Crouching Spider, Hidden Web

Writen by Amy Wink Krebs

An arachnophobic…one who believes that his/her world would do very nicely sans spiders. That’s me.

I admit I have no official diagnosis. It’s not as though I went to the doctor one day with strange spider-fearing symptoms and she said, “I’m sorry, Amy, but you have arachnophobia.” And yet there is no doubt in my mind that I fear spiders.

Phobias are like that. I understand, intellectually, that in the vast untamed wilds of Albany, New York, I will likely never encounter any spider that could actually harm me. But phobia-fear is not about logic or rationale. It’s about freaking out.

I know, I know…spiders are wonderful critters that eat yucky flies; spin lovely, mysterious webs and save poor, doomed piglets named Wilbur from untimely demises. But put one on my arm and I’ll morph instantaneously into a whirling dervish and blow out your eardrums with bizarre, multi-pitched half-screams reserved for just such an emergency. Then, after the spider has been flung from my arm, we’re talking 30 minutes of recovery time that involves checking the rest of my body thoroughly for any other possible hidden spider, shaking myself like a dog to dislodge said hidden spider, and scanning the immediate area in an intense paranoia that slowly wanes along with my elevated heart rate and blood pressure.

I spent much of my childhood and adolescence in the tireless pursuit and destruction of spiders. I have no traumatic spider-centric event on which to blame my phobia; it was simply always present. The very idea of the spider…so many different shapes, sizes, behaviors! Teeny brownish ones that crouch suspiciously in corners. Delicate gray ones that crawl with illicit purpose up walls. And worst of all - squat, black ones that jump without warning!

I didn’t mind them so much if they were outside and not too close - but a spider in the house was entirely unacceptable. There was no stay of execution for these hapless arachnids.

Ah, but the means of execution was a problem worthy of the great thinkers of our time. Once I spotted a spider, I of course could not APPROACH it (unless, by some blessed miracle, I found one on the floor and had great big boots on, in which case I would stomp on it heartily). Close proximity was dangerous and foolhardy.

Through necessity I became a brilliant strategist. Usually the spider would be planning its evil in an upper corner of the room - too high up to reach, even if I wanted to. Knock it down with a broom? No, that presented the possibility of its escape - or worse, falling on me. I would ball myself up on the end of the bed, staring it down, thinking…planning.

Finally a breakthrough. HAIRSPRAY! Being an adolescent of the 80s, I of course had plenty. And my technique seemed foolproof. Spray the spider from a safe distance and quickly retreat even farther away. The hairspray would paralyze the spider, making it fall and giving no chance of escape. And oh, it worked, all right. With great streaming streaks of hairspray marking the walls and ceiling. Once I used a lighter with the hairspray and actually torched a spider into oblivion.

Needless to say, my immaculate mother was NOT a happy woman.

Speaking of my mother: Why didn’t I simply yell for mom or dad to come and do the dirty deed? I tried, but to no avail. My mother had no patience for my phobia.

“Spiders aren’t hurting anyone,” she’d say with logic and certainty. “Just leave them alone and they’ll leave you alone.”

Yes, alone. No big brother or sister (or little one either, for that matter) to help. A father who may have helped but was in his own apartment since the divorce. A battle fought solo.

One day when I was 16, my worst fears came to fruition. I was in the shower with my head tipped back into the water to wash my hair. I opened my eyes for a moment and what I saw nearly made me lose the contents of my bladder. There was a spider traveling slowly but directly down on its little invisible Batman-wire RIGHT ABOVE MY HEAD.

My mother took the stairs three at a time when she heard the screams. Amy has fallen, she’s broken bones, bleeding on the floor, stabbed by an intruder!

When she flew into the bathroom she found me wrapped in a towel, tears streaming from my face, blubbering and shaking and doing the willie dance.

“WHAT HAPPENED? WHAT?!” she yelled.

My answer? A point to the shower stall, water still running. “A SPIIIIIIIIDER!” I wailed.

When I moved out two years later to attend college 90 miles away, I can’t say she cried a whole lot.

I always wanted to assuage my phobia, really I did. I’d heard somewhere that immersion is useful. You know, if you’re afraid of the water, jump right in - that kind of thing. But the idea of deliberately placing a spider on my person was out of the question. I worked for a pet store during summer break in college and thought perhaps I’d TOUCH their resident tarantula. Nope. No go. And yet I’d literally wear a baby ball python snake around my neck all day as though it were a necklace. No problemo. Gathering crickets from their tank to feed customers’ reptiles wasn’t easy (they’re pretty creepy-crawly too), but that’s another story.

I even had a car that seemed to present itself happily as a haven for wanton spiders. Constantly I’d find them setting up residence on the inside of the windshield. I had two or three near-death experiences while driving, trapped in the car with the object of my greatest fear. I seriously considered abandoning the car altogether one day when a spider crawled out of sight behind the dashboard. With all the sense of humor I could muster, I named this car Charlotte. Last year, I gave Charlotte away for a song and moved on to a (knock on wood) spider free vehicle I quickly named Samantha.

I did manage to get to the point where I could gather up half a roll or so of carefully wadded toilet paper, reaching my arm out as far as possible to mush the spider into the tissue and drop it lightning-fast into the toilet, flushing it to a watery grave. This technique got me through most of college without serious incident, though I still yearned for a partner in crime whom I could pay a buck or two to ‘rub off’ the offending spider.

Then came my after-college roommate and best friend, Gina.

Gina, Buddhist, friend of all creatures…including spiders. This, of course, presented a problem. I would scream spider and she would come running, but she would not kill.

“I’ll catch it and put it outside,” she offered.

Okay, fine. But often the quick little bugger would jump off the paper trap she’d fashioned and escape. And though I would retreat to a far room during this operation, she’d come in sheepishly and admit that the eviction was unsuccessful. Thus the liar clause was born.

“If you lose the spider, you have to tell me you got it outside,” I said demandingly, “and you have to sound convincing.”

To this day I have no idea how many of those spiders were actually evacuated from our apartment. I only know that my blessed mind was kind enough to believe the lies that I myself had created.

My sweet cat Sugar is nestled in my lap as I type this. Are there those who fear cats as I fear spiders? Is someone typing an article entitled “Crouching cats, hidden litter box” as they stroke their pet spider? I shudder to think of it.

Now I am married and living in our first house. My husband, just my luck, is another spider-lover. (Why all these defenders of spiders?) So far I’ve killed just two spiders here - not bad considering the house is 50 years old and comes complete with a basement, the traditional habitat for spiders of all shapes and sizes.

But I still have my moments. While setting up the finished portion of our basement for a surprise party, I saw the shadow of a spider in the corner. It was HUGE…but then, maybe the light was just making it LOOK huge. Gosh, where WAS it? I turned different lights off and on to try to determine which one caused the shadow. I cautiously peered around corners and behind fixtures, but to no avail. The shadow didn’t move at all and would not go away. Finally, I took down a container of plastic cups from the shelf - and lo and behold, the shadow disappeared. I put the cups back on the counter. The shadow came back. The shadow wasn’t cast by a spider at all, but rather the tuft of plastic gathered at the top of the cups container. Nobody witnessed this, so I relate this incident at the risk of being ridiculed mercilessly.

