I have this strange habit of collecting “tiny treasures”. These are generally discarded or useless things that I like to touch or hold; things that have near zero value, but has a “something” that makes it difficult to throw away.
Old prototype parts. Bottle caps with a magnet placed underneath. Perhaps a nice conch shell. A large and heavy screw. A nice pencil, well sharpened. A tie clasp. A triangular scale. A rubber band. A few old toy accessories that I have collected along the way.
This includes old notebooks. A ticket that ended up at the bottom of the drawer for one reason or the other. A cat toy. A napkin with a phone number. A business card.
As an American it could include various bullets, fishing weights, and springs. I would have glass-cleaning-towelettes. A few tins of decade-old candy. A unidentified thingy that is really cool, but of unknown lineage.
I would put these items in desk drawers. In side furniture. Inside of jars, and decorative vases. And the clutter would accumulate.
And some coins.
Indian heads.
Old keys. Not only mine, but keys from in the abandoned attic from my great grandmother.
And cheap toys. Cheap doll arms (porcelain) from perhaps a 100 years ago. Nice bottles, or containers. A straight razor. Old pocket knives that were really nice, but had a problem or two mechanically.
Stuff. Brick-a-brack. Things.
It’s but the trivia of a life well-lived.
Today…
Don’t you think China manufacturers so much because it pays factory workers slave wages and gives them nothing which no American would tolerate?
Chinese Factory Workers for Category E & F Products (Low Grade) earn a minimum wage of 16.50-22.50 Yuan per hour for 50 hours a month plus 10 hours overtime at 25-34 Yuan per hour
So that’s around 1050 Yuan a month to 1440 Yuan a month for Factory workers which is around ($ 145 – $ 200 a month)
However here are some things you should know
Most Low Grade factory workers are migrants from Rural China who live in the factory premises for 11 months every year
A. Accommodation is free
B. 3 Meals a Day is Free – And they are good hot meals
C. Medical Checkups and Treatment is free
D. Mobile Phone is Free and plan of 24 GB Data a month is free . They can’t play league of legends all day but they can send messages home and do basic stuff
E. They get a state mandated Bonus of 45 days a year or 10,000 Yuan a year whichever is lower (Expected to increase to 12,500 Yuan a year from 2025) during Chinese New Years Day
So when they leave home for Chinese New year they get a lumpsum of 13,110 – 18,000 Yuan
Meanwhile at home based on their Rural Hukou :-
- Their family gets free electricity of upto 150 Units a month (250 Units during Winter Or Peak summer)
- The Family gets subsidy coupons which allow them to buy upto 8 1/2 Pounds of Pork and a variety of other foodstuffs and groceries for only 10%-25% of their market price
- The Education of Kids and Healthcare costs of the family are also State provided and Free
So you tell me – WHERE DO THEY ACTUALLY SPEND THE MONEY?
In fact there are instances of Workers coming home with 15,000–20,000 Yuan every year and LENDING THE MONEY at interest to relatives or loaning it to other relatives to open a noodle shop or a roast duck shop in the nearest town
It’s why almost 80% of these Jobs are done by WOMEN rather than men
Americans may earn more but they have to pay rent, groceries and contribute to their own healthcare
So on the whole Chinese Laborers are well treated and are comfortable enough to eat well, live in a decent house and have access to education and healthcare
Certainly not Slave Labor
Honey Cherry Granola Bars
Honey Cherry Granola Bars are great for after-school snacks!
Yield: 12 to 16 bars
Ingredients
- 1/3 cup pure honey
- 1/4 cup butter, melted
- 3 egg whites
- 1 teaspoon cinnamon
- 1/2 teaspoon almond flavoring
- 3 cups low-fat granola
- 1/2 cup almonds, coarsely chopped
- 3/4 cup dried cherries
Instructions
- Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
- Whisk together honey, butter, egg whites, cinnamon and almond flavoring.
- Stir in granola, almonds and cherries.
- Spoon granola mixture into 9 -inch, nonstick (or well greased) square pan.
- Using a piece of wax paper, firmly press granola mixture in pan.
- Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until lightly browned.
- Remove pan from oven and place on a cooling rack.
- Cool completely; cut into bars.
Why hasn’t the Chinese stock market crash and President Xi come begging President Trump despite Trump has imposed tariffs on China?
Wall Street surged. It took Trump’s pledge of tax cut seriously. But the effect has started to subside.
Nasdaq took a steep tumble when it realized how good DeepSeek’s v3 and R1 models were. About $1 trillion of valuation was wiped off the market on 27 January. DeepSeek is open-source. The v3 and R1 models only cost a fraction of models made by Google and OpenAI.
China tech stocks are on a tear. There is the sense of optimism. DeepSeek is one reason. Another is the meeting on 17 February between President Xi and the leaders of tens of China’s high tech companies. It was a meeting of collaboration of the government and tech industry to map out the strategy and growth going forward.
Trump’s new 10% tariff on China’s goods has no effect on stock prices.
It has at most a limited effect on China’s exports to the US, but take note that (1) the tariffs are paid by US importers and consumers, and (2) over 50% of China’s exports to the US are by US companies in China.
If you are expecting a stock market crash in China from Trump’s tariff, you have been barking at the wrong tree.
