The Equation of Life

I have discovered the Equation of Life. I call it the Five C's. Coffee + Cat + Computer + Cannabis = Contentment. Plus I'm adding a sixth C - Cancer-free. Life is good.

One Adam 12, See the Man . . .

I do not like cops.

I have not liked cops since I was twelve years old.

I know this is an unpopular, and possibly dangerous, stance to take.

I know that cops are the thin blue line, and that, theoretically, they are there to protect and serve.

I know there are a lot of bad people out there motivated by ignorance, stupidity, greed, hate, insanity, the lust for power, the thrill of violence, general nastiness, and pure evil.

I must conclude that a police force is a necessary evil. But a police state is NOT.

I have heard it said (by cops as well as others) that the police are society's garbage men, cleaning up the refuse of human interaction.

This is not a case of sour grapes. Neither I, nor to my knowledge, anyone I know, have ever been the victim of police brutality.

When I first started my blog, I dealt almost exclusively with hot button political issues because in the face of NSA spying, the NDAA and AUMF, perpetual global warfare, rampant corporatism, and other Orwellian abuses by all levels of government, I felt that I had to speak out.

But for the past year, I have stayed away from such topics, focusing instead on memories (in the form of written memoirs), friendship, and love.

That being said, certain trending news items have forced me to once again take a stand. 

The most egregious of these, perhaps, relates to the following headlines: 

Grandma Maced By Police For Bringing Cupcakes To Granddaughter’s Classroom

Hero Maces 110 Pound, 78 Year Old Grandma Delivering Cupcakes

Grandma Takes Cupcakes to Grandkids, Gets Maced and Brutalized by Cop

Feral Cop Maces 78 Year Old Woman For Cupcakes

http://thefreethoughtproject.com/78-year-old-brutally-attacked-police-delivering-cupcakes-grandchildren

My sister, a former defense attorney, stopped practicing because the injustice in our justice system literally made her sick. She now devotes herself to family, friends, and community. But whenever I talk to her about these types of cases, she quickly points out that there's always more to the story than we know.

But other recent stories have compounded my decision.

Revelations of a Chicago Police Department black ops site, and the confrontation of a reporter investigating these claims by a CPD officer in green military flak jacket and balaclava.

http://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2015/feb/26/police-black-site-chicago-washington-politicians-human-rights

The retaliation against a process server in Lousiana by multiple law enforcement personnel who were proved to be lying.

http://www.wwltv.com/story/news/local/investigations/mike-perlstein/2015/02/26/charges-crumble-after-cell-phone-video-uncovered/24039559

And the endless list goes on.

It has gone beyond the point where the argument can be made that the situation involves "a few bad apples," and most officers of the law are dedicated, conscientious, hard working defenders of people's rights and safety. It's now an orchard of rotten fruit. The problem is endemic, a worldwide blight infects law enforcement.

Further, the misdeeds of the law enforcement community are exacerbated by the culture of unaccountability in which we now live.

An officer, backed up by three fellow policemen, shoots a 95 year old man five times in the chest with a "non-lethal" beanbag shotgun, in the cafeteria of a nursing home, resulting in the World War II veteran's death. Acquitted.

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/breaking/ct-wrana-beanbag-shooting-verdict-met-20150204-story.html#page=1

An officer fatally shoots to death an unarmed teenager, sparking riots in which dozens more are killed and injured. No charges brought.

http://news.yahoo.com/grand-jury-ferguson-officer-darren-wilson-michael-brown-shooting-death-225723458.html

No less than six policemen and women blast a mentally ill black man FORTY-SIX times. Ruled justifiable.

http://www.cnn.com/2014/02/25/justice/michigan-police-shooting

A rookie cop shoots dead a twelve-year-old boy playing with a toy gun in a playground, three seconds after arriving on the scene. Officer is placed on (paid) administrative leave.

http://abcnews.go.com/US/video-police-shooting-boy-toy-gun-released/story?id=27198246

Hundreds, if not thousands, of such incidents are only a Google search away.

