Yeah. It’s a good thing that I post mostly on the MM platform. The rest of social media is a shit-show.
You all know about how I was erased off both Freerepublic.com (over 20,000 posts) and LinkedIN.com (nearly 50,000 contacts) without warning, and by the press of a button. Well… the same kind of things is going on now.
Subject is Quora. And they don’t like my opinions and posting histories.
Oh well.
Word to the wise, the Internet of the West is a method of control. It is eventually going to be tied with financial control, jobs and careers and reputation. Best thing that you can do is avoid it with a big NO!
My lesson for today.
Today…
Something light and super funny. Only 3 minutes!
I laughed so hard!!!!!
Why do people love modern and contemporary art? It looks absurd and ugly to me, but I’m just an amateur.
Because they haven’t read Thorstein Veblen and do not understand the sociodynamics behind it.
American academic Thorstein Veblen Born Thorstein Bunde Veblen ( 1857-07-30 ) July 30, 1857 Died August 3, 1929 (1929-08-03) (aged 72) Nationality American Institutions Field Economics, socioeconomics School or tradition Institutional economics Alma mater Influences Herbert Spencer , Thomas Paine , William Graham Sumner , Lester F. Ward , William James , Georges Vacher de Lapouge , Edward Bellamy , John Dewey , Gustav von Schmoller , John Bates Clark , Henri de Saint-Simon , Charles Fourier Contributions Conspicuous consumption , conspicuous leisure , trained incapacity , Veblenian dichotomy Thorstein Bunde Veblen (July 30, 1857 – August 3, 1929) was a Norwegian-American economist and sociologist who, during his lifetime, emerged as a well-known critic of capitalism . In his best-known book, The Theory of the Leisure Class (1899), Veblen coined the concepts of conspicuous consumption and conspicuous leisure . Historians of economics regard Veblen as the founding father of the institutional economics school. Contemporary economists still theorize Veblen's distinction between "institutions" and "technology", known as the Veblenian dichotomy. As a leading intellectual of the Progressive Era in the US, Veblen attacked production for profit . His emphasis on conspicuous consumption greatly influenced economists who engaged in non-Marxist critiques of fascism , capitalism , and of technological determinism . Biography [ edit ] Early life and family background [ edit ] Veblen was born on July 30, 1857, in Cato, Wisconsin , to Norwegian-American immigrant parents, Thomas Veblen and Kari Bunde. He was the sixth of twelve children. [1] His parents had emigrated from Norway to Milwaukee , Wisconsin, on September 16, 1847, with few funds and no knowledge of English. Despite their limited circumstances as immigrants, Thomas Veblen's knowledge in carpentry and construction, paired with his wife's supportive perseverance, allowed them to establish a family farm in Rice County, Minnesota , where they moved in 1864. [1] (The Veblen farmstead , located near the town of Nerstrand , became a National Historic Landmark in 1981.) [2] Veblen began his schooling at age 5. Although Norwegian was his first language, he learned English from neighbors and at school. His parents also learned to speak English fluently, though they continued to read predominantly Norwegian literature with and around their family on the farmstead. The family farm eventually grew more prosperous, allowing Veblen's parents to provide their children with formal education. Unlike most immigrant families of the time, Veblen and all of his siblings received training in lower schools and went on to receive higher education at the nearby Carleton College . Veblen's sister, Emily, was reputedly the first daughter of Norwegian immigrants to graduate from an American college. [3] The eldest Veblen child, Andrew Veblen, ultimately became a professor of physics at Iowa State University and the father of one
Thorstein Veblen was a Norwegian-born American academician – a sociologist and economist – and the eternal hero of all engineers and Social Democrats. He was both a Rationalist to the boot and an unrelenting critic of Capitalism.
In his magnum opus, The Theory of the Leisure Class, he explains the sociodynamics of Homo sapiens and that in each and every society, there emerges an elite which is both filthy rich and powerful, and which seeks distinction from the uncouth masses.
Book by Thorstein Veblen The Theory of The Leisure Class Author Thorstein Veblen Original title The Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study in the Evolution of Institutions Language English Genre Economics and sociology Publisher Macmillan Publication date 1899 Publication place United States Media type book Pages 400 pp OCLC 17647347 The Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study of Institutions (1899), by Thorstein Veblen , is a treatise of economics and sociology , and a critique of conspicuous consumption as a function of social class and of consumerism , which are social activities derived from the social stratification of people and the division of labor ; the social institutions of the feudal period (9th–15th c.) that have continued to the modern era . [ 1 ] Veblen discusses how the pursuit and the possession of wealth affects human behavior, that the contemporary lords of the manor , the businessmen who own the means of production , have employed themselves in the economically unproductive practices of conspicuous consumption and conspicuous leisure , which are useless activities that contribute neither to the economy nor to the material production of the useful goods and services required for the functioning of society. Instead, it is the middle class and working class who are usefully employed in the industrialised , productive occupations that support the whole of society. The Theory of the Leisure Class (1899) was published during the Gilded Age (1870–1900), the time of the robber baron millionaires John D. Rockefeller , Andrew Carnegie , and Cornelius Vanderbilt , at the end of the 19th century. [ 1 ] Veblen presents the evolutionary development of the social and economic institutions of society, wherein technology and the industrial arts are the creative forces of economic production . That in the economics of the production of goods and services , the social function of the economy was to meet the material needs of society and to earn profits for the owners of the means of production . Sociologically, that the industrial production system required the workers (men and women) to be diligent, efficient, and co-operative, whilst the owners of the factories concerned themselves with profits and with public displays of wealth; thus the contemporary socio-economic behaviours of conspicuous consumption and of conspicuous leisure survived from the predatory, barbarian past of the tribal stage of modern society. [ 2 ] : 287 The sociology and economics reported in The Theory of the Leisure Class show the influences of Charles Darwin , Karl Marx , Adam Smith , and Herbert Spencer ; [ 3 ] thereby Veblen's socio-economic theory emphasizes social evolution and development as characteristics of human institutions. [ 4 ] In his time, Veblen criticised contemporary (19th-century) economic theories as intellectually static and hedonistic , and that economists should take account of how people actually behave, socially, and culturally, rat
This distinction is made by Veblen commodities – things which are useless as themselves, but which are perceived to emanate high status: fashion, style, taste, education, leisure, social capital, hobbies, art, – you name it. The peculiar fact with Veblen commodities is that they are luxury items for which demand increases as the price increases, which goes against the traditional law of demand.
