Should I be worried?

Are you worried about the Internet? Specifically, are you concerned that maybe the whole Internet thing isn't such a big deal? That it didn't really change anything? That all the effort you've put into learning the difference between zines and blogs amounted to nothing? If so, you are in desperate need of a life.

More recently, the internet has equipped the worried well with reasons to worry.
Still, given the existential angst so prevalent in the post-bubble world, it's only natural to feel a frisson of fear every time the Nasdaq falls 10 points. But relax. The simple fact is that the Internet economy is alive and well.


My PC has been infiltrated by a program that hijacks our Google searches. Instead of displaying legitimate results, the infernal machine first produces a page of advertisements related to the search terms we entered. For example, search for "Google IPO" and the first two results are "Chat with Local Singles, Free signup." Hmmm. Maybe Sergey Brin and Larry Page are behind it.

In any event, I asked around among my more geeky acquaintances and was told that our computer had been commandeered by a form of spyware— a species of Internet-borne marketing vermin probably bred in the malarial swamp of Amazon.com. It sounded bad, but I was assured that a solution was only a click away. All I had to do was get a spyware search and destroy program, numerous examples of which, I was told, were readily available on the Internet.

So naturally, I set about trying to find one of these angels of mercy. My first step, as usual, was to perform a Google search.

And there it was. In all its hideous glory. The genius of digital capitalism. My spyware-influenced search yielded a page of advertisements for spyware removal products. One of these companies had probably produced the program that necessitated this search in the first place. Having infected me, they were now using the disease to sell me the cure. I'm not worthy.

There you have it. The Internet is indispensable to business, and it is run by talented hucksters who are the direct descendants of the folks who created the Uneeda Biscuit.

The Internet economy is in good hands. So quit worrying and get a life. Just go to your favorite search engine and type in "Google IPO."

Midlife Crisis? What crisis?

I'm ever looking forward to my midlife crisis. It could happen in the next 5 or 10 or 15 years, and when the time comes I don't want to have to scramble. I've earned this society-sanctioned, automatically forgiven Responsibility Time-Out, and I intend to do it up right.
To my knowledge, I have a wide range of choices. Should I ... have an affair with a 19-year-old girl? Quit my job and join the professional mountain climbing circuit? Surprise my family by selling all my worldly goods, gamble the cash away at the casino? Well, gentlemen, I've thought about it a lot, and I've made my decision. I'm going to go for ... drum roll, please ... the Sports Car.

I don't know what kind yet. Something convertible, of course, in cop-baiting red, with chrome dripping all over the curb. Fifty-four speakers. Something that goes just fast enough to rip the paint off road signs on the way past.Xzibit and the good people at West Coast Customs may have a few pointers.

See, with a sports car, you get to kill two birds with one stone. First, of course, you get respect ... mad respect. Mostly from 10-year-old boys, sure, but from plenty of the ladies too. It's a status symbol that clearly states: "This guy's stinking rich, he's successful, he's cool."

But you also get to play with the toy of all toys, that delivers pure, unadulterated pleasure and puts a smile on your face that you'll wear until the day you die (wrapping your new car around a telephone pole somewhere along the motorway, presumably).

And the benefits don't stop there. Wife needs you to run for groceries? No problem. With a car like that, you'll be more than happy to get her cheese from any far off town market. "See you in two weeks, sweetheart!"

You don't even mind getting a ticket in one of those babies. You know you're not getting off with a warning--hell, your sports car is the best thing that's happened to the traffic police in a month--so there's no need to play nice. When he asks if you know how fast you were going, tell him you were only in second gear. Keep revving it up while he writes out the ticket, comically cupping your ear and pretending you can't hear him. Then peel out a little when the damage is done ... just enough to throw some gravel in his grille.

By now you're probably wondering just how much sports car you can afford. Remember, this is a midlife crisis, so let irrational exuberance be your watchword. One formula that works is: S/4 + C + R + K, where S is your salary, C is the cash advance limit on all your credit cards, R is your retirement pension plan expressed in rumpled 20s, and K is, or was, the kids' college fund. Just remember to save enough money for a couple of weeks alone in a motel and maybe a nice "Sorry I sucked all the yolk out of the nest egg" card for your wife.

