King Rama V - the Great Beloved King

Writen by Eric Lim

King Rama V or King Chulalongkorn (1853 - 1910) was the monarch who steered Thailand clear of colonization and initiated the Chakri Reformation to put Thailand on the road to modernization.

King Chulalongkorn was appointed king at the age of fifteen after the death of his father King Mongkut in 1868. Chao Phraya Suriyawong acted as regent until the young king was twenty and old enough to ascend the throne in 1873.

With the benefit of a Thai and western education, King Rama V was well equipped for his future role. His English tutor was Anna Leonowens, whose controversial memoirs were to cause deep offence to the Thais a century later. This education however, enabled him, like his father, to grasp the prevailing international political situation, which was then dominated by the western colonial powers.

The reign of King Rama V was fraught with extreme difficulties. The greatest threat to the kingdom was the growing demands of Britain and France, which threaten the independence of Thailand. He knew it would be disastrous to stand up to the gunboat diplomacy of these powers. Well aware of dangers of closing up the country, he wisely chose to do what we would now call constructive engagement.

Internally Thailand faced the problem of border provinces that threaten the integrity of the kingdom. Determined to modernize and strengthen Thailand against these threats, King Rama V started a series of reforms that became known as the Chakri Reformation.

In the first 10 years of his reign he faced stiff resistance from the old ruling families who were jealously guarding their vested interests. The young king shrewdly waited for the old guard to outlive their time.

King Rama V realized that diplomacy had to be conducted directly with western governments and not with their colonial counterparts in Asia, who were more in favor of extending territorial influence. By skillful diplomacy, King Rama V balanced London and Paris off against their colonial governments in Asia and one foreign power off against the other.

As part of his modernization program, King Rama V implemented several changes to the government.

Civil service - In 1888, the ministries responsible for various regions were reorganized along functional lines. More ministries and a civil service school were added. A cabinet was formed in 1892 to formulate national policy. Commoners were accepted on merit and not family connections. By the gradual staffing of new blood, King Rama V broke up the dominance of the old ruling families.

Finance - Collection of state revenue was centralized at the Ministry of Finance instead of at individual ministries. Other reforms included a central budget system, an audit system and the separation of the King’s finances from the state.

Foreign Affairs - King Rama V appointed the brilliant Prince Devawongse as the first Minister of Foreign Affairs. Known as the father of Thai foreign affairs, Prince Devawongse was instrumental in neutralizing the demands of Britain and France.

Military - The army was reorganized along the lines of a modern army with the establishment of a military academy and military conscription in 1902.

Education - Generations of young men of common birth were educated overseas. National education was conducted in standardized Central Thai instead of local dialects. Besides stressing religion, the system reinforced loyalty to a single king.

Infrastructure - In 1883 telegraph services were established, followed by the first railway in 1891, roads, housing, postal services and an irrigation system for the central plains. The kingdom was opened up to foreign expertise and foreign education.

Social reforms - On ascending the throne in 1873, King Rama V abolished slavery. This was implemented in stages to reduce the social impact and forced labor was completely eradicated by 1905. The king also held public audiences to allow the people to speak directly to the king.

King Rama V traveled abroad extensively in Asia and Europe to see at first hand modern government. He was convinced that Thailand needed European technology but not at the expense of Thai tradition and independence. His far-reaching reforms reflected a vision years ahead of his time.

By 1910, Thailand remained uncolonised. But the price was heavy: the loss of half a million sq km of territory on the borders with Burma, Cambodia, Laos and Malaya; the loss of tax revenues from extra-territorial rights of Europeans in Thailand who were exempt from Thai taxes and laws.

King Rama V died on 23 October 1910. Widespread national mourning followed his death. That day has been declared the day of the Great Beloved King. As one of the most revered monarchs in Thai history, his photograph is displayed in many Thai homes, companies and shops to this day.

The King Rama V Equestrian Monument, where thousands flock on 23 October every year to pay homage to him, stands to the south of Dusit Garden, the palace created by him. It’s a monument to a great king who left his legacy in the history of Bangkok and Thailand.

King Rama V first appeared in Tour Bangkok Legacies a historical travel site on people, places and events that shaped the landscape of Bangkok. The author Eric Lim, a free-lance writer, lives in Bangkok Thailand.

Mexican Living: Something’s Got to be Done!

Writen by Douglas Bower

Mexico needs to do something about the behavior of Gringos who come to their country who are hell-bent on acting out the Ugly American Syndrome stereotype no matter what.

I concluded this after an early morning shopping trip with the wife to the local Supermarket. There I saw this 70-year-old hippie, with his gun moll, cussing up one aisle and down the other looking for liquor. Doesn’t that just figure? He ended his search with a screeching revelation,

“They don’t even have beer here for Christ’s sake!”