Dude finds unusual stack of US BINDERS in Afghanistan. You won’t believe this…
How do Chinese names work? In English that person is known as “Jackie Chan”, in Chinese he is named “Fang Shilong” but he was born “Chan Kong-sang”. What do these mean?
Well, in the case of Jackie Chan, or Chan Kong-sang (“Hongkong-born Chan”), for example, you have to consider his citizenship. He had (at one time at least) Australian citizenship as well as that of Hong Kong, so he would have to have a name that could be written in English. In Chinese, he is known as Chung-long (成龍), which is a stage name. For Hong Kong Chinese, the custom is to put the English personal name first, so Jackie Chan Kong-sang; English personal name, followed by Chinese family name, followed by Chinese personal name (the Chinese parts written according to Cantonese pronunciation).
Chinese names in general are written with the family name first, so again, in Chan Kong-sang, ‘Chan’ is the family name. In Hong Kong and Taiwan, and for many overseas Chinese communities, the custom is to put a hyphen between the (usually two) characters that make up a personal name, so ‘Kong-sang’. In the PRC there is no hyphen, thus Xi Jinping, not Xi Jin-ping. So, this is usually an indicator of citizenship or ethnicity. In Singapore and Malaysia, the custom is to write the three parts all beginning with a capital, and no hyphen; thus Lee Kuan Yew, for example.
Another indicator (but only indicator) or ethnicity is having only two characters in the name, not three. This is common in the PRC but not elsewhere. Another indicator is whether the person writes their name in Chinese only, (Chan Kong-sang) or has an ‘English’ (really could be French, Russian, whatever, but written in Roman characters) name, like Jackie. Many people, both in China and Taiwan, don’t. Of course, the use of this English name form can also be chosen to make it easier for non-Chinese, or it may also be used by ethnic Chinese or people of Chinese descent elsewhere; Jackie Chan, Steve Huang, Michelle Lin, etc., are easier names for people in English-speaking countries to pronounce than full Chinese names.
THE YING AND THE YANG
Written in response to: “Center your story around a character who’s struggling to let go.“
Joanne Oliver
” One day – You will find the Ying to your Yang,” My grandmother’s voice was clear and comforting against my usual loud slamming down the phone, storming off to my room and sobbing into pillow performance. “How do you think I met your grandfather?” She sat on the edge of my bed. “His plane crashed near the cattle shed, and I helped your great grandmother nurse him back to health. Funny thing your great grandfather and great uncle Bert couldn’t find his plane with any documentation or insignia. My great uncle thought your grandfather was some sort of undercover spy and these things had been removed for national security. Your great grandfather thought the land had claimed it back. Do you know on our wedding day, your grandfather gave me his only possession—this music box. He told me its power. It led him to me and one day at the right time the box will take you exactly where you need to be”
Turning it over in my hands, I sighed. The weight of memory pressed against my chest, and before I knew it, a stubborn tear slipped down my cheek.
As a child, I’d watched her wind up the music box, curlers in her hair, claiming it held magical powers. “Close your eyes,” she’d whisper with a knowing smile, “Make a wish. “ As the melody played, her vivid stories would unfold: towering castles with kings and queens, lords and ladies weaving secrets, and Border Reivers lurking in the mist. I thought they were mere bedtime tales, but now, with the music box nestled in my palms, they felt tangible—alive.
I wound the key, half-hoping its mechanism would stir something within me.
The familiar chime filled the room. For a brief moment, everything paused—the ticking clock, the raging storm. And then, the world shifted.
The bed beneath me was gone. My clothes, too. In their place, I wore ripped jeans, a leather jacket, and a shirt that screamed punk rebellion. The smoky air and thrum of bass told me I was in a bar, packed with leather-clad strangers.
It was 1977. The Broken Palace—a forgotten haunt of the punk rock scene. My heart raced as I tried to make sense of the impossible.
“What stage of grief is this supposed to be?” I muttered, my voice swallowed by the chaos around me.
I was about to bolt when the lights dimmed, and Alex Zander stormed the stage bounding around like a hyper active gazelle. The crowd roared as he led his band The In Zanies with his raw, electric energy. This wasn’t the Alex Zander rediscovered by internet sleuths during lockdown—the one whose disappearance from his home baffled the world.
This Alex Zander was very much alive and so goddamn beautiful.His leather trousers clung to every inch of his athletic frame, his jet-black curls falling across smoldering blue eyes. The room hung on his every word.
As the band played the faint glow from the music box began pulsing in time with the beat. The melody seemed to shift, weaving into the song onstage like it belonged there, like it was calling to something—or someone. I pressed it closer to my chest, but it was too late. Alex’s gaze locked onto mine, sharp and unrelenting. It was almost as if he had sensed the music box but that was impossible
Suddenly he leapt off the stage and made a beeline for me. My breath hitched as he grabbed my hand, his warmth sending a jolt through me. He leaned closer, his voice a mix of grit and seduction. Then, with a devilish grin, he back flipped onto the stage.
There was something about him that went past the usual rockstar allure; something deeper—primal, magnetic, undeniable. Was distraction also part of the grieving process?
The music box shimmered again and the smell of lavender filled my nostrils
.
The box lay cold and still in my lap, its glow completely gone, as if it had never been there at all. My heart was still racing, my mind swimming with the sound of bass and the memory of Alex’s electric gaze. What was this thing?