The planets aren't yet aligned for me to jump off the rails. But one day soon, guts and credit permitting, I'll be that high-speed jerk cutting you off on the motorway: loud hip-hop music I don't quite understand drowning out your impotent horn-honking, my long glossy afro-hair cut flopping in the wind.

Hot, Hot, Hot

I love the outdoors.
I can't get enough.

Every free moment I have is spent, biking,walking, fishing, sailing, surfing, BBQ-ing, whatever.

So why am I sitting on my couch?

Because it's hot, that's why.

And as much as I love the outdoors, I'm not a big fan of heat exhaustion.

So I'm chilling out next to an air conditioning vent, watching the calendar and waiting for September.

And Today's Weather is.....Rain...and More Rain

Today was a beautiful day! It was supposed to be raining straight through until the end of the week. The television and radio news talked of it and the dailies gave vast coverage to how the weather was going to impact people's vacations and business at stores and restaurants.

After reading one particular story that gave statistics on past Julys and the amount of rainfall going back to the biginnig of records, I was convinced that we were very definitely in the middle of a monsoon. I was prepared to hunker down in my house with lots of food and a liferaft just in case I was unable to get back down the road to Stop and Shop.

It never ceases to amaze me how often the weather is made into something much more than it is. As the summer goes on, the rain will be replaced by August heat and humidity. Everyone will behave as if they have never experienced 90-degree weather. As the days become more chilly, the doomsayers will give us more statistics on how it seems to be getting colder, leaving us at the mercy of another Ice Age. The truth is that no amount of rhetoric will ever change the weather. It has a mind of its own, and our daily whining over it is not going to make one bit of difference. Yet even when a beautiful day comes around, most people have trouble enjoying it because they're too busy checking to see if it's going to be nice tomorrow, or they have to tell you that it's hailing in Bombay.

I want to suggest that we have a weatherman similar in nature to ITN - five news weather presenter, Lara Lewington. Let's add a little levity to rain, sleet, wind and snow. Wouldn't it be fun to turn on the weather report and see a man or woman dressed in fun clothing, tap dancing or hip-hopping while he let us know what the week ahead had in store for us?

Maybe the guy from the esure TV commercial would be interested in the job. In addition, he would give positive suggestions on how to make each type of weather work for us instead of against us. In other words, an optimistic weatherman who realized that our mind or our inner world really modulates our moods, not our external circumstances.

Every day can be a good one if we believe it can. We all know people who are able to maintain an optimistic outlook even in the face of dramatic and difficult external circumstances or futures that seem less than bright. That being said, no amount of bad weather should rain on our parade.

Eudaemonia or Nirvana

The discourse on the different approaches to life's most momentous issues is illustrated by Socrates and the Buddha. According to Socrates eudaemonia is  an inclusive ultimate end of living well or having a good life, and the moral virtues are understood as constitutive means to the achievement of that end. The Buddha described Nirvana as the ultimate goal.  Nirvana literally means extinguishing or unbinding. The implication is that it is freedom from what ever binds you, from the burning passion of desire, jealousy, and ignorance.

Socrates asked: "What is happiness and how can I achieve it?" The Buddha, on the other hand, posed the questions: "What is suffering and how can I avoid it?" At first glance (or on initial hearing) these would appear to be two routes to the same destination.

The subtle differences between the two would be more ably - and, doubtless, more lengthily and comprehensively - defined by a scholar who has immersed himself in the subject for a number of years, but an immediately-formed personal view was that the old Greek's attitude holds more potential for selfishness, and even brutality.

Many who have identified what they believe would bring happiness and gone off in pursuit of their objective have tended to do so without regard to others, bulldozing their way past all obstacles and, as often as not, leaving misery in their wake.

Recognising what constitutes suffering and simply giving it a body-swerve, however, appeals as a more solitary, less offensive method by which to arrive at what the Buddha called Nirvana.

