At least until my Sims start fucking and that little blob thing stops attaching itself to my face in Half-Life.

Okay, here is my menu.

Breakfast:

1 large cup.
1 running faucet.
1 tray of ice.

First, you bring your cup to the freezer. You will then open said freezer and remove the tray of ice cubs. You will have to get the ice cubes out of the tray. I suggest twisting the tray until some of the cubes pop out and land on the floor. Then, you replace tray into freezer, close freezer, and retrieve cubes from floor, placing them in your cup.

You then proceed to the faucet, then you turn the faucet on. Now here it is particularly important to remember to turn on the cold water instead of the hot, which is a common rookie mistake.

You then fill up cup of ice with water.

Proceed to the computer. Repeat when neccessary.

Lunch:

2 packs of cigarettes.
One working lighter.
One ashtray (optional)

Take cigarette out of pack. The brand depends on your own preference. I prefer one pack of Kool Kings, one pack Marlboro lights, and advise switching between the two. Variety is the spice of life!

Put cigarette to lips. Now here, it is also imporant to have the filter side in the mouth and the other side on the out, not the other way around.

Retrieve lighter from whatever dark and unholy place it migrated to over the course of the night before.

Light cigarette.

Repeat 5 minutes later.

Enjoy!

(note: lunch should begin immediatly after breakfast and should continue until you pass out late at night. But do not have lunch while in the shower.)

Dinner:

1 case of beer (24 twelve oz cans)
1 lack of a will to live

To properly prepare for dinner, you should have already placed the beer in the refrigerator a few hours beforehand.

Having done that, go to refrigerator. Retrive a single can of beer. Open it. Drink contents. Repeat 15 or 16 times.

Enjoy!

(Then somewhere during the course of dinner I microwave a few convinince store hamburgers or something)

Alright, see you next week. Gotta go.

It's dinner time.

So if you've done a painting, or sculpture, or have some original photos, or a 3-D model, or anything else along these lines, bring it in and post it for all to see.

Women...what can be said that already hasn’t? I love women, not to sound like a womanizer, but I do. What other creature on this planet can be so soft and gentle one minute and so hard and cold the next. But I still can’t get enough of them.

I just love the female form. The soft curve of a woman’s hips. I can’t get enough. I love seeing a woman’s silhouette outlined by morning sunlight. It’s amazing to see the soft warm glow on her body and the reflection of the sunlight off of the soft peach fuzz of her face. And the scent of a woman sets me on fire. I could bury my face in a woman’s hair and just smell her for hours. I could spend hours exploring the body of my lover, licking and kissing and touching her. From head to toe I could kiss her. Taking time to touch her all over, running my lips over the soft skin of her inner thighs or stomach, kissing her bellybutton or rubbing my face on her tummy. Lightly tracing the curves of her body with my fingertips.

There are not words that can describe the excitement I feel when I bury my face in between a woman’s thighs and breath in the musky sweet smell, and the taste of her sex arouses me beyond my imagination. I enjoy playing with a woman’s senses maybe putting a blind fold on her and running a feather over her body, then watching the goose flesh rise, then kissing it till its gone. Or touching a woman all over and not allowing her to touch back. Just kissing a woman’s breast makes my heart race with desire, playing with her nipples or licking the sweat from under them. Laying my head between them and feeling the soft warmth and the steady beat of her heart.

And making love to a woman: well there just are not enough words in this world to describe the feeling of soft slow lovemaking. I enjoy the kind of sex that can last for hours or even days if time permits so both lovers can take the time to satisfy each other. Learning all the ways to pleasure each other. Finding the areas of her body that you can touch to cause pleasure. But most of all having the love of a woman is truly the best feeling on earth, knowing that you are the only person she wants, that you are the only person who will share her bed and you are the only one who she will give her body to.

But then it also amazes me how a woman can turn your whole life upside down. How one minute she can be the most loving creature in this world and then the next she can be the most cold-hearted conniving creature. As the saying goes, "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." What amazing beings women are.

Stars: Kevin Costner, Bruce Greenwood, Steven Culp, Billy Smitrovich, Frank Wood, Tim Kelleher, Lucinda Jenney
Director: Roger Donaldson

13 Days is a drama based on the thirteen days of the Cuban Missile Crisis. The movie takes place in the inner circle of JFK's (Greenwood) White House as news of missiles in Cuba create an atmosphere of fear and danger, as seen through the eyes of Kennedy's Chief of Staff (Costner).

Though it does share the same title as the book that Robert F. Kennedy wrote about the Crisis, this movie is not directly based upon it.

The Cold war is a difficult era to capture. The facts of the cold war don't really underline the real horror of that war, which was fear. To live in fear, fear of the skies, fear of the unknown enemy--these were the bullets and bombs of the Cold War. Unfortunately, 13 Days failed to recreate this sense of fear and tension in any way. A good historical film should take you to the place and time and involve you in the events. 13 Days never comes close.