Why do Americans always want to attribute something mundane and worldly to Christ and for His sake? I mean, really, is it for Christ’s sake that this early morning lush was searching so diligently for some booze? Anyway.

So, off he marched after screaming loudly enough to wake the dead.

I have some ideas that Mexico could do to stem the ever-increasing tide of displays of the Ugly American Syndrome:

First off, Mexico could pass a stupid tax. Americans who insist on acting like horses’ butts in Mexico would be charged $50,000 pesos for each incident. I think this is a grand idea for Americans acting stupid in America too! What do you think of that? This money could be used to improve the infrastructure of the Colonial towns (like where we live!). But, after the tenth commission of a stupid act (which will take about 2 days), Americans would be deported immediately and without recourse.

Second, Mexico could enact a drunken bum or boozehound tax. There would be an allowance of three times you could appear in public WITHOUT falling down before you they would start taxing you. This would be particularly profitable in Puerto Vallarta where American drink to excess day and night.

We were in a little place in Puerto Vallarta once for breakfast when this couple came in and had three rounds of beer before their scrambled eggs and hotcakes came. We were told (because we asked the manager) that this goes on all the time. Americans are constantly drunker than skunks and are falling down all the time.

We saw more 75-year-old plus men stumbling around town like drunken sailors trying to pick up young coeds. Mexico could make a killing in Puerto Vallarta and no doubt the other resort towns as well.

The highest tax would be for each incident of The Ugly American Syndrome. This means that, each time you do the following, the Mexican government will charge you a tax of $150,000 pesos:

1. Insisting on paying for something with dollars because you are too lazy (or stupid) to get them changed into pesos. This would really be a moneymaker for the Mexicans since Americans do this routinely.

2. Telling the waiter who brought you EXACTLY what you ordered that you wanted a REAL taco.

3. Shouting English at a Mexican vendor or salesclerk as though will miraculously change them into a bilingual person.

4. Cutting your finger and toenails while in public. (This not only will get you taxed but a good slapping as well.)

5. Loudness or obnoxious behavior that is so typical of Americans when they come to another country. For example, statements like,

“Gee are all Mexican women this fat?”

“It sure is filthy here.”

“Don’t they serve real beer?”

“These Mexican houses don’t suit our American tastes.”

“Don’t you know how corrupt your government is?”

And so on!

There is more, much more, and the Mexican government would have to publish a handbook with hundreds of examples of the Ugly American Syndrome to be fair to the visiting or expatriating American. Perhaps they could use Rick Steves’ Europe Archives: Ugly American Sightings as a template for their handbook for Ugly Americans!

Check it out at: http://www.ricksteves.com/graffiti/archives/ugly.html

Doug Bower is a freelance writer and book author. His most recent writing credits include The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, The Houston Chronicle, and The Philadelphia Inquirer, and Transitions Abroad. He lives with his wife in Guanajuato, Mexico. His new book, Mexican Living: Blogging it from a Third World Country, can be seen at http://www.lulu.com/content/126241

The Sad Truth About the Most Viewed Ezine Articles

Writen by Robert Crane

Having written a number of humorous and political ezine articles to kind of get my feet wet in this new frontier, I decided to see what other subjects are most often viewed. I’m inquisitive that way; besides, it might give me a hint as to what to write about if I want to inflate “my articles report” numbers in a shallow hope to pump up my deflated ego. So I did a search in Ezine for “most viewed”. Aha! A list called “The Top 30 Most Viewed Articles” came flying back before I could say, “The Iraq War”my obvious choice for top subject followed closely by “abortion”, “same sex marriage”, and “Angelina and Brad”.

All I can say is boy was I ever wrong.

If you want your articles to be read by the tens of thousands, in fact hundreds of thousands, you better know something about hair. Now if you are like me, you probably know little more about hair other than it grows if watered; not exactly enough to be an expert. But if you want to learn about hair so you can write about it with authority, skip the stuff on the top of your head, you want to jam all you can muster into that noggin of yours about the hair south of the border. That’s right! You want to educate yourself on female pubic hair, especially about those wily ingrown wascals.

Here’s why!

Fifteen out of top thirty articles are about hair: prom hair, men’s hair, Japanese hair, hair extensions, hot styles, long styles, blah-blah-blah. And out of the blah-blah-blah, six are specifically about female private hair maintenance and all its dastardly consequences. In other words, 20% of the thirty top viewed Ezine articles are about the science of removing female foliage. To make matters more interesting, all six articles are written by one author, I’m assuming a guy (first name Mike), who apparently woke up on August 4th, 2004 and had an epiphany about women’s pubic hair, submitting his half dozen articles on its removal and every possible resulting issue: waxing, shaving, razor burn, prevention tips, popping tips, you name it.