Quintessence

The purest form of a perfume is sometimes called quintessence, as though the fragrance was five ("quinta") times distilled. Figuratively, quintessence means the most essential part of an idea. Ancient philosophers thought that all matter took one of four forms - earth, air, fire, water. Pythagoreans and medieval alchemists proposed a fifth element, or "quinta essentia." They believed it permeated all things and was the substance of the heavenly bodies. No alchemist succeeded in extracting this fifth element, however, so since 1570, "quintessence" has meant the quality that most characterizes a substance or notion.

Kick Him Where We Laugh

Few things elicit the crowd-pleasing merriment of watching a grown man take a monster shot to the groin. Is it the exposure, the vulnerability or simply a white-hot resentment of men?

Does it seem odd to you that a society that treats off-color jokes about and erotic images of women as punishable examples of sexual harassment portrays the kicking of men in the groin as acceptable? Such portrayals are an increasingly common staple in modern films. The increasing depiction of sexual assault against males as acceptable in the media is reflected in a recent study which indicates increasing numbers of children are getting the message that it is OK to sexually assault someone as long as they're male.

It's perhaps odd that no one -- particularly men -- seems terribly upset about the frequent attacks on the most sensitive area of the male anatomy. There's a good reason for the lack of protest and abundance of laughter.  Men, in society's eyes, deserve it.  Women would certainly be screaming and complaining if men were kicking women in the genitals [in popular culture]. But men by and large still hold almost all the positions of power in society, and the powerful are always targets for humor.

The action levels a man, literally and sexually, and the joke may be especially effective when the force behind the blow is a woman. In " Anchorman," an up-and-coming female television reporter gives a workplace sex harasser -- who has just groped her -- his comeuppance with a fist to his private parts.

 And it's not just slap-happy times at the movies. TV sitcoms and advertisers frequently capitalize on the visual gag's comic potency too. Audiences today can't seem to get enough -- and perhaps they never have and never will. There's something about the things that stick out of the body -- noses, ears, a woman's [chest] -- that seem to be funny. They make people laugh.

When a woman kicks a man, it's a way for her to temporarily assert her power relative to a man -- in a short, sharp way.  It has to be clear the injury is not really terrible, not life-threatening. I mean, if they castrated a man, that wouldn't be funny.

 
A measure of schadenfreude also undergirds a man's laughter as well. Quite simply, a man is tremendously relieved it isn't him bent over and bug-eyed.
It's well disguised, but there's still an element of sadism here.  I'm really a firm believer in the basic tenet of Freud's theory of humor, which is that it's grounded in hostility and aggression; the cream pie in the face is a substitute for a punch in the nose.

As long as there are human beings," said Ben Karlin, executive producer of "The Daily Show with Jon Stewart," "there will be film depictions of guys getting hit in the testicles.  Just klick the "testicles" to see the list of movies, make sure you don't klick them too hard!

 

Who are You?

What, indeed, is the right thing to do in any circumstance? I'm terrified by what nature does to people you love. I visited a childhood friend who is HIV positive. Maybe I'm terrified because of the big lie that stays between us. I know, of course, and I do everything but stand on my head to get him to talk to me. He can't. I finally made a little speech: "I think it's a shame that people can't be who they are. Whatever that is. If someone loves you, they don't care who you are. They love you no matter what. You have to be yourself. Be happy with who you are." Finally, after moments of silence, he was able to say, "Thank you," but only that.

The language of friendship

The small trading store, Zambia, where we bought our groceries and gathered to visit with one another, was owned by Shadreck, well known for making up and telling stories of a particular time and place.
 
My friends and I particularly liked hanging outside the shop playing table football, and interacting with shoppers, sometimes helping them carry their goods to their cars.  We enjoyed freebies from Sales representatives who would  give small gifts to close a deal and encourage return business.  I had a wide range of T-shirts, baseball caps and pens all bearing famous logos.
 
Stories of family, of traditions, come naturally to the store owner, Shadreck. Some of the customers wanted to sit next to him for his stories and his jokes. People who returned to the store through the years remembered Shadreck and asked about "the man that was real funny". What was fun is that every day you never knew what to expect, Shadreck, who may say greetings to a Tonga or greet visiting South africans or Russians. "That's what breaks it up," he used to say.  You meet people from all over. Shadreck could greet people in almost any language.
 
