This is incredible!

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I know you're not going to believe this, but here is Raquel Welsh in 1 million B.C.:


Obviously, the camera wasn't around in 1 million B.C., which makes this stone carving all the more amazing. Just look at the fine details of shadow and color.

And not only is Raquel's name in English, but the carver even knew the year (sadly, months had not been invented yet).






So let's jump ahead in time to a few weeks ago.

Who says the cavemen diet doesn't work, eh?












Oh wait. Sorry.

My obnoxious fact-checker has informed me that:
1) Ms. Welsh was in "One million B.C." ... the movie, not the year.
2) That movie was made almost a half-century ago in 1966.
2) Raquel is not 1,002,014 years old, but only a scant 73.

Hopefully, you're not too disappointed with this post.

:D

Miley: Past, Present, and Future

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Last decade, we were inundated with the diabetes-inducing sweetest of Miley Cyrus:

This decade, diabetes moved into stomach-churning:

What does our future hold?  Hopefully, blindness ...

.... my apologies to Jim Carey ....

Chinese Car Crash tests? Not so good...

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How did a car made in China rate in a crash test? How about ZERO!
Here's the video (since blogger is inept at linking video):
http://youtu.be/aTxbbvCf3zY

Ahhh, Chinese-made cars. They come in 2 stick versions: manual and chop. Crash one and an hour later, you're hunger for another.

Luck of the bounce

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Last July, a tornado touched down a mile to the west of me, bounced over my house, and landed again one mile to the east. This incident answered my question, "When is my lottery number going to be picked?" Maybe Fate has a better idea of when and what I should win.

Not that I would turn down today's $400 million payout.

Still, now that I've blogged about it, perhaps Fate owes me. Just a little.

When receiving becomes giving ... and not the good kind

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In my younger days, my friends and I played all over the neighborhood. Carefree frolicking, giddy with childish laughter, we ran through people's yards, usually ending in that most neighborly of greetings by the grumpy old guy, "Hey you kids! Get off of my lawn!"

You would think we would be more respectful as 30-year-olds. But we were so young and silly then.

I've changed since those wonderful, happy-go-lucky days. A couple of decades have swiftly passed, taking their toll on my age. And on my patience.

Now, I'm that grumpy old guy, living in a technological different world. I find myself yelling almost the same words at flippant youth, "Hey you kids, get off of my LAN!"

How to deal with regret .. sort of

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Nothing good comes from when I think back about the times I've wasted. Only depressing regret.

On the plus side, I try not to regret the time spent thinking about those regretful times. Otherwise, that would be more time wasted. Regretfully.

Musical entrapment

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My first musical instrument captured my heart, my mind, my spirit. Little did I know this would be a lifetime of wonderful musical enslavement.

Call me an idiot. I should have known I was going to be trapped. What else would you expect from learning to play something called a snare drum.

I Know What You Will Do

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Terrafugia demo'd their flying car at the Experimental Aircraft Association’s AirVenture in Oshkosh, WI. After this great air show, Wisconsin should add an "N" at the end of their state abbreviation for the WIN.

So welcome to the 21st century. Finally. Soon you can drive to the store to pick up presents, and then fly to your family in the next state - for a mere $280,000.

Of course, how you use your flying car will match how you use your cellphone.

If you call, you'll fly from NY to CA. If you text, you'll drive.

How To Succeed in the Dentist Chair

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I went to the dentist this morning and faced my biggest fear ... nose hair. Mine.

That's right. In a recent survey, 9 out of 10 people said dental pain is nothing when compared to pain of social embarrassment. The tenth person simply twitted, "OMG! I just wet myself at the dentist and I feel fine." (This survey must be true; I read it on the Internet. After I wrote it.)

So why should I fear nasal follicles, especially mine? It started a couple of years ago when my body crossed that half-century mark. Seemingly overnight, random nose hairs - once slow-growing and stealthy-black - began mutating into a rapid-sprouting shade of white known as "mistakable thin slivers of snot".

