what makes a red man red?

According to Disney's Peter Pan, the answer to that question has something to do with seeing his mother-in-law for the first time. I learned differently last week.

I have two grade levels in my class this year, both grade 5 and 6. This creates a bit of a challenge when it comes to planning the year and how to manage covering the required curriculum. For the most part, I will be teaching the grade 6 material, as it is nearly impossible to teach all of both.

In the grade 6 Social Studies, the required material is Canadian history starting with, and including, Canada's first people, and then all the way to Confederation in 1867. We are still on the first unit. We are studying Canada's first people. The Northwest Coastal, Plateau, Plains, Subarctic, and Arctic Natives. Including all of the various included tribes.

When planning for the day, I seek to, as much as possible, try to find how one subject can mesh with another during the week. My art projects usually have something to do with Math, Science or Social Studies. This week month's art comes from Social Studies.

When studying about the NW Coastal Natives, we discovered that some of their art included paintings on cedar planks. I immediately thought of something we could do as a related art activity. I remembered those leftover bundles of cedar shingles from last-year's shed project. There are about 60 shingles per bundle and each bundle goes for about $20.00. They are No.4 Western Red Cedar shingles out of British Columbia. I felt good about this as that was the area of Canada we were studying.

The shingles are a little rough and quite porous, so I thought that they needed to be prepared before taking paint. I sanded a few more than what was needed for my class. I remembered a post of Andrea's where she was using Gesso to treat a wooden surface, so I decided to do the same thing. I put on two coats. I'm not sure if the second coat does anything but I did it anyways.
When it came time for the actual project, we looked around for some examples of Western Canadian Native art. A Google search didn't disappoint us. We were led to THE COGHLAN ART VIRTUAL GALLERY and the artwork of NORVAL MORRISSEAU.
I copied some of his paintings onto an overhead film and let the students choose which one they would trace onto their cedar boards.The reason I let them copy someone elses work was to have an immediately successful attempt. From my experience, much of young student's frustrations with art comes from self criticism as a result of failed attempts. My goal was to have them "create" something wonderful on their first try, even if it is "cheats art". My hope is that this success will be the impetus for further energy and confidence in the arts.


As with every art project I teach, I try to model the skills and medium needed for the project. I try to make it look as easy as possible. I modeled this project exactly as they would be doing it. This process is basically a glorified colour-by-numbers. The only thing different between mine and my students is that I did mine on a 19x22 prepared hardboard. My goal for the near future is to learn how to do this properly, in layers, not by small sections.

The students are currently working on their paintings, and probably will for the next week or so. I'll post a group shot when they are all done.

The answer to the question of What makes a red man red is he wasn't really red, but the Beothuks painted their bodies and clothing with red ochre paint. Many "Indians" used red ochre as an insect repellant, but the Beothuks considered red a sacred color and wore it all year long. Neighboring tribes called them the Red People, and the Europeans called them Red Indians. Some Europeans started using "Red Indians" to refer to all Native Americans, not just the Beothuk tribe. Other tribes strongly dislike this term, though. They consider "Red Indian" a racial insult, and prefer to be called First Nations. The Beothuks were the original natives of Newfoundland, Canada. They eventually became extinct after the Europeans grew tired of dealing with them and began hunting them for sport.

Canadians have a rich history...albeit colonial.

coming soon

I was saving this picture for one of those times during the cold winter's week when school would be cancelled. But hey...isn't it great that it's still warm enough outside that a T-shirt is still common outer wear?

I promise I'll post something good soon. I'm working on something as we (as I) speak, er, write...whatever.

don't be surprised

The things that matter in this life are the things that will be mentioned at your funeral.

A number of years ago I watched a movie many of you also watched. As Good as it Gets has, as one of it's main characters, a man played by Jack Nicholson, not to be confused with Jack Nicholas (the Bear), the golfer. Really, the only thing I remember from the movie, aside from Jack being a real ass when it came to getting his favourite table in a restaurant, was a single line spoken. "You make me want to be a better man".

I've sincerely thought, and have spoken those words regarding my wife many times. My track record of sticking with these renewed feelings is probably much like any other male out there. I have nothing to boast about. What I am grateful for is frequent times of renewal.

