Back in the early 1960s’s there always seemed to be a family or two in the town (that everyone knew) that had their own home-spun “operation”.
For some families it was a small still, cranking out home make hooch (terribly illegal), but no one raised an eyebrow as it was for family and friend use only. (As a classmates’ family did.)
Other families would have a small cottage-industry where they would cut up skinned deer, and make deer steaks and ground up deer meat. (Such as my next door neighbor.)
And still others would make up their own perfumes, while others would make their own medical elixirs handed down in their family from generation to generation. As was in the case of my Mother’s uncle’s family.
Some had gig work where they make rolls, or sweet cinnamon buns (which was common in our town).
Many things changed over time.
In many of the cases, when families broke up with the acceleration of the changing of society, old habits, traditions and family lore disappeared and were eventually forgotten.
In other cases, laws were made, rules were enforced, or policies were changed. Thus substantially impacting family tradition and local life.
During the 1960’s many people stopped making their own pickles, for example. And stopped using the local pickle-making family as a crutch, and started buying them from the stores and supermarkets.
Today, most American families are 100% dependent upon supermarkets, stores and the internet for their consumption needs. Many do not grow food, can food, hunt food, or trade for food.
And today, unlike the Great Depression, many will suffer catastrophic readjustments in their lifestyle because of this.
This is an issue that no one ever talks about. But I bringing it up today. The economic climate in the United States is far worse than is being reported on. This is something that has to be remembered and must be considered for survival in the near future for most Americans.
Today…
I really need the full recipe of making roast chicken. I have tried it before and it didn’t come out well. How can somebody make a full roast chicken?
You don’t need a recipe, you need to learn proper technique.
A lot of people believe that cooking is a free form art, anything goes, and as long as it tastes good, whatever you did was right kinda thing. That’s somewhat true, and somewhat not true. There are definite right ways to prepare foods. Employing those right ways is known as having good technique.
It seems as though you realize that whatever you’re doing when you roast a bird isn’t working, because you are not getting the results you are looking for. So I’m going to explain the proper technique for roasting a chicken, from which you can develop your own recipe. That’s the artistic part of cooking: developing your own recipe from proper technique, not developing your own technique.
To prepare a roasted chicken you will need: a roasting pan and rack (A rack is optional. If you don’t have one, tear off a two foot sheet of aluminum foil and form it into a horseshoe shape. Place the foil into your roasting pan and roast the chicken on top of the foil.), a 3–4 pound chicken, cooking oil, some cotton string or thread, salt, pepper, a few sprigs of thyme, and oven and a meat thermometer. Heat the oven to 400 degrees F. Put the thyme sprigs inside of the chicken’s cavity and then truss the chicken with string. Place the center of the string underneath the chicken’s tail bone, cross it over the top, around each leg in a figure 8, then along the sides of the chicken to the neck area. Pull the string taut, so the thighs are against the breasts, and tie the ends of the string together. Trim the excess string. Now place the wing tips underneath the chicken, so it looks like it’s sunning itself on the beach.
Trussing the chicken helps it to cook more evenly, which happens when the legs are splayed out. It also creates a better looking finished product.
Now rub some cooking oil over the bird, to promote browning and crisp the skin. Sprinkle salt and pepper over the bird and set it onto the rack in your roasting pan. Shoot the bird into the oven and roast it until it reaches 170 degrees F, at the thickest point on a thigh, according to your thermometer. When you’ve reached 170, pull the bird from the oven, let it rest for 20 minutes and then carve away.
As for recipes, there a tons of recipes for roasted chicken. You can add all manner of herbs, spices, lemons, veggies, whatever, to the mix. Use your imagination for that, because that’s the “if it tastes good it’s right” potion of cooking. But before you start experimenting, nail the technique, because if you need a solid foundation to build upon. Got it?
What is an insane coincidence that you’ve experienced?
When my daughter was 5, I rented more house than we needed and advertised for a roommate. I chose a Swedish couple – H was here in Vancouver for his grad program, while A was taking a break from her own program to accompany him. Absolutely lovely people – so much so that we took to calling our collective subsequent roommates (the good ones) the Swedes. Over the years we had Moroccan, German, Israeli, English, Australian, South African, Japanese, and Brazilian Swedes, among others.
Twenty years after the original Swedes returned home, I again advertised for a roommate, and got a reply from a Czech woman who was studying in Sweden and coming to Vancouver for a grad program. We exchanged several emails, and while I didn’t ask for a deposit up front, I could sense that she was leery of committing, even verbally. So I enailed, “Look, if you’re anywhere near Umeå, email H, who lived with me some years ago. He’ll confirm that I’m real, the place is real, and I’m not an axe murderer.”
Seconds later she replied: “He’s my thesis advisor.”
She did move in, and was also lovely, but she soon discovered that she wouldn’t realistically be able to commute to and from her field work in Ontario on weekends.
The Doctor Who Proved We Live in a Simulation… Then Vanished
Job applicants who walked out of an interview before it was over, why did you do it?
This was when I was a LOT younger and was also a LOT more desperate than I have been since.
But, I got asked to come in for an interview at a large office park. So, I scrapped together bus money, put on a shirt and tie and spent an hour on the city bus to go to this place.
When I got there, I told the receptionist I was there for an interview with Joe Businessperson. She told me to go down the hall into the meeting room.
When I got to the meeting room, it was more of a small auditorium and there were already about 20 other young men in there. I was wearing a cheap polyester shirt and salvation army tie in addition to slacks and dress shoes and I was, by far, the best dressed person there.
So I sat down and, about 10 minutes later, 2 men in their early 20’s came in and started a presentation that sounded like more of a motivational speech than any sort of job interview. They talked a lot about “Success” and “Motivation” and all sorts of other buzzwords that business scammers use when they are about to scam money out of you.
So when they stopped for a breath, I raised my hand and asked: “What is this job doing?”
So young business scammer one looks at me and says: “Let me ask you, where do you want to be in 5 years?”
To which I replied, “Living indoors and not eating food out of a dumpster. What, exactly, is this job doing? And, how much do you pay as a starting wage?”
And Business guy #2 started something with “This job has an unlimited income potential.” code for “This is a pyramid Scam.”
So. I got up and left.
