For all you folks who's work demands a dress code (at least on some days of the week, if not all) -
ODE TO A DRESS CODE by Joanne Leary, Cornell University
This is the tale of Sir Samuel Smithers An impeccable gent, from his feet to his withers; Of regal deportment (though not really handsome), In the matter of dressing, he looked a King's Ransom.
They say, when a youth, he'd made a decision To dress with unfailing geometric precision; With finery fit for the poshest profession, With elegance marked by Good Taste and Discretion.
His trousers, therefore, were items exalted; And as for his socks -- well, they couldn't be faulted. Gorgeous in gaiters and spotless in spats, With wing-collared shirts, and silken cravats, (Secured with a filigreed stick-pin of garnet) Sir Samuel truly was Fashion incarnate.
I saw him attired thus -- Where, you may ask? The Ambassador's Ball, or the Queen Mother's Masque? Charming the ladies with sallies of wit, Or trying his talent with bridle and bit? Flicking the dust from the sleeve of his coat, While sipping champagne on a fifty-foot boat?
Alas, poor old Smithers was far from blue waters, And light-years from dowager heiresses' daughters. Rather than hunting the foxes with gentry, I saw him performing the duties of Sentry. Specifically, checking the bookbags of patrons And answering "Where is the Restroom?" of matrons.
Sir Samuel: "Library Page, Level III" Was, in fact, what this fellow had turned out to be. His duties included such dusty excesses As gathering books from the deepest recesses: From Reference, and Storage, and even Locked Press, But never once did he abandon his dress.
I mused, while I watched him service a copier, This man's got a job that couldn't be sloppier! To remedy ravages wrought by the grime Could hardly come cheaply in money or time... I admired his stalwart and lofty ideals; But wondered, where got he the money for meals?
Curiosity conquered my shyness at last, And I ventured to ask, in a hush, as he passed: "Sir Samuel, tarry a moment and tell, How it comes that you dress so uncommonly well? The dirt, sir... I mean, all that upkeep and such -- I'm sure you don't earn... well, not terribly much."
He stood there a moment, then spoke, sounding tired: "I do this, you see, because it's required." He paused again briefly, to let it sink in; Then continued his tale, but now with a grin: "But kid, let me tell you, there's more to the action; The truth is, by God, I get satisfaction! The job's rather meagre, as might be suspected; But dressing this way, I find I'm respected!"
The dress code, you see, is a double-edged sword; A burden, on one hand, and yet a reward. Sir Samuel showed there are wheels within wheels. (But still I can't see how he comes by his meals.)
(Sourced from an e-mail bouncing off the world wide web)
Yeah, heard me right. Wear sunscreen. It is one of those songs that touch you to the core (yes peeps, me is talking about a song). And for me, it's like a medicine - when things go wrong, when there's frustration all around, events not happening the way you want 'em to, this song puts the faith back into you. If you believe in those words, ofcourse. If you see me at work, headphones on, chances are this very song is playing in a loop for all eternity!
'The Sunscreen Song' (or 'Everybody's free to wear sunscreen') originally appeared as a column in some newspaper (I forget which!) by this lady called Mary Schmich. It was set to music some time later by the Aussie director Baz Luhrmann, sung (or spoken) by Aussie actor Lee Perry. The music itself is based on Quindon Traver's 'Everybody's free to feel good' - so much so, lines from this song appear in the Sunscreen song. And like every other popular thing, this song has its own urban legends associated - that it was a commencement address to MIT grads. But hey, doesn't matter how it came to be, but I sure am glad it is here.
This amazing song goes something like this...
Ladies and gentleman of the Class of '97.
Wear sunscreen.
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.
Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.
Do one thing every day that scares you.
Sing.
Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.
Floss.
Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.
Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.
Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.
Stretch.
Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.
Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.
Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.
Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.
Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but in your living room.
Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.
Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.
Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.
Travel.
Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasise that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.
Respect your elders.
Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.
Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.
Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.
Email forward. Pathetic, I know. But it was too good to resist! So here goes...
Author of this piece, whoever you are - Way Cool! :-)
I had eighteen bottles of whiskey in my cellar and was told by my wife that I had a drinking problem, and to empty the contents of each and every bottle down the sink, or else. I said I would and proceeded with the unpleasant task.
I withdrew the cork from the first bottle and poured the contents down the sink with the exception of one glass, which I drank.
