''Thoughts from Ft. Lauderdale''

I've spent the last week at my grandmother's condo in the beautiful (and usually temperate) Ft. Lauderdale. As those of you in the New England area know, this week is February vacation, where students and teachers have a five-day respite from school.

This year my wife and I got together with my parents and sister for a rendezvous in Florida. The plan was to soak up some Vitamin D and enjoy a break from the frigid temperatures of Massachusetts. While it has been sunny, it's also been unseasonably cool. The average temperature for this time of year is a toasty 78 degrees. It's averaged about 65 since we've been here, which has been a bit of a bummer, but it's still been warm enough for us to get out and enjoy the surroundings.

The above photo illustrates the view across from the balcony at my grandmother's place. She lives in an area of Ft. Lauderdale that's divided by a series of waterways - a la Venice - and home to a number of gorgeous multi-million dollar residences. Most of the homes here easily start at $3 million. I've jogged around the area and have been blown away by the overt opulence. Beamer, Mercedes, Lexus, Porsche, Range Rover, and Lamborghini camp out in the driveways of these estates, many of which are behind iron gates.
To the right of my grandmother's balcony is a boat docked in the canal with the name "Insatiable." It's a fitting metaphor to describe the lavishness with which some of these people live. Would I like to one day have a residence on the water? Sure. But it would need to be modest, as there's a certain point where the accumulation of material goods becomes offensive.

The arc of our lives depends largely on the environment we're born into. The social norms of behavior, the availability of resources, the cultural and familial values, all of these are as important as one's work ethic. Am I a hard worker? Yes. Am I successful? Yes. But there are millions of Americans who work as hard as I do yet are floundering economically because they don't have a means of upward mobility.

Education truly is the great equalizer. However, millions lack access to fundamentally sound learning opportunities, and many of those who are so fortunate take it for granted. Life really isn't fair. Those who deserve more often have to give the most. And sometimes those who are undeserving are given the keys without any gratitude or appreciation for what they're able to drive. Knowledge is the ultimate key to rising in the system, but even that alone is no guarantee you'll be able to ascend to a respectable place.

As I sit on this balcony and appreciate the soothing sounds of water and the orange glow of the setting sun on the palm trees, I realize I'm fortunate. Yes I've worked hard to get to where I'm at, but I was also positioned to succeed. I was born in a safe and prosperous country to parents who took their responsibilities seriously and whose families valued education and its role in helping one become a happy and productive member of society. It was assumed I would go to college and eventually pursue an advanced degree. That was the norm of my family, and as such, it was easy to accept that as what my reality should be.

I think one of the greatest gifts an educator can bestow upon his students is the gift of vision - to help them conceive of a personal reality that stretches beyond the borders and limitations that have been placed on them or that they have placed on themselves. And one of the greatest challenges educators face is the sense of entitlement and infallibility that those who have been given the keys feel they've earned just for showing up. It's a constant challenge to balance the multiple personae necessary to motivate and educate a classroom of students.  On some days it's an impossible task, yet on others, when all parts are playing harmoniously, there is nothing more rewarding or satisfying.

''Quadrinho...''

''The Famous Red Box''

To many, the red telephone box is something rather unique on England’s streets. In a modern England where everyone is well equipped with mobile phones, there really isn’t much need to visit a little cubicle and search the pocket for 30p. However, in its heyday the fastdisappearing red telephone box was a real beacon ofcomfort provided you didn’t have to queue for too long.

In the past, it was a true life-saver for people who had no home telephone, and it also offered not only privacy but also shelter for users. Many old English people I know often say it was a kind of public amenity in which you didn’t mind waiting for the rain to stop. Some people also claim to have had their very first kiss in one, much to the entertainment of curious passers-by of course.

There is no doubt that these red boxes are well recognised and appreciated by all countries and they reflect England’s historic development in both architectural achievements and communications. As far as many are concerned, the famous red phone box does play a vital role in English culture and heritage, and has done so for many past decades.

Fortunately enough, the charming red boxes can be found all over England. They have also appeared in countless films and while they are disappearing fast due to new communication technology, an increasing number of people are still preserving them.

As a foreigner, the red telephone box well represents England in many respects to me. I used to live in England and even though I hardly used the phone boxes at all, I spent so much time admiring and appreciating them from a creative point of view. For me, it all started with a red phone box on the beach in Brighton during my half-term visit. The brilliant contrast of the shiny red colour against the beautiful seaside of the Southern English town made a fantastic photo opportunity.

Now back home in Bangkok I’ve still got loads and loads of red telephone box photos on my computer, in the beautiful snow, among green trees, taken from many different angles, mostly with mates crammed inside. To be fair, it’s such a good reminder of my time spent in England as I still remember precisely where and with whom I was, when each picture was taken.

The red phone box is definitely not only a gorgeous piece of English street furniture, globally recognised, it was and till these days still is a priceless life-saver for many people. I reckon that British Telecomshould be praised for maintaining all these gorgeous red boxes. I’m certain everyone still remembers the tragedy of the Londonbombings back in 2005 when all the mobile phones technically went down but good old red phone box worked perfectly fine and helped put many people’s minds at rest.