When I was younger, non-lethal force involved trained officers taking down suspects physically, and the most controversial aspect of excess force was the choke-hold. A police officer had to justify the drawing of his service weapon from its holster, let alone the discharge of it.

For whatever reason, officers must pay for their own uniforms. It seems as if their decisions are based on their reluctance to get them dirty.

When I was growing up we had Officer Friendly. Now we have Officer Deadly.

Grand juries serve as rubber stamps for prosecutors; judges sign illegal search warrants in secret courts; elected officials incite fear as an excuse for the militarization of local police departments.

As Commander Adama says in Battlestar Galactica:

"There's a reason you separate the military and the police. One fights the enemies of the state, the other serves and protects the people. When the military becomes both, then the enemies of the state tend to become the people."

The new look of the CPD accosting a reporter outside the Homan Square "black ops" facility.

Polar Vortex

I keep hearing, and seeing posts and memes, about how everyone's done with winter and wishing Spring would arrive. Duh! When in Chicago has Spring EVER arrived in the middle of February? I look forward to the first crocuses and lily of the valleys around St. Patrick's Day, which is still four weeks away, and even that is usually a pipe dream. If I can go outside on Easter and show off my bonnet without winter gear, I consider it a blessing.

Ease up people. We'll be bitching about humidity and mosquitoes and yard work soon enough.

That being said, here is a picture of our new bird feeder, to help our feathered friends until the season's change.

Batter Up

I had no idea that today is International Pancake Day.

Had I known, I would have written a blog about the history and significance of the celebration, which, of course, can be traced back to pagan times.

If you wish to learn about the relationship between pancakes and Shrove Tuesday (the day before Ash Wednesday and the beginning of the Lenten season), visit the following Wikipedia site:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shrove_Tuesday

In lieu of a full-blown treatise on the day, I will instead relate a classic family story about my father.

He went into a Bakers Square restaurant by himself for a quick lunch between morning court and seeing clients in the afternoon. He ordered a tuna salad sandwich, which was merely a prelude to the real reason he was there. The waiter asked if he would like anything else, and my dad said, yes. He'd like a slice of his favorite dessert - key lime pie. The waiter sadly informed him that they did not have any.

Somewhat dismayed, my father said, well in that case, I'll have some lemon meringue, to which the waiter replied, I'm sorry we don't have that either.

Thoroughly disgusted, he then barked out, just give me a piece of apple a la mode. When the waiter answered that all they had was blueberry or cherry, my dad noisily paid his bill, leaving no tip, and vowing that he'd never eat there again.

He stormed out to his car, threw it into gear, and glanced up at the store marquee which said -

WELCOME TO IHOP

Save Big On Mattresses, Bedding, and Furniture

Today is that enigma of a holiday called Presidents Day, which falls on the third Monday of February. But what happened to Honest Abe's birthday? What about the Father of our Country? Does Presidents Day conveniently roll the two into one? Is the day supposed to include Millard Fillmore, our 13th president? All forty-three men who have held the office?

Perhaps the most apocryphal story of any president is that of the man who was first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen, as told in, "George & the Cherry Tree."

"George," said his father, "do you know who killed that beautiful young cherry tree yonder in the garden?"

George staggered under the question for a moment, then looked at his father. "I can't tell a lie, Pa," he bravely cried out. "You know I can't tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet."

"Run to my arms, you dearest boy," cried his father in return, "run to my arms. Glad am I, George, that you killed my tree, for you have paid me for it a thousandfold by telling the truth."

Scholars agree that by all evidence this legend is not true, but there is evidence that Washington may have been the last politician of which this may be said.

In any event, with these simple words administered by the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, is the mantle and weight of the office bestowed:

“I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

It's no wonder that our Presidents age 10 years for every one year they spend in office. The Commander in Chief is handed the Daily Brief detailing wars around the world, threat assessments, and current ops. His secretary hands him his full slate of never ending meetings and appointments. He hears reports from his top directors on national security, congressional politics, media relations, public opinion polls, party elections, and fundraising. Then he sits down for a long session with his economic advisers to discuss the global financial collapse and how to ease the United States into a post-imperial, third-world country.

