S P A C E C H I M P S

History of the Air Force Chimpanzees Background

In the late 1950s the United States Air Force established a colony of wild-caught chimpanzees at the Holloman Air Force base in New Mexico. The group consisted of 65 infants captured in Africa after hunters undoubtedly killed their mothers and other protective group members. These chimpanzees were to be used to gauge the effects of space travel on humans. The tests the Air Force put them through included spinning them in giant centrifuges, exposing them to powerful G-forces, and measuring how long it took a chimpanzee to lose consciousness in a decompression chamber. The first 'chimponaut', three-year-old Ham, rocketed into space on January 31, 1961. According to NASA's archives, "Ham's survival, despite a host of harrowing mischances..., raised the confidence of the astronauts and the capsule engineers alike." Three months later, Alan Shepard became the first American in space. NASA's next mission was getting a capsule into orbit, and on November 29, 1961, five-year-old Enos was launched into space. Due to a malfunction inside the capsule, Enos was given an electric shock for every correct maneuver he made, a reward-punishment system that contradicted over a year of training. Rather than alter his behavior, Enos endured the shocks and performed the flight tasks he knew were right. The flight took Enos on a two-orbit ride and landed him alive. This qualified the system for manned flight, and the following year John Glenn orbited the earth three times. America took its astronaut heroes to heart with an enthusiasm that surprised the nation. In March 1962 four million people in New York City showered confetti on John Glenn and fellow astronauts Alan Shepard and Gus Grissom. The Air Force chimpanzees were not so lucky. After showing the "right stuff," the chimpanzees were reassigned to "hazardous mission environments." In one such "environment," the development of the seat belt, the chimpanzees were subjected to perilous levels of force while in restraints in deceleration sleds. By the 1970s the Air Force stopped using the chimpanzees and began leasing them out for biomedical research purposes. Air Force Gives Chimpanzees AwayIn June 1997 the Air Force announced that it would give its chimpanzees away via a public divestiture authorized by Congress. Under the divestiture the chimpanzees would either be given to a research laboratory, or be retired to a sanctuary. Save the Chimps, which counts world-renowned primatologist Jane Goodall among its board of directors, submitted a proposal to retire the chimpanzees to a sanctuary but, the bid was rejected. Despite a Congressional mandate that instructed the Air Force to award the chimps to an organization that would best provide for their welfare, the Air Force awarded most of them to The Coulston Foundation, a New Mexico research laboratory. This in spite of the fact that the laboratory was investigated twice during the divestment by the US Department of Agriculture for violations of the Animal Welfare Act, including several negligent chimpanzee deaths. Lawsuit FiledTwo months after the chimpanzees were transferred to the Coulston Foundation, Save the Chimps filed a lawsuit in the Court of Federal Claims against the Air Force. Save the Chimps argued the award to the Coulston Foundation violated both Federal Law and the Air Force's own divestment criteria. In October 1999, after a year-long legal struggle, Save the Chimps and the Coulston Foundation entered into an agreement which gave Save the Chimps custody of 21 of the chimpanzees. The chimpanzees are now permanently retired at our South Florida Sanctuary.

Soul Mate

A soulmate is someone who has the locks
to fit our keys, and the keys to fit our
locks. When we feel safe enough to open
the locks, our truest selves step out and
we can be completely and honestly who we
are; we can be loved for who we are and
not for who we're pretending to be.
Each of us unveils the best part of one
another. No matter what else goes wrong
around us, with that one person we're safe
in our paradise. Our soulmate is someone
who shares our deepest longings, our sense
of direction. When we're two balloons, and
together our direction is up, chances are
we've found the right person. Our soulmate
is the one who makes life come to life.

The Pook... and why I love her

./mushy content on
Some guys can spend their whole lives looking for just the right woman... some guys THINK they've found the right woman and spend their whole lives realising they've made a mistake. Some guys spend their whole lives with a succession of women thinking they're with the right woman and wind up being disappointed over and over again.

I'm not one of those guys. I guess I was just born lucky.

The great thing about Pook is that she makes me a better person... better than I could be by myself... better than I could be if I was with someone else. The more time we spend together... the more I realise that what we have here is nothing less than the A-Team. When we're together... I'm not laurence T. anymore... I'm Mr. T... minus the muscles, chains, and extra pigment of course. Even so... it's the A-TEAM baby!