My grandmother’s voice echoed in my mind: “It will take you exactly where you need to be.”
“Okay, I get it,” I whispered to the empty room even though I didn’t not yet.
Over the following weeks despite what I told myself I found myself giving in to the temptation, spinning the key and letting the melody transport me.
Each time, there was a fleeting moment—a shared glance. Then a stolen kiss but all too soon the music box would shimmer and that familiar smell of lavender would bring me back home
Denial,” I whispered as the radio burst out that his latest single had just missed out on the number one spot on the music charts. “This is obviously Denial.”
“Anger,” I muttered another time, watching Alex glare at a bandmate’s onstage behaviour.
Over time grief became something quieter, almost, manageable and I began to socialise more and convinced myself I’d stop using the music box when me and George were officially a couple. He was the Ying to my Yang so why did I put my engagement ring on the bedside table?
The smell of lavender was overbearing. I had to pick up the music box again.
That familiar tune played, and the room shifted once more.
This time, I materialized in a warm kitchen. The aroma of coffee hung in the air. Alex Zander sat cross-legged on a small sofa, papers scattered in front of him.
This was the day he disappeared. What was this? Shock therapy? Or punishment for choosing George?
My pulse quickened. As Alex started, closing the distance between us. In seconds his arms wrapped around me, and his voice trembled with relief.
“So it finally brought you here,” he murmured.
“I don’t understand…” I stammered, my words swallowed as his lips crashed against mine. The intensity between us was overwhelming, a release of something that had been building for far too long.
The music box fell to the floor, shattering into small constellations , amplifying the sensations between us.
As he lifted me, silk sheets materialized beneath us, and we surrendered to the pull of fate.
When I caught my breath, I glanced at the music box. It was whole again, perched smugly on the bedside table.The warm air wrapped around me, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of lavender. It wasn’t faint this time—it was everywhere, rich and alive, like my grandmother’s soft Goodnight kiss upon my forehead. Suddenly , the ache in my chest loosened, and a quiet certainty settled over me. The music box had done exactly what it was meant to do
When did a coworker’s computer illiteracy make you shake your head?
A few years ago I had an employee transferred to my department. Good employee. Not very experienced in what we were doing but eager to learn.
She said she could use Excel, which I was very happy to hear because we had many spreadsheets and reports to deal with, but it seemed to take her quite a long time to turn one out.
One morning I asked her to my office and enter some data for me while I thumbed through hard copies of old records stashed in boxes. With her keying in the info as quickly as I could call it out we were done in about 10 minutes. Great! No it wasn’t.
I asked her to give me the total for a previous year and an average by month. She goes, “Sure, no problem,” and stands up to leave. Is something wrong? Where are you going?
“Oh I’m going to get my calculator,” was her reply.
I didn’t laugh but I did turn my head for a second, and not wanting to embarrass her, asked if she knew about formulas and functions in Excel. “Um……. I don’t think so.”
I felt sorry for her. She had been busting her butt turning out reports using a calculator and pencil and manually entering the results in a cell. She had no idea that Excel could do math for her.
As China Retaliates Against Panama Ports Deal, US Wants Chinese Tech Assets For Tariff Relief
It’s just the beginning.
What are the biggest misconceptions about you?
A woman I was dating told me once that I’m not emotional enough. I “didn’t have enough feeling.”
I’m still bitter about this almost 10 years later, because I get outrageously emotional about a lot of things. Sometimes I feel like feeling is all I am. No substance here otherwise. Just feelings. Sometimes I have to make sure no one’s watching. I reel the emotions in because they might think I’m crazy or just had a death in the family.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s just the sunset / this painting / this amazing book…. Don’t worry, I’m good! God, it’s so good. Don’t you see these details? Do you have no feelings? Are you even looking?”
Strong emotions are MiracleGro. Crying, one of the best things in life. But I’m not going to do it in front of you just to prove that I have emotions. You’ll see it in time. Wait. Treat me like a human, and wait. (Were you with me a few days ago when I stopped in eastern Kansas, where my mother’s great-grandparents are buried, old Kansas Quakers, people who quaked with feeling — the origin of their name — and I stood at their grave and thanked those people who died in 1899 amid the meadowlarks for giving me my name. I was named after two of their sons, whom I never knew, but I’m grateful for this. And I have “no feelings.”)
She made me take a personality test, which “explains” everything. (So, it explains nothing, like all things that purport to explain everything. The Meyers-Briggs test is one of the biggest frauds in psychology. Worse than astrology.) And she was bummed at the results, because they said I was unemotional, too “analytic.” I wish I was more analytic. It would save me some grief and keep me from saying rude things about total strangers. I never say rude things to anyone’s face, because I have manners, but behind their backs, I say rude things all the time. I know that I shouldn’t, because people are icebergs. But because I have feelings, I get carried away. All people have their reasons for being the way they are that you do not understand. A lot of those reasons are rooted in loss and pain. We’d get along great if you’d understood this.