He learns to secretly dread the knock on the door, when a senior aide whispers in his ear and hands him a slim folder. Another shooting--children dead. A killer tornado--children dead. Although there is really nothing he can do about it, the buck stops here. He must once again embody a grieving nation, express condolences to a grieving community, lend sympathy to a grieving parent. My heart, thoughts, and prayers go out to these men who willingly imprison themselves in an oval cage.

I voted for Senator Barack Obama in 2008 because I believed in him. Here was a young, vibrant, African-American family man from my home town. If anyone could bring "Change We Can Believe In" to Washington, surely it was him.

Although I was far from impressed with his first four years in office, the Republican Party ticket in 2012 so represented the rich power elite, who came to be known as the one-percenters, and the most radical elements of the extreme far-right, I once again cast my ballot for the President. I was so deeply concerned that the forces supporting the Republicans would do whatever was necessary to rig the election, that I cried when the winner was officially announced.

Although the President's slogan for this campaign, "Forward," was exceptionally lame, I still believed.

With joy and hope, I watched the inauguration unfold on a gorgeous January day. I sent kudos to President Obama, his beautiful family, the palpable spirit of Dr. Martin Luther King, Beyonce, James Taylor, Kelly Clarkson, all the bands, representatives of our military, poets, the 800,000 citizens who attended the inaugural, and the grandeur of our nation's Capital.

Unfortunately the old expression, 'fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me' proved to be prophetic. As we now know, President Obama had been authorizing the greatest assault on the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, the fundamental freedoms of U.S. citizens, and the American way of life, ever conceived. Since the facade of that beautiful, hopeful day was ripped away, we have seen the face of tyranny rear its ugly head.

"I am in this race to tell the corporate lobbyists that their days of setting the agenda in Washington are over. I have done more than any other candidate in this race to take on lobbyists — and won. They have not funded my campaign, they will not run my White House, and they will not drown out the voices of the American people when I am president." Barack Obama, speech in Des Moines, IA November 10, 2007

I no longer believe.

For a complete list of Presidents and their dates in office, visit this Wikipedia site: 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Presidents_of_the_United_States

Hail to the Chief

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JW8AJds1CzI

A Valentine's Day Love Story

I could not have asked for it. I could not have wished for it. I could not have expected it. But when it happened, it was love at first sight.

We made a commitment to each other, secure in the knowledge we would grow old together.

When I got sick, I called out for her from my hospital bed, and during my recovery, she never left my side.

When I awake in the dark and lonely night, I reach out and her presence gives me comfort.

I love touching her, and tenderly caressing her, although sometimes she likes it a bit rough, and I have to admit, her favorite position is on top.

She is so beautiful to me and I love her so much it hurts. Out of the billions of souls on Earth, it is a miracle we found each other and she chose me.

She makes me happy, she makes me sad, but she always makes me laugh.

When we gaze deeply into each other's eyes, I know it will be till death do us part.

No, I am not talking about my wife. I am talking about my cat!

Those of you who have a pet, and especially those who have a cat, will understand when I say I love my cat so much it hurts. But it is a pain I willingly embrace. During the long days when I lie in bed, reading or working on the computer, she sleeps curled up on my lap, and her gentle snoring calms my savage breast. She wakes up and yawns widely, and I shudder at the fearsomeness of her fangs. She climbs onto my chest, and no matter what I am doing, I stop and give her my undivided attention. I firmly believe that time spent with my cat is time well spent.

I scratch her all about the head, and underneath her chin, which she juts out, her long, crooked whiskers bristling. I stroke her all the way down her back and tail. An animal's tail is an extension of their spine, and the stimulation has been proven to promote health and extend their life.

As she purrs softly, I kiss the top of her furry head and cheeks, even though it upsets her sense of propriety. When she is done (of course, it is always up to her), she jumps off the bed, nibbles her kibble, takes a drink of water, uses the litterbox, and makes her rounds about the house. During the long nights when I lay on my side and stare at the clock, she sleeps in the crook of my lap and I deeply massage the scruff of her neck until I fall asleep.