I want to say right now, God I had no idea!

Now, there are fifteen other articles that show no particular pattern of subject matter but nevertheless give me some hope. Skipping the obvious self-serving commercials for products to buy, the rest are pretty mainstream; you know, more like what one would expect: how to build a chopper, flipping houses, history of tattoos, history of body piercing, nude photography, how to make semen taste better, the usual stuff. I’m thinking one of those subjects is kind of exciting and might have potential for related research. My personal favorite though, which currently holds 20th place, reveals little known secrets to being invited as a guest on the Oprah Winfrey Show, something I long for.

But I can’t get this pubic thing out of my head; this apparent self-inflicted scourge sweeping our female population. And I thought the Bird Flu was nasty! Can’t you just trim down there with some scissors for CHRISSAKE and call it a day? Why oh why are you torturing yourselves so? Is it all that thong pressure from us lame-ass guys that’s pushing women to such masochistic measures? If it is, I for one say enough is enough! Holy mackerels, I apologize already!

Oh well, I’m left sitting here, my heart palpitating, pondering if maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree with this notion to be a popular writerif it means writing about ingrown pubic hair problems that is. And barring any sudden shift back to those god awful bathing suits from the Twenties or unseemly panty lines, it is unlikely this epidemic will end anytime soon, leaving this writing stuff to males and hair salon types who continue to have a prurient vested interest in all this.

Hmm maybe I’m better off inventing better tweezers because apparently a great tweezer in the hand is worth more than two lousy ones in the bush, so to speak.

This article was written by humorist Robert Crane. If you found it thought provoking or just plain idiotic, visit his popular website at http://www.cranelegs.com for a lot more!

What Are You In For?

Writen by John Dir

First off, I would like to say that our society should do a lot more than it does about making people aware of the consequences of their actions. Can you imagine being taken to prison in cuffs and leg irons, to spend the next 15 years of your life figuring out how you are going to pay off the $250,000 fine you will owe in restitution for your crime when you finally get out of jail? To make matters even worse, you discover on your first day in the big house that the guy you are sharing your cell with is a felon who has spent the last five years before you arrived working out to make his biceps look like tree trunks.

This big bruiser sits down on the bunk next to you, pats you on the head and says, “Hey sonny, what are you in for?”

The question causes your forehead to instantly explode with sweat, and before you can think, you mumble an answer to his question in a very subdued voice.

“Huh, I can’t hear you, precious,” replies the burly guy, giving the back of your hair a yank, and flicking your Adam’s apple.

You grab your throat, gasp for air, and repeat your answer louder this time, “I said I am in for copyright infringement!”

“Copyright infringement? What da hell is that?” asks the felon, giving your head another tug.

“I got caught by the FBI copying some tapes and DVD’s that I was not supposed to for entertainment purposes.”

Well, I do not think it is necessary for me to play out the rest of this scene for you. Every commercially produced movie in VHS and DVD format displays a glimpse of a pleasantly blue or red colored screen in fine print, outlining the potentially severe penalties for unauthorized reproduction of the media. To my knowledge, this little howdy screen is there for a minute, and almost universally ignored by viewers, who are busy noshing snacks or filling their drinks before the movie starts. People are waiting to be entertained, not to analyze the penal code for cryin’ out loud.

If the manufacturers really want people to consider the consequences of unauthorized reproduction, they should jazz up the warning screen to get people to pay more attention to the message. My suggestions for doing this would be to have sirens go off, play the theme song to “Cops,” or have a graphic of bars slamming shut, then reopening to reveal the text in pulsating large print of the warning. Maybe a voice pleading for mercy, or a scene of someone being dragged from a courtroom screaming, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know!” would hit home with the viewers. Considering the potential consequences, there should be a lot more work done to protect the rights of artists and the people who patronize their work.

You might think this is an alarmist viewpoint from a paranoid personality, but do not say I did not warn you when the FBI comes a knockin’ to take a look at that movie library you have so lovingly put together for yourself. If the FBI does come, you might as well go ahead take out a couple of them before they drag you off to jail. At least you will have a better story to tell your new bunkmate. Maybe Brad Pitt will come and visit you to find out how you liked his performance in “Troy.”

Director of Software Concepts BHO Technologists - LittleTek Center http://home.earthlink.net~jdir/

Ludlow Festival

Writen by Jackie Miller

His plays and adaptations have been performed in many countries and in many languages. Among the many adaptations Berkoff has created for the stage, directed and toured, are Kafka’s Metamorphosis and The Trial, Agamemnon after Aeschylus, and Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher. He has directed and toured productions of Shakespeare’s Coriolanus also playing the title role, Richard II, Hamlet and Macbeth, as well as Oscar Wilde’s Salome.