Yesterday morning I watched another movie. Or rather, I watched as 500 people gathered to become part of a moving picture of a young man's life. Each actor had a vital role. Some got speaking parts. The people who played the rocks or the trees spoke as clearly as all the others.
The feeling I retained after the life show was nearly the same as Jack's sentiment. After watching Ken's story, I wanted to be a better man.

In the next little while, don't be surprised if:

I do the ordinary in extraordinary ways, do the extraordinary in ordinary ways.
I not busy myself caring for my children to such a frenzy that I do so without CARE.
I go about my employment as the means to living my life with fullness of giving and not to fuel the desire to GET.
I use something outside of myself to keep kicking at the darkness until it bleeds daylight.

KEN KEHLER - father, husband, brother, son and friend, died September 20, 2006. He was 43 years old.

Where while that severed doth remain,

This grave partakes the fleshly birth,

Which cover lightly,

gentle earth.

In lieu of flowers, any donations to cancer research, CancerCare Manitoba or to anybody who is trying their best to help others, would be greatly appreciated.

L'chayim (to life)

wealth managment

Down on Grandpa's farm...*

...there is a cute - little - boy
the boy - he makes a face like this (smirk, smirk)

...there is a huge - apple - tree

the tree - is ready to be picked (yum, yum)

...there is a pretty - young - girl

the girl - she likes to laugh out loud (ha, ha)

...there is a quick - humming - bird

the bird - it makes a sound like this (hum, hum)

...there is a red - haired - Jen

the Jen - she loves to run and play (yee, ha)

...there is a his - to - ry

the past - is captured one by one (snap, snap)

We're on our way, we're on our way,

On our way to Grandpa's farm.

We 're on our way, we're on our way

On our way to Grandpa's farm.

*apologies to those that don't know the song. The flow of this post will not make a lick of sense to you.
_______________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________

And then returning home...

...but before turning in, and instead of unloading the cargo space of the van, I decide to have some quiet time at one of my favourite rest-stops.

The next morning, unloading the van proved to be an excellent work-out substitute for an eight mile run. At almost 40 years of age, my mother still likes to pile it on. I kept asking her as we loaded this all into the van, "Are you sure you want to give all this away?...and doesn't anyone else wants some of this?" She simply said that this is why they have such a big garden. (It's about the size of Prince Edward Island).

Better than Christmas.

After all the unloading, I settled in to my regular, as of the last month, breakfast.

It's all part of the plan.

a rose by any other name

As I drove in to work this morning, I was having one of those moments I expect everyone else also has. It's the kind of feeling one gets when remembering having done something quite stupid. Sometimes the reaction to the feeling can be a sudden shudder, slapping of the forehead, a Homer Simpson "D'oh", or simply an admitting smile.

My reaction this morning was a brief closing of the eyes and a gentle shaking of the head. I couldn't keep my eyes closed for very long seeing as I was driving. It was a memory from my adolescence, early teens I believe. I also smiled briefly as I drove, thinking how silly I was for feeling odd because of an event so long passed.

As a youth, I attended a youth group every Wednesday in our church. At the time we called it "young peoples". It was a time for the youth of our church to get together for energetic activities, peer socialisation, and Bible lessons. The lessons were quite evangelical in nature rich with pressure to conform. I recall one Wednesday when one of the leaders was talking about hell, and he said, "You know how hot a sauna is don't you...well, hell is going to be twice as hot as that". We always said he was a little "retarded" anyways.

Young Peoples was a great place for us to put on our best display of coolness for the opposite genders. I remember feeling quite confident walking into the church one particular Wednesday wearing a new pair of brown suede Hush Puppies. Now I was as cool as my friend Ray who smoked outside before and after the meetings.

I don't know if it was the Hush Puppies or not, but I do remember at some given time hearing that a girl in the group, Rose Blatz, liked me. She was cute. She has shoulder-length, slightly wavey, blond hair. She wore no makeup...she didn't need to. Pure and simple, just like you would imaging a Rose Blatz should look like. From then on, without us ever talking about it, I'm assuming we were considered, by her, to be a pair. We would occasionally say "hi" to each other and exchange glances paired with a nervous smile, but there was never any communication about an agreed union, as it were. Months would pass with this unspoken union.