Sometimes I sit outside under the moon with a beer and a cigar and just sit there and weep at the beauty, at the madman God who created all this stuff — inimitable craftsman of the snowflake and the thunderstorm, THANK YOU, creator of weirdness and complexity, for not making the world such an easy read. Sometimes I think about my dad, the only weirdo on the block, who left me these 10 acres of beautiful field and forest here at the edge of a city with no economic opportunity, no friends, hardly any family still alive or around, where my love life has died the death of roadkill because every interesting woman, all of them, the last one, has left the area. (A hyperbolic emotional exaggeration, but “I have no feelings.”) So here I sit with the spring peepers and the birds and the wind, having all sorts of emotions that someone thought I didn’t have.
I love the land my dad left me, more than I realized I did when I was a kid, when I wanted out of here, because I didn’t understand feelings. But here I am, my feet encased in concrete shoes like Jimmy Hoffa, knowing that if I keep the land, it’ll be me and the trees here forever, nobody else. The gift-curse. If I didn’t have an emotional attachment to it, I’d sell tomorrow, move to a city, make the priceless coins, get the great job that disappoints almost everyone I’ve ever known, 98% of them horribly unhappy even though they did everything they were supposed to do, most of them divorced because they don’t understand pain and are terrified of silence.
Instead, I have such an overpowering emotional attachment to what my dad left, it’s probably killing me. (But I get FANTASTIC sleep here, and it’s all paid off. I don’t have to sell my butt to a boss. There are perks.)
My dad had the same love-hate relationship. Some days, he wanted to move to Colorado. Every time he thought about selling, he heard the whisper of his grandfather in the trees and stuck around. Crazy stuff. Emotions! But I’ve felt it, too. I’m not selling to some developer so he can come in here and build a Dollar General.
Last night, I found a photo of my own grandfather, my dad’s dad, aged about 15, standing on a dirt road not far from here, maybe 1939, a photo I’d never seen before, and I was overwhelmed with emotion and had trouble sleeping. There’s nothing super special about the photo — he’s holding a shotgun, of all things — but it was new to me. Out of the blue, I cried for an hour.
That woman’s comments still cut me like a knife.
Be careful what you assume about people. You do not know them. People are icebergs. You see the tip, and icebergs have taken ships down. I have to give myself my own advice pretty often, because I fail to take it as often as I should, which is always, because it’s good advice: do NOT make assumptions about people. Not seeing something with your own eyes does not mean it doesn’t exist. There are things right under my own nose that I’ve never seen, or at least never appreciated enough.
Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Copycat Pig: A Tale of Drama, Dark Glasses, and Disastrous Imitation
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale so absurd, so uproarious, that even the scarecrow might crack a smile (if he weren’t, you know, made of straw). Today’s story is one of mistaken identities, over-the-top theatrics, and a pig who took method acting way too seriously. So, grab your popcorn (or a bucket of feed, if you’re feeling peckish), and let us dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Copycat Pig: A Tale of Drama, Dark Glasses, and Disastrous Imitation.
Act 1: The Rise of the Oinkster
It all began on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday—which, as any farm animal will tell you, is never a good sign. The sun was shining, the hay was freshly baled, and Doris the Hen was holding court in the coop, as was her divine right.
- “Ladies,” Doris declared, fluffing her feathers, “today, we discuss the scandal of the missing corn kernels.”
- “Scandal!” Harriet echoed, clutching her chest.
- “Kernels!” Lillian added before promptly fainting onto a pile of straw.
And then… it happened.
From the shadows of the barn, a portly figure emerged. A pig. But not just any pig—this pig had ambition. His name? Oinkster.
Now, Oinkster had always been a quiet, contemplative pig, content to wallow in mud and ponder life’s great mysteries (such as, Why is slop so delicious? and Do acorns dream of being truffles?). But on this fateful day, something inside him snapped.
Perhaps it was the way Doris swooned with such flair. Maybe it was Harriet’s dramatic gasps. Or maybe it was Lillian’s impeccable comedic timing. Whatever the reason, Oinkster felt a calling.
And so, with a snort of determination, he did the unthinkable.
He joined them.
- “Ladies,” Oinkster declared, fluffing his nonexistent feathers, “today, we discuss the scandal of the missing corn kernels.”
- “Scandal!” he echoed, clutching his chest.
- “Kernels!” he added before dramatically collapsing onto the same pile of straw—nearly crushing Lillian in the process.
The hens stared.
Doris blinked.
Harriet gasped (again, for effect).
Lillian, still half-buried under pig, managed a weak, “Help.”
And thus, the legend of Oinkster, the Copycat Pig, was born.
Act 2: The Farm Descends into Chaos
What began as a curious imitation quickly spiraled into full-blown pandemonium. Oinkster didn’t just copy the hens—he became them.
- When Doris organized a protest against the farmer’s “unfair” feed distribution, Oinkster was right beside her, holding a sign that read “PIGS DESERVE GOURMET TOO!”
- When Harriet shrieked about a “mysterious shadow” (which turned out to be a leaf), Oinkster shrieked louder.
- When Lillian fainted at the sight of a particularly menacing dandelion, Oinkster also fainted—directly onto the dandelion, thereby solving the problem.
The farm had never been so… dramatic.
Even Sir Whiskerton, who prided himself on maintaining order, was at a loss.
- “This is getting out of hand,” I muttered, watching Oinkster reenact Harriet’s latest swoon with alarming accuracy.
- “Hand!” Ditto echoed, nodding sagely.