To quote Steven Berkoff, “Richard II is one of Shakespeare’s most lyrical plays, in that although Richard is a terrible king he is, conversely, a marvellous poet. As for so many of Shakespeare’s villains, their poetry improves as their fortunes decline. Richard is less a villain than a vain, greedy and self-obsessed king, who sees himself as England and exiles Bolingbroke his cousin as a potential threat. Like so much in recent history, merely being powerful would seem tantamount to demanding mindless worship and endless genuflecting. But kingship cannot be just given without a commensurate effort to be worthy of the office., which Richard obviously is not. His corruption eventually brings his downfall, as Bolingbroke returns with his followers to rid England of this weak and vainglorious parasite.”

Don’t miss this rare opportnity to see Shakespeare performed at it’s absolute best.

Jackie Miller

Just a reminder for anyone wishing to see Richard II directed by one of the leading figures in British theatre since the sixties, Steven Berkoff, to make contact with the festival box office as soon as possible on +44 (0) 1584 872150. Email: mailto:admin@ludlowfestival.co.uk

Colliers Hill (http://www.colliershill.co.uk)is the ideal venue for your conference, off-site meeting, product launches or just somewhere to meet away from the madding crowd. If you are planning an up-coming event that you want to base around a particular theme, then contact Jackie at Colliers Hill on 0044 (0)1299 832 247 - she will be delighted to help you with your planning.

Shirley Temple, I Still Love You!

Writen by John T Jones, Ph.D.

Shirley Temple was the big thing with the girls when I was a kid. If my sisters could generate a dime, they went to one of her movies. Being a boy, I was only interested in war and western movies. That is until puberty, when I was interested in war, westerns, and any movie starring a sexy woman. When “The Outlaw” came to our town, we snuck off to see it. Wow!

I mainly watched Shirley Temple movies with my kids on television. She was a cute little tyke with the cute dimples and all. Shirley also made some movies as a teenager. I’ve seen a couple of these on television and the first thing I noticed was that she talked the same way as she did as a child. Some director! Well, maybe that is the way she still talks. Anyway, I think that is what ended her career although I haven’t talked to her about it and I’m afraid to call her:

“Shirley?”

“Who is this?”

“John Jones, the writer.”

“I’ve never heard of you. Can I help you?” (She is always so sweet and polite, I think.)

“It’s not an alias, Shirley.”

“Same answer. What do you want, Mr. Jones?”

“Actually, it’s Dr. Jones.”

“Same answer. What do you want, Dr. Jones?”

“I wanted to ask you what happened to your movie career.”

“Nothing happened except, like all movie careers, it ended.”

I would be afraid to ask her about the child-like dialogue of her teenage movie era. I would say, “For the United States of America, I would like to thank you for your many years of service to our country, as Ambassador, White House Chief of Protocol wizard, and all that.”

“You don’t sound like a writer, Dr. Jones, but I thank you for your kind words anyway.”

That’s when she would hang up on me before I could ask her why Gerald Ford sent her as Ambassador to the Republic of Ghana.

He’s the president who made her White House Chief of Protocol, so I guess he made up for it.

Betty probably said, “Gerald, what in the hell is wrong with you, sending Shirley Temple to Ghana! You should have sent her to Kashmir. Next time, ask me first!”

He got the point, I guess. (Well, if you are not a Washington insider, you must guess.)

Anyway, Shirley Temple kept acting after her movie career. She was on television and the radio. Her second husband, Charles Black, was probably a major factor in her life in doing governmental service, but she has hobnobbed with all the presidents of her time and they would influence her too. (All except for Gerald Ford who sent her to Ghana.)

Shirley took her husband’s name. That impressed me. It showed she had class. She became a very mature, beautiful woman. She has made those wonderful contributions to our country. That is why we all love Shirley Temple Black.

You can read more about her at: http://www.kennedy-center.org/calendar/index.cfm?fuseaction=showIndividual&entitY_id=3814&source_type=A

Very personal P.S.: I really love you, Shirley Temple! John

copyright©John T. Jones, Ph.D. 2005

John T. Jones, Ph.D. (tjbooks@hotmail.com)is a retired R&D engineer and VP of a Fortune 500 company. He is author of detective & western novels, nonfiction (business, scientific, engineering), poetry, etc. Former editor of international trade magazine.

More info: http://www.tjbooks.com

Business web site: http://www.bookfindhelp.com (wealth-success books / flagpoles)

The Truth About the Great In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida LIE!

