JG55

I know some people just like that. That's big difference from the past vs now.

Found this comment: Seems appropriate. norcalgal says: September 14, 2011 at 8:28 am I remember as a teenager telling my parents that I had “rights.” They looked at me as if I was from Mars and my father gave the same answer he always gave when I was defiant, “Until you leave this house and support yourself you live by our rules, regardless of what you think your rights are.” A couple of days ago my 13 year old son was in one of his “teenager” moods and told me that I owed him respect. I asked him “Why?” He said “because I’m your son.” I told him that I loved him dearly because he was my son, but I could only respect him when he earned it. A further discussion revealed that he thought that people were “owed” respect as a “right.” I told him that the only rights he had were those in the Constitution and that “respect” was not one of them. Respect can only be earned and I told him that until he earned it he’d have to make do with my love.

What the World Needs Now Posted on September 13, 2011 by Robin September 13, 2011 I was strolling around downtown Berkeley this week, when one of those shiny young college students waved at me with a smile. I knew what was coming: a plea for a signature and, more importantly, money for some progressive cause. She asked perkily, “Do you want to help immigrant rights?” To which I replied my usual, “No thank you,” and walked away. But I was tempted to instead retort, “You know what I would really like? I would like a full year’s moratorium on everyone asking for their rights. And during that time, I’d want everyone to work on themselves, and to do something for other people. A whole solid year of no one demanding and everyone helping! If you have a petition for that, I’ll gladly sign.” Of course, she would have looked at me as though I were from Mars. These days, it’s all about people standing up for their rights. And that means everyone: Latinos, blacks, women, gays, bis and bi-curious, illegals and legals, everyone, that is, with the exception of the “privileged, straight, white male.” But what is actually owed to them or to anyone else? As an older person, I remember the good old days (which get better and better the older I get). You didn’t demand your rights with your parents or your teachers or anyone else. If you did, you’d get either a slap across the face or a stern lecture about not acting so uppity. Back then, you weren’t entitled to anything unless you earned it. And we’re not just talking money and possessions here, but something more important: respect. No one would have or should have respected you simply because you were born upon this earth. But if you acted in a respectable fashion, that is, accountable for your actions and kind to others, then respect would inevitably follow. But today…what a different picture. Of course, my generation, the Baby Boomers, are responsible for producing all of these entitled folks, because the young ‘uns were taught that the world owes them something for nothing. Through 60′s music and leftist schools, rights and demands were emphasized over traits that are so much more important. And meanwhile, many old folks haven’t moved on developmentally, still remaining frozen in time, circa 1964, making their own demands. Of course, most people from the left reading this won’t have the foggiest notion of what I’m talking about. Isn’t demanding rights and making money what this life is all about? Sadly, in this shallow, secular world, people have been stripped of the knowledge of what to actually do with this one precious life. That’s where my year’s moratorium comes in. Perhaps if people took a break, they’d come up with the answers themselves. I once read an evocative quote, “Wisdom happens in the moment between two thoughts.” Perhaps if people took a break from demanding and blogging and checking their Facebook, they’d understand that life is about more than just demands and things. It involves giving, and I don’t mean a donation to one of those bright-eyed college kids on the streets of Berkeley or for Obama 2012. I’m talking about interpersonal giving; I’m referring to being kind. And doing so for no personal gain, simply because as human beings we are supposed to. Notice an old woman struggling to get across the street, and do not mug her — help her! Open the door for someone using a cane. Remember that someday, God willing, you will be that old person and you will need someone to open the door for you. Call your grandma to cheer her up, and send flowers to your mom for no reason other than she gave you life. Smile at someone who looks a bit glum; leave a dime on the ground for someone else to pick up. Every day do what used to be called, “A random act of kindness.” And then notice what happens, first inside of you, but also in the world. Because just as anger is contagious, so is love. Love is the gift that keeps on giving. Once you express some human compassion, it spreads and gathers force and becomes the only true force that can change the world. After a year is up, you’ll notice something remarkable: you are a changed person. You won’t have as many needs and demands, because you won’t feel as empty inside. You’ll be filled up with something more precious and enduring, something that cannot be given to you by any law or any leader. I’ll end here with a few lines from one of the most beautiful songs of all time, from Jackie DeShannon in 1965. Its message of kindness and love was hugely popular back in the incendiary 60′s. These same simple words are desperately needed today as well. What the world needs now is love, sweet love It’s the only thing that there’s just too little of What the world needs now is love, sweet love, No not just for some but for everyone. . . Lord, we don’t need another meadow There are cornfields and wheat fields enough to grow There are sunbeams and moonbeams enough to shine Oh listen, lord, if you want to know. What the world needs now is love, sweet love No not just for some but for every, Everyone. PLEASE NOTE: This article was run on Sunday at American Thinker without my knowledge. Thus, there was no ability to comment. I hope that you’ll take some time to comment on the piece now. What the World Needs Now | Robin of Berkeley

