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Views: 991
Date Posted: Feb. 27, 3:21pm, 0 Comments
Am I in love or just spaced out??
I got lost driving to the monthly meeting of UFOG. 
I can't find a community college in the suburbs, yet I'm supposed to believe aliens travel billions of light years across infinite vastness of outer space and land in your yard.  On purpose.
UFOG is the Unidentified Flying Object Group.  And this is not my first visit.  Call me crazy. 
    Last year I listened to Ron H. of Molalla, a normal-enough-looking guy, talk about the time he saw a 50-foot red ball hovering over his car, as he drove down Highway 213.
    In the next few days, beautiful, wrinkless humanoids visited him in his living room.  In 1982, the aliens said the United States was headed toward nuclear war... within three years.
    That's when Ron first went public with his experiences.  His phone was tapped, he said, and his mail intercepted.  Visitors - government types, think men in black - stopped by his place of business.
    The aliens told Ron they want humans to continue to live on Earth (how generous!)  But, if we destroy ourselves, then, well, the planet will be re-populated by you-know-who.
    They are not gods, more like science officers working on a specific project.
    And we are it.
Ms. Layne D., a hypnotherapist, has never personally experienced a UFO contact.  But a number of her patients have.
    Like the woman who was visited by a little man.  After some testing, she gave him "one of her eggs."
    Another patient, it seems, was not a normal female, but the offspring of her mother and an alien entity.
    Probably answered the wrong Personals ad.
By now, you are doubtlessly wondering, DO SPACE FOLKS FOOL AROUND?
    This month's program is entitled "Alien Abduction for Crossbreeding Purposes."  A total of 428 homo sapiens showed up.  Snicker if you must.          But, given the sheer number of planets OUT THERE, anyone who plays the national lottery should probably believe in UFOs.
Initially, Bruce S. thought his experiences were nothing more than very unusual dreams.  Then, just a year ago, sleeping in a mobile home in Matena, Washington, the bearded, burly Bruce awoke, glanced out his window and saw a UFO.  His first.
    He tried to move, but couldn't.  When he finally forced his right hand to lift off the bed, the spaceship disappeared.  Blinked off.
    The next three days, he'd wake up in the middle of the night, fully aroused.  He just knew there was an alien woman out in the woods behind the house.  He knew she'd come in, if he asked.
    "I felt debauched, so I went out to the kitchen and made some tea."
Bruce told his therapist about his sexual longings for a space female.  The counselor pointed out that his personal life - he was going through a divorce - was not fulfilling his needs, so his subsconscious was creating an imaginary love interest.
    Bruce wanted to believe this was true.
    Then one night - accompanied by "two little guys" - an alien woman showed up in Bruce's bedroom.  She - he calls her his honeybun - was about 5' 6", naked except for a black wig.  "Not bad looking," with very wierd eyes.  (Sounds just like a lady I used to date.)
    She comes into his bedroom in the middle of the night... romantic music up, fade to black.
Soon thereafter, Bruce heard the story of another man who'd had experiences just like his own.  Bruce burst into tears.  Emotion, relief, flowed out.
    "Those tears are my proof," he said.  "I knew then that my alien sex life was real."
    Whew!  I suddenly had an incredible urge for a cigarette.  And I don't even smoke.
    I was willing to take the man's testimony at face value, but then...
"I'm proud they picked me," Bruce boasts.  "I've got kids in space."
    But no Earth children.  Go, figure.
    According to a mental voyage he took to a galactic nursery, Bruce has 30 to 40 alien offspring.
    How many mixed-species children in this crossbreeding program, you ask?  Either 340,000 or 34 million.  The message was unclear.
    According to Bruce, the offspring will be the "second generation," which will colonize Earth in 2020-2030.  Around about then.
Bruce believes he has been abducted by "the government" - I assume ours - because the Feds want to know what the aliens are up to.  He believes there are underground bases in Los Alamos that are operated jointly by aliens and U.S. authorities.
    He now believes he lost his virginity at age 14 to an alien.
    He also believes his tentmate at Boy Scout Camp was an alien.
    I find myself hoping this was an innocuous coincidence.
Do I believe him?
    Well, I was never a Boy Scout.
    To be honest, the idea of spending a week in the hinterlands with a bunch of adolescent males in uniform always seemed, well, alien to me.

