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So what ever happened to Hoople?
Your hiatuses (is that a word?) were longer than mine
I'm posting at my same pace...it's YOU who, when you have the brain, posts like non-stop!
There was a time when you and I were neck and neck!
Quit slacking off!
Holy shit is right...lol...congrats...I think
Welll.......there are a few but not too many! I've been around here for a long long time though!!! One of the ones I found was CaptNemo who no longer posts.
I will say that I probably have the most posts about nothing though!!!
http://investorshub.advfn.com/boards/profile.asp?user=1012
http://investorshub.advfn.com/boards/profile.asp?User=15996
http://investorshub.advfn.com/boards/profile.asp?User=2132
WOW Susie....70000??? Does anyone have more than that???
I like to think the Lownumba "IS" a heckuva guy!
"Was" sounds so final!!!
That Lownumba was a heck of a guy.
Even though you aren't around anymore, I decided to post my 70,000th post to you!!!
Holy shit, can I talk or what!!!!
Buddy's been in jail and Low is MIA. hmmmm.
Hey Buddy Cianci has been scooped up by Boston and given a job at one of our prestigious hotels. Probably as a celebrity guest who walks around and hobnobs with the hoi polloi. Naturally we have to wait until he actually gets out of jail but to hear Buddy talk he never knew how to hobnob in RI as there were no hoi polloi.
Oh and I think there will be a big party if his parole officer allows it. Will you be attending?
I posted something like this on the Q&A but little Matty deleted it and banned me. Oh the shame!
Protesters and Police Clash in Russia
By ANDREW E. KRAMER
ST. PETERSBURG, Russia, March 3 — An unusually large and unruly protest against the government of President Vladimir V. Putin ended here today in clashes with the police and the arrest of opposition leaders. in St. Petersburg, Russia’s second-largest city.
Rally organizers and the police said more than 100 people were arrested after a midafternoon scuffle between marchers and riot police on the main street, Nevsky Prospekt, in the heart of the city’s tourist district. St. Petersburg is Mr. Putin’s hometown.
The rally was held in advance of local elections scheduled for March 11. Opposition events typically draw no more than several hundred people, but several thousand gathered for the rally in Vosstaniya Square.
Two leaders of what is left of Russia’s liberal opposition, Garry Kasparov, the former chess grandmaster, and Mikhail A. Kasyanov, a former prime minister, spoke to the crowd. Then the protesters, accompanied by Mr. Kasparov, marched most of the length of the street, pushing through three police cordons as sirens wailed and riot police from the Interior Ministry scrambled to block their path.
The rally marked one of the higher-profile actions by Mr. Kasparov since he retired from professional chess to dedicate himself to opposition politics.
“This is our first real victory,” Mr. Kasparov, speaking over a bullhorn, told the crowd on the muddy street, surrounded by rows of police. “I congratulate you for overcoming your fear. We will have victory when we get our Russia back. We have 364 days before the election in 2008.”
Minutes after Mr. Kasparov spoke and left the area, the police broke up the crowd, first arresting the speaker who had taken Mr. Kasparov’s place.
Mr. Kasparov had handed the bullhorn to Sergey V. Gulayev, a member of an opposition faction in the local legislature in St. Petersburg.
“The government is afraid of the slightest wind,” Mr. Gulayev told the crowd. “The government is fragile, and afraid, and will collapse with one push.”
As he spoke, riot police shoved through the crowd and grabbed the bullhorn from his hands, smashing it against the wall of a building. A police officer put Mr. Gulayev, grimacing, in a headlock and dragged him into a police vehicle as members of the crowd yelled: “Shame! Shame!”
A wedge of police officers swinging nightsticks then divided the crowd and pushed it toward the sidewalks. Some protesters fought back and a melee erupted, lasting about a minute.
At one point, a black plastic riot helmet torn from a police officer was flung into the air and clanged onto the muddy pavement, as news photographers and other protesters scrambled away from the swirling fight.