On the way out, I told the receptionists that I wanted to be re-imbursed for my $0.85 bus fare. But, she declined. So I left.
Think it must have been either Amway or Cutco.
The Night the Sky Fell
Written in response to: “People have gathered to witness a once-in-a-lifetime natural phenomenon, but what happens next is not what they expected.“
Jennifer Fremon
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4 comments
Tasha had understood why Maegan was missing her party. All of her other friends got it too, they had shared a collective groan of sympathy, why were parents so annoying. Naomi had even offered to let Maegan stay at her house all weekend but Maegan knew there was no point in even asking.
“Its this meteor shower thing this weekend. My mom is all excited. Something about reliving her childhood at some old creepy campsite upstate.”
The truth was that the meteor shower actually sounded like it would be a cool thing to see, just not this weekend, not the weekend of Tasha’s 13th birthday.
Maegan rolled over in bed with a sigh, wrapping the blanket around her like a cape. She knew it was only a matter of time before her mom knocked on the door. She hadn’t even packed yet. If she didn’t get up soon her mom would just throw some clothes in a bag and who knows what she would bring? Not that it mattered what Maegan wore. No one was going to see her in the woods. No one important, anyway.
Maegan closed her eyes, her mind briefly conjuring up an image of a cute country boy with faded jeans and dirty boots. She pictured this imaginary kid reaching for her hand, while pointing up at a sky filled with thousands of stars.
But that was all a fantasy of course. The only boy that was going to hold her hand on this trip was her little brother, and there probably would be a frog in it.
Maegan heard the bathroom door close and the shower turn on, which meant she could stay in bed with her music a bit longer. She thought she might pack her favorite jeans anyway, the ones she would have worn to the party that night. Who cares if there was no one to see them?
Michael
Michael eyed the packing list on his phone one more time, before zipping up his suitcase. He was pretty sure he had thought of everything, but it never hurt to check again just in case. After all, there wasn’t a 24 hour Duane Reade in the mountains that he could just pop in to if he needed an Advil or some Tums, or some extra toilet paper.
When he felt satisfied that everything was in order, he left his bag on the bed and went into the kitchen. His wife was sitting at the table wrapped in a towel, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. She smiled up at him when he entered.
“All set?”
He nodded. She had left another mug on the counter, which he rinsed for a minute in the sink before filling it with his own coffee.
“We should leave within the hour,” Charlotte said. “Beat the morning rush hour.”
Michael took the carton of milk out of the fridge, sniffed it just in case, and then poured some into his mug.
“You want to tell Meg that or should I?”
His wife sighed.
“I’ll do it after I get dressed,” she replied. “After all, I’m the one she’s mad at.”
Michael had nothing to say to that. He was not surprised that their 13 year old daughter did not want to spend the weekend in a dirty cabin in the woods staring at the sky instead of with her friends. While he sipped his coffee, he made a mental note to double check that he had packed the bug spray (he was almost positive he had but you could never be too careful). The last thing he wanted was to go home with a million mosquito bites. Or Lyme disease. Or, god forbid some brand new blood borne illness.
Charlotte placed her cup in the sink headed towards their bedroom. Michael rinsed it twice, put it in the dishwasher, wiped off the sink with a paper towel. He then sat back down with his coffee.
He knew that he could have flat out refused to go on this trip. He wasn’t 13 years old, or 6 for that matter. But Michael also knew all about his wife’s childhood camping trips: swimming in the lake, roasting marshmallows on long sticks discovered on the ground, staring up at the vast expanse of constellations while her father pointed out their names. He also knew that the Perseid meteor shower occurred every August, and that this summer was supposed to be the most spectacular one ever.
Michael hated bugs. He hated all things dirt related. He liked comfortable beds and places with reliable Wifi. He had never been camping, but he would bet a million dollars he probably wasn’t going to be a fan of that either. But he loved his wife and if her dream was to sit by her childhood lake and watch the stars fall, the least he could do was help make it happen.
Charlotte
It was a 5 hour drive to Pottersville, NY. Jackson slept most of the way, waking up only to say he needed to pee and ask if there were any Goldfish crackers. (There were of course, along with all kinds of other snacks. Charlotte was always prepared.) Maegan stuck her AirPods in both ears, turned her music up to full volume and ignored everyone. Michael put on a podcast and drove up the Thruway in the center lane at exactly five miles over the speed limit like he always did, while cars and trucks sped past him on both sides.
They arrived at the campground early in the afternoon; the sun glowing high above the lake. Jackson bounced up and down in the back seat, pointing at the dragonflies that skimmed the surface of the water, as they made their way slowly up the dirt road that led to the cabins. Theirs was called Eagles Nest, and appropriately looked like it was build from one of Jackson’s Lincoln Log toy sets. Maegan removed her headphones long enough to proclaim it “Horror movie worthy” before dropping her backpack on the living room floor. She then scanned the interior of the house. Her eyes brightened when she noticed a wooden ladder leading up to a loft style sleeping area.
“If anyone needs me, I will be in the creepy loft.”
Michael was also looking around, a nervous expression on his face. He ran his fingertips across the dining room table, examined the pillows on the couch, opened and closed the fridge. Finally he exhaled and went back to the car to unload the rest of the bags. Charlotte considered his lack of comment a win.
As for her impression, Charlotte thought the place had not changed a bit since she was 11 years old.
Jackson
Jackson waited patiently (or at least as patiently as a 6 year old could possible wait) while his parents unloaded their suitcases and backpacks from the car, and unpacked two bags of groceries into the fridge. But after the last carton of milk was put away, he couldn’t contain himself any longer.
“Now? Can we go now??”
His mother smiled at him. She then forced him to stand still while she slathered a pound of white, goopy sunscreen all over his face but that was ok. Sunscreen meant they were finally going to the lake!
His mom sat in a wooden chair on the shore while Jackson splashed around, diving his hands in and out of the mushy lake bottom, wading through the reeds that grew at the waters edge. He giggled as tiny little fish darted back and forth over his toes. But the highlight of the afternoon was when he found the frog. It was brownish green and slimy, with long wiggly legs and it squirmed when he held it in his hands. When he asked if he could bring it back to the house his mom laughed and said, “Why not? Just don’t let your sister see it.”