Now here comes the memory which made me shake my head this morning. After the church Christmas concert one evening, Rose met me in the foyer on the South side of the church. She had her usual smile for me, and also a wrapped package. I didn't know what to say. All I did say, however, was, "Thanks...(awkward stare and near angina attack)...I'm sorry but I didn't get you anything". She told me that it was alright, and then I walked out the door, got into my parents blue Ford LTD, and went home. I fought with the image of Rose's disappointed face for a long time after that.

This morning I felt like finding out what ever happened to Rose. I wanted to call her up and ask her, "Are you O.K?...Did you turn out alright?...I'm so sorry, Rose, I didn't know what I was doing."

Sometimes I'm still not sure whether I know what I am doing. I'll often have recall of things that happened much more recently than my youth, and then I'll wonder at my current ability to be a good man. There are many roses in my life that are currently just as sweet and fragile as the Rose of my youth...and they are in full bloom. It would be a shame to miss it.

award-winning swears

Growing up in a very conservative home and community, being a father of four, former Sunday school teacher, four year bachelor degree holder from a major Canadian Bible College, and being a grade school classroom teacher, I am quite cognizant of foul language. But, and it's a really BIG BUT, there is nothing that soothes the soul like a really good swear. And not just any swear, oh no, I'm talking about a swear RANT.

Everyone has their heroes. Mine happens to be Chevy Chase. Now here is a man who has been given great lines, or has been given the creative license to "have at it", as they say, when it comes to improvisation. I don't know if he has been included in anything lately, but, what I am currently speaking of is his role in Fletch, and the various Vacation films.
This man is f*cking brilliant. He doesn't give a sh*t what anyone thinks.

A direct quote, from the first Fletch, which has stayed firmly in my memory, and tends to resurface during times of prolonged stress, is "Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick". I think the "H" stands for "Holy".

Now I know full well that my heritage disallows taking the Lord's name in vain, but what am I supposed to do? It just seems so shocking that it becomes bloody hilarious to hear someone so callous and unsacremental.

Other well known, and side-splitting examples of Chase rants are:

Clark W. Griswold
Where do you think you're going? Nobody's leaving. Nobody's walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We're all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We're gonna press on, and we're gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.
Listen to it here ( scroll down to, and click on, Christmas Vacation...and then nuthouse.wav )

or:

Clark W. Griswold
Hey. If any of you are looking for any last-minute gift ideas for me, I have one. I'd like Frank Shirley, my boss, right here tonight. I want him brought from his happy holiday slumber over there on Melody Lane with all the other rich people and I want him brought right here, with a big ribbon on his head, and I want to look him straight in the eye and I want to tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is. Hallelujah. Holy shit. Where's the Tylenol?
Listen to it here( scroll down to, and click on, Christmas Vacation...and then giftidea.wav )

Truthfully, what makes these last two so gosh darn funny is hearing them in the company of my brother-in-law Mel, rocking and shaking while he laughs. Priceless. Award-winning.

Stephen Fearing

Stephen Fearing is one of those artists that people hear at one point and remark on how good sounding he is; both his voice and his instrumentation. They promise themselves to check him out at a later point but then promptly forget to. This promise is only remembered upon hearing Fearing again. This is unfortunate for the career of Fearing who, by the excellent quality of his work, should be far more popular than he is. But I think that this is, perhaps, more telling of the music industry than of his craft.

I first hear Stephen's music at the Winnipeg Folk Festival back in the days when Joyce and I felt unencumbered enough to spend the long weekend sitting on tarps in the rain, eating bagels with cream cheese and cucumber slices, smoking American cigarettes, and bobbing our heads as we listed to some pretty amazing international folk music. I followed him around from stage to stage, trying to get as close to the front as possible to watch his hands. I would occasionally close my eyes to be haunted by his voice.

I heard him for the second time not long after when he opened for Bruce Cockburn. What a night that was. Two infectious artists in one night. It would be hard to choose who infected me more that evening. It was after this reminder that I was determined not to let his name slip from my memory.

Tonight I am listening, once again, to his fingers slide buttery over the strings and produce in me a feeling so strong that I want to call it holy. Set apart.

Some of you have had feelings similar to this.

TM

I could sit and stare into a fire for hours. Then suddenly find, when I snap out of the trance, that my feet are covered in sunflower seed shells.