I know, however, that it’s a small price to pay to give a voice to the freedom fighters. Arachnophobics everywhere are living in fear of the eight-legged ones. The willies are alive and well, my friends. We need to join forces against the enemy! We need to gather people to our cause!

We need some serious therapy.

Amy Wink Krebs is an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Creative Writing. She is a freelance writer and eternal optimist living in upstate New York with one husband, one son, one cat, and three fish.

A Biography of KHIEU Samphan (PhD)

Writen by Vicheka Lay

Extraordinary chamber to try some of the top leaders during Democratic Kampuchea Regime; a regime that is accused of killing millions of Cambodian innocent lives, is on the process. This is probably the most heated topic from the government institution up to the general public. However, a prevailing fact that would dim “the justice prospect” for Cambodian people is that a huge number of the people do not even know the basic biography of those most responsible Democratic Kampuchea leaders to face trial, constituted of Cambodian and international judges.

Mr. KHIEU Samphan, one of the prominent leaders of many other Democratic Kampuchea leaders is due to face the foregoing extraordinary chamber; however, a huge number of Cambodian people, old and young, do not even have even a basic knowledge pertaining this man: This is the fact that I hypothesize that Cambodian prospect to justice is apparently faint. The entire contents of the following compiled essay will unveil KHIEU Samphan’s on-the-surface biographical details.

I. Childhood

Mr. KHIEU Samphan who is considered as brother number five, after SALOTH Sar (Pol Pot), NUON Chea, IENG Sary and TA Mok, is believed to be born July 27, 1931 in Svay Rieg province. He is the oldest son in the family. His father was a local judge. After a compulsory education in his hometown, KHIEU Samphan pursued his education to Sisowat High School in Phnom Penh. During his time, Sisowat or Preah Sisowat High School was believed to be the top high school in Cambodia. Only the uptown-class or outstanding students would attend this educational institution.

KHIEU Samphan’s childhood is not dramatically known, and until now, resources about his childhood are still inadequate and even unreliable. But he became better noted after winning the government scholarship to study in the University of Paris in Paris city, France.

Since his childhood, Mr. KHIEU Samphan was believed to be a “serious and good-natured” man, up to being entitled: A clean man. Because of these outstanding personalities, he was granted with government scholarship to pursue his studies in Paris, France, up to achieving Doctor of Economics. It was from here, the University of Paris, that Max Lenin ideologies have been inserted into Cambodian intellectuals who latter became leader of Democratic Kampuchea. History has told that the universities in Paris have created most of the Cambodian intellectuals.

Pursuant to American sources, Mr. KHIEU Samphan was reported to be one of the most outstanding students amongst his generation. Other astoundingly outstanding students in KHIEU Samphan’s generation including HOU Yun who mastered Economics and Law. Mr. HOU Yun (born 1930) was classified as the astoundingly physical and intellectual person and another genius was Mr. SON Sen who red education and literature.

II. Studies in Paris and Doctoral Thesis

Mr. KHIEU Samphan granted his Doctoral Degree in Economics from the University of Paris, a world-wide recognized university in humanity and materialistic and ideological invention.

KHIEU Samphan who was one of the pivotal members of Khmer Student Association in Paris selected a doctoral thesis, entitled: “Cambodia’s Economy and Industrial Development” and successfully defended this thesis. His Doctoral Degree in Economics was granted during the 1950s.

It can be brief that his doctoral thesis sided with national self-reliance. From deeper analysis into his doctoral thesis, more personalities of KHIEU Samphan would be more understandable. KHIEU Samphan accused the rich countries that have advanced industrialization are the factors to make the poor countries poorer. The core of hi doctoral thesis, was that he supported “dependency theory.” So what is dependency theory?

Dependency theory is the body of social science theories by various intellectuals, both from the Third World and the First World, that create a worldview which suggests that the wealthy nations of the world need a peripheral group of poorer states in order to remain wealthy.

Dependency theory states that the poverty of the countries in the periphery is not because they are not integrated into the world system, or not ‘fully’ integrated as is often argued by free market economists, but because of how they are integrated into the system. The premises of dependency theory are:

-Poor nations provide natural resources, cheap labor, a destination for obsolete technology, and markets to the wealthy nations, without which they could not have the standard of living they enjoy.

-First World nations actively, but not necessarily consciously, perpetuate a state of dependency through various policies and initiatives. This state of dependency is multifaceted, involving economics, media control, politics, banking and finance, education, sport and all aspects of human resource development.

-Any attempt by the dependent nations to resist the influences of dependency will result in economic sanctions and/or military invasion and control.

The doctoral thesis herein is believed to be strictly adopted into political administration of Democratic Kampuchea. Not only the KHIEU Samphan’s doctoral thesis, HOU Yun’s doctoral thesis entitled: Cambodian peasants and their prospects for modernization, is also believed to have great influence on general policy of Democratic Kampuchea (DK).

Though these two doctoral thesis became the perils of Democratic Kampuchea’s political administration, these two people are yet to be accused of being the mastermind of the sins committed during DK’s reign. Yes, would mean their doctoral thesis intended to extinguish million of Cambodian lives and No, would mean the head of the Democratic Kampuchea may exaggerate the contents of the thesis or scapegoat the two intellectuals.

Because the intellectuality of Cambodian people who graduated from universities in Paris during the 1950s, Cambodia was praised as the first communist country that was led by intellectuals, in Asia. III. Group of Khmer Students in Paris (Initiation of Political Ideology)

During the 1950s, Cambodian students who were studying in different universities in Paris, integrated to establish their own communist movement and this movement was believed to have very little connection with their home government. So of the returned members of this movement returned to their home countries and took up political leadership positions in DK government, including KHIEU Samphan, POL Pot, IENG Sary, to name just a very few. It was from this movement: Khmer Student Association, that KHIEU Samphan was converted into an all-out communist. The involvement of Cambodian students who returned from universities in Paris was to set up a movement to combat against LON Nol and Prince Norodom Sihanouk where were deemed as corrupt and egoist. Such the movement of these students was then improve to a regime, called “Democratic Kampuchea.”

IV. Political Life

KHIEU Samphan arrived back in Cambodia in 1959, with a doctoral degree in Economics from the University of Paris. Immediately after his arrival in Cambodia, he took up a position in the Faculty of Law in Phnom Penh; simultaneously, establish a French-language journal entitled, L’observateur. This journal strongly sided with the leftist. The purpose if this journal was to better the social justice and other field of humanity in Cambodia during that time. But this never resisted him from commitment to Cambodian social justice. It was from this journal that KHIEU Samphan won great popularity from the public, especially the students. However, this journal did not survive long; it was closed just after one year, KHIEU Samphan was arrested and undressed in the public by Prince Norodom Sihanouk.