Charlotte
On the way back to the cabin, Jackson kept up a steady stream of excited chatter: Were there more frogs in the lake? Did she think there might be turtles, or even snakes?? Could he keep the frog in a jar on his dresser at home if he promised to take care of it all by himself?
For now, Charlotte allowed Jackson to put his frog in a large Tupperware bin that he found in one of the kitchen cabinets and told him that they would talk about the rest later.
She found Michael out behind the house, staring at a large barbecue grill with a frown on his face.
“That’s an upgrade,” she said. “When I was a kid it just was a campfire with a metal grate thrown on top.”
Michael looked appalled, probably picturing a rusty metal grate and six different kinds of bacteria.
Charlotte, on the other hand, was thinking about plump cheeseburgers that tasted faintly like smoke, the crackle of the fire.
“I can cook if you want,” she offered.
Michael shot one last wary glance at the grill before agreeing.
She cooked burgers on the grill and a pot of Kraft Mac and Cheese on the stovetop, which they ate on the covered porch, while the sun set over the trees. Jackson proclaimed everything “yummy” and even Maegan mumbled a grudging “Thanks for making dinner mom.”
Michael said nothing, but he ate everything on his plate.
Charlotte had told her family that the best time to watch the meteor shower was after midnight, so after a few card games and a quick story, she put Jackson to bed in one of the loft spaces. Maegan climbed into the other one with a book.
Charlotte popped open another beer and joined Michael back out on the porch.
“Thanks for coming on this trip. I know nature is not really your thing.”
Michael took a long swig of his drink.
“Its fine,” he said. “Jackson is really excited about the frog.”
He smiled then, in spite of himself.
“Are we really going to let him bring in back to the city with us?” he asked.
“What are the odds that he forgets about it?”
They met each others eyes then and laughed.
“Zero!” they exclaimed simultaneously.
A few hours later they woke up Jackson, and Meagan who had dozed off with her book still open across her lap. The four of them made their way back down to the lake, equipped with bug spray, flashlights and a large fuzzy blanket that had been in the trunk of their car.
Jackson swung his flashlight all around like a laser beam, hoping to see “night animals”, a comment to which Maegan replied “If I see one single night animal I am going right back to the cabin.”
Michael mumbled something about bats, which Charlotte chose to ignore. The truth was there probably were bats up in the trees but there was no point in telling him that.
They found a spot in the grass right past the shoreline and lay down on the blanket, staring up at the sky. Only a few minutes had passed before suddenly a bright white light streaked across their field of vision. A few seconds later, there was another.
“Did anyone else see that? It was a shooting star! Like for real, like in the movies! Mom did you see it?”
Maegan pointed up at the sky in excitement. “Look! Another one!”
Jackson reached out his hand as if he could catch the light inside it.
Charlotte looked over at Michael, who wrapped his fingers around her own.
“Its pretty great actually”, he said quietly.
“Its freakin awesome!” Maegan exclaimed. “I can’t wait to tell everyone. They have never seen anything like this.”
Charlotte closed her eyes for a second, listening to her family’s excited gasps, the chirping of crickets from the bushes. She remembered lying in this same field with her father many years ago, while he told her to be patient, to just keep watching the sky.
“Meteor showers come when they want to,” he said. “They like to make you wait. To see if you are going to quit, to go back to bed.” She could still picture he father’s wink.
“Don’t ever go back to bed.”
She wished her father could have seen this one.
“Mom?”
She opened her eyes to Meagan’s grinning face.
“Mom, thanks for bringing us here. Its really cool.”
Charlotte smiled. “You’re welcome honey,” she replied.
The four of them fell silent then, simply watching the streaks of light dancing in the sky above them.
After a few minutes, Charlotte felt a tiny hand tap her shoulder then and turned to look at her youngest child, waiting to see what he thought of the meteor shower.
“Mom?”
“Yes Jackson? Do you like the shooting stars?”
Jackson nodded impatiently. “Yeah sure, but mom, can I keep the frog?”
What could the M10 Booker do that a Bradley or Abrams couldn’t?
The goal of the M10 was to be a light tank. Regardless of the label being attached, that is fundamentally the objective of its design.
So, what does that mean it could do that the other couldn’t?
You can stick a bunch of them into a C-17 globe master at the same time. You cannot do that with an Abrams.
You have a fat HE shell, that is very effective and economical for blowing up cars, houses, tree lines, shrubs, slight rises in the dirt, and generally anything that can potentially house infantry. The Bradley doesn’t have that.
That’s the fundamental idea.
You have a vehicle that can be shipped out easily aboard lighter transports in large quantities, and deliver direct fire support very effectively to aid troops in the field.
The problem is that what was delivered was a 40 tonne mess. At that mass point, the vehicle is FAR too heavy to be moved by a C-130, which would have been optimal for the platform. It’s also heavy enough that’s its actually managing to inflict damage on some lighter bridges that were fine for the M1128, the vehicle it was supposed to replace.
So right away, this is a mess.
The irony in all of this is that the Booker represents just the latest in a string of problems stretching back decades.
In the 1990’s, the US Army had the M8 AGS on the table, and the USMC had the LAV-AG. Two different armoured 105mm armed gun systems each weighing in at under 19 tonnes.
(M8 AGS)
(LAV-AG)
Both of these got scuttled because of budget cuts in the 1990’s.
The US has been sitting on viable light weight projects for decades, and refuses to implement them.
Peruvian Lomito Saltado
Translated it means “jumping meat.” It’s very important to use very high heat, and cook it quickly. A big pan or even a wok is all you will need. If you cook for more than 4 or 6, don’t fry the meat and vegetables all together. Cook 4 at a time.
Ingredients
- 1 pound tenderloin
- 1/2 pound onion
- 1 pound potatoes
- 3 tomatoes
- 2 green chile peppers
- Chopped parsley
- Ground pepper
- 2 ounces white wine vinegar
- 2 ounces soy sauce
- Vegetable oil (for frying)
Instructions
- First cut the potatoes as you would for French fries. Fry them in vegetable oil.
- Cut the meat into narrow 2-inch long strips.
- Cut the onion and tomatoes in eight parts each.
- Cut the peppers into narrow strips, washing them in hot water and removing stems and seeds.
