10,000,000,000

What the blogosphere has confirmed over the years is what the gods have always indicated. All is Relative. I no longer wish to contribute to the noise pollution by adding more words in these pages. And, since I have not yet reached a consciousness of a god, I will still live and act my part in these pages, but only by visuals and or illustrations in revealing tidbits about this cave dweller. As once did men and women in caves of France, I like to return to the age of innocence. (Whatever that means :p)

a Dumbass-cus story

Someone please remind our crazy loon of a president that he has more to worry from his own constituency than any mossad agent from getting to him.

- Well, what can one say except to congratulate Hamas for their roll in obtaining the reins of responsibility and accountability for Palestinians in the occupied territories and their brethren in the neighboring countries. I’m sure many Lebanese will hope that Hamas will deliver better results than Fatah.

- Suggestion for those in our neck of the woods: LET US PLEASE STOP CALLING POLITICAL EVENTS AS IF THEY WHERE NATURAL “DISASTERS.” Now we all should know by now that Nature doesn’t err. Isn’t it getting a bit old with the earthquakes, the tsunamis, the volcanic eruptions, the raining of frogs and all the other bullshit? Let us call the events as they are: THE SHIT HITTING THE FAN over and over again, while we the people, time and again ask for more.

- Cute Overload
At Cute Overload®, we scour the Web for only the finest in Cute Imagery™. Imagery that is Worth Your Internet Browsing Time. We offer an overwhelming amount of cuteness to fill your daily visual allowance. Drink it in!

The hours are near for the end of the "Family" in the Sham. Maybe its wishful thinking, or maybe the embattled U.S. president will stir things up before this years elections. I wonder what he will talk about at his upcoming State of the Union address.

I'm posting this because I recently had an argument with a woman in my local coffeehouse.

If you are a Jackass by nature, please heed these calls. Thank you.

How to Squelch Your Inner Jackass

Waiting in line recently at my local coffeehouse -- an establishment as renowned for its leisurely service as for its place in San Francisco history -- I was blown away by the absolute arrogance of a young woman standing two or three places ahead of me.

She had already irritated everyone within earshot by conducting a very animated cell-phone conversation in her singsong, Valley girl, yuppie voice. But now it was her turn to order and the cafe's irritation turned to cold fury as she impatiently waved off the barista to complete her thought (which no doubt required a herculean effort). Alas for young Brie, or whatever her name was, she picked the wrong guy to trifle with. Our barista tossed her out of line and took the next person's order. She huffed off, still tethered to her phone, to our general delight.

Today, we consider the mobile phone. More than the personal computer and, now, the iPod, this is the technology that even the most technophobic of cats is likeliest to possess. In other words, they're all over the place. It's understood why people use cell phones. What we're concerned with here is how they use 'em.

Too often the answer is "rudely." Yeah, "rude cell-phone user" columns have been done to death over the years. But those columns keep getting written for a reason: There are still far too many of you thoughtless blockheads out there. So let's try it again.

Not everyone who uses a mobile phone is as willfully thoughtless as our friend Brie. But the level of rudeness isn't the issue. It's the mere fact of rudeness itself -- that's the issue.

Mobile phones have helped to make a crass and vulgar society even more crass and more vulgar. Portability makes it possible for anyone to take a private conversation public and that's never a good idea. In its way, some moron babbling into a mobile phone is as obtrusive and obnoxious as the idiot who plays his boombox at full throttle in the park.

Look, the world is not your personal playground. Do not share with us your musical tastes; do not share with us your latest wheelings and dealings. In public places, you have an obligation to hold up your end of the implied social contract by not imposing yourself on those around you. This is crucial to a civilized society and just because technology allows you to act like a braying ass in public doesn't mean you should do it. Quite the contrary, in fact. You need to be more aware of your surroundings than ever.