I then withdrew the cork from the second bottle and did likewise with it, with the exception of one glass, which I drank.
I then withdrew the cork from the third bottle and poured the whiskey down the sink which I drank.
I pulled the cork from the fourth bottle down the sink and poured the bottle down the glass, which I drank.
I pulled the bottle from the cork of the next and drank one sink out of it, and threw the rest down the glass.
I pulled the sink out of the next glass and poured the cork down the bottle. Then I corked the sink with the glass, bottled the drink and drank the pour.
When I had everything emptied, I steadied the house with one hand, counted the glasses, corks, bottles, and sinks with the other, which were twenty-nine, and as the houses came by I counted them again, and finally I had all the houses in one bottle, which I drank.
I'm not under the affluence of incohol as some thinkle peep I am. I'm not half as thunk as you might drink. I fool so feelish I don't know who is me, and the drunker I stand here, the longer I get.
A short story by Roald Dahl - something I read in my 10th grade! Googled up the exact story - it feels good to revisit your textbooks when you know you've already passed the exam ;-)
The Umbrella Man, by Roald Dahl
I’m going to tell you about a funny thing that happened to my mother and me yesterday evening. I am twelve years old and I’m a girl. My mother is thirty-four but I am nearly as tall as her already.
Yesterday afternoon, my mother took me up to London to see the dentist. He found one hole. It was in a back tooth and he filled it without hurting me too much. After that, we went to a café. I had a banana split and my mother had a cup of coffee. By the time we got up to leave, it was about six o'clock.
When we came out of the café it had started to rain.
“We must get a taxi," my mother said. We were wearing ordinary hats and coats, and it was raining quite hard. "Why don't we go back into the café and wait for it to stop?" I said. I wanted another of those banana splits. They were gorgeous.
“It isn't going to stop," my mother said. "We must go home." We stood on the pavement in the rain, looking for a taxi. Lots of them came by but they all had passengers inside them. "I wish we had a car with a chauffeur," my mother said.
Just then, a man came up to us. He was a small man and he was pretty old, probably seventy or more. He raised his hat politely and said to my mother "Excuse me. I do hope you will excuse me. . . ." He had a fine white moustache and bushy white eyebrows and a wrinkly pink face. He was sheltering under an umbrella which he held high over his head.
"Yes?" my mother said, very cool and distant.
"I wonder if I could ask a small favour of you. " he said. "It is only a very small favour."
I saw my mother looking at him suspiciously. She is a suspicious person, my mother. She is especially suspicious of two things - strange men and boiled eggs. When she cuts the top off a boiled egg, she pokes around inside it with her spoon as though expecting to find a mouse or something. With strange men she has a golden rule which says, "The nicer the man seems to be, the more suspicious you must become." This little old man was particularly nice. He was polite. He was well-spoken. He was well-dressed. He was a real gentleman. The reason I knew he was a gentleman was because of his shoes. "You can always spot a gentleman by the shoes he wears," was another of my mother's favourite sayings. This man had beautiful brown shoes.
"The truth of the matter is," the little man was saying, "I've got myself into a bit of a scrape. I need some help. Not much, I assure you. It's almost nothing, in fact, but I do need it. You see, madam, old people like me often become terribly forgetful. . . ."
My mother's chin was up and she was staring down at him along the full length of her nose. It is a fearsome thing, this frosty-nosed stare of my mother's. Most people go to pieces completely when she gives it to them. I once saw my own headmistress begin to stammer and simper like an idiot when my mother gave her a really foul frosty-noser. But the little man on the pavement with the umbrella over his head didn't bat an eyelid.
He gave a gentle smile and said, "I beg you to believe, madam, that I am not in the habit of stopping ladies in the street and telling them my troubles."
"I should hope not, " my mother said.
I felt quite embarrassed by my mother's sharpness. I wanted to say to her, "Oh, mummy, for heaven's sake, he's a very very old man, and he's sweet and polite, and he's in some sort of trouble, so don't be so beastly to him." But I didn't say anything.
The little man shifted his umbrella from one hand to the other. "I've never forgotten it before," he said.
"You've never forgotten what?" my mother asked sternly.
"My wallet," he said. "I must have left it in my other jacket. Isn't that the silliest thing to do?"
"Are you asking me to give you money?" my mother said.
"Oh, goodness gracious me, no!" he cried. "Heaven forbid I should ever do that!"