drinking it neat at first than switching to dark and stormy

Wonder why our government officials ( Mayors, Governors and Police Officials ) aren't doing the same thing.

"My Butts Bigger than your Butt. My Butts Bigger than yours"

My Pretty, I haven't ate today !

rock hills farm

For those who know who he is. [h=2]Christopher Hitchens, R.I.P. — and an atheist Christmas remembrance[/h] [TABLE] [TR] [TD] [/TD] [TD] [/TD] [/TR] [/TABLE] By Michelle Malkin • December 16, 2011 12:49 AM In the midst of all the GOP presidential campaign hustle and bustle comes the sad news tonight that iconoclastic journalist Christopher Hitchens has succumbed to cancer. Vanity Fair announces: Christopher Hitchens—the incomparable critic, masterful rhetorician, fiery wit, and fearless bon vivant— died today at the age of 62. Hitchens was diagnosed with esophageal cancer in the spring of 2010, just after the publication of his memoir, Hitch-22, and began chemotherapy soon after. His matchless prose has appeared in Vanity Fair since 1992, when he was named contributing editor. “Cancer victimhood contains a permanent temptation to be self-centered and even solipsistic,†Hitchens wrote nearly a year ago in Vanity Fair, but his own final labors were anything but: in the last 12 months, he produced for this magazine a piece on U.S.-Pakistani relations in the wake of Osama bin Laden’s death, a portrait of Joan Didion, an essay on the Private Eye retrospective at the Victoria and Albert Museum, a prediction about the future of democracy in Egypt, a meditation on the legacy of progressivism in Wisconsin, and a series of frank, graceful, and exquisitely written essays in which he chronicled the physical and spiritual effects of his disease. At the end, Hitchens was more engaged, relentless, hilarious, observant, and intelligent than just about everyone else—just as he had been for the last four decades. Agree or disagree with him (and we certainly did, jovially so, on some of his extreme atheist stunts), Hitchens was a trenchant analyst and a naturalized American original. His writings on Muslim jihadists, Islamic rage boy syndrome, and sharia law were especially compelling — and his fearless work on those topics was cited here numerous times over the years. Here he was after the 7/7 bombings taking on feckless leftists blaming Bush and Iraq: My son flew in from London at the weekend, and we were discussing, as we have several times before, why it hadn’t happened yet. “It†was the jihadist attack on the city, for which the British security forces have been braced ever since the bombings in Madrid. When the telephone rang in the small hours of this morning, I was pretty sure it was the call I had been waiting for. And as I snapped on the TV I could see, from the drawn expression and halting speech of Tony Blair, that he was reacting not so much with shock as from a sense of inevitability. Perhaps this partly explains the stoicism and insouciance of those Brits interviewed on the streets, all of whom seemed to know that a certain sang-froid was expected of them. The concrete barriers around the Houses of Parliament have been up for some time. There are estimated to be over 4 million surveillance cameras in the United Kingdom today, but of course it had to be the Underground—â€the tubeâ€â€”and the good old symbolic red London bus. Timed for the rush hour, and at transit stations that serve outlying and East London neighborhoods, the bombs are nearly certain to have killed a number of British Muslims. None of this, of course, has stopped George Galloway and his ilk from rushing to the microphone and demanding that the British people be removed “from harm’s way†by an immediate withdrawal from Iraq. (Since the Islamists also demand a withdrawal from Afghanistan, it surprises me that he doesn’t oblige them in this way as well, but perhaps that will come in time.) …It is ludicrous to try and reduce this to Iraq. Europe is steadily becoming a part of the civil war that is roiling the Islamic world, and it will require all our cultural ingenuity to ensure that the criminals who shattered London’s peace at rush hour this morning are not the ones who dictate the pace and rhythm of events from now on. And on his refusal to capitulate to Islamic Rage Boy: The lives of Shiite Muslims, Jews, Hindus, and Christians—to say nothing of atheists or secularists—are considered by Sunni militants to be of little or no account. And yet they accuse those who criticize them of bigotry! And many people are so anxious to pre-empt this accusation that they ventriloquize the reactions of Sunni mobs as if they were the vox populi, all the while muttering that we must take care not to offend such supersensitive people. This mental and moral capitulation has a bearing on the argument about Iraq, as well. We are incessantly told that the removal of the Saddam Hussein despotism has inflamed the world’s Muslims against us and made Iraq hospitable to terrorism, for all the world as if Baathism had not been pumping out jihadist rhetoric for the past