But just when I thought things couldn’t get worse… he arrived.
Act 3: Enter… The Pigernator
A shadow fell across the farm. A cool shadow. A shadow wearing sunglasses.
From the dusty road emerged a figure so intimidating, so unstoppable, that even the chickens paused mid-squawk.
- Leather jacket? Check.
- Muscles? Check.
- Tiny pig hooves crossed over his chest in a pose that screamed, “I’ll be back… for slop”? Double check.
This was no ordinary pig.
This was… The Pigernator.
- “I am here for Oinkster,” he grunted in a voice that sounded suspiciously like gravel wrapped in bacon. “Bigcat wants him back.”
A hush fell over the barnyard.
- “Back?” Doris whispered.
- “Bigcat?” Harriet gasped.
- “Oh no,” Lillian said before fainting.
- “No!” Oinkster echoed, fainting directly on top of her.
The Pigernator adjusted his sunglasses. “Resistance is futile.”
Act 4: Sir Whiskerton’s Brilliant (and Slightly Ridiculous) Plan
Now, dear reader, you may be wondering: How does one negotiate with a pig who thinks he’s a cybernetic assassin?
The answer, as it turns out, is theater.
- “Pigernator,” I began, stepping forward with my most diplomatic tail flick, “I propose a… competition.”
- “Competition?” The Pigernator’s eyebrow (or where an eyebrow would be, if pigs had them) twitched.
- “Yes,” I said. “A test of skill. A battle of wits. A… dramatic showdown.”
The Pigernator considered this. “What are the terms?”
- “If you win, Oinkster returns with you,” I said.
- “And if you win?”
I smirked. “Then you admit that farm life is superior to Bigcat’s tyranny… and you stay for dinner.”
A pause. Then—
“Accepted.”
And so, the greatest contest the farm had ever seen began.
The Competition: Three Rounds of Absurdity
Round 1: The Dramatic Faint-Off
- Contestants: Oinkster vs. The Pigernator
- Rules: Whoever faints with the most flair wins.
Oinkster went first, collapsing with a swoon so dramatic, even Doris applauded.
The Pigernator? He tried. But alas, cybernetic pigs are not built for theatrics. His faint was more of a controlled descent, like a tree falling in slow motion.
Winner: Oinkster.
Round 2: The Overreaction Challenge
- Contestants: Harriet vs. The Pigernator
- Rules: React to a completely normal event as if it were a catastrophe.
Harriet, upon seeing a single ant, shrieked, “IT’S AN INVASION! WE’RE DOOMED!”
The Pigernator stared at the ant. “I have analyzed this threat. It is… small.”
Winner: Harriet (by a landslide).
Round 3: The Ultimate Test… Karaoke
- Contestants: The Pigernator vs. Ferdinand the Duck
- Rules: Sing I Will Always Love You with feeling.
Ferdinand belted it out like a feathery Whitney Houston.
The Pigernator? His rendition sounded like a tractor engine choking on a corn cob.
Winner: Ferdinand (obviously).
The Aftermath: A Pig Reformed
Defeated, The Pigernator removed his sunglasses (revealing surprisingly gentle eyes).
- “I… concede,” he admitted. “Farm life is… illogical.”
- “But fun?” I prompted.
A pause. Then—
“…Acceptable.”
And with that, The Pigernator joined us, trading his leather jacket for a sunhat and his mission for a life of leisure.
As for Oinkster? He did return to Bigcat’s farm…
As a drama teacher.
Moral of the Story
Life is too short to take too seriously. Whether you’re a pig who copies chickens, a cybernetic agent of chaos, or a cat with a flair for diplomacy, sometimes the best solution is to embrace the absurdity—preferably with a dramatic faint and a well-timed quack.
After all, why be normal when you can be memorable?
Best Lines
- “Kernels!” — Oinkster, committing fully to the bit.
- “I’ll be back… for slop.” — The Pigernator, probably.
- “Farm life is… illogical.” — The Pigernator, moments before discovering the joy of mud baths.
Post-Credit Scene
Somewhere on Bigcat’s farm, a group of hens perform Shakespeare. Oinkster, now their director, sighs wistfully. “Alas, poor Yorick… I ate him.”
Starring
- Sir Whiskerton as The Cat Who Really Should Get Paid for This
- Oinkster as The Pig Who Found His Calling
- The Pigernator as The Terminator… But Cuter
- Doris, Harriet, and Lillian as The Drama Queens
P.S. If life gives you lemons, throw them at a pig wearing sunglasses. Trust me, it’s hilarious.
The End.
Why are Tesla executives dumping their stock?
I worked for Enron.
You may remember them as “the smartest guys in the room”.
When their multiple frauds began to come to light, the executives (smart guys remember) started to dump their stock.
Meanwhile, the employees of Enron, who had a nice pension plan through the company, were not “allowed” to sell the stock that made up our pension fund.
As a result employees of Enron lost all of their company pension plan funds.
Some of those employees had already retired and they lost all of their pension fund income at an age where they couldn’t earn it back.
I wonder if Tesla has instructed their employees that they are not allowed to sell their Tesla stock?
Her Ex Is Living His BEST Life as a SINGLE DAD – And She CAN’T STAND IT!
Why is the US posing a threat to the world trading system with fees on Chinese ships calling at US ports?