"Then what are you asking?" my mother said. "Do hurry up. We're getting soaked to the skin standing here."
"I know you are," he said. " And that is why I’m offering you this umbrella of mine to protect you, and to keep forever, if . . . if only . . ."
"If only what?" my mother said.
"If only you would give me in return a pound for my taxi-fare just to get me home."
My mother was still suspicious. "If you had no money in the first place," she said, "then how did you get here?"
"I walked," he answered. "Every day I go for a lovely long walk and then I summon a taxi to take me home. I do it every day of the year."
"Why don't you walk home now," my mother asked.
"Oh, I wish I could, " he said. "I do wish I could. But I don't think I could manage it on these silly old legs of mine. I've gone too far already."
My mother stood there chewing her lower lip. She was beginning to melt a bit, I could see that. And the idea of getting an umbrella to shelter under must have tempted her a good deal.
"It's a lovely umbrella," the little man said.
"So I’ve noticed," my mother said.
"It's silk, " he said.
"I can see that."
"Then why don't you take it, madam," he said. "It cost me over twenty pounds, I promise you. But that's of no importance so long as I can get home and rest these old legs of mine."
I saw my mother's hand feeling for the clasp on her purse. She saw me watching her. I was giving her one of my own frosty-nosed looks this time and she knew exactly what I was telling her. Now listen, mummy, I was telling her, you simply mustn't take advantage of a tired old man in this way. It's a rotten thing to do. My mother paused and looked back at me. Then she said to the little man, "I don't think it's quite right that I should take a silk umbrella from you worth twenty pounds. I think I'd just better give you the taxi-fare and be done with it."
"No, no, no!" he cried. "It's out of the question! I wouldn't dream of it! Not in a million years! I would never accept money from you like that! Take the umbrella, dear lady, and keep the rain off your shoulders!"
My mother gave me a triumphant sideways look.
There you are, she was telling me. You're wrong. He wants me to have it.
She fished into her purse and took out a pound note. She held it out to the little man. He took it and handed her the umbrella. He pocketed the pound, raised his hat, gave a quick bow from the waist, and said. "Thank you, madam, thank you. " Then he was gone.
"Come under here and keep dry, darling," my mother said. "Aren't we lucky. I've never had a silk umbrella before. I couldn't afford it."
"Why were you so horrid to him in the beginning?" I asked.
"I wanted to satisfy myself he wasn't a trickster," she said. "And I did. He was a gentleman. I'm very pleased I was able to help him."
"Yes, mummy," I said.
"A real gentleman," she went on. "Wealthy, too, otherwise he wouldn't have had a silk umbrella. I shouldn't be surprised if he isn't a titled person. Sir Harry Goldsworthy or something like that."
"Yes, mummy."
"This will be a good lesson to you," she went on."Never rush things. Always take your time when you are summing someone up. Then you'll never make mistakes."
"There he goes," I said. "Look."
"Where?"
"Over there. He's crossing the street. Goodness, mummy, what a hurry he's in."
We watched the little man as he dodged nimbly in and out of the traffic. When he reached the other side of the street, he turned left, walking very fast.
"He doesn't look very tired to me, does he to you, mummy?"
My mother didn't answer.
"He doesn't look as though he's trying to get a taxi, either," I said.
My mother was standing very still and stiff, staring across the street at the little man. We could see him clearly. He was in a terrific hurry. He was bustling along the pavement, sidestepping the other pedestrians and swinging his arms like a soldier on the march.
"He's up to something," my mother said, stony-faced.
"But what?"
"I don't know," my mother snapped. "But I’m going to find out. Come with me."
She took my arm and we crossed the street together. Then we turned left.
"Can you see him?" my mother asked.
"Yes. There he is. He's turning right down the next street."
We came to the corner and turned right. The little man was about twenty yards ahead of us. He was scuttling along like a rabbit and we had to walk fast to keep up with him. The rain was pelting down harder than ever now and I could see it dripping from the brim of his hat onto his shoulders. But we were snug and dry under our lovely big silk umbrella.
"What is he up to?" my mother said.
"What if he turns round and sees us?" I asked.
"I don't care if he does, " my mother said. "He lied to us. He said he was too tired to walk any further and he's practically running us off our feet! He's a barefaced liar! He's a crook!"
"you mean he's not a titled gentleman?" I asked.
"Be quiet, " she said.
At the next crossing, the little man turned right again. Then he turned left. Then right.