After the coupe in 1970, Prince Norodom Sihanouk collaborated with other Khmer communists, including his former enemy: KHIEU Samphan, to resist against LON Nol government. In this coalition government, KHIEU Samphan was nominated as the Deputy Prime Minister, Minster of National Defense and the Commander-in-Chief of the Coalition Government. It was from these political events that KHIEU Samphan climbed to the top positions within the Democratic Kampuchea regime.

His political life during the Democratic Kampuchea era (1975-1978) was hard to unveil, due to the fact that confidentiality and secrecy were the leadership strategies of the DK leaders.

KHIEU Samphan is now living in his last military stronghold: Pailin Municipality, the province in the most west of Cambodia, bordered with Thailand. He is also under the guardianship of his brother-in-law IENG Sary’s soldiers.

V. Students Talk Trial with Ex-KR Leaders in Pailin

Extracted from The Cambodia Daily, Friday, August 26, 2005 A group of university students canvassing villages to conduct interviews about the Khmer Rouge regime and distribute information about the long-awaited tribunal ended up in unlikely conversations with former Khmer Rogue leaders Khieu Samphan and Nuon Chea in their Pailin Municipality homes last week.

Graduate student and Documentation Center of Cambodia intern Huy Vannak organized the group for a planned distribution of the documents in Pailin. And despite their apprehensions at bringing Khmer Rogue tribunal literature to the foremost former rebel stronghold, the group decided to seek out the aging communist leaders’ at their homes.

“I thought because of security and cooperation we should not go to the Khmer Rouge stronghold,” Huy Vanak said Thursday. “I told myself we should not fear the Khmer Rogue. During the Khmer Rouge regime they tried to frighten my mother, to frighten everybody. I have learned a lot. Khmer rouge are not tigers. They are human beings.”

The group went to Khieu Samphan’s house near the eastern side of central Pailin, but were initially rejected despite a polite “chum reap sour” and assurances that they were students, not journalists. Khieu Samphan, former Democratic Kampuchea head of state, eventually acquiesced and asked them to return later in the afternoon.

Next, the students went to find Brother No 2 Nuon Chea, who lives about 300 meters from the Thai border in Brother No 3 Ieng Sary’s son-in-law’s house, surrounded by his children and grandchildren. “[Nuon Chea's] wife asked us ‘who are you, and where do you come from?”" Huy Vannak said. “We told her we are students and we ant to learn about Pailin. She said, ‘grandfather is sleeping, but it’s ok, you can talk to him.”"

Nuon Chea emphasized religion in their talk, and denied that religion had been suppressed under the Khmer Rouge.

He maintained that people were just busy building the country and so could not give alms, so monks were forced to feed themselves.

“I think Mr. Nuon Chea is open-minded, but when he answers it’s not so good,” said group member Ean Sopheap. “When I asked him questions, he looked at other people when he answered.”

“I never expected that I could meet a Khmer Rouge leader,” Ean Sophea added. “I was born in 1980.”

The students returned to Khieu Samphan’s home in the evening. “I feel that Khieu Samphan is a trustworthy and gentle man. He is an intellectual from what I know,” said another member of the group, 22-year-old student Chheng Koemseng. “My parents used to tell me that Pol Pot’s men were very cruel, but when I met them face-to-face. I felt they are just old men, like my grandfather.”

However, Huy vanak was less than sympathetic. “The two guys told us only a small chapter of the history. We need more answers from them. Why did they give people less food? Why did they evacuate people? Why did they kill people? They said they did not know about the killing. How could they not know?”

The students discussed the tribunal very little with the aging Khmer Rouge leaders, but Khieu Samphan didn’t seem worried.

“Khieu Samphan said if they have a tribunal people will not be happy, because he is an honest guy and has devoted everything to the country, and people would not be happy with the court’s decision,” Huy Vannak said. “I almost told him people would [still not be] happy if the court cut him into two million pieces.”

Lay Vicheka is a translator for the most celebrated translation agency in the Kingdom of Cambodia, Pyramid Translation Co.Ltd.. He is now hoding other two professions: freelance writer for Search Newspaper; focusing on social issues and students’ issues and Media Liaison Officer for Asia’s first free on-line IELTS consultation website. Lay Vicheka is the expert author for ezine and prolific article contributor to other websites around the world such as articlecity, 365articles, spiderden, talesofasia, etc (Just google him). He is also a volunteer Cambodian-newspapers columnist (Rasmey Kampuchea and Kampuchea Thmey). Lay Vicheka has great experience in law and politics, as he used to be legal and English-language assistant to a Cambodian member of parliament, migration experience (home-based business) and in writing. He is also member of a New York-based research company. Posting address: 221H Street 93, Tuol Sangke quarter, Russey Keo district, Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Tel: 855 11 268 445, vichekalay@yahoo.com

How A Head Cold Got Me Married

Writen by Karen Peralta

Now that I’m really settled down for bad or good, I can’t help but reflect on my lengthy past as a happy-go-lucky single. How can I forget the many bizarre, crazy, and benighted times I’ve misled myself into a man’s twin loving arms, and how very much I miss loving every minute of it? How?

Why, I squirm as if caught in a velvet trapwell, I could, but my husband is standing right behind me and might ask me what I’m sitting on.

Yes, it’s been nothing but high misadventure for me, especially since I lost my extremely brave and sincere first husband, a wonderful Austrian-American Jew, to combined MS and cancer on February 23, 1985.

I loved him so mucheven after more than a dozen intensive, fascinating, and downright roller-coaster relationships before then, my first real commitment, he was still the only man I ever truly loved (Remigio, stop looking at this over my shoulder!)

Anyway, several eventful years and as many nerve-wracking, tumultuous, and sanity-defying relationships later, I landed in the plastic schoolroom seat in front of Remigio, my future second husband, in a five-week Certified Nurse Aide class held at a nursing home near Northgate in Seattle, next to a merrily perking and brewing coffee pot. Innocent and unknowing, I was headed for yet another high-pitched roller coaster ride.

All my relationships, especially as an adult, have been crazy ones. My first husband thought he lucked out marrying his sexy young attendant. In his early thirties, Gary was dying horribly, often in great pain, and I was forced to fall deeply in love with his stubborn courage and what was ebbing away of his once trim and athletic youthful body. He was the first person who truly needed, wanted, and loved me. His courage lasted completely, until the very end. Oh, how I have missed his loving, gentle arms.

After he died, I had several wild, bitter and tragically brief affairs. If I ever write about everything that happened, it would make three or four excellent trashy novels. Whatever, it was fun being single again, a vast relief from the hours of watching over Gary’s dying and emaciated form.

But Remigio stopped my new single life cold simply by kicking the frail back of my chair in CNA classHARD! He received all my undivided attention, distracting me from talking to a fellow classmate, a middle-aged black lady. He caught me in the middle of accidentally sniffing at her. I apparently was coming down with a major head cold.

Really, I would like to think ’twas because he preferred the pretty, teasingly mid-calf length crisp white skirt I was wearing for the first time in class to the pretty much bulkily pantaloned, overweight, and married other female denizens of our class. Well, Grace, the middle-aged black lady, was only sitting pat. A hard worker of several years standing, she was being “grandfathered in” as a CNA, but still had to take the class.

