By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
It is the midnight hour here in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, in Cambridge town. And like my overindulged neighbors, I am in search of something to satisfy a craving, for without satisfaction I shall not sleep. As this is a college town, the ultimate college town, with every kind of taste and flavor readily at hand, all ready to obliterate the hunger pangs of the privileged, voracious herds of students foraging hereabouts, there should be no trouble getting that precise, desired effect.
But the taste I seek cannot be found in Cambridge, or Boston, or even in the whole of New England or even beyond. It is a taste rooted in the Midwest and, thus, I need stratagems to find it... all the while my brain, sharpened by exact desire, screams for the thing, the exact thing, no substitutions, no deceptions, no facsimiles, don't even try.
This is White Castle... don't even begin to call it just a 'hamburger."
And if you have never had one, do not condescend to judge us who have. We know this thing... and if we are in thrall to a taste... we at least have had it, while you have not and do not know.
This, then, is for my fellow "cravers"... you know who you are... and you know what I am going through now... for you may well be going through it, too...
Born in the heartland.
Harry Truman, sometime president of these United States, once said, "There is nothing new in the world except the history you do not know." I am going to dish up some of that history now.
The White Castle story begins in Wichita, Kansas. It is 1921... America is confident, striding for the first time on the world stage; a heady adolescent among nations... strong, swaggering, a bull in Europe's epicene china shop. Such a nation, still raw, required food to match. It needed wheat.... and beef... and onions... it was democratic fare... cheap, pungent, delicious, pay your nickle and, laughing with your buddies, wipe your mouth on your sleeve; (your mother cannot see the infraction, so shocking at home.)
The White Castle story is a story of lean, young men, with big ideas; applying science and brains to the hunger of a nation moving to a jazz beat. In such a nation everything was possible... and a young man in Wichita was free to dream and to build and to triumph. In Wichita that year, in America, there was nothing but exuberance, pulsating energies and panoramas of promise.
White Castle aimed to be the fuel for such a people and their ascendancy. And so it began...
Item: White Castle was the first fast-food hamburger chain in the nation.
Item: The first to sell a million hamburgers.
Item: The first to sell a billion hamburgers.
Item: The first to sell frozen fast food.
Founders Billy Ingram and Walter Anderson had an idol... a man of drive, energy, imagination and, always, the ability and desire to improve, make the product better, and grow.
This was Henry Ford, and the founders of White Castle never stopped scrutinizing the Master for ways they could benefit and, in turn, benefit the nation.
"The Jungle".
The first problem the founders had to solve was one of perception. In 1906, Upton Sinclair wrote one of the signal books of the burgeoning republic, "The Jungle". It was a book inducing anger and nausea, exposing in sickening detail the revolting conditions of the meat packing industry. America blanched and heaved... cleaning up the noisome menace...
The Wichita boys did their bit. They named their baby "White" for something clean, pure and untainted... and "Castle" for something strong and resolute.
Then they started their life-long mission of mechanizing their work, just as Henry Ford was doing at River Rouge.
Their restaurants, made to resemble the famed Chicago Water Tower, were eye-catching, distinctive, octagonal buttresses, crenelated towers, and a parapet wall. Here, well before Huey Long, "every man was king." The look was pristine, sparkling white porcelain enamel on steel exteriors, stainless steel interiors, employees outfitted with spotless uniforms... never sprinkled with the blood of what you were eating.
Now they could turn their full attention to the most important thing of all... the taste.
First, Founder Anderson invented the hamburger bun, as well as the kitchen assembly line that gave rise to the modern fast-food industry. Due to White Castle's innovation of chain-wide standardized methods, customers could be sure they would receive the same product in every one of their restaurants; here, too, they lead the way, as they embarked on sure and certain growth.
Since nothing of the mechanized fast-foot industry existed, it all had to be imagined, attempted, instituted, tried, and re-tried, the tested way of progress for people unafraid to risk, to attempt, to improve, and improve some more. It was the American way, and it was a certain formula for greatness.
White Castle, and the hamburger at its center, was a significant part of this glorious cycle of never-ending improvement.
Anderson developed an efficient method for cooking hamburgers, using freshly ground beef and fresh onions. The ground beef was formed into balls by machine, eighteen to a pound, or forty per kilogram. The balls were placed on a hot grill and topped with a handful of fresh, thinly shredded onion. Then they were flipped so that the onion was under the ball.
The ball was then squashed down, turning the ball into a very thin patty. The bottom of the bun was then placed atop the cooking patty with the other half of the bun on top of that so that the juices and steam from the beef and onion would permeate the bun. After grilling, a slice of dill pickle was inserted before serving on its distinctive square bun available at White Castle only. This was the famous "slider".
Now, putting it all together, you didn't just have a burger and fries... you had an event, a feast for nose, eye, tongue and brain. You stopped at other burger joints because you were hungry and couldn't wait any longer for relief at someplace better. You went to White Castle for satisfaction, gratification, bliss.
On this basis White Castle grew, keeping its price, a dime apiece, fair, affordable. Then, in 1933, Ingram bought out Anderson, moving to Columbus, Ohio. The new owner refused to franchise or take on debt to expand, and so White Castle fell behind other purveyors of burgers, relatively small at 420 White Castle outlets; the one I visited assiduously when I studied at Harvard, in Central Square, bit the dust, to my acute despair.
Somewhere along the line the unyielding insistence on growth, improvement, and no limits whatsoever, died. When I called White Castle's corporate offices yesterday to see how I could buy the product by mail, the voice at the other end of the line was of the "couldn't be bothered" variety, dismissive, unhelpful, eager to get me off the line and go back to her nails and jeremiads. Thus the dedicated, devoted "cravers" of company lore are cast aside and dismissed. And so as White Castle goes, the once great nation goes... and we are saddened and bereft.
Richard Penny
Online Success Coach
1-(800)985-0604
Skype ID = richieace
http://earnonlinesuccess.com
Another site of mine I use for generating traffic, join to get Free Traffic
http://homebusinesspremium.com/articles/
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
I chose life... and so should you. 347,000,000 adults now diagnosed with diabetes. How one man's story can help you at once!
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
The number of adults with diabetes worldwide has more than doubled in three decades, to an estimated 347 million a new study says. The study, led by Goodarz Danaei of the Harvard School of Public Health and Majid Ezzati of Imperial College, London, analyzed diabetes data from 1980 to 2008. Their analysis found that 153 million people had diabetes in 1980; this number had swelled to 347 million in 2008.
Much of that increase is due to aging populations -- since diabetes typically hits in middle age -- and population growth, but part of it has also been fueled by rising obesity rates.
With numbers climbing almost everywhere, experts said the disease is no longer limited to rich countries and is now a global problem. Countries in which the numbers rose fastest include Cape Verde, Samoa, Saudi Arabia, Papua New Guinea, and the United States.
More alarming news.
These figures do not reflect the generations of overweight children and young adults who have yet to reach middle age. This will create a massive burden on already severely challenged health systems.
The most alarming news of all... Each of these people could take charge of their disease, but too often don't, thereby triggering even graver health problems.
"A disease of the mouth."
I like to say, tongue firmly in cheek, that diabetes is a disease of the mouth: open mouth, insert enough of the wrong things, get disease and all its myriad of complications. I should know; I'm one of the world's aging diabetics. Now 64, I was diagnosed about 50.
The day my blunt, most direct physician delivered the news he asked me one question: "Do you want to live longer or shorter?" I chose longer; he then laid on me exactly what I needed to do to achieve the objective of more time and that of the highest quality. While hardly an ideal patient, I was more than willing to make the necessary changes in diet and lifestyle. Not only willing but committed and determined to do so. Once over 205 chunky pounds, my 5' 10 1/2" frame is now a lean 157 pounds... with all other numbers appropriate; something to write home about, especially since I can wear the same trousers I wore in graduate school 40 years ago! Can you?
What I have learned along the way.
I want to say, right from the get-go, that I am NOT playing physician here; you need to consult yours at regular intervals as I do. Still, diabetes seems to me a disease tailor-made for personal management. There are things, lots of things, you can do to improve your situation. Here's what works for me:
1) Take ownership of your disease and decide whether you want to gamble with your life by doing little or nothing.
The great thing about diabetes is that its improvement or deterioration is very much in your hands. If you take charge in a positive, pro-active manner you are going to improve. if you persist in fighting your diagnosis and what you can do, right at home, too, you won't. In other words, you can be adult about it... or select adolescent petulance.
2) Don't try to change everything overnight; do start making changes at once. Remember, diabetes and what you do to manage it is a marathon, not a sprint. This is a disease without (just yet) a cure; it's a disease that's with you sleeping and waking. You cannot, therefore, do something today and then ignore it. With diabetes you're fighting a war, not a battle. Treat it accordingly.
3) Clean out your cupboards... clean out your refrigerator.
If you don't have readily at hand the destructive things... the high sugar drinks, the cakes and bakery goods... all the things that work against your success and create long-term problems, so much the better.
If you don't have readily at hand the bad things and have to make a special effort to go out and get them, you will, perforce, ingest less.
4) Don't think in terms of diets and deprivations. Think in terms of the additional life and time you're getting.
We live in a culture that screams "I want this and I want this NOW!" We are all influenced by the "I'm worth it and I'm going to have it" mentality. Thus you need practical ways to overcome these insidious influences.
To start with, never call what you're doing a "diet". Diets are about depriving yourself; think instead of buying your life back from the pawn shop. When you eat bad things you're cutting time off your life; when you make the necessary changes, you buy yourself back.
5) Count to 10.
Before you drink that sugary concoction or take another bite of your favorite confection, count to 10. This gives your brain time to remind you that you probably can live without the indiscretion you are about to make. The sequence goes like this: want. stop. count to 10.
Now, if you do this and still eat the offending morsel, even two, don't collapse with guilt and recrimination. Just resolve to do better next time... because you can be sure there WILL be a next time, and many such.
6) Eat all day.
Still eating big, set meals that leave you breathless and bloated? These constitute an assault on the body. Stop it now!
Instead eat frequently throughout the day, small portions that satisfy and which your previously overworked body can handle.
Start eating fresh fruit... nuts... small snacks of maximum protein and nutrition, minimum sugars, calories, carbohydrates. Make the portions small but make their ingestion frequent. Your body knows its work. Don't overfeed... graze instead. All day long.
7) Make breakfast your most important meal.
You've got a lot to accomplish today. You're going to need a lot of energy and stamina. Thus, you must make breakfast your most important meal. Don't even dream of stinting here. Breakfast constitutes the launching pad for a successful day. Treat it accordingly. By comparison never, ever eat your biggest meal at the end of the day or evening. Your body can't handle it and shouldn't have to try.
Before bed, give yourself a snack, fruit (raisons are always a treat), popcorn. You get the idea. Go to bed satisfied, sleep satisfied, wake up in productive good humor.
You'll start seeing -- and feeling -- results at once.
The great thing about managing your diabetes is that if you follow these sensible suggestions, you'll start seeing results at once. For one thing (and very gratifying it is) your weight will start to drop... reverting to your body's natural weight. And as you see and feel that occurring, you'll be spurred to keep on truckin', towards the Promised Land.
As you go, as you achieve results, reward yourself. You deserve it, not least because you are doing what every one of the 347 million afflicted should be doing... but aren't. Now that you are on your way to success, print this article and share it with a friend. It's one of the privileges of your improved situation and state of mind. Use it... and help someone you know and love. Someday they'll throw their arms around you and tell you you saved their life. And it'll be true...
Richard Penny
Online Success Coach
1-(800)985-0604
Skype ID = richieace
http://earnonlinesuccess.com
http://homebusinesspremium.com/articles/
The number of adults with diabetes worldwide has more than doubled in three decades, to an estimated 347 million a new study says. The study, led by Goodarz Danaei of the Harvard School of Public Health and Majid Ezzati of Imperial College, London, analyzed diabetes data from 1980 to 2008. Their analysis found that 153 million people had diabetes in 1980; this number had swelled to 347 million in 2008.
Much of that increase is due to aging populations -- since diabetes typically hits in middle age -- and population growth, but part of it has also been fueled by rising obesity rates.
With numbers climbing almost everywhere, experts said the disease is no longer limited to rich countries and is now a global problem. Countries in which the numbers rose fastest include Cape Verde, Samoa, Saudi Arabia, Papua New Guinea, and the United States.
More alarming news.
These figures do not reflect the generations of overweight children and young adults who have yet to reach middle age. This will create a massive burden on already severely challenged health systems.
The most alarming news of all... Each of these people could take charge of their disease, but too often don't, thereby triggering even graver health problems.
"A disease of the mouth."
I like to say, tongue firmly in cheek, that diabetes is a disease of the mouth: open mouth, insert enough of the wrong things, get disease and all its myriad of complications. I should know; I'm one of the world's aging diabetics. Now 64, I was diagnosed about 50.
The day my blunt, most direct physician delivered the news he asked me one question: "Do you want to live longer or shorter?" I chose longer; he then laid on me exactly what I needed to do to achieve the objective of more time and that of the highest quality. While hardly an ideal patient, I was more than willing to make the necessary changes in diet and lifestyle. Not only willing but committed and determined to do so. Once over 205 chunky pounds, my 5' 10 1/2" frame is now a lean 157 pounds... with all other numbers appropriate; something to write home about, especially since I can wear the same trousers I wore in graduate school 40 years ago! Can you?
What I have learned along the way.
I want to say, right from the get-go, that I am NOT playing physician here; you need to consult yours at regular intervals as I do. Still, diabetes seems to me a disease tailor-made for personal management. There are things, lots of things, you can do to improve your situation. Here's what works for me:
1) Take ownership of your disease and decide whether you want to gamble with your life by doing little or nothing.
The great thing about diabetes is that its improvement or deterioration is very much in your hands. If you take charge in a positive, pro-active manner you are going to improve. if you persist in fighting your diagnosis and what you can do, right at home, too, you won't. In other words, you can be adult about it... or select adolescent petulance.
2) Don't try to change everything overnight; do start making changes at once. Remember, diabetes and what you do to manage it is a marathon, not a sprint. This is a disease without (just yet) a cure; it's a disease that's with you sleeping and waking. You cannot, therefore, do something today and then ignore it. With diabetes you're fighting a war, not a battle. Treat it accordingly.
3) Clean out your cupboards... clean out your refrigerator.
If you don't have readily at hand the destructive things... the high sugar drinks, the cakes and bakery goods... all the things that work against your success and create long-term problems, so much the better.
If you don't have readily at hand the bad things and have to make a special effort to go out and get them, you will, perforce, ingest less.
4) Don't think in terms of diets and deprivations. Think in terms of the additional life and time you're getting.
We live in a culture that screams "I want this and I want this NOW!" We are all influenced by the "I'm worth it and I'm going to have it" mentality. Thus you need practical ways to overcome these insidious influences.
To start with, never call what you're doing a "diet". Diets are about depriving yourself; think instead of buying your life back from the pawn shop. When you eat bad things you're cutting time off your life; when you make the necessary changes, you buy yourself back.
5) Count to 10.
