- Move so fast that his scenes had to be shot at a slow 32 frames per second vs. the normal 24fps, because otherwise his lightning fast combat movements could not have been captured on film.
- Snatch a dime off a person's open palm before they could close it, and leave a penny behind.
- Perform push ups using only his thumbs.
- Hold an elevated v-sit position for 30 minutes or longer.
- Throw grains of rice up into the air and then catch them in mid-flight using chopsticks.
- Performed one-hand push-ups using only his thumb and index finger.
- Done 50 reps of one-arm chin-ups.
- Broken a wooden board whose thickness was more than 6 inches (15 cm) deep,
- and side-kicked a 300-lb (136 kg) bag hard enough to hit the ceiling...
Here's a clear sign I am getting way too old...
A boy I once knew is now a man full grown. He lives in India where he is currently writing his first book and at 26, is one of the youngest foreign correspondents in both the International Herald Tribune's and the New York Time's history. Go read his latest article on the Mumbai Terrorist attacks for an insightful and well documented recounting of how India has reacted to this singular event.
"For a country with no dearth of terrorism in its past, it is perhaps the fleshy immediacy of these men and their deeds that makes this a defining assault — one that separates all attacks of the past from those yet to come. In the television studios, on the roads, in the anguished phone calls of friends to friends, Indians said the words again and again: This is our 9/11."
They had to grow up somewhere...
Much can be inferred about a man from his mistress: in her one beholds his weaknesses and his dreams. Georg Lichtenberg
If the mistress says all that about a man, I wonder what the decor might explain about these people's music?
"We found this fascinating series of photos from the archives of LIFE magazine, giving readers a peek inside the homes of the parents/grandparents of some of the most influential musical artists from the 1970's, including the likes of Frank Zappa [above], Grace Slick, The Jackson Five, Elton John, Eric Clapton..."
You know, I had always wondered how someone could name their child Dweezil. Moon Unit comes across as mildly spacey but Dweezil? I mean, geez... it sounds like weevil and WHO in their sane, non-eggplant purple mind would want to make people think of a bug when having to address a child? At best Dweezil sounds like a close cousin to chervil. Not that putting one in mind of a parsley bush makes the name any more palatable. Watching this photograph of where Frank Zappa grew up, I can better understand how too much of a purplish upbringing can unhinge that part of your mind that you must need tap into when naming the offshoots.
"Eric Clapton with his grandmother Rose in the house he bought her in Surrey." [John Olson/LIFE]
Eric Clapton is no longer a smoking hot God. No, he's a mangranny. How awful. Even his vest has taken on a doillie-ish appearance. From here on out, I shall forever associate him with teapots, doillie wear and watercress sandwiches.
"David Crosby standing with father Floyd in father's house in Ojai." [John Olson/LIFE]
Yes, yes, I can absolutely see how someone so bookish-looking could produce a fringe-sporting, messy, hippy, probably non-deodorant wearing fellow as his son. Did you take stock of how the National Geographics next to the sofa are squared away in a stair pattern? That explains everything as far as I'm concerned. I'll bet you a quarter that Floyd Crosby was one of those people who ironed his boxer shorts. Which is why David most likely never wore any.
Photographs via Apartment Therapy Los Angeles
Were it that everyone could be this drolly humorous when drunk...
I'm just putting it up because it made me laugh a lot.
The Drunk Poem
Starkle, starkle, little twink,
Who the hell are you I think.
I'm not under what you call
The alcofluence of incohol.
I'm just a little slort of sheep,
I'm not drunk like thinkle peep.
I don't know who is me yet,
But the drunker I stand here the longer I get.
So just give me one more fink to drill my cup,
'Cause I got all day sober to Sunday up.
My taste buds have been doing loop-de-loops and cartwheels since I discovered Ciao Bella. There are not enough rapturous adjectives with which to convey how delicious the contents of these cute containers are. Rapture comes at a cost however - $6 to $8 per pint is what it'll take. Yes, you read right. That's way more than we already pay to lay our gobbledy little hands on our favorite Ben and Jerry's or Häagen Dazs ice creams. Just the price would make me swoon were it not for the fact that tasting Ciao Bella is like having edible haute couture. In my book that justifies everything because after all, no one pays $10 for Valentino ball gown and truly expect it to be a Valentino now do they? Of about the 8 or so flavors I've tried so far, my personal favorites are the Blood Orange, Pomegranate Champagne, Passion Fruit and the Valrhona Chocolate Gelatos. Ciao Bella produces about 50 gelatos, 20+ sorbettos and they also have an extra roster of ten or more seasonal flavors. You may get some provided you are willing to say ciao to your waistline by clicking right here.