from the right: The War on Terror Will Never End!

Take a look around,and what do you see? I look around these days and I see a lot of
discontent People. Some are unhappy with themselves, some unhappy with others, and some unhappy with themselves and others. So many people these days are quick to blame others yet are not willing to take any responsiblity for their own actions. The news and talk radio are filled with people who blame others. All the liberals blame Bush. All the republicans blame the liberals. Then the liberals call everyone who doesn't believe what they are doing is an absolute rightousness an obstructionist. Where does it end?

The only thing necessary for evil to trimph is that good men do nothing.

-Edward Burke


For good men to do nothing. I wouldn't exactly call Clinton a good man, but he did absolutely nothing to prevent the terrorists attacks on our country. As a President, he failed to protect American soil. Sure, he rode a great economy wave for 8 years, but what good is that when the economy was nearly destroyed by his failures? President Bush did what any red blooded American would have done after this attrocity occured. He went looking for someone's ass to kick. And when we found out who was responsible, we started something that should have been started years and years earlier. (1992 to be exact) And he stood firm on his ground, even when
the wolves were out to get him. He stood firm on his ground throughout an election year, and triumphed over an unworthy opponent. He stood firmly to quell the likes of senators Clinton, Kennedy, Kerry, Daschle, and so forth who stand so firmly against america. He was THE good man, who elected to do something. Something of a great nature. He decided to take on the world in an effort to give rights to people, not regime's. To instill demacracy around the world, even where demacracy was something unknown.

Do I think that this War on Terror will end anytime soon. Well, no. As a matter of a fact, I am going to tell you something no one else wants to say. The War on Terror will NEVER end. Let me say it again.

"The War on Terror will never end."

-GP

As long as their are people in the world the likes of OBL and Saddam Hussein and Quadafi and so forth, there will always be trouble. But in that same respect as long as their are men throughout our history, such as George W Bush, General George Scott Patton, General Dwight D Eisenhower, and so forth then we will always prevail
in the end.

"You cannot be disciplined in great things and indiscipline in small things. Brave undisciplined men have no chance against the discipline and valour of other men. Have you ever seen a few
policemen handle a crowd?”

Patton said that in 1941.

Have you ever seen a few policemen handle a crowd? Ask yourself this. Have you ever seen a few good men defeat many more bad? We have an enemy with no face, no country, no nothing. A formidable adversary for anyone, anytime, anyplace. Yet, our leader is willing to stand up and fight this unseen foe. And what appreciation does he get? Slander and media biasment against him. One day, we won't have a George W Bush in the White house, but a John Kerry or a Hillary Clinton that you liberals yearn so fiercely. And at that point, that very point, is when the USA will fall. At its weakest link, a president who won't stand up and fight. A president who will give the order to stand down when the order should be given to Kill them all. Then and only then will all of these fools who stand against president
Bush see the light, and then it will be to late.....

-GP
the rest of the story!

Chinaski waxes poetic.

Don't worry folks, I'm not trying to turn this place into some smokey coffeehouse ... I just thought I'd share a few pieces of my work for your enjoyment or disdain. Nothing really political, just giving you a glimpse into what I do. Be forewarned, this isn't the poetry you'd expect. No fluff, no madrigral, melodic verse. Just my words and my visions. Enjoy or flame away. Another warning ... this may be long.

Chromatic memory

Colors like the green grass
reflecting off of crystalline sheets
hung out to dry
on a may afternoon

spin spin spin little leaf
as you fly into blue

The wind smelling of asphalt
black like the shadow
that unnerved you as a child

My grandmother’s wall yellow with
smoke and conversation
as her TV hummed
and I lay beside the oil heater
warm and wounded young.

Christmas program playing
smell of cookies
sliding across hardwood floor
purple safety
like a king’s robe.

Grandmother died with no kidneys
her body poisioned
her skin yellow like her walls
and paper like
able to scrape off that parchment
with a pink child’s finger

My mother was a raging shade of red
when she stepped weakly into the cold chapel.

I was fifteen minutes late
and sat in the back
mahogany pew.

I don’t remember crying.

Instead I remembered orange June sunsets
in her porch swing.
I remembered my mother taking a warning shot at her
with a .38 special.
I rememebred fish dinners in a dimly lit dusty kitchen.
I remembered setting my hand on fire while burning her trash.

Indigo winter evenings strolling home
Wondering why she never uttered “I love you.”