Where I'm weak... she's strong. Where I'm strong... she makes me stronger.

And let's not forget... there's a very significant "Babe factor" going on here. I don't want to embarass anyone but Pook is "all that and a bag of chips".

So yeah... I'm very fortunate. I couldn't have asked for a better partner.

If you're goin' to have cat photos...

Dress up night at the Cat and Dog House.

Eat This When The Wind Blows

Beef, Barley, Vegetable soup

3 Pounds beef chuck roast
1 bay leaf
2 tablespoons oil
3 carrots, chopped
1 onion, chopped
1 (16 ounce) package frozen mixed vegetables
4 cups water
4 cubes beef bouillon cube
1 tablespoon white sugar
1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
28 ounces chopped stewed tomatoes

Defending Yourself Against Alien Abductions

According to recent research released by the National Institutes of Health, one in six Americans has been abducted by aliens from outer space. This rate of abduction is nearly twice that of people abducted by illegal aliens. Essentially, this information means that if you have not yet been abducted, you probably will be some time before next Tuesday.
We at the Buzzammo Alien Research Center remain ever vigilant in our defense of the good people of Earth. Experts in related fields (including chemistry and philosophy) have provided us a veritable laundry list of things that you can do to protect yourself against alien abductions.
Follow these simple guidelines and you’ll be certain that the only person probing your rectum will be Carla from the escort service.
Like cats, aliens are terrified of vacuum cleaners. If you sense aliens approaching, simply turn on the ol’ Hoover and any nearby aliens will scurry to safety by crawling under a nearby bed.
Aliens would be categorized as obsessive-compulsive by the diktat of the DSM IV. Make sure to keep your home highly disorganized and aliens may fear to tread there (however, beware of alien automatons).
Aliens tend to be very sensitive to universal vibrations. As crystals can project these vibrations, it can be useful to wear a crystal. These are available at many New Age boutiques. If there are no New Age boutiques in your area, remember that ordinary table salt is a crystal (NaCl). Try pouring a bunch of salt on your head before retiring for the night.
As alien auras broadcast on a different frequency than human auras, aliens have been known to absorb energy from electrical systems. If the power drains from your home you are in an alien-friendly environment. Try using a portable gasoline generator in your bedroom. The carbon monoxide fumes should kill any aliens who try and come near you.
If you suddenly awaken in your bedroom to discover aliens standing over you, a good trick to avoid abduction is to simply open the release on the airlock. It might be good to quip “Get away from her, you bitch” before letting the aliens fly off into the void.
For areas not equipped with airlocks where you might awaken to find aliens standing over you, remember that aliens are exceedingly polite. Say something like “excuse me, I must prepare the potatoes.” Then make a quick getaway while they wait.
Aliens have skin which is very sensitive to earth environments. This can be very handy information if you have to thwart any alien abduction attempts. Try and use a harsh fabric softener if you do any laundry for the aliens.

More Anti Alien Abuduction Tips Next Week.....

Buzzamo is a bloody genius!!!!

As far as I'm concerned, there's only one guy on the planet that you ever want to go to if you have a technical issue... and that's Buzzamo. Forget about Al Gore... I KNOW who really invented networking.

Seriously, Buzzamo and the Pookster were kind enough to donate a couple hours of their time last night to fixing a tech problem in one of Foo Bird's machines. Not only was the problem fixed, Buzzamo identified a serious security breach in Foo's network.

It seems that Foo had left open a means by which Iranian militant's could have compromised her research on cold fusion and thus accelerated their weapon's program. This in turn, could have led to a potentially catastrophic situation in which all of Hampden would be rendered helpless in the face of an Iranian first strike.

Fortunately, Buzzamo caught the security breach before too much sensitive material was released to the public. Having been working on this issue all morning, I can safely say that the only information Iranian intelligence operatives were able to obtain was 1) the location of Jimmy Hofa, 2) transcripts of Martha Stewart's lesbian encounter while incarcerated, and 3) plans regarding how BGE intends on using its revenue increase to fund an energy initiative involving DNA-enhanced rodents and a giant revolving wheel in the Linthicum area.

Details regarding this unfortunate lapse in security have been turned over to Federal authorities as of 9:00 EST this morning. The initial FEMA response has been to raise the alert level from Yellow to a kind of Mauve-Chartreuse (i.e. people in Hampden can relax).