This is why classical education is a Veblen commodity, but engineering education isn’t – engineering education is useful and signifies you are a peasant who needs to work to live. Classical education is useless and signifies you belong in the leisure class – the elites.
One of the most important ways to make this distinction is taste. The preference on immaterial things, such as arts, music, literature, movies etc. This is an acquired trait – and is an expensive signal. It takes effort and resources to develop a proper upper class taste. Taste is a thing which the hegemonic class imposes upon us peasants, and it is symbolic violence by which with it upkeeps its elite status.
Now artistic taste is a Veblen commodity. Upper classes love modern and contemporary art – not because it would be beautiful or emanate positive aura or be particularly skilled by its execution – but because it creates distinction. It is kind of Emperor’s New Clothes – if you see modern and contemporary art as absurd and ugly, you are a tasteless peasant. Emperor is naked because we peasants are prudes.
This is also why the Nazis and Communists hated modern and contemporary art with passion – when they rose to power, they ousted the old elites, and got now a chance to define art by their taste. They both had risen from the gutter sludge of the society, and their artistic taste represented their origin of the class. The result was a style of art called Totalitarian Kitsch. If we see it tasteless and bogus, it is because we do not represent the class consciousness which created the Totalitarian Kitsch. But the challenge which the Nazis and Communists threw to the arts community is still very much valid – are there any other forms of art than modernist and contemporary trash, and kitsch, from which choose? At least kitsch gets you happy.
You are the little kid who yells “The Emperor has no clothes!”. But unfortunately the other peasants do not listen to you, but try to find a deeper meaning in the modern and contemporary art.
Norman Rockwell satirizes this perfectly on his The Connoisseur.
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Gru Being The Ultimate Best Dad | Despicable Me Franchise | Family Flicks
Why are so many tourists hesitant to visit the U.S. despite possible resolutions on tariffs, and what other factors are driving them away?
Canadian here, living 1–2 hours from US border crossings. I have decided that I won’t be travelling to the US again for at least the next three years. I didn’t travel south that much before Trump, but my curling team had an annual ritual tournament in Utica NY for many years and we’ve sent our regrets.
Reasons not to go:
- Sure, I’m boycotting American products and promoting Canadian ones in response to Trump’s trade war of aggression against us, and his credible threats to annex my country and steal our vast resources.
- It’s always been significantly dangerous to travel in the US where I can be a victim of random gun violence, get mugged by impoverished locals, or have the misfortune of being trapped in an American hospital and my life’s savings drained.
- Now under the authoritarian Trump regime, I will be fingerprinted at the border like a felon and forced to pay a new entry fee. I will be subject to possible arbitrary detention, with no cause given and no recourse to due process. I will be subject to search and seizure of my cell phone/laptop, and border agents may pry into my private messages and files looking for evidence of my political beliefs. Since my beliefs oppose their leader, I’m likely to be in pretty big trouble, restrained in a holding cell for hours or denied entry.
- Some have suggested travelling with a ‘burner phone’ rather than my personal phone, and sanitizing all of my social media feeds. F—- that hassle. It absolutely isn’t worth it!
- Once inside the country, besides living in fear of being shot by a random road rager or facing medical bankruptcy, I’m now at risk of being caught in a raid by ICE gestapo and disappeared as an ‘illegal alien’ to a concentration camp in El Salvador, again without the benefit of due process.
Reasons to go… Frankly, I can’t think of any. Certainly nothing that would compensate for all the serious risks listed above. I’d like to watch the Bears play at home one day, but I can easily wait 3+ years for that.
Mhallabiyyi
Ingredients
- 1 cup cream of rice
- 7 cup skim milk
- 1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
- 1 tablespoon rose water
Instructions
- Combine cream of rice, milk and sugar in a medium saucepan. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until mixture starts to thicken. Lower heat, and allow mixture to simmer until it attains the consistency of a cream filling.
- Add rose water, turn heat up. Bring to a fast boil, and remove from heat immediately. Pour into bowl or individual serving bowls.
- Serve warm or cold. If desired, drizzle with honey and garnish with pistachios.
What was the stupidest thing someone has called the police on you for?
I’m in my room — 19-years-old and listening to music.
Mom knocks on my door, enters my room and tells me that the police is on the phone — for me (about a girl). The police officer on the other end orders me to come to his office right away, “because of the accusations.” (I have no idea what he’s talking about.)
My dad offers to give me a ride, and I gladly take this offer. He knows what is going on, and he also knows that I never lie, because I have a disorder (called “honesty”) through which I cannot lie.
In the police office, my dad isn’t allowed to join me, and the police officers fire questions about a girl named Maureen (the girl I’m in love with but we’re not really an item yet), and a man named Stefan. Stefan is a good friend, but Stefan has been flirting with psychotic episodes since his mom hanged herself in his father’s house when he was a teenager — but the police people do not know this.
The story is complex.
Stefan has been robbed by two aggressive men the other night, and his sensitive nature makes him answer suggestive questions a tad different than ordinary people do. So Stefan tells the police that Maureen is a drug dealer (she isn’t), and mentions my name as well, while he is in the verge of entering psychosis again. But none of the police morons identifies his problem.
And so they call me.
And when I am in the interrogation room (without my dad), these two big police guys pressure me to give Maureen’s name, and to admit my many wrongdoings. Which I refuse to do, and I clearly say “on the record” that my friend is sick, and that he can’t distinguish the truth from reality at times. (They simply laugh.)
And then they call in my dad to talk some sense into me.
And my dad — he looks like Santa (and maybe he is Santa), but he is actually a force a Nature beyond the modest comprehension of my police men — does the exact opposite: he lauds me because I did not betray the girl, and then he attacks the police men because they never checked Stefan’s psychological profile to begin with.
And when Santa and Thomas leave the building, it finally starts snowing —
And all is well.
Sand Walkers
Written in response to: “Start or end your story with a character looking out at a river, ocean, or the sea.“
Peter Brickwood
Sand Walkers
An Earth to Nancy Story
By
Peter Brickwood
The Jessie touched Ursula’s elbow. “That’s as close as you should get to the sand.”
The tall woman’s lightly creased face looked down on the Jessie, “Really, how can I be in any danger here?”