That said, it's understood that you will use your phone away from hermetically sealed rooms and the solitude of your studio apartment. So, please, observe these little niceties:

* Don't use your phone in obvious situations where your one-sided conversation can only be disruptive: at the movies, at a concert, in a public auditorium, on an elevator, in a crowded waiting room, etc. I would add city buses to the list, but those are already rolling prison yards for the most part. Use your phone if you must, but use at your own peril.
* If you're in the middle of a face-to-face conversation with someone, don't take a phone call. It's disrespectful. You can go on the theory that if the incoming call is important enough, the caller will leave you a message. You can then return said call at a more convenient moment, and nobody is offended.
* If you're expecting an important call and somebody stops by to chat you up, let your buddy know that you might have to take a call. That's fair.
* Ditch the ring tone and put the phone on vibrate. The only person who cares about an incoming call on your phone is you. Don't worry, you'll feel it. (It feels go-o-o-od.) Most ring tones are not only intrusive, they're inane.
* Don't have emotional phone conversations in my face. In other words, don't break up with your boyfriend publicly. (Besides, we can't see him and being able to see his reaction is half the fun.) Wait until you get home and then toss his sorry ass out the door.
* Don't talk on the phone while you're grocery shopping. For whatever reason, the acoustics of a shopping aisle seem to amplify your voice. Also, talking on the phone tends to distract you from what's going on in your immediate vicinity and I need to get around you to reach the Cocoa Puffs.
* When you're in my cafe, turn off your phone and don't use it at all.
* Personal note to my son: Using part of a rap song as a voicemail greeting, where the only intelligible words are "bitch" and "fuckah," is not a felicitous way of welcoming an incoming caller. While your friends may find this the height of wit, your employer and professors and parole officer almost certainly will not.

A final thought: I kind of like those Bluetooth earpieces where you don't use your hands. The ones that hang from your ear and have you talking off into the ether. You look like a crazy guy wandering down the street, the only difference being that a real crazy guy usually has something interesting to say.

- - -
Tony Long is copy chief of Wired News. He's working his way through his second cell phone.

As I was driving on the freeway today this quote came to mind: “What we have here is failure to communicate.” I still haven’t figured out the significance of this yet, but thought I’d share it with you.

Kevin Sites in the Hot Zone.

I watched Syriana and Munich last week and unfortunately learned nothing new. We keep repeating in a rotten cycle.

New Years Resolution:

1) Quit smoking
2) Relearn to read and write in Arabic
3) Be more understanding
4) Be more grateful
5) Participate in a march with like minded people to the Palace in Baabda to overthrow the lame duck president, then continue marching to Damascus and meet with like minded Syrians to topple The Family, then continue on a march with both Lebanese and Syrians to Jerusalem along the way meeting up with like minded Lebanese in the Shiaa community, Palestinians descendents of refugees and Jews descendents of European, Russian and U.S Jews to render Hezbollah and rest of the card carrying terrorists within the borders of Levantine countries useless. OR I CAN KEEP SITTING ON MY COUCH AND DREAM OF A BETTER WORLD
6) Be more optimistic
7) Root for the Red Sox
8) Stay away from fatty foods
9) Call Mom more often
10) And listen to the wind blow

How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, 'n' how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many years can a mountain exist
Before it's washed to the sea?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head,
Pretending he just doesn't see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

And if you have some time, follow this link.

And if you are looking for a hero outside of yourself, then you’re a lost cause and not competent to serve, in this case Lebanon.

From The New Yorker:
ON TRIAL
Issue of 2005-12-19
Posted 2005-12-12

In Istanbul this Friday—in Şişli, the district where I have spent my whole life, in the courthouse directly opposite the three-story house where my grandmother lived alone for forty years—I will stand before a judge. My crime is to have “publicly denigrated Turkish identity.” The prosecutor will ask that I be imprisoned for three years. I should perhaps find it worrying that the Turkish-Armenian journalist Hrant Dink was tried in the same court for the same offense, under Article 301 of the same statute, and was found guilty, but I remain optimistic. For, like my lawyer, I believe that the case against me is thin; I do not think I will end up in jail.

This makes it somewhat embarrassing to see my trial overdramatized. I am only too aware that most of the Istanbul friends from whom I have sought advice have at some point undergone much harsher interrogation and lost many years to court cases and prison sentences just because of a book, just because of something they had written. Living as I do in a country that honors its pashas, saints, and policemen at every opportunity but refuses to honor its writers until they have spent years in courts and in prisons, I cannot say I was surprised to be put on trial. I understand why friends smile and say that I am at last “a real Turkish writer.” But when I uttered the words that landed me in trouble I was not seeking that kind of honor.