"I’m not giving up now," my mother said.
"He's disappeared!" I cried. "Where's he gone?"
"He went in that door!" my mother said. "I saw him! Into that house! Great heavens, it's a pub!"
It was a pub. In big letters right across the front it said THE RED LION.
"You're not going in, are you, mummy?"
"No," she said. "We'll watch from outside."
There was a big plate-glass window along the front of the pub, and although it was a bit steamy on the inside, we could see through it very well if we went close. We stood huddled together outside the pub window. I was clutching my mother's arm. The big raindrops were making aloud noise on our umbrella.
"There he is," I said. "Over there."
The room we were looking into was full of people and cigarette smoke, and our little man was in the middle of it all. He was now without his hat or coat, and he was edging his way through the crowd toward the bar. When he reached it, he placed bath hands on the bar itself and spoke to the barman. I saw his lips moving as he gave his order. The barman turned away from him for a few seconds and came back with a smallish tumbler filled to the brim with light brown liquid.
The little man placed a pound note on the counter.
"That's my pound!" my mother hissed. "By golly he's got a nerve!"
"What's in the glass?" I asked.
"Whiskey," my mother said. "Neat whiskey."
The barman didn't give him any change from the pound.
"That must be a treble whiskey," my mother said.
"What's a treble?" I asked.
"Three times the normal measure," she answered.
The little man picked up the glass and put it to his lips. He tilted it gently. Then he tilted it higher. . . and higher. . . and higher. . . and very soon all the whiskey had disappeared down his throat in one long pour.
"That was a jolly expensive drink," I said.
"It's ridiculous!" my mother said. "Fancy paying a pound for something you swallow in one go!"
"It cost him more than a pound, " I said. "It cost him a twenty pound silk umbrella."
"So it did," my mother said. "He must be mad."
The little man was standing by the bar with the empty glass in his hand. He was smiling now, and a sort of golden glow of pleasure was spreading over his round pink face. I saw his tongue come out to lick the white moustache, as though searching for the last drop of that precious whiskey. Slowly, he turned away from the bar and edged back through the crowd to where his hat and coat were hanging. He put on his hat. He put on his coat. Then, in a manner so superbly cool and casual that you hardly noticed anything at all, he lifted from the coat rack one of the many wet umbrellas hanging there, and off he went.
"Did you see that!" my mother shrieked. "Did you see what he did!"
"Ssshh!" I whispered. "He's coming out!"
We lowered the umbrella to hide our faces and peeped out from under it. Out he came. But he never looked in our direction. He opened his new umbrella over his head and scurried off down the road the way he had come.
"So that's his little game!" my mother said.
"Neat, " I said. "Super."
We followed him back to the main street where we had first met him, and we watched him as he proceeded, with no trouble at all, to exchange his new umbrella for another pound note. This time it was with a tall thin fellow who didn't even have a coat or hat. And as soon as the transaction was completed, our little man trotted off down the street and was lost in the crowd. But this time he went in the opposite direction.
"You see how clever he is!" my mother said. "He never goes to the same pub twice!"
"He could go on doing this all night, " I said.
"Yes," my mother said. "Of course. But I'll bet he prays like mad for rainy days."
I read this cute li'l poem in the 'Exercise' section of my 10th grade English textbook (yeah, I can remember things as trivial as that) - remembered it today, actually remembered just the last line. But hey, in this world of Google, a line is more than enough! Hail God Google!
She dwelt among the untrodden ways, by William Wordsworth
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!
Source: The Hindu, dated 13th April, 2006. Newscape section (that appears at the top of the page)
Found, at last
The police in California recovered a motorcycle 35 years after it was stolen, as it was being shipped to an unsuspecting person in Finland who bought it on online auction eBay. It was a year-old Yamaha 360.
A figure rose out of it, draped in shawls, her eyes magnified to enormous size behind her glasses, and she revolved slowly; her feet in the basin. But when Sybill Trelawney spoke, it was not in her usual ethereal, mystic voice, but in the harsh, hoarse tones Harry had heard her use once before:
'The one with the power to vanquish the- Dark Lord approaches: born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies: and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not: and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives: the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies:'
The slowly revolving Professor Trelawney sank back into the silver mass below and vanished.
The silence within the office was absolute. Neither Dumbledore nor Harry nor any of the portraits made a sound. Even Fawkes had fallen silent.