I groomed them several times a week. But even with an industrial-strength weed-whacker, my trim job didn't cut it. If I were bald, a week without trimming would give me a handle-bar comb-over guaranteed to gross out the best of you.

I wasn't worried about reclining in the dentist's chair. My embarrassing worry was of a wayward hair or five waving frantically at the dental technician while I tried to breath and she tried to clean my teeth. All I could imagine was her thinking, "Why can't this unsophisticated idiot clean his nose?"

So I decided on a brilliant tactic of diversion. Just before the appointment, I ate two boxes of Oreo cookies.

With the creamy white filling scrapped off.

My plan worked very well. By the time I clogged the suction tube for the 3rd time, they had the vacuum pressure turned high enough to pull my belly button inward.

More importantly, the dental hygienist didn't say a thing about my nose hairs. Not only did she not look towards my nose, she hardly looked at me at all.

Although it was a bit awkward when she tried to floss my chin.

Let me predict the royal birth

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Judging from the news, billions of people are obsessing on one life-changing event, an event that doesn't even involve them: When is the birth of a certain baby?

It's not like we are talking about the start of the second coming, or the arrival of an expected savior (or destroyer) of our species. No, an awful lot of people (at least in the news and entertainment media) are rather excited about the continuing lineage famous for living rent free these past centuries.

The world wasn't this excited about your birth. Or about mine. (Although "royal" was often used to describe me, always with the word "pain".)

But let me try to help. Being the skilled mathematician that I am, I would like to offer my prediction. I base my almost-always accurate forecast on real data, this time provided by United Nations and the World Health Organization.

Over the next 12 months, our human race will grow by 143,328,412.6 babies. This means the Middleton/Williams offspring will be born … whenever it's ready along with millions of other squalling infants.

Why are billions of folks obsessing over the birth of one unrelated child? Couldn't they just act like the soon-to-be royal baby and get a life?

Run for the border? Nah, you go ahead.

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According to the latest news, one country now has the honor of being "fatter than the United States". Congratulations, Mexico.

We in the United States shouldn't be surprised. Sure, I could shed a pound or 50. But who has the time and motivation. If someone asked me to travel 100 mile in the hot sun with little or no food for three or four days, I would have to say, "You go ahead. I'll catch up with you later. In fact, why don't I stay here and mind the food that you're leaving behind."

Traversing the US–Mexican border is not for the faint of heart. While you don't have to be a triathlete, you do have to give up a several servings of donuts and put in a several days of cardio.

So we're dealing with simple math. As the more motivated, athletically inclined Mexicans moved north and their fluffier counterparts stayed behind, Mexico became a weightier nation. Hurray for our side.

Will our hefty Hispanic neighbors ever migrate this way? Not if Wal-Mart is any indication. Have you seen our large North-American associates get around the aisles in those electric shopping carts? "Run for the border" would be more of a motorized crawl. Not much of a chase for the Border patrol (as long as they're in shape).

Don't worry. Mexico's achievement is temporary. The ambitious will continue their momentum and travel north into Canadian lands. The really ambitious will overshoot Canada, skidded pass the north pole, and stop their rushin' in Russia. The number of skinny folks in the US will drop and we will regain our title as "Fattest Country of the Solar System".

USA! USA! USA!

What are you heffer?

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In the realm of udderly sad news, a cow falls through a roof of a Brazilian man, Joao Maria de Souza, and lands in his bed ... on top of Mr. de Souza. As romantic as it might sound to certain people, Joao later died from the injuries.

To be clear, the cow did not leap into the roof from the shock of getting a Brazilian. It had conveniently "wandered" from its job as a lawn moo-er and on to Mr. de Souza's thin roof, which collapsed under the cow's slim one-and-a-half-tons.

Coincidentally, unofficial news report say Mrs. de Souza and the cow left the scene to escape grilling by the police - a mis-steak by some accounts.

A few rumors have the couple in a romantic tryst in the India. But that would be udder nonsense.

While it is reported that Mrs. de Souza enjoyed the company of 25 varieties of black Angus and of 25 varieties of white Charolais, this story is not about the 50 shades of graze.