Last February, in an interview published in a Swiss newspaper, I said that “a million Armenians and thirty thousand Kurds had been killed in Turkey”; I went on to complain that it was taboo to discuss these matters in my country. Among the world’s serious historians, it is common knowledge that a large number of Ottoman Armenians were deported, allegedly for siding against the Ottoman Empire during the First World War, and many of them were slaughtered along the way. Turkey’s spokesmen, most of whom are diplomats, continue to maintain that the death toll was much lower, that the slaughter does not count as a genocide because it was not systematic, and that in the course of the war Armenians killed many Muslims, too. This past September, however, despite opposition from the state, three highly respected Istanbul universities joined forces to hold an academic conference of scholars open to views not tolerated by the official Turkish line. Since then, for the first time in ninety years, there has been public discussion of the subject—this despite the spectre of Article 301.

If the state is prepared to go to such lengths to keep the Turkish people from knowing what happened to the Ottoman Armenians, that qualifies as a taboo. And my words caused a furor worthy of a taboo: various newspapers launched hate campaigns against me, with some right-wing (but not necessarily Islamist) columnists going as far as to say that I should be “silenced” for good; groups of nationalist extremists organized meetings and demonstrations to protest my treachery; there were public burnings of my books. Like Ka, the hero of my novel “Snow,” I discovered how it felt to have to leave one’s beloved city for a time on account of one’s political views. Because I did not want to add to the controversy, and did not want even to hear about it, I at first kept quiet, drenched in a strange sort of shame, hiding from the public, and even from my own words. Then a provincial governor ordered a burning of my books, and, following my return to Istanbul, the Şişli public prosecutor opened the case against me, and I found myself the object of international concern.

My detractors were not motivated just by personal animosity, nor were they expressing hostility to me alone; I already knew that my case was a matter worthy of discussion in both Turkey and the outside world. This was partly because I believed that what stained a country’s “honor” was not the discussion of the black spots in its history but the impossibility of any discussion at all. But it was also because I believed that in today’s Turkey the prohibition against discussing the Ottoman Armenians was a prohibition against freedom of expression, and that the two matters were inextricably linked. Comforted as I was by the interest in my predicament and by the generous gestures of support, there were also times when I felt uneasy about finding myself caught between my country and the rest of the world.

The hardest thing was to explain why a country officially committed to entry in the European Union would wish to imprison an author whose books were well known in Europe, and why it felt compelled to play out this drama (as Conrad might have said) “under Western eyes.” This paradox cannot be explained away as simple ignorance, jealousy, or intolerance, and it is not the only paradox. What am I to make of a country that insists that the Turks, unlike their Western neighbors, are a compassionate people, incapable of genocide, while nationalist political groups are pelting me with death threats? What is the logic behind a state that complains that its enemies spread false reports about the Ottoman legacy all over the globe while it prosecutes and imprisons one writer after another, thus propagating the image of the Terrible Turk worldwide? When I think of the professor whom the state asked to give his ideas on Turkey’s minorities, and who, having produced a report that failed to please, was prosecuted, or the news that between the time I began this essay and embarked on the sentence you are now reading five more writers and journalists were charged under Article 301, I imagine that Flaubert and Nerval, the two godfathers of Orientalism, would call these incidents bizarreries, and rightly so.

That said, the drama we see unfolding is not, I think, a grotesque and inscrutable drama peculiar to Turkey; rather, it is an expression of a new global phenomenon that we are only just coming to acknowledge and that we must now begin, however slowly, to address. In recent years, we have witnessed the astounding economic rise of India and China, and in both these countries we have also seen the rapid expansion of the middle class, though I do not think we shall truly understand the people who have been part of this transformation until we have seen their private lives reflected in novels. Whatever you call these new élites—the non-Western bourgeoisie or the enriched bureaucracy—they, like the Westernizing élites in my own country, feel compelled to follow two separate and seemingly incompatible lines of action in order to legitimatize their newly acquired wealth and power. First, they must justify the rapid rise in their fortunes by assuming the idiom and the attitudes of the West; having created a demand for such knowledge, they then take it upon themselves to tutor their countrymen. When the people berate them for ignoring tradition, they respond by brandishing a virulent and intolerant nationalism. The disputes that a Flaubert-like outside observer might call bizarreries may simply be the clashes between these political and economic programs and the cultural aspirations they engender. On the one hand, there is the rush to join the global economy; on the other, the angry nationalism that sees true democracy and freedom of thought as Western inventions.

