Letters from North America

Written by Peary Perry


I tend to think of this weekly column as carrying a certain amount of responsibility to keep you,repparttar loyal reader informed of certain points of interest as they become available, no matter where inrepparttar 118259 world they occur. To me, itís a sacred trust and one that I do not take lightly. Itís a heavy burden to voluntarily place upon oneís self, this universal omnibudsman role forrepparttar 118260 benefit of those unfortunates in our country who might otherwise remain inrepparttar 118261 dark about vital information that certainly affects each and every one of us. A case in point is this one which I happened to stumble upon while conducting my weekly research for your enlightenment.

The University of Georgia has just completed a long and through study which shows conclusively that rats exposed to marijuana lose their sense of perception. Yes, these dedicated scientists, working feverishly, working long and arduous hours in cramped conditions have proved once and for all that when rats are exposed to an injection of synthetic marijuana they become (are you ready for this?) DOPEY.

This experiment was conducted inrepparttar 118262 strictest of environments by using two different sounds. Ifrepparttar 118263 short sound was heard,repparttar 118264 rats had to pressrepparttar 118265 lever onrepparttar 118266 right to receive a pellet of food. Ifrepparttar 118267 long sound was heard by our furry inmates, they soon learned to pressrepparttar 118268 lever onrepparttar 118269 left. Short sound, right lever. Long sound, left lever. Got it? Good. You can be assured you would have been fed. The rats did fine under this arrangement.

And then, guess what? Yes, dear readerrepparttar 118270 good old US Government stepped in and authorized a study to find out ifrepparttar 118271 behavior of these little animals would be altered in any way if they were stoned. And what do you think they found?

Thatís right boys and girls. The little mice just went bonkers and didnít care at all about which lever they pressed whenrepparttar 118272 horns went off. Except when they gotrepparttar 118273 munchies. Can you imagine that? They pressedrepparttar 118274 right lever whenrepparttar 118275 long sound was made andrepparttar 118276 left lever whenrepparttar 118277 short sound was made. Isnít thatrepparttar 118278 most amazing thing youíve ever heard? Once they were smashed out of their little gourds they didnít care if they ate or not. They got confused. Happy, but confused, nevertheless.

The Thing With No Name

Written by Merrill Guice


I don't name a lot of things. My car has no name. My house has no name. None of my guitars has a name. Some people would think I was completely impoverished. No, make that many people.

I first discoveredrepparttar need to name when I took a liking to a certain hat many years ago. I wore that hat in what could be called true cowboy style -- I never took it off. Well, I didn't wear it to bed or inrepparttar 118258 shower, but everywhere else you found me you found it. People began asking me if my hat had a name. When I told them thatrepparttar 118259 hat was nameless, they would begin what I calledrepparttar 118260 hat dance.

First, they believed thatrepparttar 118261 hat had a name and that I wasn't sharing it. Then, they became angry because if they spent 90% of their waking hours with a hat, it would have a proper name and why couldn't I be like other people and not be so weird. They would say that I had no heart and didn't love my hat enough to give it a name. Just before they would walk away, there would berepparttar 118262 acceptance that I had indeed resistedrepparttar 118263 urge to anthropomorphize my hat.

The question became a conversational gambit forrepparttar 118264 small talk impaired. Right afterrepparttar 118265 "Hi, how are you"s would comerepparttar 118266 inevitable "what's your hat's name?" Had I not been a penniless student atrepparttar 118267 time, I would have boughtrepparttar 118268 hat business cards and taken to introducing it around asrepparttar 118269 hat-with-no-name. Instead, I came up with a cheaper solution -- a smart alec reply.

"If I gaverepparttar 118270 hat a name, then it would have top billing!", I would protest. That witty reply fell flat about everywhere I dropped it, but I am nothing if not dogged in my loyalty to it.

My car didn't have a name either, for a while. My friends drove Betsies and Ediths and Sams while I made do with a generic no-name Volkswagen that hadrepparttar 118271 nasty habit of opening its passenger door when I made a left-hand turn. It was during one of these exciting moments that my friend, Bill Postel, christened my car. After we stopped to wipe offrepparttar 118272 seat, he finishedrepparttar 118273 job by naming my car "The DeathTrap."

Here was something my friends could appreciate -- a man who had a name for his car. I knew I had arrived when one ofrepparttar 118274 car-less girls atrepparttar 118275 college radio station came up and asked if she could borrow "The DeathTrap" to run up torepparttar 118276 convenience store. My car had a name. It must be friendly. Tell that torepparttar 118277 guy who bought it from me only to haverepparttar 118278 engine toss a rod onrepparttar 118279 way home. Silly me, I neglected to tell him thatrepparttar 118280 car had a name.

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