Whoosh! Time flies when you're unintentionally neglecting a blog.
Today I was hit by a double whammy of romantica. I finished a season of Tru Blood over 3 days of avoiding work I should have been doing (So horrible! I was mentally slapping myself while watching it thank got there was only 1 season. No wait, I take it back, you can't just TEASE me with only one season! I need more. MOAR.) I don't care if you were a buffy/angel fan and think this series is vile, or if you think it borders on soft porn, blah blah, it was fantabulous! God I haven't felt so warm about a tv show since Pride and Prejudice! Which Stephen Moyer (totally Imdb'd him and the entire show. Guilty) reminds me of Mr. Darcy btw. What a gentleman. Dreamy sigh.
The second half of the whammy was reading this couple's relationship history on the girl's blog. So sweet the couple. Then I found a song from Ne-yo called 'Mad' that just, somehow musically sums up what I've been feeling. Excluding the lyrics. Because he talks about fights and I'm not in mad or anything. If you get what I mean.
This weekend I have two choices for my birthday present. Some nice winter boots. Two comments from my current pair were "You look like you don't know how to use your ankles" and "You look like you live in Alaska and trudge through snow everyday". Ergo, boots need sexy-look upgrade. On the other hand, I've been meaning to buy a couple of romance novels, though I've never really been compelled to buy that genre before. And frankly it's embarassing to have to declare at the checkout counter that I in fact DO buy from that genre. Aside, I also miss having time to just sit and immerse myself in a book and this winter I will finally get time for that. So books or boots? Stay tuned.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
It's 5 in the afternoon.
It's days like this, after a cup of unsettling tea, a sore middle finger from abusing the f5 button (occupational hazard), slightly less than six hours of sleep, after clocking in too many hours of housekeeping on my own incredibly boring courier-font-in-size-10 code, that I would like nothing better than to be at home reading a sorely neglected book about a female bounty hunter from New Jersey, while enjoying the sweltering heat in the most tattered shirt I own.
I'm incredibly tempted to walk away from my responsibilities. Just for the rest of today, to walk away from an office of sedentary workers that bald prematurely, to not spend five hours of my evening slogging away on the treadmill in a gym that artificially inseminates itself with energy by way of blaring trance music and glaringly-colored walls. To walk away from a 40-year-old clerk that tells me I'm earning less than a lab rat that finds the cheese in a maze. No, To walk away from a 40-year-old clerk that tells me I'm earning less than all the different kinds of lab rats that find cheese in mazes (it's a temp job, dammit. Learn some tact also.) To walk away from being broke not by my own undoing, but by the bank that decides that it's excellent customer service to process cheques ISSUED BY ITSELF one full month after its customer deposits it in. (Have you heard of anything like that? I'm still in shock. And making as big a fuss as possible).
Jesus.
To be able to wake up in the afternoon, to stop tasting blood because I bite my lip in frustration, to basically be my own boss, and not serve my boss who serves her boss who serves his boss who serves his boss who serves her boss who serves his boss.
I'll see you at the gym.
I'm incredibly tempted to walk away from my responsibilities. Just for the rest of today, to walk away from an office of sedentary workers that bald prematurely, to not spend five hours of my evening slogging away on the treadmill in a gym that artificially inseminates itself with energy by way of blaring trance music and glaringly-colored walls. To walk away from a 40-year-old clerk that tells me I'm earning less than a lab rat that finds the cheese in a maze. No, To walk away from a 40-year-old clerk that tells me I'm earning less than all the different kinds of lab rats that find cheese in mazes (it's a temp job, dammit. Learn some tact also.) To walk away from being broke not by my own undoing, but by the bank that decides that it's excellent customer service to process cheques ISSUED BY ITSELF one full month after its customer deposits it in. (Have you heard of anything like that? I'm still in shock. And making as big a fuss as possible).
Jesus.
To be able to wake up in the afternoon, to stop tasting blood because I bite my lip in frustration, to basically be my own boss, and not serve my boss who serves her boss who serves his boss who serves his boss who serves her boss who serves his boss.
I'll see you at the gym.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Happy Father's Day
This is one of the best articles I have ever read.