I have my wife to thank for my cat. My wife and I were separated while I worked out my issues with alcohol. She decided she needed a cat back in her life, so she went to the local shelter and picked out a black and white kitten with a black mask. (That mask would prove to be prophetic.) While my wife and I got to know each other all over again, I came to visit her one evening, and she introduced me to Inari (named after the Japanese cat goddess). We bonded immediately and came to adore each other. It was the kitten's reaction to me that convinced my wife I was on the road to recovery and I was once again becoming the man she fell in love with.

Inari and I are telepathically linked. All I have to do is think about her and wherever she is sleeping or prowling, she will soon come to me. She has nursed me back to health through cancer and spinal cord surgery, and continues to care for me through chronic pain and paralysis. She knows when I am not feeling well, physically or emotionally, and she uses her natural Reiki abilities to make me feel better.

When I am in great pain, and plead with God to take me, I think about the promise I have made to this innocent creature until the anguish passes.

Our relationship is founded on kindness, respect, and especially, consistency. I do not feed her or clean her litterbox, yet she loves me absolutely. All she asks of me in return is that I do the same.

I often joke that a cat will love you unconditionally, as long as all the unconditions are theirs. In fact, more than love, what a cat does is trust you unconditionally, which is even more incredible.

I'm not going to say my cat is a green-eyed monster who jealously protects her territory (for better or worse, she considers me part of her territory), but the moment my wife and I begin to display affection, she insinuates herself between us, and sticks her face in ours, until we laugh involuntarily, totally breaking the mood.

My wife says she's a punk who has me wrapped around her little claw, and enjoys telling this story:

"In 2008, Steve was in surgery for seven hours. When the nurse came into the waiting room to tell me I could go in to see him, she looked at me and said, 'You're not Japanese.' I said, 'Nooo. Why would you think that?' The nurse replied, 'Because ever since he opened his eyes, he's been asking for Inari. We thought he was asking for his wife.' 'No,' I said. 'He was asking for his cat.'"

I respect a cat's independent nature. They are made that way and you're either okay with that or you're not. If you expect a cat to do anything other than be a cat, you and the cat will be disappointed.

We both have separation anxiety when we're not together. She knows what every move I make means. She can tell if I'm getting up for dinner, to watch TV in the living room, or to go out of the house. The last thing I see, as the car pulls out of the driveway, is her sad face in the bay window, saying, 'how can you weave me, you wuv me.'

Perhaps the most controversial point I will make here is that cats understand human language. Just because they do not possess the ability to pronounce words, doesn't mean they don't know what we're talking about. Anyone who owns a cat knows this to be true. I'm not suggesting that they can follow a discussion on quantum physics, but why would they want to. But they do recognize tone, body language, their names, our names, and a large vocabulary of key words that pertain to their environment. You must remember that cats have a vested interest in anticipating what's being said around them and how they may be affected.

I love playing with my cat. Her hand-eye coordination is uncanny. We regularly buy new toys to stimulate her active mind with new challenges, but no matter how much we spend, her favorite game is fetch with a crumpled up piece of paper. 

My cat connects me to the natural world. When I pet her, I am petting a lion, a tiger, a panther, a sabre-tooth.

Cats are intelligent, curious, reasoning, self-aware animals with distinct personalities and wicked senses of humor. They display the entire range of emotions that humans arrogantly reserve to themselves. They are tolerant of us, genuinely seem to like us, and seek us out, but I'm not sure they ever quite forgive us for imprisoning them in our homes, no matter how many comfy cushions and cat condos we have.

Cats appear to have nine lives because their ability to adapt enables them to survive.

Although at ten years of age she is in the prime of her life, sometimes I think about losing her, and the thought is more than I can bear.

Albert Schweitzer said, “The only escape from the miseries of life are music and cats.”

I think he put it purrfectly.

Spread A Little Love Today

My favorite dessert by far is cheesecake.