Before you drink that sugary concoction or take another bite of your favorite confection, count to 10. This gives your brain time to remind you that you probably can live without the indiscretion you are about to make. The sequence goes like this: want. stop. count to 10.
Now, if you do this and still eat the offending morsel, even two, don't collapse with guilt and recrimination. Just resolve to do better next time... because you can be sure there WILL be a next time, and many such.
6) Eat all day.
Still eating big, set meals that leave you breathless and bloated? These constitute an assault on the body. Stop it now!
Instead eat frequently throughout the day, small portions that satisfy and which your previously overworked body can handle.
Start eating fresh fruit... nuts... small snacks of maximum protein and nutrition, minimum sugars, calories, carbohydrates. Make the portions small but make their ingestion frequent. Your body knows its work. Don't overfeed... graze instead. All day long.
7) Make breakfast your most important meal.
You've got a lot to accomplish today. You're going to need a lot of energy and stamina. Thus, you must make breakfast your most important meal. Don't even dream of stinting here. Breakfast constitutes the launching pad for a successful day. Treat it accordingly. By comparison never, ever eat your biggest meal at the end of the day or evening. Your body can't handle it and shouldn't have to try.
Before bed, give yourself a snack, fruit (raisons are always a treat), popcorn. You get the idea. Go to bed satisfied, sleep satisfied, wake up in productive good humor.
You'll start seeing -- and feeling -- results at once.
The great thing about managing your diabetes is that if you follow these sensible suggestions, you'll start seeing results at once. For one thing (and very gratifying it is) your weight will start to drop... reverting to your body's natural weight. And as you see and feel that occurring, you'll be spurred to keep on truckin', towards the Promised Land.
As you go, as you achieve results, reward yourself. You deserve it, not least because you are doing what every one of the 347 million afflicted should be doing... but aren't. Now that you are on your way to success, print this article and share it with a friend. It's one of the privileges of your improved situation and state of mind. Use it... and help someone you know and love. Someday they'll throw their arms around you and tell you you saved their life. And it'll be true...
Richard Penny
Online Success Coach
1-(800)985-0604
Skype ID = richieace
http://earnonlinesuccess.com
http://homebusinesspremium.com/articles/
'More!' The exclusive story of Tiger Woods and Rory McIlroy. When having everything is not enough.
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Today Tiger Woods, golf legend, gazillionaire, the man of the million watt smile, from whose talents an entire industry grew and flourished, sits alone, wondering, pondering, reviewing every incident and detail.
The emperor of golf has not won a title since November 2008. In his palatial mansion, filled with the tokens of esteem and triumph which, once, seemed his to command and augment at will, a DVD player runs endless renditions of the glory days of his life... The tapes run.... but he hardly glances at them. Instead just one question runs in his brain, over and over: why?
Now thanks to this exclusive article featuring Oberon and Titania, taking time out from their long-running "A Midsummer Night's Dream" world tour, we finally know the answer.
Frolics and hijinks of the forest elves, fairies, wizards, gnomes, et al.
The forest folk, whose antics were captured so well by Shakespeare in his play of 1590, have a problem that we humans do not share. Having eternal time at their disposal allows these immortals to do whatever they wish; problem is, there is always too much time, never enough to do.... and so, to fill the endless vistas of their limitless days, they turn to the mischievous, which they have crafted into an art form and sport.
Tiger Woods is one of their most successful creations, showing just what they can do, for good and ill, when they put their minds to it.
Titania found her 1975 Christmas presents from Oberon insufficiently magnificent and entirely unsatisfactory. Being the Queen she let him know in ways petty, irksome, and irritating that she was unhappy. The smallest traces of the herb tauri were sufficient for embarrassing oral purgings, always at the least convenient moments. He got the message and offered her whatever she wanted... She told him she wanted a human child to shape, coddle, adore. And she had just the one in mind she wanted. Burping, Oberon agreed...
Titania thereupon scheduled a great party, to take place December 30, 1975, the birth day of Eldrick Tont Woods.
Every forest dweller ever presented to Their Majesties was invited to appear, wearing full regalia, all orders, ribands, decorations and, should you be fortunate to have them, the red heeled shoes that arrested every eye and made those without writhe. Titania wished this to be her finest festival yet... and so it was; not least because each guest had been commanded to bring a gift, an attribute or skill they would bestow on the newborn child.
Much consideration went into these gifts; each wanted his to be unique, memorable, something that might catch the eye of Titania and result, it could happen, in the instant bestowal of red heels and the universal envy they occasioned.
Titania, resplendent in gossamer spun by bees at the exact moment of sunrise, a crown of iris flowers set with diamonds in her hair, greeted her guests at the top of a staircase lined with dragonflies in full iridescence, Oberon at her side... the Court Chamberlain, a Monarch Butterfly full of years and honors, announced each guest's arrival -- and gift. The cricket orchestra unveiled a new grand march....
"You will win the U.S. Amateur title 3 times."
"You will win 4 green jackets and the excitement of the world."
"You will drive 350 yards at will to the mortification and envy of all your colleagues."
And so it went as afternoon merged into evening, the line of guests never slackening... each one presenting Titania with their special gift for her ward and favorite, then handing it to a powdered flunkey who artfully arranged it amongst the mound of prior presentations.
"Your balls will always avoid water and sand."
"Every putt will appear straight as an arrow."
"You will win more PGA events than legendary Sam Snead."
But there was more, much more... each following their Queen's commands to the very letter:
"You will win more majors than Jack Nicklaus."
"You will be the only golfer to win all 4 majors in a row."
"You will win each major (Masters, PGA, U.S. Open, British Open) at least 3 times."
Then these...
"You will become the richest sports figure in history."
"You will marry one of the world's most beautiful women."
"You will be called Tiger and the world will cheer and honor you , glad for your success, never envious."
Now the long receiving line had dwindled; the guests rather attending to the dainty foods and cups of potent nectar. And the orchestra, weren't they splendid tonight?
Then, as a black presence emerged, all went silent. It was Nemesis.... slow moving, her wrinkled face but little seen, swathed in black, the essence of discontent, mayhem her specialty. Titania was called, her iris headband askew, she was no friend to Nemesis, and partly feared her. "My invitation must have gone astray," she said "I have a gift for your Tiger, too," her voice deceptively calm, caressing. There could be no reason for refusing though Titania wished to refuse, but why spoil such a divine party? Thus Nemesis, with care, placed her gift in the cradle. It said simply: "More... Having everything will never be enough." She then waved a wand.. and every guest fell to sleep, to awake (as partied creatures so often do) with recollection of nothing.
Year after year, the attributes so bestowed came true, the man beloved of the world, nothing too good for him, nothing begrudged. He was star-kissed, Fortuna in his pocket.
Until one day in November 2009, it all unravelled, in the testimonies of a stream of women delighted to dally with a legend, he more than they careless of his celebrity and position. The revelations were steamy, sordid, specific... the man who had everything now had universal execration and criticism too... and a whopping $750 million dollar divorce settlement to boot.
As his gilded world imploded, he asked himself as the world asked him: why had he imperiled so much for so little? It was beyond reason, beyond rational reckoning. And as he thought, the stories grew more frequent, more lurid, more damaging.
Then flashed the message of Nemesis: "More," she reminded, the caress still in the voice, "everything will never be enough." And now in darkened room, focused solely on this, he wondered at the trick of fate that had given everything, so ordered and ordained that it could never be adequate, satisfactory or fulfilling.
At that moment, he hears again on the television, a name he has been hearing a lot lately, Rory McIlroy, the commentator extolling his many skills, many outdoing his own. At this moment Rory is advising Tiger to stay out of competitive play, focusing on recovering his health. The sentiments are, perhaps, well intended, but their calm condescension rankles. It was then that he sees something on the floor; it's a aide memoire from Nemesis with this message: "Not invited to Titania's party for Rory. Crash party with usual message. It worked so well with Tiger."
And so it does. The man with everything still has more than most anyone... but he hankers after the most important thing, whose loss will hurt forever: he no longer inspires hope, admiration, even reverence. Even were he to get everything again, these -- as Nemesis conspired -- are truly gone forever.
Richard Penny
Online Success Coach
1-(800)985-0604
Skype ID = richieace
http://earnonlinesuccess.com
Today Tiger Woods, golf legend, gazillionaire, the man of the million watt smile, from whose talents an entire industry grew and flourished, sits alone, wondering, pondering, reviewing every incident and detail.
The emperor of golf has not won a title since November 2008. In his palatial mansion, filled with the tokens of esteem and triumph which, once, seemed his to command and augment at will, a DVD player runs endless renditions of the glory days of his life... The tapes run.... but he hardly glances at them. Instead just one question runs in his brain, over and over: why?
Now thanks to this exclusive article featuring Oberon and Titania, taking time out from their long-running "A Midsummer Night's Dream" world tour, we finally know the answer.
Frolics and hijinks of the forest elves, fairies, wizards, gnomes, et al.
The forest folk, whose antics were captured so well by Shakespeare in his play of 1590, have a problem that we humans do not share. Having eternal time at their disposal allows these immortals to do whatever they wish; problem is, there is always too much time, never enough to do.... and so, to fill the endless vistas of their limitless days, they turn to the mischievous, which they have crafted into an art form and sport.
Tiger Woods is one of their most successful creations, showing just what they can do, for good and ill, when they put their minds to it.
Titania found her 1975 Christmas presents from Oberon insufficiently magnificent and entirely unsatisfactory. Being the Queen she let him know in ways petty, irksome, and irritating that she was unhappy. The smallest traces of the herb tauri were sufficient for embarrassing oral purgings, always at the least convenient moments. He got the message and offered her whatever she wanted... She told him she wanted a human child to shape, coddle, adore. And she had just the one in mind she wanted. Burping, Oberon agreed...
Titania thereupon scheduled a great party, to take place December 30, 1975, the birth day of Eldrick Tont Woods.
Every forest dweller ever presented to Their Majesties was invited to appear, wearing full regalia, all orders, ribands, decorations and, should you be fortunate to have them, the red heeled shoes that arrested every eye and made those without writhe. Titania wished this to be her finest festival yet... and so it was; not least because each guest had been commanded to bring a gift, an attribute or skill they would bestow on the newborn child.
Much consideration went into these gifts; each wanted his to be unique, memorable, something that might catch the eye of Titania and result, it could happen, in the instant bestowal of red heels and the universal envy they occasioned.
Titania, resplendent in gossamer spun by bees at the exact moment of sunrise, a crown of iris flowers set with diamonds in her hair, greeted her guests at the top of a staircase lined with dragonflies in full iridescence, Oberon at her side... the Court Chamberlain, a Monarch Butterfly full of years and honors, announced each guest's arrival -- and gift. The cricket orchestra unveiled a new grand march....
"You will win the U.S. Amateur title 3 times."
"You will win 4 green jackets and the excitement of the world."
"You will drive 350 yards at will to the mortification and envy of all your colleagues."
And so it went as afternoon merged into evening, the line of guests never slackening... each one presenting Titania with their special gift for her ward and favorite, then handing it to a powdered flunkey who artfully arranged it amongst the mound of prior presentations.
"Your balls will always avoid water and sand."
"Every putt will appear straight as an arrow."
"You will win more PGA events than legendary Sam Snead."
But there was more, much more... each following their Queen's commands to the very letter:
"You will win more majors than Jack Nicklaus."
"You will be the only golfer to win all 4 majors in a row."
"You will win each major (Masters, PGA, U.S. Open, British Open) at least 3 times."
Then these...
"You will become the richest sports figure in history."
"You will marry one of the world's most beautiful women."
"You will be called Tiger and the world will cheer and honor you , glad for your success, never envious."
Now the long receiving line had dwindled; the guests rather attending to the dainty foods and cups of potent nectar. And the orchestra, weren't they splendid tonight?
Then, as a black presence emerged, all went silent. It was Nemesis.... slow moving, her wrinkled face but little seen, swathed in black, the essence of discontent, mayhem her specialty. Titania was called, her iris headband askew, she was no friend to Nemesis, and partly feared her. "My invitation must have gone astray," she said "I have a gift for your Tiger, too," her voice deceptively calm, caressing. There could be no reason for refusing though Titania wished to refuse, but why spoil such a divine party? Thus Nemesis, with care, placed her gift in the cradle. It said simply: "More... Having everything will never be enough." She then waved a wand.. and every guest fell to sleep, to awake (as partied creatures so often do) with recollection of nothing.
Year after year, the attributes so bestowed came true, the man beloved of the world, nothing too good for him, nothing begrudged. He was star-kissed, Fortuna in his pocket.
Until one day in November 2009, it all unravelled, in the testimonies of a stream of women delighted to dally with a legend, he more than they careless of his celebrity and position. The revelations were steamy, sordid, specific... the man who had everything now had universal execration and criticism too... and a whopping $750 million dollar divorce settlement to boot.
As his gilded world imploded, he asked himself as the world asked him: why had he imperiled so much for so little? It was beyond reason, beyond rational reckoning. And as he thought, the stories grew more frequent, more lurid, more damaging.
Then flashed the message of Nemesis: "More," she reminded, the caress still in the voice, "everything will never be enough." And now in darkened room, focused solely on this, he wondered at the trick of fate that had given everything, so ordered and ordained that it could never be adequate, satisfactory or fulfilling.
At that moment, he hears again on the television, a name he has been hearing a lot lately, Rory McIlroy, the commentator extolling his many skills, many outdoing his own. At this moment Rory is advising Tiger to stay out of competitive play, focusing on recovering his health. The sentiments are, perhaps, well intended, but their calm condescension rankles. It was then that he sees something on the floor; it's a aide memoire from Nemesis with this message: "Not invited to Titania's party for Rory. Crash party with usual message. It worked so well with Tiger."
And so it does. The man with everything still has more than most anyone... but he hankers after the most important thing, whose loss will hurt forever: he no longer inspires hope, admiration, even reverence. Even were he to get everything again, these -- as Nemesis conspired -- are truly gone forever.
Richard Penny
Online Success Coach
1-(800)985-0604
Skype ID = richieace
http://earnonlinesuccess.com
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Of Sundays. What we have lost along the way.
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
It is Sunday in Cambridge in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. The forecast is for inclement weather, buckets of rain, wide puddles to jump across, or, if you are of the distracted variety (I'm afraid I often qualify) to splash through unawares. Even with the intermittent rain, Cambridge will be on this day what Cambridge always is: a place of intellectual power, internecine academic battles often on topics of the least significance (hence their abrasiveness); a place, too, where everyone and his brother has either just written a book, is in the middle of writing a book, or is contemplating writing a book that will transform the world as we know it.
It is beautiful... it is exciting... it is lofty and drenched with youth... but there will be absolutely nothing of the traditional American Sunday here... or most anywhere else in America for that matter. That stalwart of our society is dead.... and today I lament its passing and what we have lost thereby. The great American Sunday, sacred to God, family and jackets and ties at an abundant repast, was one of them.
American values, Midwestern setting.
I grew up in Illinois, the most American of states, ultimate home of Abraham Lincoln, the epitome of American values. All states in the Glorious Republic are American, of course; Illinois is the great beating heart of this body politic.