WHEN YOU WEREN'T LOOKING, THEY WERE WORKING
new_york_times:http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/08/business/08every.html
By BEN STEIN
Published: June 8, 2008
MOST business journalism is about investments and the people who make them, usually on a large scale. Or else it is about the big dogs who run the mighty earldoms of American business and the agencies that regulate them. This is fair enough. As Calvin Coolidge said, “The business of America is business.”
We all want to read about money and how it’s made and lost. But for young people who might have no idea of what business involves, or even what work beyond flipping burgers or selling DVDs might mean, here is a little primer on what it is and why it means something as Father’s Day approaches.
A few days ago, I came across a draft of a memoir my father was working on before he entered immortality in 1999. After reading it carefully, I realized that I knew almost everything in it except for one huge thing: how hard his work — his “business,” as one might say, for it surely kept him “busy” — had been for a number of years in middle age.
To me, as a child and as a teenager, in Silver Spring, Md., he simply got up in the morning, packed his briefcase and went to a fine office at Connecticut Avenue and K Street in Washington — or, if he had business in New York, he packed his suitcase and went to the train after work. When he came home, he had stories about the elegant restaurants he had tried near his office, maybe Duke Zeibert’s or Harvey’s, or, if he had gone to New York, about his room at the St. Regis at 55th Street and Fifth Avenue and how outrageous it was ($30 a night), and how his sleeper car on the train had not really allowed him much sleep.
He never, and I mean never, talked about making money, and he always seemed to have enough of it for a middle-class or maybe upper-middle-class lifestyle. So, frankly, I just assumed that he was having a good time down at his office and was secure and happy in his work.
His memoir told a different tale. There were arguments and power struggles at the Committee for Economic Development, where he was research director. (It was and is an organization of high-ranking business people who put out papers on social and economic issues. My father, for about 20 years starting in the mid-1940s, was the author of many of these papers.) Yes, my father was able to socialize with the heads of the major corporations in America and live on an expense account the way they did, but it was always clear who was the boss. Yes, he got to fly first class, but it was always a struggle to be shown some respect by certain of his colleagues and he often considered quitting.
He also wondered, if he quit, what he would do next and how he would pay the bills, and he did not want his children to have to worry about money, as he did when he was a child of the Great Depression.
I think of this as I shlep through the airport security line with my heavy bags (Willy Loman style), as crazy people sit in front of me on the plane, trying to break my nose by throwing their seatbacks onto me, and as I wake up early to travel to the next destination. Then, as I look at all the other middle-aged (and sometimes older) road warriors in the security line, on the plane or checking into the hotel, I think of our children in school.
I picture our kids bravely taking moral stands on global warming and the polar bears, refusing to “sell out,” get a job or learn anything useful. I think of what I could write to them about their parents’ work. I would start with a short phrase from Hart Crane, the genius poet.
“O, brilliant kids, I was a fool just like you. I was in my mid-40s before I properly thanked my father for his decades of hard work — paying for me to laze around in the cars he bought me, to get drunk in the frat house whose dues he paid, to spend the afternoons with my girlfriends looking at trees and rivers while Pop worked and got so anxious that he took up smoking three packs of Kents a day.
“O, brilliant kids, you get to put on the garments of the morally righteous and upstanding while your parents work — because mothers work now and always have worked — and your parents must say, ‘Yes, sir,’ or ‘No, sir,’ to those who hire them. O, golden children, you get to talk about how you’ll never ‘sell out,’ and meanwhile your parents stay up late in torment, thinking of how they can pay your tuition. Because, brilliant kids, work (business) involves exhaustion and eating humble pie and going on even when you think you can’t. And you are the beneficiaries of it in your gilded youth.
“Be smarter than Ben Stein ever was. Be a better person than I ever was. Right now, today, thank your parents for working to support you. Don’t act as if it’s the divine right of students. Get right up in their faces and say, ‘Thank you for what you do so I can live like this.’ Say something. Say it, so that when they’re at O’Hare or Dallas-Fort Worth and they’ve just learned that their flight is canceled and they’ll have to stay overnight at the airport, they will know you appreciate them.
“Get it in your heads that if you throw away your moral duties to your parents, you are thieves. You were born on third base and your parents put you there, and you think you hit a triple. It’s not true. It’s time to give back.
“ `Attention must be paid,’ as Arthur Miller said. So start now, and make it a habit to be grateful to your parents. Say you’re grateful and mean it. Do it now, however young or old you are. Do it on Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, every day.”