'Professor Dumbledore?' Harry said very quietly, for Dumbledore, still staring at the Pensieve, seemed completely lost in thought. It .. did that mean: what did that mean?'
'It meant,' said Dumbledore, 'that the person who has the only chance of conquering Lord Voldemort for good was born at the end of July, nearly sixteen years ago. This boy would be born to parents who had already defied Voldemort three times.'
Harry felt as though something was closing in on him. His breathing seemed difficult again.
'It means - me?'
Dumbledore surveyed him for a moment through his glasses.
'The odd thing, Harry,' he said softly, 'is that it may not have meant you at all. Sybill's prophecy could have applied to two wizard boys, both born at the end of July that year, both of whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom.' '
But then: but then, why was it my name on the prophecy and not Neville's?'
'The official record was re-labelled after Voldemort's attack on you as a child,' said Dumbledore. 'It seemed plain to the keeper of the Hall of Prophecy that Voldemort could only have tried to kill you because he knew you to be the one to whom Sybill was referring.'
'Then - it might not be me?' said Harry.
Source: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, by J.K.Rowling
P.S: I miss reading 'em! :-( Wish Rowling brings the 7th book soon. But then, the 7th is the last - what will I do after that?!
Come away with me in the night Come away with me And I will write you a song
Come away with me on a bus Come away where they can't tempt us With their lies
I want to walk with you On a cloudy day In fields where the yellow grass grows knee-high So won't you try to come
Come away with me and we'll kiss On a mountaintop Come away with me And I'll never stop loving you
And I want to wake up with the rain Falling on a tin roof While I'm safe there in your arms So all I ask is for you To come away with me in the night Come away with me
My friends find it weird that I read poetry like I read novels. I still haven't found an answer to give to them as to why I do that. Maybe my incapacity to write one makes me read 'em. Yeah, I think that's the reason.
I was reading from 'Particles, Jottings, Sparks' - a collection of brief poems of Rabindranath Tagore. And it has me spell-bound. Some verses are my favorites - I keep reading them over and over again. To me, it gives a whole new perspective to everyday things and it's a whole new joy altogether when these lines just pop up into my head when I see a sunset or the moon!
Some 'particles' -
Let's shut the door to block out sin! "Then how", says Truth, "shall I get in?"
Mud, you sully everyone's purity. But doesn't that simplly make YOU dirty?
Weeping at night won't bring back the sun, And it makes the light of the stars seem vain.
Work and rest belong to each other - Like eye and eyelid linked together.
Some 'Jottings' -
God desires to wear A garland made by mankind; Which is why his own basket of flowers Is left in the lap of the soil For us to find.
In my thorns, my errors lie, Not in my flowers. Let the thorns, my darling, be mine: The flowers are yours.
Those flowers of dawn that have gone, Deserting the day's light, At dusk come back again, Dressed as the stars of the night.
Let go of what must go! It will cause you hurt If you do not open the door To let it out.
And some 'Sparks' -
A sunflower: Earth's picture Of the rising sun. Not fully pleased, Picture erased, With a new sunflower Earth tries again.
With the past's pen in my hand I write my name on the future. Superimposed are the signatures Of later writers. In Time's notebook the muddle Of old and new combined: A ceaseless scribble.
You might be wondering why I made a blog post out of this. I've always seen my blog as a bookmark to the things in my life that I want to go back and read about. Yeah, the floods too ;-) For the truly interested, poetry gives a lot of peace. Those moments when I'm reading them, there's nothing else on my mind. It's like pin-drop silence in my mind (which is otherwise a cacophony of noises!) with nothing but the poem reverberating through it. That, folks, has to be felt, not read about.
I'm always reminded of this poem when I think about India and Pakistan - Good fences do make good neighbours, I feel.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of outdoor game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
The following excerpts are actual answers given on history tests and in Sunday school quizzes by children between 5th and 6th grade ages. Read carefully for grammar, misplaced modifiers, and of course, spelling! Kids should rule the world, as it would be a laugh a minute for us adults and therefore no time to argue.
Ancient Egypt was old. It was inhabited by gypsies and mummies who all wrote in hydraulics. They lived in the Sarah Dessert. The climate of the Sarah is such that all the inhabitants have to live elsewhere.
Me would love to live in a dessert - the more chocolatier the better!