On Friday, Mr. Kasparov, Mr. Kasyanov and Eduard Limonov, head of the National Bolshevik party, led a meeting of the United Civil Front opposition group in St. Petersburg. Mr. Limonov, who was arrested this morning before the march began, said the group was close to nominating Mr. Kasyanov as their candidate for president in the 2008 elections.
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/03/04/world/europe/04russia.html?hp=&pagewanted=print
The Planet Xoron.
where did you come from?
I just hate it when a poster disappears with no provocation or reason.
maybe I should bookmark it
'Timothy Leary: A Biography,' by Robert Greenfield
The Nutty Professor
Review by LUC SANTE
IT has been a mere 10 years since Timothy Leary's death, but already his career seems improbable. A onetime psychologist who advocated the use of psychedelic drugs for personal growth, Leary loomed large in the 1960's as something of a cross between a pop star and a religious leader. Both those roles involve performance, but Leary, although blessed with considerable charm, was not a terribly effective performer. He didn't sing or dance; he was a vague speaker and a hopeless writer; his personality, up close, did not inspire confidence. And although he was among the major protuberances in the cultural bouillabaisse we call The Sixties, he was not much of a 60's type himself, as Robert Greenfield demonstrates in his thorough and judicious biography. While he may have been the leading spokesmodel for LSD, Leary remained to the end an old-fashioned booze hound, as well as a snake-oil peddler of the most traditional American sort. Had he been born a decade or two earlier, he would probably have been offering to cure arthritis through the application of the electric belt.
Nearly every page is riveting in "Timothy Leary," which unfolds like the great novel Sinclair Lewis might have written had he lived to the age of 120. Greenfield is not one of those biographers who set out to besmirch their subjects and deplore their lives, and for whom every detail is an indictment. Neither, unlike many, does he seek foreshadowing in every trespass of his subject's youth. Nevertheless, he cannot exactly airbrush a life that comes so lavishly shadowed: abandonment of the family by professional-drinker father in 1933, when Tim was 13; dismissal from West Point for blatant transport of hooch; suicide of first wife as a consequence of his dogging around — under the banner of non-bourgeois unpossessiveness, of course.
Still, Leary went places. He was ambitious as well as charming and worked his way up the postgraduate ladder to Berkeley and, in 1959, to Harvard. He was initially known as an expert on personality assessment, but, while on a sojourn in Mexico the following year, he was introduced to psilocybin mushrooms, and the experience was so transformative that psychedelics promptly became the central force in his life, his research and his teaching. Along with his colleague Richard Alpert, son of the president of the New Haven Railroad (and today a guru known as Ram Dass), Leary tried to turn on all of Harvard. He was a proselytizer by nature — soon after his arrival at Harvard, his department head had warned him against "using slogans and waving banners" — and psychedelic drugs gave him a full-fledged cause.
It wasn't long before any pretense to scientific detachment fell away and controlled experiments were chucked in favor of missionary zeal and contempt for all mundane exigencies. Chaotic tripping parties ensued, involving students, under "spiritual" or "philosophical" pretexts. In 1963, Harvard — famous for protecting its own — finally choked on the negative publicity and summarily dismissed Leary and Alpert. In the meantime, Leary had set about converting the rest of the world, beginning with the literary and artistic avant-garde. Most were enthusiastic, especially Allen Ginsberg, who brought in all his friends. ("Coach Leary, walking on water wasn't built in a day" was Jack Kerouac's response to the incessant cheerleading.) Leary had also by then reached out to the intellectual pioneers of psychedelia, Aldous Huxley and the psychiatrist Humphry Osmond. Although years later Osmond would assess Leary as someone who "lives in an almost totally hypothetical future" and compare his "millennialism" to Hitler's, he and Huxley, in Greenfield's words, "handed the future of psychedelic research to the wrong man."
