by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. Today is a very special day in my life, and I want to share it with you, my reader. Today is the day I reach my goal of publishing 500 articles in my current series of commentaries. Thus I have become, literally at the stroke of a pen, a man read by millions worldwide. And that produces a feeling of excitement, enthusiasm, euphoria. Personal happiness fuels the entire enterprise.
At least four times each week since September 18, 2010, I have faced the daunting blank page, aiming to transform that white space into words of magic! Timely significance! Perfect accuracy! Words that stop you in your tracks to read and consider... and then keep, selecting them as guides for the betterment of your life. And I have done all this at record speed... thereby proving yet again that being a senior citizen is a state of mind, not a date on the calendar or some particular disfigurerment or debilitating condition or daily diminishment.
And so for this article of achievement, commendation and insight, I have selected the stirring march by Sir William Walton (whose life and sound were profiled in this series). It's called "Crown Imperial" (1937). And most every day I play it online to herald my first appearance of the day, at a time that could be anywhere and everywhere on clocks truly challenged to keep up with me, a very mobile target.
Go now to any search engine and play this effusion of stateliness... and now imagine my advent embellished with these words:
Arriba! Arriba! Arriba! El Imperator! The Master of the Lyric Words...
These stirring words, which arrest the attention of all, causing a sea of viewers worldwide to stop! Read! Consider... and so be captivated. Such an entrance never loses its captivating power and arching thrill for the man.... me!... who is so announced.
Written on the screen.
I write each commentary live, on the screen of the Worldprofit Live Business Center at worldprofit.com. Each day, therefore, becomes not just a writing opportunity for me... but a writing class for all observers worldwide. Thus, without paying a single penny people everywhere get this unique class and all its pragmatic and entrancing writing skills free! You, too, can join us there on any morning and so, at once, find yourself a sentient part of an educational experience which no other writer makes available, much less available for free! And so as paragraph by paragraph emerges from my brain, it is instantly posted on the screen thereby showing the enraptured audience how to write to be read, to be persuasive, to be memorable, to be lyric.
But such mighty outcomes are never the sole result of my efforts, no matter how consequential and important those might be. The result is rather the effort of the Worldprofit Writing Team, good people and true who esteem it their honor and pleasure (though, in truth, they are mine) by racing to find items prosaic and exact, such as correct spelling, accurate dates, quotations not misquoted and views not misstated. In short they constitute the most magnificent support team ever assembled, one which may, in fact, be unique and is certainly peerless and beyond mere praise.
The outlook that informs each commentary.
It is my firm belief that our great age of quick information (as epitomized by the Internet) is the even greater age of misinformation; information, data, statistics et al flow without relief... but necessary accuracy is often a casualty, both by design and by accident. Valuable commentators exist to correct matters, state such matters accurately and without personal agenda, whether hidden or otherwise. Commentators, therefore, exist for one reason only, to make true, detailed, honest reflections about any topic they write about.
The motto of each commentator must be the same as Harvard University, my alma mater -- "veritas" -- truth. For insomuch as truth has been a major casualty in our e-days, so must we work all the harder to ensure that its high standards are still rendered and revered, not sacrificed to accommodate views selfish, limited, and inaccurate.
Thus each and every day as I work, I remind myself that my work, like the work of any commentator, is valuable only insofar as it is based on and disseminates truth; for truth is our true master and must always remain so.
What I write about.
Once it is clear that truth is and must be the reason for writing commentary, it is crucial that you establish your subject field... or, in my ambitious and demanding case, subject fields. For my "beat" is mankind in all his works, magnificent, inspiring, degrading, deleterious, and all the rest. In short it is as broad as the epoch of mankind on Planet Earth and all his works. Thus you are as likely to find in my articles true and provocative commentary on specific animal groups moving towards unalterable extinction... to the matter of why humans bully each other and what we can do about it... to the succulent and minutely remembered pies baked by grandma... to agendas apt or wrong-headed advanced by every political party and its representatives, eminent or as yet unknown.
