I hoped for his sake she was referring to the dog ...<br /><br />- doesn't matter if it's a gnat, a dog, or a fellow human being, most men wince whenever the topic of castration rears its ugly head. It's only natural, after all. We were born with those dangling nuggets of fascination, and would feel like less of ourselves if they were somehow neutralized, or, heaven forbid, removed.<br /><br />Oh sure, neutering a dog eliminates the risk of producing unwanted puppies, but some people use this procedure to control behavior as well. Is your dog too aggressive? Neuter him. Is your dog trying to impose his dominance on your chinos? Neuter him. Does he jump up too much? Neuter him. Does he bark? Neuter him. Does he seem to actually give a shit about anything? Neuter him. In short, if you want your dog to act like you bought him at Build-A-Bear, neuter him. <br /><br />This attempt to modify behavior isn't exclusive to dogs, either. Historically, human beings have also been castrated in an attempt to make the male subject better-equipped for a particular task.<br /><br />Ever hear of a eunuch? These poor bastards sacrificed their manhood so they could guard harems. That's right. The resident kingpin had a bevy of wives for his fornicating pleasure, and the eunuchs got clipped so they could be trusted to stand guard, and not succumb to any sexual temptations. I don't care what you do for a living, that guy has you beat on the shitty-job-continuum.<br /><br />How about the castrati? In the old days, women weren't allowed to sing in church, so young boys with angelic voices would get snipped so they could continue to sing the upper register into their adulthood. Of course, those young boys weren't making those decisions for themselves, some adult did them that favor.<br /><br />This is ancient history, though. Right? Society has evolved too far for this to be a modern problem. Well, not so fast. Alessandro Moreschi, the last eunuch in the Sistine Chapel choir, expired in 1922. That was less than a hundred years ago ... <br /><br />I look at my young sons, and imagine someone asking me if I'd like to donate their gonads for the sake of this year's Christmas pageant, and I believe, without too much hesitation, I'd reply: "are you FREAKING KIDDING ME?!!!" What sort of nut-case agrees to this sort of proposition? <br /><br />So that brings us back to the big question: when is the right time to neuter someone or something? <br /><br />First of all, I don't think castration and behavior modification should ever be used in the same paragraph. If you need to get someone or something to behave differently, try training them or getting them therapy. Keep the sharp implements away from the family jewels, okay? <br /><br />That said, practically speaking, I suppose it's responsible to neuter a dog or cat so they don't overpopulate the world, but boy, even as I write this, I can't help but think how happy I am that WE'RE not THEIR pets ...The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-46589232300507628132010-06-27T09:36:00.000-07:002010-08-04T16:48:04.444-07:00Roadkill<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgypj4rlk92xjqjztP2y0W5NliDt5xe5GYrA3eZK_Gfq0ED1w393Wlsc7A3agIwsokTzCxfJJFQ8sKrjJTRY0RbXONR5Sk3kLp3OP1cg_iR0mRFjPm9TSsWaaTqHzHkRjSLt-ihuRe5Mrs/s1600/squirrel+bazooka.bmp"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgypj4rlk92xjqjztP2y0W5NliDt5xe5GYrA3eZK_Gfq0ED1w393Wlsc7A3agIwsokTzCxfJJFQ8sKrjJTRY0RbXONR5Sk3kLp3OP1cg_iR0mRFjPm9TSsWaaTqHzHkRjSLt-ihuRe5Mrs/s320/squirrel+bazooka.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487512422388884434" /></a>Every year, when summer begins, there are certain constants upon which we can rely: car-travel increases as vacationers take to the streets to reach recreational destinations and, in response to that increased traffic, fuel prices increase for no better reason than there are extra profits to be made.<br /><br />Well, apparently, the animal kingdom got the memo, and they've decided to take action!<br /><br />This morning, in Fredon, New Jersey, a black bear "unexpectedly" ran onto a highway, and collided with a northbound motorcycle. The cyclist avoided serious injury, and it was reported the bear returned to the woods, seemingly unscathed.<br /><br />Three days earlier, a raccoon, described as acrobatic and mean-spirited, knocked out power to the area and was blamed for creating a five hour traffic delay in Memphis, Tennessee.