“If I am to save you from death, you have to trust that I know the risks.” Sighing, the Jessie added, “We don’t want to incinerate you, too.” Her fingers flicked behind her back, commanding the members of the protective detail to move ahead and to the sides of the pair as they stood on the long rock slope leading to the endless expanse of sand.
“But I’m ten yards up bare rock.”
“Yes.” The Jessie nodded. “But you cannot tell a windborne worm from an ordinary grain of sand.”
“Pssah.” Ursula made a dismissive sound. “These blood worms of yours cannot be as small as tiny granules.”
“They can.” The Jessie shook her head. “Specks so small you hardly feel them against your skin. Within a minute, the body is infested with worms reproducing as fast as they can suck blood, growing and dividing until your body explodes and splatters over all of us. In self-preservation, we would have to kill you, just like your assistant, and destroy your corpse with flame throwers before the blood worms could escape and attack.”
The woman’s features became harsh as she admitted, “I suppose I don’t want to see that again, much less experience it.”
“The human race has found us after a thousand years, and they don’t care. You’re the only person in the whole galaxy that’s interested in us. And that’s only so you can study us for your anthropology thing.”
Ursula stared out at the valley between two rocky promontories covered in gnarled trees. “Does the sand really spread out like an ocean?” She pulled a high-tech viewer from her bag and pointed it at the distant horizon. “All I see is sand.”
The Jessie looked over her shoulder toward a woman of medium height with tightly bound blonde hair and the chaffed reddened skin that came with long exposure to the relentless sun. “Swot?”
The blonde woman’s brows furrowed, “Jessie, I’m not a Swot and don’t study all those books about astral navigation and other useless stuff. I just like reading the stories.”
“You’re the closest thing I have to a Swot, so do any of those ‘stories’ tell you about oceans?”
Swot thought for a few moments before answering. “The water surface on World One covered half of the planet. A person could stand on the edge of the land—they called it ‘beach.’” She laughed. “It was made of sand. When they looked away from the shore, they saw nothing but water in the same way we see nothing but sand when we look out from a point.”
“We can go out to the points.” Exclaimed Ursula, “I want to do that.”
Jessie’s mouth tightened, “Guarding you is like minding a curious toddler.” Her mouth twisted as she thought, “All right, we can go out the old crash point path. We’ll only need a demi-dec.”
Swot reached for a bag on her belt. A squat thickset man held out a hand to stop her. He glanced around; two tall men and a short woman all nodded. He said, “We’ll take her. You mediums go and enjoy an afternoon off. Soon enough, you’ll be making babies and have no time for yourself.”
Sadness clouded Swot’s eyes as she acknowledged his gift. “Thanks, Dem.”
The four guards formed up in a diamond around Ursula and Jessie. The group set off at a pace that matched Ursula’s brisk walk. Chattering excitedly, she asked, “Why do you call it a dec? I’ve heard of squads, ranks, files, crews, sticks but never decs. Stick is an interesting one, we can learn so much…”
The Jessie waited until Ursula paused for breath. “Dec is a group of ten people. Almost all our work is done in groups of ten. I think it started with work crews on our spaceship.”
“Ah,” Ursula’s eyes got a faraway look. “Like demi-tasse means half a cup in ancient French, so ‘demi-dec’ means half a ten-person crew. I must make notes.” She fumbled in her bag for a small device and began talking to it. Presently she asked, “Swot, Dem, Jessie. I thought you didn’t use names.”
“Don’t,” replied Jessie with a tinge of annoyance. “Some of us love to study and understand all kinds of stuff. We call them ‘Swot.’ A long tradition, I don’t know why. ‘Dem’ comes from demi and means he is the half-commander, who takes over when I get killed. They’re not names, they’re job titles.”
“‘Jessie’ doesn’t sound like a title.”
“They’re teasing me. Our cohort has finished its five years of blood patrols which means we are young adults. I was elected to represent our cohort on the Governing Council. For some reason that nobody knows, the job is called ‘The Jessie.’”
Ursula talked to her machine again. After a minute she asked, “What did Dem mean, they’d be ‘making babies’ soon? Won’t you all be—” She bit her lip. “Oh, sorry.”
“S’all right,” said Jessie with a shrug, “We’ve all know for years we’d be ’cards.”
Dem turned onto a metal path leading under the trees of a forested point of land that ran out into the sand sea. The woman guard moved up beside him and the two men fell back behind them—so they formed a box.
“Biggest danger here is that a snake will drop out of a tree onto you. If you can get out of its way so it drops to the metal deck, we can kill and burn it. But if it gets its teeth into you, we’ll have to burn you.” Jessie looked up at the tall woman beside her.
Ursula hunched herself over a bit and kept walking. She asked, “What did you mean ‘’cards’?”
Jessie laughed. “Short for ‘discards.’ By the time we’ve been doing Blood Worm Patrols for a year, we almost always stop growing. Like me and those two.” She tipped her chin toward the two guards in front of her and Ursula. “Women my size are known as ‘pitifully petit.’ That pair,” she jerked her head toward the two behind her. Ursula looked up at them. Jessie smiled. “They’re nicknamed ‘too talls.’”
“Didn’t your ship have a bank of egg and sperm cells?”
“Oh, yes. Apparently the medical technology of reproduction was fairly advanced when GenTwo, our ship, left World One, uh,—”
“Earth,” supplied Ursula.
“The GenNeers were hmm, medical personnel responsible for maintaining the population on GenTwo. As best we can tell, they did a great job. The problem happened after we crashed, and the cryogenic storage banks lost power. The baby cells all melted into mush.”
Ursula’s head jerked and she blinked then, hesitantly, asked, “Ah, but why, um, ‘discard’ only the tall and short people?”
“Our bad luck.” Straining to keep her voice measured and reasonable, Jessie replied, “Somewhere back in the first century on Nancy, the settlers realized that if we run at a steady pace, the worms ignore us. If we break stride or run in a ragged pattern, they home in on the vibrations and usually kill the whole patrol before swarming and racing up the sand valley. Our job is to use our radios to warn agricultural workers so they can get off the sand and onto metal platforms or the rock shore where the blood worms can’t get at them.”
“But what does that have to do with being tall or short?”
“Tall and short people lope—run, with an ever so-slightly different rhythm that attracts the worms.” In an obvious attempt to change the topic, Jessie asked, “Do you know what kind of trees these are?” She waved at the twisted trunks and branches with long tubular leaves.