Remigio may have been trying to protect her from me, as I’d been sniffling at her for the last three or four sessionssuch was vengeance from Karen the Terrible. SNIFF !!

Grace was sitting to the right front, I was seated to the rear left, and as I’d recently had an extremely weird experience involving three black men and a basketball, I was fitfully “taking it out” on Grace. I was casting her sidelong glances, and sniffing loudly, intermittently and guiltily considering fetching her a hot cup of coffee as the pot was brewing closer to me than her. It would have been hard for her to squeeze between the seats and fetch herself a hot, fresh cup. I began getting her some coffee.

Sometimes I added creamer. I even stirred it with the little red plastic stir sticks. She finally asked me to add a sugar packet, please.

She liked the coffee, but our distantly commiserative relationship as two ladies of nursing was rudely interrupted by the rapid-fire entrance of Remigio’s sneakered foot through the reverberating back of my nearly shattering cheap plastic chair. I’ve lovingly saved the black marks on the back of my white nursing jacket for years.

Turning around, right after the “kick-off,” I astonishingly faced a middle-aged, awfully hate-ridden, and flatly Hispanic cold stare. This angry face, however, reminded me of a similar nut-brown countenance, a Middle-Eastern teacher I’d been attracted to ‘way back at Ohio University in 1978. Said chap always mispronounced the word “equilibrium” in a characteristic accent that could shatter a glass retort. He explained the rules of physical science to us neophyte med students in as high of a pitch as he could muster, but it was musical and alluring somehowand this kicky guy behind me looked a lot like him.

Remigio turned out to be a quite engaging and multi-talented Philippino/Hawaiian import, a seventh-degree black belt martial arts expert, a fabulous chef of all regional cuisines and one heck of a lip-locking rugged kisser, in approximately that order. I was an artist and writer of long standing who needed some work “on the side,” so I’d decided to take a Certified Nursing training course and move in with a little old lady I knew who needed the help. It was a great free way to continue with my career without interference. But now this new guy had shown up in my life. What can you do when they come at you from behind like that? I tried out assuming there was something nice about him.

He gradually broke down in his enmity towards me, merrily chasing me to the bus stop in his beat-up old blue and white pickup truck. He soon followed me home, and Mommy said I could keep him. Actually, “Mommy” was that little old lady, Carrie, a disabled, fellow “freckly” dwarf (you could spot her) I was working for and living with at the time. She needed extensive in-home care, and Remigio went right to work helping us move into a larger apartment, even cooking and cleaning for us. I scarcely had to lift a finger; Remigio was simply everywhere, driving us to church and generally relieving me of my cares and woes until Carrie abruptly died, peacefully in her sleep. Well, possibly those Catholic nurses gave her a lethal injection. She may have been wandering around at night and screaming her lungs out. She had a very bad knee problem, and had kept me awake nights frequently with it. Again, what can you do?

We married a week and a day after Cinquo de Mayo, 1991. We’re still madly in love, and near Christmas day of 1994 we were blessed by a Pinay from Heaven, our little princess Angela, nut-brown as her Daddy and sporting my chipmunk cheekbones. Yes, Remigio is crazy about me now. We should be okay, as long as they don’t use the nets.

This incident may be the only time in history that a cold-stricken gal every attracted a lonely, jealously protective guy through being an apparently obvious, blatant and coffee-fetching sniffing presumed bigot. Bigots and non-bigots alike, take note.

I guess I’d suggest that more single white ladies, and any other intrigued parties, try sniffling (or sniffing) at nearby black people to see whose attention they furtively attract. Of course, you may inadvertently attract a black person, which might work out quite well for you, especially if they happen to be an excellent cook — as the husband of a friend of mine (who used this method) turned out to be. Hope that he or she has a sense of humor. Or, believe in whatever powers that may be.

If so, it helps a lot if you fetch them some coffee. It soothes their tired, ruffled feathers. Seems some folks are more descendants of birds than lizards.

Be sure and add some cream and sugar.

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Are You Embarassed by Your Civil War Uniform Impression?

Writen by Paula McCoach

“Authentic,” “authentic,” “authentic” is all you hear if you are new or a hard core reenactor. You look all over to find period Civil War Uniform articles. But when you finally get them, do you feel like you know what to do with them?

Following are some researched tips on how to wear your Civil War Uniform once you have gathered it all together:

*Civil War soldiers wore their haversack and canteen on the left side. A typical soldier’s haversack included a pipe kit, tobacco, coffee, a sewing kit, rations, personal photos and letters.

*Purchase an inexpensive shirt from a sutler. Learn how to do a little bit of stitching - all you need to learn is a basic running stitch. Top stitch around the pockets, cuffs, collar and give the shirt a more authentic look with the hand stitching. Your $20 shirt is now worth $100.

For a definitive book on the Civil War Uniform, ECHOES OF GLORY contains accurate pictures and descriptions of arms and equipment of the Civil War.

*When Confederate and Union soldiers were on the march, keeping clean was difficult. Camping by a stream was a chance for them to wash some of their clothes as well as themselves. To add some authenticity to your impression at a reenactment, pin your socks to your uniform and dry them out, as they would have done. Sling your shoes over the other shoulder and go barefooted. You know barefooted soldiers were a very common site, especially in Lee’s army.

*Civil War Reenacting is one of the few hobbies where buying used items is actually more desirable that buying new. Soldiers in that era wore uniforms for 4 years daily! No one had on new clothing. So, if you have a choice between new and used - go for the deal. Civil War Reenacting is one of the few hobbies where the longer you have a piece of clothing, a haversack, a hat - the more valuable it is - and then you can resell it at no extra charge for the wear and tear!

*Confederate and Union soldiers were hard core coffee drinkers. Therefore,tin cup was a vital part of their haversack gear. The Tin Cup was also used as a coffee pot to make coffee and then used as a cup to drink coffee.

*Due to the hard campaigning done by the Civil War Soldier, pants would usually last about 1 month before they started to get ragged or, as the Victorians would say ‘tattered’. Jackets would be ‘tattered’ within about 2 months on the march. A word often used to describe their uniforms was ‘rubbed out’ not worn out, as we would say in modern times.

© 2003

About The Author

Coach McCoach has been a Civil War reenactor in the 4th North Carolina Infantry, 2nd Virginia Regiment, and 21st Virginia Company B. Coach has received the “Authenticity Award”from these companies several times for his Civil War Uniform Impression. Coach’s Civil War uniform designs have been seen in the movies GETTYSBURG, Antietam Visitors Center, ANDERSONVILLE. Coach’s famous Civil War cookbook HARDTACK, CORNBREAD AND CHILI contains recipes for reenactments as well in your own home kitchen. For more information, contact coach@civilwaruniforms.net.

For more information, contact coach@civilwaruniforms.net.

Permission granted to reprint this article in print or on your website so long as the paragraph above is included and the contact information is included to coach@civilwaruniforms.net.