I didn't know, what child does, that I was, in the 'forties and 'fifties living through an inter-related series of cultural transformations which would, after being boiled and scorched in the cauldron of the 'sixties, strip my family and all the other solidly middle class prairie families of too many of the verities they loved and cherished, believing them to be essential for a life of republican simplicities, moral certainties, and the resounding democratic principles on which the nation was formed. Our Sundays reflected these essential elements and sustained them.
I'd now like to share with you the contours of that Sunday, for it was good, decent, hallowed by tradition yet as fresh as the quips that flew around the highly polished dining table smelling of beeswax and elbow grease, the ample midday fare always abundant, never ostentatious.
Sunday began, for my mother at least, Saturday afternoon. It was then she did the work she hoped and was indeed confident would pass the critical scrutiny she knew her maternal peers would exact on her, her degree of proficiency in the crucial business of mothering, what manner of house keeper, wife, and mother she was, whatever observations made to circulate around the town as fast as, if not faster, than a Western Union telegram.
Fathers could afford to opt out of the crucial Saturday evening tasks for the morrow; children knew they would be called, and often more than once, to "try this on... you can't wear that... polish those shoes at once and put them in a bag in the car " to keep them pristine for the absolutely certain community review and commentary. My mother's standing amidst other mothers and in the town generally depended on what she did and how she did it. And no one, but no one, was more adept at making every fine distinction and conclusion than the matrons of the town. Sure of themselves... their opinions were resounding, incontrovertible, and could never be challenged, waived, or overruled.
My mother, born and bred in Illinois, the stock of immigrants and pioneers, knew all this, none better. That's why she was busily at work, including doing things even the most lynx-eyed matron could not see... examining linings... ensuring the car was clean inside (outside being my father's province).... examining, re-examining, now dubious, now, Mamie Eisenhower-like, concluding with a white glove review and then to her arrangements and personal presentation. No detail, not a single one, was ever overlooked; each according to the standards of her peers, just so.
"God shed his grace on thee."
I am a WASP, a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, my lineage boasting Scots, Germans, and waves of Englishmen. These days it is rather fashionable amidst the ill-informed and worse advised cognoscenti to pooh-pooh and even deride these nation-founding people as limited, prejudiced, arrogant, self-aggrandizing, and worse. If such things were said, even softly, about America's other ethnic varieties, there would be mass outrage against such bigotry and discrimination. But such things are said of us with impunity, on the same principle as a "cat may look at a king." My ethnic fellow-travelers sail on disregarding such remarks and distortions. I wish it to be understood that they are as unacceptable as any words of prejudice and bigotry.
The churches of my prairie town were of the usual variety; each had its own constituency and place in the social hierarchy. The Roman Catholics built schools and basilicas on extravagant Roman models. They were, so my grandmother would whisper, full of immigrants from Eastern Europe (the lesser half) and deluded by the incense and fripperies of Pius XII, a Protestant bug-a-bear. Just saying his name could produce a noticeable frisson.
The Protestant churches were headed, such was the residual pull of the nation we had freed ourselves from, by the Episcopal Church. Then a tie between what was still called the Congregational Church and the Methodist Church. Lesser, suspect denominations like Baptists were never discussed at all; a disapproving silence was sufficient. As for religions which sent zealots door-to-door, that was all they ever saw - the door.
My grandparents sternly approved of religion and its virtues, but rarely went to church themselves. In fact, off hand, I cannot remember seeing my grandfather at any other religious ceremony but the marriages of his 4 children and blessed relations. My parents, however, were different; for both, religion was important and as a result theological discussions, publications, arguments, visiting missionaries were commonplace. It was thought only seemly that I should, year after year, win a prize for memorizing the most Bible verses; something which has stood me in good stead to this day, when a Biblical quotation is apt.
My parents were sometimes parishioners in the Methodist Church, sometimes in the Congregational. My first memory of the latter is a stack of folding chairs suitable for the frequent church socials, all stamped "Congo." I supposed, being geographically inclined, that meant Belgian Congo, an exotic destination of my imagination. In due course I came to be disappointed, learning it was merely an abbreviation for the church itself. Still, since many of my thousand best friends went to the "Congo," I liked going there the best. It was simply another school, filled with familiar faces.
Arrival at church, "Congo" most of all, was an event. My parents and I pretty much knew everyone because we were related, friends, school mates, neighborhood buddies. This was the importance of Sunday, for here God, family, country all came together, scenic, vital, reassuring, important. It was the heart of the heart of America. We needed more of this in our challenged land. Instead, we have far less.
Richard Penny
Online Success Coach
1-(800)985-0604
Skype ID = richieace
http://earnonlinesuccess.com
New Store : http://shelbysstore.com/
Blog: http://simple-earnings123.blogspot.com/
Warrior Blog : http://www.warriorforum.com/blogs/richshelby07/
It is Sunday in Cambridge in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. The forecast is for inclement weather, buckets of rain, wide puddles to jump across, or, if you are of the distracted variety (I'm afraid I often qualify) to splash through unawares. Even with the intermittent rain, Cambridge will be on this day what Cambridge always is: a place of intellectual power, internecine academic battles often on topics of the least significance (hence their abrasiveness); a place, too, where everyone and his brother has either just written a book, is in the middle of writing a book, or is contemplating writing a book that will transform the world as we know it.
It is beautiful... it is exciting... it is lofty and drenched with youth... but there will be absolutely nothing of the traditional American Sunday here... or most anywhere else in America for that matter. That stalwart of our society is dead.... and today I lament its passing and what we have lost thereby. The great American Sunday, sacred to God, family and jackets and ties at an abundant repast, was one of them.
American values, Midwestern setting.
I grew up in Illinois, the most American of states, ultimate home of Abraham Lincoln, the epitome of American values. All states in the Glorious Republic are American, of course; Illinois is the great beating heart of this body politic.
I didn't know, what child does, that I was, in the 'forties and 'fifties living through an inter-related series of cultural transformations which would, after being boiled and scorched in the cauldron of the 'sixties, strip my family and all the other solidly middle class prairie families of too many of the verities they loved and cherished, believing them to be essential for a life of republican simplicities, moral certainties, and the resounding democratic principles on which the nation was formed. Our Sundays reflected these essential elements and sustained them.
I'd now like to share with you the contours of that Sunday, for it was good, decent, hallowed by tradition yet as fresh as the quips that flew around the highly polished dining table smelling of beeswax and elbow grease, the ample midday fare always abundant, never ostentatious.
Sunday began, for my mother at least, Saturday afternoon. It was then she did the work she hoped and was indeed confident would pass the critical scrutiny she knew her maternal peers would exact on her, her degree of proficiency in the crucial business of mothering, what manner of house keeper, wife, and mother she was, whatever observations made to circulate around the town as fast as, if not faster, than a Western Union telegram.
Fathers could afford to opt out of the crucial Saturday evening tasks for the morrow; children knew they would be called, and often more than once, to "try this on... you can't wear that... polish those shoes at once and put them in a bag in the car " to keep them pristine for the absolutely certain community review and commentary. My mother's standing amidst other mothers and in the town generally depended on what she did and how she did it. And no one, but no one, was more adept at making every fine distinction and conclusion than the matrons of the town. Sure of themselves... their opinions were resounding, incontrovertible, and could never be challenged, waived, or overruled.
My mother, born and bred in Illinois, the stock of immigrants and pioneers, knew all this, none better. That's why she was busily at work, including doing things even the most lynx-eyed matron could not see... examining linings... ensuring the car was clean inside (outside being my father's province).... examining, re-examining, now dubious, now, Mamie Eisenhower-like, concluding with a white glove review and then to her arrangements and personal presentation. No detail, not a single one, was ever overlooked; each according to the standards of her peers, just so.
"God shed his grace on thee."
I am a WASP, a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, my lineage boasting Scots, Germans, and waves of Englishmen. These days it is rather fashionable amidst the ill-informed and worse advised cognoscenti to pooh-pooh and even deride these nation-founding people as limited, prejudiced, arrogant, self-aggrandizing, and worse. If such things were said, even softly, about America's other ethnic varieties, there would be mass outrage against such bigotry and discrimination. But such things are said of us with impunity, on the same principle as a "cat may look at a king." My ethnic fellow-travelers sail on disregarding such remarks and distortions. I wish it to be understood that they are as unacceptable as any words of prejudice and bigotry.
The churches of my prairie town were of the usual variety; each had its own constituency and place in the social hierarchy. The Roman Catholics built schools and basilicas on extravagant Roman models. They were, so my grandmother would whisper, full of immigrants from Eastern Europe (the lesser half) and deluded by the incense and fripperies of Pius XII, a Protestant bug-a-bear. Just saying his name could produce a noticeable frisson.
The Protestant churches were headed, such was the residual pull of the nation we had freed ourselves from, by the Episcopal Church. Then a tie between what was still called the Congregational Church and the Methodist Church. Lesser, suspect denominations like Baptists were never discussed at all; a disapproving silence was sufficient. As for religions which sent zealots door-to-door, that was all they ever saw - the door.
My grandparents sternly approved of religion and its virtues, but rarely went to church themselves. In fact, off hand, I cannot remember seeing my grandfather at any other religious ceremony but the marriages of his 4 children and blessed relations. My parents, however, were different; for both, religion was important and as a result theological discussions, publications, arguments, visiting missionaries were commonplace. It was thought only seemly that I should, year after year, win a prize for memorizing the most Bible verses; something which has stood me in good stead to this day, when a Biblical quotation is apt.
My parents were sometimes parishioners in the Methodist Church, sometimes in the Congregational. My first memory of the latter is a stack of folding chairs suitable for the frequent church socials, all stamped "Congo." I supposed, being geographically inclined, that meant Belgian Congo, an exotic destination of my imagination. In due course I came to be disappointed, learning it was merely an abbreviation for the church itself. Still, since many of my thousand best friends went to the "Congo," I liked going there the best. It was simply another school, filled with familiar faces.
Arrival at church, "Congo" most of all, was an event. My parents and I pretty much knew everyone because we were related, friends, school mates, neighborhood buddies. This was the importance of Sunday, for here God, family, country all came together, scenic, vital, reassuring, important. It was the heart of the heart of America. We needed more of this in our challenged land. Instead, we have far less.
Richard Penny
Online Success Coach
1-(800)985-0604
Skype ID = richieace
http://earnonlinesuccess.com
New Store : http://shelbysstore.com/
Blog: http://simple-earnings123.blogspot.com/
Warrior Blog : http://www.warriorforum.com/blogs/richshelby07/
'Little buddy, gonna shut you down...' A blue streak on the open road, a boy, his dream.... and The Wife.
Now Alt remembered The Wife and made this bow in her direction. "I have to clear it with the old ball and chain," he said, feeling stupid, belittled, diminished at saying so. But the man who held the keys to Alt's desire casually said "you should have brought her; we could have settled it now."
But Alt couldn't explain (though the collector knew) that bringing her was impossible, like bringing her to the boudoir of a more favored lover. Impossible.
But the acid in the response, the condescension, aroused Alt... and so they went toe to toe, the discarding lover, the acquiring lover, to arrange the terms of transfer, soon acceptable to both. It had been done by gentlemen, now friends.
There was now only one obstacle left, the biggest, the wife. He mulled over his options... arranging with the seller to make delivery in three days. Alt needed some time...
And on the third day, Alt arranged with the cooperative seller to meet him a block away from his house, there to take possession; the seller to exit in a car driven by his son.
Now, not as suitor testing a vehicle, but as owner of what he always wanted, Alt got behind the wheel and drove to his home.... there to surprise the old ball and chain.
He didn't need to be told her Irish was up. He knew. She was about to say Something Disagreeable... but Alt knew his business.
He ushered her into the front seat (no prop du jour) and told her,as if in a Confessional, about his dream, that he could put the girl of his dreams in the car of his dreams. It was schmaltz... overdone... but there was something in his eyes that made the girl melt.
And there was something in his hand, serious bling in a magnificent box, to seal the deal.
"C'mon and turn it on, wind it up, blow it out, GTO."
Richard Penny
Online Success Coach
1-(800)985-0604
Skype ID = richieace
http://earnonlinesuccess.com
New Store : http://shelbysstore.com/
Blog: http://simple-earnings123.blogspot.com/
Warrior Blog : http://www.warriorforum.com/blogs/richshelby07/
But Alt couldn't explain (though the collector knew) that bringing her was impossible, like bringing her to the boudoir of a more favored lover. Impossible.
But the acid in the response, the condescension, aroused Alt... and so they went toe to toe, the discarding lover, the acquiring lover, to arrange the terms of transfer, soon acceptable to both. It had been done by gentlemen, now friends.
There was now only one obstacle left, the biggest, the wife. He mulled over his options... arranging with the seller to make delivery in three days. Alt needed some time...
And on the third day, Alt arranged with the cooperative seller to meet him a block away from his house, there to take possession; the seller to exit in a car driven by his son.
Now, not as suitor testing a vehicle, but as owner of what he always wanted, Alt got behind the wheel and drove to his home.... there to surprise the old ball and chain.
He didn't need to be told her Irish was up. He knew. She was about to say Something Disagreeable... but Alt knew his business.
He ushered her into the front seat (no prop du jour) and told her,as if in a Confessional, about his dream, that he could put the girl of his dreams in the car of his dreams. It was schmaltz... overdone... but there was something in his eyes that made the girl melt.
And there was something in his hand, serious bling in a magnificent box, to seal the deal.
"C'mon and turn it on, wind it up, blow it out, GTO."
Richard Penny
Online Success Coach
1-(800)985-0604
Skype ID = richieace
http://earnonlinesuccess.com
New Store : http://shelbysstore.com/
Blog: http://simple-earnings123.blogspot.com/
Warrior Blog : http://www.warriorforum.com/blogs/richshelby07/
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Blogging is booming. Look who's blogging... and why.
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
I feel lucky to be alive and on the cutting edge of what is fast becoming The Age of Blogging... and you should feel the same way.
And if, by some chance, you don't know what a blog is and how it works for your benefit, you are lucky again; I'm going to reveal the true importance of blogs and some key observations on how to derive maximum benefit from them.
Why blogging is sweeping the 'net and the globe.
Consider this.
The history of machine publishing begins in 1454 with the preparation of what became known as the Gutenberg Bible. It took over a year before finished copies were available. This was thought to be -- and was -- a great advance; hitherto books had to be copied by hand, a process that resulted in many errors, of omission and commission.
Printing the Gutenburg Bible was a laborious process; as a result today just 21 copies are known.
Over the centuries publishing developed.
Books were easier to print... there were many more publishers to print them (thereby increasing the number of opinions and points of view available).... and in due course publishing advanced to where books could be universally distributed and available.
But all this, important as it was, was as nothing compared to the most signal advance since Gutenburg himself.
This is the blog.
A blog is the publishing marvel which enables any person anywhere to post and distribute any message they want any time they want. It expunges the middle man, called the publisher, from the publishing equation and enables the new publishers -- you! -- to set their own agenda and make sure that their message is written just so... and distributed worldwide within minutes.
The implications of this development are staggering. Until just the other day (in historical terms), to get your message out to the world, you either had to persuade a publisher or his designated representative (an editor) to publish your article... or you had to establish your own publication with all the expense and uncertainty that entailed.