decade (as it still does from Damascus, allied to Tehran). But how are we to know what will incite such rage? A caricature published in Copenhagen appears to do it. A crass remark from Josef Ratzinger (leader of an anti-war church) seems to have the same effect. A rumor from Guantanamo will convulse Peshawar, the Muslim press preaches that the Jews brought down the Twin Towers, and a single citation in a British honors list will cause the Iranian state-run press to repeat its claim that the British government—along with the Israelis, of course—paid Salman Rushdie to write The Satanic Verses to begin with. Exactly how is such a mentality to be placated? We may have to put up with the Rage Boys of the world, but we ought not to do their work for them, and we must not cry before we have been hurt. In front of me is a copy of this week’s Economist, which states that Rushdie’s 1989 death warrant was “punishment for the book’s unflattering depiction of the Prophet Muhammad.†There is no direct depiction of the prophet in this work of fiction, and the reverie about his many wives occurs in the dream of a madman. Nobody in Ayatollah Khomeini’s circle could possibly have read the book for him before he issued a fatwah, which made it dangerous to possess. Yet on that occasion, the bookstore chains of America pulled The Satanic Verses from their shelves, just as Borders shamefully pulled Free Inquiry (a magazine for which I write) after it reproduced the Danish cartoons. Rage Boy keenly looks forward to anger, while we worriedly anticipate trouble, and fret about etiquette, and prepare the next retreat. If taken to its logical conclusion, this would mean living at the pleasure of Rage Boy, and that I am not prepared to do. His second-ever Tweet in 2009 glibly (he was a perfect match for the medium) took on the Muslim murderous sanctions for apostasy: “The Hadith says…if someone becomes an apostate…they must be killed. The sentence is death: don’t anyone be telling me that’s a metaphor.†Of course, Hitchens’ hard-drinking, chain-smoking ways and days are legendary (and remember the waterboarding thing?). But what I’ll remember is how unimaginably gracious he was when a complete stranger asked him a Christmas favor three years ago this month. From my e-mail archives: Michelle Malkin writemalkin@gmail.com to chitch8003@aol.com date Sat, Dec 20, 2008 at 9:44 PM subject a strange request mailed-by gmail.com Mr. Hitchens - It’s odd and last-minute, but what the hell: I have a fabulous atheist blogger at HotAir.com who goes by the nom de plume “Allahpundit.†Last Christmas, Ayaan Hirsi Ali was kind enough to send an autographed copy of Infidel for me to pass along as a secular, end-of-the-year token of appreciation: Santa comes early « Hot Air Might it be possible for me to FedEx you a copy of “God Is Not Great†for a signature in time for the holidays? It’s the only way I can top last year. Thanks for your consideration. Best, Michelle Malkin Hitchens wrote back in a few hours: writemalkin@gmail.com date Sat, Dec 20, 2008 at 11:52 PM subject Re: a strange request mailed-by aol.com Surely you may. I shall be in California over the “holidaysâ€, so ship it to me at [address and phone number redacted]. Meanwhile, “compliments of the seasonâ€, as Mr Jefferson used to say. Thanks for asking. CH As busy as he must have been during the holiday season with family and work, he still took the time to check by both e-mail and phone to ensure that I received the signed book, which Allahpundit in turn received in time… “with compliments of the season:†It was an unexpected and extraordinary holiday gesture from an extraordinary literary and journalistic giant. Allahpundit writes tonight: “Hitchens being Hitchens, I wonder which he anticipated more eagerly — the end of the pain or finally knowing if he was right about you know what. I suspect he was right. I hope we’re both wrong.†I pray so, too. R.I.P., Christopher Hitchens. Gone too soon. *** Richard Fernandez (Wretchard the Cat), himself a master of prose, raises his glass: All there is to say about his life, Hitchens has already said himself. His facility at expression was such that it is presumptuous to try and add to his account. Nevertheless he would probably appreciate being remembered by those who knew him; and I did slightly. Even the most modest of people like to think the world has shifted, even ever so slightly, because they lived, spoke and wrote. And Hitchens lived, and spoke and wrote. We might quarrel about the extent to which he or anyone has made a difference. But in one matter we are agreed; and he will surely pass over any differences if I raise a glass in his memory. As he explained to an Arab waiter once in Beirut about the virtues of whiskey, “all you have to do is pour it. My problem is to drink it.†Perhaps he was talking about life as much as Johnny Walker. So for those who are so inclined, please raise a glass of whatever you please, and down one for Christopher Hitchens. Well alright, Christopher. One is not enough. Maybe two is better.