No subject, no matter where manifesting itself on Earth, is too limited... or so important... that it cannot be dealt with here. And as I am no idle, uncritical respecter of persons or long-established institutions and traditions -- the views I promote will always be my own, that is to say the result of long years of looking at every manner of person and event, and drawing my own conclusions... and so stating matters that you will draw your own, too; for my commentaries are never about dictating opinion, but always about informing it.
Astonishing results, millions of readers.
When I started this project, I little foresaw just how rapidly it would grow or how important it would be. But I know better now. People -- and I mean every sort and condition of people -- have done me the signal honor not merely to access and read my wide constellation of thoughts, but to laud, extol, and praise... and, yes, to offer me the benefit of their own opinions, too, which I always urge them to share...whatever those opinions might be. For maintaining sustained, interactive relationships with the world and his wife has always been my clear objective.
The future.
Aging daily, man's fate, it might be thought that I might on this occasion or shortly so announce the curtailment or even termination of my exigent work. But that will never happen. For as long as I have something useful to say to people needing to hear it (if not always welcoming) I shall continue, and gladly. It is what I was born to do, my fate, and I embrace it with the greatest possible enthusiasm.
Besides, with every commentary I write, I empower the thousands of blog publishers set up by worldprofit.com and made potent and worth attending by me. And nothing makes me happier than to know that my work, all my work, can be used by you, as it is used and published by people just like you everywhere on Earth.
Thus, I give you great Browning's great words, so beloved of my mother, now so beloved of me:
Grow old with me. The best is yet to be! The last of life for which the first was made.
Thus, if today is a memorable day, let us consider it as just the first of many such days to come... for that I shall surely achieve... if you, all of you, continue to support and sustain me in the work I consider the most important of my life; work which you have told me so often is so important in the fulfillment of yours.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Services include home business training, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting, hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today. This month Dr. Jeffrey Lant reached a mile stone, he has written 500 commentaries in just over one year. Republished with author's permission by Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com.
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by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. This is a story as American as apple pie and hay rides, although its roots go back to Ancient Rome. It's a story that will remind you of your own youthful days when the livin' was easy, and you had time enough to waste without a single regret.
It's a story about people you haven't thought about in too long... and places you miss the minute you think of them... it's about the days when your energies were prodigal... and you were admonished to wipe your feet and wash those hands before sitting down and giving a blessing too short, perfunctory... because you didn't know how blessed you were.
It's a story of mom in the kitchen laboring, the lady of the house, a position which later ladies might disparage, but which she never did. It's a story, too, of dad who organizes the whole shebang for the good of the family he's proud of; saying little perhaps, but giving all.
This is the story of a little item that was a frequent guest... and a joy to eat... a thing eaten fast, never savored, gulped, acknowledged later with a belch you tried to quell but could not; your mother thereupon pointing a finger at you while saying, "I told you so."
This is the story of deviled eggs... and you, like me, will be glad to have it... and, if you can find one today, glad to eat... for it is the most delicious time capsule of all... and you've been missing it without even knowing.
As the incidental music for this article, and this culinary staple of high summer, I have selected "In the Good Old Summertime." It started as an American Tin Pan Alley song first published in 1902 with music by George Evans and lyrics by Ren Shields. It was the title song in the 1940 film starring Judy Garland and Van Johnson. Go now to any search engine and find the version you like. Then sing along, so you can work up an even better appetite for your ovoid treat.
Terrible cook, memorable deviled eggs.
My mother, bless her soul, was a terrible cook; I could therefore count on the fingers of a single hand the dishes she made which were actually good. One of these was her deviled eggs. They were not merely good; they were supreme, as if all the talents which might otherwise have gone into a dozen dishes or more had been concentrated in just one never-to-be-forgotten masterpiece.