“No. All planets have indigenous life forms that have never been seen before…” Ursula’s voice trailed off.
“One of the landers christened them ‘Christmas Trees.’ Do you know what that means?”
“What?” Ursula would have stopped but Jessie pushed her elbow to keep her moving. “Were your settlers Christians?”
“What’s that?”
“Followers of a religion from earth with a holy day called ‘Weihnachten.’ That means ‘Christmas.’ The holiday was celebrated by bringing small triangular trees into their houses.”
“I don’t think there were any uh, ‘Christians’ among the landers.” Jessie shook her head. “But the young trees are triangular. As they get older and taller, they become more contorted.”
Ahead of them, Dem burst through the trees into brilliant sunlight falling on a large outcrop formed by rock that had been burnt bare.
Ursula’s eyes widened as she turned to look at unbroken sand for as far as she could see. A fine beige dust was moving away from the land in a light breeze. The surface of the sand sea glistened with small ripples that seemed to flow in the light. “It really is like an ocean.”
Jessie waited quietly while Ursula gazed out at the bright blue sky beyond the far-off horizon. Ursula began to sit down on the rock, but Jessie took her elbow again. “Please don’t. There can be tiny snakes hidden by cracks in the rock.”
“Ahh,” a strangled sound came from the female guard closest to the sand’s edge. Three of the guards went into half crouches and reached for handheld flame throwers tucked into their waists or slung at their hips. The tall who was carrying a backpack burner lifted the nozzle to check its pilot flame was lit.
The talls carefully examined the trees while Dem and Jessie scrutinized the rocky ground and blowing sand. Seeing nothing, Jessie called to the guard. “What is it?” The woman choked on her answer and could only wave an arm in the direction of the next point.
On the far point, a man was stacking rocks around a metal pole.
Ursula pulled out her viewer and trained it on the man. “He seems to have fixed that metal pole so it will stand by itself.” She offered Jessie the viewer. “Do you want to take a closer look?”
Heavily, Jessie answered, “No, thank you.” Addressing the female guard, she asked, “Is it Gingie?” The guard pressed her lips tight, nodded, and wiped a tear from her cheek.
“He’s sitting down now,” Ursula said. “Seems to be taking off his boots. Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Boots are very valuable,” Jessie explained. “It’s easy enough to replace pants and shirts but it’s difficult to make good boots. We use hard plastic for the soles and horsehide for the uppers which all has to be glued and sewed tight so there’s no miniscule gaps to let in worms.”
Ursula frowned, “He seems to be hanging the boots upside down on the pole.”
“So, snakes won’t get in and surprise someone.” Jessie looked at the guard. “Was he expecting bad news?”
The female guard gulped. “He was hoping everything would be OK but because of his red hair, and you remember when he was very little, he got angry a couple of times; he was afraid the GenNeers would tell him he had the ‘mad’ gene.”
Ursula clicked her electronic viewfinder a couple of times. She frowned. “Must be something wrong with this thing, says he’s medium height.”
“He is.” Jessie sighed again. “The GenNeers must have told him he’s being discarded.”
Ursula’s hands dropped as she gaped at Jessie. “Because he has red hair?”
Jessie huffed, a small sour smile twisting her mouth, “Back in the beginning during the first century or so of settlement here on Nancy, there was a huge fight. The GenNeers said we would kill ourselves off. Uh…”
“Become extinct?”
“Yeah, that’s the word. They said there were too many sick, weak and uh, people who couldn’t think very well. I only know the rude word for it.”
“Mentally challenged?”
“Boy, you social anthropologists know everything. Anyway, the GenNeers said that because the frozen babies had all melted, they would have to decide who could have babies so that we would remain—” Ursula started to speak but Jessie held up a hand. “I remember this one, a ‘genetically viable population.’ Like I said, it was a huge fight. There was a red-haired guy, I think his name was ‘Gingie,’ who wanted to marry and have babies with a woman who was called ‘developmentally challenged.’ The Governing Council decided they could have a baby, which of course they did. But worms got the child. The woman—Faith was her name—couldn’t stand the grief and she went out on the sand, barefoot, so the worms would kill her.”
“He’s doing that?” asked Ursula. She raised her viewer again. “He’s shuffling his feet as he walks on the sand.”
The group kept watching their surroundings for worms and snakes, occasionally glancing toward the red-headed man trudging into the beige ocean.
Dem made a slight sound so that he could catch Jessie’s eye. She shook her head slightly. Dem frowned, tilting his head up toward Ursula. Jessie shook her head and rocked her chin toward the female guard watching Gingie disappear over the sand. Dem grimaced but went back to surveying the sand around them.
Daylight was beginning to darken when the group heard a faint whump and a small cloud of sand blossomed far out on the horizon. The female guard let out an audible sigh. Then the other members of the demi-dec began moving along the path toward the settlement.
Ursula’s expression was grave. “Do people often suicide?”
“Not many of us die of old age.” There was grim humor in Jessie’s voice. “We discards will keep doing Blood Worm Patrols and other dangerous work. We won’t live long. The mediums will be protected, given the least dangerous jobs for as long as they can have babies. That’s how our settlement survives.”
As the demi-dec came out of the trees, the rest of the dec joined and fell into the usual diamond square formation. Swot trotted along not far from Jessie. Quietly, she asked, “What happened?”
“Gingie became a sand walker.”
The End
Could you tell me about a product that has both design and function? Genre doesn’t matter.
I wanted to introduce this to you.
It’s so easy to use – it’s just a matter of “rolling it around” in a particular desert or plain – that is, it’s an excellent item that can be left alone and to great you know what it is?
Answer: “Dmine Clearing Equipment.”
Named “Mine Kafon”, it was designed and created by Afghan designer Massoud Hassani.
Mine Kafon rolls wind-powered through a dangerous zone filled with landmines, stepping on them with its many feet on the tip and blasting them out.
The structure is quite simple: just a central sphere as the main body, with bamboo legs and a plastic disk attached to the tip. Blasting damages the legs and disk, but they can be used repeatedly if replaced. The central sphere is equipped with GPS, and the route taken is determined as a safe zone.