The Greeks were a highly sculptured people and without them we wouldn't have history. The Greeks also had myths. A myth is a young female moth.
So, that's what a myth is? Hmm..and I thought it had something to do with made-up stories! Silly me!
Socrates was a famous old Greek teacher who went around giving people advice. They killed him. He later died from an overdose of wedlock which is apparently poisonous. After his death, his career suffered a Dramatic decline.
Moral: Marriage and Advice will get you killed. And yeah..it generally happens that after a dude dies, his career is shot.
In the first Olympic games, Greeks ran races, jumped, hurled biscuits, and threw the java. The games were messier then than they show on TV now.
Yep, catch the biscuits and Java and have your own coffee party!
Julius Caesar extinguished himself on the battlefields of Gaul. The Ides of March murdered him because they thought he was going to be made king. Dying, he gasped out "Same to you, Brutus."
I'm not sure if any finger movements came along with that last line.
Joan of Arc was burnt to a steak and was canonized by Bernard Shaw for reasons I don't really understand. The English and French still have problems.
Yeah..burnt to a steak and rumor has it that she was also baconized ;-)
Queen Elizabeth was the "Virgin Queen," As a queen she was a success. When she exposed herself before her troops they all shouted "hurrah!" and that was the end of the fighting for a long while.
No comments.
Sir Francis Drake circumcised the world with a 100 foot clipper which was very dangerous to all his men.
No comments again.
The greatest writer of the Renaissance was William Shakespeare. He was born in the year 1564, supposedly on his birthday. He never made much money and is famous only because of his plays. He wrote tragedies, comedies, and hysterectomies, all in Islamic pentameter.
Man, isn't that cool - he was born exactly on his birthday!!!! Iambic, Islamic...tragicomedies, hysterectomies...whatever!
A boy worked in the produce section of the supermarket. A man came in and asked to buy half a head of lettuce. The boy told him they only sold whole heads of lettuce, but the man was persistent. The boy said he'd go ask his manager what to do.
The boy walked into the back room and said, "There's some jerk out there who wants to buy only half a head of lettuce." As he finished saying this he turned around to find the man standing right behind him, so he added, "And this gentleman wants to buy the other half." The manager okayed the deal.
Later the manager said to the boy, "You almost got yourself in a lot of trouble earlier, but I must say I was impressed with the way you got yourself out of it. You think on your feet, and we like that around here. Where are you from, son?"
The boy replied, "Minnesota, sir."
"Oh really? Why did you leave Minnesota?" asked the manager.
The boy replied, "They're all just prostitutes and hockey players up there."
"My wife is from Minnesota," the manager said.
The boy replied, "Really!? What team did she play for?"
A man walks into a restaurant with a full-grown ostrich behind him, and as he sits down, the waitress comes over and asks for their order. The man says, "I'll have a hamburger, fries and a coke," and turns to the ostrich. "What's yours?" "I'll have the same," says the ostrich.
A short time later the waitress returns with the order. "That will be $6.40 please," and the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out exact change for payment.
The next day, the man and the ostrich come again and the man says, "I'll have a hamburger, fries and a coke," and the ostrich says, "I'll have the same." Once again the man reaches into his pocket and pays with exact change.
This becomes a routine until late one evening, the two enter again. "The usual?" asks the waitress. "No, this is Friday night, so I will have a steak, baked potato and salad," says the man. "Same for me," says the ostrich. A short time later the waitress comes with the order and says, "That will be $12.62." Once again the man pulls exact change out of his pocket and places it on the table.
The waitress can't hold back her curiosity any longer.
"Excuse me, sir. How do you manage to always come up with the exact change out of your pocket every time?"
"Well," says the man, "several years ago I was cleaning the attic and I found an old lamp. When I rubbed it a Genie appeared and offered me two wishes. My first wish was that if I ever had to pay for anything, just put my hand in my pocket, and the right amount of money would always be there."
"That's brilliant!" says the waitress. "Most people would wish for a million dollars or something, but you'll always be as rich as you want for as long as you live!"
"That's right! Whether it's a gallon of milk or a Rolls Royce, the exact money is always there," says the man.
The waitress asks, "One other thing, sir, what's with the ostrich?"
The man sighs, pauses, and answers, "My second wish was for a tall chick with long legs who agrees with everything I say."