These days the process is radically different.
Subscribe to a blogging service. Write your message. Update your message as necessary and desirable, even daily.
And, always and forever, keep building your subscriber lists so that more and more people see what you have written.
No longer must writers cringe like Uriah Heap before publishers; you, not they, control your content and can shape and refine it to the satisfaction of a single individual -- you! This has never happened before in the history of mankind and is an event of the highest significance for our species as a whole and the crucial availability and distribution of information.
So, who's blogging?
Powerful institutions are not always known for their ability to move quickly, understanding change and working at once to use such change to their advantage. But the advent of the blog has caused many to leap into this brave new world. One of many examples is Cardinal Sean P. O'Malley, Archbishop of Boston, Massachusetts, a prince of the Church, beloved of the Pontiff.
O'Malley has become one of his Church's "go to" guys in the pedophile priest scandal and its related sexual issues. Like other Church leaders, I suspect O'Malley has been grievously unhappy about the constant drumbeat of terrible press his beloved church has attracted. You can imagine his eminence's eyes popping as he learned about the blog and grasped its implications. He probably jigged about his office...
O'Malley no longer needs to submit to the impertinent, probing questions of pesky reporters and their insistent editors. Instead, he can shape and nuance his message just the way he wants it, to the very last comma. This is an unadulterated benefit for O'Malley... though not necessarily for truth since those pesky reporters authority figures do not like... are the means of digging, digging and digging some more; now they would be, to a significant degree, cut out of the process. The O'Malley's of the world can breathe easier.
Recently (June, 2011), O'Malley used his blog to deal with a nasty issue that had parishioners of every hue very angry indeed. A liberal priest (no, not a tautology) had announced a "liturgy to commemorate Boston Pride 2011," an annual celebration of the city's gay, lesbian, and transgendered community. Conservative Catholics were enraged, many of them blogging their anger.
This, then, had the result of haviing the mass "postponed" (church-speak for "it won't happen until hell freezes over, if then"). This, of course, had the predictable result of angering the liberals... and causing their blogs to erupt in a frenzy of vituperation.
What's a poor prince to do?
In years past, his eminence would have been forced by the hostilities of his brethren to go before the media and submit to questioning. That is not a thing princes like to do; in fact they abhor this profoundly irritating and degrading event of lese majeste'.
Now they blog... now no one ever sees them sweat... because they no longer sweat at all!
O'Malley, thanks to his growing proficiency as a frequent blogger, dealt with this more than tempest-in-a-tea-cup when HE wanted, how HE wanted... his blog carefully nuanced to his liking. In due course, working behind the scenes, with the message completely his without having to bother with reporters, the matter was solved.... at least this time.
Not as smart: the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams.
Whereas Cardinal O'Mallley got the point about blogs and their utility, the Archbishop of Canterbury, senior cleric in the Church of England, did not. In the most recent (June, 2011) issue of the "New Statesman" magazine, his grace lashes out at the Conservative - Liberal Democrat coalition, which came to power 13 months ago. Williams was appointed in 2002 by Labor Prime Minister Tony Blair.
Willams, way behind the technology curve, missed a grand opportunity not merely to get his message out to a worldwide audience far larger than the readership of a single magazine, but to grow his list (something no serious blogger can overlook).
He opted for the traditional paper method... and that instantly limited the effectiveness of what he had to say. Had he, instead, set up a blog and posted his message there... his readership would have exploded and he would have added a host of new readers to his blog... where he could have worked early and late to convert them to his often irritating point of view.
His grace will learn, however; he really has no choice. No "leader" of any kind does. For all, for each, it's "blog or atrophy and die." The same applies to you... which is why you must blog today, tomorrow, forever, or create your own irrelevance and obsolescence. a state of affairs you would really not relish.
Richard Penny
Online Success Coach
1-(800)985-0604
Skype ID = richieace
http://earnonlinesuccess.com
I feel lucky to be alive and on the cutting edge of what is fast becoming The Age of Blogging... and you should feel the same way.
And if, by some chance, you don't know what a blog is and how it works for your benefit, you are lucky again; I'm going to reveal the true importance of blogs and some key observations on how to derive maximum benefit from them.
Why blogging is sweeping the 'net and the globe.
Consider this.
The history of machine publishing begins in 1454 with the preparation of what became known as the Gutenberg Bible. It took over a year before finished copies were available. This was thought to be -- and was -- a great advance; hitherto books had to be copied by hand, a process that resulted in many errors, of omission and commission.
Printing the Gutenburg Bible was a laborious process; as a result today just 21 copies are known.
Over the centuries publishing developed.
Books were easier to print... there were many more publishers to print them (thereby increasing the number of opinions and points of view available).... and in due course publishing advanced to where books could be universally distributed and available.
But all this, important as it was, was as nothing compared to the most signal advance since Gutenburg himself.
This is the blog.
A blog is the publishing marvel which enables any person anywhere to post and distribute any message they want any time they want. It expunges the middle man, called the publisher, from the publishing equation and enables the new publishers -- you! -- to set their own agenda and make sure that their message is written just so... and distributed worldwide within minutes.
The implications of this development are staggering. Until just the other day (in historical terms), to get your message out to the world, you either had to persuade a publisher or his designated representative (an editor) to publish your article... or you had to establish your own publication with all the expense and uncertainty that entailed.
These days the process is radically different.
Subscribe to a blogging service. Write your message. Update your message as necessary and desirable, even daily.
And, always and forever, keep building your subscriber lists so that more and more people see what you have written.
No longer must writers cringe like Uriah Heap before publishers; you, not they, control your content and can shape and refine it to the satisfaction of a single individual -- you! This has never happened before in the history of mankind and is an event of the highest significance for our species as a whole and the crucial availability and distribution of information.
So, who's blogging?
Powerful institutions are not always known for their ability to move quickly, understanding change and working at once to use such change to their advantage. But the advent of the blog has caused many to leap into this brave new world. One of many examples is Cardinal Sean P. O'Malley, Archbishop of Boston, Massachusetts, a prince of the Church, beloved of the Pontiff.
O'Malley has become one of his Church's "go to" guys in the pedophile priest scandal and its related sexual issues. Like other Church leaders, I suspect O'Malley has been grievously unhappy about the constant drumbeat of terrible press his beloved church has attracted. You can imagine his eminence's eyes popping as he learned about the blog and grasped its implications. He probably jigged about his office...
O'Malley no longer needs to submit to the impertinent, probing questions of pesky reporters and their insistent editors. Instead, he can shape and nuance his message just the way he wants it, to the very last comma. This is an unadulterated benefit for O'Malley... though not necessarily for truth since those pesky reporters authority figures do not like... are the means of digging, digging and digging some more; now they would be, to a significant degree, cut out of the process. The O'Malley's of the world can breathe easier.
Recently (June, 2011), O'Malley used his blog to deal with a nasty issue that had parishioners of every hue very angry indeed. A liberal priest (no, not a tautology) had announced a "liturgy to commemorate Boston Pride 2011," an annual celebration of the city's gay, lesbian, and transgendered community. Conservative Catholics were enraged, many of them blogging their anger.
This, then, had the result of haviing the mass "postponed" (church-speak for "it won't happen until hell freezes over, if then"). This, of course, had the predictable result of angering the liberals... and causing their blogs to erupt in a frenzy of vituperation.
What's a poor prince to do?
In years past, his eminence would have been forced by the hostilities of his brethren to go before the media and submit to questioning. That is not a thing princes like to do; in fact they abhor this profoundly irritating and degrading event of lese majeste'.
Now they blog... now no one ever sees them sweat... because they no longer sweat at all!
O'Malley, thanks to his growing proficiency as a frequent blogger, dealt with this more than tempest-in-a-tea-cup when HE wanted, how HE wanted... his blog carefully nuanced to his liking. In due course, working behind the scenes, with the message completely his without having to bother with reporters, the matter was solved.... at least this time.
Not as smart: the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams.
Whereas Cardinal O'Mallley got the point about blogs and their utility, the Archbishop of Canterbury, senior cleric in the Church of England, did not. In the most recent (June, 2011) issue of the "New Statesman" magazine, his grace lashes out at the Conservative - Liberal Democrat coalition, which came to power 13 months ago. Williams was appointed in 2002 by Labor Prime Minister Tony Blair.
Willams, way behind the technology curve, missed a grand opportunity not merely to get his message out to a worldwide audience far larger than the readership of a single magazine, but to grow his list (something no serious blogger can overlook).
He opted for the traditional paper method... and that instantly limited the effectiveness of what he had to say. Had he, instead, set up a blog and posted his message there... his readership would have exploded and he would have added a host of new readers to his blog... where he could have worked early and late to convert them to his often irritating point of view.
His grace will learn, however; he really has no choice. No "leader" of any kind does. For all, for each, it's "blog or atrophy and die." The same applies to you... which is why you must blog today, tomorrow, forever, or create your own irrelevance and obsolescence. a state of affairs you would really not relish.
Richard Penny
Online Success Coach
1-(800)985-0604
Skype ID = richieace
http://earnonlinesuccess.com
Sunday, June 19, 2011
'I'm gonna be like you, dad. You know I'm gonna be like you.' U.S. Father's Day, June, 2011.
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's note. To get into the mood of this special Father's Day article, go to any search engine and find "Cat's in the Cradle" sung by Harry Chapin in 1974. Its refrain is haunting, and every boy-turned-father understands the bite in the words, often painfully so...
"A child arrived just the other day", February 16, 1947.
It was my birth day but, as I couldn't possibly have known, it was the end of their honeymoon and that special tea-for-two idyll that comes only once. My parents married February 16,1946; I teased them for years about the importance of that last digit.
Like all babies, I expected, demanded and maneuvered to be the center of their lives. It's what babies do.
But I can imagine now what was going on in the weeks prior to that mad-dash to the hospital that transformed my beautiful young mother from a wife with a constituency of one... into a multi-tasking mother.
I was the first born child, first child, first son, first grandson on both sides; every one of these designations pushed omniscient women forward and my father back. The process, you see, in those post-War years was not made for fathers, no matter how caring. And, upon arrival, I monopolized my mother. I've told you, it's what babies do... and even then I was masterful at my craft.
There must have been times, though no one to this day has ever said so, when he missed the bright, laughing eyed girl he'd married. She was the essence of the "fun on a date" 'forties girl who had the gift of joy with lots to spare.
She gave me a clue years later, telling me she didn't like children, didn't mean to have any, and thought they looked like frogs. (Queen Victoria thought so, too). But, she quickly added and always emphasized that all that changed when the nurse handed me over for my first visit, textbook perfect infantile innocence.
I'd "come into the world in the usual way". And I was determined to keep the full and undivided attention of the woman who didn't yet know how her own instincts would conduce to my constant benefit; literally born yesterday I didn't need Dr. Spock to tell me that.
Into this new, unstudied situation my father had to move and move delicately for now words like "shhhhhh, he's sleeping" meant sacrifice, limitations, and even unwonted loneliness. It was a sea-change from the happy "you-for-me-and-me-for-you" days of such recent memory.
"He learned to walk while I was away."
Like most children I don't know what I actually remember or what I have, from pictures and family stories, been taught to remember. But there is hardly a memory either way that is not more her than him. He worked hard, long hours, lucky to have a job in the recession that promptly came with our unqualified war victory. She was the center of my universe. And, like Chapin, my first steps were probably taken when he was being a "good provider". But there is a story that sums up the situation.
One hot, humid Illinois summer day (are there any other?) when I was about three, my mother and I screamed for ice cream. But there was not a dollar to be had... except for a dollar bill my father had circulated amongst his Navy buddies, to be autographed by each. Such a token was not to be surrendered lightly, but it was surrendered nonetheless, for the delicacy of an instant and later, poignant regrets. He must have loved us very much to do such a thing... it says volumes about the man.
"My son turned ten just the other day. He said, "Thanks for the ball, dad, come on let's play."
In the suburbs of Chicago in the early Eisenhower years, you needed to be good at handling the balls of several sports... or so bright that you could afford to ignore sports because you were destined for greater things. My brother filled the first category; I filled the second. I knew my brother was easier to handle; he fit in, particularly the year he made the state Little League team, and we all trooped down to Freeport to watch him, resplendent in a uniform that said "Moose"; this was lifetime certification that he was a boy's boy...
I was different, always with my nose in a book, the one who when asked at age 10 or so what he wanted to be when he grew up, without dropping a beat, said "Harvard graduate; millionaire; writer of many books." II wasn't what prairie parents were accustomed to hearing... What's more, it all came true in due course...
Another celebrated incident took place about this time. My parents and I went to some local swimming hole for a day of the kind of innocent amusements I couldn't wait to escape from. At the end of the day, it was, I think, my mother who said the inevitable line about their guests, "Cute couple. Great relationship." That sort of thing. What did I think? Without missing a beat I said I thought they had problems... and seer-like, foretold splitsvillle. Of course, I was told I was wrong, but just weeks later they separated. My stock soared... and my father pressed me less to fire a gun, build superb back yard igloos, throw a ball, you get the picture. He had to wonder about this creature sui generis.. and what his role as father might mean or entail.
I was not an easy child, although I say it myself, an interesting one. He must have seen I was moving beyond his sphere into uncharted waters. I could hardly wait until it happened and my joy at crossing another day off the calendar, the sooner to commence my Great Journey, must have been palpable, even affronting. I did not want what his life epitomized and I was too green, unknowing how to say this without insult... and uncaring about the effect.
There was, in those years, more coexistence than empathy., not least because he tried hard to get me to understand and adopt verities he saw as fundamental and essential... about which I had quite different ideas. I severely embarrassed him the day I refused to answer the pastor's call for Communion, being unable to subscribe to the tenets. (I have never taken Communion sincen.)
There was, too, his desire that I should understand the farmer's life practised by all my cousins and should, as part, learn how to harvest oats and drive a tractor. The first scratched; the second bored. Neither oats nor tractor have played any role in my development.
"Well, he came from college just the other day..."
My launching pad to the vision I had long been shaping for my life came with a college acceptance letter. ..... and thereafter, too long, communications were as rushed and superficial as Harry Chapin sings.
"I've long since retired and my son's moved away..."
And so it might have stayed, both of us stubborn, obstinate, headstrong -- proud men, unyielding. But, you see, the love that caused a prized war memento to be sacrificed had always been present, waiting for auspicious times. He told me the other day, cast down now and again by the tremors and afflictions of the way we age now, that he was ready to go whenever the good Lord wants him. And neither he nor I fear that... for we have, at last, found each other and gladly so.
"And as I hung up the phone, it occurred to me, He'd grown up just like me. My boy was just like me."
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. He is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Richard Penny http://HomeBusinessPremium.com. Check out Cash Renegade -> http://0richie7.cashren.hop.clickbank.net
Made $3000.00 First week and im a complete Newbie
http://www.automatedmoney4you.com/members/richshelby07/home.php
Author's note. To get into the mood of this special Father's Day article, go to any search engine and find "Cat's in the Cradle" sung by Harry Chapin in 1974. Its refrain is haunting, and every boy-turned-father understands the bite in the words, often painfully so...