How I wish I had done more of it. Now it’s too late — but it’s never too early.
Ben Stein is a lawyer, writer, actor and economist. E-mail: ebiz@nytimes.com.
WHEN YOU WEREN'T LOOKING, THEY WERE WORKING
new_york_times:http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/08/business/08every.html
By BEN STEIN
Published: June 8, 2008
MOST business journalism is about investments and the people who make them, usually on a large scale. Or else it is about the big dogs who run the mighty earldoms of American business and the agencies that regulate them. This is fair enough. As Calvin Coolidge said, “The business of America is business.”
We all want to read about money and how it’s made and lost. But for young people who might have no idea of what business involves, or even what work beyond flipping burgers or selling DVDs might mean, here is a little primer on what it is and why it means something as Father’s Day approaches.
A few days ago, I came across a draft of a memoir my father was working on before he entered immortality in 1999. After reading it carefully, I realized that I knew almost everything in it except for one huge thing: how hard his work — his “business,” as one might say, for it surely kept him “busy” — had been for a number of years in middle age.
To me, as a child and as a teenager, in Silver Spring, Md., he simply got up in the morning, packed his briefcase and went to a fine office at Connecticut Avenue and K Street in Washington — or, if he had business in New York, he packed his suitcase and went to the train after work. When he came home, he had stories about the elegant restaurants he had tried near his office, maybe Duke Zeibert’s or Harvey’s, or, if he had gone to New York, about his room at the St. Regis at 55th Street and Fifth Avenue and how outrageous it was ($30 a night), and how his sleeper car on the train had not really allowed him much sleep.
He never, and I mean never, talked about making money, and he always seemed to have enough of it for a middle-class or maybe upper-middle-class lifestyle. So, frankly, I just assumed that he was having a good time down at his office and was secure and happy in his work.
His memoir told a different tale. There were arguments and power struggles at the Committee for Economic Development, where he was research director. (It was and is an organization of high-ranking business people who put out papers on social and economic issues. My father, for about 20 years starting in the mid-1940s, was the author of many of these papers.) Yes, my father was able to socialize with the heads of the major corporations in America and live on an expense account the way they did, but it was always clear who was the boss. Yes, he got to fly first class, but it was always a struggle to be shown some respect by certain of his colleagues and he often considered quitting.
He also wondered, if he quit, what he would do next and how he would pay the bills, and he did not want his children to have to worry about money, as he did when he was a child of the Great Depression.
I think of this as I shlep through the airport security line with my heavy bags (Willy Loman style), as crazy people sit in front of me on the plane, trying to break my nose by throwing their seatbacks onto me, and as I wake up early to travel to the next destination. Then, as I look at all the other middle-aged (and sometimes older) road warriors in the security line, on the plane or checking into the hotel, I think of our children in school.
I picture our kids bravely taking moral stands on global warming and the polar bears, refusing to “sell out,” get a job or learn anything useful. I think of what I could write to them about their parents’ work. I would start with a short phrase from Hart Crane, the genius poet.
“O, brilliant kids, I was a fool just like you. I was in my mid-40s before I properly thanked my father for his decades of hard work — paying for me to laze around in the cars he bought me, to get drunk in the frat house whose dues he paid, to spend the afternoons with my girlfriends looking at trees and rivers while Pop worked and got so anxious that he took up smoking three packs of Kents a day.
“O, brilliant kids, you get to put on the garments of the morally righteous and upstanding while your parents work — because mothers work now and always have worked — and your parents must say, ‘Yes, sir,’ or ‘No, sir,’ to those who hire them. O, golden children, you get to talk about how you’ll never ‘sell out,’ and meanwhile your parents stay up late in torment, thinking of how they can pay your tuition. Because, brilliant kids, work (business) involves exhaustion and eating humble pie and going on even when you think you can’t. And you are the beneficiaries of it in your gilded youth.
“Be smarter than Ben Stein ever was. Be a better person than I ever was. Right now, today, thank your parents for working to support you. Don’t act as if it’s the divine right of students. Get right up in their faces and say, ‘Thank you for what you do so I can live like this.’ Say something. Say it, so that when they’re at O’Hare or Dallas-Fort Worth and they’ve just learned that their flight is canceled and they’ll have to stay overnight at the airport, they will know you appreciate them.