In 2025/3, USTR (Trade Representative) proposed to charge a Port Fee on China-made cargo ships for docking at EACH US port EACH time. (1 ship may dock at 2-3 ports in 1 shipment)
If the China-made ship is used (bought or leased) by a foreign firm, the port fee is US$1.5 million. If the China-made ship is used by a Chinese firm taking goods from-to foreign ports, the fee is $2.5 mn. If it is used by a Chinese firm taking goods from a Chinese port, then $3.5 mn.
manufacturing & goods shipment
China ship manufacturing accounts for 58% of world total. Japan+SK 42%. USA only 0.01%. ie it is Japan & SK manufacturing that will be affected by China; not USA.
In goods shipping, China-made ships accounts for 80% of world. In 2024, the top 5 shippers who docked at USA were Switzerland (2000 times), Denmark, France, Japan, Germany, China is 6th. … USA is robbing US allies.
words from 1 shipping firm
A CEO of a foreign shipping firm (I forgot the name) said, 13 years ago, his firm wanted to buy 5 cargo ships. Japan & SK did not make the type of ship his firm wanted. USA would take 7 years to finish. Only China could do it within reasonable time & competitive price. He said it was not because he did not want to buy US ships. It was because the US speed of ship building cannot meet the high demand for maintenance/repair of old ships, & building of new ships. (China speed is 200% of USA) He complained that USTR’s (reckless) proposal will void their decision made 13 years ago & will bankrupt them.
reason for death of US ship manufacturing
In 2024, Japan & SK’s ship manufacturing drops to 42% from 65% from past 10 years. It is due to lack of local engineers & workers. They must hire foreign workers.
Same for USA. It falls to 0.01% ie DEAD. So dead that US warships must go to Japan or other countries for maintenance/repair.
Many US industries died too, because of US ultra capitalism. Look. 70% of Boeing work is out-sourced to India.
effect of US port fee
Port fee will only damage the flow of global trade. But will not revive US dead ship manufacturing in as short as 10 years because of US capitalism.
Shippers hesitate to go to USA. US export products eg LNG, coal, agricultural goods cannot go outside. Unless ordinary Americans pay the port fee thru high, high & high inflation.
40% of Chinese exports to USA are products made by US-owned firms inside China eg Apple’s iPhone & iPad, HP & Dell’s Laptop. That is, US port fee will harm US firms & ordinary Americans.
Instead of docking at 2-3 US ports, ships will dock only at 1 big port & do all unloadings. Small ports & their cities will lose income.
Shippers may also switch to ports in Latin America. Let Americans pay Latin for shipping by rail/road to USA.
Bottom line:
To revive the dead US ship building is an excuse. Robbery is the true motive. Rob US allies Europe & Japan, in name of anti-China.
Shorpy
What is the best Japanese thing ever?
Recent graduates during the job hunting season in Japan.
Japan has a strict rule when you are looking for a job, especially for college students.
They all have to wear what is called recruiting attire.
This is the basic black suit, white shirt, black purse, and black dress shoes. It should be a standard design and length. Hair should be dyed black. There are a variety of black dye colors that are acceptable. For women, hair should be tied back in a ponytail. For men, it should be short and professional looking.
Clothing stores that sell suits and business attire sell these recruitment suits every hiring season. You’ll see advertisements and posters all over Japan.
You must blend in with the rest of the applicants. It will be disastrous for your application if you deviate from these rules.
Very Japanese thing.
Defunct Relics
Written in response to: “Write a story from the POV of a now-defunct piece of technology.“
Patrick D
“Ten wonderful years Nintendo, I thought it would never end, until we were knocked off our pedestal by Super Nintendo and the PC, who would have seen that coming?”
“I suppose we’re lucky, we weren’t thrown away,” said Nintendo, “How long has it been?”
“Thirty-five years Nintendo. At least Chris still plays with you occasionally, Kristen hasn’t written a story on me in decades. We would write the most epic tales together, one of her stories was published in The New Yorker.”
Nintendo sensed a vibration. “It’s coming.”
Royal and Nintendo watched from the window as the dump truck pulled up, a man stepped off the back and threw the garbage in, a discarded vacuum cleaner pleaded for it’s life, but it was futile the vacuum was tossed in with the rest.”
“Poor vacuum,” said Nintendo.
“That’s our fate Nintendo, one day that truck will take us to the landfill, and we will never return.”
***
One Sunday afternoon the attic hatch opened. Royal and Nintendo watched in anticipation to see who was coming up. The ladder extended down and Kristen climbed up, followed by her daughter Gina.
“You can have this space for your writing,” said Kristen, “nice and private.”
Gina took in the room, “it smells like old books up here, I love it!”
Royal focused on Kristen, longing for her attention.
We’ll put things in three piles, garbage, Salvation Army, and keepers,” said Kristen.
“Garbage!” Exclaimed Royal.
“The Salvation Army? Royal what is that?”
“We’ll be drafted into some sort of war Nintendo!”
Kristen picked up Royal and blew the dust off, “My old typewriter, I really should donate it.”
Gina could see the look of nostalgia on her mother’s face, “Does it still work?”
“I think so, I’d have to buy ink for it, not even sure if they sell it anymore.”
“Can I have it?”