Views: 1009
Date Posted: Feb. 24, 11:11am, 2 Comments

Wisdom of Wolves  by Twyman Towery


The attitude of the wolf can be summed up simply: it is a constant visualization of success. The collective wisdom of wolves has been progressively programmed into their genetic makeup throughout the centuries. Wolves have mastered the technique of focusing their energies toward the activities that will lead to the accomplishment of their goals.


Wolves do not aimlessly run around their intended victims, yipping and yapping. They have a strategic plan and execute it through constant communication. When the moment of truth arrives, each understands his role and understands exactly what the pack expects of him.


The wolf does not depend on luck. The cohesion, teamwork and training of the pack determines whether the pack lives or dies.


There is a silly maxim in some organizations that everyone, to be a valuable member, must aspire to be the leader. This is personified by the misguided CEO who says he only hires people who say they want to take his job. Evidently, this is supposed to ensure that the person has ambition, courage, spunk, honesty, drive - whatever. In reality, it is simply a contrived situation, with the interviewee jumping through the boss's hoops. It sends warnings of competition and one-upmanship throughout the organization rather than signals of cooperation, teamwork and loyalty.


Everyone does not strive to be the leader in the wolf pack. Some are consummate hunters or caregivers or jokesters, but each seems to gravitate to the role he does best. This is not to say there are not challenges to authority, position and status - there are. But each wolf's role begins emerging from playtime as a pup and refines itself through the rest of its years.


The wolf's attitude is always based upon the question, "What is best for the pack?" This is in marked contrast to us humans, who will often sabotage our organizations, families or businesses, if we do not get what we want.


Wolves are seldom truly threatened by other animals. By constantly engaging their senses and skills, they are practically unassailable. They are masters of planning for the moment of opportunity to present itself, and when it does, they are ready to act.


Because of training, preparation, planning, communication and a preference for action, the wolf's expectation is always to be victorious. While in actuality this is true only 10 percent of the time or less, the wolf's attitude is always that success will come - and it does.