“Get it in your heads that if you throw away your moral duties to your parents, you are thieves. You were born on third base and your parents put you there, and you think you hit a triple. It’s not true. It’s time to give back.
“ `Attention must be paid,’ as Arthur Miller said. So start now, and make it a habit to be grateful to your parents. Say you’re grateful and mean it. Do it now, however young or old you are. Do it on Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, every day.”
How I wish I had done more of it. Now it’s too late — but it’s never too early.
Ben Stein is a lawyer, writer, actor and economist. E-mail: ebiz@nytimes.com.
Monday, June 9, 2008
More Zumba, some flattery, cowardice, and a trainwreck.
(lagged post from June 4)
I feel the need to touch upon a million different things at the same time. Here's four.
ZUMBA
I think I have been to 3 or so Zumba classes and it's been swell!Dancing and latin music, why haven't I thought of it before? Sigh.I also clocked in 410kcals running on the treadmill and probablylooked like I was dying of a heart attack because when I heave andpant, I also turn a bright shade of tomato. And I feel great! I getthe all-in-one package of rosy complexion, looser pants, and beatingpeople on the stairs.Fantabulous, magnicellent, brills, brills, brills.
Apart from that endorphin bonus, the instructor knows how to sh-shake it.Cute and single, but (tragically) STRAIGHT. He once mentioned thatmaybe he had no girlfriend for such a long time because he liked to dancelike that. We pretty much responded with awkward laughter. I mean, what else can we say. I felt a little bad.Well such is you, and such is me, so we can never be. I can't believe I just wrote that. Ah, I'm a cliche machine. Stab my heart with a poisoned dagger already.
FLATTERY
In the general area of flattery, miss pau from quaintly.net said she likes my work here! Insta-happy-pill! I feel like bryanboy looking at a picture of Marc Jacobs holding a 'I love bryanboy' sign. I love quaintly.net! Please give me more posts so I can happily cry about them! I am not a sap. Really. Only when no one's around.
COWARDICE
Hm, I think this deserves a seperate space of its own.
TRAINWRECKS
Meet my boss at my day job. Her name is Fickle. She and her senior assistant butt heads with each other on a daily basis. While I tend to just crouch behind the bushes with one foot back ready to run in the other direction.Their voices will rise in an escalating spiral, then interrupted by their own pressing matters,unlucky bystanders, or until one of them wipes the blood off their horns and struts away. It's like watching two trains colliding in slow motion. I'd like to be far, faaar, away.
I feel the need to touch upon a million different things at the same time. Here's four.
ZUMBA
I think I have been to 3 or so Zumba classes and it's been swell!Dancing and latin music, why haven't I thought of it before? Sigh.I also clocked in 410kcals running on the treadmill and probablylooked like I was dying of a heart attack because when I heave andpant, I also turn a bright shade of tomato. And I feel great! I getthe all-in-one package of rosy complexion, looser pants, and beatingpeople on the stairs.Fantabulous, magnicellent, brills, brills, brills.
Apart from that endorphin bonus, the instructor knows how to sh-shake it.Cute and single, but (tragically) STRAIGHT. He once mentioned thatmaybe he had no girlfriend for such a long time because he liked to dancelike that. We pretty much responded with awkward laughter. I mean, what else can we say. I felt a little bad.Well such is you, and such is me, so we can never be. I can't believe I just wrote that. Ah, I'm a cliche machine. Stab my heart with a poisoned dagger already.
FLATTERY
In the general area of flattery, miss pau from quaintly.net said she likes my work here! Insta-happy-pill! I feel like bryanboy looking at a picture of Marc Jacobs holding a 'I love bryanboy' sign. I love quaintly.net! Please give me more posts so I can happily cry about them! I am not a sap. Really. Only when no one's around.
COWARDICE
Hm, I think this deserves a seperate space of its own.
TRAINWRECKS
Meet my boss at my day job. Her name is Fickle. She and her senior assistant butt heads with each other on a daily basis. While I tend to just crouch behind the bushes with one foot back ready to run in the other direction.Their voices will rise in an escalating spiral, then interrupted by their own pressing matters,unlucky bystanders, or until one of them wipes the blood off their horns and struts away. It's like watching two trains colliding in slow motion. I'd like to be far, faaar, away.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
When creative minds collide
Ay, so I had another post saved on my USB key, but did not bring it to work today.