 "Immediately there's a connection when you speak in someone's language," said Shadreck. He knew about language. When he was 6 years old, he was sent to boarding school. "I couldn't understand why they beat us for speaking our own language," he said. "We wore uniforms. Discipline was harsh and strict." When he returned three years later, his grandfather and grandmother were waiting for him at the train station. "I embraced them. Tears were running down my grandmother's cheeks, and I made a tragic discovery. I could no longer communicate with them. I vowed I would relearn my language. Elders say the heart and soul of a people is their language."
 
I feel honoured by my Zambian blood.  I also honour the culture of fellow Zambians and others. "One of the things I liked about the store is that I got to sit by different people so I could hear their stories.

Home work, work at home

I remember when I spent countless hours doing school work on a table in a bedroom in my childhood home. I was in high school, and it was a time when I serious started thinking about careers.  I remember the old chair and the old table. Then, I had a high opinion of my own abilities.

But what I remember most was that the bedroom window looked out on a beautiful green lawn, a variety of colorful flowers and, in the background, a stately eucalyptus tree. It was the exciting  life of my childhood, and it was the most pleasant of atmospheres. I spent many hours working there.
 
If I wanted a break, I had only to go out the back door and walk about a mile along a stand of pine trees on a dirt lane to a playing field. It was nice duty. One wouldn't think it possible, but the atmosphere now is even better. I work in a home office overlooking a near-pristine park (a cricket club, no football pitch), surrounded by foliage of one sort or another and full of interesting creatures. It is a bliss-filled setting. For breaks I can walk around the park, which would take up most of the day, or any part thereof. Fifteen to 30 minutes of solitude does wonders for the muse. Nice duty. Nice way to work. That is the good news.
 
It comes at either end of 10 years of bad news, work atmosphere-wise. Offices, at least the half dozen I inhabited, are work-friendly places, but they don't do much for the soul. Generally, I worked at a desk surrounded by other desks stretching the four directions to the walls, which were inside walls, far from sunlight. Sometimes I had a cubicle. Not much difference. As I got more and more into managerial roles, my work space became a series of offices, all interior. There were windows, to be sure, but they faced the open-plan area so that I could watch, should I choose, people at work and, more importantly, they could watch me. One office that I occupied for years was just plain stuffy. I fussed with the building maintenance people constantly, hoping for an adequate supply of fresh air. They were sympathetic, even agreed, using their various instruments, that the room had a problem. But they were never able to fix it.
 
 Now, it is fascinating work, and 90-plus percent of the time I'm unaware of my physical surroundings, intent on the tasks at hand and in dealing with the issues to complete work each day.  This is hardly sweat-shop stuff, and it is probably as good as it gets. All the people who knew me when I worked long weeks in an office think I look "good" these days. "Relaxed," they say. I think it is the sunlight warming my left shoulder.

Spun a tale?

EVERYONE has the potential to be an excellent story teller. You have pretended before spun a tale, haven't you? Spun a tale? We are always so preoccupied that we seldom look around us to learn. There is so much to learn... from the people at the market; even from the way a tree moves.

Humour is something everyone enjoys. Women are funny. Women are certainly funnier than men. Which is why I always hear more laughter coming from the women more than men. Put women together for more than three minutes and-whether or not they have ever met before-they will have exchanged vital details of their inner lives and started to laugh.

This reminds me of a close friend I used to know a while back. She had this infectious laugh and just watching her laugh will make you laugh. She had a way of looking at the funny side of every issue. This was a bit of a problem, somtimes, especially when I was attempting to engage a serious topic with her.

Us guys aren't like this. Our conversations consist of asking each other questions that can be answered numerically. We can play football together for 22 years and know precisely two things about our comrades: their first names and what kinds of cars they drive. Humorous interaction between men instantly becomes a drag.

Lately, I have started using humour to bridge gaps in conversation. The other day as I waited in line at the local supermarket, I stood behind a woman whom I'd never met but who was, from all appearances, my watch. She was around my age. In my basket were milk, juice, cereal, peaches and wine. Basics. In contrast, hers had filet lamb, baking potatoes, sour cream, fresh parsley-the works. As she started placing these on the belt at the register, I leaned over and said with half a laugh,"Excuse me, but can I go home with you? This looks like one great meal."