How do you get to space? One Grasshopper at a time.

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"Grasshopper, when you can land accurately on a single pebble, it is time for you to leave."

Get the Kung-Fu reference? Anyone? Anyone?

Sorry, I'm in awe on this amazing video of SpaceX's Grasshopper pin-point landing:

I'd really like to have that Hexacopter used to take this video ... hint, hint

Required field must not be blank ... For fun and profit

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Sometimes it feels like those hard-working folks at Google add infuriating features just to remind us who's in charge. Maybe it's their way of taunting us with their rewarding careers of free lunches, of free day care, of high pay, and of a working environment filled with play.

You may have found the latest "enhancement" when you tried to edit your blogger.com blog. As you created a post, you immediately got an error message:

"Required field must not be blank. Ignore warning"

Google can't tell you which required field should be blank - that would defeat the purpose of taunting you. In fact, you can't even save any of your work in a draft form until you solve this mystery.

And clicking on the "ignore warning" link only brings the warning back in a few seconds. Nah-NAH nuh Nah-NAH!

So let me help. Just put some text in the title field. Ta-Da!

Of course, whatever you use for in the title-block becomes part of your post's web address. Forever and ever.

This can be a bit of a problem if you use something like "I'd love Hitler", then work on your draft on and off for several days, finally realizing your piece really needs to be published with "I'd love to kick Hitler in the groin" in its address. Too bad. (Although, your initial title may spike your web traffic as numerous, soon-to-be-disappointed skinheads flock to your site from a miss-interpreted search. Yes, I agree. Serves them reich, er, right.)

I know there are rare writers out there who have a headline in mind before they begin to compose their masterpieces. Unfortunately, I'm not that proficient. I have to write my ideas down first, and then develop the working title afterwards.

But if Google is changing the rules of the game, so be it. I'm going to try the old SEO approach to naming my preliminary drafts.

"SEO" is the web version of those catchy headlines you see at the checkout counters on the magazine covers - those glossy, over-priced tabloids that promise life-changing advice if you read their articles. Usually, these stories are the same sort of advice you rejected from your parents.

Remember the defiant attitude of a younger you when your mother freely told you to "eat your vegetables"? Yet now, as an adult, you'll pay good money to magazines that promise "how to live forever with the revolutionary pea and broccoli diet".

A lot of successful bloggers use the same newsstand trick to get people to their sites. Often, the posts don't quite deliver on their banners.

So I apologize ahead of time if you are mistakenly enticed to read my entries and learn it's not what you expect. (Not that that should be any different from before.)

So here are a few titles that may show up in the addresses of my posts:

"Five ways to remove road tar from your mosquito's wings."

"Bikini wax: A soldier's best friend for that shiny bikini."

"How to tell if your goldfish is not into you."

"If at first you don't succeed (the joys of celibacy)"

"10 things you should know about 3 secrets involving your friend's 100 highlighted hairs."

"Thyme and Tide wait for no man: A Bachelor's guide to cooking and laundry."

"How to live the life of luxury as a Google employee while giving your customers more aggravating lives." (Just kidding, Google guys. Wait. Don't .....)


!UPDATE! !UPDATE! !UPDATE! !UPDATE! !UPDATE! !UPDATE!
After further investigation, I have to you tell that I was wwwwrrrrr, I was wwwrrrrooonnn, I was ... wrong. There! Feel better?

You CAN save your draft under one title and then publish your post with another. I found this important fact at the blog "The Real Blogger Status".

I apologize to the Google for implying any elitist attitude by their developers. I hope this means we can still do lunch. At your campus, of course.

"I shouldn't have spent" only lasts a lifetime

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Life is full of regrets. The worse remorse probably comes at the end.

The dying man in a hospital who thinks, "I shouldn't have spent so much time at work instead of with my family."

The elderly woman wasting her final moments in a nursing home with thoughts of "I shouldn't have spent my life so safe and boring."

The man plummeting down the side of a tall building, thinking "I shouldn't have spent $299.95 for this flying portion."