I've finally snapped out of my summer trance and made my way back to the classroom. I spent two hours today walking around and pretending to be busy, when all I was doing was moving piles around. Some were on my desk while others stayed at my feet, covering my sandles.

I returned home just in time for lunch and about seventy-five daycare kids crowded around the Dutch farmhouse table I crafted with frugal hands. I returned to the garage where there are also a few more piles to move around before the summer's over. I quickly fell into another trance.

I think I've been using too much WD-40 lately.

what's on the other side

Just came home from spending the afternoon avoiding the 35 degree heat by diving into the heat of a different variety...theology.

Ocasioanlly I have this fear that I over-think certain issues. Then this fear was confirmed when I took this Muppet Personality Test which I found on Cherrypie's blog.

It would seem, so the experts say, that I am prone to over-think life's problems. But I'd be happy to sing you a thoughtful tune about it. A one, two, three four...

"Why are there so many, songs about rainbows..."

You Are Kermit

Hi, ho! Lovable and friendly, you get along well with everyone you know. You're a big thinker, and sometimes you over think life's problems. Don't worry - everyone know's it's not easy being green. Just remember, time's fun when you're having flies!

The Muppet Personality Test

get to the point

Carrying around sharp objects in your pocket is not usually recommended. On the other hand, something with a point can come in handy when the urge to write may suddenly arrise.

I always wonder, as I have a seat in a public washroom, where these people come up with their writing instruments. Sure it's probably keys or a small pebble, but more often than not, I will see colourful drawings utilizing a wide variety of mediums. Do these people plan for their restroom breaks by bringing their art supplies? Are campers usually that badly constipated that they need to provide amusements for the layover?

The writing and drawings are usually sexual. Evey now and again there will be a new joke respectfully scratched into the caretakers new paintjob. Most of the time, however, the pictures are common and the words, redundant.

Yesterday I read someones thoughts which were first of all scratched into the surface, and then traced with a permanent marker. I took this as a sign to pay attention. Someone's pain was real, and thoughts were provoking. Their point was well-intentioned.

I got it.

aim high, shoot low

The tag hanging from my rear view mirror is good for only one thing. If I need to get into any Manitoba provincial park, the tag gives me passage into the fast lane. Slow down and wave are the only requirements.

I was craving a tag of a different variety this afternoon. Joyce wanted to pop into the General Hospital to see her brother for 15 minutes while I stayed in the car with a sleeping toddler. The only spot to park in that was in the shade and that didn't require a payment of three hours minimum, was one with a wheelchair sign. The large SUV in the spot next to it donned the required blue tag, hanging in the required visible position.

I pulled into the spot and left the car running so as to give everyone the impression that the stay was very temporary. I felt a little guilty. Then I saw another sign indicating that I was in an idle free zone. The guilt quickly compounded, but was not a deterrrant from keeping the car cool with the airconditioning running.

The SUV owners arrived with their handicapped rider and were about to leave when the man walked over to my car and tapped on the window and pointed at what I thought was the handicapped sign. As I was fumbling for the automatic window button, I was already forming my response, "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm only here for a minute. What are you, some kind of parking patrol?"

The window smoothly lowered and the man once again pointed and said, "53". "I've got 53 minutes left on the meter...you can have my spot when I go". "Thanks man", I said with an awkward smile, feeling like a schmuck.

I need to spend a little more time at the firing range.

Why I haven't been posting

meow moon

When the moon is just right it seems to have a fairly significant effect on me and my family.
Most of the time, the effect will be quite tame and simply make us want to sit outside in the moonlight after the kids are in bed, and make a fire in the copper fire pit...perhaps enjoy a drink.
But there are other times when the children will go completely berserk, and all start acting like cats, complete with their own water dish.

Illustration Friday "Skyline"

This is one of the only things I've ever painted. When I saw this week's topic, I thought I'd see what everyone thinks. This has also been my blog's banner for a few months now.

I'll also ask a question that The Unknown often asks..."Do you love me?"

Week number one

This week has been all about summer...cool blue drinks, clothes lines, and home renovations. Only 60 days of holidays left..whatEVER will I do next?

off a duck's back

I'm not all that surprised that my children look a lot like me. In fact, it's quite natural that they do, isn't it?