Fairly certain i never uttered it either.

She was a lonely woman.
I was a lonely child.

Love need not be involved.

Purple safety.

No cruelty.

Two ages, foreign to each other,
content to share our time
on gaudy orange furntiure,
in warm oil heat ...
Jack Frost festive on the relic TV
eager to find the
rabbit ears wrapped in tin foil.

Assuaging the Fait Accompli
of two lives
passing without an embrace.

We were both fifteen minutes late.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note to a Homeless Man, Namur Belgium

I passed you in a dingy
underground walkway that
connected two platforms
in Namur’s main train-station.
I, like most of the crowd,
was in an infernal hurry..
I had just stepped off the
train from Luxembourg City,
and was fixated on my desire to find
somewhere to exchange currency.

You distracted me.

As the herd of busy people
bellowed toward you,
I noticed you stand,
smooth out your dirty suit coat,
and ready the cup you had sitting in front of you.
Old fliers and trash hopped
along the dirty floor
motivated by the displaced air
of a newly arriving train, and
you readied a performance
that no one expected,
or perhaps it was just me.

The line of travelers maintained
their pace, but I slowed as I
noticed you reaching into
a box that sat behind you.
I stopped completely and stared
in wonder as you produced
a common, everyday pigeon.

A few of the less courteous people,
not in short supply in Namur,
bumped into me as I attentively stared.
I quickly noticed that this was
no ordinary pigeon.
You had apparently caught him,
or raised him,
and you had tied a string to one of his legs.

When the line of people reached it’s
greatest depth in front of you,
you sat the pigeon down, and
an infectious smile rolled across
your filthy face.

The show was about to begin.

In triumph, you began tugging the string
around the pigeon’s leg.
This caused the pigeon to
squawk and to half attempt
to fly away.
He would flap and flutter and fly
in little circles and then resign
himself back to the floor,
realizing the futility of his
quest for freedom.

I smiled at your inventiveness,
but the show was not complete.

After the pigeon had performed,
feathers flying, people still filing past,
you would bow and
outstretch one hand toward the pigeon,
like you were presenting an epic
spectacle,
like we had all witnessed some
grand, magical feat.
You would then look into the faces
of the passing travelers with an expression
that said “Huh? Ha Ha! Did you see that?”

Magic.

Still smiling,
I waded back into the crowd
and walked away.

To this day, I still regret not going back,
finding you,
rewarding you.

While in Europe, I walked in the footsteps
of kings and dictators,
Heard the ghostly cries of vast armies.
Stepped in the black blood of world wars.
Marveled as the sun set over Paris.
Sat dining with the eagles in the Alps ...

But I always carried you with me.

I have no way of knowing if you are
still alive,
If your fortunes changed,
but if you are still there in that dirty tunnel
know this ...

You are remembered.

But enough of this sentimentality ...
there is work to be done.
Train 2144-IC is due to arrive
any minute.

Get out there and give the people
what they paid for.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Random Act

Hello?
Hey baby.
Where are you?
I’ve been worried sick.
Home?
You mean Baltimore?
How long have you been there?
Seen any of your old friends?
I remember him.
When did he die?
That’s terrible.
We’re OK.
Mom let me borrow twenty.
Don’t worry Walter,
the check is in the mail.
Yes, your children still
love you.
No Walter, it’s just a rash.
No, there is no one here
looking for you.
Yes Walter, your clothes
are still here.
Yes, that stain should come
out.
Walter, are you OK?
I thought you said you were
going to cut back.
Walter, that shit is going to
kill you.
Where did you end up sleeping?
No Walter, he hasn’t come by in months.
We all make mistakes.
I just want you to get well.
Walter, you are not a burden.
Did you go to the clinic?
It’s an abcess?
Did he give you anitbiotics?
Walter, have you eaten lately?
Do you have any money?
We don’t have anything left to sell.
How about your mother?
Is your sister still in town?
Bullshit, they’d be happy to see you.
You sold her television?
Jesus.
Walter, I’m scared.
You don’t sound well.
I know.
You always have it under control.
That is your daughter waking up.
She sleeps at all the wrong times.
She had her birthday party Saturday.
Judith asked about you.
Little Ms. Sleepyhead woke up grumpy.
She misses you too.
Jake’s bus should be here any minute.
No Walter, I won’t tell them.
They know you love them.
I know too.
I just want you to get well and come home.
Good.
Ask strangers for change if you have to.
You have to eat.
I know.
I’ll be waiting.
I love you too.
Bye.