So here's another post because I have yet more things to get off my mind.
Currently, my unofficial title is web designer. I have specifically stated that I am not the professional one would hire from a web design company, and unless you require an extremely minimalist design, my skills are limited. In other words, I have skillz, but not maad skillz. Haha.
Sigh. I am going to introduce my boss again. Her name is Fickle, and please, do let your creative assumptions jog around for a while as to why I have aptly named her that.
Now my boss is great and all, great for office gossip, boys, and good food and party recommendations. She is also a visionary. As in, carry-my-vision-out visionary.
The other day, she came across a very pretty website. It had animated tabs, marquees, and floating pictures that change every few seconds. It looked like a movie promo site. Heavy on the theatrics. Obviously done by some professional. In what I can only respectfully compare to a kid looking through the glass outside of a candy store, she pointed at that site and said, "I want". Not literally, but closely resembling that. I chose my words carefully and responded, whoever in the company who had done that site was absolutely brilliant and could I have the chance to work with them then? So she picked up the phone to ask and I listened on.
Oh it was done professionally? Oh, how much? 150K? Oh my. Thank you bye-bye.
Rubbish, she said, we can do it for less.
I want, she pointed again, it doesn't really have to be nice like that but I Want.
Heave. Puff. Pant. Heave.
Then she wanted a forum, moving pictures, and a SEARCH ENGINE.
I went home rather mad that day.
Anyways, after a night of fuming and contemplating, I came up with a way to work around it.
I am no creative genius, but I know my warm and cold colours and which colours go well together. I can also safely categorize our company as conservative so no need to go avant-garde with colour choice. I chose professional colours, also company-colour related.
I submitted the finished product to her the next day.
Ok so why is she called Fickle? Because I can count with one hand the number of things we've submitted to her following her instructions to a T only to have her radically changing the entire thing, effectively wasting our time. More stories another time. She hasn't quite done that to me yet, which is probably why I end up doing most of the creative stuff.
Anyways, she sits me down next to her while she makes some finishing touches on my page.
My god it was like a trip to the dentist.
She butchered my chrome tabs and replaced them with some multicoloured monstrosity that looked like it was created from tiles in Bejewelled. On the basis that my chrome tabs were 'too cutesy'. Well, obviously using every colour of the rainbow radiates professionalism. I sat there, cringing like when the dentist takes a swipe at my gums, cringing like an uncapped permanent marker rolling on my couch, everytime the chrome changed into a rectangular ruby, or a tinted emerald.
But she is the boss, and I, in the near future (especially after this), will learn to never get too attached to my work.
So here's another post because I have yet more things to get off my mind.
Currently, my unofficial title is web designer. I have specifically stated that I am not the professional one would hire from a web design company, and unless you require an extremely minimalist design, my skills are limited. In other words, I have skillz, but not maad skillz. Haha.
Sigh. I am going to introduce my boss again. Her name is Fickle, and please, do let your creative assumptions jog around for a while as to why I have aptly named her that.
Now my boss is great and all, great for office gossip, boys, and good food and party recommendations. She is also a visionary. As in, carry-my-vision-out visionary.
The other day, she came across a very pretty website. It had animated tabs, marquees, and floating pictures that change every few seconds. It looked like a movie promo site. Heavy on the theatrics. Obviously done by some professional. In what I can only respectfully compare to a kid looking through the glass outside of a candy store, she pointed at that site and said, "I want". Not literally, but closely resembling that. I chose my words carefully and responded, whoever in the company who had done that site was absolutely brilliant and could I have the chance to work with them then? So she picked up the phone to ask and I listened on.
Oh it was done professionally? Oh, how much? 150K? Oh my. Thank you bye-bye.
Rubbish, she said, we can do it for less.
I want, she pointed again, it doesn't really have to be nice like that but I Want.
Heave. Puff. Pant. Heave.
Then she wanted a forum, moving pictures, and a SEARCH ENGINE.
I went home rather mad that day.
Anyways, after a night of fuming and contemplating, I came up with a way to work around it.