Today, for me only, was "take the boys to work" day. Joyce and the girls were in the next province over to the right celebrating Arianna's 12th birthday. I was left to manage with the boys. No problem. In fact it was fun to have some time all alone as the Hildebrand men.

The plan was for the babysitter to come over in the morning so that I could head off to my second last day of work before summer holidays. Two days of administration...no students. Simply cauterizing loose ends and enjoying a complementary catered lunch.

This morning, however, when it came time to leave for work, Sammy would not have anything to do with me leaving. He ran to me, with a look of panic in his eyes, and began to cry. I couldn't leave him, so I decided to take him with me. Nothing really pressing to do at work anyway, and it's always nice to show off the gene pool.

As I was entering the school, Sammy got a little ahead of me and got lost in the legs of a few others who where entering at the same time a few paces ahead of me. I knew there would be comments from the females about a cute little three year old boy. What I didn't expect to hear was, "He's just a cute version of Brian".

Thanks ladies...no harm done.

Full Market Value

The price of pork is in a constant state of flux. If you watch the price at the grocers, you would never know, but if your income depends on a steady standing, you watch it intently.

I am a school teacher, and so for me, I couldn't give a rat's ass about the price of pork...or so I thought.

A few minutes ago I received a phone call from my brother-in-law who is the owner/operator of a large Southern Manitoba hog farm. Every seventeen weeks he receives, fattens, and ships off to market 5,000 hogs. Every now and again, during shipping time, there will be the odd hog with a limp or some sort of blemish which would make it unacceptable at the processing plant. One of the options is destroy the animal and send it off to the rendering plant. Another option is to call anyone you know and ask if they want 500 pounds of free pork, minus the cost of private butchering.

I spent the last few minutes with my hands waving in the air like a little schoolboy shouting out, "Pick me, pick me."

I just may have to buy another deep freeze to store all of this "other white meat" but at least I know what I'll be eating this summer. Anyone for a pork BBQ?

The Sacred Feminine

Life is all about curves. We are made of curves, curves turn us on, curves are thrown at us, curves make us change our course, we look for what is around the curve, and we are evaluated on how well we negotiate curves.

The curvature of the spine. Spring training. Plans for the weekend. There's the pitch...and it's a curve ball to the lower right side. Lower back pain. Suddenly I'm concerned with negotiating my way through this unwanted event. I find myself alone in a house all weekend, flat on my back with a pain in my back. What a pain in the ass. Training buddy calls and says, "Are you ready to go?" Through gritted teeth I calmly say, "No, not tonight, I've got a headache." and hope that he's not too disappointed.

The Cherry veneered Walmart bookshelves are crammed with new books waiting to be read. I knew I would get around to them eventually. I start and finish this one, and begin to look for hidden codes in the stippled ceiling...as there is not much else to do when laying flat all day.

Su Doku puzzles. The easy ones are easy and the hard ones are difficult...go figure.

National geographic on the TV captures me with the pretty pictures. Elephants. Big ones. The ladies are in charge. Matriarchs they're called. I think of the Davinci Code and the Sacred Feminine. Another channel talks of violence against women and I think of our Patriarchs and wonder at how wrong it is.

Too much TV and I've got another headache. Time for more medication and another nap. I wake up thinking that I should probably eat something...it has been a day and a half without food. Too late. Too much anti-inflammatories and no food makes for a half a day wretching over the porcelain throne. More back spasms. I lay on the cold floor with tears in my eyes and wish that one of those Matriarchs would crush my head and take my life.

Sunday morning...race day. Happy Father's Day. The family is out of the country and my friends are running in Winnipeg without me. I feel envious and guilty. The church programs on TV offer no comfort. I long for something to hold, so I crawl to the bookshelf. I find what I'm looking for. I get a good start and wish that I could start again. There are many more things in life to hold sacred than "The Sacred".

Negotiating the curve. Self-Evaluation. I think this curve was part of a divine plan. Spring training. Today is race day.

Let me in

Some days as I sit at my desk and try to find some activities for my German students to do to kill time until the end of the year, my mind wanders to the times I've spent in German speaking countries.