Looking me straight in the eye as she counted out some tangerines, she said without missing a beat, "It's for tomorrow night's dinner. If we don't decide to move in together tomorrow night, it's over."

Now, I'd never met her before, but of course I knew exactly what she meant and could supply, in the shorthand of all female existence everywhere, all the necessary information.

"How long has it been?" I asked.

"Five years," she replied, arching an eyebrow for effect as I nodded. "If I'm going to learn to live with another adult it had better be now," she added.

Meanwhile, the woman working the register started ringing up the steak and said, "Honey, sounds like a bad deal to me. You've been on your own and you've liked it because otherwise you would have hooked up with somebody. Trust me. This way you can have a relationship without all the attendant garbage of cohabitation. You have any coupons?" She said this as she expertly scanned the produce under the laser that records the price. She knew what everything cost, including, it seemed, the relationship under discussion. By now we were all double-bagging the groceries and talking at the same time. We were laughing, but the laughter underscored-yet in no way undermined-the gravity of the story.

Even though there is no follow-up memo, even though we do not know each others' names, we know this is real work, the telling of our tales; the turning of anxiety into humour is the equivalent of spinning straw into gold. I take it seriously.

Watching the English

As we all know, there can be nothing more entertaining than indulging in a bit of people-watching.

Sitting outside a cafe, sipping a coffee, watching the world go by.

It doesn't take long before you begin to spot patterns of behaviour among the passers-by: the etiquette when two people bump into one another; how we behave when introduced to strangers; unspoken rules of weather-speak and, above all, queuing.

That's right. I've been watching the English.

I have been observing the unconscious codes that the English live by inorder to understand what it is to be an English person.

And my results, in forensic detail, examines the unspoken rules of the invisible queue in the pub - there may be no orderly line, but we instinctively know who is next and woe betide anyone who dares be so un-English as to barge in before their turn.

Queuing forms a major part of the essence of being English. I think it is a stereotype, but there are strict rules to be adhered to.

I once tried to see what would happen if one pushed in a queue. The very idea made me feel unease. I could barely bring myself to do it. What! I'm behaving like an English man.

But there are other codes which they (English) live by: the Importance of Not Being Earnest Rule underpinning their entire being: ' Seriousness is acceptable, solemnity is prohibited. Sincerity is allowed, earnestness is strictly forbidden. Pomposity and self-importance are outlawed.'

But other maxims are just as important for the English, such as humour.They may not have the monopoly on irony, but the way in which it is used is important and unique.

The English are excruciatingly embarrassed in most social situations (except when drunk - there is always an exception to the rules); terribly uncomfortable when discussing money; awfully polite.

The reflex-apology rule is widely evident, saying sorry to someone if they've bumped into them; uptight when it comes to sharing food, except when they eat chips then there's a free-for-all.

This is an outsider's perspective, combined with an academic study of a culture with its quirks and strange habits with great self-deprecating humour, another trait of the folk of England.

For those of you who look at the English and wonder why they do what they do. Now you know.

It's Been Swell, Dear, but I Have to Let Go

Dear, what was it called yourself?
Oh yeah, Buttercup.
It was all so long ago, wasn't it? It's over. I know I am taking a risk in declaring this. It is entirely possible I may have to eat these words. After all, this has never been a stable relationship. In the beginning, I considered you shallow, an attention-craving kid with more ambition than talent.

It was easy to dismiss your allure when we traveled in different circles, but then you barged, headstrong and defiant, into my world. And you didn't seem to care about what people said about you I liked your demeanour, though, and when you took on challenges you weren't ready for, or that weren't a good fit, I thought it was brave. Foolhardy, maybe. But brave. Most of all, I think, I was attracted by how you dealt with your critics and detractors. You won them over by believing in yourself. You made so many mistakes: Bad choices in men, literally allowing strangers in your bedroom and seeming to value shock over substance.