The film began to fail for me right from the opening credits. A montage of mostly computer generated mushroom clouds in vibrant colors and close-up detail, mixed with some stock footage of post-war A-bomb testing in the South Pacific, almost made the bomb look beautiful. Being American film footage, the aftermath of the bombs dropped in Japan is absent and its absence is very obvious.

Costner is on the screen almost right away and rarely leaves for the next 2 1/2 hours. He plays Kenny O’Donnell, JFK's Chief of Staff and political advisor. A long time friend of the Kennedys from Harvard, O’Donnell actually played a very small role in the crisis.

In keeping with Costner's tradition of involvement in "fiddling with history cinema" (think Untouchables and JFK), O’Donnell is portrayed as the main driving force in the Kennedy administration. He is the quarterback of the government and the Kennedys come off like weak, dumb saps that wouldn't know what socks to wear without cool Costner to guide them.

Even if Costner could hold the screen for two-plus hours, his affected Boston accent is enough to drive even the most dedicated fan over the edge. Why does he keep trying this? Robin Hood, JFK, and now this....? Enough, Kevin. Don't be ashamed of being from Ohio (or where ever you're from).

The film, itself, is shot and edited very poorly. Director Donaldson is a journeyman director whose works include: Cocktail; No Way Out (with Costner); Species; The Bounty; and Cadillac Man, among others. A hit-and-miss list, at best. He shows no deftness in his camera work or scene usage. A boom mike makes a cameo appearance twice during the movie and the whole editing looks sloppy. The film tries a gimmicky mix of black and white and color shots for the first half of the film, which mysteriously stops when things begin to rev-up and the jets hit the screen. It doesn't work and I saw no rationale behind the choice at all.

The performances are wooden across the board, with the exception of the actor playing Adalai Stevenson. Greenwood fails to capture JFK's passion and provides little tension in what is one of the most tense moments in the history of the Presidency.

The film's only good moments come during an intensely realistic scene of an American U2 being shot down over Cuba. The effects are good and the pilot’s anti-cruise performance of a terrified young pilot is excellent.

Costner's deep commitment to "13 Days" is well known in Hollywood circles. The actor stuck with the project as it was shepherded through numerous studios and possible directors, until it found a home at New Line and with helmer Roger Donaldson. All the while, the reasons behind Costner's strong attachment to the script are, for the moment, up for conjecture.

There is an undertone of the movie "JFK" in this film that is a little odd. The Joint Chiefs, certainly no fans of the Kennedy brothers are portrayed as almost cartoonish hawks, thirsty for war and an end to the Kennedy administration. The word "coup" is bandied about often and reminds me greatly of some of the themes in Oliver Stone's conspiracy magnum opus. I wonder if this movie is in some ways a prequel.

All in all, not worth it. The serious history buff will find no new or accurate information here. The casual history lover, or the average film goer, is better off with a documentary or a good book on the events of October 1962.

I give it:

http://www.gwu.edu/~nsarchiv/nsa/cu...i/cmcchron.html

A link to an excellent chronology of the Crisis

Humor is more important than artistic skills here, so don't be concerned if crayons are your speed. Each image will be available for one week, starting on Monday at 9 p.m. CST. The first week, starting now, will be shortened by one day.

Try it out! We think you'll have a ball ... and stay tuned later this week for related news ....

Now, I was just fixing to enter my plea of innocent for the trumped up charge of disturbing the peace, one of the most ignorant laws I have ever seen, when JEB, who had been nodding off on the bench behind us, let loose of the bag he was holding and when it hit the floor, the bottle inside broke with a loud BANG.

Clettis, our lawyer, being unusually fast on his feet, shouted, “He’s been SHOT!”, referring to no one in particular. The courtroom went into a panic with everyone running for the door, including JEB, Clettis, and yours truly.

Once outside, Clettis told us he was late for a poker game and would let us know if they were going to reschedule the trial although he was going to demand they drop the charges due to the pain and suffering we had already gone through with being shot at and all, but to lay low in the meantime.

So we jumped in JEB’s truck and took off, figuring that we should go find somewheres that we could calm down from our ordeal, a bar seeming the safest bet.

Keeping Clettis’ admonishment to lay low in mind, we headed out to Art’s Basshole. On the way out of town, JEB started in again on how he felt that Fred needed more exercise and wanted him to be let out to run alongside the truck at the city limits. Once again, I pointed out to him that Fred got more that enough exercise humping everyone and everything in his path and that it was a waste of time as the same thing happened every time we tried to run Fred.

After screaming at each other for a while, I pulled over and helped JEB drag Fred out of the cab, both of us winding up covered with dog slobber and bit all to hell.