Around the same time, the psychedelic caravan picked up the Hitchcock siblings, Peggy, Billy and Tommy, heirs to the Mellon fortune, and through them acquired the use of a fabulous rambling house and huge estate in Millbrook, N.Y. This became the headquarters of Leary and gang for the better part of five years, a period filled with endless parties, epiphanies and breakdowns, emotional dramas of all sizes, and numerous raids and arrests, many of them on flimsy charges concocted by the local assistant district attorney, G. Gordon Liddy. It was also at Millbrook that Leary, Alpert and Ralph Metzner wrote "The Psychedelic Experience" (1964), which contained the injunction to "turn off your mind, relax, float downstream," appropriated two years later by John Lennon for "Tomorrow Never Knows," the last song on "Revolver." (Leary's epochal "Turn on, tune in, drop out" was first spoken by him at a conference in San Francisco in 1966.) And it was at Millbrook that Leary's two children, Susan and Jack, who had been dragged through so much, beginning with their mother's death, and had been neglected and passively abused for many years, began to fall apart. (In 1988 Susan shot her boyfriend, and eventually killed herself in jail; Jack managed to repair himself, but has avoided publicity ever since.)
FOR Leary, the late 1960's were a whirl of media events and arrests. Godlike to one portion of the population — even if Haight-Ashbury hippies drove him out of the Digger free store in 1967, chanting, "You don't turn us on!" — he was demonic to another, although in both cases less for who he actually was than for what he represented. He ran counter to the prevailing spirit in one sense: he had no interest in politics. He called student activists "young men with menopausal minds" and suggested that LSD could stand for "Let the State Disintegrate." But by 1968, his slogans were so poised between derangement and Madison Avenue that they could pass for visionary; "Everyone should start their own nation," he uttered, just days after Martin Luther King's assassination. It was awfully hard to tell charlatans from prophets at the time, and besides, the denatured, anti-intellectual language that dominated discourse then (and is still with us, in a New Age guise) had been rolling off Leary's tongue since before he had ingested a single microgram of lysergic acid: people engaged in emotional "games"; all the world's bad stuff was a "system"; the state of being clued-in was "consciousness," and so on.
Leary did have real enemies in the law enforcement racket, however, and by 1969 he had accumulated enough outstanding indictments, mostly on penny ante marijuana charges, that he finally went to jail, and was likely to be kept there for years before he would be considered for parole. Characteristically, he compared himself to "Christ . . . harassed by Pilate and Herod." In a twist that could have occurred only in 1970, a consortium of drug dealers paid the Weather Underground to spring Leary from the California Men's Colony at San Luis Obispo — he pulled himself along a telephone cable over the fence, then was picked up by a car — and transport him to Algeria. He duly issued a press statement written in the voice of the Weathermen, the money line of which was: "To shoot a genocidal robot policeman in the defense of life is a sacred act."
But when he and his wife, Rosemary, arrived in Algiers, they found themselves wards of the exiled Black Panther leader Eldridge Cleaver, who was probably smarter than Leary, possibly crazier, and had little use for him. As Leary acknowledged, rather shrewdly: "It was a new experience for me to be dependent on a strong, variable, sexually restless, charismatic leader who was insanely erratic. I usually played that role myself." For his part, Cleaver, having observed Leary in action, warned the hippies at home that rather than furthering the revolutionary cause, those who ingested psychedelics were "doing nothing except destroying your own brains and strengthening the hands of our enemy." The final dissolution of bonds between the politicos and the stoners can be dated from that communiqué.
In 1971 the Learys fled to Switzerland, where they were sheltered and effectively imprisoned by a large-living arms dealer, Michel Hauchard, who claimed he had an "obligation as a gentleman to protect philosophers," but mostly had a film deal in mind. In rapid succession, Leary was jailed and released, was left by Rosemary and picked up a new better half, Joanna Harcourt-Smith — whose mother told Leary that her daughter "lived in a dream world where nothing was real" — and wrote a book. He was still wanted, however, so he and Joanna soon hit the road, to Vienna, then Beirut, then Kabul. Afghanistan had no extradition treaty with the United States, but this stricture did not apply to American airliners. Before Leary could deplane, he was arrested by an agent of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs.