"A child arrived just the other day", February 16, 1947.
It was my birth day but, as I couldn't possibly have known, it was the end of their honeymoon and that special tea-for-two idyll that comes only once. My parents married February 16,1946; I teased them for years about the importance of that last digit.
Like all babies, I expected, demanded and maneuvered to be the center of their lives. It's what babies do.
But I can imagine now what was going on in the weeks prior to that mad-dash to the hospital that transformed my beautiful young mother from a wife with a constituency of one... into a multi-tasking mother.
I was the first born child, first child, first son, first grandson on both sides; every one of these designations pushed omniscient women forward and my father back. The process, you see, in those post-War years was not made for fathers, no matter how caring. And, upon arrival, I monopolized my mother. I've told you, it's what babies do... and even then I was masterful at my craft.
There must have been times, though no one to this day has ever said so, when he missed the bright, laughing eyed girl he'd married. She was the essence of the "fun on a date" 'forties girl who had the gift of joy with lots to spare.
She gave me a clue years later, telling me she didn't like children, didn't mean to have any, and thought they looked like frogs. (Queen Victoria thought so, too). But, she quickly added and always emphasized that all that changed when the nurse handed me over for my first visit, textbook perfect infantile innocence.
I'd "come into the world in the usual way". And I was determined to keep the full and undivided attention of the woman who didn't yet know how her own instincts would conduce to my constant benefit; literally born yesterday I didn't need Dr. Spock to tell me that.
Into this new, unstudied situation my father had to move and move delicately for now words like "shhhhhh, he's sleeping" meant sacrifice, limitations, and even unwonted loneliness. It was a sea-change from the happy "you-for-me-and-me-for-you" days of such recent memory.
"He learned to walk while I was away."
Like most children I don't know what I actually remember or what I have, from pictures and family stories, been taught to remember. But there is hardly a memory either way that is not more her than him. He worked hard, long hours, lucky to have a job in the recession that promptly came with our unqualified war victory. She was the center of my universe. And, like Chapin, my first steps were probably taken when he was being a "good provider". But there is a story that sums up the situation.
One hot, humid Illinois summer day (are there any other?) when I was about three, my mother and I screamed for ice cream. But there was not a dollar to be had... except for a dollar bill my father had circulated amongst his Navy buddies, to be autographed by each. Such a token was not to be surrendered lightly, but it was surrendered nonetheless, for the delicacy of an instant and later, poignant regrets. He must have loved us very much to do such a thing... it says volumes about the man.
"My son turned ten just the other day. He said, "Thanks for the ball, dad, come on let's play."
In the suburbs of Chicago in the early Eisenhower years, you needed to be good at handling the balls of several sports... or so bright that you could afford to ignore sports because you were destined for greater things. My brother filled the first category; I filled the second. I knew my brother was easier to handle; he fit in, particularly the year he made the state Little League team, and we all trooped down to Freeport to watch him, resplendent in a uniform that said "Moose"; this was lifetime certification that he was a boy's boy...
I was different, always with my nose in a book, the one who when asked at age 10 or so what he wanted to be when he grew up, without dropping a beat, said "Harvard graduate; millionaire; writer of many books." II wasn't what prairie parents were accustomed to hearing... What's more, it all came true in due course...
Another celebrated incident took place about this time. My parents and I went to some local swimming hole for a day of the kind of innocent amusements I couldn't wait to escape from. At the end of the day, it was, I think, my mother who said the inevitable line about their guests, "Cute couple. Great relationship." That sort of thing. What did I think? Without missing a beat I said I thought they had problems... and seer-like, foretold splitsvillle. Of course, I was told I was wrong, but just weeks later they separated. My stock soared... and my father pressed me less to fire a gun, build superb back yard igloos, throw a ball, you get the picture. He had to wonder about this creature sui generis.. and what his role as father might mean or entail.
I was not an easy child, although I say it myself, an interesting one. He must have seen I was moving beyond his sphere into uncharted waters. I could hardly wait until it happened and my joy at crossing another day off the calendar, the sooner to commence my Great Journey, must have been palpable, even affronting. I did not want what his life epitomized and I was too green, unknowing how to say this without insult... and uncaring about the effect.
There was, in those years, more coexistence than empathy., not least because he tried hard to get me to understand and adopt verities he saw as fundamental and essential... about which I had quite different ideas. I severely embarrassed him the day I refused to answer the pastor's call for Communion, being unable to subscribe to the tenets. (I have never taken Communion sincen.)
There was, too, his desire that I should understand the farmer's life practised by all my cousins and should, as part, learn how to harvest oats and drive a tractor. The first scratched; the second bored. Neither oats nor tractor have played any role in my development.
"Well, he came from college just the other day..."
My launching pad to the vision I had long been shaping for my life came with a college acceptance letter. ..... and thereafter, too long, communications were as rushed and superficial as Harry Chapin sings.
"I've long since retired and my son's moved away..."
And so it might have stayed, both of us stubborn, obstinate, headstrong -- proud men, unyielding. But, you see, the love that caused a prized war memento to be sacrificed had always been present, waiting for auspicious times. He told me the other day, cast down now and again by the tremors and afflictions of the way we age now, that he was ready to go whenever the good Lord wants him. And neither he nor I fear that... for we have, at last, found each other and gladly so.
"And as I hung up the phone, it occurred to me, He'd grown up just like me. My boy was just like me."
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. He is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Richard Penny http://HomeBusinessPremium.com. Check out Cash Renegade -> http://0richie7.cashren.hop.clickbank.net
Made $3000.00 First week and im a complete Newbie
http://www.automatedmoney4you.com/members/richshelby07/home.php
How to write the kind of blog copy that turns readers into fans who cannot live without you!
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
This is an article for people who want to be smart bloggers! Bloggers who change lives! Bloggers who get people to sit up, take notice and say, "Wow! That guy is right! That guy is on the money!" Bloggers who don't just want readers...
... but fans who sit next to their computers waiting for your next blog post.
In this article I am going to show you the secret to becoming a producer of "must read" copy.... and becoming, in the process, a person who goes way beyond having readers... instead creating fans.
400,000+ words in the last year.
This article celebrates achieving a "personal best" goal for me... a goal I challenged myself to make one year ago.... and which I have, with the publication of this article, now achieved. I wanted to see if I could write at least 400,000 words of copy in 365 days; not just drab, undistinguished, pedestrian copy either, but copy that's timely! Intellectually distinguished! Lyric! Insightful! Yes, the kind of copy that stops people worldwide in their tracks and forces them to sit up! Take notice! And pay attention... because they just couldn't bear to miss a single word!
And I am pleased to tell you that this is precisely what has happened! My blog, where you can find all my articles, now generates millions of hits and a stream of gratifying comments from people worldwide who feed my ego and make my day.
This is me!
And it can be you!
1) Tell stories.
The greatest communicators on earth -- Jesus! Abraham Lincoln! Mark Twain! were story tellers. They used the power of stories to make things easy for their audience to understand... and to drive home their points, no matter how difficult and complicated.
You must become a story teller, too, not just a finder and disseminator of facts. Facts alone don't move people. Mere facts don't capture minds. Facts, no matter how important, don't touch hearts. But stories do... they always do... and that is why your blog posts must rely on stories that capture people and leave them begging for more...
2) Today's successful article starts with yesterday's motivating "heads up".
If you want readers today, titillate them yesterday. You see, the power of yesterday is to entice readers today.
People will only be moved to the extent that you move them. If you want readers tomorrow... the crucial process of exciting them starts today.
"Tomorrow! A story of love! Power! Treachery and despair! A story that will move you! Outrage you! And, if there's a tear in you, cause it to fall! All coming tomorrow to a computer near you!"
This'll get 'em!
3) Write short sentences where every word counts.
Thanks to the marvelous technical tools writers have nowadays, most don't write; they "typewrite", in the withering phrase of Truman Capote. He was masterful, and he knew that writers could kill their points, their stories and their readers by pouring out too many words and sentences straining to digest them.
Don't make this mistake.
Look at the sentence length in this article... short, punchy, easy to take in at a glance...
Your sentences should move accordingly.
Moreover, prune your articles mercilessly. A sentence that exceeds just a few words is a sentence smothering itself. And dead sentences will never move live people.
4) Short paragraphs give a story the air and space they need.
Today's readers are restless readers. They are overwhelmed with information... but have the same number of hours in a day as Caesar. In short, they are looking for a reason to put your copy down... never to be picked up again.
Short paragraphs and airy lay-out forestall this tragedy.
Look at this article... short, often real short, paragraphs with pages that look inviting, easy, not prolix and hard.
Contemporary readers demand ease... and if you don't give it to them, they walk... fast.
5) Make your people real, not caricatures.
The reason volumes of commentary don't work is because its authors create card board characters. They then laud the characters they like and demolish the ones they don't. Not only is this unfair... but it makes for lousy copy.
What distinguishes the best commentary is the way you handle people whose opinions you may not only dislike, but actually abhor. Do you give them the courtesy of presenting their point of view fairly, objectively, honestly... or do you want just a cheap shot that not only misrepresents the people you're writing about... but proves you're a writer not worth reading?
This point is worth elucidating because it's one too many commentators miss.
One reason writers like writing commentary is because it turns them from word peddlers into gods, omniscient, all-powerful, always right, never wrong, with the ability to access every human heart and brain at will.
Such people of course become insufferable in short order.
Your job as a commentator is to be sure you have done everything possible to ensure that all the people you write about are presented without prejudice, honestly, completely, with sincerity and with care.
This does not mean you necessarily agree with their positions or actions. It means you intend to give your readers the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth... even if you strenuously disagree.
Only when you have done this can you in good conscience and to best effect proceed to your opinion. Because only if you have allowed even your most pernicious characters their say... can your say be meaningful, insightful, and worth reading.
Use these recommendations.
The best commentators can have enormous influence... which is why you must use your commentating position wisely, not least by producing copy that moves your readers, with every word you write.
These suggestions will help.
By using them you will produce copy -- starting today -- that changes your readers' outlook, opinion, point of view, one apt word at a time. When you do this not only will you have a legion of readers, followers and fans.... but you'll deserve them!
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. He is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Richard Penny http://HomeBusinessPremium.com. Check out Cash Renegade -> http://0richie7.cashren.hop.clickbank.net
Made $3000.00 First week and im a complete Newbie
http://www.automatedmoney4you.com/members/richshelby07/home.php
This is an article for people who want to be smart bloggers! Bloggers who change lives! Bloggers who get people to sit up, take notice and say, "Wow! That guy is right! That guy is on the money!" Bloggers who don't just want readers...
... but fans who sit next to their computers waiting for your next blog post.
In this article I am going to show you the secret to becoming a producer of "must read" copy.... and becoming, in the process, a person who goes way beyond having readers... instead creating fans.
400,000+ words in the last year.
This article celebrates achieving a "personal best" goal for me... a goal I challenged myself to make one year ago.... and which I have, with the publication of this article, now achieved. I wanted to see if I could write at least 400,000 words of copy in 365 days; not just drab, undistinguished, pedestrian copy either, but copy that's timely! Intellectually distinguished! Lyric! Insightful! Yes, the kind of copy that stops people worldwide in their tracks and forces them to sit up! Take notice! And pay attention... because they just couldn't bear to miss a single word!
And I am pleased to tell you that this is precisely what has happened! My blog, where you can find all my articles, now generates millions of hits and a stream of gratifying comments from people worldwide who feed my ego and make my day.
This is me!
And it can be you!
1) Tell stories.
The greatest communicators on earth -- Jesus! Abraham Lincoln! Mark Twain! were story tellers. They used the power of stories to make things easy for their audience to understand... and to drive home their points, no matter how difficult and complicated.
You must become a story teller, too, not just a finder and disseminator of facts. Facts alone don't move people. Mere facts don't capture minds. Facts, no matter how important, don't touch hearts. But stories do... they always do... and that is why your blog posts must rely on stories that capture people and leave them begging for more...
2) Today's successful article starts with yesterday's motivating "heads up".
If you want readers today, titillate them yesterday. You see, the power of yesterday is to entice readers today.
People will only be moved to the extent that you move them. If you want readers tomorrow... the crucial process of exciting them starts today.
"Tomorrow! A story of love! Power! Treachery and despair! A story that will move you! Outrage you! And, if there's a tear in you, cause it to fall! All coming tomorrow to a computer near you!"
This'll get 'em!
3) Write short sentences where every word counts.
Thanks to the marvelous technical tools writers have nowadays, most don't write; they "typewrite", in the withering phrase of Truman Capote. He was masterful, and he knew that writers could kill their points, their stories and their readers by pouring out too many words and sentences straining to digest them.
Don't make this mistake.
Look at the sentence length in this article... short, punchy, easy to take in at a glance...
Your sentences should move accordingly.
Moreover, prune your articles mercilessly. A sentence that exceeds just a few words is a sentence smothering itself. And dead sentences will never move live people.
4) Short paragraphs give a story the air and space they need.
Today's readers are restless readers. They are overwhelmed with information... but have the same number of hours in a day as Caesar. In short, they are looking for a reason to put your copy down... never to be picked up again.
Short paragraphs and airy lay-out forestall this tragedy.
Look at this article... short, often real short, paragraphs with pages that look inviting, easy, not prolix and hard.
Contemporary readers demand ease... and if you don't give it to them, they walk... fast.
5) Make your people real, not caricatures.
The reason volumes of commentary don't work is because its authors create card board characters. They then laud the characters they like and demolish the ones they don't. Not only is this unfair... but it makes for lousy copy.
What distinguishes the best commentary is the way you handle people whose opinions you may not only dislike, but actually abhor. Do you give them the courtesy of presenting their point of view fairly, objectively, honestly... or do you want just a cheap shot that not only misrepresents the people you're writing about... but proves you're a writer not worth reading?
This point is worth elucidating because it's one too many commentators miss.
One reason writers like writing commentary is because it turns them from word peddlers into gods, omniscient, all-powerful, always right, never wrong, with the ability to access every human heart and brain at will.
Such people of course become insufferable in short order.
Your job as a commentator is to be sure you have done everything possible to ensure that all the people you write about are presented without prejudice, honestly, completely, with sincerity and with care.
This does not mean you necessarily agree with their positions or actions. It means you intend to give your readers the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth... even if you strenuously disagree.
Only when you have done this can you in good conscience and to best effect proceed to your opinion. Because only if you have allowed even your most pernicious characters their say... can your say be meaningful, insightful, and worth reading.
Use these recommendations.
The best commentators can have enormous influence... which is why you must use your commentating position wisely, not least by producing copy that moves your readers, with every word you write.
These suggestions will help.
By using them you will produce copy -- starting today -- that changes your readers' outlook, opinion, point of view, one apt word at a time. When you do this not only will you have a legion of readers, followers and fans.... but you'll deserve them!
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. He is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Richard Penny http://HomeBusinessPremium.com. Check out Cash Renegade -> http://0richie7.cashren.hop.clickbank.net
Made $3000.00 First week and im a complete Newbie
http://www.automatedmoney4you.com/members/richshelby07/home.php
Saturday, June 18, 2011
'... Well, now that we have seen each other,' said the Unicorn, 'If you believe in me, I'll believe in you.'