Landmines are weapons whose purpose is not to “kill people”, but they are actually cruel. To begin with, landmines are weapons that are placed underground or on the ground and explode when stepped on or touched by people the event of a conflict or civil war, they can be buried around one’s own land to prevent the invasion or progress of hostile forces. or prevent it It is used to ambush where you will pass. Its purpose is to cause the enemy to lose limbs, and since two or three other soldiers carry a wounded soldier, it not only reduces the enemy’s fighting strength, but also reduces the will to fight by showing off allies who have lost limbs and are suffering. I’ll let you lose it. Also, once buried, it remains even after the war ends until someone steps on it or removes it. Because it operates regardless of the other party, more than 70 percent of victims are ordinary citizens. Landmines are extremely cheap, costing only a few dollars each, so a huge number of landmines were created during the civil wars that occurred frequently in various places, mainly in the 1970s～90s, and more than 100 million landmines are still buried in approximately 60 countries. It is said that there are. The number of reported victims amounted to more than 130,000 over the 20 years 1999-2018 and still stands at several thousand per year, and more than half of them are children.
Afghanistan, in particular, has the world’s largest number of landmine-filled areas and the highest number of victims, leading to the creation of Mine Kafon by Massoud Hassani.
It is said that removing one mine would cost $300～1500. Complete removal would require waiting for the turn of scarce specialized heavy equipment or resorting to manual labor, which would require enormous amounts of time and money anyway.
On the other hand, Mine Kafon is super cheap at just a few dozen dollars each, and can remove landmines without requiring much effort or risking human life.
It’s an answer.
There is a term called “functional beauty”, which refers to incorporating good functionality when creating something, and this also falls under the category of design. On the other hand, design is of course designed to appeal to emotions and leave an impression by pursuing good looks through decorations, etc., but this is called “decorative beauty”.
Whenever you design something, you always have a purpose, and Mine Kafon embodies the functional beauty of a simple structure with immense value, in the sense that it can cheaply eliminate entities that threaten people’s safety.
It’s just that while it’s such a great design, humanity has never been without a war in recorded history.
Am I the only one who sees the sadness and stupidity of humanity in the sight of Mine Kafon rolling through the desert, created when everyone wants peace but no one can achieve it.
ZOOTOPIA All Movie Clips (2016)
Why do European people stop travelling to the USA?
I stopped travelling to the USA about 20 years ago. Somehow the atmosphere had changed, the result of the 2nd Gulf War. Edgy. Immigration control in Newark was aggressive, unpleasant, certainly not welcoming. I never visited again. I had the choice a year ago to transit in the US on a trip to New Zealand.
I decided to go via Vancouver instead. Canadians are very professional and thorough but friendly and helpful, go out of their way to welcome visitors. I would return to Canada for a longer visit. Nothing on this planet would persuade me to take a chance with ICE these days and as someone else said, the non-existant transit arrangements means avoidance is a lot easier.
Since Trump’s moronic tariff nonsense I’ve also avoided all American services and products, closed my Chase Bank accounts, got rid of the Southern Comfort and Jack Daniels in the drinks cabinet, and banned California wines from my hospitality business.
Multiply that by billions of travellers and consumers and it is making a big difference.
The Whispering Wind
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of pastoral perplexity, bovine linguistics, and one farmer’s valiant, if misguided, attempt to converse with the breeze. Today’s story is one of quiet afternoons, profound misunderstandings, and the gentle reminder that some of nature’s most beautiful songs are meant to be listened to, not spoken. So, find a comfortable spot under a friendly tree, and let us delve into The Whispering Wind.
It was the kind of afternoon that the farm did best. The sun was a warm, dappled gold, the air hummed with the contented buzz of bees, and a soft, sighing breeze rustled the leaves of the old oak tree. Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow stood in her favorite patch of clover, her eyes closed in deep concentration, her mood ring glowing a serene, sky-blue.
The Farmer, a man of endless curiosity and mismatched socks, was nearby, attempting to mend a fence with a roll of twine and boundless optimism.
“Do you hear it?” Bessie murmured, her voice a low, melodious rumble. “The Wind is telling stories today. Stories of far-off fields and cool mountain streams.”
The Farmer paused, tilting his head. “All I hear is, well, wind, Bessie.”
“That’s because you’re not listening,” Bessie explained patiently, swishing her tail. “You have to speak its language first. To understand the Wind, you must become one with the Wind.”
Rufus the Dog, who had been chasing the shadow of a butterfly, skidded to a halt, his tongue lolling. “You can talk to the Wind, Bessie? Does it know any good jokes?”
“The Wind’s humor is subtle, Rufus,” Bessie replied. “It finds irony in a lost hat and joy in a spinning leaf.” She turned her large, earnest eyes back to the Farmer. “You must show the Wind you respect its ways. You must chew the sweetest grass… but not with your mouth.”
The Farmer blinked. “Not with my… then with what?”
“With your ears, of course,” Bessie said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s how you prove you’re listening. You must stand very still, chew the grass with your ears, and the Wind will share its secrets.”
The Farmer, a man who had once tried to milk a chicken because it “looked determined,” found this logic perfectly reasonable. “Chew grass… with my ears…” he muttered, his brow furrowed in thought. “Right. Okay. For science!”
He plucked a handful of the most tender clover and daisies. He stood bolt upright under the old oak tree, closed his eyes in imitation of Bessie’s meditative pose, and solemnly held the clump of greenery up to the side of his head.
“What is the human doing?” Rufus whispered, his head cocked in bewilderment.
“He’s beginning his journey to becoming a fluent Wind-speaker,” Bessie whispered back, her mood ring shifting to an encouraging shade of gold.
The Farmer, committed to the bit, began making vigorous chewing motions with his jaw. “Mmphf grrrsh mmph,” he grunted, grass tickling his cheek.
“This,” he announced, his mouth still full of the words he was supposed to be chewing with his ears, “tastes like regret.”
Just then, a particularly playful gust of wind—the very one Bessie had been listening to—swept through the farm. It snatched the Farmer’s beloved straw hat from his head and sent it spinning, end over end, straight into the upper branches of the oak tree.
“My hat!” the Farmer cried, his concentration broken. Without a second thought, he dropped his “ear-grass” and began to climb. He was a man of many talents, but tree-climbing was not among them. It was a slow, grunting, undignified process of scrambling up the rough bark.
He reached the branch where his hat was perched, snatched it triumphantly, and then made a terrible discovery. He was stuck. The ground, which had seemed so close, now looked very far away. He wrapped his arms and legs around the branch, clinging to it like a particularly nervous koala.
Rufus, looking up from below, let out a gleeful bark. “Look, Bessie! The human is trying to be a leaf! He’s finally understanding!” He then let out a wheezing laugh. “Human, you leaf me speechless!”