My Presidential Slogan: I Shall Go To Korea!

Writen by John T Jones, Ph.D.

I decided the reason my presidential campaign never got off the ground during the last presidential election was because I never had a slogan. For this campaign I will not make that mistake again. I took immediate action to find a slogan.

Being a direct mail and mail order marketer I realize that any such slogan must be tested to see if it is effective. One trick we use is this: We steal other people’s headlines and slogans if they fit our situation.

The fact of the matter is that I needed a proven slogan; one that had actually gotten somebody elected to President of these United States. I decided to steal President Eisenhower’s slogan: I shall go to Korea!

Ike never said what he would do once he got to Korea.

I’m sure it was not what I was doing in Korea in 1951-1952 which was dodging Chinese artillery and mortar shells.

Maybe if Ike had used the words I will go to Korea! somebody would have asked him what he would do there. Shall left no doubt in anybody’s mind that Ike would nuke North Korea and Manchuria to boot!

In advertising you don’t want to tell the reader of your slogan too much. Read some history about Ike and his slogan at http://tinyurl.com/mc2ot

Ike’s opponent was the very bright Adlai Stevenson from Illinois. Adlai was an elegant speaker. Unfortunately he used big words that most Americans had never heard before.

Here is what Adlai said in his acceptance speech at the Democratic Convention: None of you, my friends, can wholly appreciate what is in my heart. I can only hope that you understand my words.

So he knew he had a problem. Read his speech at http://tinyurl.com/mjub7 Of course hardly anyone understood his words or his deep thoughts. He may as well have been talking to a pile of cucumbers.

Ike supporters wore badges that said, I like Ike!

Well, the fact did not help Adlai that even those of us who understood Adlai Stevenson’s speeches and voted for him, actually liked Ike.

My dad was a county commissioner in Utah and President of the Democratic Sage Brush Club. He lost his reelection because of the Eisenhower Landslide. He got more votes than any other Utah Democrat but that didn’t help. Eisenhower took more electoral votes than any man in history. Even the Democratic South voted for him. See http://tinyurl.com/9xqqc

Adlai Stevenson was the antithesis of our current President Bush. He would have made a great president if someone other than me had voted for him. I knew that he would lose the election. I voted for him so he wouldn’t look unqualified to be President.

I didn’t have to do that for President Bush.

Anyway, I’ve got to get out of here. The postman just brought my 2 1/4″ Bench Press Button Maker System. Those of you campaigning for my election can find a button maker on the Internet. Make sure you buy a big supply of blanks to go with it.

Here is what each button (badge) should say: I like Taylor Jones, the hack writer!

Also make some buttons that say: Taylor Jones, the hack writer, Shall Go To Korea!

You might have to get a bigger button maker for that.

Well, just make some buttons that say:Send Jones to Korea!.

That will have Kim Doo-bong (1948-1957) and Choi Yong-kun (1957-1972) rolling over in their graves, and Kim Il-sung (since 1972) will be shivering in his rocket-propelled nuclear boots.

John T. Jones, Ph.D. (tjbooks@hotmail.com, a retired VP of R&D for Lenox China, is author of detective & western novels, nonfiction (business, scientific, engineering, humor), poetry, etc. Former editor of Ceramic Industry Magazine. He is Executive Representative of IWS sellers of Tyler Hicks wealth-success books and kits. He also sells TopFlight flagpoles. He calls himself “Taylor Jones, the hack writer.”

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

Business web site: http://www.aaaflagpoles.com

Mr. Chemistry

Writen by Andy Carloff

Drug dealer. Such a profound term. One who deals in drugs. Not only the selling, but often the trading, using, and producing. It’s not just some homeless guy on the side of the road trying to sell crack for some drug lord, just so he can have a place to sleep. Nowadays, it’s some 17 year old punk, carrying a book of acid and a pound of weed, all wrapped up in tin foil and plastic, and at home, his bathtub is full of sugar, water, 50 mashed organges, and 10 packets of yeast. Ask him about it and he’ll say, “Technically, it’s still alive when I drink it, but I just pour more water in there when it starts to run low, and it’s like a Jesus: turning water to wine, just on a slower and less tasteful method.” He’ll have a repetoir of legal and illegal highs, ways to dodge prosecution or arrest when police inquire. “What? You found a meth pipe? Oh, my god… Are you serious? That’s what he was doing. Oh, man. My friend was with my bag. That fuckhead must have put it there.” Five hours detainment while your body is dehydrating from the speed, and then you’re a free man. Everyday was walking on a tightrope of the law. In a pill or a bag, I am holding a piece of heaven that lasts 8 hours. One day, I make $170, the second day, I hop two fences after making a $20. We’re living on the fringes of poverty in the ghetto, struggling to make a living. I guess I provide a rather important industry. I help people forget they are here.

It is not uncommon. One day, I am facing someone who gives me their last $25. Maybe they intended for it, but their next four hours were their last. And as much as I felt that I was a slave to this system, I felt free, too. Free of starvation, free of bruttish conditions. Yes, I have been shot at by cops and other dealers. One time, four kids tried to jump me for my shit. I had to stab one to get them to realize that I wasn’t a push over. As dangerous as it was, I had a life. I had a living. I could survive in this horrible place, wracked with misery as much as it was. And, honestly, I called it a home. There is something prophetically human about this profession. A friend of mine was on a bad acid trip. He kept shaking. I let him stay in my room. He kept talking about police, not making much sense. I gave him a blanket and put on soothing music. Next morning, I found out thath someone tried to burn down a department store, what cops called, “seemingly from a drug user.” I remember holding his shaking hand, kneeling down to him. “It’s gonna be okay,” I said, “Don’t worry about it, you’re safe here.” He sort of calmed down and I let him stay. I suppose I also harbored a criminal, but that never bothered me. I have my own definition of legal and illegal.

The kids or old wash up junkies I sell to, they are hardly stereotypical. I have seen couples come to me, and say that they want ecstacy, something to increase their love for each other and experience it through new channels. They were young and poor, but they still had more than many others. I’ve had junkies come up to me for a fix of meth so they could be up for a fourth day. Burnt out, shaking, destroyed body, otherwise dysfunctional brain, and worst of all, coming down and in tears, “Please, please, just give me some tweak…” Begging with their last dolars. I sold to him of course. He had cash. And, as much as I would love to be able to give it away for free, I need to survive myself. Twelve year old street urchins come up to me and ask to buy LSD, handicapped men on Social Security ask me for Codeine. Artists and Musicians flock to buy absinthe, and they finish off a bottle and stay up to 6 AM talking on a city bench, flesh turned to fucking ice, drinking a cup of coffee that has been empty for the past forty five minutes.