Views: 989
Date Posted: Feb. 19, 4:50pm, 3 Comments
Another true story from the Wild Dog's past.
11 a.m.
In the morning.
A sizzling, steamy Sunday in a scorching summer.
Hot. Humid. Hot.  Humid.
Real hot.  Real humid.
I walk into the house after a ten-mile run.
I'm all sweaty, dripping on the hardwood floors.
I hear my girlfriend on the phone
with one of her girlfriends.
These are really attractive women. Gorgeous really.
Both in their early forties. 
Both feminists.
I strip out of my wet clothes.
My girlfriend laughs.
And she says, "String him along.
Meanwhile, you'll get your brains humped out,
which is all you're really looking for."
I get a tall beer out of the refrigerator.
"Cheat all you want," my girlfriend advises.
She jumps to her feet
and starts waving her empty hand in the air
like a preacher on the television.
"What he doesn't know
won't hurt him."
I go take a cold shower.
Views: 478
Date Posted: Feb. 16, 11:32am, 2 Comments
Another memoir-snippet from The Adventures of Wild Dog.
I woke up one Sunday morning, early, as if still in a dream.  Groggy, I thought I heard voices. 
    Then just one voice.  It was soft, barely a whisper
    "It's a beautiful day," the voice repeated over and over, kneeling at the head of the bed.  "Take Peggy Diane to the country."
    I can take a hint.  I took Peggy Diane to the country.  Boy, howdy, did I ever.
    We drove the long route west on the Sunset Highway to a 650-acre resort beyond Yamhill, beyond even Dilley.  Fifty-three miles from the heart of downtown Portland, Oregon, lies the Flying "M" Ranch, a place to get away from it all.
Things look different here.  The log walls of the lodge are gaily festooned with the hides, horns and heads of a variety of game.
    Bison, bear, bobcat, beaver, boar and a bunch of other animals - whose identity begins with other letters of the alphabet - gave their lives to make a decorative statement.
    Axes and horseshoes serve as door handles to the Bucks and Does facilities.
    Out back a stream burbles by.  On the front porch an aged, sleeping Border collie waits for scraps outside the kitchen door.
    Across the parking lot is the landing strip, nothing more than a dirt path down the middle of a 2,200-foot-long green pasture.  Small planes actually use it.
Separated from the air field by the main road are the horses.  People actually ride them.  People like Peggy Diane.
    "Oh, look!  Let's go riding!"
    She grabbed my arm and tugged me toward...THE BARN.
    "No, thanks, no.  Thank you, but, no, thank you. No."
    "Oh, we never do what I want to do."
    This from the woman who has controlled my every move for years.
    Well, most moves.
    "If God had wanted us to ride horses, She wouldn't have given us automobiles.  Or bicycles.  Of roller skates.  Or..." I intoned.  "No. This is my final word on the subject."
    I do not speak without some experience.  You see, I have been on a horse before.  I'd been on a horse before.  Some thoughtful adult had put me in the saddle when I was about three years old.  It seemed like a long way to the ground.  I took one look down and started to cry.
    I was determined not to shed a tear this time.  And I was holding up pretty well, too, until I read the waiver. 
    The following is the complete, verbatim, actual, real, no fooling text.
    "I, the undersigned, recognize the dangers inherent with horseback riding.  I am assuming the hazard of this risk upon myself since I wish to ride horses.  I realize I am subject to injury from this activity and that no form of preplanning can remove all of the danger that I am exposing myself to.  I have been offered a protective riding helmet, which could have prevented permanent brain damage in the event of an accident.  Against the advice of stable operator, the wrangler guide, and the insurance company, I am refusing this critical safety precaution."
    Don't know about you, but that kinda makes me want to mount right up.
I signed, and then imagined what scene might ensue.  Peggy Diane would climb on some nag and beam a look mixed of adventure and joy.
    "What's this pretty horse's name?," she'd ask.
    "Buttercup, ma'm," the cowpoke would replay.
    Meanwhile, I would be staring at the horse, who'd been shipped here on work release from a prison farm.  Trigger on steroids.  He'd flare his nostrils.  I'd flare mine.
    "And what's this big fella's handle?", I would inquire.
    And, of course, I wouldn't be able to get Peggy Diane to switch.
Now, here's what really happened.  Richard, the wrangler, took one look at Peggy's jeans (which she had to lie down on her back to zip up) and her cowboy boots and he put her on Thunder.
    He took one look at me in my cargo shorts and Nike Lava Domes and he put me on Bob.
    "Bob?  That's it?  Bob?  You sure it isn't something like Bad Bob, or even Big Bob?"
    "Nope," the laconic horseman said.  "Just 'Bob.'"
    So, Richard rode point, Thunder followed single-file, and Bob and I trailed behind.
    Then we left the corral and heads into... THE WOODS.
I kept waiting for a snake to bare his fangs, rattle his rattles, causing BOB to bolt, flinging me to the rocks where my head would smash like a prop in Gallagher's comedy routine.
    No such luck.
    I sat on that horse for an entire hour.  Could have been all day.  Seemed like it.  I didn't dare release my deathgrip to check my watch.
    "Good, Bob.  Watch your step, Bob.  Not so fast, Bob.  Careful there, Bob.  Look out for that branch, Bob.  You're a credit to your race, Bob."
    I wasn't riding so much as being carried.  Bob knows who's in charge...and it's not me.
Meanwhile, I couldn't help noticing that Bob and I share some basic personality traits.  He's never seen a patch of grass he didn't want to sample, or a watering hole he didn't want to visit, or a good-looking mare he didn't want to... whinny at.