Writen by Ted Thompson

You know me. I tell only the truth in my stories. (Mostly.) So maybe this once I told a big lie, just so I could tell an even better story that’s actually true (mostly.) Was it worth the sacrifice of my very soul? You decide.

Jim Ottea and I had been cruising through Colorado for several days, he on his Yamaha FJR, me on my BMW K1200LT. After almost two weeks on the road, the trip was nearly over, but the fun was not. As far as we’re concerned, it’s not over ’til it’s over. People have been hurt trying to prove us wrong.

We’d been laying our bikes down low enough to kiss the pavement up near Telluride, traveling from Silverton to a little town called Ouray (pronounced “OO-ray”) where the cutbacks are sweet and the drop-offs are steep. The roads were so fine we spent two days on them, staying more than one night in a nearby town so we could play on Highway 550 again and again.

Winding down into Ouray on our last day in the neighborhood, I rolled out of the final hairpin and pulled up next to Jim on a road-side pull-off, with Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gada-Da-Vida blasting out of the speakers on the Beemer.

“How many times have you listened to that record?” Jim asked, possibly annoyed for having heard it blaring at the last 3 or 4 stops. (I’m also not sure he was completely comfortable with my wanting to play my ABBA CD whenever we’d pull up near Harley guys in their leathers and do-rags.)

“About seven,” I answered, “I just found it this morning in my CD case. Pretty nice stuff, huh? Ever hear this song?”

Jim snorted, and I continued, “The drum solo alone is good for 20 miles, even on these winding roads.” I cranked it up a little more for his listening enjoyment, just in time for the song’s big finish.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he winced, obviously jealous of my six-cd-changer. I shrugged, and we pulled back onto the highway and out of town, headed toward Gunnison and points east - the general direction of home, although neither of us wanted to face that ugly fact, not yet.

The next day we were on our way to raft the Royal Gorge, although we didn’t realize we were on our way to raft it, for conceptually, that adventure hadn’t yet occurred to us. We pulled into a little park where the Arkansas River storms past a wooden deck overlooking the water. On the platform stood a kid about 20 years old, snapping pictures of the white water rafters as they splashed along in the rapids below (to sell at outrageous prices when they returned to the rafting company’s headquarters.)

While Jim went back to his motorcycle, undoubtedly to see where he might be able to mount a six-cd-changer and 8-speaker sound system on an FJR, the young man and I chatted about his job and his cameras, about life in general and about nothing in particular,

“Hey,” the kid said to me, out of Jim’s hearing, “Anyone ever tell your friend he looks like a rock star?”

I leaned back against the railing, taking in the full warmth of the sun, and replied with nonchalance, “Funny you should mention that. Which one do you think he looks like?”

I already knew where I was going with this. I am the Bad Ted, and this was just too easy.

“Well, I’m not sure, but he looks familiar. He just looks like some rock star I might have seen somewhere.”

“Someone recently said he looks like Keith Richards,” I suggested. “You think?”

“Wow, yeah,” the kid agreed, animated now. “Hey,” he added, more hopeful than doubtful, “He’s not, is he? Keith Richards?”

“Nah,” I laughed. “But…” I drew it out as if I was hesitant to reveal A Really Big Secret, then relented.

“Ever heard of a band called Iron Butterfly?”

“Yeah…?” (”C’mon,” his eyes pleaded, “you’re going to tell me he’s someone really cool, aren’t you?! I KNEW it!”)

“Ever heard of a song called In-A-Gada-Da-Vida?”

“Yeah!”

“Jim played the drum solo on that song,” I confessed, with dramatic reluctance. “That’s Jim Ottea, man. That’s HIM!”

“No shit? WOW! Hey, I play drums, too.”

“Ask him for his autograph when he gets back, he’ll be glad to give it to you.”

About this time, Jim came strolling back along the wooden pier, and as he approached, I announced, “Jim, I told this guy you played the drum solo for Iron Butterfly on In-A-Gada-Da-Vida. Think he wants your autograph.”

We locked eyes. Jim gave me a look of disbelief — poor guy, he has a little trouble overcoming his own, deeply ingrained senses of honesty and justice and right.

“You gotta be kidding me,” his piercing eyes accused. “Nope, not kidding,” my conspiratorial wink replied, “You’re in on this, like it or not.”

“Sign an autograph for this guy,” I coaxed aloud, “He’s a drummer, too.”

Then I explained to the kid, “Jim’s embarrassed about that drum solo. Thinks it’s immature and childish, now. But believe me,” I assured him, “you can still learn a lot about rock ‘n roll drumming from that classic In-A-Gada-Da-Vida drum solo.”