Were you looking to self-destruct? Yet what didn't kill you just made you stronger _ and, I might add, more buff. Sure, you were a sexy-looking kid. But when that baby fat fell away, leaving that sculpted, sinewy...well. But what I really admired, OK, adored was that mind. When we finally met, just you and me and a ridiculously low-cut dress in a hotel room, well, you owned me, and you knew it. I came back and told everyone who would listen how smart, how cool, how seductive you were, even as you were trying to be tough. You reminded me of Foxy Brown.

So what happened? After spending all that time communicating with me on my level _ that ray of light was so beautiful _ the last couple of messages you sent me just seemed so, well, insincere. And the politics! Did you really want to be a politician? The move overseas, the English accent: Hey, I hardly have room to criticize. I'm an insecure Zambian, too, as if you'd remember.

I guess when you announced your "reinvention" I had to face facts. Before, you let other people use the word. Your applying it to yourself makes you seem desperate, not ironic. Then, last week, I heard that you are wrapping things up in the UK without ever coming to see me, and I realized you must have been too scared to face people who really knew and understood you.

I wasn't betrayed, just sad. I hope it works better for you over there. I'm sorry to have to write this, but I've given up hope. I can't pretend or defend anymore. Maybe you shouldn't either. I wish you the best, really. It's been, well, fascinating.

Signed,
Your boy toy no more.

You Dirty Ol' Vole...

Henry is a typical Zambian male in the prime of his life, with an attractive spouse named Margerate. Henry is a devoted husband, Margerate an attentive wife. The couple have four young children, a typical home in a lovely suburb of Lusaka and their life has never been this good. But George is occasionally unfaithful. So, occasionally, is Margerate. No big deal: That's just the way life is in this part of Zambia.

This is a true story, though the names have been changed, and so, for that matter, has the species. Henry and Margerate are Midwestern American prairie voles. They don't marry, of course, or think about being faithful. And a bright future for a vole is typically no more than 60 days of mating and pup-rearing that ends in a fatal encounter with a snake or some other prairie predator in a lovely valley full of corn and bean fields.

But if you want to understand more about the conflict in human relationships between faithfulness and philandering, have a peek inside the brain of this wee rodent. Researchers have discovered what drives the animals' monogamy: brain chemistry. And when it comes to the chemical soup that governs behavior associated with what we call love, prairie vole brains are a lot like ours.

Scientists are careful to refer to what voles engage in as "social monogamy," meaning that although voles prefer to nest and mate with a particular partner, when another vole comes courting, some will stray. And as many as 50 percent of male voles never find a permanent partner. Of course, there is no moral or religious significance to the vole's behavior—monogamous or not. Voles will be voles, because that's their nature.

Still, the parallels to humans are intriguing. It is not in our best interest to screw around, yet studies have shown that at least one-third of married people cheat. In many cases, married couples struggle with the simple fact that love and lust aren't always in sync, often tearing us in opposite directions. Vole physiology and behavior reinforce the idea that love and lust are biochemically separate systems, and that the emotional tug of war many of us feel between the two emotions is perfectly natural—a two-headed biological drive that's been hardwired into our brains through millions of years of evolution.

I'm getting old, and I don't love as well or as easily as I once did, so if you're young and outraged by what I'm saying and know that I don't know what I'm talking about, forgive me: Living without a lot of love is a form of madness, so blame this on a raving of a lunatic. A blind man's memories of seeing are inevitably blurred and highly sentimental.

Now on to the theory that love is an addiction. We tend to think of addiction as something to be overcome, but addiction to love is positive, "devoutly to be wished". We need a lot more of it, to be healthy, and perhaps if we hope to save the world.

Our sensation of someone or something we love both informs and stimulates our intellect and triggers positive emotions. Our charged emotions further inform and stimulate our intellect, which triggers further positive emotion. In the physical and pheromonal absence of the object of our affection (and also if that object is pure invention or fantasy), we instead remember or imagine it, sustaining the same feedback loop.

I know, this is pretty clinical, but it does explain how love can be so overwhelming, pushing everything out of our minds and feelings and awareness. This doesn't explain how we 'decide' who or what to love, and why so often that love dies -- that's an issue for another day.