- In a pan or wok, over VERY high heat and using about 2 tablespoons vegetable oil, fry the meat, turning it quickly, making it “jump” on the pan. When done, add the onion. After two minutes, add the tomatoes and peppers. Add salt, pepper, vinegar and soy sauce.
- Serve immediately with the fries and rice. Onions, tomatoes and peppers should be crunchy.
Sir Whiskerton and the Quack-Quack Conundrum
Or: When a Farmer Tries to Sing Opera—and Everyone Loses Their Feathers
Introduction
Ah, dear reader, prepare for a tale of quacking chaos, inflated egos, and deflating accordions. Today’s story begins with Ferdinand the Duck—self-proclaimed “singing sensation” and farmyard diva—teaching the farmer his version of “Duck Language,” which, unsurprisingly, involves dramatic opera singing. Unfortunately, the farmer’s attempts at mastering this so-called language result in migraines for everyone within earshot.
As Gertrude the Goose judges harshly from the sidelines and Sir Whiskerton steps in to mediate, everyone learns an important lesson: you don’t need to perform to connect. So grab your earplugs (or perhaps a kazoo), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Quack-Quack Conundrum.
Act 1: The Lesson Begins
It was a quiet morning on the farm when Ferdinand the Duck approached the farmer, who was busy trying to teach the scarecrow how to waltz.
“Farmer,” Ferdinand began, striking a pose that would make any opera star proud, “if you want to communicate with ducks, you must learn our language.”
The farmer adjusted his straw hat dramatically. “Duck language? Fascinating! Teach me everything!”
Ferdinand puffed up his chest. “It is simple. You must sing with passion, flair, and… quaaaaaaaack!”
He demonstrated by launching into an aria that could shatter glass—or at least rattle the barn doors. The animals paused mid-activity, their expressions ranging from awe to horror.
The farmer nodded thoughtfully. “I see… it’s all about emotion. Very Zen.”
Gertrude the Goose rolled her eyes. “That’s not a language. That’s a crime.”
Act 2: The Quacking Catastrophe
Determined to master “Duck Language,” the farmer spent the rest of the day practicing—but not without disastrous results.
His first attempt sounded like a deflating accordion.
“QUACK-quack-quaaaaaaack!” he bellowed, waving his arms like a malfunctioning windmill.
Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow winced. “That’s… something.”
Porkchop the Pig snorted. “It’s giving me flashbacks to Chef Remy’s glow-in-the-dark snacks.”
Undeterred, the farmer continued, adding increasingly theatrical gestures. He twirled, he leapt, he even threw in some jazz hands (because why not?). By lunchtime, he had attracted an audience of horrified animals.
“He’s losing it,” Doris the Hen whispered to Gertrude.
“No,” Gertrude replied, narrowing her beady eyes. “He’s found something worse: himself.”
Even Sir Whiskerton couldn’t resist joining in, perched atop the fence with his monocle firmly in place. “Farmer,” he said diplomatically, “perhaps communication doesn’t require… quite so much volume.”
But the farmer was too busy belting out high notes to listen.
Act 3: A Moment of Clarity
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the animals gathered around the old oak tree to reflect on the day’s events.
“Today taught us an important lesson,” Sir Whiskerton began, sipping a cup of moonlit tea. “You don’t need to perform to connect. Communication is about understanding—not showmanship.”
The farmer hesitated, then nodded slowly. “You’re right. I got caught up in the performance and forgot the point.”
Ferdinand sighed deeply, looking genuinely remorseful. “And I may have exaggerated the importance of opera singing.”
Gertrude smirked. “Understatement of the century.”
Act 4: Resolution and Reflection
With the lesson learned, the farmer decided to simplify his approach. Instead of singing, he sat quietly by the pond, tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks.
“This feels… nice,” he admitted, smiling as Ferdinand waddled over to nibble on a piece of bread.
Ferdinand quacked softly. “See? No need for arias. Just… presence.”
Even Chef Remy LeRaccoon joined in, holding a tray of suspiciously glowing snacks.
“These are Quiet Snacks™,” he announced proudly. “Guaranteed to reduce noise levels—or cause indigestion!”
The animals exchanged wary glances but couldn’t help laughing.
Post-Credit Scene
Later that night, the farmer attempted one last performance—this time with glow-in-the-dark jazz hands.
“This is called ‘Quack Opera Modern,’” he declared, spinning dramatically.
Gertrude groaned. “He’ll never change.”
Ferdinand quacked softly. “At least he’s entertaining.”
Moral of the Story
You don’t need to perform to connect. Sometimes, the simplest gestures speak louder than words—or quacks.
Best Lines
- “That’s not a language. That’s a crime.” – Gertrude, delivering a scathing burn.
- “These are Quiet Snacks™—guaranteed to reduce noise levels or cause indigestion!” – Chef Remy, offering questionable solutions.
- “This feels… nice.” – The farmer, finally achieving simplicity.
Key Jokes
- The farmer’s quacking sounds like a deflating accordion, adding absurdity to his attempts.
- Gertrude’s running commentary provides ongoing comedic relief.
- Chef Remy’s glowing snacks spark both curiosity and concern.
Starring
- The Farmer (Overenthusiastic Human/Opera Novice)
- Ferdinand the Duck (Self-Proclaimed Singing Sensation)
- Gertrude the Goose (Harsh Critic/Judge Extraordinaire)
- Chef Remy LeRaccoon (Mad Scientist of Snacks)
Summaries
- Moral: You don’t need to perform to connect. Sometimes, the simplest gestures speak louder than words—or quacks.
- Future Potential: Could the farmer start a “Quiet Farm Club”? Or will Chef Remy invent edible opera glasses next?
Until next time, may your communications be clear and your performances optional. 🎭
Scott Ritter : How Close Is Doomsday?
Bye Bye Ukraine.
Pictures
Would you consider living in Dubai?
I have lived in Dubai for over 12 years, So brace yourselves, this is going to be a long answer.
Firstly, let me tell you what Dubai won’t give you:
- It’s not a democracy. There is some freedom of speech, but if it is your desire to speak against either the royal family or Islam, leave now.