I don’t know if that is true or not, I’m not a drummer — but to my credit, I thought perhaps it could be true when I said it.

“I can’t believe this,” Jim muttered. I don’t remember if he actually said it aloud or simply implied it with another piercing look of profound disappointment in me, but I was having none of that. The game was on, and it didn’t matter in any case — celebrities are known to be bashful and sometimes reticent. Jim’s acting squirrelly now could only enhance the charade.

The aspiring drummer produced paper and pen and even a clipboard, not believing his fine fortune on that happy day.

To his everlasting shame, Jim fell fully into the wicked spirit of the thing. His reluctance resolved quickly into alacrity. His eyes twinkling, Jim Ottea (Wow! the REAL Jim Ottea , it’s HIM, man!) graciously produced an autograph that could one day be worth hundreds, perhaps even thousands of dollars — if he ever actually does make something of himself.

Meanwhile, I grabbed the camera and captured the moment, while Jim, with bold hand and proud flourish, shamelessly autographed — HA! Get this:

Stick with it, kid.

Jimmy “Rotten” Ottea

Iron Butterfly

The two of them spent the next few minutes discussing the subtle differences between traditional drumming styles versus I don’t know what. I must say Jim held his own in the conversation, even though he hadn’t a clue what the hell this excited young fellow was jabbering on about. Mostly, “Jimmy Rotten” just nodded sagely and grunted in a manner befitting an accomplished professional. I was very proud of him in that moment.

And, of course, he offered the lad much encouragement. That’s important for young folks, and Jim is a caring sort.

Now, I should admit that before we left the scene, we told the kid the whole truth, explaining it was all intended as a harmless jest.

I should admit that, but I can’t, I won’t, we didn’t. We never confessed a thing. The way we saw it, why spoil a young dreamer’s big day, just to save our own miserable souls?

And now you know the truth about the lie. I swear.

Ted A. Thompson http://www.phfft.com

P.S. On our way home two days later, halfway across Kansas in 104 degree temperatures on the ungodly, flat, baking-hot, wearisome Interstate that cuts through the Midwest prairie, I pulled up next to Jim on my motorcycle, matching his speed at about 85 MPH.

I got his attention with my horn, grinned, and as he watched and wondered what I was up to, I put the Beemer on cruise control and pantomimed wild drumming motions with my arms, fists closed tightly around imaginary drumsticks.

It was a close call. Somehow Jim maintained control of his bike, but I almost lost my good friend to the evil Kansas asphalt.

Ted Thompson is a freelance writer living in Harrison, Arkansas

Old Sparky! Needlephobia, Nerve Conduction Tests, and Electromyelograms

Writen by Holly Jahangiri

I felt queasy contemplating the nerve conduction test and electromyelogram (EMG) I was about to have. The nerve conduction test involves taping electrodes to the skin and sending a small jolt of electric current to them. During the EMG, the doctor inserts tiny needles into various muscles and examines the signals displayed on a laptop screen to see how quickly they respond to stimulation. These tests help to determine if there’s any nerve impairment or damage. Now, I’m in no position to belittle anyone else’s phobias, but I must confess to feeling a bit resentful - they’ll give Valium to claustrophobic patients before a non-invasive MRI, but they just laugh when I suggest they might want to sedate needlephobic me prior to an EMG. “Oh, it’s not that bad,” they tell me.

I finally confessed to my husband just how apprehensive I was feeling, and suggested that if he felt inclined to come along and hold my hand, I wouldn’t object. He had another appointment across town, but promised he’d do his best to make it back in time to provide moral support. Unfortunately, I got to the doctor’s office a little early, and they took me back right on schedule! How often does that happen?

The nurse asked me to don a hospital gown, assured me that the test “wasn’t that bad,” then checked to see if my hand was warm. Warm? Fear doesn’t lead to warm hands. Fear leads to hands that are cold as a corpse. So for five minutes before the test, I had to soak my hand in a tub of hot water! I started to get chills throughout the rest of my body, but at least my hand was warm.

The doctor was pleasant and had a good sense of humor. He tried to distract me with soft music and laughter as I tried to explain to him how much more effective nitrous oxide might be. Meanwhile, the nurse was taping electrodes to various points on my arm and hand.

Zap! My fingers curled reflexively and my whole body responded with a sympathetic convulsion like a freshly-caught fish gasping for air. From the very first time I grabbed hold of one of those gags that delivers a shocking sensation when all you’re expecting is a friendly handshake, I’ve been a little leery of electric currents running through my body. It’s not exactly “painful,” but it’s not a sensation I’d seek out for kicks. The dastardly duo repeated this procedure several times, moving and re-taping the electrodes to vary the twitching in my arm and fingers. The good news? My results were “normal.” In layman’s terms, I guess a “normal” result is something in between my whole arm laying still as a dead mackerel and my hand curling up in a fist and punching the doctor in the nose. Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind. It would’ve been purely reflexive, mind you. Nothing personal.