I got this story as a forward from my dad - he's really sweet you know, I started using email (and the associated 'email forwards') way before he did but he still sends me all these things that I've read umpteen times before! Way to go Dad! Love ya! ---------------------- Source: Internet
An atheist was taking a walk through the woods, admiring all that the accident of evolution had created. "What majestic trees! What powerful rivers! What beautiful animals!" he said to himself.
As he was walking alongside the river he heard a rustling in the bushes behind him. He turned to look. He saw a 7-foot grizzly charge toward him.
He ran as fast as he could up the path. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the bear was closing. He ran even faster, so scared that tears were coming to his eyes. He looked over his shoulder again, and the bear was even closer. His heart was pumping frantically and he tried to run even faster. He tripped and fell to the ground.
He rolled over to pick himself up but saw the bear, right on top of him: reaching for him with his left paw and raising his right paw to strike him. At that instant the atheist cried out "Oh my God!...."
Time stopped. The bear froze. The forest was silent. Even the river stopped moving.
As a bright light shone upon the man, a voice came out of the sky: "You deny my existence for all of these years; teach others I don't exist; and, even credit creation to a cosmic accident. Do you expect me to help you out of this predicament? Am I to count you as a believer?" The atheist looked directly into the light: "It would be hypocritical of me to suddenly ask you to treat me as a Christian now, but perhaps you could make the bear a Christian?"
"Very well," the voice said. The light went out. The river ran again. And the sounds of the forest resumed.
And then the bear dropped its right paw, brought both paws together, bowed its head and spoke: "Lord, for this food which I am about to receive, I am truly thankful."
An undercover media investigation reveals a shocking lack of literary appreciation among some of Britain's famous publishers and agents.
One of the most enduring myths of the book world now stands exposed: the belief that great publishers and literary agents instinctively recognise a good work when they see one. Stories about earnest editors rescuing literary gems from "slush piles" always sounded a bit exaggerated but who would have thought that these might be pure fiction? Now, we know — thanks to an undercover media investigation, which has revealed a shocking level of a lack of literary appreciation among some of Britain's famous publishers and agents. Let alone discovering new talent, they were not able to recognise even some of the existing classics such as the Nobel Laureate V.S. Naipaul's In a Free State when these were submitted to them disguised as new works by aspiring writers.
The Sunday Times, which carried out the sting operation, said it sent a typed manuscript of Sir Vidia's Booker Prize winning novel under an assumed name to 20 publishers and agents — and all turned it down! Some did not even care to acknowledge it. Those who did regretted that it was not something that greatly excited them.
The newspaper reported that "typical" was the reply from a leading London literary agency, PFD, which wrote back: "Having considered your material, we do not feel, we are sorry to say, sufficiently enthusiastic or confident about it." Ditto another well-known agency, Blake Friedmann. It was not impressed either by the "content" or the novelist's "writing style."
Offering its apologies, the agency explained: "In order to take on a new author, several of us here (at the agency) would need to be extremely enthusiastic about both the content and writing style. I'm sorry to say we didn't feel that strongly about your work."
There was bad news from yet another agent, Barbara Levy, who thought that although the novel was "quite original" there was not enough spark in it to interest her. "In the end, I'm afraid we just weren't quite enthusiastic enough to be able to offer to take things further," she replied.
Another highly-regarded and prize-winning novel submitted to the same set of publishers and agents suffered a similar fate. Stanley Middleton's Holiday, which shared the 1974 Booker Prize with Nadine Gordimer's The Conservationist, was also rejected almost by everyone — including Bloomsbury and Time Warner — on grounds that it was not their sort of book. Only one literary agent showed some interest and wanted to see more chapters before making up her mind. Both In a Free State and Holiday were widely acclaimed when first published in the 1970s, and the former still remains among Sir Vidia's more important works.
So, what's going on? Surely, there is something wrong somewhere when the country's best literary minds — those who decide what others should read — appear to be so completely devoid of critical insight. Even after allowing for the fact that the novels in question were published in a different era and that literary tastes have changed dramatically since then the episode tells us something about how publishing decisions are made these days with attention focussed solely on marketing. And not so much on marketing the book as on marketing the author.
Important factors
In recent years, age, gender, and the "looks" of an author have become important factors in making publishing judgments. While a beautiful face may no longer be a pre-requisite for a career in films, publishers are becoming increasingly obsessed with whether a prospective writer is young and glamorous enough to attract readers. And if they have an "interesting" and headline-grabbing personal history that is regarded as a bonus.