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. In 1967 the Irish Rovers, a Canadian group audaciously featuring good natured boys from both the Orange and the Green, had a huge international hit. It was called "The Unicorn", and it caught just the right whimsical note for its subject... and for this article. Go to any search engine and find it now. Then allow the music to do its insidious task... and in a minute, no matter how onerous your cares today, you'll be smiling. What's more that smile will grow to a grin when you learn that the unicorn lives...
The Arabian oryx.
Every fable, every legend, every great enduring story, no matter how fabulous or unlikely, has its roots in something real, tangible, actual. And the story of the unicorn, one of the longest running fables on this planet, is no exception. Once upon a time someone, though we shall probably never know exactly who, saw a thing... and imagined more; the tale growing in the telling, embroidered by all, a pleasure to hear, its enhancements eagerly awaited.
In this case, the thing seen was called the Arabian oryx, whose distinctive horns are widely believed to have given rise to the unicorn legend. I have good news about these benign creatures, so much a part of our imagination: they are now classified as "vulnerable", not "extinct". Accordingly we should give a cheer, for these days, as one species after another faces oblivion, we must take our good news where we can find it. And this is good news, indeed... for it means the oryx has been given the gift of time...
Extinct in the wild in the 1970s.
The last oryx in the wild was shot to death in the early 1970s... and that, it was thought, was that. But humans, the main predator of the oryx (wolves being a distant second) having wiped out the breed.... then, paradoxically, started strenuous efforts to revive the breed, using stock from zoos, animal parks and private collections. Its enduring legend as the unicorn made these people anxious to help. The objective was to breed enough so they could be successfully reintroduced to their habitat on the Arabian peninsula.
The oryx, glad for the help, responded as hoped to this special effort...and in due course began to return to its harsh wild conditions. It returned to Oman first, later to the deserts of Saudi Arabia.. . Israel, the United Arab Emirates... then, most recently, Jordan. About 1000 of these creatures now exist... and are doing what they need to do to survive.... and thrive, living in reality, not just in stories, no matter how enthralling.
But the stories of the oryx ARE enthralling... because people have an enduring need for the wonder of fables. And if you squint your eyes just so... you will not see a beast, no matter how attractive... you will see a fabulous one-horned creature with the power to engage our mind and lighten our load.
Al Maha
The Arabian oryx (also called the white oryx) is known locally as Al Maha and features widely in Arabic poetry and painting. It can smell water from miles away, has wide hooves that let it easily navigate shifting sand, and lives in small herds of eight to 10 animals.
Have you ever been in a desert at midday, where the heat shimmers and the mind plays tricks? In such a place, at such a time, it is easy to see what you have never known before. No mirage... but an actuality that belongs to you alone. In such a moment the fabulous unicorn presents itself for your inspection, bows its head the better to show its horn... then recedes into the shimmer... going, going, gone... now your quest for life. So the unicorn enchants and makes believers of us all... The legend begins.
Perhaps the earliest mention of the unicorn is by the famed Greek historian Herodotus in the third century BC. He called it a "horned ass". A century later, spurred by the travels into Persia of the Greek historian and physician Ctesias, tales of the unicorn were widespread, losing nothing in the telling.
Ctesias, who admits he never saw one, quizzed local merchants and other travelers for whatever information they had. These folks, Persians and not above hoodwinking a Greek. fed Ctesias the details he longed for. Bit by bit he got a complete impression of the "wild ass of India". It was the size of a horse, with a white body, a red head, bluish eyes, and a straight horn on its forehead, a cubit long.
It was the horn, all agreed, that riveted their attention... and while no Persiian seemed to know all its attributes... each one added another, turning the unicorn into a beast of awe, wonder, and power.
The horn, the all important horn, was magical, possessing key ingredients for mediaeval medicaments. It offered protection against poisons (no small thing in a world where a pinch of this, a smidgeon of that, could alter a royal succession or remove a pesky husband, or wife). Worn as jewelry, it protected the wearer from evil.
Burgeoning demand, miniscule supply.
There could never be enough of such potency... and, of course, charlatans, all believability, seduced the gullible and credulous, offering everything, delivering nothing. Other charlatans, all sanctimony and solemnity, arose with the means, so they insisted, of determining whether the horn was real... or not.
Place a scorpion under a dish with a piece of horn. If the scorpion dies in a matter of hours, the horn is real.
Feed arsenic to pigeons, followed by a dose of unicorn horn. If the pigeons live, the horn is genuine.
Draw a ring on the floor with the horn. If the horn is real, a spider will not be able to cross the ring.
Place the horn in cold water. If the water bubbles but remains cold, the horn came from a true and real unicorn.
You get the idea.
Capturing unicorns.
Its potency known... ways of certifying its authenticity at hand... the unceasing problem was how to find unicorns... and how to capture them. Here a magnificent series of tapestries made in Belgium in 1500 hold clues. Bought by John D. Rockefeller, the richest man on earth, in 1922, they are now on display at the Cloisters museum in New York.
There are 7 tapestries in this series which portrays, in fine detail and consummate craftsmanship, a unicorn hunt. The men, nobles all, are chasing the unicorn as if it were standard quarry. And, of course, the unicorn easily eludes them, laughing the while.
In the fifth tapestry, however, the unicorn is captured... by the power of a young maid, who represents the Virgin Mary. She needs do nothing but sit in complete tranquility. The unicorn, perhaps knowledgeable of its fate, advances unforced, puts its head in the virgin's lap...and so becomes, in the seventh and most celebrated tapestry, a prisoner, chained to a tree within a round wooden fence; its destiny sealed.
In the words of Lewis Carroll (Through the Looking Glass. 1871) "... Well, now, that we have seen each other," said the Unicorn, "if you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you." I feel sure she did... and that the unicorn abides, at peace, his head forever in her lap. May the renewing oryx fare as well.
http://www.automatedmoney4you.com/members/richshelby07/home.php
Yours In Success,
Richard Penny
Webmaster
http://HomeBusinessPremium.com
Author's program note. In 1967 the Irish Rovers, a Canadian group audaciously featuring good natured boys from both the Orange and the Green, had a huge international hit. It was called "The Unicorn", and it caught just the right whimsical note for its subject... and for this article. Go to any search engine and find it now. Then allow the music to do its insidious task... and in a minute, no matter how onerous your cares today, you'll be smiling. What's more that smile will grow to a grin when you learn that the unicorn lives...
The Arabian oryx.
Every fable, every legend, every great enduring story, no matter how fabulous or unlikely, has its roots in something real, tangible, actual. And the story of the unicorn, one of the longest running fables on this planet, is no exception. Once upon a time someone, though we shall probably never know exactly who, saw a thing... and imagined more; the tale growing in the telling, embroidered by all, a pleasure to hear, its enhancements eagerly awaited.
In this case, the thing seen was called the Arabian oryx, whose distinctive horns are widely believed to have given rise to the unicorn legend. I have good news about these benign creatures, so much a part of our imagination: they are now classified as "vulnerable", not "extinct". Accordingly we should give a cheer, for these days, as one species after another faces oblivion, we must take our good news where we can find it. And this is good news, indeed... for it means the oryx has been given the gift of time...
Extinct in the wild in the 1970s.
The last oryx in the wild was shot to death in the early 1970s... and that, it was thought, was that. But humans, the main predator of the oryx (wolves being a distant second) having wiped out the breed.... then, paradoxically, started strenuous efforts to revive the breed, using stock from zoos, animal parks and private collections. Its enduring legend as the unicorn made these people anxious to help. The objective was to breed enough so they could be successfully reintroduced to their habitat on the Arabian peninsula.
The oryx, glad for the help, responded as hoped to this special effort...and in due course began to return to its harsh wild conditions. It returned to Oman first, later to the deserts of Saudi Arabia.. . Israel, the United Arab Emirates... then, most recently, Jordan. About 1000 of these creatures now exist... and are doing what they need to do to survive.... and thrive, living in reality, not just in stories, no matter how enthralling.
But the stories of the oryx ARE enthralling... because people have an enduring need for the wonder of fables. And if you squint your eyes just so... you will not see a beast, no matter how attractive... you will see a fabulous one-horned creature with the power to engage our mind and lighten our load.
Al Maha
The Arabian oryx (also called the white oryx) is known locally as Al Maha and features widely in Arabic poetry and painting. It can smell water from miles away, has wide hooves that let it easily navigate shifting sand, and lives in small herds of eight to 10 animals.
Have you ever been in a desert at midday, where the heat shimmers and the mind plays tricks? In such a place, at such a time, it is easy to see what you have never known before. No mirage... but an actuality that belongs to you alone. In such a moment the fabulous unicorn presents itself for your inspection, bows its head the better to show its horn... then recedes into the shimmer... going, going, gone... now your quest for life. So the unicorn enchants and makes believers of us all... The legend begins.
Perhaps the earliest mention of the unicorn is by the famed Greek historian Herodotus in the third century BC. He called it a "horned ass". A century later, spurred by the travels into Persia of the Greek historian and physician Ctesias, tales of the unicorn were widespread, losing nothing in the telling.
Ctesias, who admits he never saw one, quizzed local merchants and other travelers for whatever information they had. These folks, Persians and not above hoodwinking a Greek. fed Ctesias the details he longed for. Bit by bit he got a complete impression of the "wild ass of India". It was the size of a horse, with a white body, a red head, bluish eyes, and a straight horn on its forehead, a cubit long.
It was the horn, all agreed, that riveted their attention... and while no Persiian seemed to know all its attributes... each one added another, turning the unicorn into a beast of awe, wonder, and power.
The horn, the all important horn, was magical, possessing key ingredients for mediaeval medicaments. It offered protection against poisons (no small thing in a world where a pinch of this, a smidgeon of that, could alter a royal succession or remove a pesky husband, or wife). Worn as jewelry, it protected the wearer from evil.
Burgeoning demand, miniscule supply.
There could never be enough of such potency... and, of course, charlatans, all believability, seduced the gullible and credulous, offering everything, delivering nothing. Other charlatans, all sanctimony and solemnity, arose with the means, so they insisted, of determining whether the horn was real... or not.
Place a scorpion under a dish with a piece of horn. If the scorpion dies in a matter of hours, the horn is real.
Feed arsenic to pigeons, followed by a dose of unicorn horn. If the pigeons live, the horn is genuine.
Draw a ring on the floor with the horn. If the horn is real, a spider will not be able to cross the ring.
Place the horn in cold water. If the water bubbles but remains cold, the horn came from a true and real unicorn.
You get the idea.
Capturing unicorns.
Its potency known... ways of certifying its authenticity at hand... the unceasing problem was how to find unicorns... and how to capture them. Here a magnificent series of tapestries made in Belgium in 1500 hold clues. Bought by John D. Rockefeller, the richest man on earth, in 1922, they are now on display at the Cloisters museum in New York.
There are 7 tapestries in this series which portrays, in fine detail and consummate craftsmanship, a unicorn hunt. The men, nobles all, are chasing the unicorn as if it were standard quarry. And, of course, the unicorn easily eludes them, laughing the while.
In the fifth tapestry, however, the unicorn is captured... by the power of a young maid, who represents the Virgin Mary. She needs do nothing but sit in complete tranquility. The unicorn, perhaps knowledgeable of its fate, advances unforced, puts its head in the virgin's lap...and so becomes, in the seventh and most celebrated tapestry, a prisoner, chained to a tree within a round wooden fence; its destiny sealed.
In the words of Lewis Carroll (Through the Looking Glass. 1871) "... Well, now, that we have seen each other," said the Unicorn, "if you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you." I feel sure she did... and that the unicorn abides, at peace, his head forever in her lap. May the renewing oryx fare as well.
http://www.automatedmoney4you.com/members/richshelby07/home.php
Yours In Success,
Richard Penny
Webmaster
http://HomeBusinessPremium.com
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
How to write the kind of blog copy that turns readers into fans who cannot live without you!
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
This is an article for people who want to be smart bloggers! Bloggers who change lives! Bloggers who get people to sit up, take notice and say, "Wow! That guy is right! That guy is on the money!" Bloggers who don't just want readers...
... but fans who sit next to their computers waiting for your next blog post.
In this article I am going to show you the secret to becoming a producer of "must read" copy.... and becoming, in the process, a person who goes way beyond having readers... instead creating fans.
400,000+ words in the last year.
This article celebrates achieving a "personal best" goal for me... a goal I challenged myself to make one year ago.... and which I have, with the publication of this article, now achieved. I wanted to see if I could write at least 400,000 words of copy in 365 days; not just drab, undistinguished, pedestrian copy either, but copy that's timely! Intellectually distinguished! Lyric! Insightful! Yes, the kind of copy that stops people worldwide in their tracks and forces them to sit up! Take notice! And pay attention... because they just couldn't bear to miss a single word!
And I am pleased to tell you that this is precisely what has happened! My blog, where you can find all my articles, now generates millions of hits and a stream of gratifying comments from people worldwide who feed my ego and make my day.
This is me!
And it can be you!
1) Tell stories.
The greatest communicators on earth -- Jesus! Abraham Lincoln! Mark Twain! were story tellers. They used the power of stories to make things easy for their audience to understand... and to drive home their points, no matter how difficult and complicated.
You must become a story teller, too, not just a finder and disseminator of facts. Facts alone don't move people. Mere facts don't capture minds. Facts, no matter how important, don't touch hearts. But stories do... they always do... and that is why your blog posts must rely on stories that capture people and leave them begging for more...
2) Today's successful article starts with yesterday's motivating "heads up".
If you want readers today, titillate them yesterday. You see, the power of yesterday is to entice readers today.
People will only be moved to the extent that you move them. If you want readers tomorrow... the crucial process of exciting them starts today.
"Tomorrow! A story of love! Power! Treachery and despair! A story that will move you! Outrage you! And, if there's a tear in you, cause it to fall! All coming tomorrow to a computer near you!"
This'll get 'em!
3) Write short sentences where every word counts.
Thanks to the marvelous technical tools writers have nowadays, most don't write; they "typewrite", in the withering phrase of Truman Capote. He was masterful, and he knew that writers could kill their points, their stories and their readers by pouring out too many words and sentences straining to digest them.
Don't make this mistake.
Look at the sentence length in this article... short, punchy, easy to take in at a glance...
Your sentences should move accordingly.
Moreover, prune your articles mercilessly. A sentence that exceeds just a few words is a sentence smothering itself. And dead sentences will never move live people.
4) Short paragraphs give a story the air and space they need.
Today's readers are restless readers. They are overwhelmed with information... but have the same number of hours in a day as Caesar. In short, they are looking for a reason to put your copy down... never to be picked up again.
Short paragraphs and airy lay-out forestall this tragedy.
Look at this article... short, often real short, paragraphs with pages that look inviting, easy, not prolix and hard.
Contemporary readers demand ease... and if you don't give it to them, they walk... fast.
5) Make your people real, not caricatures.
The reason volumes of commentary don't work is because its authors create card board characters. They then laud the characters they like and demolish the ones they don't. Not only is this unfair... but it makes for lousy copy.