- Visa can be an issue. Dubai doesn’t provide citizenship. If you have a business, you can sponsor your own visa. But if you are employed, then your visa is sponsored by your employer. That means the moment you leave your job, you have to leave the country. You can purchase real estate in Dubai to get a 99 year visa, but houses are expensive. And again, since it’s not a democracy, many people are wary of making large investments in Dubai.
- It’s a desert. If you are overly sensitive to sand, heat and temperatures exceeding 50 degrees, leave now.
- The city lacks what some refer to as ‘culture’. In a way that is true. The city is so globalized that there is no true dominant culture per se. My parents had a problem with that. I didn’t.
- If you have issues with the concept of income inequality, Dubai is probably not the most ideal place. It is common to see the locals’ kids’ Bentleys being washed by impoverished 50 year olds from various developing nations.
- The materialistic exuberance of the people is extraordinary. People are obsessed with possessing the most over-the-top things in the world. You might end up seeing stuff like this pretty frequently –
I can only think of these for now. I’ll add in an edit if I think of more. Now that we have got that out of the way, let’s talk about the positives.
- The standard of living is exceptional. If you are financially well off, you have all the comforts of a highly developed country. And because of the cheap labour, you will also be able to afford to hire your own drivers, housekeepers and cooks without being extremely rich. This level of luxury is not possible in most western countries.
- No income tax. You will truly understand the gravity of this point when you start earning. From what I have heard, your savings surpass almost any other country in the world. Not to mention you can park funds from other countries over here without much of an issue.
- Imagine visiting Rome in the 14th Century. That’s what Dubai feels like. It may have been built on the backs of slaves (well technically not slaves but cheap labour and oil money), but the city is BREATHTAKING. It has structures which will literally blow your mind away. Here are the most popular. It has many more.
- The Materialistic exuberance – I know that I have used this in the ‘drawbacks’ section of the answer, but there are people out there who like to indulge themselves in the most decadent of luxuries. And if you are someone who wants to live like a king (or Sheikh) there’s no better place.
- Some might say that the city is racist. I don’t completely agree. I have encountered much worse cases of racism in US, Singapore and even India than I have ever faced in Dubai. There are so many cultures that there isn’t any single racial profile to target.
- The night life! You will find 24 hours restaurants, cafes and lounges almost everywhere at anytime. If you are like me and you enjoy spending your life like an owl/bat, you’ll love Dubai.
- The beaches. The watersports. The corniches. The promenades. If you love the sea, you will love Dubai. You can peacefully spend hours at a stretch watching the waves crash onto the sandy/rocky shores. Pure bliss.
- The United Arab Emirates is ranked 28th on the Index of Economic Freedom. So despite not being a democracy, you have a great degree of freedom to choose what it is you want to do in your personal life. In comparison Belgium is ranked 35th and India is ranked at an appalling 120th. Democracy, clearly, isn’t everything.
- UAE is also ranked 41st according to the Human Development Index. This is much better than almost any developing country and some developed ones as well.
There are many reasons to live in Dubai, and many not to. I have had a mostly pleasurable experience. But not everyone can say the same. Ideally you should evaluate your reasons for wanting to go there. If you think you can achieve those objectives then Dubai is a fantastic place. If however the negatives particularly bother you, maybe you’d not enjoy as much.
What TV shows had the most unlikely of beginnings?
I have a friend who once called me up and said “I’m going to call in sick tomorrow and try to win $10,000 on a radio competition, do you want to join me?”
“I can’t”, I replied. “I’m working on an important project and they need me at work, sorry. Anyway, good luck!”
She was going to need it. There are over 5 million people living in my home-town. I’ve tried calling in on those radio competitions before, where you have to be a specific caller number (eg 9th caller). For many thousands of people (including me), all you’ll ever get is an engaged tone.
But fate had other ideas, and by the end of the day my friend was $10,000 richer, whereas for me it was just another day at work. Couldn’t believe it.
The lesson, apparently? Sometimes it pays not to go to work.
But on ever rarer occasions, the opposite is true.
In 1997, at a fabled Italian dining institution in London named the River Cafe, some guy called in sick for work. The cafe manager, now being short staffed, called another one of his employees and asked if he could come in on his day off to fill in for the missing staff member. The emoloyee agreed. His name was Jamie Oliver.
Unbeknown to Jamie, that very day, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) were sending a film crew to the River cafe to film some “behind the scenes” stuff in the commercial kitchen of the restaurant for a documentary they were making.
As a result of showing up to work on what should have been his day off, Jamie was filmed that day, instead of his sick colleague.
As it turns out, the producer of the doco, Pat Llewellyn, was also working on a pitch to the BBC for a new TV cooking show that would feature a young, vibrant chef instead of the typical, well-seasoned older host that this sort of TV program usually featured. Instead of filming in a studio kitchen, the presenter would cook at home for family and friends, turning out simple but delicious food that anyone could re-create at home. The problem had been finding the right presenter to fill the role.
Impressed with Jamie’s natural style and bold charisma in the background of the scenes filmed at the River Cafe, Llewellyn suggested Jamie to the TV executives, but the request was denied. Too unknown.
A year went by and Llewellyn had still not found her potential star, so she went back to the executives and insisted they give Jamie a go. This time they said yes. She offerred the role to Jamie, and he agreed to give it a shot.
Filming began the next year and in 1999, The Naked Chef hit the airwaves.
The Naked Chef would go on to be a solid hit in multiple countries. In America, it attracted the attention of Oprah Winfrey, who brought Jamie on her talk show for a cooking segment, with more appearances to follow, helping push Jamie into the global TV megasphere.
The Naked Chef ran for four seasons. Subsequent TV shows, cookbooks and restaurants would also follow, making Jamie one of the biggest global TV chefs ever.
The Naked Chef starring Jamie Oliver. All because some guy called in sick for work.
Do you have any family stories about surprising coincidences that seem too wild to be true?
I do have one. As teenagers my sister drove our mustang and always had a stuffed dummy riding shotgun, while I sat in the back. Well…one time i decided I wanted shotgun so I rolled the passenger window down and threw the dummy out onto the right hand lane in our hometown. It was promptly run over by a lowrider… ……to which I yelled, lets get the fck outta here. Well…a few years ago, my daughter and I were temporarily homeless, waiting to leave the state, and we met a young man skating at the park we parked at, and his father and I were talking about our hometown from back in the day. I told him about the dummy incident and his eyes widened. He looked at me and said…so you were the ones in the brown car!!!!! Apparently he was driving the lowrider who ran over the dummy!!!! I wholeheartedly apologized as he laughed and laughed causing me to burst out in laughter also. I didn’t say what color the car was and knew he was telling me the truth. Needless to say, I made a friend that day!!!