Bessie ambled over, a look of gentle concern on her face. “Oh, dear. I don’t think the Wind meant for you to join its stories quite so literally.”
The Farmer, pressed against the branch, sighed. “I don’t think I’m cut out for Wind-speaking, Bessie.”
From his sunbeam on the porch, Sir Whiskerton watched the scene unfold, his tail giving a single, amused flick. He didn’t need to intervene. The lesson was being learned, high up in the oak tree.
Bessie gazed up at the Farmer, her large eyes full of kindness. “Perhaps not,” she said softly. “Some languages aren’t meant for humans. The Wind doesn’t need you to speak its language, my friend. It only needs you to be quiet enough to hear it.”
The truth of her words settled over the Farmer as gently as the dappled shade. He stopped struggling and, for the first time that afternoon, truly listened. He heard the wind whispering secrets through the leaves that held him. He heard the distant cluck of Doris the Hen, the contented snort of Porkchop the Pig, and Rufus’s happy panting below. It was a beautiful, complex language all its own.
Just then, Martha from the neighboring farm happened by in her truck. Seeing the predicament, she fetched a ladder, and with a warm chuckle, helped the Farmer down.
He stood on solid ground, his hat safely back on his head, a little bruised but immensely wiser.
That evening, as the sun set, the Farmer didn’t try to speak any new languages. Instead, he sat on the porch next to Sir Whiskerton’s sunbeam, a cup of mint tea in his hand, and simply listened. He listened to the wind, to the cows, to the rustling trees. And in that quiet, he understood more than he ever had with a mouthful of grass.
Rufus laid his head on the Farmer’s knee. “You’re a much better listener than a chewer,” he said.
And the Farmer, for once, had to agree.
The End.
Has a pharmacist ever refused to fill a legitimate prescription for you? If so, why?
Not for me, but for my wife. She has a degenerative spinal condition and some neurological issues. Her neurologist was prescribing controlled substances to treat her. I walked in to pick up her medications and was told that they would not be filled because the recently hired, fresh out of pharmacy school pharmacist did not believe they were necessary or appropriate for my wife. I asked for the return of the prescription so that I could take it to be refilled elsewhere. She refused to give me the prescription. I explained to her that if she did not give me that prescription that I would be calling the police about her refusal to return it, calling the national chain that owned the pharmacy, and calling the consumer affairs reporters for all of the local TV stations. I also suggested that I would be calling the State Licensing Board and that she might have the shortest career as a pharmacist of any of her classmates with whom she had graduated that spring. Needless to say, she gave me the prescription, and I took it to another location of the same national chain and got it filled — no problem.
Two days later, a couple of state police officers were at my door conducting an investigation and wanting to know exactly why my wife was receiving the prescription in question. We gave them the information that was needed. Later in the week showed up at our doctor’s office, with a subpoena for records. What we told them matched what was in the records, and what was in the records matched the standard treatment for my wife’s conditions. We had a letter to that effect within 30 days.
And this young pharmacist? By the time we got the letter telling us that the investigation was closed and the complaint that had been filed was unfounded, she had already lost her job. No, my wife and I had nothing to do with it. But apparently my wife’s doctor had filed a complaint with the state and had contacted the national chain she was working for. The state ended up suspending her license during the investigation that his call provoked, and the chain fired her because she was still in her probationary new employee period.
Tangled – Rapunzel Memorable Moments
How do employees typically react to bizarre or impractical cost-saving measures from management, and what are some examples you’ve witnessed?
Okay, I’ve been wanting to share this story for a long time. So here goes—I was the CFO of a $40 million real estate company (mostly timeshares). The owner of the company was worth $50 million and had his office attached (just upstairs) to our main administrative offices. The only way in and out of his office was down the stairs to the main floor. To get in or out, he would have to go through the administrative offices. At various times, he would have haircuts, massages, and his lunch prepared by a chef, all just upstairs from every administrative office.
One day, he got on me that employees were taking advantage of the company. He came up with various things, like using the postage machine, making or receiving long-distance phone calls, faxing,, callling on the company’s toll-free line, and abusing the one free soda a day rule. He had me (not my assistant or anyone else) examine phone records for abuse. Here I am —a six-figure earner and company officer— and I’m auditing phone records. I didn’t find anything, and I monitored the fax and postage to make sure it wasn’t abused. So now he decides that we have to cut out our bottled water machine and make each employee pay for their soda. I argued, but to no avail, I must make the employees pay for their soda.
So, I called a company meeting (about 25 employees). We talk about not abusing the system and putting 25 cents into a can to help pay for the soda. Now, here’s the most absurd part. Just as I was finishing the meeting, the owner came down from his office. When he got to the bottom of the stairs, I asked him if he’d like to say anything to the staff. So, he says yes, he would. Then he says this, “Do you think my new Bentley should be Black or British Racing Green?” I kid you not!! What an idiot!
After he left, I told everyone we were keeping the bottled water and that they were welcome to have as many sodas as they wanted. I turned to the HR manager and told her I’d pay for the sodas and take it out of my pay.
What an embarrassment! I wasn’t long for the company after that. When I quit, he told me I couldn’t leave for another six months while I trained the new guy. Also, he accused me of stealing $70,000 from the company (I don’t know why that amount). We had it out that night. I left the office and the company that night.
Unbelievable story, isn’t it?? All true!
Pictures
Do Chinese people think that their language is “compacted”? When looking at a set of Hanzi, do they have to “unfold” their individual meanings before understanding the whole thing?
An interesting topic indeed.
I believe the answer is yes — when reading materials of the same difficulty, Chinese readers tend to read slightly faster than those reading alphabetic scripts.
There’s a physiological basis for this. Chinese and alphabetic languages activate different parts of the brain.
Earlier scientists thought that the Wernicke’s area in the posterior part of the brain dominated language processing, while the Broca’s area in the frontal lobe was less involved.
However, research from the Key Laboratory of Cognitive Science and Learning at the PLA 306 Hospital’s Brain Function Imaging Center found that speakers of alphabetic languages mainly use the Wernicke’s area, while Chinese readers rarely do — instead, they primarily rely on the Broca’s area in the frontal brain.
Additionally, Chinese grammar is simpler: no tenses, no plurals, no verb conjugations, and so on. Personally, when I read Chinese, I process it in “chunks.”