HE faced 25 years in prison (in the course of his trial he compared himself to Jesus and Socrates), and in 1973 was sent first to Folsom — where his neighbor was Charles Manson — and then Vacaville. There, realizing he would be an old man by the time he was released, he decided to turn state's evidence. Although few of his intended betrayals did real damage, it was generally agreed that his volte-face — greeted bitterly even by people who had long before lowered their expectations of Leary — conclusively marked the end of the 60's. He dribbled away his remaining 20-odd years in a showbiz half-life: the lecture circuit, talk shows, unconsummated movie deals, parties. At the end, ill with cancer, he was adopted by young people who wheeled him to nightclubs and fed him drugs. He made posthumous headlines when a portion of his ashes was blasted into space aboard a collective hearse-rocket.
The world needs scoundrels because they make good copy. Leary's life was so incident-filled that it would be difficult to make it sound dull. Still, Robert Greenfield, who has written books about the Rolling Stones and Jerry Garcia, does a particularly good job of being at once meticulous and brisk. In addition, the book provides a crash course in several aspects of 60's culture: its often gaseous rhetoric, its reliance on mahatmas and soothsayers, its endless bail-fund benefits and sometimes dubious appeals to conscience, its thriving population of informers, its contribution to the well-being of lawyers, its candyland expectations and obstinate denials of reality, its fatal avoidance of critical thinking, its squalid death by its own hand. That still leaves many meritorious elements largely outside Leary's sphere: civil rights, the antiwar movement, music and art, the impulse toward communitarianism, to name a few. In part because of Leary, however, ideals and delusions were encouraged to interbreed, their living progeny being avid consumerism and toothless dissent.
Luc Sante's books include "Low Life" and "The Factory of Facts." He teaches writing and the history of photography at Bard.
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/06/25/books/review/25sante.html?pagewanted=print
4-4 is a good month-date
Draft: 1998 - 3rd round by the Boston Red Sox
http://sports.yahoo.com/mlb/players/6941
What are you doing at 4:20?
Fibonacci Poems Multiply on the Web After Blog's Invitation
By MOTOKO RICH
Blogs
spread
gossip
and rumor
But how about a
Rare, geeky form of poetry?
THAT'S exactly what happened after Gregory K. Pincus, a screenwriter and aspiring children's book author in Los Angeles, wrote a post on his GottaBook blog (gottabook.blogspot.com) two weeks ago inviting readers to write "Fibs," six-line poems that used a mathematical progression known as the Fibonacci sequence to dictate the number of syllables in each line.
Within a few days, Mr. Pincus, 41, had received about 30 responses, a large portion of them Fibonacci poems. Most of them were from friends or relatives or people who regularly read his blog, which focuses on children's literature.
Then, last Friday, a subscriber to the popular Web site slashdot.org — which runs over a tagline that reads "News for nerds. Stuff that matters" — linked to Mr. Pincus's original post, and suddenly, it seemed, Fibs were sprouting all over the Internet.
Mr. Pincus, who wrote in his original post that he conceived of the Fibonacci poems in part as a writing exercise, said in an interview that he figures more than 100 other Web sites have linked to his post and more than 1,000 Fibs have been written since the beginning of April, which just happens to be both National Poetry Month and Mathematics Awareness Month.
"It tickles me that it can spread like that," said Mr. Pincus. "It's such a wonderful thing."
Readers of the blockbuster best-selling "Da Vinci Code," of course, may recognize the Fibonacci sequence as the key to one of the first clues left for the novel's hero and heroine. It is also a staple of middle-school math classes. Though relatively rare in poetry, it shows up in the musical compositions of the early 20th-century composer Bartok and the progressive metal band Tool, the spiraling shape of the Nautilus shell and in knitting patterns.