http://www.theblaze.com/stories/adam-carolla-breaks-down-occupy-movement-fking-self-entitled-monsters/#ooid=s4a2UzMzpXPJ0udzH1lN5S-7jxLaI_Sw

http://www.kewego.com/video/iLyROoafYtDe.html or this

here's link to more sexxy pics Damn Nature, You’re One Sexy Beast!

Check Craigslist and careerbuilder

Quiet Dan And Daddyo too Funny

http://althouse.blogspot.com/2011/11/class-politics-in-zuccotti-park.html

http://www.break.com/index/pool-trick-shots-around-hot-chick-2222047

I tried this last night. It was really good and mixes well with coffee, spiced rum, etc. It's very creamy with a strong cinnamon taste : it's close to a cinnabon with rum. Normally I don't like these kind of beverages but for the holiday season and drinking something different, this works..

Stunning Video of Earth from 240 Miles Up

I found a bottle of this (142.6 proof) and I must say, It is a experience!

[h=1]A Sister’s Eulogy for Steve Jobs[/h] [h=6]By MONA SIMPSON[/h] I grew up as an only child, with a single mother. Because we were poor and because I knew my father had emigrated from Syria, I imagined he looked like Omar Sharif. I hoped he would be rich and kind and would come into our lives (and our not yet furnished apartment) and help us. Later, after I’d met my father, I tried to believe he’d changed his number and left no forwarding address because he was an idealistic revolutionary, plotting a new world for the Arab people. Even as a feminist, my whole life I’d been waiting for a man to love, who could love me. For decades, I’d thought that man would be my father. When I was 25, I met that man and he was my brother. By then, I lived in New York, where I was trying to write my first novel. I had a job at a small magazine in an office the size of a closet, with three other aspiring writers. When one day a lawyer called me — me, the middle-class girl from California who hassled the boss to buy us health insurance — and said his client was rich and famous and was my long-lost brother, the young editors went wild. This was 1985 and we worked at a cutting-edge literary magazine, but I’d fallen into the plot of a Dickens novel and really, we all loved those best. The lawyer refused to tell me my brother’s name and my colleagues started a betting pool. The leading candidate: John Travolta. I secretly hoped for a literary descendant of Henry James — someone more talented than I, someone brilliant without even trying. When I met Steve, he was a guy my age in jeans, Arab- or Jewish-looking and handsomer than Omar Sharif. We took a long walk — something, it happened, that we both liked to do. I don’t remember much of what we said that first day, only that he felt like someone I’d pick to be a friend. He explained that he worked in computers. I didn’t know much about computers. I still worked on a manual Olivetti typewriter. I told Steve I’d recently considered my first purchase of a computer: something called the Cromemco. Steve told me it was a good thing I’d waited. He said he was making something that was going to be insanely beautiful. I want to tell you a few things I learned from Steve, during three distinct periods, over the 27 years I knew him. They’re not periods of years, but of states of being. His full life. His illness. His dying. Steve worked at what he loved. He worked really hard. Every day. That’s incredibly simple, but true. He was the opposite of absent-minded. He was never embarrassed about working hard, even if the results were failures. If someone as smart as Steve wasn’t ashamed to admit trying, maybe I didn’t have to be. When he got kicked out of Apple, things were painful. He told me about a dinner at which 500 Silicon Valley leaders met the then-sitting president. Steve hadn’t been invited. He was hurt but he still went to work at Next. Every single day. Novelty was not Steve’s highest value. Beauty was. For an innovator, Steve was remarkably loyal. If he loved a shirt, he’d order 10 or 100 of them. In the Palo Alto house, there are probably enough black cotton turtlenecks for everyone in this church. He didn’t favor trends or gimmicks. He liked people his own age. His philosophy of aesthetics reminds me of a quote that went something like this: “Fashion is what seems beautiful now but looks ugly later; art can be ugly at first but it becomes beautiful later.†Steve always aspired to make beautiful later. He was willing to be misunderstood. Uninvited to the ball, he drove the third or fourth iteration of his same black sports car to Next, where he and his team were quietly inventing the platform on which Tim Berners-Lee would write the program for the World Wide Web. Steve was like a girl in the amount of time he spent talking about love. Love was his supreme virtue, his god of gods. He tracked and worried about the romantic lives of the people working with him. Whenever he saw a man he thought a woman might find dashing, he called out, “Hey are you single? Do you wanna come to dinner with my sister?