I Know For A Fact That Rachel Ray Is Living A Rich Full Life

The editor and staff extend prayers and condolences to the Amish families in current mourning and recovery.
May God bless and keep you...



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Men (Soundtrack: Julie Wilson, "The Laziest Gal in Town", (http://citycabaret.com/jwilson/)
Mention God and they get defensive. Mention abstinence and they get threatened. Mention politics and
they think, repeat defensive and threatened. Mention them and they get interested. Mention other women and they get lyrical. Mention yourself and they get lost. You can easily escape this stalemate by mentioning them again, they can take over from there.

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for the armed forces.
Men, so many kinds of men I can't tell them apart. But divine they be, somehow, someway. A volatile tendency here, an intimidated forgotten gut wrench there. What men must go through. Ulcer, prisoner, decay, mischief, peroxide blondes. The top, the bottom, ahead of the game, loser. Venture cap, lower case, high yield and bail bond. James Bond, center stage, bread line, billionaire. The very intricate wiring that involves a ridiculous decision in a man, is so beyond the duct tape and frayed exposure of a woman's electrical currents of competency, that if life as we know it depended on the brilliance of a female mind I'm afraid we'd all remain in a contemplative circle well after whatever holocaust had happened.
Men are immediate, forward, skyscrapers and thrust. Every breadth of a mans movements require just a bit of fission. Women are entirely soluble, palatable, liquid. Men are the solid forms necessary upon which a woman thrives. She can survive on her own but she can't create with other women; she can birth- but needs a man to create--innately--. But to thrive or perhaps pulsate in tones of red or green, one needs a man as main ingredient. Otherwise its pancakes all the way.
**Men are coffee. Women are the cream. Its so lovely how they need each other.
**Men have kings, princes,Khans, Czars, dictators, thugs, rescuers, musketeers, midieval menace and insecurity rushing in each corpustle. The ages and histories and rages and wars of time run with their eyes their hair their voices and minds. It pours out in vanity, in chivalry in blood set in grime. In the moors or on the avenue, a graveyard or foxhole, pub or party, men have a bit of history in each muscle, a savior here a villain there. A wink and a smile takes you there, and props you up in your chair like a good girl, you can handle this, and they give it to you full force: the anger of the burden, the complication of being completely assembled before purchase. Women have choices. Men do not. We can be brunettes or redheads or heads of
state or cotton heads. Men must have maleness at all times. Men must be men, after all thats what they are.
Not all women are ladies, but men must and will always be men.

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"And what do you do, uh, Mr. uh.."

"Do?"

"Yes, with your life."

"Well, nothing. But I do it terribly well."

"And quite cynical."

"But as for yourself, like all cynical ladies, you are a romantic at heart."

"And what about cynical men?"

"Their hearts remain hard like diamonds."

"I've never met such a man with an icy exterior! Lets drink to it!"

And I raise my Dr. Pepper to the tv screen.