The bad news? Since the results were normal, we got to go on to the EMG. If the results had clearly shown a problem, we might have been able to skip the next part. And to think I tried so hard to pass the first test!

Okay, so now I’m hyperventilating and the doctor is telling me to breathe. “Breathe?” I think. Sounds like some exotic foreign word. Oh, right, BREATHE. He sticks the first needle in. I whimper a little and start to tear up. I’m acting like a two-year-old. Objectively speaking, it doesn’t hurt all that much. No big deal. I’m cool. Oh, yeah - gotta remember to breathe.

The doctor finishes with the first probe and inserts the second. I can’t remember now whether it was the second or third - but the one on the inside of my forearm hurt like, well, my mother says that’s unprintable. It hurt. Twelve hours later, it still hurt.

I find I can’t breathe and talk at the same time. While he’s moving the needle around in my arm, the doctor asks, “How old are your kids?”

“Kids?” I have kids? “I don’t know,” I whimper, my voice barely audible. I don’t care, either. Just move the damned needle! “Twelve? Five? Something like that…”

“What’s your favorite radio station?” he asks.

“Oldies?” I gasp. Why do doctors always ask inane questions during unpleasant procedures?

“Okay, lift your right hand.” I comply. Anything to get this over with. “Now, move it around–” I move it around. “–see if you can pick up the Oldies station!”

I start to laugh hysterically. And cry. “You are a funny man, but I hate you, you know.”

“Almost through, and you’ll be cured of your fear of needles. Think of this as therapy!”

I’m thinking “go to hell,” and worse, but I just smile miserably. Soon we’re down to the last needle, the one he’s going to insert in my neck. He starts prepping the area with alcohol, then presses on the vertebrae one by one with his fingertips.

“Oh wait, please, stop - don’t touch me!” I turn over in a panic. The doctor assures me he’s going to insert the needle in the muscle tissue, not the spinal cord. I know that. But when you’re needlephobic, a needle you can’t see, anywhere near your spine, is twenty-five feet long and has sharp, rusty teeth.

“We can stop right now if you want to.” His voice is sympathetic. No more jokes. Oh, sure I wanted to stop, but then we’d either have incomplete results and an uncooperative patient on record, or I’d just have to muster the courage to come back and finish the blasted test.

“No, just do it and get it over with,” I mutter. I focus on trying to bite through my own lip as he slips the needle into my neck. I feel like the world’s biggest chicken.

Looking back on this whole ordeal, the probe in my neck is the one that hurt the least. I hardly felt it. And within a minute, we were done. The doctor informed me that I had some nerve compression and damage from the pressure in my neck, but no carpal tunnel syndrome. “Consistent with what the MRI showed,” he said.

“So, if the MRI showed it, then why did we just go through all this?” I asked. He explained that the MRI showed pressure on the nerve root, but didn’t show if there was nerve damage or the extent of it. As for the needlephobia, he pronounced me “cured.”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so,” I said.

“Nurse!” he called down the hall. “Schedule her for another ‘therapy’ session next week!”

“Okay, okay - I’ll lie. I’m cured. Hallelujah! You’re a miracle worker!” He smiled. I thanked him. I told him in no uncertain terms that while I thought he was a very nice, funny man and a good doctor, I hoped I never had to see him again.

Just as I was sitting up, getting ready to slip out of the gown and back into my t-shirt, my husband showed up. “In time to pick up the pieces,” as he put it. Does the man have good timing, or what? Just as well, I figured - he did show up in time to take me to a nice lunch (we hadn’t had a date in - how long?) and graciously listened to me whine about it all over again. I couldn’t very well have done that if he’d been there to witness it with his own eyes, now could I?

Holly Jahangiri is a professional writer who claims, tongue-in-cheek, to channel the spirits of Edgar Allan Poe, Erma Bombeck, and O’Henry. Holly is an author on Writing.Com (http://www.Writing.Com/), and you can buy her books at Lulu (http://www.lulu.com/hjahangiri).