I am no creative genius, but I know my warm and cold colours and which colours go well together. I can also safely categorize our company as conservative so no need to go avant-garde with colour choice. I chose professional colours, also company-colour related.
I submitted the finished product to her the next day.
Ok so why is she called Fickle? Because I can count with one hand the number of things we've submitted to her following her instructions to a T only to have her radically changing the entire thing, effectively wasting our time. More stories another time. She hasn't quite done that to me yet, which is probably why I end up doing most of the creative stuff.
Anyways, she sits me down next to her while she makes some finishing touches on my page.
My god it was like a trip to the dentist.
She butchered my chrome tabs and replaced them with some multicoloured monstrosity that looked like it was created from tiles in Bejewelled. On the basis that my chrome tabs were 'too cutesy'. Well, obviously using every colour of the rainbow radiates professionalism. I sat there, cringing like when the dentist takes a swipe at my gums, cringing like an uncapped permanent marker rolling on my couch, everytime the chrome changed into a rectangular ruby, or a tinted emerald.
But she is the boss, and I, in the near future (especially after this), will learn to never get too attached to my work.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Zumba.
Now this is going to be rather emotional, but inside me swims many many new variants of happy. My feeble attempts to describe how I feel only result in inhumanely squashing these emotions into little 2-by-2" boxes labelled Excited, Rejuvenated, Passionate.
You know when you meet a friend whom you haven't seen in a while and she comes back but with half of her weight gone and you look at her in shock and jealously while unconciously measuring that fat ring around your stomach and she tells you her secret, some workout or some sport she picked up, or some new slimming product she chugged religiously and you think to yourself, I've tried just about everything you've tried, why hasnt it worked on ME?
I feel like it's finally my turn in line to go to the counter and recieve my fat-be-gone prize. In the form of ZUMBA! Yes, darlings, go look it up if you don't already know what it is.
You know when you meet a friend whom you haven't seen in a while and she comes back but with half of her weight gone and you look at her in shock and jealously while unconciously measuring that fat ring around your stomach and she tells you her secret, some workout or some sport she picked up, or some new slimming product she chugged religiously and you think to yourself, I've tried just about everything you've tried, why hasnt it worked on ME?
I feel like it's finally my turn in line to go to the counter and recieve my fat-be-gone prize. In the form of ZUMBA! Yes, darlings, go look it up if you don't already know what it is.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
My first post!
Reading the blogs of many people, I find that it makes me know a lot about them, thin-tall-raven-haired-blonde-whatkindoffashionsense, but not what they like (hobbies? I don’t think shopping and hanging out with friends really counts). This isn’t generally true, but I do feel that the blogs that captivate me are the ones that document their hobbies in colorful detail, hobbies where they go out of their comfort zone to do because they are passionate. Like food blogs. Or artblogs. Like that.
Sigh. What am I really trying to say (trying to avoid sounding like a hypocrite)? I do read blogs where people talk about themselves. But that bores me, honestly. By what bores me I mean the blogs where people go out shopping then write in full detail about what they bought, then an even longer wish-list of what they want in the future. I love reading about people’s experiences, the ones that don’t happen everyday that again, take them out of their comfort zone, and the wonderful pictures they have to accompany it.
So what I’m saying is this blog is about what I do and thnk (which are also about me HAH) but also about other heroes out there! Basically you probably won’t know where I live, what I look like (I promise you I will never have an entry where I post 23486 photoshopped pictures of myself, what food I ate today (BORING. Who wants to know about my stomach activity? Anyone?), etcetc perhaps you get the gist. Man I feel like I'm digging myself a hole here.
Oh, and call me Rupert.
My First Post is about Heinrich Harrer and Pippa Bacca.
http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2008/05/tibetans/harrer-text
It’s a beautiful account about two Austrians (one of them being Heinrich), who enter the sacred walls of Tibet as intruders but leave as patriots, albeit under rather sad circumstances. A must read for those bored at work, or bored of life.
My favorite part of the story was when the people of Lhasa, who chased these two out of their courtyards, upon seeing Heinrich's bloody and swollen painful feet, immediately took them into their homes to feed and dress them.
The generosity of the Tibetans to entrust these two strangers to tinker with their livelihoods is a sharp contrast to this story, which I will not go into detail here because it is just sad (but click the link and read!).
I guess the world has good and bad people.
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