If there are any more developments, the Daily Pook will issue an Alert Bulletin for domestic consumption... so stay tuned to this URL.

Once again, on behalf of a grateful nation, I wish to thank Buzzamo and the Pook on their outstanding work.

Backstage with Motley Crue

As you all know, Betty has been a big Motley Crue fan for ages. In the fifteen years or so the band has been together, Betty has rarely missed a show whenever they're in town.

Last night, I caught up with Betty at an afterhours Hammerjacks rave and she talked me into going to see "the boys" as she likes to call them.

Well... it was a wild night, what can I say. It was all I could do to keep Betty from jumping on stage. I lost track of her at one point and when the band was late showing up for their next set I figured something was wrong.

Sure enough, Betty was backstage with Tommy Lee. "Christ Mom... not the drummer!!!!", I said as I pulled her off him.

Anyway, Vince, Neil, and Nikki were nice enough to have their picture taken with us. Tommy was still off sulking since I had broken up his chance to score for the evening.

We're talking FOOD

Pook and I had a lovely dinner last night with Sid (The Squid), Buzzamo, and Dot2. After the big move to the new house, it was good to see B & D2 feeling more relaxed... maybe it was just the wine. It was also nice to see the place without stacks of boxes everywhere. They've done an outstanding job getting everything in order in so short a time.

Dinner consisted of a cornucoppia of culinary delights... featuring 18 inch subs from Wegmans... honestly the average human could not finish a whole one at one sitting. This of course means Buzzamo could probably eat two. Pook and I feasted on an entire range of chinese vegetables and meats (of dubious origin... but they tasted good.) Sid was the only one who managed to find room for desert... a scrumptious chocolate eclair.

All of us were big winners at the Preakness. I mean to say that none of us had any money down so we didn't lose a cent... and that's the same as being big winners in my book. I can't remember the name of the actual winner of the race... but he had big ears... the horse that is, not the jock.

Well, Pook and I are starting a new exercise regime... we're going walking later... in preparation for lunch. Pook made her patented "mountain of chili" which we will attempt to finish over the course of the next several days.

You might not want to stand downwind of us for awhile.

New Contributors

I've sent out a number of invitations to friends and family for new contributors to the Daily Pook. Please do not feel obligated... these invitations were in no way meant to hassle anyone.

We'd love to have you post... but only if you want to. I figure we're all going to get tired of reading just my mental wanderings.

So help out when you can!!!

Forgive me but.......

Okay... Okay... After receiving thousands of emails overnight pointing out that the picture in the previous post entitled "Dear Old Dad" is in fact Trevor Flugge ( former Chairman of the AWB) and NOT my father... I decided to come clean.

It's true... my father has never been associated with the Australian Wheat Board, was never in Iraq, and wouldn't be caught dead carrying a measely .357 double-action revolver.

And as far as that picture goes... Hey... this is comedy. And comedy ain't pretty.

Confessions of a Computer Game Junkie

Hi. My name is Laurence and I'm a computer game junkie.

The problem began in my mid teens. I was a social gamer, playing with friends just on the weekends. That's how it started. Weekends weren't enough, however. I eventually let my social gaming grow into a full-blown addiction.

Check this out. One night I was at a party, jamming to Deep Purple or Pink Floyd or maybe it was Black Sabbath... the band had a color in its title like most of them did back then, that's all I remember. Anyway, a friend of a friend pulled a Commodore 64 out from under his coat. Wow, this looks interesting. What the heck is this? Pretty soon, he and a couple of the other kids were taking turns booting up. At first I was repulsed. I thought only bad kids played around with that kind of stuff. But when they started calling me chicken and making clucking sounds I gave in. They dared me to try the Commodore's slick 8 bit graphics and cool sounds and I had to admit, it was all pretty cool.

Before long, I let my hair grow long, thought about getting a tattoo, and started hanging out with people with computers. There weren't many computers back in those days so if you had one... you were cool, you were special, no doubt about it. We'd all huddle near the screen, passing the keyboard around, and then take turns on the joystick. Guys with computers got sick of seeing me. I'd go over to their homes instead of going to school just to get in one more hour of gaming. Even when they'd have to leave I'd find reasons to ask them to let me stay behind. I was becoming a real nuisance but I didn't care. I was hooked. The C64 had made it all seem so harmless, so easy. I knew some kids were fooling around with the Atari but I wasn't ready to move on to the harder stuff. Not yet, at least.