    Just when I could sense a bond forming between man and beast, we found ourselves back at the corral.  I dismounted.  There was a great sigh of relief.
    It was Bob.
If you ever go riding at the Flying "M" Ranch, you know who to ask for.
Views: 724
Date Posted: Feb. 8, 2:35pm, 1 Comment
Some notes from The Wild Dog Archives.
I'm standing there... trying on asbestos jumpsuits and asbestos helmets and asbestos boots and asbestos gloves and an air pack and a gas mask. 
    Still, I am thinking something is missing. 
    What, no asbestos underwear?
    Somebody hands me a "Hold No Harm" form, which The City seems to think will protect it while I attend Fire School.
    I signed it.  If I am merely injured - trust me - I'll still sue.  Somebody should definitely have stepped in and stopped me from doing something this stupid.
    If I die, I am coming back from wherever totally charred humans go when their bones turn to briquettes.  And I'll put razor blades on the poles they slide on down to the firetrucks. 
    You know the poles mean.
We are welcomed by a man in uniform.
    I look good in a uniform.  I also look good with many days off and a secure job with great benefits and a generous retirement plan.
    "Next, we are going to have you put on a turn-out, a flame retardant suit and have you race up two flights of stair in a burning building, find the dummy in the smoke and race back down with her - all 107 pounds - on your back."
    HA!  I'm thinking, no, you're not.  No way.  'Cause then I'd be the dummy in the smoke.
    Call me crazy, but I have a predilection against flames.  I tend not to rush toward them.  My parents, bless their hearts, taught me to head in the opposite direction.
The guy is still talking.
    I don't pay attention to a couple of gruesome, but nonetheless amusing, incidents that have occurred with this organization in the past.
    "Today, there will be no mistakes," he continues.
    I am heartened.  Can't tell you just how much.
    Okay.  A lot.
    "Thirty-two firefighters have died in the line of duty in this city."
    He might have waited until after the day's activities before sharing that tidbit.
    I am thinking, you hardly ever meet an old firefighter.
The first event is Ladder Climbing.
    "We'll be going up to the top and then doing a 360-degree turn."
    We will?  You can't even see the top, which seems to disappear into a cloud.
    The instructor offers a comforting thought to me and my partner, Linda.
"There nothing to be scared of."
    It's a 100-foot ladder. 
    I let Linda go first.
    "Can we go higher?," I hear her ask, as she starts climbing.
Extrication was cool.  We got to use the Hurst Tool - known as the Jaws of Life - to take the roof off a 1975 Mercury Marquis. These powered pryers exert 12,000 pounds of pressure.  That's six tons.
    The instructor explains, "I've never seen anything withstand this machine."
    Later.  "It will go where it wants to go.  Don't fight the tool.  Go with it."
    Always good advice.  Don't fight the tool.
Next... The LIVE BURN ROOM.  Frankly, that's three words I have never before seen amicably linked together.
    "Temperatures can reach 2,000 degrees inside a building building," the instructor says.
    That's about 1,928 good reasons not to enter one, I say.
    It's dark.  Except for the flames.  It's smoky, too.
    My face mask is fogged up.
    I don't have medical insurance.
    "Okay, get down on your knees," we're ordered, "and crawl towards the fire."
    I let Linda go first.
    "Jack D."
    "You forgot the hose."
Next is a lecture about why it isn't stupid for firemen to knock out all the windows and chop a huge hole in the roof.
    Sometimes they look like they are trying the house instead of saving it.
This is ventilating.
    So, we are given an ax and directed to chop a huge hole in a roof.  Real axe, simulated roof.
    "One of the best things about this job," says a younger member of the faculty, "is you can break crap."
    I went first.
During Apparatus Familiarization, we get a tour of one of the newest fire trucks, worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. 
    I ask if I can take it for a spin.
    They say "No."
    Well, then, can I just hit the siren a couple of times?
    We learn maybe 70% of all fire runs are for medical emergencies... car wrecks, baby deliveries, drug overdoses.  All of the firemen are Emergency Medical Technicians.  Paramedics.  Men and women we can count on.
Next..what we've all been waiting for... the SMOKE MAZE IN THE BASEMENT.
Seven minutes in there.  About the time it takes to jog a mile. 
    A lifetime, it might as well be.
    The remainder of one perhaps.
    We step through a trap door and take a ladder underground.  Where we end up is a place you wouldn't hope to find your worst enemy.
    I let Linda go first.
    The instructions are to put your right hand on the wall and your left hand on the firefighting student in front of you.
    Listen to our leader.  He'll tell you when to turn, when to duck, etc. 
    I am thinking I'd like to know more about 'etc.'
    I've got a gas mask on, a helmet, flaps over my ears.  And I can't hear a word the man is saying.
    I can't see doo-doo.
    Then my right hand loses the wall. 
    And the person under my left hand moves off.
    And I am alone.
    By myself.
    I can smell oil burning billows of smoke.
    I suck it up and tell myself, "If Linda can do this, then so can I."
    Then she came back and led me out.
    At the end of the day, there was something of a final exam.
    I am part of a Search And Rescue Team. 
    We're supposed to rush into a burning building, run up a couple of flights of stairs, find the dummy in the smoke and carry her out to safety.
    I went first.
But - surprise! - there was no second day at firefighters' school for me.
    That's right.  
    Linda's on her own. 
Views: 661
Date Posted: Feb. 4, 10:30am, 0 Comments