V. S. Naipaul was one of the first writers to describe the private lives of the ruthless, murderous non-Western ruling élites of the post-colonial era. Last May, in Korea, when I met the great Japanese writer Kenzaburo Oe, I heard that he, too, had been attacked by nationalist extremists after stating that the ugly crimes committed by his country’s armies during the invasions of Korea and China should be openly discussed in Tokyo. The intolerance shown by the Russian state toward the Chechens and other minorities and civil-rights groups, the attacks on freedom of expression by Hindu nationalists in India, and China’s discreet ethnic cleansing of the Uighurs—all are nourished by the same contradictions.

As tomorrow’s novelists prepare to narrate the private lives of the new élites, they are no doubt expecting the West to criticize the limits that their states place on freedom of expression. But these days the lies about the war in Iraq and the reports of secret C.I.A. prisons have so damaged the West’s credibility in Turkey and in other nations that it is more and more difficult for people like me to make the case for true Western democracy in my part of the world.

(Translated, from the Turkish, by Maureen Freely.)




— Orhan Pamuk

And if you were to ask why should I care if the elite are suffering, when I and the rest suffered thousand fold without any sympathy from those who summer in the south of France or winter in the Alps of Italy. And if you asked why should I care when none of them cared for me and the rest of us while we were losing family and friends, stashing what they plundered in their villa’s built upon the bones of those who they never cared for. And if you were to ask if whether the chickens have come home to roost? I wouldn’t know how to reply.

Is this man Insulting Turkishness?
"What happened to the Ottoman Armenians in 1915 was a major thing that was hidden from the Turkish nation; it was a taboo," the writer explains, at an Istanbul cafe overlooking the waterfront.

"But we have to be able to talk about the past."

Armenia insists its people were victims of a genocide nine decades ago; Ankara denies any such thing.

The time has come, the Walrus said. Perhaps things will get worse and then better. Perhaps there's a small god up in heaven readying herself for us. Another world is not only possible, she's on her way. Maybe many of us won't be here to greet her, but on a quiet day, if I listen very carefully, I can hear her breathing.

Another one bites the dust

Steve walks warily down the street,
With the brim pulled way down low
Ain’t no sound but the sound of his feet,
Machine guns ready to go
Are you ready, are you ready for this
Are you hanging on the edge of your seat
Out of the doorway the bullets rip
To the sound of the beat

Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
And another one gone, and another one gone
Another one bites the dust
Hey, I’m gonna get you too
Another one bites the dust

How do you think I’m going to get along,
Without you, when you’re gone
You took me for everything that I had,
And kicked me out on my own

Are you happy, are you satisfied
How long can you stand the heat
Out of the doorway the bullets rip
To the sound of the beat

Chorus

Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
There are plenty of ways you can hurt a man
And bring him to the ground
You can beat him
You can cheat him
You can treat him bad and leave him
When he’s down
But I’m ready, yes I’m ready for you
I’m standing on my own two feet
Out of the doorway the bullets rip
Repeating the sound of the beat

Another day, another....

Don't mess with this little old lady.

Hooked on the Web: Help Is on the Way

If you, like me, are hooked on the web, there is finally help on the way.

I haven’t been posting anything of late because I feel I have nothing interesting to share. Furthermore, I have been trying desperately to step away from the computer, but unfortunately I have to admit, I am addicted and need help.

I’m open to suggestions.

Regards,


Bloggerfrombloggistan.

Not up for the challange?

Way too many pictures ladies, please I only have so much (space on my) hard-drive.

But in all seriousness, Cheers to all, and may this day be better then yesterday.