''ROASTING THE POPE''

Never discount the strength of other people's gut feelings, especially in matters of religion, says Stephen Hugh-Jones--who admits to a touch of old-fashioned English anti-papism himself ...

So the 950-year-old rift between the Roman Catholic church and the Orthodox may be patched up: the Pope and his cardinals are meeting on November 23rd to discuss a document to that end. If I were Satan, I'd be laughing all the way to the stokehole: artificial unity is a splendid way of creating its opposite. But what gets my adrenalin flowing is the words Roman Catholic.

My childhood home was in a Scottish village. My "uncle" was an elder of the kirk. His English wife, my godmother, was an Anglican. So most Sundays the household went to the Presbyterian village church, but occasionally to an Episcopal one in the town nearby. The differences caused not a tremor in its harmony.

Just what divided the two sects I never grasped. Bishops, of course, different forms of service, and a few peculiarities of behaviour thereat. Anglicans crossed themselves, Presbyterians didn't. Anglicans knelt to say their prayers, Presbyterians merely leant forward in their seats. Hence the Presbyterian gibe;

The Pisky prays upon his knees,
His back he winna bend,
Because he darena meditate
Upon his latter end.

''THE BITTER TRUTH ABOUT VICTORIAN BEER''

Chris Routledge wipes the foam from his lips, and explains that it's technology, not tradition, that makes better beer. The golden age of pre-industrial British beer is a marketing man's myth ...

The rise of "real ale" has delighted British publicans and drinkers alike. In 1989 chains of pubs controlled by the big industrial breweries were required by law to sell at least one "guest" beer alongside the house beers, opening up a new market for smaller brewers and bringing some of them back from the brink of extinction. Breweries sprang up across the land from inner cities to Scottish islands such as Orkney and Arran. Old breweries such as Shepherd Neame in Kent, and Cain's in Liverpool, made much of their history and traditions.

The marketing of "real ale" typically evokes a Victorian golden age. One Yorkshire brewer, Timothy Taylor, sells its "Landlord" bottled ale with a label depicting a jolly 19th-century publican raising a frothing tankard. A Burton brewer, Marston's, sells a pale ale called "Old Empire", marketed as a "genuine IPA", using images of sailing ships and men with handlebar moustaches.

But how might these modern beers compare to their Victorian forebears in a blind tasting?

The answer is: surprisingly well, probably, at least when measured against the first Victorian beers.

''THE MADMAN AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE HITLER WAS EVEN SICKER THAN YOU THOUGHT''

The Nazi leader wanted to control the world, but he couldn't even control his own digestion, and nor could his half-baked doctor, writes Tony Perrottet, adding perhaps a touch more detail than you might think appropriate ...

It may sound like a Woody Allen scenario, but medical historians are unanimous that Adolf was the victim of uncontrollable flatulence. Spasmodic stomach cramps, constipation and diarrhea, possibly the result of nervous tension, had been Hitler's curse since childhood and only grew more severe as he aged. As a stressed-out dictator, the agonising digestive attacks would occur after most meals: Albert Speer recalled that the Führer, ashen-faced, would leap up from the dinner table and disappear to his room.

This was an embarrassing problem for a ruthless leader of the Third Reich. With uncharacteristic concern for his fellow human beings, Hitler had first tried to cure himself when he was a rising politician in 1929 by poring over medical manuals, coming to the conclusion that a largely veg diet would calm his turbulent digestion as well as make his farts less offensive to the nose. A rabid hypochondriac, he would also examine his own feces on a regular basis and administer himself camomile enemas......

''GO PINKER YOURSELF'' (AND SHOVE THIS UP YOUR STEVEN)

Robert Lane Greene admires Steven Pinker's new essay on swearing, tries on a few asterisks, recollects his great-grandmother, and decides that the things which make us cuss out loud are the things that make us human ...

"People who swear do not have a good vocabulary," my great -grandmother, an English teacher, used to insist. Bless her, she really thought that was true. But a half-century of moral and societal decline later, I have to disagree. One reason is that removing words from your vocabulary can hardly enrich it--it's not as though the blue words crowd out the purple. A second reason follows from that: I could probably do without "peregrination" and "finial", but swear words are among the most powerful in the language. This is why most people dislike them, some people fear them and try to ban them. To give them up would feel like unilateral disarmament.

Why the power? After all, the most common taboo words refer to body parts, unavoidable daily functions, and the act Woody Allen called "most fun you can have without laughing". Others, referring to religion, should be losing their bite in an increasingly secular society. Steven Pinker, a talented scientific populariser, probes the question in an essay for the New Republic, drawn from his new book, "The Stuff of Thought". Why do we say "fuck you", and not "fuck yourself"? What exactly makes certain excretions more linguistically taboo (shit) than others (snot)?