I always tell myself when we go to a restaurant that I'm going to order something decadently chocolate, or a pie piled high with tart apples, but I invariably ask for a slice of the usual.

I love the taste of cinnamon, and the eclairs from Jewel are incredible.

And, of course, there is ice cream. I can eat as much ice cream as is placed in front of me. An ice cream shoppe monstrosity with ten scoops, a banana, pineapple, three different sauces, nuts, a mountain of whipped cream, and a maraschino cherry (where if you finish it, it's free), is no problem. In fact, I have directed in my will that the following words be inscribed on my headstone:

Here lies Steve

He did many favors

But what did him in

Was thirty-One Flavors

But if I was going to marry a dessert, forsaking all others, it would be cheesecake.

Martha Stewart does a New York style that calls for eight 8-ounce packages of cream cheese. The classic Sara Lee Original is still my go-to frozen dessert. My dear friends, Bill and Josette, present me with a rich, heavy, blueberry cheesecake every Christmas. I am not a big fan of Eli's.

Cheesecake is considered to be a custard tart since its main ingredients are dairy, sugar, and eggs. The most popular version in America comes with a graham cracker crust and a layer of sour cream topping. However, cheesecake varieties come with chocolate crusts, vanilla wafer crusts, or no crusts at all. The filling can incorporate orange, lemon, pumpkin, chocolate chips, or Bailey's Irish Cream, and can be topped with strawberry, raspberry, cherry, or cranberry compote.

The filling can be made with ricotta, mascarpone, farmers cheese or dry cottage cheese, but no true cheesecake aficionado would touch these with a ten-foot fork.

Cheesecake can be traced back to ancient Greece where it appeared in a book by the Greek physician, Aegimus, on the art of making cheesecakes for medicinal and religious purposes. Cheesecake was served to athletes during the first Olympic Games in 776 B.C. as an energy booster, and cheesecake was served at Greek weddings.

The conquest of Greece introduced cheesecake to Roman cuisine where it quickly became a dessert using honey as the sweetener. From Rome, the confection spread throughout Europe, Britain, and the Middle East.

The earliest English cheesecake recipe is found in the cookbook Forme of Cury, written in 1390 A.D. English cheesecakes traditionally add fruits and spices to the filling, and are always baked.

The modern American cheesecake that has an uncooked, cream cheese based filling on a cookie-crumb crust got its start in 1872 when  William Lawrence, from Chester, New York, came up with a way of making an "unripened cheese" that was heavier and creamier than similar French farmstead cheeses.

There are literally thousands of cheesecake recipes on the Internet, and everyone and their uncle thinks their recipe is the best. That being said, I present to you my personal recipe that is sure to get the job done. I have eschewed the springform pan and obnoxious water bath; for ease I use a store bought crust; and I add the sour cream to the filling to skip a step.

I also firmly believe it's silly not to use Philly.

Steve's Easy Cheesecake

Ingredients:

2 8-ounce packages Philadelphia Brand cream cheese, softened

3/4 cup sour cream

2 large eggs

1/2 cup sugar

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Keebler extra-serving graham cracker crust

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In mixing bowl, beat softened cream cheese until smooth. Add sugar and beat together. Add eggs, one at a time, beating thoroughly. Add vanilla and sour cream. With mixer on medium speed, beat until smooth and silky.

Pour mixture into crust and place in oven for 30 minutes. Turn once and continue to bake for another 15 minutes. Cool completely on wire rack, then cover (with plastic lid that comes with crust) and refrigerate for several hours.

Don't Do It

Charles Bukowski (1920-94) was a published author of short stories while in his 20's. But because of his disdain for the publishing process, he stopped writing and embarked on a ten year spree of cheap alcohol, loose women, rooming houses, and low-end jobs including a stint in a pickle factory. He wound up with a part-time job as a letter carrier for the Los Angeles post office. After three years, he quit and started writing again, but continued his decadent LA lifestyle and love affair with the bottle.