Thus when I saw deviled eggs on the menu at the Cambridge Common Restaurant a couple months ago, I ordered them at once... and found myself impatient while waiting for them; (a thing I never thought I'd see on any menu hereabouts) . And I did to them what I did to their ancestors of fifty years and more ago: I gulped them down, for my brain, in some deep place of memory, knew that that was the way, the only way, to eat them... And so in an instant, with a single taste, I was no longer the senior citizen with burdens and obligations, but twelve or fourteen or so, happy, alive, immersed in joy, surrounded by love... and as many deviled eggs as the sustenance and prolongation of such a mood and condition might require.
Ingredients.
No two cooks, even if they scrupulously followed a common recipe, would produce their deviled eggs in the same way. That is because each, yes every single one, adds one top secret ingredient, an ingredient so important it was never discussed, and most assuredly never written down; for your mother was aware that every other housewife (no matter how honorable in other matters ) couldn't possibly resist a little culinary espionage, regarding it as an essential aspect of her work. And if she found and employed this ingredient to improve what was wrought by her own fair hand, why that was her bounden duty and solemn obligation. After all, all's fair in love...
Start here.
But before we get to the matter of those secret ingredients, let's start with the basics, for in these most cooks are agreed.
A dozen hard boiled eggs, yolks extracted Mayo (generously mixed in) Mustard (only a little) salt & pepper a splash of Worcestershire sauce Add all ingredients above into bowl and hand mix or use hand blender Refill egg cavities with yolk mix Dust finished eggs with paprika Slice pimento-stuffed green olives and place a piece so the red center of the green olive is in the center of each deviled egg. Chill and serve.
This recipe works, of course, in the way all such recipes work. It does the job but just in prosaic, pedestrian manner. As such while it may be good enough for others (like Mrs. Anne down the road), it will never be good enough for you and yours. And so you go where lesser housewives do not venture; places that prove your ingenuity, skill and cunning... a condition of affairs which you relish and exult.
And so to Rome.
There isn't a culture on earth that doesn't have its version of deviled eggs; thus you are able to excel in your presentation by studying what is done far from your kitchen... by housewives as proud as you are. Each delights in her own secret: diced pickle or pickle relish, ground black pepper, powdered cayenne pepper or chipole, turmeric, vinegar, poppy seed, thyme, cilantro, minced onion, celery... and
... garlic, horseradish, wasabi, sliced Jalapeno pepper, cheese, chutney, salsa, hot sauce, ham, mushrooms, spinach, sour cream, caviar, smoked salmon ... and many more...
Each a secret ingredient, and kept secret until the actual moment of use, the ingredient that spells mastery... and love... for each is the ingredient proving her family is the most loved and cared for of all, proven by a taste that forever means home...wherever you are, whenever you have it.
And, this summer, as in all the summers before, deviled eggs will be in attendance, waiting to perform their delicious function for you as they once did for the emperors of the seven hills of Rome and the wide world beyond....
"No trouble annoying, Each one is enjoying, The good old summer time"...
... and all the deviled eggs you could ever want.
*** We invite you to post your comments to this article.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Services include home business training, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting, hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today. Republished with author's permission by Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. I first became aware of William McGonagall in 1967 when I was a student at Scotland's oldest and proudest university, St. Andrews. "You must read McGonagall" people said with a twinkle. "He's undoubtedly Scotland's worst poet... indeed, quite possibly the single worst poet who has ever lived."
Every person who told me -- and there were many -- offered their fervent recommendation, tongue firmly in cheek, with high good humor... but there was (odd mixture) more than a dollop of respect in their words, even admiration... and never, ever derision. McGonagall compelled their respect, and so while everyone smiled at his execrable verses... there wasn't a soul who begrudged him a hard-earned encomium for his persistence, his tenacity in pursuing his evanescent, shimmering dream, and most of all his unyielding determination, a potent combination which made him an unlikely celebrity and a man about whom I now say to you in my turn "You must read McGonagall."