After a couple months, I'd started going to the local department store just to get in a quick fix on the Amiga display models. The poor clerks would run me off but I always found a way to sneak back in. One night I broke into a Sears after hours. Store security found me there in the morning sitting Indian-style in front of a glowing 14-inch screen, my cramped fingers wrapped tightly around the joystick. I was quickly arrested and driven to the county lock-up. I was so bug-eyed from playing that marathon session of M.U.L.E. that my booking photo doesn't even look like me. Anyway, the arresting officers left me in the gaming tank so I could dry out. The next morning some well-meaning social workers tried to get me into a 12-step treatment program but alas... I was already too far gone. Eventually I wound up back on the street, tired, hungry, and hurting. More than anything I found myself needing to score a video game to get myself right.

I knew I couldn't keep bummin' game time off my friends so I bought my first computer with money I made cutting lawns and selling my schoolbooks. It was a TRS-80 (remember those?) and it was beautiful. All it could do was blink at me and play a little Pong but for the first time I could game without leaving the house. No more trips to jail, no more paranoia. I loved my TRS-80 and did my best to hide my obsession but every now and then my mother would yell upstairs, "Larry, I smell smoke. Are you overheating your monitor again?" And yet, while I thought I had everything under control, my problem was only getting worse.

I didn't recognize it at the time but I had slowly become a solitary gamer. No more modem-to-modem connections or hot-seating the keyboard for me. Instead of playing with friends, I was playing single-player missions whenever I could. I'd wake up in the morning and before my feet hit the floor, I'd have the joystick in my hands. Instead of eating breakfast I'd get in a quick first-person shooter... ya know, just to get the juices flowing. Instead of eating lunch I'd push the envelope with a flight sim or let it all hang out with a RPG. On days when my parents left me alone, I'd binge on a full RTS campaign game only stopping long enough to purge the gallons of Diet Soda and junk food I'd consume.

My life was spinning out of control. Eventually the TRS-80 stopped thrilling me. I needed more than its puny four K of RAM and miniscule hard drive could muster. I look back on it now and see that it was my "gateway" machine. Pretty soon, the first IBM boxes started hitting the streets but boy, were they expensive! I couldn't really afford one at first but because they were so easy to make (and the profit margins so great) every kid with a lab in his garage started making "compatibles". You had to watch out for these "synthetic" clones, though. You never knew what you were getting. Some might be 100% pure while others might be cut with a lot of foreign parts from God knows where. Still, they ran pretty smooth, most of them.

At first, the flight simulations and text-based adventure games started trickling in. There wasn't much to choose from, but hell, we didn't know any better. Before long, we all had "lost weekend" stories to tell. As for myself, I spent about fifty hours straight playing some game called Dork or Zork, or something. It's all a little hazy but it's funny how gaming went through this weird transition from being something underground and just a little bit mysterious to being something ordinary. We gamers thought we were cool because we were into something that no else knew about but suddenly everyone was in on the act. I mean, I used to hide my copies of Binary Times... but before long you might as well be hiding Newsweek or Boy's Life.

Then, it happened. I got hold of a bad game. I had always heard about guys going off on bad games but I never figured it would happen to me. It was something that was supposed to happen only to other people. Well, I was wrong. I did a few lines of some really bad code and it snuck up on me. My senses were so dulled by cookie-cutter add-ons and "must-have" expansion packs that I didn't know what was happening at first. After I collapsed and doubled-up on the floor, a friend held me all night long while my body convulsed. I thought I would die. Wracked with pain, I spent hours waiting for the bad interface and lousy stick graphics to work their way out of my system. But even this close call wasn't enough to break my habit. Within days I was right back out there trying to score some Donkey Kong.

Eventually, I pawned my TRS-80 along with some of my mother's clothes to a cross-dressing MAC retailer. The Classic II that I got in exchange was easily disposed of in some back-alley swap meet and it was there that I encountered people with addictions worse than gaming. I saw ordinary women, secretaries and housewives during the day, taking in word-processing and object oriented graphics by night. What snobs they turned out to be. Those MAC people would go on and on about their operating systems and finer resolutions. Sure... that's all fine and good when you're getting over-priced machines manufactured in Mexico and shipped in from Acapulco. When Mac went for the education market and started looking for school tie-ins, I knew they were done. Imagine... selling this stuff to kids. How low can you get??? Still, I could see these people were less into gaming and more into forming their own little cult so I got outta there quick.