Good news though - these lamentations are temporary. For example, one day you will no longer worry about "I shouldn't have spent time reading this post."

Courage in the Check-out Line of Fire

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My girlfriend scowled and grew angrier by the second. I had given up by that point and could only laugh at the absurd situation.

We stood with our groceries in the shortest check-out line. Only 3 people stood between us and freedom from the store's din. The lady in front of us held a gallon of milk. The two ladies in front of her each had a half-full basket of food, with the front-most woman putting her last item on the conveyor belt.

That's when the fun started.

When the cashier announced the total of the bill, the woman embarked on a lengthy search through her purse. At first, I thought it was one of those embarrassing "Oh no! I left my money at home!" moments. But no. She stopped her less-than-frantic search when she handed the cashier a small mountain of coupons.

The annoyed clerk spent the first few minutes scanning and rescanning mangled coupons. She then spent another couple of moments reviewing the long grocery printout. Finally, we all endured the next five minutes as cashier and customer haggled over the legitimacy of the reject coupons.

Ultimately, after glaciers had crawled a few inches further on the Earth, our cash conscious shopper agreed to the total and spent another agonizingly long time searching her purse for ... wait for it ... we did ... a check book.

As this wondrous transaction concluded, our line of weary shoppers contained their celebratory cheer. Our coupon clipper moved up to wait on the next woman behind her.

Now, you and I - being contentious citizens of the check-out line - would have had our coupons and payment ready before that last item hit the price scan. But what do others do? That's right. They form shopping clubs. And our line was privy to one of their meetings.

Her friend waddled forward to begin the sequel: "Day Of The Damned ... Coupon Clippers". Yes, her friend graciously gave us a repeat performance.

By then, the patient lady in front of us left the line. Her gallon of milk had expired.

When Fate promoted us to the front of the line, we placed our few, meager items on the counter. The check-out clerk asked how we were doing. My girlfriend said, "Not using coupons."

I shouldn't knock coupon users. With these pieces of shiny paper, our thrifty time-wasters saved $10 each (according to the cashier ). And it only cost those of us in line 20 minutes of our lives ... each.

Had I known ahead of time, I would have given those women $20. But that's the action of a richer man. Maybe I should be cutting coupons. And maybe I can get a deal on a bullet-proof vest to wear while checking out.

Watch out for falling rocks

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Let me introduce myself. I am the Sisyphus of blogging. I spend months struggling to push that burdensome rock of frequent posts up the steep slope of popularity. Then, when I take a few days off from blogging to rest, that rock careens down the slope, taking my hard-earned audience with it. Then, like Sisyphus's punishment, I begin the laborious work all over again.

I've been repeating this fruitless cycle for several years now - always motivated by hope that enough popularity would transform into financial rewards. I write; you like; you tell your friends, and one of them has the business connections to keep me gainfully writing.

Then I wake up.

Lately, that blogging rock has become much heavier. And more discouraging. From my rumble of words, I find it harder to release an acceptable post.

But you probably have noticed that. Or not.

Yet Another Facebook Danger: Cloning

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My daughter's facebook account just got cloned by some idiot. Apparently, cloning someone's page is the latest in security attacks on your FB site. Here is an article on how it happens and how to prevent it: Facebook Cloning

always glad to help the innocent animals

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I showed up fashionably dressed to my friend's party. His wife said I was the cat's meow.

Well, of course I was. Their cat had laryngitis and someone had to be the voice for this pathetic creature.

This is better than being called the cat's pajamas. Since I'm big enough to cloth several sleepy felines, I avoid psychotic cats who frequently rub lotion on you and knead your skin to see how soft you're getting.

You're making this up, aren't you...

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What?! The IRS has been going after groups that chant, "Down with the IRS!"?

Yeah, right. Sure thing.

Next, you'll be telling me that the Department of Justice has been secretly seizing the phone records of reporters.

This is America, in case you've forgotten - where our governmental officials act with the up-most of integrity. At least, until they get caught.