I suppose by now, it is obvious to tell that I have a particularly keen observation of my environment. Unlike other deals, I don’t spend my profit on a new pimping car or a mansion — and the only dealers who could get that are coke lords and heroin merchants. The rest are on the fringes of poverty. One of my hobbies, I can confess that I love the beauty of the human face. It may seem like a fickle or otherwise shallow enjoyment. I look to the face of a girl walking down the street, see a smile, and as I feel my entrepenurial spirit crushed, I find something beautiful and unique. Some homeless child struggles for warmth on a city bench, his face with a stone-cold expression, as he pulls a hood over his face, with little eyes peering at me. In some other life, my current one completely forgotten, I imagine I would be an artist. I am not one now, but I remember during my last year of school my art class (apparently 8th grade). One student was exceptional, and the teacher allowed him to do as he pleased. He used flint, charcoal, a variety of inks and paints. On those solemn nights as I try to fall victim to sleep’s claws, I fantasize using the complex tools of art to capture the smile or anger of a person. But, just a dream, nothing I’ve told to anyone.

Asside from this one hobby of mine, I can admit that I enjoy poetry. The resurrection as faded love through columns of words, I can feel more free than I have ever before. Perhaps itis the human instinct to seek out what we do not have. In poetry, nothing is written of the tringiness of the ghetto, the life and death horrors that every man in poverty must face. Yes, poems about it are written, but not those prior to 1800. For the same reason I find necessity in trying to escape the hardened life of a drug dealer, I can see a yuppy reading “Treasure Island” or some other adventure-based novel. For myself, it is Thoreau, Tennyson, Shelley, Rousseau, Emerson — anyone who put on paper some thoughts that were original, creative, honest. Unlike my hope fo being an artist, this hobby of poetry was shared and expressed with contemporaries. They seemed to regard it not with animosity, particularly curiosity, uncomfortability, or any other xenophobic thought, but they just considered it as another part of who I was. I suppose that it was the tolerance all of us must have for each other, under such horrible living and working conditions. So, what a man does in his own home, is his own to consider.

In this line of life, I get a variety of awkward requests. For certain chemicals, people request that it’s not in getabs, but just in powder. Some people want it dissolved in alcohol. PCP on Marijuana, freebased cocaine (crack), freebased AMT, DMT,or DiPT. Or perhaps an intensified powder that will give potent effects by just being in the same room as it. There would be one day where I receive a very awkward request.

“I want you to make me die,” she said.

I’ve heard this before, but only from friends and colleagues who were witty. “Give me 20 hits of meth, and take a month off my life.” But, no, this girl knew who I was, because she knew my customers, and she wanted help in suicide.

“I don’t know,” I said. I’ve been in fights before with people for trying to sell heroin in the wrong areas. Helping someone die might be just as bad.

“Please,” she said, “I know people who told me you could help.”

“Look,” I said, “If you have a problem with your parents, just try to settle it with them. If it’s your boyfriend, get a new one. I’m not interested in murdering anyone.” I let her know straight out that I didn’t want to partake in this and I wasn’t being open-minded about it at all.

“Listen,” I need a drug to kill me and I need some place to take it,” she said.

“You want to take it in my apartment?” I asked, “Sure, like I don’t get enough attention by the cops. Now I’ll have a corpse on my floor.”

“I have $600,” she said.

“It might be possible,” I said, as I scratched my chin.

We walked back to my room. “Put the money on the table,” I said, “I have to make a phone call.” She did as I asked.

“Hey, Johnny,” I said on the phone, “What’s up, man? Hey, you think you can help me move a body? Yeah, I know the normal fee. Sure, sure, come later tonight. Peace, brother.”

“Can I ask why you’re doing this?” I said, as I picked up the money.

“Several parts of my life are a mess,” she said, “Bad parents, bad boyfriend,” she grinned at me with some wit.

“Hey,” I said, “Don’t get cute on me. After all, I do have to kill you.” She nodded with a smile and I started counting the cash. “So, really, why are you doing this?”

“The reasons are my own and my own to –”

“Hey, there’s only $450 here,” I saidd, looking up, “Where’s the other $150?”

“That’s all I have,” she said, “It’s everything.”

I had to make a decision. Help her die or let her go with her cash. As a drug dealer, it decently pisses me off that someone says they have cash for something but end up not having it, or having half. Sometimes they offer the argument that they’ll get me back, but that’s bullshit. They’re addicted to a substance they can get from anyone. The next five dollars to hit their palm will go to another dealer, not to pay debts. Unlike these people, this girl couldn’t do that. She was not going to be around next week.

“Well, fine,” I said, “I suppose we can still do this… Sit on the bed.” I sat down at my desk and pulled a coffee filter out of the trash can, and opened it on my desk. It was ful lof a wet, green powder.

“What’s that?” she asked, trying to look over my shoulder.

“It’s a toxin byproduct that comes from making high grade methamphetamine,” I said, as I started to fill the gelcaps with it, “It’s not painful, unlike most toxins, but it is by far more lethal.” I started to fill some with basil, which helps stomach digestion.

“Are these band lyrics?” she asked, referring to the paper on the wall.

I turned around, “Those? No… They’re nineteenth century poems.” I went back to filling pills.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, “I enjoyed this one about love at first sight.”

“Yeah, it mocked the concept of it and then talked about loving someone after knowing them,” I replied.

“Yeah,” she said, “I get it. I was curious as to what kind of band would sing a song like that.”

“That’s the thing,” I said, “None would. Or at least, almost none.”

“And what’s this?” she asked.

“That?” I said turning around, “It’s a painting of a face, using only red and black paint. I paid two hits of acid for it. I would have paid more, because it’s just so beautiful.”

“Mmmmm,” she replied, “It is nice.” With her affection toward the painting, she had thrown a smile in my direction. I could see that she was rational and logical in her decision of suicide. She wasn’t in tears. She wasn’t broken in pieces. She was very much together, or very effective in subtly convincing me of this.

I walked over to the bed and handed her four pills. “I’ll get you a glass of water, I said, “Mostly, I tell my customers not to take it all at ancoe, but that is pricesly what I am telling you now.” She swallowed the pills, two at a time, with the aid of water.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Julia,” she said, “But most people call me Julee.”

“Well,” I said, “My name is Caley.” I had to tell her, because I felt like she wouldn’t ask.

“It’ll only be 30 to 60 minutes, before you’re gone,” I told her.

“Why did you get into this business?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, “It’s easier cash, it requires little work, I am always well stocked in my favorite commodities, and I’m not on the brink of poverty. Why?”

“I guess I always just wanted to know,” she replied.

“So, how was your day?” I asked, a bit uncomfortable with the overall situation.

“It’s getting better,” she replied, “And your own?”

“Oh, it’s doing all right, “I said, “Making money…”

A slow silence befell the room for thirty seconds as we exchanged glances occasionally, myself somewhat uncomfortable still, she somewhat uneasy, I imagine. A car outside blowing Mexican rap music goes by with a bad engine. Cluttered feet trample by with a mix of foreign languages. Her eyes look down and then are brought up to mine. As little as I know about her, I feel sure enough that she spoke with more subtle ocnfidence that second than aty any other moment of her life. “I’ve led a good life.”

“Then why end it this way?” I asked, as the curosity of the homo sapien nature urked my spirit.

She shrugged.

“That doesn’t seem like you’re confident in your reasons,” I said.