This is one half of a telephone conversation.

I don’t personally know a “Walter”,
but I’m sure there is one out there
who needs to see this a lot
more than I do.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lucky Bastard

Somehwere someone is giving birth to a baby girl
somewhere someone is drawing their last breath
somewhere someone is stepping on a thumbtack
somewhere someone is taking their first drink of the evening
somewhere someone is being killed for what they believe
somewhere someone is being killed for what they don’t believe
somewhere someone is becoming a believer
somewhere someone is taking off their clothes
somewhere someone is eating pancakes
somewhere someone is having a nosebleed
somewhere someone is listening to a lion growl
somewhere someone is laughing
somewhere someone is commiting suicide
somewhere someone is waiting on a train
somewhere someone is losing a fist fight
somewhere someone is throwing a snowball
somewhere someone is fucking
somewhere someone is getting fucked
somewhere someone is being mangled in a car crash
somewhere someone is up to no good
somewhere someone is staring at the phone
somewhere someone is taking a walk
somewhere someone is dancing like a fool
somewhere someone is arriving 10 minutes late
somewhere someone is being told they have 6 months to live
somewhere someone is buying a new clock
somewhere someone is changing a tire
somewhere someone is giving up
somewhere someone is holding someone else’s hand
somewhere someone is full of regret
somewhere someone is catching a fish
somewhere someone is falling down
somewhere someone is making a huge mistake
somewhere someone is running for no reason
somewhere someone is going home
somewhere someone is reading Bukowski
somewhere someone is secretly crying
somewhere someone is stealing a bicycle
somewhere someone is begging for god’s ear
somewhere someone is wondering how it came to this
somewhere someone is talking to a stranger on a plane
somewhere someone is studying Latin
somewhere someone is feeding a stray cat
somewhere someone is deciding that enough is enough.

You lucky bastard.

With all of this birthing and dying,
joy and sadness,
frivolity and passion,
injustice and resignation,
theft and murder,
hatred and horrible love,
betrayal and reconciliation,
war and elation,
numbing triviality ...

With all of this going on around you,
spinning around you like an angry cyclone,
threatening to envelop you,
skin you alive;
With all of this right outside
your door,
with all of this sitting right next to you ...

Your only concern for the past few moments
has been to reach
the end
of one,
long,
god awful,
repetitive,
sentence.

the rest of the story!

from the right: The Good Old Days

Off and on you hear quite a bit about “the Good Old Days.” They are usually brought up when some young liberal (but occasionally by an old malcontent who should know better), having run out of fallacious arguments concerning some fallacious point, sneers at someone who might have lived some of those Good Old Days, proclaiming, with all the certainty of the uninformed, that they never existed other than in the minds of the old fogies. How do they know these thing with such rock-solid certainty? Well, there are a number of ways.

First: It is axiomatic that beginning somewhere around 15 or 16 years of age, young’uns know everything about everything, and have THE answers to all of the questions plaguing the world. (Of course they don’t really know what the questions are, but by God they know the answers.) Why else do you think we gave the vote to the eighteen-year-olds? It’s the only time in anyone's life that he or she knows everything -- and we do need knowledgeable voters, don't we?. So let’give them the franchise so they can vote for known crooked criminals like Clinton and Kerry, fill us in on teh wonders of a socialist utopia, and lecture to us on how homosexuals are going to save the world and abortion on demand is going to reduce crime. Then they can spend the rest of their lives trying to straighten out the resulting mess.

Second: Their ears are absolutely closed and unhearing when someone over thirty tries to inform them of anything other than what they perceive to be the greatest lifestyle to come along since the dawn of creation. Maybe its because their ears can only hear that earthshaking noise that they swear is music, coming from a car radio that can be felt before it can be heard, and can then be heard 14 blocks away -- any decibel level below that, forget it.

Third: Trying to even show (not force upon) them how to avoid some of the troubles that lie definitely and directly in the path they are pursuing, is almost invariably a waste of time. Even admitting that you, years ago, did the same stupid thing they are now doing, has no effect -- they will simply not believe that (a) you did it and trouble followed, or (b) times have changed -- this is the 21st Century and either what was looked on as stupid then is the ultimate in wisdom now. Then when the ax falls they simply cannot understand what the hell happened.