For the incidental music to this article I have selected a tune from the 1954 musical "Brigadoon", that magic place in the sweet-smelling heather, the pertinacious flower of Scotland; a place that emerges once every 100 years to remind you of a people, their unquenchable zest and undeniable genius. McGonagall deserves his hard-won place amongst the revelry and pageantry of Brigadoon... it would no doubt have inspired him to another (admittedly God-awful) effusion.
You will find my selection -- "Heather on the hill" -- in any search engine. Go now... for at this party we shall eat, drink, be merrie... and if we compel a tear, then it's a willing tribute we pay to a land we revere and remember fondly too... and because McGonagall shared that sentiment he is always and forever one of us.
Born in Edinburgh, in 1825, or maybe 1830.
Like many aspects of McGonagall's checkered career, his basic facts are either unknown or in dispute. He was, for instance, born in the Greyfriars Parish in Edinburgh in March, but just what date is not known... indeed the very year itself of his birth cannot be determined. What of it? He came to his Irish parents on a particular day... and it's sufficient that he did so... and so began his race, a race for which he was well equipped in only one thing -- true grit and assiduity.
... And sad to say, that wasn't enough to win, as he wanted to win. But he refused to recognize this fact, and that's the point of this tale...
The Weaver Poet.
If he were born today, McGonagall, hard-working weaver of long-wearing cloth, would no doubt qualify for a grant from some well-meaning foundation of liberal tendencies... but such like did not exist then... and so, despite the wife and 7 children he acquired along the way, he left his uncertain craft... in pursuit of... what? Different people said very different things about what he did. He never heard them, didn't care, and didn't let their advice, however earnest and sensible, determine his direction... and that, too, is the point of this tale.
And so his quest for himself and for the words that always eluded him began...
... appropriately enough with a role in "Macbeth" where he played the title role... embellishing it in this way: having paid Mr. Giles for the right to play this role at his theatre, he understandably wished to get his money's worth. And so at Macduff's great moment, McGonagall, as Macbeth, refused to die and stayed on the stage, extemporizing, to the consternation and amusement of all. Ah, this was most assuredly a portent of things -- and poetry -- to come.
A pivotal moment in 1877.
There comes to all people with a mission a moment of epiphany, a moment when they know beyond a shadow of doubt what they will do, what they must do to fulfill their destiny and high purpose. This moment occurred in 1877 for McGonagall, and it determined his fate. "I seemed to feel a strange kind of feeling stealing over me and remained so for about five minutes." Another man must have seen it as dyspepsia brought on by a too fine dinner... McGonagall saw it as destiny.... his fate, poetry.
And now, then, we must unveil some of this poetry, ultimately about 200 works, perhaps the worst ever written, God bless him.
McGonagall, fervent royalist that he was, wrote often about his sovereign princess and lady, Queen Victoria. Indeed, on one well-known occasion he thought nothing of walking about 60 miles from Dundee to Balmoral where Her Majesty then resided. Undaunted by her failure to receive him, drenched to the skin though he was, not even gifted with a wee, warming dram, he still revered, for his loyalty was abiding and profound.
Thus for her Golden Jubilee of 1887, celebrating 50 years upon the throne, he wrote:
"Therefore let all her subjects rejoice and sing, Until they make the welkin ring; And let young and old on this her Jubilee be glad, And cry, 'Long Live our Queen!' and don't be sad.'
Delicious.
Sadly such loyal sentiments so rendered did not enrich this most unpoetic of poets, no indeed. Thus his expedients were many. For instance, he took a job at a circus where he gave readings from his oeuvre and allowed his discriminating listeners to signify their disapprobation by pelting him with offal, dead cats, rotten tomatoes, lamb carcasses and other disagreeables. It was never enough, not even close, to making a living.
.... But still the torpid words, the wrong words, the words that mangled and hurt to hear kept coming, for this was a man possessed, though not gifted.