Does a soldier have to obey orders from his superior officers even if he is off duty?
Here’s a little inside baseball for you.
“Leave” is essentially the same thing as a civilian vacation. A Service Member is given 30 days of leave for each year of service. Typically, leave is used two weeks at a time. So, a Sailor can take 2 two-week vacations a year. Can’t get more “off duty” than that.
There are many differences between military leave and civilian vacation, but for brevity, I’ll just mention the one that is germane to this question. In civilian life, the boss may ask where you’re going, but you’re not required to tell them. They may also ask for contact information where you will be, but you’re under no legal obligation to say. Vacation time is your time.
In the military, before the leave chit is approved, the Service Member must provide a location where they will be and a phone number where they can be reached. If for some reason the Navy needed me to return, my leave could be canceled, and I was required to return to the ship ASAP if not sooner. If a civilian boss tried that, we would have “words” possibly with attorneys involved.
OK, here’s another one. It’s the weekend! Hooray!!! In the civilian world, the weekend is yours. What say we drive up to the mountains for a quick getaway? Maybe fly overseas for a night in Paris. In the Navy, my time travel on Liberty was limited to within 75 miles of the ship. Yeah, that camping trip(s) I took in Vermont, I’m lucky they didn’t find out about it. If we were in a port other than our home port, the Signalmen would string “liberty lights” from the bow, up to the top of the mast and down to the stern.
Several examples of Liberty lights.
If these lights were extinguished, it meant Liberty was cancelled and all hands needed to return NOW!
TL/DR: US military members are never completely off duty.
Claudia Cardinale just passed away at 87.
And she was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. She lived a pretty interesting life, too — despite being one of the most famous Italian actresses of all times, she spoke only Sicilian, French and Arabic until she reached 18, growing up in Tunisia.
Winning a beauty pageant at 17, Cardinale was discovered early and moved to France. An older French man, married, had an affair with her and made her pregnant. He then demanded she end the pregnancy — Cardinale refused, instead placing her child in the care of her parents and persevering with her career in a time when an out of wedlock teenage pregnancy could be career-ending. She ended up a legendary actress, marrying a few years later to a famous actor and legally adopting her own son together with him. By this time, she spoke fluent Italian and played many great parts, including one in “Once Upon A Time in the West”, one of the finest films ever made.
Claudia Cardinale, to me, was the prototype of Monica Belucci. Italy’s answer to Bridget Bardot and Marilyn Monroe. She easily could have become just a footnote, forgotten, had she not persevered in her young years. Claudia Cardinale was the “wow-factor” personified.
Utopian Nostalgia: The Future Was A Dream Away | Sleepcore
Cool and weird.
What actor or actress got famous without any ties to the industry and just plain luck?
This man got his first role in a major film by sheer luck, was the son of a social worker and a mechanic, with no ties to the film industry and no place at a posh private school to help grease the wheels – he has since gone on to become quite possibly the best actor from the UK –
I am of course talking about the incredibly talented Stephen Graham.
Hi first major role was in Guy Ritchie’s Snatch – a role he only got as a result of tagging a long with a friend of his who was auditioning for a role in the movie. Graham had no intention of auditioning, and when asked if he would stated he was only there with a friend and couldn’t audition even if he wanted to because his dyslexia meant he could not read from the provided script.
He was allowed to improvise in an audition and won a role in the film as “Tommy” alongside Brad Pitt and Jason Statham
He followed this up with a role in Band of Brothers and Gangs of New York but got his true breakthrough role in 2006 – as the skinhead with neo-nazi leanings ‘Combo’ in the truly astounding “This is England” – ironically Stephen Graham is himself of mixed race origin, with Jamaican heritage on his fathers side.
He would play this role three more times in the equally brilliant and harrowing This is England ‘86, ’88 and ‘90.
From here he has played everything from a Victorian Boxer in A Thousand Blows, to Al Capone in Boardwalk Empire, a Caribbean Pirate, a chef in Boiling Point and arguably, in his most powerful work yet, the father of a young boy accused of murder in Adolescence – a series that Graham also help write and recently won three Emmy’s for.
This series also generated an Emmy win for the excellent Owen Cooper – a child actor who also does not have ties to the film industry. Graham had requested that they cast an unknown child actor from the North of England for the role.
The Night of the Red Falling
Written in response to: “People have gathered to witness a once-in-a-lifetime natural phenomenon, but what happens next is not what they expected.“
Anna Vyush
This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.
What they have noticed throughout the centennials is that sacrificing something in front of the Blood Fall gives them good fortune for just one following year. The bigger the sacrifice the bigger the fortune. However murder was forbidden by the tribal laws, so no matter how bad of a year you had, you were not allowed to kill somebody to have a better one. That presented itself as a problem for some people. What if you throw away your family heirloom ring that’s been in the possession of your ancestors for hundreds of years and came into their ownership through some sappy story? That, for example, would grant you the love of your life who you would meet the following year. Now Imagine giving up your loved one, not killing them, just never speaking to them again? For that you would get a whole year of great quality crops, amazing health, and substantial profit as well as veneration from your fellow villagers. But what if you actually sacrificed someone by taking their life? What would that sacrifice give you? Unknown fortunes? Everlasting money? No one ever knew, no one has ever tried it. And so, this time shall be no different than all the previous ones, right?
People that lived in the area, the Yalas, called the Blood Fall event “The Night of the Red Falling”.
By the dusk everyone has already collected their offerings and made their way to the waterfall. With lit torches and chanting it was the loudest night of the year. The Yalas had a tradition of putting firefly plant juice on their bodies and faces to honor and show their ancestors their presence, because they believed that the spirits from the other world can see the luminescent glow from the fruit due to its phosphorescent qualities. This night, however, they needed to show the Blood Fall Spirits that they are there and ready to sacrifice things they love the most to get a gift in return.