Chinese is a logographic language, so there’s no phonetic decoding process involved.
Even if you don’t understand Chinese, look at the image below.
I don’t believe you would read it letter by letter — you’d naturally perceive it as a whole.
Zhao Yuanren, the father of modern Chinese linguistics, who mastered eight foreign languages at a native level, 33 dialects and have reached native-speaker level too,once said that reading Chinese is indeed slightly faster than reading alphabetic scripts.
The image below is quite interesting — it’s said to help improve English reading speed.
The left side shows normal writing, while the right side has been altered.
My impression is that the right side gives an experience somewhat similar to reading Chinese!
Moana & Maui Silly Moments | Disney Princess
What’s the most expensive thing you’ve gotten for an insanely cheap price?
I have answered this before.
I was driving past a yard sale with no intention of stopping when I saw something that made me stop. I went over and looked – it was a Shopsmith. The elderly woman told me it belonged to her husband who could no longer use it. It was a 1964 model. There was a box with every possible attachment including the band saw and the lathe accessories. I casually asked what she wanted for it. She said she wanted 60 dollars. I told her it was worth way more. She said she could not sell it because it was so large, no one wanted it. I gave her the 60 dollars and called my brother and he came with his pick up truck. That was 25 years ago. I have the motor tuned by a Shopsmith expert and the belt changed. I’ve been using it in my shop alongside my “real” tools for years. It is a wonderful piece of equipment.
Say My Name
Written in response to: “Write a story from the POV of someone waiting to be rescued.“
Paul LaRue
Adventure Fantasy Science Fiction
Some men would fear such odds. Not I! A dozen? With my eyes shut, with half my brain tied behind my back? Some men bellow war cries… not I! “Speak, hands, for me!”; that is my creed. Four drunken throats were silenced in an instant; an iron rod for tormenting was snatched from the fourth, and dispatched the stupid empty skulls of another four.
GOD, how I have missed this!
The remaining four slouched up, primitive firearms in hands ruined with drink and cruelty. A gun? At this range? Against an actual man with a war club? Gone without firing a shot!
The last foe to fall had a sharp knife at his waist. I drew it, and released those poor, suffering creatures from their “scratch scratch” torment. They scampered off, howling.
A sharp narrow ravine nearby proved an excellent tomb for the fallen. A mere six trips later, and they were gone from view. On Earth That Was, honored dead were interred with tools and weapons, for thr glorious next life to come. This trash was not honorable, and where they were headed was not at all glorious. Also, I needed their tools and their weapons. I was alive, and I would stay that way.
I made my stealthy way to the long abandoned fortress made from the bones of the ancient dead. Along the way, the two quadrupeds I had saved circled back, with game still bleeding, held by teeth that were not so useless after all. They followed at a distance, ready to scamper away if I meant them harm. I offered none.
We all made camp inside the fortress ruin. I gathered wood, and made the fire which I had been lacking for so long. The two quads seemed overjoyed. Food! And cooked by flames. There was no worry about the smell of meat or smoke, or the visible crackle of fire to trouble me. Beasts with four legs would fear my two quads; beasts with two legs wouldn’t live long enough to fear me.
The next day, I climbed a longish spiral of stairs, to the pinnacle of the tallest tower still standing. A quick survey in all directions confirmed that this was an island, with thick dark woods and countless splashing streams. There were two smaller islands that I might swim to later on, no more than twenty or thirty miles across a treacherous, shimmering sea.
All around this brokedown palace were odd, massive slabs of what might be rock or fossil. These were instantly recognized as doors, meant to keep what’s outside away from the inside. It was the work of an afternoon carrying back all eight. All but two lacked hinges, and had to be roughly slammed into place.
Inside were hundreds of smaller stone slabs, lightly imprinted with a language of some sort, scattered over floors in every room. Gathering them took a morning; learning to read them took a day and a night. They sang ballads of knowledge and power, sagas of how much they had built, and how much more they had dreamed of doing. Someday.
How greatly I admired them! Even long dead, I felt a kinship. Nothing they wrote explained how it all came crashing down. There was also no reason given for why they had come so very close to exploring all the worlds beyond their own, but had inexplicably stopped trying. However, they did have some practical advice, which showed an astounding, almost magical connection between my quads and the fossil walls of my castle in exile.
Long ago, these magnificent people had spoke with their quads; spoken out loud in just the way you are reading these words set black over white. It was a more complete language than any that had ever been on Earth That Was, a speech made from sound and body posture and facial expression. The old ones from long ago had not been mere masters of their quads; they were brothers, brothers with a fierce and wild devotion to each other.
When I first spoke with my quads, they went wild with joy! For many long and lonely centuries, they spoken among themselves of a wonderful time, long ago, when the people and the quads had lived as one. And how somehow, the people had turned cruel and stupid. And now, there appeared a man who was not people, but was more like the old ones than the selfish hateful people who were their “heirs”
“Bright One,” this is how they referred to me, “Bright One, shall we speak with the long gone?”
“Yes,” came my reply. It felt right to agree, even though I had no idea what they meant.
The quads crouched together, front paws on opposite shoulders. They raised their blocky muzzles and sang. They sang an epic made from word and sound and notes. At that very instant, the fortress quivered, and the long dead walls released a tumbled chorus of whispers and shouts. They glowed, and the rooms brightened and gently warmed. They glowed, and the very air became sweet and fresh.
The earth moved.
The angels wept.
On Earth That Was, two centuries ago, I was Dominus. An overlord, with power over billions. Yet I was never more pleased than now. Every room of this mighty fortress delivered new and fantastic possibilities. There was a shop floor, with machines that thought and built; an armory, with weapons previously unimagined; a vast kitchen, with food that grew itself and ovens warmed by a fire of unknown origin. There was an even an observatory, with enormous eyes of metal and glass that saw far beyond the skies of this world.
This last saddened me. It was a reminder of how I was still in exile, in prison. However glorious my incarceration had become, I was still in jail. However much it might irk the smug, self righteous bigots who had marooned me here, to see how well I had done for myself, it was still a jail after all. My sentence was forever, without hope of parole.
My people had been defeated and dispersed before I was captured, so there was no hope of rescue. Even if that had been a possibility, it was rejected out of hand. I was their ruler, their ubermensch, their Khan. I should be stepping forth to rescue them! I should come bearing the gifts of this new and fantastic world which I had discovered, to lead them into a new and better age. No, if I am going to live and rule anywhere, it will be this wild ball of rock where I’ve been deposited.