We were all so very foolish back then, not just the Mac people. We shared our software whenever we could without giving it a second thought. It was all about free love and free code. Power Macs to the people, baby. In the early 80s, though, gamers started coming down with strange viruses. At first, people just got pissed because they couldn't play any more but when the viruses started crashing systems world wide, we knew we had a real epidemic on their hands. Not just gamers, but computer users across the country banded together and begged the Federal Government to give the CDC (Center for Diseased Computers) in Atlanta more funding. After spending millions of dollars in research, what we got were ad campaigns promoting abstinence (When someone asks to borrow a game, JUST SAY NO!) and lectures on being sure where you put your floppy. Independent researchers began developing "utilities" that could help but not cure the problem. Most of the time if you came down with something in those days, you were done for. I didn't worry about it too much though. I was too busy gaming by myself to share my stash so I figured I was safe.

Around the mid-80s, the trickle of games turned into a downpour. Those early games weren't much to look at... but then again the Model T wasn't much of a car by today's standards either. It was a wonderful time to be a gamer. So much to choose from and yet if you were serious about your gaming you could still find time to play them all. We talked about discovering killer game engines the way some people spoke about finding big buds. New stuff kept hitting the shelves along with all sorts of paraphernalia. There were 286s, then 386s, more RAM, larger monitors... People that had been happy with 256 colors now had to have millions. It was getting crazy and I was loving every minute of it. Every day got to be a party.

And as the machines got more powerful, they also got easier to conceal. First, there were desktops, then luggables (computers that could be disguised to look like briefcases). After that came laptops, smallish computers about the thickness of a slice of bread that let you game whenever and wherever you got the urge. Battery powered computers made it possible to get in a game without being tied to the grid. People started booting up in cars, buses, even airplanes.

But as more and more people experimented with their first game, the professionals got involved, big moneymen from California and back East. Organized crime (errrr... I mean software developers) started putting out games with a mass-market appeal. Guys that grew up playing games couldn't find really hard-core stuff any more. It wasn't about gaming; it was all about money now. Fast talking people in suits, who didn't have a clue about gaming, started making decisions for market-driven management teams. Quick buck artists and laid-off programmers from Big Blue started coming up with gonzo designs that promised a lot but sucked on delivery. We stopped being gamers and players. Instead, the game pushers started referring to us as end-users. It was bad. We were users alright...and it started getting tough to face your reflection in the monitor anymore.

Years ago, gaming was pretty much restricted to people who could handle it but as the '90s wore on everyone wanted in. The Internet just speeded up the process. Immature kids with loose wiring suddenly found ways to get their hands on first-person shooters. Parents begged the government to get involved and as a result, we got warning labels and all sorts of laws banning assault games. The Surgeon General released studies showing the effects of gaming on the unborn and politicians even went so far as to ban it in public places because of the dangers of second-hand gaming.

Companies voluntarily tried to step down the dosage (they even started putting filters on email programs) but it was too late. The djini was out of the bottle. It got so bad that parents were happy to find out their kids were just down-loading Internet porn and not logging onto multi-player gaming sites or joining Quake death-matches.

Prices kept going up in the '90s too. People that were used to buying three or four games a month could now only afford maybe one or two. Sure we complained a little but we kept right on buying that trash. Why? Because they had gotten us hooked on their bargain bin discounts and OEM bundling. Sure, you could get games for under $20 but they were games that no one else wanted. Hours after booting up you found yourself needing more. Otherwise law-abiding citizens went underground looking for software pirates (disreputable characters selling "crack"ed games known as warez.)

Ah.. the lure of easy money. It wasn't long before I started burning copies of games myself just to feed my habit. Eventually, I went one step further and started running games for one of the big Silicon Valley cartels. I made tons of money. I had cars, boats, and dozens of girls willing to do anything for a hit of Myst. I had it all. But then I got laid off and it all came crashing down. I had to sell my house, the cars, the boats, my Wayne Newton albums... and after awhile even the babes stopped coming around when they discovered I lost my hard drive. Nothing's worse than having a limp Pentium when girls are out looking for a little action.