By and large, most of the people who have written Fibonacci poems over the past couple of weeks are not professional poets, but actors, comedians, video role-play enthusiasts, musicians, computer scientists, lawyers and schoolchildren. Casey Kelly Barton, a stay-at-home mother and home-schooler in Austin, Tex., who started a blog called Redneck Mother to chronicle her "dissatisfaction after Bush got re-elected," used the Fib form to write a rant against the president.
Chat rooms linked to Web sites ranging from Actuarial Outpost, a forum for actuaries, to em411.com, a site for electronic musicians, have taken up Mr. Pincus's challenge and generated strings of the whimsical poems. Even a Hungarian technology site has linked to the Fibonacci post.
The allure of the form is that it is simple, yet restricted. The number of syllables in each line must equal the sum of the syllables in the two previous lines. So, start with 0 and 1, add them together to get your next number, which is also 1, 2 comes next, then add 2 and 1 to get 3, and so on. Mr. Pincus structured the Fibs to top out at line six, with eight syllables.
For many people, writing one of the poems is a little like solving a puzzle. Suresh Venkatasubramanian, a 32-year-old computer science researcher at AT&T Labs-Research in Florham Park, N.J., said he was attracted to the Fibonacci poetry because it reminded him of "what a computer scientist would call the 'resource constraints.' " On his blog, Geomblog, Mr. Venkatasubramanian added two more lines to Mr. Pincus's original prescription, while still keeping to the Fibonacci sequence:
I
like
to blog.
Frequently.
Theory matters.
Computer science (theory)
is my home and geometric algorithms are
sublime. Let P be a set of points in general position in the plane. Amen.
The last line, said Mr. Venkatasubramanian, is an inside joke in geometry.
Emily Galvin, a screenwriter and film production assistant who is writing a collection of poems and short plays in verse for Tupelo Press, has written one of her plays using the Fibonacci sequence. Instead of using the progression to dictate the number of syllables in a line, she let it regulate the number of words.
Ms. Galvin, who said an ex-boyfriend once sent her love notes composed in the Fibonacci sequence, was delighted to learn of Mr. Pincus's success in spreading Fibs around the Internet. "How great that something mathematical could be bringing together all sorts of people who don't write professionally and giving them a form," she said.
More professional poets may be attracted to the form, said Annie Finch, a poet who teaches at the University of Southern Maine. "Poets are very, very hungry for constraint right now," said Ms. Finch, who has written about formal poetry. "Poets are often poets because they love to play with words and love constraints that allow the self to step out of the picture a little bit. The form gives you something to dance with so it's not just you alone on the page."
Even those who were not compelled by the idea of Fibonacci poetry could not resist the challenge. When asked for her insights, Judith Roitman, a poet and math professor at the University of Kansas, wrote in an e-mail message that she "found the phenomenon pretty uninteresting." But she then went on to write:
So
you
no doubt
will not find
it interesting
to talk to me about this stuff.
And It Goes Like This: 0-1-1-2-3-5-8
By MOTOKO RICH
Published: April 14, 2006
The "Fib" — so named by GottaBook blogger Gregory K. Pincus — is a tightly written poem that uses the Fibonacci sequence as its inspiration.
The Fibonacci progression is a mathematical formula that starts with 0 and 1 and then continues to add numbers that are equal to the sum of the previous two numbers. Thus, the first seven numbers in the sequence are: 0-1-1-2-3-5-8.
To write a Fib, a more complicated version of the classic, highly constrained haiku, the poet composes a six-line poem that has the correct number of syllables in each line corresponding to each digit in the sequence. (The real first line of each Fib is silence.)
Johanna Wasylik, who lives on a farm in Alberta and home schools her three children, said the Fib form was simple enough for her kids to write poems. "It's much easier for even a young child to come up with something that sounds pretty good and to be pleased with it," she said. Her 8-year-old daughter wrote:
Cat
Sun
Lying
On the deck
Curled up, tail wrapped 'round
I think she's having lots of fun
Wow. I've had tooth aches before and I can't believe you've gone through this for so long.