Do I or Don’t I Need A Man

Writen by Alisa Chagnon

Being single certainly isn’t easy at times…maybe for you, it’s down-right unbearable. Each year that I get older, I feel more and more discouraged that I haven’t found “the one”. Maybe most of your friends are married (as mine are)…that just makes it worse. I don’t CARE if they’re miserable… they’re MARRIED! And if you’re saying to yourself that your perfectly fine being alone…are you being completely honest? Even if you have a great career, wonderful children, and/or a fantastic social life…there are those moments when we wish we had someone with us. For example, when there’s a mouse in your home. Now, that is a FREAKING EMERGENCY, in my eyes. One of the LAST things that I want to do on this GOD GIVEN EARTH is go head-to-head with a nose-twitching mouse. I’m one of those people that WILL jump on a kitchen chair, if I see a mouse. It’s done by pure instinct. I have NO control over these matters.

Same goes for a spider. I might be too lazy to EVER use my eliptical machine, but if a spider’s in my house, I’m jumping around and running as if my thongs are on fire. What about when something breaks on your car ? One of the WORST feelings is if you leave your house in the morning to go to work, and you see your car has a flat. At that point, I just go back inside, call Love Bulletin and tell them I won’t be in. If someone paid me a thousand bucks to properly change a tire, they would be keeping the money in their own pocket. Breaking down on the highway is no better. I don’t care about this “woman’s independence movement”… I jump out of my car and flag down a man! Even if I’ve called a tow truck, you’re DAMN RIGHT that I want a man near me while I wait. I’m not going to sit in my car or stand on the side of the road while lethal weapons are zipping by me. When do I need a man the MOST ? It could be when it’s that “time of the month”… That’s when we single woman could use a man…when we need him to run to the store to grab us tampons, as we lay in bed in pain. And while he’s at it, he could put away the laundry…you know…the clothes that have been sitting folded, on top of the dryer for about 3 weeks…and the kids and I just use the dryer top as a sort of closet.

When DON’T I need a man? Well let’s see…when Desperate Housewives are on TV. CERTAINLY don’t need him in the way of THAT, trying to steal the remote. And it’s always the same thing, “Honey, I’ll just flip through while the commercial is on”. Do they EVER really get you back to your show on time ? I KNOW I don’t need a man to see me eating Frosted Flakes at 2 am, while I am preparing my next article for Love Bulletin. I doubt I’d feel comfortable while he’s staring at my face. WHY? Because at night, my face is holding about 5 pounds of products on it. It’s AMAZING the weight of them doesn’t stretch my face out. Let’s see, there’s under-eye cream, 2 different adult acne medicines, face toner, wrinkle cream for my neck, wrinkle cream for my forehead and impending crow’s feet and let’s not forget the whitening stripes that I have stuck to my teeth. If you top all of that off with the 6 year old sweats I wear, I look like a real winner.

And …I guess… I dont need a man immediately… as I finish this column and think about my day tomorrow… I realize it will be filled with things I need to do…he’d probably just get in the way…I’ll be REALLY busy with work…I don’t really have much time for a man tomorrow…So, DO I NEED A MAN OR DON’T I ? I think I’ll leave THIS one up to God. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. Oh, and wish me luck that my car has four good tires on it tomorrow morning, huh ? Thanks!

An editorial piece written by LoveBulletin.com Sr. Staff Editor

This article and TONS of dating and relationship advice and be found on LoveBulletin.com. The Love Bulletin is a FREE and complete online magazine for all your dating, relationship, marriage and breakup information. Readers change the content daily, with their submissions in our Q&A, polls, and “fill in the blanks”. Sound and strong advice on ALL love topics. Special feature articles change weekly, always giving you something new to read. Here for you always, can’t-do-without checklists, heartbreak advice , how to know if your in love and more. LoveBulletin.com your one stop stop for all the love, relationship and breakup information you will EVER need to know.

Omnipotent Weapon Enlisted To Halt Nuclear Proliferation: The Almighty Dollar

Writen by Tom Attea

The Bush administration has finally turned in its battle against nuclear proliferation to the one Western weapon that is apparently downright omnipotent:The Almighty Dollar.

Washington has begun to employ the mighty new weapon to cut off Iran and North Korea from the international financial system.

As part of its devastating dollar-diplomacy, officials from the USA have met with banks overseas to warn them against doing business with Iranian and North Korean businesses that have been linked to the spread of nuclear materials and to the support of terrorist groups. In fact, the United States is threatening to bar American banks from working with financial institutions that do not hearken to the warning.

The Almighty Dollar has already flashed its lightning bolts. For example, last month American banks were barred from facilitating some transactions for a leading Iranian bank with reputed ties to terrorist groups.

And it appears that the weapon is already winning its first battles. For instance, experts say that some foreign banks are already cutting their ties with Iran and North Korea.

Of course, there are potential pitfalls in such mighty powerful unilateral action. But the administration is determined to proceed because it knows full well that the Almighty Dollar is the most powerful weapon in the national arsenal.

It also has the much appreciated benefit of only being explosive metaphorically.