<br /><br />These are not random acts, people. We have encroached upon the animals' domain to such an extent, the animals are now exhibiting signs of exhausted tolerance. <br /><br />For centuries, man and beast coexisted, but as man's insatiable thirst for conquest continued to stretch the boundaries of its society, consequently reducing the free-range animal lands, relations between the two groups have become strained. <br /><br />Even if they agreed to recognize man's legislative group and its self-proclaimed authority, without the privilege of opposable thumbs, the animals are physically incapable of drafting thoughtful prose requesting agreed-upon boundaries. Therefore, they must be a collective species of action-takers. It seems, at first, they are willing to merely be disruptive, and not take human life, but as this summer season progresses, I fear the damage inflicted by these embittered beasts will become more perilous and terminal. No doubt, both sides will sustain losses.<br /><br />As a word of caution, please beware of potential attacks as you travel to the beach or into the mountains this summer. The nation's wild residents have sent a message. To those who do not heed that warning, imminent peril awaits, whether it's physical injury, or the torturous mental warfare imposed by hours of unnecessary traffic.<br /><br />Let us all consider ourselves warned.The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-64590604092408680992010-06-23T22:08:00.000-07:002010-08-04T16:48:28.327-07:00To Tweet or Not To Tweet, That is the ...FIRE!!!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7zlRFuqeMwAaUZTZrKSZ-nRZ7ylEJNT-M1Cr_t6uv83O4kYS5cPO_xeD8eD_4QboHPYLvoOrN-6V8bKs5eYLpMMIKR1cXVEiz8zGsBA-m-UNyzI3Ki7fzstoiNM2jwKPKwr0jbKLOF-Q/s1600/Firing_Squad.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7zlRFuqeMwAaUZTZrKSZ-nRZ7ylEJNT-M1Cr_t6uv83O4kYS5cPO_xeD8eD_4QboHPYLvoOrN-6V8bKs5eYLpMMIKR1cXVEiz8zGsBA-m-UNyzI3Ki7fzstoiNM2jwKPKwr0jbKLOF-Q/s400/Firing_Squad.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486206754915008818" /></a>Last week, in a small room in a Utah penitentiary,Donnie Lee Gardner was executed for his crimes against society - probably no big loss there. What makes this particularly newsworthy is the fact that Gardner selected firing squad over lethal injection as his preferred method of execution. The REALLY newsworthy part of this is this may have been the first execution that was caught on Twitter.<br /><br />Utah Attorney General Mark Shurtleff tweeted "I just gave the go ahead to Corrections Director to proceed with Gardner's execution. May God grant him the mercy he denied his victims." This was the extent of the message the news media shared; however, according to reliable sources, the Attorney General went on to tweet "and I had the burrito of a lifetime at lunch. Man, I need some Beano - stat! LOL!"The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-82041892628218025032010-06-22T19:25:00.000-07:002010-08-04T16:43:44.326-07:00Obesity: the Heavy Favorite for Solving Our Problems!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW-k5X7VHUpgUl4nXEfBNsQv0XH3EOnbObi4RDO1UBV4Q4OY9S7yKYRorXjItueUiDHN8P1-A8BHAavulHqJGwqsg2xtcA0dJrP7BV-Fx9HaMg62E629wkBbBQP5LYlo2FLtqkb4h3mMk/s1600/bigmac.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW-k5X7VHUpgUl4nXEfBNsQv0XH3EOnbObi4RDO1UBV4Q4OY9S7yKYRorXjItueUiDHN8P1-A8BHAavulHqJGwqsg2xtcA0dJrP7BV-Fx9HaMg62E629wkBbBQP5LYlo2FLtqkb4h3mMk/s320/bigmac.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485802382019272066" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Think about this for a second:<br /><br />By definition, one is considered "obese" if one is 20 pounds over one's ideal weight. According to the Center for Disease Control, 30% of Americans are obese.<br /><br />To put this into perspective, the US population now exceeds 300 million people. That means there are 90 million obese Americans ... and about 7 million obese illegal aliens!<br /><br />Oh sure, it's sad that our population is fat and getting fatter every year, and it's too bad everyone can't exhibit the will power of a tri-athlete, but let's look beyond this finger-pointing and get down to the real guts of the issue: Obese people are a very large demographic; therefore, there's a LOT of money to be made exploiting them!