What distinguishes the best commentary is the way you handle people whose opinions you may not only dislike, but actually abhor. Do you give them the courtesy of presenting their point of view fairly, objectively, honestly... or do you want just a cheap shot that not only misrepresents the people you're writing about... but proves you're a writer not worth reading?
This point is worth elucidating because it's one too many commentators miss.
One reason writers like writing commentary is because it turns them from word peddlers into gods, omniscient, all-powerful, always right, never wrong, with the ability to access every human heart and brain at will.
Such people of course become insufferable in short order.
Your job as a commentator is to be sure you have done everything possible to ensure that all the people you write about are presented without prejudice, honestly, completely, with sincerity and with care.
This does not mean you necessarily agree with their positions or actions. It means you intend to give your readers the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth... even if you strenuously disagree.
Only when you have done this can you in good conscience and to best effect proceed to your opinion. Because only if you have allowed even your most pernicious characters their say... can your say be meaningful, insightful, and worth reading.
Use these recommendations.
The best commentators can have enormous influence... which is why you must use your commentating position wisely, not least by producing copy that moves your readers, with every word you write.
These suggestions will help.
By using them you will produce copy -- starting today -- that changes your readers' outlook, opinion, point of view, one apt word at a time. When you do this not only will you have a legion of readers, followers and fans.... but you'll deserve them!
http://homebusinesspremium.com/articles/
This is an article for people who want to be smart bloggers! Bloggers who change lives! Bloggers who get people to sit up, take notice and say, "Wow! That guy is right! That guy is on the money!" Bloggers who don't just want readers...
... but fans who sit next to their computers waiting for your next blog post.
In this article I am going to show you the secret to becoming a producer of "must read" copy.... and becoming, in the process, a person who goes way beyond having readers... instead creating fans.
400,000+ words in the last year.
This article celebrates achieving a "personal best" goal for me... a goal I challenged myself to make one year ago.... and which I have, with the publication of this article, now achieved. I wanted to see if I could write at least 400,000 words of copy in 365 days; not just drab, undistinguished, pedestrian copy either, but copy that's timely! Intellectually distinguished! Lyric! Insightful! Yes, the kind of copy that stops people worldwide in their tracks and forces them to sit up! Take notice! And pay attention... because they just couldn't bear to miss a single word!
And I am pleased to tell you that this is precisely what has happened! My blog, where you can find all my articles, now generates millions of hits and a stream of gratifying comments from people worldwide who feed my ego and make my day.
This is me!
And it can be you!
1) Tell stories.
The greatest communicators on earth -- Jesus! Abraham Lincoln! Mark Twain! were story tellers. They used the power of stories to make things easy for their audience to understand... and to drive home their points, no matter how difficult and complicated.
You must become a story teller, too, not just a finder and disseminator of facts. Facts alone don't move people. Mere facts don't capture minds. Facts, no matter how important, don't touch hearts. But stories do... they always do... and that is why your blog posts must rely on stories that capture people and leave them begging for more...
2) Today's successful article starts with yesterday's motivating "heads up".
If you want readers today, titillate them yesterday. You see, the power of yesterday is to entice readers today.
People will only be moved to the extent that you move them. If you want readers tomorrow... the crucial process of exciting them starts today.
"Tomorrow! A story of love! Power! Treachery and despair! A story that will move you! Outrage you! And, if there's a tear in you, cause it to fall! All coming tomorrow to a computer near you!"
This'll get 'em!
3) Write short sentences where every word counts.
Thanks to the marvelous technical tools writers have nowadays, most don't write; they "typewrite", in the withering phrase of Truman Capote. He was masterful, and he knew that writers could kill their points, their stories and their readers by pouring out too many words and sentences straining to digest them.
Don't make this mistake.
Look at the sentence length in this article... short, punchy, easy to take in at a glance...
Your sentences should move accordingly.
Moreover, prune your articles mercilessly. A sentence that exceeds just a few words is a sentence smothering itself. And dead sentences will never move live people.
4) Short paragraphs give a story the air and space they need.
Today's readers are restless readers. They are overwhelmed with information... but have the same number of hours in a day as Caesar. In short, they are looking for a reason to put your copy down... never to be picked up again.
Short paragraphs and airy lay-out forestall this tragedy.
Look at this article... short, often real short, paragraphs with pages that look inviting, easy, not prolix and hard.
Contemporary readers demand ease... and if you don't give it to them, they walk... fast.
5) Make your people real, not caricatures.
The reason volumes of commentary don't work is because its authors create card board characters. They then laud the characters they like and demolish the ones they don't. Not only is this unfair... but it makes for lousy copy.
What distinguishes the best commentary is the way you handle people whose opinions you may not only dislike, but actually abhor. Do you give them the courtesy of presenting their point of view fairly, objectively, honestly... or do you want just a cheap shot that not only misrepresents the people you're writing about... but proves you're a writer not worth reading?
This point is worth elucidating because it's one too many commentators miss.
One reason writers like writing commentary is because it turns them from word peddlers into gods, omniscient, all-powerful, always right, never wrong, with the ability to access every human heart and brain at will.
Such people of course become insufferable in short order.
Your job as a commentator is to be sure you have done everything possible to ensure that all the people you write about are presented without prejudice, honestly, completely, with sincerity and with care.
This does not mean you necessarily agree with their positions or actions. It means you intend to give your readers the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth... even if you strenuously disagree.
Only when you have done this can you in good conscience and to best effect proceed to your opinion. Because only if you have allowed even your most pernicious characters their say... can your say be meaningful, insightful, and worth reading.
Use these recommendations.
The best commentators can have enormous influence... which is why you must use your commentating position wisely, not least by producing copy that moves your readers, with every word you write.
These suggestions will help.
By using them you will produce copy -- starting today -- that changes your readers' outlook, opinion, point of view, one apt word at a time. When you do this not only will you have a legion of readers, followers and fans.... but you'll deserve them!
http://homebusinesspremium.com/articles/
Monday, June 13, 2011
The short life and appalling death of Raymond Zack, an avoidable American tragedy.
Later these officials, pummelled by an incredulous world, worked overtime to manufacture excuses they hoped would appease, mollify and cover.
Fire officials said that because of budget cuts no one knew the necessary rescue procedures. But this excuse was quickly blasted... when it was shown the department had money, but no sense. Other officials said rescue policies did not cover the case in point.
A police spokesman said officers stayed out of the water because Zack was suicidal and posed a possible threat.
A boat was requested to take officers to Zack... but those requesting it never indicated the matter was pressing.
In short, at every moment where judgement, help and assistance were required... the professionals at hand, our honored paladins, were without judgement, help and assistance.
And so, in full view of the world, in full view of his hysterical foster parent, 86 year old Dolores Berry, who unsuccessfully begged for celerity and assistance, Raymond Zack died...
In the way of these things, everything the system could have provided Raymond in life only emerged when he was dead... in such ways does America expiate its negligence.
Now there are flowers on the beach where he died, a crowd gathers daily to reflect and wonder; bishops make Raymond the subject of their learned lamentations. Municipal officials investigate and dismiss the inept. All this is good, right and proper.
But we must not forget the man at the center of it all, Raymond Zack, dead too soon at 50. He meant us well, each and every one of us. Now, prematurely, he rests in the bosom of the Lord; may he find the peace there he never had here.
http://homebusinesspremium.com/articles/
Fire officials said that because of budget cuts no one knew the necessary rescue procedures. But this excuse was quickly blasted... when it was shown the department had money, but no sense. Other officials said rescue policies did not cover the case in point.
A police spokesman said officers stayed out of the water because Zack was suicidal and posed a possible threat.
A boat was requested to take officers to Zack... but those requesting it never indicated the matter was pressing.
In short, at every moment where judgement, help and assistance were required... the professionals at hand, our honored paladins, were without judgement, help and assistance.
And so, in full view of the world, in full view of his hysterical foster parent, 86 year old Dolores Berry, who unsuccessfully begged for celerity and assistance, Raymond Zack died...
In the way of these things, everything the system could have provided Raymond in life only emerged when he was dead... in such ways does America expiate its negligence.
Now there are flowers on the beach where he died, a crowd gathers daily to reflect and wonder; bishops make Raymond the subject of their learned lamentations. Municipal officials investigate and dismiss the inept. All this is good, right and proper.
But we must not forget the man at the center of it all, Raymond Zack, dead too soon at 50. He meant us well, each and every one of us. Now, prematurely, he rests in the bosom of the Lord; may he find the peace there he never had here.
http://homebusinesspremium.com/articles/
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The Good Humor Man, a tale of hot summers long ago.
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. To get into the mood of this article, I recommend searching any search engine to find one old summer song that retains its toe-tapping zest. It's Mungo Jerry's 1970 hit "In The Summertime." So timeless is this infectious little number that Hershey's, the chocolatiers, is using it in a current (June, 2011) ad campaign. As Mungo says in the song, "Sing along with us." My prediction is that you won't be able to help yourself... it's ok, when summer comes we're all young again... and just plain happy to be alive.
Two things that could not be denied inspired this article... first the oppressive record-setting heat wave here in New England, a phenomenon which turned all of us in the city from folks assiduously avoiding each other into sweltering fellow travelers, anxious to hear the latest news about possible relief... and having no hesitation or shyness about reaching out for news and the agreeable opportunity to be resoundingly banal, "Hot enough for you?"
The second thing that caught my attention was the trill of bells which sounded at first hearing just the way the bells sounded from the Good Humor truck as it traversed the neighborhood, proving beyond a doubt that all us Illinois kids had absolutely no hearing problems; we could hear those bells across Guinness-Book-Of-Records distances... and nothing, but nothing, was going to get in the way of that truck and all of us making an absolutely certain rendezvous. It was clearly written in the Book of Kid Rights and Privileges, that it was our irrevocable and bounden duty to hear its bells, stop the wagon, and look long and hard for what a dime could get you. Personally, I was always seduced by the orange creamsicles. I haven't seen, much less enjoyed one for decades... but as I write, I am falling helplessly into the insistent consumer mode which marked all my encounters with the mobile ice-cream emporium. The truck arrived; my money departed.
You need to be very clear about our relationship to Good Humor and its cascade of ice-cream novelties. Kids we ceased to be when we saw the truck and reviewed our resources. We were practised buyers, omniscient as to what was on that truck and what we fancied and would have, negotiators with proven skills, discerning, our "due diligence" certain, exhaustive, no doubt frustrating to the college kid home for the summer who wore the company's uniform and drove the company's vehicle... Long-suffering, so young himself and barely out of the juvenile consumer throng before him, he saw his profits melting as his pint-sized customers looked, looked again, made a decision, changed their mind, then looked some more...
It was a ritual, and no matter how many times you stopped the wagon, you performed it, loyally and with care. It was, after all, part of the experience... and, besides, you knew, none better, that the customer (even the most dilatory) was always right. It was something your father told you that you never forgot.
Some facts about Good Humor.
As a card-carrying kid and loyal Good Humor customer I knew absolutely nothing about the company whose success hinged on the wishes and buying power of kids like me. The only thing I cared about was whether they had orange creamsicles (they always did)... and what new novelties they had, putting them prominently at the front, the better to seduce me from my unending favorite; I have to admit I was always willing to try the new offerings, particularly if they came with the lure of that magic word: "deal" and a handful of discount coupons, which soon expired but could be seen months later under refrigerator magnets.
So ignorant then about my favorite company, I felt obliged for this article to rectify the matter... and so I have. Originally, Good Humors were a product, chocolate coated ice cream bars on a stick; I loved these too and regarded it as my particular job to ensure Grammie always had a good supply; since she loved them, too, my job was never onerous. Grammie and Grampa had great power and influence on Good Humor drivers. One never-to-be-forgotten day, Grampa who (I now know) had a talent for the right gesture at the right time, peremptorily stopped the wagon when the supply of ice-cream had run low at a birthday party Grammie was hosting for one of my young cousins. With a practised gesture I can see to this day, he ordered the wagon to stop... and invited all the guests young and old to take their pick of the inventory. When the impressed and jubilant driver had done his work, Grampa tipped him liberally, it may even have been $20, a fortune. Grampa was a dark horse in such gestures; he didn't make them often (for he was a good penny-pinching, investing Hanoverian) but when he did... people noticed, winked, and said "Good Old Walt," with just the right amount of admiration. They knew, and in due course all the grandchildren knew, that under his gruffness, an art form, there was a man who knew just when to be lavish with ice-cream... or whatever was called for.
Good Humor, having found success with Good Humor bars, did what all successful businesses do: it added new products, always using America's kiddoes as ground zero for testing and launching new products. Good Humor started in Youngstown, Ohio in the 'twenties; by the mid-'thirties it covered most of the nation. Catering to the national sweet tooth and a love-affair with ice-cream that still seems inexhaustible, Good Humor flourished, until at its peak in the 1950s, the company operated 2,000 "sales cars".
But the tribal ways of Good Humor, which I knew to my fingertips, were under threat; baby boomers like me grew up and put aside Good Humor along with the baseball glove and "Mad" magazine.. There were labor issues, costs increased, gasoline and insurance soared. And profits declined.
In 1961, Good Humor was acquired by Thomas J. Lipton, the US subsidiary of the international Unilever conglomerate. Sad but true, in 1978 the company sold its fleet, and an era truly came to an end. Distribution was then handled by grocery stores and independent street vendors. By 1984, Good Humor was profitable again... and (from 1989) growing. Gold Bond Ice Cream, that included the Popsicle brand, was acquired... and in due course Isaly Klondike and the Brewers Ice Cream Company. Nine plants nationwide work hard keeping up with the demand. (I confess I love Brewers chocolate ice-cream whose taste rivals more expensive brands.) I am glad that they prosper, for having lost creamsicles, I can ill afford to lose any more flavors... or a single memory.
Having completed this article, I shall allow myself the luxury (though it is very early on a Sunday) to reward myself with an ice-cream flavor I did not previously know, peach cobbler. It's by Ben & Jerry,whose flavors I cherish, though their politics are intrusive and unappealing.
I am glad the store is handy... I am glad I won't have to wait for the ice-cream truck to come, always late, increasing my impatience.
And I am glad I have shared this story with you. For while there have been many vicissitudes at Good Humor... the only thing that really matters, the ice-cream itself, abides, perfect for a hot summer's day like the one just dawning. And that is good to know and to share with a friend.
http://www.HomeBusinessPremium.com
Author's program note. To get into the mood of this article, I recommend searching any search engine to find one old summer song that retains its toe-tapping zest. It's Mungo Jerry's 1970 hit "In The Summertime." So timeless is this infectious little number that Hershey's, the chocolatiers, is using it in a current (June, 2011) ad campaign. As Mungo says in the song, "Sing along with us." My prediction is that you won't be able to help yourself... it's ok, when summer comes we're all young again... and just plain happy to be alive.
Two things that could not be denied inspired this article... first the oppressive record-setting heat wave here in New England, a phenomenon which turned all of us in the city from folks assiduously avoiding each other into sweltering fellow travelers, anxious to hear the latest news about possible relief... and having no hesitation or shyness about reaching out for news and the agreeable opportunity to be resoundingly banal, "Hot enough for you?"