Now if I have a toothache I don't even go to see my regular dentist. I head right for the specialist/root canal guy(s).
There is two of them and they are both interchangeable for the work they do. I call their office and I'm in a chair within the hour. Another hour later and I'm walking out the door pain free with one less root.
You need to find a good doc.
I need some right now. Something is seriously wrong with this tooth. I cannot believe I brought this upon myself. I had only two silver fillings in my entire mouth. Both back molars, bottom right and left. Asked dentist to change to white fillings and he damaged the nerves in BOTH of them. This was in October or November! I went through the holidays not being able to eat and finally told him I could not stand it. He'd asked me to give it some time for them to calm down. Said his mother's took months to calm down. Okay, what do you say.
He has since CHARGED ME to put all kinds of desensitizing stuff on them and then some extra coating. Finally I said I would go mad if I couldn't eat soon. They were only pressure sensitive. He said a root canal was the only solution. So, after five months he starts the root canal, been through first and second steps and my tooth is KILLING ME!!!!!!!!! WORSE NOW THAN EVER! I'm going to go mad if this doesn't end soon. Can you imagine not being able to eat on either side of your mouth AND being in excruciating pain? This guy is nuts (so am I, apparently). I'm calling a specialist tomorrow. Tonight, the gland on the side being worked on is stiff and swollen, under chin feels swollen and the tooth is aching. How? There's no nerve in it? I am so damned angry.
It has a long history and a killer proof.
I'm confused? HA I'm not the one that is saying a BMW can talk!
Oh can you send me some of our money then?
this message is for lownumbas board
http://www.investorshub.com/boards/board.asp?board_id=2442
2006 MASTERS POOL
You will pick 5 players.
ONLY ONE OF THOSE PLAYERS CAN BE EITHER
MICKELSON, WOODS, SINGH, OR GOOSEN.
Your team will be made up of one, only one, of the top four ranked players in the world ranking and four others of your choosing. The team with the most money wins. Please include a Total Score for any tie breaker.
this message is for lownumba
http://www.investorshub.com/boards/board.asp?board_id=2442
2006 MASTERS POOL
You will pick 5 players.
ONLY ONE OF THOSE PLAYERS CAN BE EITHER
MICKELSON, WOODS, SINGH, OR GOOSEN.
Your team will be made up of one, only one, of the top four ranked players in the world ranking and four others of your choosing. The team with the most money wins. Please include a Total Score for any tie breaker.
Edited, happy?
I'm telling you, there will be no 3006!
You are confused, In BMW speak schadenfreude means, "You bought a volks wagon! HAHAHAHAHA!"
P.S. I love VolksWagons. I'm in a black humor kind of mood.
Well, I use the term loosely, like, "we're pregnant", and "our money", you know.
That's secret of marketing.
You do tend to repeat yourself don't you?
It's even much simpler - I'm cheap!
It's even much simpler - I'm cheap!
You're a miserly wino? Is that your whole add campaign?
because I'm cheap and drink Carlo Rossi Burgundy by the gallon
Why would anyone want to buy you?
You may feel more at home with this one:
Erfolgtraurigkeit
schadenfruede means "Buy me" in volkswagon speak
sorry...was busy...
We must translate more often. Much hilarity could come from it.
Let's not beat this to death :)
Morning
The link is a German source Googlized into English....sort of:
Mitfreude
Mitfreude is artificially a term used little in tying to the term compassion more made. One understands the desire at strange desire or the selbstlose participation in the joy of others by Mitfreude. The Mitfreude is heavy. "to the compassion", Jean Paul says , "is sufficient humans, to the Mitfreude belongs an angel." The egoist decides if necessary to the compassion, never however to the Mitfreude; but applies in practice of the life that more than these, because compassion becomes more easily working than Mitfreude. See Kant, Metaphys. D Customs §. 34.
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