<br /><br />Here's an example. <br /><br />A typical casket is 28 inches wide, but a company named Goliath Caskets (the name kind of says it all, doesn't it?), provides over-sized caskets for large (ie: obese) people. These caskets range in size from 29" wide ("Harvest Style" - only slightly larger than normal), to 33"-35" wide ("Heartland Style"), to the grand poobah of hugeness, the "Homestead Style" which increases all the way to 52 inches wide. <br /><br />The average person is 18" wide, so you could practically lay out three average people side-by-side in a Homestead (which is the width of a full size bed). <br /><br />The owners of Goliath Caskets, and their competitors are brilliant. Shockingly, obese people tend to die, just like the rest of us, but until now, their families have been forced to bury them in piano cases, or used Hyundais. Now, they can enjoy the same morbidly arcane send-off as the other 70% of the population. Oh sure, they'll probably require more than the standard half-dozen pall bearers, but fat people are jolly, so they probably have plenty of friends who would be willing to help.<br /><br />Clearly, there's serious cash to be made from a 90 million-person group. <br /><br />The 2010 study of "The U.S. Weight Loss & Diet Control Market" estimates the diet industry consumes nearly $80 billion per year. That's the equivalent of 22.4 billion Big Macs, or 248 Big Macs for every obese person - about one every day-and-a-half! <br /><br />Along those lines, can you imagine 22.4 billion Big Macs being sold per year? Well, guess what, McDonald's actually sells <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span>FIVE HUNDRED FIFTY MILLION Big Macs per year (or about 6 Big Macs per obese person per year), producing gross sales of nearly $2 billion. Of course, not all these Big Macs are sold in the US. A few dozen per year are probably sold in other places, like France, or Canada.<br /><br />We're all griping and moaning about the economy, and we're wondering what's going to pull us out of these doldrums. Financiers and economists point to Federal bail-outs, banking reform and technological advances as the necessary catalysts to rescue us. I disagree.<br /><br />All we need to do is focus on fat people. Give them what they want, because clearly, they are consumers. Produce and sell more fattening foods. Convince them they need to lose weight and push the pills, foods, and equipment necessary to help them accomplish these goals, and then prepare for their failure by making everything in full sizes - clothes, chairs, doorways, elevators, etc. Ultimately, standard sized items will need to be replaced in wholesale fashion, and the resultant retrofitting of America will spur on EVERY industry.<br /><br />Back in the 80s, there was Reaganomics which was basically the theory that an increased availability of money for investment will increase productivity, economic activity, and income throughout the economic system. Today, I'm proposing we adopt a new term: "Chubbynomics." <br /><br />If all the chubbies out there start spending more, more money will be funneled into the economy which will spur on the entire economic system. As for me, I'm doing my part. I had a Sausage McMuffin with Egg for breakfast, and placed my order for a "Heartland" this afternoon!The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-82300365914279876852010-06-21T21:59:00.000-07:002010-06-21T22:09:07.355-07:00How a Man Protects Himself from Alien Mind ControlThere once was a man from Des Moines,<br />Who wore aluminum over his groin,<br />When plainly asked why, <br />he said “I won’t lie,<br />my brains are contained in my loins.”The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-8495870023893381262010-06-19T22:19:00.000-07:002010-08-04T16:47:35.356-07:00Have I Got a Deal for YOU!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBNyOkBR-T7JpfFSoLQ5VoZmf6WwIqkw0gP2p68oCW7ccKQMh752YRphVJTuQ9xAJhXQX_OYDc6yQ8dfUX2QiT5oiZI3E3rju7AvZ4V_Z9DCu-H0hjk2zi111gZzlz-b1fiqwFY9AT2w/s1600/car-salesman-funnyjpg.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBNyOkBR-T7JpfFSoLQ5VoZmf6WwIqkw0gP2p68oCW7ccKQMh752YRphVJTuQ9xAJhXQX_OYDc6yQ8dfUX2QiT5oiZI3E3rju7AvZ4V_Z9DCu-H0hjk2zi111gZzlz-b1fiqwFY9AT2w/s320/car-salesman-funnyjpg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484721801525937890" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Say "car shopping" to some people, and they groan and climb back under the covers where it's safe. "Call me when it's over!" is their battle cry.