†I remember when he phoned the day he met Laurene. “There’s this beautiful woman and she’s really smart and she has this dog and I’m going to marry her.†When Reed was born, he began gushing and never stopped. He was a physical dad, with each of his children. He fretted over Lisa’s boyfriends and Erin’s travel and skirt lengths and Eve’s safety around the horses she adored. None of us who attended Reed’s graduation party will ever forget the scene of Reed and Steve slow dancing. His abiding love for Laurene sustained him. He believed that love happened all the time, everywhere. In that most important way, Steve was never ironic, never cynical, never pessimistic. I try to learn from that, still. Steve had been successful at a young age, and he felt that had isolated him. Most of the choices he made from the time I knew him were designed to dissolve the walls around him. A middle-class boy from Los Altos, he fell in love with a middle-class girl from New Jersey. It was important to both of them to raise Lisa, Reed, Erin and Eve as grounded, normal children. Their house didn’t intimidate with art or polish; in fact, for many of the first years I knew Steve and Lo together, dinner was served on the grass, and sometimes consisted of just one vegetable. Lots of that one vegetable. But one. Broccoli. In season. Simply prepared. With just the right, recently snipped, herb. Even as a young millionaire, Steve always picked me up at the airport. He’d be standing there in his jeans. When a family member called him at work, his secretary Linetta answered, “Your dad’s in a meeting. Would you like me to interrupt him?†When Reed insisted on dressing up as a witch every Halloween, Steve, Laurene, Erin and Eve all went wiccan. They once embarked on a kitchen remodel; it took years. They cooked on a hotplate in the garage. The Pixar building, under construction during the same period, finished in half the time. And that was it for the Palo Alto house. The bathrooms stayed old. But — and this was a crucial distinction — it had been a great house to start with; Steve saw to that. This is not to say that he didn’t enjoy his success: he enjoyed his success a lot, just minus a few zeros. He told me how much he loved going to the Palo Alto bike store and gleefully realizing he could afford to buy the best bike there. And he did. Steve was humble. Steve liked to keep learning. Once, he told me if he’d grown up differently, he might have become a mathematician. He spoke reverently about colleges and loved walking around the Stanford campus. In the last year of his life, he studied a book of paintings by Mark Rothko, an artist he hadn’t known about before, thinking of what could inspire people on the walls of a future Apple campus. Steve cultivated whimsy. What other C.E.O. knows the history of English and Chinese tea roses and has a favorite David Austin rose? He had surprises tucked in all his pockets. I’ll venture that Laurene will discover treats — songs he loved, a poem he cut out and put in a drawer — even after 20 years of an exceptionally close marriage. I spoke to him every other day or so, but when I opened The New York Times and saw a feature on the company’s patents, I was still surprised and delighted to see a sketch for a perfect staircase. With his four children, with his wife, with all of us, Steve had a lot of fun. He treasured happiness. Then, Steve became ill and we watched his life compress into a smaller circle. Once, he’d loved walking through Paris. He’d discovered a small handmade soba shop in Kyoto. He downhill skied gracefully. He cross-country skied clumsily. No more. Eventually, even ordinary pleasures, like a good peach, no longer appealed to him. Yet, what amazed me, and what I learned from his illness, was how much was still left after so much had been taken away. I remember my brother learning to walk again, with a chair. After his liver transplant, once a day he would get up on legs that seemed too thin to bear him, arms pitched to the chair back. He’d push that chair down the Memphis hospital corridor towards the nursing station and then he’d sit down on the chair, rest, turn around and walk back again. He counted his steps and, each day, pressed a little farther. Laurene got down on her knees and looked into his eyes. “You can do this, Steve,†she said. His eyes widened. His lips pressed into each other. He tried. He