With those few facts in mind, let’s look at some of those much maligned Good Old Days.

The Great Depression Years

I was just starting in the first grade when the bottom fell out of the stock market in 1929,, and the United States joined the world-wide deprerssion. In the year or two that followed even a six- or seven-year-old could see the changes, not only in his own family’s lifestyle, but also those around him. My father’s very prosperous contracting business went belly up, and jobs in and around Cleveland fast became almost non-existent. Times were hard, money was scarce.

But there were many bright side to it, too. Churches and charities worked overtime to provide food and shelter to the needy. Neighbors helped and shared and became closer and closer friends. Marriages were strengthened by the adversity, and husbands and wives pulled together to keep their families together. Family desertion was rare, and those who stayed together emerged from those dreadful days the stronger and more loving for it. People took their marriage vows seriously. Divorces were looked on with disfavor, and not too easy to get. And fewer children suffered broken homes. There were bad old days, but there were darned sure some Good Old Days, even then.

And out of it came a generation of mostly fiercely independent people, with grit enough to face what the world could, and would, hand them with the same determination to overcome that their fathers and mother showed during those terrible years.

But the administration of Franklin Delano Roosevelt introduced, on a temporary basis, of course, what was to become permanent, and one of the most crippling measures ever to become law -- WELFARE.

Coming up next: The War Years

By Turret Gunner A20
the rest of the story!

from the left:Going Over The Top

This is a true story. A few years ago, I was on my way to work and decided to stop at my local convenience store to buy a pack of smokes. I know, I know, stupid, unhealthy etc. etc. But being from the piedmont region of NC (tobacco country) you are issued a carton of Winstons at birth. The doctor smacks your newborn ass and lights you up one.

Anyway, I was pulling into the store parking lot when I noticed an ancient looking old lady scooting across the parking lot (she was smoking by the way). She couldn’t have been more than 4 feet tall, spine like a question mark. I parked my car and headed for the door. This poor old lady, taking tiny, careful steps still had a good 30 feet to go. So, being the fucking gentleman that I am, I stopped at the door and held it open for her. It seemed like an eternity, but she finally made it to me. And then she stopped. She looked up at me, the skin drooping from around her eyes. I’m expecting a “Thank you, son.” She stared at me for a minute, composed herself, and said, and I quote, “You asshole. I’m not dead yet.”

“Yes ma’am,” I muttered sheepishly, barely able to contain the laughter welling in me. The girl working the counter inside couldn’t help herself and cackled loudly when she heard her. She looked back down at the floor and scooted on inside.

I spent the ride to work that evening with a grin on my face. “Good for you old girl,” I thought to myself. I admired her tenacity even though she had every reason not to be tenacious. She was entrenched in her independence even to the bitter end.

Entrenchment.

The term “Going over the top” originated on European battlefields during WWI. It was a phrase that struck fear into the ranks. It meant that you were about to vacate the relative safety of your trench and venture out into “No Man’s Land.” Bullets that sounded like angry bees would be buzzing all around your head, explosions so close and loud would rattle your insides if you were lucky enough to keep them inside. It is no wonder that battles would last month after month maybe gaining 50 yards of ground ... no one wanted to leave the trenches. Can you blame them?

The American political landscape has become just as deeply rutted as the Somme and Flanders. We are entrenched in our ideologies. No one is really interested in poking their head up to see what’s going on on the other side. We just know that we hate those other bastards. So we lay low, cement our beliefs, and fire away. No ground is gained. Nothing is really accomplished. Both sides are convinced that their cause is the gallant one. We just hope the other side will run out of ammo before we do. It will never happen.

I’m not getting sanctimonious here. I’m as guilty of it as the next guy. I have my own set of beliefs, and those of you who know of me know that I am, for the most part, very liberal. I won’t go into a rant here about my specific positions on the issues (maybe a future article), I just want to illustrate the fact that we all do it.

Why?

I think for most it comes down to how you were raised, what beliefs your parents espoused, and in some case your own personal experiences and observations all working in collaboration with each other. This is not a bad thing. It gives us our identities, convictions, and an instant extended family of like minded individuals. So what’s the problem?

The problem arises when these stalemate battles begin inflicting casualties. When someone is degraded, called a “traitor, America hater, Right wing nutjob ...” the list goes on and on. All of this takes place simply because we are, once again, entrenched. We will not even entertain the notion that the other side may make some valuable points, or lob a thought grenade into our own cozy little hole. They just can’t be right about anything. And the guns fire through the night.