“Sure.” Kristen placed Royal back on the table.
“I think Gina just saved my life Nintendo!”
Kristen and Gina began handing down boxes to Chris. After they cleared the debris, they laid down a rug, hung posters and Christmas lights for ambience.
Royal and Nintendo looked around in approval, “Enchanting,” remarked Royal.
“I’m going to come up here all the time,” said Gina.
“I would have killed for a space like this when I was your age. Come on, let’s go make something to eat.” Kristen and Gina climbed down and closed the hatch behind them, and their voices moved out of range.
“We survived another round of cleanup,” Said Nintendo.
“Seems we did.”
“They couldn’t get rid of us, could they? We’re state of the art.”
“I’m afraid we’re not Nintendo, we are one trick ponies, these new machines serve multiple purposes now.”
Royal and Nintendo watched Chris take the boxes from the attic to the road, the act of placing something at the curb seems to summon the street scavengers, who appear out of nowhere.
“Where does all that stuff end up?”
“God knows Nintendo, the dump truck will claim what they leave.”
***
Gina and Kristen returned the following weekend. Kristen had a stack of paper and a new ink-ribbon, she placed the paper on the table and opened up Royal to installed it.
“What’s happening?” Asked Nintendo
“I’m coming out of retirement!”
Kristen inserted a piece of paper and rolled the knob until it was in place, she pressed keys at random.
“I can feel the ink running through my veins Nintendo! Just a few more key strokes” The letters became brighter with each passing, until they shined midnight black.
Kristen gave Gina a tutorial. “With typewriters you have to put a little more thought into your writing, it’s not easy to correct mistakes.”
After Kristen was happy with her lesson, she kissed Gina on the head and climbed down the attic hatch.
Gina stayed all night, typing away at Royal. “Why did people stop using these, they’re so fun.”
“I have no idea!” Answered Royal.
Nintendo was living vicariously through Royal, “I’m happy for you, my friend!”
“Thank you, Nintendo. feels nice to be appreciated.”
***
Royal looked down on the driveway, Kristen’s car was gone she had taken Gina somewhere. They must be out getting me more ink, thought Royal.
Moments later Chris opened the attic hatch and climbed up, he grabbed Nintendo and Royal and brought them downstairs and placed them in a box by the front door. All the garbage from Christmas was waiting there to be taken out.
Nintendo looked at the garbage bags and came undone, “we’re being thrown out Royal! This is outrageous! I’m a state-of-the-art entertainment system! He can’t!”
“Let’s meet our end with dignity Nintendo, we knew this day would come. Whatever horrors await us at the landfill we will face together.”
Chris was putting city tags on the extra garbage bags when the doorbell rang. Chris picked up the box with Royal and Nintendo and opened the door.
A man was standing there.
“It’s the garbage man, you son of a bitch Chris,” screamed Nintendo.
“Hi Dave?” asked Chris.
“Yes, hi Chris, we spoke on the phone, nice to meet you.”
Chris set the box down in front of him, “so, you collect 80’s merch?”
“Yes, I collect everything 80’s.” The man picked up Nintendo and Royal, appraising them both. “I’ll give you $150 for the Nintendo and games and $100 for the typewriter.”
‘We agreed on $225 for the Nintendo and games over the phone.”
“I’m sorry but it’s not in mint condition.”
“We’re being sold Nintendo!”
Chris’s attention shifted when Kristen and Gina pulling into the driveway.
Gina got out first and the man moved aside for her. Out of her periphery, she noticed Royal, “Dad don’t sell the typewriter, I’ve been using it!”
“$125 for the typewriter.” The man intervened.
“Dad!”
Kristen stepped in when she realized what was happening, “I’m sorry there’s been a mistake, that typewriter is not for sale, it’s mine.” Kristen grabbed the typewriter and gave Chris a cross look on her way in with Gina in toe.
“Nintendo!!!” Royal screamed as they were separated.
“$200 for the Nintendo and games,” the man countered.
Nintendo used every ounce of his being to telepathically project two words into Chris’s mind: DON’T SELL.
Chris held his Nintendo in his hands. The man reached out, which made Chris instinctively pull away, and that seemed to wake him up, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I can’t sell it.”
The man held eye contact with Chris, “What?”
Chris realized he had to make a concession, he pulled a twenty-dollar-bill from his wallet. “I’m very sorry about all this, take this is for your time and gas.”
The man reluctantly took the bill; he mumbled something under his breath as he walked back to his car.
Chris went back in the house where he was verbally abused by Kristen, Gina, Royal and Nintendo. He returned Royal and Nintendo back to the attic.
“Can you believe it Nintendo? The magic power of nostalgia! We are collector’s items; we’ll never see the landfill!”
“State-of-the-art!” Replied Nintendo.
To those people in the world who have access to universal healthcare, what experiences could you share with Americans in order for us to understand how it affects your life (positively or negatively)?
As I write this my father is in the hospital after suffering two consecutive aneurysms of which he has had numerous collapses and loss of consciousness.
(After second brain bleed surgery. Dec 2024)
He has had surgery in his skull twice in the last year.
He’s received various medications including antibiotics, painkillers and psychiatric drugs (he’s diagnosed bipolar).