The second thing that caught my attention was the trill of bells which sounded at first hearing just the way the bells sounded from the Good Humor truck as it traversed the neighborhood, proving beyond a doubt that all us Illinois kids had absolutely no hearing problems; we could hear those bells across Guinness-Book-Of-Records distances... and nothing, but nothing, was going to get in the way of that truck and all of us making an absolutely certain rendezvous. It was clearly written in the Book of Kid Rights and Privileges, that it was our irrevocable and bounden duty to hear its bells, stop the wagon, and look long and hard for what a dime could get you. Personally, I was always seduced by the orange creamsicles. I haven't seen, much less enjoyed one for decades... but as I write, I am falling helplessly into the insistent consumer mode which marked all my encounters with the mobile ice-cream emporium. The truck arrived; my money departed.
You need to be very clear about our relationship to Good Humor and its cascade of ice-cream novelties. Kids we ceased to be when we saw the truck and reviewed our resources. We were practised buyers, omniscient as to what was on that truck and what we fancied and would have, negotiators with proven skills, discerning, our "due diligence" certain, exhaustive, no doubt frustrating to the college kid home for the summer who wore the company's uniform and drove the company's vehicle... Long-suffering, so young himself and barely out of the juvenile consumer throng before him, he saw his profits melting as his pint-sized customers looked, looked again, made a decision, changed their mind, then looked some more...
It was a ritual, and no matter how many times you stopped the wagon, you performed it, loyally and with care. It was, after all, part of the experience... and, besides, you knew, none better, that the customer (even the most dilatory) was always right. It was something your father told you that you never forgot.
Some facts about Good Humor.
As a card-carrying kid and loyal Good Humor customer I knew absolutely nothing about the company whose success hinged on the wishes and buying power of kids like me. The only thing I cared about was whether they had orange creamsicles (they always did)... and what new novelties they had, putting them prominently at the front, the better to seduce me from my unending favorite; I have to admit I was always willing to try the new offerings, particularly if they came with the lure of that magic word: "deal" and a handful of discount coupons, which soon expired but could be seen months later under refrigerator magnets.
So ignorant then about my favorite company, I felt obliged for this article to rectify the matter... and so I have. Originally, Good Humors were a product, chocolate coated ice cream bars on a stick; I loved these too and regarded it as my particular job to ensure Grammie always had a good supply; since she loved them, too, my job was never onerous. Grammie and Grampa had great power and influence on Good Humor drivers. One never-to-be-forgotten day, Grampa who (I now know) had a talent for the right gesture at the right time, peremptorily stopped the wagon when the supply of ice-cream had run low at a birthday party Grammie was hosting for one of my young cousins. With a practised gesture I can see to this day, he ordered the wagon to stop... and invited all the guests young and old to take their pick of the inventory. When the impressed and jubilant driver had done his work, Grampa tipped him liberally, it may even have been $20, a fortune. Grampa was a dark horse in such gestures; he didn't make them often (for he was a good penny-pinching, investing Hanoverian) but when he did... people noticed, winked, and said "Good Old Walt," with just the right amount of admiration. They knew, and in due course all the grandchildren knew, that under his gruffness, an art form, there was a man who knew just when to be lavish with ice-cream... or whatever was called for.
Good Humor, having found success with Good Humor bars, did what all successful businesses do: it added new products, always using America's kiddoes as ground zero for testing and launching new products. Good Humor started in Youngstown, Ohio in the 'twenties; by the mid-'thirties it covered most of the nation. Catering to the national sweet tooth and a love-affair with ice-cream that still seems inexhaustible, Good Humor flourished, until at its peak in the 1950s, the company operated 2,000 "sales cars".
But the tribal ways of Good Humor, which I knew to my fingertips, were under threat; baby boomers like me grew up and put aside Good Humor along with the baseball glove and "Mad" magazine.. There were labor issues, costs increased, gasoline and insurance soared. And profits declined.
In 1961, Good Humor was acquired by Thomas J. Lipton, the US subsidiary of the international Unilever conglomerate. Sad but true, in 1978 the company sold its fleet, and an era truly came to an end. Distribution was then handled by grocery stores and independent street vendors. By 1984, Good Humor was profitable again... and (from 1989) growing. Gold Bond Ice Cream, that included the Popsicle brand, was acquired... and in due course Isaly Klondike and the Brewers Ice Cream Company. Nine plants nationwide work hard keeping up with the demand. (I confess I love Brewers chocolate ice-cream whose taste rivals more expensive brands.) I am glad that they prosper, for having lost creamsicles, I can ill afford to lose any more flavors... or a single memory.
Having completed this article, I shall allow myself the luxury (though it is very early on a Sunday) to reward myself with an ice-cream flavor I did not previously know, peach cobbler. It's by Ben & Jerry,whose flavors I cherish, though their politics are intrusive and unappealing.
I am glad the store is handy... I am glad I won't have to wait for the ice-cream truck to come, always late, increasing my impatience.
And I am glad I have shared this story with you. For while there have been many vicissitudes at Good Humor... the only thing that really matters, the ice-cream itself, abides, perfect for a hot summer's day like the one just dawning. And that is good to know and to share with a friend.
http://www.HomeBusinessPremium.com
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Jeffrey Lant Article Directory http://jeffreylantarticles.com/
Welcome to article directory Jeffrey Lant Article Directory. Here you can find interesting and useful information on most popular themes.
There are 232 published articles and 4739 registered authors in our article directory.
Most Recent Articles
‘Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s….’ words Goshen College needs to remember as it bans ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’.
It’s all Greek to David Norris as this once shoo-in to be president of Ireland fights for his political life.
Listen my children and you shall hear of Sarah Palin’s version of the midnight ride of Paul Revere. So, who needs facts anyway?
‘Where the Iris grows… That is where I want to be….’ The flower at the end of the rainbow.
‘… everyone would be in love with me.’ Why every member of the Congress of the United States is watching what happens to Rep. Anthony Weiner.
Lizzie and Johnny Edwards were lovers. Swore to be true to each other, true as stars above….
What really constitutes success? Courageous researchers turn the world upside down, as they reveal why failure should be your career path of choice.
Write to be read. What you need to know and do to turn every word you write into the word that gets results.
‘Don’t break the heart that loves you….’ Lance Armstrong fights doping charges by ’60 Minutes’… but this time they have teeth.
The luckiest man in America, historian David McCullough. God shed His grace on thee.
In the good old summertime. How to keep your profits sky-high in June, August, and July.
May 30, 2011. U.S. Memorial Day. Remember!
Thoughts about Sunday and our threatened leisure time.
Joshua Bell: The most romantic man on earth.
‘…. there’s nothing so good for a pobble’s toes.’ The comfort and friendship of amiable lavender.
Reflections on Harvard’s 360th Commencement, May 26, 2011.
Thoughts on Princeton professor Cornel West and his egregious attack on the president. Does the intellectual really have any ideas?
Freshet. 3: 59 a.m. Eastern time. 65 degrees Fahrenheit. Wind SW at 11 mph. Humidity 90%. May 24, 2011.
Republican faithful near despair at their plethora of ho-hum candidates who have underwhelmed America. It’s time to prune to get serious!
Harold Camping said the world would end 6 p.m. Saturday, May 21, 2011. It didn’t. It wasn’t the first time, he was a false prophet. And it won’t be the last!
‘It’s so nice to have a man around the house’. Arnold Schwarzenegger’s double life up close and really personal.
Review: Worldprofit’s Home Business Bootcamp Training with Marketing Expert, George Kosch May 20, 2011.
‘You’ve got nothing to hit but the heights’. An appreciation for the life and work of playwright Arthur Laurents, who wrote ‘Gypsy’, ‘West Side Story’.
For my nephew Kyle Patrick Burleson, now B.A. and for all the graduates of the class of 2011, well meant advice and counsel.
‘For misery, oh, oh, Cherchez la femme’. That’s what Dominique Strauss-Kahn, France’s prospective next president, did. See what happened next… ou la la!
Thoughts on the historic visit of Queen Elizabeth II to Ireland, May 17, 2011. We salute the lady and her courage.
The day the world began to turn upside down. March 5, 1770, Boston, Massachusetts Bay Colony.
What to do when your computer crashes. It will you know!
Sir William Walton and the sound of royalty.
New England’s cottontail rabbits face extinction… if you love them, help save them.
There are 232 published articles and 4739 registered authors in our article directory.
Most Recent Articles
‘Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s….’ words Goshen College needs to remember as it bans ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’.
It’s all Greek to David Norris as this once shoo-in to be president of Ireland fights for his political life.
Listen my children and you shall hear of Sarah Palin’s version of the midnight ride of Paul Revere. So, who needs facts anyway?
‘Where the Iris grows… That is where I want to be….’ The flower at the end of the rainbow.
‘… everyone would be in love with me.’ Why every member of the Congress of the United States is watching what happens to Rep. Anthony Weiner.
Lizzie and Johnny Edwards were lovers. Swore to be true to each other, true as stars above….
What really constitutes success? Courageous researchers turn the world upside down, as they reveal why failure should be your career path of choice.
Write to be read. What you need to know and do to turn every word you write into the word that gets results.
‘Don’t break the heart that loves you….’ Lance Armstrong fights doping charges by ’60 Minutes’… but this time they have teeth.
The luckiest man in America, historian David McCullough. God shed His grace on thee.
In the good old summertime. How to keep your profits sky-high in June, August, and July.
May 30, 2011. U.S. Memorial Day. Remember!
Thoughts about Sunday and our threatened leisure time.
Joshua Bell: The most romantic man on earth.
‘…. there’s nothing so good for a pobble’s toes.’ The comfort and friendship of amiable lavender.
Reflections on Harvard’s 360th Commencement, May 26, 2011.
Thoughts on Princeton professor Cornel West and his egregious attack on the president. Does the intellectual really have any ideas?
Freshet. 3: 59 a.m. Eastern time. 65 degrees Fahrenheit. Wind SW at 11 mph. Humidity 90%. May 24, 2011.
Republican faithful near despair at their plethora of ho-hum candidates who have underwhelmed America. It’s time to prune to get serious!
Harold Camping said the world would end 6 p.m. Saturday, May 21, 2011. It didn’t. It wasn’t the first time, he was a false prophet. And it won’t be the last!
‘It’s so nice to have a man around the house’. Arnold Schwarzenegger’s double life up close and really personal.
Review: Worldprofit’s Home Business Bootcamp Training with Marketing Expert, George Kosch May 20, 2011.
‘You’ve got nothing to hit but the heights’. An appreciation for the life and work of playwright Arthur Laurents, who wrote ‘Gypsy’, ‘West Side Story’.
For my nephew Kyle Patrick Burleson, now B.A. and for all the graduates of the class of 2011, well meant advice and counsel.
‘For misery, oh, oh, Cherchez la femme’. That’s what Dominique Strauss-Kahn, France’s prospective next president, did. See what happened next… ou la la!
Thoughts on the historic visit of Queen Elizabeth II to Ireland, May 17, 2011. We salute the lady and her courage.
The day the world began to turn upside down. March 5, 1770, Boston, Massachusetts Bay Colony.
What to do when your computer crashes. It will you know!
Sir William Walton and the sound of royalty.
New England’s cottontail rabbits face extinction… if you love them, help save them.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
New, Revolutionary Email Solution For Internet Professionals
I just wanted to send you a quick update. The last few
days have been so exciting. I have told you about
Colin Klinkert & Frank Bauer's 'ViralinBox System'.
Check it out here:
http://vib.cm/richshelby07
I can start seeing good results from using the webmail
service and can see now how I will easily double my
affiliate sales in the next months using this system.
Believe me, you will be thanking me for showing it to
you. I know you are busy, and I also have to get back
to my normal marketing, but I just had to make sure you
had a chance to review this.
http://vib.cm/richshelby07
If not, do so now. As I said, I need to get back to
other things, it would just be a shame if you missed
out on this while so many others have taken advantage
of this great system.
Talk to you soon,
{first_name}
PS: Make sure you look at the video and testimonials
on the page. Let's see whose name will be there
next... yours or mine. :)
http://vib.cm/richshelby07
days have been so exciting. I have told you about
Colin Klinkert & Frank Bauer's 'ViralinBox System'.
Check it out here:
http://vib.cm/richshelby07
I can start seeing good results from using the webmail
service and can see now how I will easily double my
affiliate sales in the next months using this system.
Believe me, you will be thanking me for showing it to
you. I know you are busy, and I also have to get back
to my normal marketing, but I just had to make sure you
had a chance to review this.
http://vib.cm/richshelby07
If not, do so now. As I said, I need to get back to
other things, it would just be a shame if you missed
out on this while so many others have taken advantage
of this great system.
Talk to you soon,
{first_name}
PS: Make sure you look at the video and testimonials
on the page. Let's see whose name will be there
next... yours or mine. :)
http://vib.cm/richshelby07
Monday, June 6, 2011
Mastering FaceBook
"I'm About To Show You How My Super Simple System Will Take You From A Facebook Nobody To A Social Media Marketing Monster Using
The Power Of Facebook"
Have You Discovered The Secret The Gurus Use Every Day To Bank Boatloads Of Cash From The Social Media Powerhouse Known As Facebook?
Dear Fellow Entrepreneur,
It does not matter if you own a Mom & Pop brick and mortar shop in small town USA or if you have multiple online eCommerce web sites, You Need Traffic To Keep Your Business Afloat!
More and more savvy business owners - offline & online, are using the massive power of the Internet to pull traffic to their businesses. One of the fastest growing segments on the Internet is Social Media!
Social Media Is The #1 Activity On The Web
THE Fastest growing element of online Social Media is Facebook. If Facebook were a country, it would be one of the largest on the planet! Facebook has over 460 million users at the time of me writing this and roughly 300 thousand more are joining the Facebook ranks EACH DAY!
Can you see the potential Customer base from just Facebook? How about this... The fastest growing segment on Facebook is 55-65 year-old females. So if you thought that Facebook was only used by a bunch of teens yammering about the latest hair styles, you need to re-think a few things!
In order for your business to remain viable in todays market place you must know how to use the latest social media elements, most importantly Facebook!
But Without Years Of Experience And Buckets Of Cash
You Just Can Not Tap Into The Masses Of
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WRONG!!!
This Is The Only Facebook Video Guide You Will Ever Need!
It doesn't get much easier than this. Mastering Facebook is loaded with easy to consume yet critical information regarding Facebook that you will need in order to harness the awesome traffic pulling power of this social media power-house. I have weeded through the system, bit by bit and have created the ultimate video guide to utilizing Facebook for traffic generation and social branding.
Here is just SOME of what you will learn with these videos:
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Mastering Facebook includes more than 20 videos that will take you through every single step from setting up your Facebook account, to building a loyal customer base with tried & true strategies as well as easy techniques that will work for you, regardless if you have failed at marketing within other social outlets, such as Twitter or Digg or MySpace.
You will be amazed at just how easy it really is once you watch these Facebook video guides and implement their proven strategies into your marketing campaign. Start generating a flood of targeted traffic to your website right now.. Facebook is free and even easier to use with the help these Facebook videos within your reach. You will never again wonder how other people are doing it!
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