<br /><br />For these people, car-buying is a long, drawn-out, dissatisfying process that leaves them financially, emotionally and physically drained. Frankly, it's a lot like a colonoscopy, without the entertaining flatulence. <br /><br />For some of us, though, car-buying is an invigorating process, complete with hours of research and preparation. A true car-shopper walks into a dealership prepared for battle. That consumer knows everything about the car - list price, invoice price, what the manufacturer is giving the dealer as a sales incentive, what residual rates are, what the money factors are, etc. He or she is a fair player who tells the salesman exactly what is desired and expected, and then both parties begin the dance.<br /><br />Today I went off to war, with the family in tow, equipped with reams of knowledge and tactics, and arrived at a dealer who informed us straight away that they have a strict "no haggle" policy, and they post their best prices on the windshields of the cars in their lot. Receiving that kind of news is like getting ready for a blind date and then finding out the blind date is actually with your sister. <br /><br />I was crippled with ennui.<br /><br />We drove the car and liked it, and the salesman insisted on telling us how his dealership is different, how competitive their prices are, and how he doesn't get a "commission" for selling cars, but rather a "volume incentive." <br /><br />Does anyone actually believe this garbage?<br /><br />These guys are great at sharing statistics to back-up their claims, too. We were informed that "64% of car shoppers don't like to haggle." My response to that was 78% of all statistics are made up. <br /><br />What kind of spineless worm walks into a car dealer and accepts the dealer's price at face value? <br /><br />The goal of a savvy car-buyer should be to leave the dealer with as little profit as he'll accept. In the "haggle free" arena, because the price isn't being tested, the profit is quadrupled. Of course the car dealer doesn't want to haggle; he's making a fortune on every deal by not negotiating. Don't buyers recognize this?<br /><br />The car salesmen in the haggle-free environment are pretty lackluster, also. They're just "order takers" spewing words off a script. Our saleskid today actually read us his pitch straight off a flip chart. <br /><br />The first item on the chart was "we value your time." How can they possibly value our time if they're going to wantonly waste it by forcing us to sit through a flip chart presentation?<br /><br />Several pages later, he got to "payment options," and the chart actually listed "cash." Was that entry really necessary? Are there people out there who are not aware that a purchase can be made with cash? Really??? This just proves what insipid sheep they believe their customers are.<br /><br />Finally he asked the magical questions: "what do you expect to receive from your trade-in and what kind of payment are you looking for on your new car?" These are ridiculous questions. After all, if I was to be perfectly honest, I'd reply that I want at least double what my vehicle is worth as a trade-in, and I want to remit one, single lonely dollar each month as a payment. For the sake of perpetuating a productive relationship, though, I shared my expectations for a trade-in, based upon statistical facts I'd compiled, and also provided a payment ceiling, again, based upon research and hard-data.<br /><br />Even though the dealership valued our time, it squandered more than thirty minutes of it to come back to us with answers: the trade-in was $3,000 less than expected, and the monthly payment was $240 more than our ceiling. Apparently, this dealership was not only a "haggle-free" zone, but a "listening-free" zone, as well. <br /><br />At no time were any actual facts provided to validate their numbers, just more fabricated statistics and dismissive comments about our own data.<br /><br />We left.<br /><br />Two hours later, we leased a new car ... from someone else. <br /><br />Dealership #2 greeted us candidly: "There are eleven days left to the month. I have a quota and things have been slow. If there's a deal to be made, we'll make it." <br /><br />Armed with the same facts and expectations, we convinced this dealer to offer us a fair value for our trade-in, and we negotiated a sales price that netted them a $500 profit. That's how this stuff is supposed to work!