“No, it’s not that,” she replied, almost in a faded tone, as though the poisons had sapped away her soul before it took her body, “It’s just that I don’t want to, or need to, talk abou tit… I assure you it exists, but I’m not bringing it into this room.”

“Understood,” I said… “How was your life?”

“I told you, good,” she said, “I have this friend, Celine. She was always so nice to me and admired the things I did. She could be a friend on mutual terms, too. She loved me so much.”

“I’m sure she still does then,” I replied, “Why use the past tense?” She didn’t answer.

“I’m leaving behind a son,” she replied finally.

“Oh?” I said, surprised, as my eyes widened.

“He’ll never know, though,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She caressed her hand over her stomach.

“You mean… you’re pregnant?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “But only three weeks.”

“Is that the reason?” I asked.

“No, she said, “I told you, I wouldn’t let the reason enter this room.”

“Okay,” I said. I tried to reach for something to say, some way to comfort her. “Would you like to hear a poem?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. I brought out perhaps my most moving and emotion poem I have from the 1800’s. It subtly touched upon the points of happiness and sadness. It subtly touched upon the points of happiness and sadness. Every few months, my most favored passage will change. Maybe just its another poem, another stanza, or another author altogether. Here I read to her the pick of the season.

“That was very nice,” she said, throwing at me a smile with closed, relaxed eyes, as one hand of hers rubber her forearm ently, turning her face away. Maybe it was a crime, an indictment against me, my character. In only two examples have I ever shared the poems of my heart with others. I none case, my friend was going in to the military, and would serve 2 years over seas. We hugged, thinking we may never see each other again. In that case, I didn’t even read him a poem. I slipped a piece of paper in to his pocket with a beautiful poem written on it. And now, with Julia, I have read her a poem. If I thought she would be alive in two hours, I wouldn’t have gone that far.

“Can you hold me?” she asked.

I stood up and walked over to the bed, where she was sitting. “I can,” said.

“Please, hold me, then,” she said. I put my arms around her and laid down. Slowly, sleep came to both of us, peace in our minds.

I would wake and feel her skin. It was cold.

www.punkerslut.com

For Life,

Punkerslut (or Andy Carloff) has been writing essays and poetry on social issues which have caught his attention for several years. His website http://www.punkerslut.com provides a complete list of all of these writings. His life experience includes homelessness, squating in New Orleans and LA, dropping out of high school, getting expelled from college for “subversive activities,” and a myriad of other revolutionary actions.

Humanist Terrorists Nabbed In Miami; Planned To Plant Explosive Books

Writen by Tom Attea

A group that calls itself humanist terrorists was apprehended by the FBI in a preemptive strike in Miami. The terrorist cell, which claims affiliation with the Middle Atlantic terror group all-Libraries, was infiltrated by an FBI operative.

The leader of the group confided to the informant that the members planned to plant explosive books in various locations throughout the United States, including the Sears Tower, a number of FBI buildings, and radical Muslim mosques.

The humanist terrorist group had been operating out of the basement of an as yet undisclosed free public library in Miami. The FBI found plentiful evidence of the group’s plans, including many intelligent books generally considered to be easily accessible and therefore highly dangerous.

At a news conference held to announce the arrests, Attorney General Alberto Gonzales stated, “Fortunately, the plot by this home-grown terrorist cell was disrupted in the planning stages. The group was still trying to get funding to acquire a sufficient number of books.”

In a deposition, a spokesman for the humanist terrorists confessed, “We were planning to spread enlightenment wherever we could, so we selected two of the most informative and readable philosophy books of recent times, both by the leading but now deceased humanist terrorist Bertrand Russell. First, we were going to stage an attack with his landmark The History of Western Philosophy, just to provide people with an overview of our radical ideology. Then we hoped to follow that up with a strike using The Selected Writings Of Bertrand Russell. Our goal was, I confess, to disrupt the new Dark Age that appears to be descending on a worldwide basis.”

The prosecuting attorney outlined the government’s case, saying, “The confession of this self-styled humanist terrorist clearly indicates there was a clear intention to disrupt the deadly ignorance that pervades much of today’s society. Obviously, the group poses a threat to the widespread determination of much of the world’s population to return to a time so wonderfully ill-informed that it can truly be described as The Dark Ages come back.”

The families of the terrorists were startled by the arrests and continued to maintain that the suspects are innocent.

As one mother said, “My son is not a terrorist. He’s a good boy who somehow came to believe in radical ideas like truth and wisdom. If he’s freed on bail, I promise to limit his reading time.”

Tom Attea, humorist and creator of NewsLaugh.com, has had six shows produced Off-Broadway and has written comedy for TV. Critics have called his writing “”delightfully funny” and “witty” with “good, genuine laughs.”

The Gift of Gab

Writen by Robert Crane

The art of the schmooze, small talk, gift of gab, these are all descriptions given to a special talent some people have. It’s the ability to make conversation with a chunk of tanzanite if one had to. I’m not talking about loud mouths, conversation hogs, salespeople and the like. Folks with the gift of gab are people who engage others to talk, not themselves. At parties, they seek out the meek, timid, and shy to test their skills. They can find something in nothing. Every gathering needs them. I’m allegedly such a person. Allegedly!

Here is an example of the art form. It occurred at a party at a neighbor’s home not long ago. It was a surprise birthday party for someone I did not know. Not surprisingly, I did not know anyone else at the party either, other than the host and two or three stragglers. It was a challenge. People with the gift like challenges.

The trick is always the same, talk about something innocuous until you hear a trigger word that can segue into a nightlong conversation. This particular time, I moved into action almost immediately. My target was the wife (assuming) of some hoopin’ and hollerin’ guy. They are easy targets because they are just dying for someone to listen to them. As usual, she was left to fend for herself, sitting alone near a cheese platter. She seemed a bit self-conscious of being alone too. Perfect. It was going to be like taking candy from a child. It was time for me to do my thing.

I sauntered over to the platter and studied the assortment of cheeses.

“Anything you recommend?” I asked calmly, as I picked up a piece of provolone by the toothpick.

“Um, I’m not really a cheese person. I’m lactose intolerant.”

Okay, there’s a piece of information but I don’t know much about the subject.

“What is lactose exactly? Is it that mold part? Can you scrape it off?” Ah, the art of disarming stupidity. It’s the finely honed tool of a conversational craftsman.

She smiled.

“No, it’s in the cheese itself.”

“What does it do if you eat it? Turn you into a Democrat?” Now this is what I call a conversation revealer. It’s geared deliberately to expose potential topics. I win either way. If she is a Democrat, she’ll ask me if I’m a Republican in which case I’ll tell her no way. Then I’m off to the races in a hundred directions of my choosing. If she is a Republican, she’ll chuckle and I will have learned what to stay away from. She struck me as a Republican.

“Oh God not that!” She laughed.

I was right. I am too tricky for my shirt. I also learned that she could be a little engaging and forthright, again, as I had figured. She was probably all bottled up by that no-goodnik she married. Good to confirm because I can take some chances now.

“Are you?” She asks.