Until the collapse of the great Tay Bridge, one of the great engineering marvels of the age, gave him his great opportunity -- and he seized it.
"Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay! Alas! I am very sorry to say That ninety lives have been taken away On the last Sabbath day of 1879, Which will be remember'd for a very long time."
And so he rendered the catastrophe of 28 December 1879 when the bridge collapsed, taking with it the fast-speeding express and every passenger. McGonagall's words were the high point of his bathetic career.
Let us leave it so, for now you know of McGonagall and his works, each one you can read, savor, and enjoy... though never, ever deride. For though he was a bad poet, perhaps the worst ever known, he was adamant in pursuit of his dream; perhaps more adamant than you. And so in the end, he endures; his awkward verses, every one of them, still in print...
"I am your gracious Majesty ever faithful to Thee, William McGonagall, the Poor Poet, That lives in Dundee."
... And in our hearts.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Services include home business training, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting, hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today. Republished with author's permission by Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. There's a whole lot of lamenting going on in Washington, D.C. It goes like this: once upon a time the Congress of the Great Republic was a genteel place where ladies and gentlemen put on their white gloves and best manners, taking tea while cozily arranging America's affairs... thence home to a Dickens novel and well-earned slumber. The problem is that such a time never existed in the Congress of these factious United States. It's the merest myth... for all that the poor lads and lassies who represent us yearn for such a place, such a time, and such amiable, thoughtful, sympathetic colleagues on both sides of the aisle.
And so, these folks give way to frequent tears and even more frequent sighs and vapors... with lamentations loud, frequent, poignant, heart-rending -- and silly.
The most recent to give way to this "feel sorry for me" rubbish is the lady from Maine, senior Republican Senator Olympia Snowe. On February 28, 2012 the Honorable Olympia announced her inability to stomach the poisonous, internecine, downright nasty senatorial environment for another term. And so, lamenting, petulant, self-pitying, she said "basta!"... and started packing her valises with the accumulated treasures and heirlooms -- not to mention the pensions and emoluments -- of over 33 years in Congress. These will be substantial indeed.
As for me, I cannot find a single tear for the lady, rather the reverse. She says she was armed for another campaign, had money aplenty to fight the good fight... but she clearly lacked the stomach for so much closeness to her feisty and outspoken Mainers. Senators are revered, coddled, kowtowed to in Washington, D.C. Back home amidst the problems and bleakness of Portland, they are asked, insistently too, just what have you done for us lately, Missie... and you'd better have a detailed answer at the ready. Demigods like Senator Olympia find such directness rude, and long for fragrant camomile in a fragile cup of Old Worcester while aides fan her with cooling air.... unlimited incense... and deference to every word and wish.
Ms. Olympia says she's a Greek from Spartan stock... and while that might have been true 30 years ago in her elected salad days, it is most assuredly true no longer. She's gone Athenian, and now demands reverence, not the stark choice of returning with her shield -- or on it. And so she must retire... because she is no longer able to fight the good fight for Maine, for Mainers, and for the Great Republic which needs visionaries, fighters, not aging voluptuaries who crave comfort, not confrontation.
Enter Congressman John Sullivan (R-Oklahoma).
February 22, 2012 Representative Sullivan made a few red-blooded observations during one of his regular "town hall" meetings with constituents. The subject was how to get the Senate of the Great Republic to get serious, I mean really serious, about balancing the out-of-control federal budget.
"I'd love to get them /the senators/ to vote for it. Boy, I'd love that, you know. But other than me going over there with a gun and pointing it to their head and maybe killing a couple of them, I don't feel they're going to listen unless they get beat."
Cornered by the ever present Thought Police, Representative Sullivan, that able and forthright member for Tulsa, backed down. He didn't mean it....shouldn't have said it... certainly didn't imagine... and would never, ever do... You get the picture. The Honorable John was tripping over himself, back pedaling to beat the band. But why?