       A woman awakes during the night to find that her

husband was not in their bed.  She puts on her robe and

goes downstairs to look for him.  She finds him sitting at

the kitchen table, with a cup of coffee in front of him.  He

appears deep in thought, just staring at the wall.
She watches as he wipes a tear from his eye and takes a

sip of coffee. 

"What's the matter, dear?," she whispers as she steps

into the room, "Why are you down here at this time of

The husband looks up, "Do you remember twenty years

ago when we were dating, and you were only 16?," he

asks solemnly.  
The wife is touched to tears, thinking that her husband is

so caring and sensitive.
"Yes, I do," she replies.  
The husband pauses.  The words are not coming easily. 
"Do you remember when your father caught us in the

back seat of my car making love?"  
"Yes, I remember," says the wife,
lowering herself into a chair beside him.  
The husband continues..."Do you remember when he

shoved a shotgun in my face and said,
"Either you marry my daughter,
or I will send you to jail for 20 years?'"
"Yes, I remember that, too." she replies softly.
He wipes another tear from his cheek and says...
"I would have gotten out today!"
Views: 386
Date Posted: Feb. 2, 4:21pm, 0 Comments
Gary Ryan Blair writes about how to build a sustainable competitive advantage.

Gary's first rule of success is Be Decisive:

Success is the intentional, pre-meditated use of choice and decision. Unless you choose - with certainty - what it is you want, you accept table scraps by default!

The world is plump with opportunity. With boldness and conviction, stick a fork into the goals you want by being decisive.

You are born with great capabilities, but you will not achieve your potential until you call upon yourself to fulfill it. You will rise to the occasion when it presents itself; yet, to assure self-fulfillment, you must provide occasions to rise to. Clearly defined goals allow you to travel toward another horizon that represents the end of one experience and the transition to a new and better existence. The objective is to choose the right goals, and then to create the necessary causes - the effects will follow!


The difference between what one person and another achieves depends more on goal choices than on abilities. The profound differences between successful people and others are the goals they choose to pursue. Individuals with smaller talents, intelligence, and abilities will achieve different results because they select and pursue different goals.

Each decision affects what you become. We form our decisions and our decisions form us. There is no escaping this; the smallest choices are important because - over time - their cumulative effect is enormous.

Never overlook the obvious: The nature and direction of your life change the instant you decide what goals you want to pursue.


Once you make a decision, you start down a path to a new destination. At the moment the decision is made, your decision to pursue a goal alters what you are becoming. Just one spin of the lock's dial - a single choice - can alter your life, your destiny, your legacy.

Think about it - your goal decisions represent and express your individuality. You seal your fate with the choices you make. You define yourself by your decisions.

Your dialogue with success is ultimately a solo one. Decisions and goals made must be your own if you are to call your life a success.


Always establish the best goals you can. Goals are the seeds of success - you become only what you plant. The quality of your harvest is a direct reflection of the quality of your seeds-your decisions!

Indecision is the big eraser of opportunity and potential. Risks and costs accompany every decision; however, the price of decision is far less than the long-range risks and costs of comfortable inaction. When it comes to decisiveness, squatters have no rights.

Everyone has an official wish list of things they think are "reasonable". What about the unofficial wish list? The one that common sense tells you to ignore? The list that exists deep in your mind, the list that keeps you up at night, that makes your toes wiggle when you think of it? Why not choose that list for a change?


How long have you dreamed of being, having, and doing what you really want? Think big, as when it comes to your goals, the size of your ambition does matter. - GRB


I was watching a PLO video by Eric "Rizen" Lynch on PokerXFactor.  Eric was discussing the importance of pre-flop strategy.  Let me paraphrase: 'Pre-flop play dictates post-flop strategy.  Remember why you played the hand in the first place.  Have a plan for your hand.  And, having had this plan, you had better have a good reason for changing your plan after the flop.'


I have found this particularly true in PLO MTTs.  You know what you want to see on the flop & you know how many opponents you want to play against with that hand.  There is no shame in folding, if you find yourself looking at the wrong flop.  Sure, you might convince yourself you are seeing new opportunities.  But sometimes you have to decide to live with your original decision. - JDW

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