As such, a beautiful young girl in her twenties has been preparing for “The Night of the Red Falling” for her entire conscious life. Her mother would always gush about the event and the young Cala has unwillingly and
unknowingly made her whole existence about it.
The night before, she went with her peers into the woods to get the firefly plant. Her best buddy Cai was with her. Both of them were quite nervous because on the Night of the Red Falling, they would have to engage in sexual relations with each other since it was a tradition that, the Yalas believed, made the connection with the spirit world so much stronger. Cala and Cai could have chosen anybody to mate with, but this connection made sense since they were best friends, and this decision was made for them anyways. The only issue was that they were friends and not exactly lovers. These two young Yalas knew that it could ruin their friendship and make everything awkward and wrong between them, but it was expected of them and there was nothing they could do to change that.
“I see a glow there,” said Cala, “must be the firefly plant. Should we tell others?”
“No, why? It’s right over there, let’s just check it out ourselves.” Responded Cai. They looked at each other, Cala hesitated for a moment and went on to explore the glow. Cai gazed at her long black hair that glimmered in the light of the moon. He wanted to touch it but collected himself and followed her into the bushes.
“That amount should be enough to paint at least 10 bodies,” pondered Cala, “let’s gather it and join the others, they must’ve gone further away, I don’t see them anymore.”
“Yeah, that should be plenty of firefly. Don’t worry though, I can still hear them, so they must be nearby.” Cai reached for Cala’s hand. “I know you’re anxious about tomorrow. But you do know that I would never do anything to hurt you, right?”
Cala trembled slightly, “Yes, of course. Come on Cai, don’t be so dramatic, my mind is preoccupied with my offering and not the stupid orgy.” She tried to say it as casually as she could. “I mean, how and why am I supposed give up my father’s ring?” She paused. “I am fine the way I am. I am happy and I don’t need anything from the Red Fall.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do. The only thing I would actually wish for is something I can never have again.” The girl was tearing up.
“Cala…,” Cai looked dearly at his friend, took her other hand in his and stuck out his pinkie, “I know, but something else, something great will happen to you, I promise.”
Cala unwillingly intertwined her pinkie with his.
“But is it worth it though? This is the only thing I have left of him, the only reminder of him…” She said lowering her voice.
Friends harvested the plants and hurried off to find others. When they reached the rest of the scavenging group the Sun has already almost completely vanished from the horizon.
“Hey, you’ve found some!” shrieked a thin looking girl with red hair. Cai elbowed Cala for she was not paying attention, and everyone was staring at her.
“Ah, yeah, we found some, should suffice for 10 people or so.” Cala replied quickly.
The redhead watched Cala with curiosity. “Is something on your mind?” She asked with condescension without the intent of really wanting to find out the answer. “Are you afraid of tomorrow?” The girl asked amused.
“No,” replied Cala uneasily, “I just… I’m not sure if I want to give up my dad’s ring. I mean, it’s the only -” and there was laughter. Everybody laughed. Cala felt her cheeks getting hot and crimson, she looked at Cai but then averted her gaze downwards because she saw a curiosity on his face as well. “You don’t understand it, you’ve never lost something… You’ve never lost somebody you loved. I feel empty half of the time and if I lose the ring, I will never forgive myself, I will tarnish his memory.”
Everyone stared quietly at Cala. She gulped loudly and showed an intent on keeping on moving in hopes of changing the subject but was stopped and pulled back by somebody. She looked back. It was Cai. He had a weird smile on his face that made Cala’s stomach turn.
“You will throw the ring Cala, won’t you?” Cai looked at her intensely.
“Oh, I get it,” yelled some girl in the back, “you don’t want to throw the ring into the fire because you don’t want to find your love this year, do you?”. “Because you love your daddy,” she giggled. “Oh fuck, she wants to fuck her daddy!” shouted a fat boy with a full-on pimpled face and laughed hysterically.
Cala looked around, her insides twisting, it was hard to make out faces, since the Sun has completely set and the moonlight was ever so slightly touching the silhouettes of every boy and girl around her, who were pointing fingers, ridiculing, and laughing. She put a hand to her face in attempt to calm herself down, but somebody grabbed it and shoved it into her mouth while making a perverted comment about an incest. She let out cry and watched in disbelief as her friends were mocking her. Cala searched for a particular face in the cackling crowd and saw what she never hoped to see – Cai, taunting her at the expense of her dead father. Cala wiped her tears and stormed off into the darkness.
By the dusk on the Night of the Red Falling everyone was ready and marching to the holy waterfall. Cala had put her father’s ring on her thumb so that it doesn’t fall off. She tried to seem unaffected by the remarks and bullying from her peers from last night. And however uneasy and troubled she may have appeared, no one really gave it a second thought as they were all preoccupied with their soon to be fulfilled wishes or some of them were thrilled simply because of the prospect of an orgy.
There were gasps. “Ah, how beautiful and holy!” Exclaimed one old looking Yala staring at the waterfall and red ice and red snow around it. The tribe ran to the Blood Fall to kneel before it. “Oh, welcome us, You Holy Spirit! Accept our offerings and grant us something in return, whatever it might be, we are forever grateful!”
Women and men started taking off their clothes, heavy breathing could be heard all around. Enthusiasm, willingness and eagerness were palpable, be it because of horniness or anticipation of the wishes or the mere hype of the night.
“Ahhhh! Is it…?” A scream echoed through the mountains. Everyone as if coming out of a trance looked around to catch the disturber only to find a redheaded skinnish girl looking sickly holding a pinkie. The girl from yesterday wanted to come up with something and express her distress but the only thing that came up was food. The head of the Yalas tribe pulled out and walked up to the girl. He stepped around the vomit and examined the finger that the girl dropped. Then he looked at the red on the snow. Slowly it sank in. He grabbed his coat, took a deep breath, and shouted at the top of his lungs: “There has been a murder!”
Sweaty naked bodies stood up and started putting on their clothes, gasping and panting in disbelief. Their fear was evident. Cala could smell it. Taking out her tainted with blood dagger she jumped on people and started cutting them up. Those who could, fled in awe and cries, those who couldn’t, simply died.
She spared the head of the tribe – Caannie. “You know, it’s all because of you,” Cala whispered not looking directly at him as if she didn’t care enough to do so, “of how you have led this tribe to believe that we can get more than we can give.”