always, always tried, and always with love at the core of that effort. He was an intensely emotional man. I realized during that terrifying time that Steve was not enduring the pain for himself. He set destinations: his son Reed’s graduation from high school, his daughter Erin’s trip to Kyoto, the launching of a boat he was building on which he planned to take his family around the world and where he hoped he and Laurene would someday retire. Even ill, his taste, his discrimination and his judgment held. He went through 67 nurses before finding kindred spirits and then he completely trusted the three who stayed with him to the end. Tracy. Arturo. Elham. One time when Steve had contracted a tenacious pneumonia his doctor forbid everything — even ice. We were in a standard I.C.U. unit. Steve, who generally disliked cutting in line or dropping his own name, confessed that this once, he’d like to be treated a little specially. I told him: Steve, this is special treatment. He leaned over to me, and said: “I want it to be a little more special.†Intubated, when he couldn’t talk, he asked for a notepad. He sketched devices to hold an iPad in a hospital bed. He designed new fluid monitors and x-ray equipment. He redrew that not-quite-special-enough hospital unit. And every time his wife walked into the room, I watched his smile remake itself on his face. For the really big, big things, you have to trust me, he wrote on his sketchpad. He looked up. You have to. By that, he meant that we should disobey the doctors and give him a piece of ice. None of us knows for certain how long we’ll be here. On Steve’s better days, even in the last year, he embarked upon projects and elicited promises from his friends at Apple to finish them. Some boat builders in the Netherlands have a gorgeous stainless steel hull ready to be covered with the finishing wood. His three daughters remain unmarried, his two youngest still girls, and he’d wanted to walk them down the aisle as he’d walked me the day of my wedding. We all — in the end — die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories. I suppose it’s not quite accurate to call the death of someone who lived with cancer for years unexpected, but Steve’s death was unexpected for us. What I learned from my brother’s death was that character is essential: What he was, was how he died. Tuesday morning, he called me to ask me to hurry up to Palo Alto. His tone was affectionate, dear, loving, but like someone whose luggage was already strapped onto the vehicle, who was already on the beginning of his journey, even as he was sorry, truly deeply sorry, to be leaving us. He started his farewell and I stopped him. I said, “Wait. I’m coming. I’m in a taxi to the airport. I’ll be there.†“I’m telling you now because I’m afraid you won’t make it on time, honey.†When I arrived, he and his Laurene were joking together like partners who’d lived and worked together every day of their lives. He looked into his children’s eyes as if he couldn’t unlock his gaze. Until about 2 in the afternoon, his wife could rouse him, to talk to his friends from Apple. Then, after awhile, it was clear that he would no longer wake to us. His breathing changed. It became severe, deliberate, purposeful. I could feel him counting his steps again, pushing farther than before. This is what I learned: he was working at this, too. Death didn’t happen to Steve, he achieved it. He told me, when he was saying goodbye and telling me he was sorry, so sorry we wouldn’t be able to be old together as we’d always planned, that he was going to a better place. Dr. Fischer gave him a 50/50 chance of making it through the night. He made it through the night, Laurene next to him on the bed sometimes jerked up when there was a longer pause between his breaths. She and I looked at each other, then he would heave a deep breath and begin again. This had to be done. Even now, he had a stern, still handsome profile, the profile of an absolutist, a romantic. His breath indicated an arduous journey, some steep path, altitude. He seemed to be climbing. But with that will, that work ethic, that strength, there was also sweet Steve’s capacity for wonderment, the artist’s belief in the ideal, the still more beautiful later. Steve’s final words, hours earlier, were monosyllables, repeated three times. Before embarking, he’d looked at his sister Patty, then for a long time at his children, then at his life’s partner, Laurene, and then over their shoulders past them. Steve’s final words were: OH WOW. OH WOW. OH WOW. http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/30/opinion/mona-simpsons-eulogy-for-steve-jobs.html?_r=1&pagewanted=all