He was prolific throughout the rest of his life, publishing several major books and thousands of poems in small publications, and working exclusively with independent presses. Collections of his published and unpublished poems are still being released twenty years after his death from leukemia.

Although he rejected such labels, Bukowski is considered to be the godfather of the "dirty realism" movement which depicts society's seamy underbelly; and a forerunner of the "transgressive fiction" genre, a minimalist, character-driven style of writing, that explores such taboo subjects as incest, pedophilia, drug abuse, alcoholism, and violent crime.

The following is Bukowski's most famous poem. It is regarded as one of the greatest poems ever written on creative expression and artistic motivation.

So You Want to be a Writer

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of people
who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and pretentious,
don't be consumed with self-love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to sleep over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would drive you to madness
or suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Magic

Magic. That's what a woman named Mary Ellen Aschenbrenner performs - magic.

Under the auspices of the Somonauk Public Library, she gathers her acolytes around her.

I notice a small blurb in the free community newspaper about something that is being billed as a writer's class. I always said that if my local library started a writers' group, I would support it. Accordingly, the following Monday, despite the pain, I drag my sorry, paralyzed ass out of bed. My son, Nik, gets me into the car and wheels me into the library's meeting room.

The room is abuzz with activity as a dozen people, mainly retirees and high school kids, settle into chairs around several long tables formed into a square. Everyone gets five minutes (by kitchen timer) to read their work. This is followed by discussion and analysis. We go around the table. Hey, there's some real talent here, I think.

When it's my turn, by way of introduction, I read a piece about my humanistic approach to writing. It is well-received. One woman refers to it as "deep." They ain't seen nothin' yet, I think. Mary Ellen remarks that she's been published in five states. "Well, I'm WANTED in five states," I reply. This gets everyone's attention. When Nik comes to collect me after the session, I am surrounded by young girls jotting down my Facebook information.

Through the pain and ill-health, I continue to attend week after week. As the participants get to know one another, I observe that what started out as a ragtag group of dabblers has become a core group of serious writers.

Everyone's writing improves, including mine. As the weeks and months roll by, the regular members develop respect, camaraderie, friendship, and most importantly, trust.

This enables the group to explore its deepest thoughts and experiences and share them in a public setting. The work continues to improve.

Regrettably, school lets out for summer vacation and the youngsters drift away. They will be back in the fall, they say, but this never happens. This is a shame because their youthful energy, enthusiasm, and bright smiles are sorely missed. On the occasion of the group's one year anniversary, I feel this is the biggest challenge we face in our second year.

When I was diagnosed with cancer last fall, it was the group that rallied around me. Submitting stories, especially when I could not make it in person, kept me going. Reading the stories of the other writers while I was too sick to get out of bed was a welcome distraction.

Since I am not feeling well enough to leave the house while going through chemo, the group takes me up on an offer to check out my Halloween decorations. They turn it into a party. The house is full. People are eating and drinking. Conversations are punctuated with laughter.

Over the course of the holiday season, more get-togethers are planned. I manage to attend and am rewarded for the effort. After New Years, I resume going to the meetings. The group has taken on the air of a social club. We talk and joke before settling down, but writing is still the focus.

However, I do notice a change. In addition to the respect and friendship that we now share, there is one more palpable feeling - love.

That, in my book, is magic.

If I Knew You Were Coming I'd Have Baked A Cake

I don't understand baking.

You take all these wonderful ingredients - granulated sugar, brown sugar; whole eggs, egg yolks for a richer batter and whites for meringue; whipping cream; sweetened, condensed milk; butter; dried and fresh fruit, even vegetables like grated carrot and zucchini; walnuts and pecans; vanilla and other pure extracts; bittersweet chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate, peanut butter, and butterscotch morsels; and cinnamon and other exotic spices - then you ruin it by dumping in cup after cup of dry, pasty, mealy, bleached or unbleached flour. You might as well add a bucket of plaster dust and be done with it.

Just give me a spoon and I'm good to go.

http://www.jacquielawson.com/preview.asp?cont=1&hdn=0&pv=3279360&path=83542