“Cala, why –”
“I, for one, could not get what I wanted,” she continued more loudly and more paced, “I was dragged into your insanity and forced to give up something that I cherish the most,” tears streaming down her face, she was gulping for air, “I was stripped of the opportunity to receive something I deserve because of you. But now –” Cala stuttered and spit out blood. She looked down and saw an end of a sparrow sticking out of her gut. Then fell on the ground and saw her father.
Picadillo Potato Pie
Picadillo, seasoned chopped beef, is a great favorite throughout Latin America, and every country has its own version. This Dominican variation includes hard-boiled eggs, raisins, olives and capers and prepared with mashed potatoes, it is a winning combination.
Although this recipe takes some time to prepare, it is worth the effort. For ease in preparation, the picadillo filling or potato part can be made a day ahead or earlier in the day and refrigerated.
Ingredients
Picadillo
- 1 tablespoon olive oil
- 2 sweet cubanelle or green peppers, finely chopped
- 1 medium red onion, finely chopped
- 2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
- 1 1/2 pounds ground beef
- 3 tablespoons tomato paste
- 1 MAGGI Chicken Flavor Bouillon Cube, dissolvedin 1 1/4 cups hot water
- 6 pimiento-stuffed green olives, chopped
- 1 teaspoon capers
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 2 tablespoons raisins
- 1 large hard-boiled egg, chopped
Potato Pie
- 3 1/2 pounds (7 to 8 medium) potatoes, peeled and cubed
- 1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter or margarine
- 1 (12 fluid ounce) can NESTLÉ® CARNATION® Evaporated Milk
- 2 large eggs, lightly beaten
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1/4 teaspoon ground white or black pepper
- 1/4 cup (.75 ounce) BUITONI Refrigerated Freshly Shredded Parmesan Cheese
Instructions
- Picadillo: Heat oil in medium saucepan over medium-high heat. Add peppers, onion and garlic; cook, stirring occasionally, for 2 to 3 minutes. Add ground beef; cook, stirring frequently, until no longer pink. Drain.
- Add tomato paste; stir to blend in. Stir in bouillon mixture, olives, capers and salt. Cook, stirring occasionally, until most of the liquid has evaporated. Reduce heat to low; add raisins. Cover; cook, stirring occasionally, for an additional 10 minutes. Remove from heat. Gently mix in chopped egg.
- Potato Pie: Heat oven to 375 degrees F. Grease 13 x 9-inch baking dish.
- Boil potatoes in salted water until tender; drain well. Mash potatoes while hot until smooth. Add butter; alternately mix in evaporated milk and eggs. Add salt and pepper; mix well.
- Place half of mashed potatoes in prepared baking dish. Spoon Picadillo over potatoes. Gently spread remaining mashed potatoes over Picadillo. Sprinkle with cheese.
- Bake for 35 to 40 minutes or until cheese is slightly browned.
- Serve hot.
Prep: 25 min – Cook: 1 hr 15 min – Servings: 12
Recipe and photo used with permission from: Nestlé and meals.com
What is it like to continue living with terminal cancer?
My late wife did live with the knowledge that her cancer was ultimately terminal. She lived for 18 months after confirmation of what the big bump on her stomach was all about. It was removed, leaving a leaking scar.
She mellowed, and stopped fighting the world, took every day as a bonus, travelled a bit, including to Europe (The airline gifted us first class, both ways, so she could be more comfortable. May my ever lasting thanks go to the Air Canada check in agents.) to meet old friends a last time, and did what she could to stay active in spite of her declining physical strength.
The initial treatment was horrible. She did some research and found out that chemotherapy does nothing against her specific cancer, so she stopped them after one try.
She stayed at home, puttering in the garden and watching a lot of TV for a few months. I called on the telephone from work about once every hour to check on her.
She stopped reading the newspaper about three months before she passed away. That was the moment when I knew that she know … and had accepted.
The last several weeks she mostly rested rested in the living room. I spent a lot of time reading classics, the ones she had missed at university, for her.. We had nurses coming twice a day to look after her. (A free service in Canada).
I took absence from my job and stayed home these weeks, only going out when the nurses were there. That’s when I shopped and went for a short run to keep my body alive.
I did all the cooking, mostly soft food, but near the end she ate very little, as did I. I lost 20 lbs (10 kg) the last few weeks.
When she was ready, she told the nurse to get her to the hospice. She was preregistered there some time ago.
This is the day she left the house the last time, to go to the hospice. I drove a long route so she could pass by her last workplace. She waved at the building in the hope that her colleagues knew she waws passing by. (I cried so much I could barely see to drive.)
She passed away three days later, surrounded by our children w families.
We had been married 41 years, and loved each other dearly.
I was 63 and grieved on my own for a long time. The kids were long gone and the house was so empty. I cried a lot in the first while. I eventually sold the house and moved to a different city for new job.
I met a few women as a widower, and married a widow, my age, some four years later. We have now been happily married 18 years. There can be new love and life after death of a spouse.
Last week. (We are 85 and 83.)
How did Fruit Cake become so despised by Americans, when it is a highly regarded Christmas treat in other English speaking countries?
Back in the 1940s in the US, large department store chains began offering fruitcakes as an inexpensive Christmas gift option. They were mass-produced and shelf-stabilized (could sit on shelves for a long time without going bad); taste and quality were distant second considerations.
As a result fruitcake became a byword for a cheap and kind of worthless gift, something you’d give a coworker or your kid’s teacher, anyone you felt obliged to give a gift but not obligated to spend too much money or thought on it, with the expectation that it’d probably be chucked in the trash bin the moment the giver was out of sight. In filling that peculiar niche, fruitcakes were somehow both extremely good sellers and universally disliked.
These days, department store fruitcakes are now mostly gone, along with a lot of department stores in general (though apparently Macy’s still sells them), but the damage was done. Fruitcake got such a bad reputation, people would still turn their noses up at it even if it was made with love and the best ingredients by your sainted Granny.
Personally, I love fruitcake; my grandmother would usually make it for Thanksgiving and one of my aunts inherited the recipe. A nice slice of that with your coffee on a chilly morning is hard to beat.
America Was Cool Once… What Happened?