<br /><br />The mere existence of haggle-free car dealerships proves there's a conspiracy against the spineless segment of our society. <br /><br />In years past, if one didn't wish to negotiate with a car dealer, he, or she, merely paid the sticker price. Everyone knew the sticker price was an inflated rip-off, so the commonly held contention was anyone who paid list price was a rube.<br /><br />Somehow, the auto industry marketing wonks have convinced an entire segment of the car buying community that paying a slightly marked-down version of a list price is acceptable. It's as if they're telling these weak-kneed buyers: "Here's a token discount, so you can tell your friends you got a deal and didn't pay list price, even though everyone here at the dealership is going to point and laugh at you when you walk out the front door with your new set of car keys." And people are buying into this!!!<br /><br />Please, folks, don't encourage car dealers to implement such obscene business tactics. Caving into this behavior will just validate the process, and then more dealers will move in that direction. If that happens, some day, there will be no more haggling at all, and these final bastions of the free market process will die.<br /><br />Worst of all, without negotiating, there's no need for true sales people, so car show rooms will be filled with pitch-quoting sales drones, instead of slick, competitive, negotiating adversaries. When that happens, the world will start spinning on a different axis - the market for plaid sports jackets will evaporate, and cheap gold jewelry and chest hair will vanish soon thereafter.<br /><br />Next time, before you venture into that churning caldron known as the dealership salesfloor, ask yourself: "Am I a negotiator, or a spineless jellyfish?" If you're not up to the challenge, don't disgrace the process by succumbing to price fixing. Instead, accept your lot in life, and purchase a used moped on E-Bay (all things considered, you'll probably prefer the "buy it now" option). You may even want to take the next step, and simply take the bus from now on. The roadways are a competitive arena, and if you can't negotiate the price of your car, you're probably not appropriately equipped to negotiate your way through traffic with the rest of us.The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-15311983695772483792010-06-16T19:23:00.000-07:002010-06-16T23:14:04.996-07:00And here's another fine mess<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6yMVnf2lG_-zUDamsFyE9PiIuPGXC5AU2-WtQAJGcwGHweos3qGTs9mZLWY-8K9nBid4D49HkUaCPXHF7Lg-huAZTxC03FdN-gotxeqSIYbg-Yq_VkvhSdRGjxKwZBnohLoXPEoJNGH0/s1600/Laurel.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 75px; height: 145px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6yMVnf2lG_-zUDamsFyE9PiIuPGXC5AU2-WtQAJGcwGHweos3qGTs9mZLWY-8K9nBid4D49HkUaCPXHF7Lg-huAZTxC03FdN-gotxeqSIYbg-Yq_VkvhSdRGjxKwZBnohLoXPEoJNGH0/s320/Laurel.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483563172139758802" /></a><br /><br />Smoking is the leading cause of death for both men and women in the United States. About 420,000 deaths occur each year as a result of cigarette smoking. By comparison, about 150 people per year die from coconuts falling on their heads, so you can see, this smoking thing is pretty serious.<br /><br />Stan Laurel (comedic actor) was born on this day 120 years ago. Although he had been a heavy smoker most of his life, Laurel quit smoking at the age of 70. He died five years later of a heart attack (apparently no coconuts were involved in any way). Good thing he quit smoking!!!The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257448038977722569.post-45979113341593406932010-06-15T08:27:00.000-07:002010-06-15T08:31:21.604-07:00Oz never did give nothin' to the Tin Man ...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRy17N3bSxy5cL2DzFYqeAxiF63x75uy2YgWag233q4cd4Pcn2PTE0JkqIZW0ug69Jct_QnJJnU8_SEKffNZSa79wuOowTqTf8Y6QUucEOeqYsv8F6dhwt_ov4-tYnraob9QENLaqKaXI/s1600/Tin+Man+and+his+suit+6.15.10.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 309px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRy17N3bSxy5cL2DzFYqeAxiF63x75uy2YgWag233q4cd4Pcn2PTE0JkqIZW0ug69Jct_QnJJnU8_SEKffNZSa79wuOowTqTf8Y6QUucEOeqYsv8F6dhwt_ov4-tYnraob9QENLaqKaXI/s400/Tin+Man+and+his+suit+6.15.10.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483022866422034802" /></a><br /><br />Click on the image for a more-legible-sized image.The Aluminum Foil Hathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12192306057969969344noreply@blogger.com2