The "new" school
The "new" school of publishing believes that in an age of competing forms of mass entertainment a book does not sell on its literary merit alone but rides on the back of a whole lot of extra-literary factors, the most important of which is the "marketing" potential of the writer's personality — looks, lifestyle, ability to sound clever on the telly etc. etc.
Older authors, unless they have consistently topped the charts, are seen as a marketing liability. "Being 29, blonde, good-looking, and vaguely famous should be enough to get you a book published nowadays," according to Nicholas Clee, former editor of The Bookseller, Britain's most authoritative trade journal.
No wonder, there is a rash of books by B-list celebrities while serious writers struggle to find acceptance. Increasingly, publishers also tend to prefer first-time authors — more so, if they are young and telegenic — because they find it easier to "tease" the market with an untested commodity than risk money on those whose previous works may not have done well.
An apocryphal story doing the rounds is that a journal is planning to resubmit Sir Vidia and Mr. Middleton's novels to another set of publishers and literary agents — this time disguised as debut works of fictional twenty-something "blondes"! We await the outcome with bated breath.
A teacher gave her fourth-grade students the beginning of a list of famous sayings and asked them to provide original endings for each one. Here are some examples of what they submitted:
As you shall make your bed so shall you.....Mess it up. Better be safe than.....Punch a 5th grader. Strike while the.....Bug is close. Don't bite the hand that.....Looks dirty. A miss is as good as a.....Mister. You can't teach an old dog new.....Math. The pen is mightier than the.....Pigs. An idle mind is.....The best way to relax. Happy the bride who.....Gets all the presents. A penny saved is.....Not worth much. Two's company, three's.....The Musketeers. When the blind leadeth the blind.....Get out of the way. Where there's smoke, there's.....Pollution. Children should be seen and not.....Spanked or grounded. A rolling stone.....Plays the guitar. A bird in the hand is.....A real mess. No news is.....No newspaper. No news is.....Impossible. It's better to light one candle than to.....Waste electricity. It's always darkest just before.....I open my eyes. It's always darkest before.....Daylight savings time. It's always darkest before.....9:30 p.m. You have nothing to fear but....homework. If you can't stand the heat.....Don't start the fireplace. If you can't stand the heat.....Go swimming. Never put off 'til tomorrow what you.....Should have done yesterday. Never put off 'til tomorrow what.....you put on to go to bed. Never underestimate the power of.....Termites. If you lie down with the dogs.....You'll stink in the morning. The squeaking wheel gets.....Annoying. We have nothing to fear but.....Our principal. To err is human.....To eat a muskrat is not. I think, therefore I.....Get a headache. Better to light a candle than to.....Light an explosive. Early to bed and early to rise.....Is first in the bathroom. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a.....Blister. There is nothing new under the.....Bed. The grass is always greener.....When you leave the sprinkler on. The grass is always greener.....When you put manure on it. Don't count your chickens.....It takes too long. Laugh and the whole world laughs with you, cry and.....You haveto blow your nose. Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and.....Someone yells, " Shut up!" You can lead a horse to water but.....How? Love all, trust.....Me. None are so blind as.....Helen Keller. If at first you don't succeed.....Get new batteries. You get out of something what you.....See pictured on the box.
It's ok if you've read this already - doesn't hurt to laugh again now, does it! :-D
Ok, this is amazing beyond words! A german chartbuster sung by a 4 year old about Schnappi, the Crocodile! I want to learn German just to sing this song!
Cute, isn't it?
Lyrics (if you can manage to get the pronunciation right!) -
Ich bin Schnappi, das kleine Krokodil. Komm aus Ägypten, das liegt direkt am Nil. Zuerst lag ich in einem Ei, dann schni-,schna-,schnappte ich mich frei
Ich bin Schnappi, das kleine Krokodil, hab scharfe Zähne, und davon ganz schön viel. Ich schnapp mir was ich schnappen kann, ja ich schnapp zu, weil ich das so gut kann.
Ich bin Schnappi, das kleine Krokodil, ich schnappe gern, das ist mein Lieblingsspiel. Ich schleich mich an die Mama ran, und zeig ihr wie ich schnappen kann
Ich bin Schnappi, das kleine Krokodil, und vom Schnappen, da krieg ich nicht zu viel. Ich beiß dem Papi kurz ins Bein, und dann, dann schlaf ich einfach ein.
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