Benefit of a Zambian Greeting

In Zambia it is important to properly greet people when you meet them. In other places,for instance UK, when you meet somebody for the first time you will try and get to know them a little before you discuss your business -- the reason you are getting together. But after that when you see them or talk to them again, you will begin to discuss your business right away and not talk about yourselves beyond the perfunctory: "Hello, how are you?" "I am fine, how are you?" "Fine..."

It is different in Zambia. Whether or not you have met the person before you will not only be asked how am you, but how is you wife, how are you children, how are your parents, how is the work going, how is it with God, how is it with the car, how is it... and so on. The greeting can last up to four or five minutes.

To the impatient British business man, talking too much before discussing the reason you are contacting them is a waste of time. They will try to move to the subject at hand as quickly as possible. This is especially so when you are on the phone. It frequently occurs that they do not even bother to say "Hello" or "how are you?" They immediately launch into the reason they are calling you. This is the way business is transacted in UK.

Greetings in Zambia serve the purpose of readying or connecting before any messages are transmitted. I have experienced on several occasions the silent offense of Zambian people who I have not greeted properly. Now I know how important it is to greet someone.

Life in the UK is also full of ups and downs for people. I have learned the importance of "connecting" with people before I transact business. From now, I will greet people as Zambians greet people. I repent of my superficial way of saying hello. I want to know how people are, how they REALLY are, before I begin discussing business. People are very important, their life, their struggle and their tragedies are very important. The business I am doing with them is often not as important as the person themselves. I will recognize the importance of the person and my relationship with them by greeting them properly before I begin to discuss my business with them. That is one very good benefit from Zambia.

Cherishing The Lonesome

I love everyone. Most of all my friends that are always there no matter what.. You know who you are if you are real... and I love my family more than anything~ and my angel... You know you're so special to me...

Here is a bittersweet heart-warmer about a kindly old grump and young lonesome angel who matches wits with him. There's nothing left of this lonesome angel jaded from chasing rainbows,just a broken halo and pain only the rain knows.

You make a captivating picture.
Quiet yet wonderfully curious, bold but not bratty,
Your moon-face, my angel, captures the subconsciously tarnished innocence of a child who is accustomed to having the blues.
You're a girl wearily on the verge of realizing you haven't anyone to count on but yourself -- and yet instinctively casting about for a friend you can rely upon for the kind of nurturing fondness your ingenuous heart still expects.
Warm, sweet and sharper than you'd expect.

Philosophical musings on masculinity in modern Zambia

Being a Man....In The Lousy Modern Zambia
It's the nagging feeling that your life is too soft, not manly enough and offers no real tests. we live in a unisex society, one that emphasises the similarities - rather than the differences - between the sexes. Men are expected to be caring and sharing, and to carry their infant progeny around.

Without manly work, with women doing men's jobs and men becoming househusbands and childminders, we have to try that much harder to be 'male' or 'female', and turn in desperation to outward displays of gender.

There's more violence because beating someone up is one of the few ways left to prove you're a man.

And prove it we must, it seems. We're simply not genetically programmed to be happy as 'new men'. Men have ten times more testosterone than women, and it needs to do what it was put there for: to face danger, to endure pain, to fight.

I should be seeking out danger and difficulty, and exposing myself to unnecessary hardship and risk. The cause of this urge to keep risking life and limb, is down to, for me, what modern Zambian man lacks: the Rite Of Passage - the special testing that males in most primitive Zambia passed through. The opportunity to prove, once and for all, that you're a man.

Always, it involves at least the possibility of death, or great endurance, or killing (usually some dangerous beast), or mastering some skill (usually making something to kill some dangerous beast with).

The civilised Zambian male has no such rite. We no longer see life as a journey in which one is transformed by experience. For us, happiness comes from having more: more money, more cars, more clothes, more relationships, more freedom.

Musings on Mating

I'm inherently attracted to Zambian women. Lately, my roving eye has been scanning the hills and valleys of the Zambian cultural, gender politics, specifically what Zambian women want. My Musings on Mating are a mixed bag of hilarity, embarassing moments and near misses.