“I’m not real political. Gotta lot of opinions but I try to stay away from the party stuff.” I needed to dump this path licketty split. Politics, unless shared, is risky at best. I got back to the cheese thing right away.

“So seriously, what is lactose intolerance?” I really was smooth.

“It’s like an allergy to lactose, a byproduct of dairy products.”

“Do you swell up like a blimp? Like if I go in the other room and look in here later and you look like a Macy’s Parade balloon, I should call 911?”

She laughed.

“It’s more like a digestion thing.”

“A digestion thing?” This was another gimmick. I repeated the sentence, as if in thought. Instead it was intended to buy some time while I ran a few potential lines through my head. I wondered if I should use a projectile vomiting line. I decided against it too much, too soon. I didn’t have enough confidence to be sure it would work. So I slowed it down some more.

“Hum, digestive thing.” I played my last stall card. I decided to move on.

“Oh well, I won’t eat cheese in front of you, okay?”

“Don’t be silly. It’s all right.” She seemed very agreeable.

Okay, let’s see, Republican, not that shy, laughs, lactose intolerant, agreeable. Hmm, I know.

“Is it something that is passed from generation to generation?”

“Actually, I have one daughter who is fine and a son who has the problem.”

“By the way, my name is Bob and yours?”

Bingo! Match over! I must be in the front row! Kids are one of the gifts in the gift of gab. They can take a conversation a million ways. I nodded my head in smiling approval for hours as she talked about kid issues, interrupted by me only to inject some humor to redirect the subject. It was fun.

I look at the whole ordeal like a slot machine. I drop about ten lines in and if nothing comes up, I take my questions to the next person. Usually, I can find something. I just need to find the slightest little opening and I can bring out the stars. Having said all that, there is one conversation killer I have yet to figure out. It stops me dead in my tracks. It goes something like this (maybe it’s happened to you). Let’s use the same scenario.

I saunter over to the cheese platter.

“Anything you recommend?” I ask calmly as I pick up a piece of provolone by the toothpick.

“Um, I’m not really a cheese person. I’m lactose intolerant.”

“What is lactose exactly? Is it that mold part? Can you scrape it off?”

She smiles.

“No, it’s in the cheese itself.”

“What does it do to you? Does it turn you into a Democrat if you eat it?”

“Not if my savior Jesus Christ has anything to do with it!” she laughs. “Praise the Lord.”

“Alrighty then. Do you know where the bathroom is. Had a little too much beer.”

I’m not good with Jesus Christ types, not that there is anything wrong with that. I just don’t know how to listen. Well, it’s more than “how to”. I can’t. My mind swirls when I hear verse numbers and stuff. Look, I want to make this clear. It’s not their fault. It’s my problem, pure and simple. I think it exposes me for the fraud I really am. I can’t claim to have the gift of gab if I can’t engage a Bible quoter.

I think what really makes me less than an honorable human being is that I’ve been known to dump a bore or two by playing the Jesus Christ card myself.

On one occasion, I managed to engage one rather self-important, recent, first-time mom. I just got done listening to her one hour story about delivering her baby in a vat of salt water from Atlantic Ocean. She cruised through the first twenty days and seemed hell bent on dragging me through the next sixty. I had to do something. My head could not nod encouragingly anymore.

“So let’s see, I told you about how my daughter was already walking by the age of three weeks. We decided to enroll her in “foreign language first” school for exceptional one month olds. The idea is to expose infants to a foreign language before they learn English. Edwin and I think it is the right thing to do. She was number one in her”

“Jesus Christ is Lord!” I clasped my hands.

“Do you know where the bathroom is? I’ve had a little too much Perrier with lemon.” She left abruptly.

I’m going directly to hell and I’m not collecting two hundred dollars on the way. Am I?

This article was written by humorist Robert Crane. Author of “Still Living in the Sixties” and “The Single Adventure of Inlin Freebosh”, Robert also writes a popular blog of casual observations and polical commentary, almost always unfair and never balanced, all of which can be freely read at his website located in the outer edges of the “internets”:

http://www.cranelegs.com

Zorro

Writen by Robert Baird

ZORRO:Timon of Athens. But most often they wrote in code or refused to write at all. They actually taught through techniques and disciplines which made people truly know what can be and how to become adept as individuated parts of the collective or ‘nous’.

Michael Rivero has a few words to ponder - “Many people prefer to believe their leaders are just and fair even in the face of evidence to the contrary, because once a citizen acknowledges that the government is lying and corrupt, the citizen has to choose what he or she will do about it. To take action in the face of a corrupt government entails risks of harm to life and loved ones. To choose to do nothing is to surrender one’s self-image of standing for principles. Most people do not have the courage to face that choice. Hence, most propaganda is not designed to fool the critical thinker but only to give moral cowards an excuse not to think at all.”

Poetry and music have an integrative force that appeals to the people who are tired of all the perambulations that intellectual hegemonies employ. They let their music function to inspire the masses more than write large tomes and argue linear-logical epistemological or other fine points that seldom lead to real change. There are many different learning styles and neurological constructs that are not enabled in the present social programming that takes place in school. I dare say the creative and spatial thinking populace will be well represented in the counter-cultural groups like Goths and Hippies.

Author of Diverse Druids, Columnist for The ES Press Magazine, Guest writer at World-Mysteries.com

The Top 10 All Time Worst Jokes About Piano Players

Writen by Desiree Bruyere

Here, for your barfing pleasure, are the top ten worst jokes of all time about piano players. Nothing personal, you understand, since I am one. But a little comic relief laughing at ourselves is good for both our soul and our humility.

So without further ado, here are some of the all time worst piano jokes in descending order:

10. What do a vacuum cleaner and an electric piano have in common.

Answer: Both suck when you plug them in.

9. What does a piano player dream about?

Answer: Sheet music.

8. What do you get when you drop a piano down a mine shaft?

Answer: A flat minor.

7. What’s the difference between a piano accompanianist and a terrorist?

Answer: You can negotiate with a terrorist.

6. How do you make a million dollars playing the piano? Answer: Start with two million.

5. How do you get two piano players to play in perfect unison?

Answer: Shoot one.

4. Did you hear about the piano player who played in rhythm?

Answer: Neither did I.

3. What’s the difference between a piano and an onion?

Answer: No one cries when you chop up a piano.

2. What did the piano player get on his IQ test?

Answer: Drool.

1. What’s the difference between a medium pizza and a piano player?

Answer: A pizza can feed a family of four.

Pretty bad, eh?

I agree. Now let’s all get back to our piano practicing.

PS: None of these lousy jokes are original with me — they have been around for ages in many forms.

Desiree Bruyere is a free-lance writer and amateur piano player who plays jazz & pop piano strictly for the love of it. She takes piano lessons online and on DVD from her native France, and got started by taking the free 2-year online course in http://www.playpiano.com/ Secrets of Exciting Piano Chords & Sizzling Chord Progressions offered worldwide, then later took the http://www.pianolessonsbyvideo.com/Crash Course In Exciting Piano Playing For Adults