So thinking, I went outside.
There were many, many of the inhabitants gathered close around. I was armed, of course; I haven’t been disarmed since I was a boy of eight. Still, one of me, and not less than several hundred of them: not the best odds. I was built from the DNA up to be superior in every way, but I was still unable to achieve flight. As it turned out, There was no cause for alarm.
Or for a translator. Not only could I talk to my quads, and they could talk to the walls, but it seemed that some new force made it possible for me to converse with the inhabitants of this place. I made this discovery when the large somewhat round fellow out front began making his demands.
It was not to be a long conversation.
“Those punters do not belong to you. I demand to know how you came to own them!” (Why they call them “punters” I still do not know.)
“You are in a position unsuited for making demands,” came my all too even reply. “These creatures followed me here of their own free will. We live here now.” And at this, I gestured to the fortress behind me.
“You also have no right to this castle. It is forbidden!”
“I have every right to be here. I own this place. I forbid you to bother me here. Prove me wrong.”
My words had the desired effect, as I knew they would. The large one was perplexed, then enraged. He then rushed at me with a club held high. He thought me easy prey of some sort. His last thought was quite wrong of course, and he perished from his own club shattering his windpipe, using a move I had been trained in since before I had hair on my arms.
Two of his companions attacked, one with a blade, one with a firearm. I shot them both before they could bellow. “Shoot the one out front,” my trainers had told me, “the rest will scatter.”
Only they didn’t scatter. Well, most of them did, but more than a few remained. Two of them – a brother and sister? Husband and wife? Lovers? – a young man and even younger woman approached.
“We never agreed with them. They never listened to us,” said the young man, referring to the dead bullies.
“We told them of strange people like you, who came from the sky, in a strange boat that gleams like a newly sharpened knife,” said the younger one, the woman. “ They were all afraid because there were a hand and a hand and another hand of them.”
“But only one of you,” continued the man. “We could not understand them as we can you, but we kept hearing the same word over and over. Like it was a name or a title.”
I was instantly tense and alert at hearing this. “What was it they called me? What name was it?” They looked at each other, alarmed at my sudden change in tone.
“Say My Name,” I commanded them.
“Khan,” they both replied.
I smiled at them both. They beamed back, instantly much relieved. I grinned a broad and happy grin, full of teeth that had not decayed in even the smallest way in more than two centuries. My “rescuers” had arrived, no doubt to bind me and bring me to an even lonelier and harsher prison. Doubtless they thought me weak and sick after my confinement here; “easy prey”. So be it! They were about to be taught a sharp lesson that they would not have over much time to learn from. And I was about to be rescued from this zoo, this dungeon. Yes, I and my companions would be leaving soon, on a ship provided to us by my enemies.
I am smiling. That alone should make them very , very afraid.
For someone looking to join the infantry for real combat experience, would you recommend the French Foreign Legion or other options like Ukraine?
There is a high chance that when you join the French Foreign Legion and serve the required five years, you will never see a single day of combat.
The problem is that France is not involved in a major war, and there are other units besides the Legion that are sent to the few overseas deployments where you can actually see some action. The biggest combat operation in Afghanistan, for example, was carried out by France’s elite 8e Régiment de Parachutistes d’Infanterie de Marine (8e RPIMa), the French Marine paratroopers.
Afghanistan is over, and so are Iraq and Mali, where the French military was involved in many skirmishes.
You should also know that the strict discipline and often extremely brutal training of the Legion is not to everyone’s taste.
Stanislav Chechko, a Ukrainian citizen, served for eight years in the French Foreign Legion before he deserted and joined the Armed Forces of Ukraine. (Picture: village)
In Ukraine, on the other hand, frontline duty is guaranteed. There is no way you join the IDLU (International Legion for the Defense of Ukraine) and do not see action.
The problem is that all the combat in Ukraine might be a bit too much for you. The chances of being seriously wounded or even killed are high.
So, choose wisely. I recommend serving in your home country’s army first, for the shortest possible time, to gain solid soldiering skills, and then heading to Ukraine. This way, you do not waste too much time in a peacetime army, but your chances of survival are better.
Just do not join the Legion. The former legionnaires who joined the Armed Forces of Ukraine do not have a good reputation anyway. They have not been prepared for the extremely harsh combat environment in Ukraine.
So why waste five years there?
Middle Eastern Fig Jam
Ingredients
- 2 pounds dried figs (Turkish, sun-dried, if possible)
- 1 1/2 pounds granulated sugar
- 25 ounces water
- Juice of 1/2 lemon
- 1 teaspoon ground aniseed
- 3 tablespoons pine nuts
- 1/4 pound walnuts, chopped
- 1/4 teaspoon pulverized mastic*
Instructions
- Chop the figs roughly. Boil sugar and water with the lemon juice for a few minutes, then add the figs and simmer gently until they are soft and impregnated with the syrup, which should have thickened enough to coat the back of a spoon. Stir constantly to avoid burning.
- Add the aniseed, pine nuts and walnuts. Simmer gently, stirring for a few minutes longer.
- Remove from the heat and stir the mastic in very thoroughly. (To be properly pulverized, it must have been pounded with sugar.)
- Pour into clean, hot glass jars and seal as usual.
Notes
* Mastic is the resinous gum of Pistacia lentiscus and is sold in Greek and Oriental stores.
This is Trump Tower on 5th Avenue in New York City
Naturally, being a new building, there was an existing building on the same site
The Bonwit-Teller Department Store. 5th Avenue was and still is the primary high-end shopping street in the city.
Now, no-one expected the Bonwit-Teller building to be saved despite the fact it was one of the better Art Deco buildings in the city. However, Trump did promise to save some of the architectural elements of the building so they could be preserved. That’s quite common – they can either be displayed somewhere else or maybe incorporated into some new structure.
For example, the main entrance – Perfectly feasible to remove it. In fact, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, just a few blocks uptown, had agreed to work to preserve and display some major elements.
But more important were these friezes which were specifically designed for the building (and were common on Art Deco buildings)
But when the preservationists came along to remove them, they found that the building had already been destroyed and the artwork with it.
Truth is, Trump hates any art or history that doesn’t aggrandize him. If something isn’t his work, it’s absolutely of no importance to him, whether its an 11 story department store or a part of American history.