Talking about misses, I came across a number of very good looking Zambian women at the Miss Zambia UK 2003. Beauty pageants are often criticized as being ridiculous events themselves. Truth be told, the contestants were smashing. I'll leave the fight for sexual equality to people who have the time and energy. Right now, my interest is solely in seeing drop-dead gorgeous girls. For this moment, beauty beats brains any time.

You cannot attend a Zambia party without the constant reminder ofAIDS in Zambiaand the devastating effect it leaves in it's wake. This sullen reminder does nothing to dampen the high spirits that are rekindled at the sight of wall to wall beauties.

Once upon a time, I was in a happy relationship. Now, I'll be lucky if she can call me back. What happened? No comment. I wish to dwell on what will be or can be.

Anyone holding a torch for a past love? While you say you want to meet someone new, the old partner tugs at your heart and can at times seem like your safe ace-in-the-hole or last resort. In case nothing else works out, you can always go back.

No. Not me. This time, I have decided to take advantage of the Spring Cleaning tradition to make room in my heart, closet and calendar for the love I want. I will Clear away obstacles, create space for new opportunities and open my life to the real possibility that the new love could be just around the corner.

So, finally, it has come to this.

Framed in film forever

Sometimes, it's a scene. Sometimes, it's a line of dialogue, or just a
single shot.
Sometimes, it can even be a whole film.

There is something in a movie that grabs hold of a person in a way
that's highly personal and completely unexpected.

It could be a scene that shows us a kind of life we could imagine
ourselves living, or a feeling that somehow the filmmaker has journeyed
to a place in his or her imagination that we've journeyed to ourselves.

There is no predicting what in a movie will uniquely move us. It just
happens - and marks us forever.



"Stand By ME" to me still stands as the classic coming-of-age story.

It's a magical journey back to youth and the fun adventures you'd have
as a kid. Not to mention the bonds you develop with your closest
childhood friends. The movie takes place in the 1950's where a group of
friends decide to go on an overnight adventure to find the dead body of
a boy who was hit and killed by a train.

During their journey, the young lads have a few of their own scary
encounters. The young guys are all played very realisticly by Wil
Wheaton, River Phoenix, Corey Feldman, and the incredibly slimmed down
Jerry 'O' Connell. Along the way, they encounter the town bully, played
wonderfully by Kiefer Sutherland.

It's a special movie that will rekindle fond memories of your own
childhood. Most people might not have gone on such a big and odd journey
as these guys, but I'm sure almost anybody can relate to that special
time in life.

When I was growing up in the Mining town of Kitwe, my friends and I made
a similar trek to the Mining Waste Dumps when we heard that a missing
person's body was found.

serendipity

serendipity: I have had fortunate encounters of late, the type you least expect to find, not in my quest.

I'm setting out on an adventure to discover exciting and interesting new developments, ideas, activities and all that inspires curiosity.

With the help of Manufactured Serendipitymy quest for the unknown will be less gruesome and and a lot more technical.

Stay tuned, later!

Zambia

Naturally, my starting and main point of interest. I will endeavour to stay upto-date with the help ofGoogle Search: Zambia and I promise not to be drawn into issues political, though a few peeks at YOUR INDEPENDENT POST - ZAMBIA'S LEADING NEWSPAPER will not do any discernible harm, I guess.

The start of the never ending poke at the truth or any resemblance of the truth. Aha, therein lies the problem or Where the Truth Lies. I remember a friend jokingly stating, "Zambians do not always mean what they say and do not always say what they mean."

My knee-jerk response was, "So they lie most of the time." My friend, I call him friend because he was paying for the meal, promptly corrected me.

Friend: "Zambians do not lie, they just don't tell the truth."

Me: "Ok, elaborate"

Friend: "See, if I start telling you stories that are, for lack of a better word, false I'm not necessarily lying. But, if you ask me a question and a provide a misleading answer deliberately, then it is a lie."

Me: "In short, Zambians tell tall stories."

Friend: "Only in Zambia."

Me: I guess we all, at one point or another, have beenEconomical with the truth. Some people are just more compelled than others"