Let us suppose 81-year-old Benjamin Franklin was actually healthy at the 1787 Federal Convention in Philadelphia, in short, that he was fully Franklin. Would such a person have had little impact on the Constitution?
To put it in a modern context, think in terms of, say, Mr. Warren Buffett, who at 82, still healthy and wealthy in 2012, was influencing national tax policy in America — would he have been without influence at the Federal Convention that invented the Constitution? Throw in a local residence with a dining room with seating for 24 about two blocks away, have him tell humorous stories in the most engaging manner of any delegate (indeed, of anyone in Philadelphia), give him the highest IQ in the room, make him governor of the State (elected unanimously) and the most prestigious man in America, with a constant stream of distinguished visitors to his house, and provide him the opportunity to fulfill a lifelong desire for unifying the colonies, slash, States — would such a man have had little influence on the Constitution? READ MORE.
A desk in the shape of a box sat in the living room of one Mr. David Nashe. Mr. Nashe, having vacated the putrescent premises of his abode this particular evening, distributed sequentially a series of ego-contents in spurts of fantastically phantasmagorical rapidity, his consciousness plastered about the total surface area of one Ms. Nora Veronica, seated and situated adjacent his person, seeping duly purposeful magnitudes of that superbly feminine magniloquence. Poised in the manner of a tiger in constructive possession of that great misfortune (that is, having been stuffed), she breathed slowly. A species of Caucasians adorned in (imitation) African dresses passed by the automobile in which they were stationed, a large Cadillac.
She spoke, each word tinged with the acrimony of repressed vehemence.
EXT. UNIVERSITY QUAD – DAY
It’s a small Catholic University. The type that hosts haunted castles, secret underground passageways and cemeteries.
He… I… woke up in the communal
bathroom. There was… blood on
my thigh. My name is Angela Roberts.
Sun shines upon a healthy student body – we see an ultimate Frisbee match, theater club dressed in medieval costumes rehearsing and beach bodies sunbathing.
I laid in bed on top of damp sheets staring up at the molded ceiling which just started to leak. Drip, drip, drip, water fell into various pots and buckets spread around the room. My grandmother’s “friend” allegedly fixed this problem the day before but I could tell Jim didn’t have a clue what he was doing by the way he strapped on his useless seventy piece tool belt, like he was about to build a dining room table. Idiot. Jim just wanted to impress Grandma Stone so he could get some more of her homemade raspberry cobbler— unfortunately not the kind you eat with a spoon. He was disgusting. They were disgusting and very loud in the adjacent bedroom. I could hear my Grandmother trying to quiet him down, “You’re going to wake her up”, she would say.
Pharmaceutical Drugs have an average of 70 side effects or ‘drug reactions’, with some as high as 525. This is done to prevent lawsuits against the manufacturers rather than to protect people from them and I believe mainly done to advertise the drug. The most complex labeling can be seen in drugs for psychiatry and neurology, primarily for antidepressants.
The commonly accepted reason for stating all these side effects is for liability, however I think it goes deeper than that. It’s repetition, attention and acceptance. The side effects are repeated endlessly every time you see mention of the drug. This allows your brain to be conditioned, through repetition, to associate the drug with the condescending speech patterns and intonations of the speaker. Notice their hushed, deep tones and the authoritarian manner of speaking. The next phase of repetition is the daily barrage of advertising for these drugs. They club you over the head with it repeatedly, day after day.
Of course, when I tell people that I was abducted by an alien, they laugh at me. Some listen politely at first, then they laugh; others laugh before I even try to explain. Some ask me if I would I like to tell my story to a doctor? And then there are the endless jokes about probing — I won’t even go into those.
It doesn’t help when I mention that the alien was a taxi driver, or that the abduction occurred via taxi. That prompts people to tell me they were abducted by an alien taxi driver too, and then they tell me their abduction story but it’s always about being taken to the wrong address, or the driver spoke an unknown language, or the like. READ MORE.
The uniformed driver stands in front of gate 10 and wrings his hands. “The bus is full,” he says, then puts his palms up like two little stop signs. It is Thanksgiving morning and the gritty-eyed travelers still waiting to board grumble with frustration.
“It’s overbooked,” he explains with a shrug. “The next bus leaves at five.”
Frustration boils over and grumbles rise into shouts and curses. There is a commotion near the head of the queue, people screaming, elbowing one another. I watch one girl in particular from my seat on a bench at gate 11. She is not like the rest; no anger, no obscenities, just a wide yawn which she covers with the back of her copper tan hand. She looks Mexican; at least I think she looks Mexican, with these prominent cheekbones I can’t stop staring at. Maybe she doesn’t understand that the bus she is waiting for is overbooked. READ MORE.
It was a typical morning. Feed the cats. Walk the dogs. Change the litter boxes. Defrost my car. Take my pills. Make tea. Make lunch, and eat nasty cold cereal. Welcome to my middle-aged life. Jesus, am I really 35?
The ride to work was interesting. There was a guy continuously trying to kiss my ass. Apparently, he failed to see the school bus up ahead that flashed its pretty, bright lights. Then, I traded him for a woman intent on her texting all the way into town by the traffic light. Lucky for me, she stopped just in time, and I was off to work. READ MORE.
She said, “Oh, honey, my heart goes out to you!”
I kept on going.
Dragging my walker down
the frozen foods aisle.
She said, “We all have our problems, don’t we?”
I guess she had her own,
but not as many as
The Jewish grandmother who wore
make up to cover her Alzheimer’s…
Over the past few decades modern music has become victim to the age of digital audio production. Authentic sounds and instrumentation have been swallowed up by a polished gleam that renders the audio to a glossy and punchy finish. Loudness has been the key to creating upfront and vibrant songs that at first sound exciting. By pitching the quieter moments within an audio track to a higher frequency, the song automatically becomes more urgent and distinctive. This slow change, orchestrated by producers and record companies, has been deliberately subtle, as if to allow listeners ears to adapt to the change in audio quality. This tampering in sound has had an unfortunate drawback for the listener. READ MORE.