So why am I telling you all this? I'm not really sure. I suppose it's therapeutic to unburden myself this way. I've been in re-hab now for several months thanks to a ruling by Congress that forces HMOs to cover binary disorders. One thing I've learned from my counselors is that none of this is really my fault. I'm a victim. They aren't sure whether gaming is an inherited trait or just an unavoidable by-product of modern 20th century society. But whatever the cause they've helped me to see that gaming is an alternate lifestyle ...not an illness.

Let me close by saying that I'm doing fine these days. I don't play as much as I used to but I still enjoy a good game. So don't be so quick to condemn me. If you're a gamer, or know someone one who is, my advice is not to worry about it. Gaming can be a harmless little habit if you don't let it control your life. Just relax, only buy games that you know are good, and remember moderation, moderation, moderation. On second thoughts... just go for it... one more game won't hurt. .....:))))

Dear Old Dad - In Fond Memory

Tom passed away back in November. He is sorely missed by all those who knew him. This piece of Tom-foolery was actually written over a year ago. It's reposted here in tribute.

"These days, getting my father to quick draw a six-gun for pictures is a little like getting Pavarotti into a wetsuit-- it's tough to do, dangerous, and by the time you're done you're wondering why you did it.

Dad's favorite lament, usually made at completely inappropriate times so as to maximize its comedic affect, was to say, "Gee, son... *sigh* the things you see when you're unarmed....". Ah, the memories are just flooding back to me now.

There was a time, before Dad took to waving a .357 magnum around "just to impress Mom and us kids" that he was an alright guy... went to work every day, paid the bills, and always had a kiss for us as he was coming in the door.

Then, he went to work for the Australian Wheat Board... and my how things changed.

Suddenly, the mere mention of Australia's nitrogen management practices being perhaps short-sighted with respect to hybrid genomes in domesticated grasses would have him reaching for a shotgun... and don't even get me started about the time he plugged the neighbor's cat over a dispute involving seed dormancy and vernalisation cycles.

I remember the day Mom said, "Larry, you watch yourself around your father today. His policy speech about starch-branding didn't go over well with the boys in Canberra... and I think he's had a few."

Good advice. No sooner had the words left her mouth ... Dad's in the back yard with his shirt off loading up his .45 cal Winchester with the 9x scope. The whole time I'm standing there he's taking potshots overhead and muttering stuff about Magpies crappin' on his prize-winning hydroponically grown, cross-bred phosphorescent germination experiments (so farmers could harvest at night I suppose).

Geez... he could be a jerk sometimes.

The cops came about an hour later saying they got a 911 call about a possible terrorist. We might have been okay if Dad hadn't come back outside wanting to "feel" the officer's gun.

The next day, the Australian Wheat Board sent him to Iraq and made him Chairman."

Stogies and Doggies

I love this photo.

Okay... so I wasn't stuck out on the prairie looking at a map of New South Wales... and yeah... the cigar wasn't lit. I still love it.

Betty took this picture in our back yard as part of a multi-media presentation I was putting together for the Pookster. The jacket is a authentic Drizabone (tm) I bought in Australia and the hat is a cattlemen's Akubra (tm) I got the same day.

Now, I ask you... how often am I going to get opportunities to wear them now that I'm back in the States? Halloween only comes once a year and they're far too valuable to wear to bed everynight.

So forgive this obvious act of self-promotion... I love this photo. Any comparisons to Clint Eastwood are gratefully accepted.

Hello and welcome to the Daily Pook

This blog was created so that family and friends could share collective musings and witicisms. Yes... I made that word up... it's not a typo. And as such, please feel free to post anything you care to make known to the rest of us... including pictures, jokes, etc... as long as its relatively clean. (The dirty stuff you can send to me directly... ha!).

If you're wondering about the title... "Pook" has become a pet name that we use whenever we are trying to get each others' attention. Like... "Hey, Pook... I love you" or "Pook, can you take out the garbage!" The origins of the name are a bit hazy but if I remember correctly the word went through a slow evolution; beginning with Snookie-Wookie, then Snookie, followed by Pookie until finally reaching its current iteration... just plain Pook.

For such a simple word... Pook carries a lifetime of emotion. It's our safe word... our word of comfort... our word of affection and love. We throw it around quite often these days... but it's never used casually. It's the verbal equivalent of using all CAPS in an email. It's our way of getting instant attention to what we are about to say... shouting without actually shouting.

And now that you know the story... please feel free to add to the Daily Pook.