One of my favourite places in the whole world, besides home, is Austria. A number of years ago, when Joyce and I were about two months into our dating relationship, I packed up my touring bike and panniers and flew to Zurich, Switzerland. My destination was Salzburg, Austria, but I wanted a drop off point where I could do a fair amount of cycling on my way to where I would end up. I very quickly realized that I had not planned nearly well enough. In fact, I hadn't planned at all for cycling in Europe. I had no idea of the system of autobahns and roads suitable for cycling. It did not take me very long to realize that I was in over my head, so I cycled to the nearest hauptbahnhof (train station) and booked a ticket for me and my bike to Salzburg.

I knew Salzburg quite well as I had spent quite a bit of time there three years earlier. The city and surrounding areas are filled with visual and cultural treasures way beyond imagination. I took the Sound of Music tour once again with Panorama Tours, felt the mystery of the city's hilltop castle, and made my way to the nearby town of St. Gilgen.

When I checked into the youth hostel, I was asked if I would like a key to get into the front door after hours. They said that I might need it if I wanted to stay out late at some of the local clubs. As I had never been to a club in my life, I immediately said "nein danke", and felt confident with my decision.

After sorting my belongings and claiming one of the eight bunks in the room, I headed off to the main walking area of town where I very quickly found a quaint restaurant with a patio. I sat down and ordered "eine beer, bitte". Not more than five minutes later, along came two lovely ladies from somewhere across the English Channel. It was nice to hear their conversation as a familiar tongue takes far less concentration to follow. We looked over at each other about twenty or thirty times when one of the two finally came over and invited me to join them. "Where are you from?" and all that nonsense took no time to pass on the way to their invitation to join them at a local disco. I eagerly accepted and couldn't wait to see a real club...a European club at that.

It didn't take too long for the lovely pair to figure out that I wasn't a willing participant in making pelvic sandwiches or playing tongue touché, as I was quite enamored with my fresh love back home. That didn't stop me from making an utter fool of myself when it came to doing some funky solo dancing to Van Halen's Jump. After that song, which noone but me seemed to know, I decided that it was time to go. I bid my lady friends adieu, I'm sure they were relieved, and headed back to the hostel.

About halfway there, I began to think that it may have been a good idea to have accepted that key to the front door. I spent the next two hours banging on doors and windows, and calling out, "Konnten Sie die Tür bitte öffnen?" ( Could someone please open the door?). I sat quite despondent for some time before someone finally came out from the inside. They were on their way out to a club. I thanked them, and, feeling quite relieved, went to my room.

As the the chap from China in the bunk next to mine snored away, I thought about clubs, and that I haven't really missed out at all.

Good Morning

We all have them don't we...a person in our lives that just seems to rub us the wrong way. Some of these people, when doing their best rubbing, seem to find the most annoying times to do their rituals, making the pain all the more, well, painful.

Mornings are often difficult enough for some people without having to deal with a Proverbs 27:14 greeting. There's something insanely irritating about a loud, uninvited, and insinsere "Good Morning." On the other hand, there's the man from the Viagra adverts who, you know for damn sure, is, understandably, loud and, on the verge of explosion, sincere. It's hard to hate a man for being so genuinely happy.

I recently received this forward:

"In Pharmacology, all drugs have two names, a trade name and generic name. For example, the trade name of Tylenol also has a generic name of Acetaminophen. Aleve is also called Naproxen. Amoxil is also call Amoxicillin and Advil is also called Ibuprofen.

The FDA has been looking for a generic name for Viagra. After careful consideration by a team of government experts, it recently announced that it has settled on the generic name of Mycoxafloppin. Also considered were Mycoxafailin, Mydixadrupin, Mydixarizin, Dixafix, and of course, Ibepokin.

Pfizer Corp. announced today that Viagra will soon be available in liquid form, and will be marketed by Pepsi Cola as a power beverage suitable for use as a mixer. It will now be possible for a man to literally pour himself a stiff one. Obviously we can no longer call this a soft drink, and it gives new meaning to the names of "cocktails", "highballs" and just a good old-fashioned "stiff drink". Pepsi will market the new concoction by the name of: MOUNT & DO.

Thought for the day: There is more money being spent on breast implants and Viagra today than on Alzheimer's research. This means that by 2040, there should be a large elderly
population with perky boobs and huge erections and absolutely no recollection of what to do with them. "

Normally, forwards are like those unwelcomed loud morning greetings, and I immediatley delete them. But not from this source...she always has a sincere, and thoroughly thoughtful greeting for me.