We jumped in the truck and I took off, kicking up a cloud of dust as JEB hung out the window screaming for Fred to keep up. I continued to accelerate and JEB continued to hang out the window flailing and screaming like he has done every time we do this. I reached over and scratched Fred’s head when he stuck it through the back window as we both watched JEB carrying on. Ole JEB never does see Fred jump in the back of the truck, like he does every time we do this.

We figured that parking out back would be wise and were wondering how we were going to weasel a few drinks out of Art as we walked in the back when we spotted a tourist tossing a twenty on his table while he was trying to pick up on Sandie, Art’s cousin and part time bartender, who usually worked until Art sobered up enough to stagger from his trailer to the bar.

JEB elbowed me and winked. Swelling himself up like a toad, he ran into the room and hollered, “What the hell are you doin’ to ma WIFE!!! Where’s my gun!!”, and ran back out the rear door.

Now this tourist just froze until I yelled, “RUN!!! He just got outta prison for shooting the last guy that talked to his woman!!”. He was out the door and kicking up a rooster tail of dirt 30 feet high as he sped out of the parking lot, faster than I had seen a man run in my life.

I snagged up the twenty as JEB came back in and we proceeded to lower our blood pressure with a little of Art’s watered down whiskey while bedazzling young Sandie with the story of our day.

I am not sure how we wound up in Art’s big bass boat, 30 miles down river beached on a sandbar with Art and Sandie but that’s where I woke up.

When Art came to, he started yeowlin about it being that reprobate, JEB’s fault but lost his balance and fell out of the boat before he could explain why.

JEB took advantage of the sudden loss of weight in the boat and backed off the sandbar and headed back up to Art’s place, leaving Art on the sandbar yelling all sorts of profanities and death threats.

Sandie did understand our being a little uncomfortable about letting Art back in the boat in as much as he seemed to be acting unreasonably aggressive and said she would go back and fetch him up, once we got to the truck.

Art did manage to get revenge on JEB and I came to find out that he had damn good reason for it too, but that’s another story.

My father was a sailor. He didn’t sail to make a living, he sailed because he loved the ocean. Peer grew up in Denmark during World War II, walking the streets along with Germans, tanks and the resistance. When he was in his late teens my grandmother bought him a sailboat. He would take it out in the bay near the Little Mermaid statue that celebrated Hans Christian Andersen’s short story of love and sacrifice. How fitting for a man like my father, rugged and tall, blonde wavy hair, a stark contrast to his tan weathered skin, his steel blue eyes watering from the cool sea air. He was a man who loved the ocean, its freedom and expanse. His life in some ways reflected the very ocean he loved, yet he would find the dark side of the sea in his own actions; He was doomed to feel the coldness and depth before seeing the danger.

Peer, like his father and generations of Danes before them, was an alcoholic. He didn’t know what brought him to this point, but the countless lost days spoke volumes to a man who took pride in living each day to it’s fullest. His family and job served only as a momentary lapse between warm wet circles lying on the bar. Friends were faceless strangers who were willing to listen to stories about the “Hav” for the price of a beer. Peer knew it was time to change his life, to get back to what he loved; His loving wife and children, his joy and future. He would go back to the ocean, for he knew the foam rising on the white caps and the salty sea air would breath life into his body, giving him the strength to change, to put aside the alcohol and get on with his existence.

He arrived at the dock just before the sun touched the water. A painted sky greeted him as he motored out past the breakwater. Pointing his boat towards the open sea, he unfurled his sails; snapping, they gathered the breeze, pulling him faster. The mist cooled his face and gathered in his beard, dripping onto his sun-dried lips. The taste brought memories rushing back to him; his father Torkild, his mother Marie, the first time he met his wife. He remembered her dark eyes, glancing across the room then meeting with his. They fell in love as he crossed the floor to meet her; fate, and a chance meeting brought their worlds together. For a moment a thought crossed his mind to turn back, to run to her and apologize for all the pain and sleepless nights, instead he pushed on to prove to himself he could change. The land became an afterglow as his boat raced through the water, cutting through growing swells. Speed was the key, go faster and push the limits of craft and man alike. The waves slapped against the bow with greater might, forcing him to hold on with more conviction. He was striving for perfection, for the purity in the waves, for absolution…

The knock on the door was soft; the small boy came into the room and hugged his crying mother. She took his hand in hers and kissed it gently, wiping away her tears. She didn’t know how to tell him, what do you say that makes sense to a 3 year old? How could she explain the demon that stole his father? Stroking his hair back she looked into his eyes. She saw Peer in him, he was strong and compassionate but weak in mind, still needing to grow. “My love”, she told him, “My love you are more precious than you could ever imagine”. The boy, feeling the pain in her voice, wrapped his small arms around her neck and whispered, “I love you mummy, you are my life”.

The boy grew up detesting the ocean; it never became a part of him like it had to his forefathers. He had broken the cycle and won, for himself... for his father.

-CAL-