Again, not to sound sanctimonious, but I have Republican friends (in case I ever need to borrow money) and I am a “pinko liberal.” I have Christian friends who I find to be beautiful people even though I am an atheist. We debate, we talk, and it is good. Viewpoints are shared , dissected, and discussed ... and a funny thing happens. By the end of the night, we all are still good friends and respect each other (although we probably think that our opponents are bat-shit crazy). Discourse is a marvelous thing. Many great ideas have found their genesis from the meeting of polar opposite minds.

But in a larger sense, this is just not happening in America as we know it, and I fear that we will be in our trenches for a long time to come. Can this change? Can we sacrifice our prime directives and maybe in the future put down our rhetorical weapons and have a beer together and discuss our views respectfully on a smoldering stump in “No Man’s Land?” Maybe get something constructive accomplished for our country? Our children’s country? Time will tell, but I have my doubts.

Look, I’m not suggesting that we put flowers in our hair and sing “Kumbya my lord.” No doubt I will be back in the trenches at tnfz by tomorrow. All I’m saying is this ... perhaps we could at least poke our heads up once in a while, look at the other side, and maybe one day “Go Over the Top” with peaceful intentions and with a constructive purpose. It’s not too late. You’re not dead yet. Asshole.

Buck Chinaski
the rest of the story!

From the Left: Appeasing Paul

After a few days of nagging from our esteemed founder, I've decided to post something. "Wanna blog, Preeny?," he asked. "Make it political," he said. Well, those of you who know me know that I've never been one for following the rules and this post will be no exception.

I've been sitting around for a few days now trying to come up with some sort of topic for this. Don't worry, I still haven't found one. Well, not really anyway. It seems to me that posting on a blog these days is a very solemn affair and one must be aware of the power that a person wields. After all, blogs sink presidential candidacies, uncover the plots of the liberal media, and unmask those dirty liberals and their heinous plans to *gasp* help poor people or, even worse, save the lives of non-white people. With all this power now at my fingertips, I must confess to a certain degree of apprehension.

Then I forced myself to relax. I realised that I didn't have to worry about wielding all that power after all. I'm a liberal, and we all know that we liberals only communicate through violent street protest and the elite media. The blog, along with other forms of media geared for those challenged in the area of communication, such as talk radio and blogs, is onlt powerful inthe hands of the conservative.

I've often wondered why that is? Why doesn't the left have an answer to the media tactics of the right? Why is it an efficient means of swaying opinion when you have a fat conservative who's high on painkillers talking to high-school drop outs via the radio during the day? More to the point, why does it not work for the left? How hard can it really be to talk to someone named Joe-bob from Mississippi? If a college dropout with the analytical ability of a lobotomised cat, otherwise known as Sean Hannity, can get through to that mental mess known as "Middle America," or "The South," or "The Heartland," then why can someone with some actual sense and half a brain? Are the intelligent and the moronic really unable to communicate?

It would seem so. how many liberals listen to Rush or Hannity, other than to call them and shout profanity? How many conservatives bother watching something on PBS that might make them ask questions about their beliefs? Why is the gap so large?

The question is a serious one for me. In spite of what you are told my Rupert Murdoch and his Propaganda Ministry, there's at least one liberal Canadian who watches Fox News. Do I complain about how terribly biased it is? Of course I do. But do I make the rediculous demand that it should actually live up to it's motto of "Fair and Balanced?" Of course I don't. Everyone knows FoxNews isn't balanced, I mean, they counter Sean Hannity with a corpse in a suit. Sorry, Alan. But what's so wrong with that? I know it's biased, and I watch it to see what the masses on the right are consuming.

So when I saw a few rediculous demands on FoxNews, like some clown demanding PBS put on conservative programming (PBS is about Art and Culture, how can you make it conservative? If you do, you get Joseph Goebels or Birth of a Nation) and David Horowitz whining about liberals on college campuses (Why should this be surprising. Even the hard core bible thumpers on college campuses mysteriously stagger around drug on the weekends. Anyone ever think maybe kids are more liberal than crusty old men?), I had to laugh. But then when I realised they were serious, the laughter stopped. It's not really all that funny when the religious right is seriously trying to hijack and demolish some of the last bastions of open-mindedness in American society. Contrary to what Jonah Goldberg would have you believe, there is a need for acceptance of people who don't fit the white, heterosexual, wealthy mold of what an American should be. The world is diverse. Let's not try to whitewash that in ALL the media, shall we? Who knows, maybe a liberal blog is the start of it.