After all, he is far more what we actually want in our elected representatives, even while we say we prefer the Olympia model. No, we want our reps to represent us robustly, directly, rudely, shrewdly, without limits ... because unless they do that our share of the pie -- and the extra bucks we covet -- will go to others more able to bring home the bacon than our shrinking violets... and that will never do.
The great example of Representative Preston Brooks.
In 1856, the great issue of the day was slavery. It was a question which overshadowed all others. It was intractable, divisive, perhaps insoluble... certainly unavoidable. And because moderates could not prevail in resolving the matter, it was left to the zealots on both sides to see what they could do, using whatever means they chose to use.
And so on May 18, 1856 the Honorable Charles Sumner, the Senator from Massachusetts, arose to see what he could do to resolve the irresolvable... his vehicle being his great speech "The Crime Against Kansas" given to ensure that slavery did not encroach into the Kansas Territory and so augment the South and the slave owners he despised.
It was a great speech in every way -- 50 single-spaced pages in length, a detailed analysis of the problem, the most brilliant, vituperative language; language meant to insult, to scald, to enrage, with a position that absolutely no one could misunderstand, whatever side they supported.
Picture the scene. Not a cup of camomile to be seen.
Great Sumner rises sustained by sanctimony, rectitude and rage; each word is sonorous, delivered with venom, designed to sting, outrage, rebuke, condemn, no quarter asked, none given.
And so this man of Harvard, of Boston, of Massachusetts, this man of certainty, no doubt or hesitation rose to challenge the nation and to reshape the Great Republic.
Every eye was on the man, a mere man no longer, but the agent of a stern, implacable God, God the Avenger, majestic, awe-inspiring, I Am that I Am.
"Mr. President," he began, "You are now called to redress a great transgression."
And every word that followed in that vast torrent of words beat home this point.
There was no note of accommodation, no politics as usual, nothing less than total victory would do.
In the course of this great philippic, which ultimately saw one million copies distributed, Senator Sumner attacked Senator Andrew Butler of South Carolina, not just the man or his ideas but his stroke-impaired physique. It was brutal, it was hurtful; it was insulting... and a few days later inspired the Senator's outraged nephew, South Carolina congressman Preston Brooks to enter the Senate Chamber and, with his gutta-percha cane with solid gold knob, beat Sumner insensate, even when Sumner was comatose, lying in his puddling blood.
So did immoderate Sumner make his case...so did immoderate Brooks retaliate.
And so was the Congress of the Great Republic shortly peopled by representatives carrying devices of every kind, guns, knives, and of course the gutta-percha sticks with gold knobs made fashionable -- or abhorrent -- by this incident which moved the Civil War appreciably closer.
That is why, Senator Snowe, your decision to leave is a bad decision. The people of Maine need you.. the Congress needs you... the Great Republic still has great need of your services. No, it is not convenient for you; not least because you must present yourself again to your constituents, and, being Mainers, they will question you closely, for they are no respecters of persons and so may affront you. What of it? You have the Great Republic's work to do. And that is far more important and pressing than your own personal feelings or comfort. They count for nothing against what you can do, must do and cannot abandon now.
Thus I give you this song, "John Brown's Body", a rousing tune which arose from the American camp meeting tradition in the early 19th century and, after many changes of words, became the marching tune for people who understood the implementation of Truth was a long, difficult, often dangerous process. Go now to any search engine and find the rendition you like... and bookmark it, for you will have need of it in the work ahead:
"John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave His soul's marching on."
And so must you, too, Senator Olympia Snowe, for your work for the people is most assuredly not finished yet.
Dedication: The author is pleased to dedicate this work to Joshua Aaron Sumner and Roshelle Elena Sumner, descendants of the magnificent Yankee who alerted the world to "The Crime Against Kansas," children of dear friend, Lance Sumner, fellow Internet argonaut.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Services include home business training, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting, hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today. Republished with author's permission by Ruthsella Corasol http://WorkingAtHome101.com.