- Our excellent ambulance service has come to our rescue three times in the last 6 months. When they carried him to accident and emergency, they’ve extended all courtesies towards being kind and patient with him regardless of whatever difficulties his mental state at the moment creates.
- Nurses have provided him with all the attention and care he needs on a daily basis.
- Because no one is able to look after him 24/7 a social worker has kept him warded at a well kept, clean and organized infirmary where he receives treatment, medication and three meals a day up until the moment he receives his pension (due April 2025) of which he can be placed in a retirement home. He has been at that infirmary for the past three months.
I shudder to think how much we would’ve had to pay if this healthcare and the services associated with it, wasn’t provided, free of charge by the State.
Left up to me alone I would’ve been bankrupt.
Or.
My father would’ve died.
Or
He’d be untreated and wandering the streets in a state of delirium until an inevitable end came to his life.
People in Trinidad constantly complain about our State health care as well as our public doctors, nurses and hospitals in general. Personally, I can only sing the praises of how fortunate we are compared to many parts of the world.
We do have our fair share of quacks wearing stethoscopes and sociopaths dressed as nurses but the day our health care services are no longer free, is the the day our country sets foot on the road to ruin.
I have had mostly good experiences with our State healthcare. I can only think fondly of the kindly Nigerian doctor speaking calmly about his love of Trinidad’s food while he stitched my busted head after a robbery. Or the doctors who saved my ex from losing her leg to a cellulitis infection after a bunch of dirty private doctors allowed the infection to prolong so as to milk as much fees as they could.
I think the profiteering of health care is one of the most underrated evils of our modern era. Even though I could give you an endless list of my problems with Trinidad and Tobago, I’m proud to say that our healthcare is not one of them.
(On the road to recovery his birthday Jan 2025)
Tart Cherry, Dark Chocolate and Cashew Granola Bars
Prep: 10 min | Cook: 15 min | Yield: 10 servings
(Family Features) For many, summertime is synonymous with outdoor adventures and on-the-go activities, ranging from biking and hiking to swimming and tennis. Choosing smart snacks that are simple to make, packed with nutrition and taste great can help power you up without slowing you down.
“Creating DIY snacks with real foods, like Montmorency tart cherries, nuts and seeds, gives your snacking habits an upgrade. Not only do ingredients like these offer endless variety in flavor and texture; their nutrient density will also make your snacks work harder for you,” said Matthew Kadey, registered dietitian and author of “Rocket Fuel: Power Packed Foods for Sports and Adventure.”
Montmorency tart cherries, which are grown in North America, are packed with anthocyanins – natural compounds that provide the ruby-red color, distinctive tart taste and potential health benefits. For those bolstering their exercise regimens this summer, there are added reasons to take a look at tart cherries. Studies have shown that Montmorency tart cherry juice may help reduce strength loss and aid recovery after extensive exercise.
Ingredients
- 1 cup chopped raw cashews
- 1/2 cup chopped raw almonds
- 1/2 cup dried Montmorency tart cherries
- 1/2 cup puffed rice cereal
- 1/4 cup pumpkin seeds
- 1/4 cup semi-sweet chocolate chunks
- 1/8 teaspoon sea salt
- 1 tablespoon whole golden flaxseeds
- 1/4 cup brown rice syrup
- 1 tablespoon almond butter
Instructions
- Heat oven to 325 degrees F; line an 8 x 8 inch baking pan with parchment paper.
- In bowl, mix all dry ingredients together.
- In small bowl, stir together syrup and almond butter until combined and gently fold into nut mixture until completely incorporated.
- Transfer bar mixture to prepared baking dish.
- Using extra sheet of parchment paper, press down on mixture to form it to pan, ensuring there are no spaces in mix.
- Bake for 15 minutes; allow bars to cool completely in pan on wire drying rack. Place in fridge or freezer for faster cooling.
- Remove parchment paper with cooled bars from pan and, using serrated knife, slice into 10 even bars. Remove parchment paper from bottom of each bar.
- Wrap each bar individually with plastic wrap.
- Place wrapped bars in airtight container and store on counter for up to 5 days, or in fridge for up to 2 weeks.
What’s the most expensive item you’ve found at the thrift store?
Thirty years ago I was strolling through my favourite scrap metal yard, taking the owner down the back to get a price for something that I have long since forgotten.
We passed a box a bit bigger than two large clothes washing machines, and I idly asked how much it was. “Oh, $100”. I said “Okay, I’ll take it, but I’ll have to come back in a week to collect it”.
It was a multi-page per second laser printer. It was only three months old. I found out that it had been used at a new facility for the DoD, but they just as quickly decided that they wanted to move their facility, and rather than shift the tech, they would scrap it all.
I rang several used computer brokers, and also Fujitsu to see if anyone was interested. Not one call back. It sat in my parents’ driveway for several months, until the sad day when I decided that I might as well pull it apart and scrounge the nice gear-motors, etc. I pulled one of the 30 or more foot-square boards, and then realised that I should ring the Fujitsu service dept. and see if I could get any info that would tell me about what the motors, etc. ran off. First and last guy I spoke to knew the machine and said “you can’t just pull that thing apart! It’s worth real money! Give me two weeks, and I’ll sell it for you”. 8 AM the next morning, I had a call from the same fellow offering me $10 000 for it. Deal done. It was gone in a few days.