Tpreen

the rest of the story!

My Monkey Don’t Play No Musicbox

My monkey wears a dirty suit and holds and empty coffee cup, but he don’t play no musicbox. So you can quit asking and just pony up.
A dime? You cheap son of a bitch. A quarter would be more than all right, but a dime? I saw that Mercedes, you really needed that, right? That car is P-H-A-T, fat and my monkey’s skinny. He ain’t had nothin’ to eat in long time, ‘cause his daddy’s a sucker and momma can’t talk right. His stomach burns and his veins, they’re on fire.

Watch out now, ‘cause he’s got a knife and you, you are a perfect target, told ya, you should’ve left a quarter. Now shut up and be still and my monkey just might let you live. But he’s steamin’ mad now; you’ve really gone and done it. He’s on a death mission, his veins are tight.
You shoulda run man. I told you to look away, but you just had to stare. He’s a monkey, but he ain’t stupid. He’s quite aware of what you were thinking. “Bastard, get a job”, right? Wrong thing to think about a monkey when his veins are about to leave his itching arms, are you stupid? It’s cool though, my monkey’s a conniver, a sweet talker, a poor little boy and your system knows he’s the victim. Come on now, where’s your conscience? Man.

Tim J. B.
the rest of the story!

from the right:How did it happen?

Of all of the gazillions of avenues of endeavor open to us, I have always wondered how and why people find themselves doing what they do.

Why did your next door neighbor go into fixing cars for a living? Following in Dad’s footsteps? Loved to tear things apart to see what made them tick? Found out that he could make a bundle by vastly overcharging us mechanical-know-nothings for rebuilding the frustingundelator in the scootenjigger?


Or that ex-Marine cop down the street, how about him? You know, the little guy with all of those citations for bringing in thugs twice his size with all of the scratches on them -- and every hair on his head still neatly in place; running down a long legged drug pusher who used to be the high school track star; and so on. Six citations for bravery -- and never took his Glock out of its holster except to clean it or fire it on the range.

Just ask around your community and you will find that a very large percentage of your friends and neighbors are in jobs and positions they did not go to school for, and never dreamed in their wildest dreams they would ever have. Medical doctors writing sea stories. Certified Public Accountants running employment agencies. The top salesman for a heavy equipment company who has a degree in English Literature. And lawyers running banks. {these are the ones you really have to watch – everybody knows that a law degree is a license to steal}

While I was in the service I knew one officer who had graduated from an Ivy League University # 2 in his class in Chemical Engineering. He spent his entire thirty-year career as an artillery officer – never for a minute with the Chemical Corps.

Another officer had a Masters Degree in Theater Arts, was a professional wrestler in civilian life, and wrote papers and books on – get ready – Bird Watching. He was quite contented having spent his entire twenty-five year career in Special Forces.

Some people get their degrees in certain fields because that’s what Dad and Mom thought they would be good at, and more or less forced them into that course of study – whether they liked it or not. And it is an exercise in futility to try to tell those parents that such a course very often ends in unhappiness or downright disaster. Others kick over the traces and dig deep into that which interests them most, end up doing something not at all related to their field of study, yet are happy and successful.

We all had our childhood dreams. The boys wanted to be cops, firemen, soldiers, sailors, pilots, and cowboys. The girls wanted to be nurses, teachers, mothers with a flock of kids, or CEO of General Motors.

How many of us followed a straight and narrow path to our dream? How many of us were disappointed? How many of us found other interests just as fulfilling? How many of us missed out entirely on the fun life we had dreamed of, and, regardless of the degree of success attained, just flatout hate our jobs and lives?

Do you want something interesting to do that will make your friendships warmer and create new friends by the bushel? If so, start asking folks about what were their fondest dreams, did they attain any, all or none of them. How did they get where they are? Do they like it? Are they happy?

Then SHUT UP AND LISTEN. You will find it one of the most interesting things you have ever done.

And it will make your listener feel better and more important – having someone listen who is really interested in him or her.

Try it, you’ll like it.

Turret Gunner A20
the rest of the story!