How to Play Electric Guitar Chords

Now to the fun part, playing chords on your electric guitar. Personally, when I began learning to play the guitar, there was no better feeling than being able to play a few chords. For a few months I only knew three major chords, G, C, and D and I would play almost any song using these three, especially country songs. It actually sounded really good to me and gave me the motivation I needed to continue with the guitar. In fact there are many songs which make use of only three major chords. These are the most important chords and are also the easiest to play on the guitar.

So just the same way I started with G, C, and D, in this lesson on how to play electric guitar chords, I will teach you these three major chords. You will learn what fingers to place where. Remember that your index finger is the first finger, middle finger is your second finger, ring finger is referred to as the third finger and your pinky finger (little finger) is the fourth.

How to play electric guitar chords - the G chord

This chord requires that you put your finger on three strings. First of all, put your second finger on the third fret of the sixth string (low E string). Then put your first finger on the second fret of the fifth string. Finally, put your third finger (or if it's more comfortable, your pinky finger) on the third fret of the first string (high E string).
Your fingers should be curled and should only touch these three strings. If they are touching any of the other strings, the chord will not sound clean. Also, you must apply enough pressure on the three strings mentioned above for the notes to sound right. Play all six strings one at a time to ensure that they are playing clearly. If they are not sounding right it means that you are not applying enough pressure or your fingers are resting on the other strings.
When you're just starting out you may not get this right at once. But it only takes a little more practice.

How to play electric guitar chords - the C chord

And now we move on to another easy major chord, the C chord. Put your third finger on the third fret of the fifth string, then put your second finger on the second fret of the fourth string. Lastly put your first finger on the first fret of the second string. With this chord you can play strings one through five, but not the sixth string.

How To Play Electric Guitar chords - the D chord

The final chord we shall look at for the purpose of this lesson is the D chord. It is probably a little more difficult than C and G when you are starting out, but with a little practice you will realize that it is really not that difficult at all. Your first finger should be placed on the second fret of the third string. Your third finger should be placed on the third fret of the second string. And finally, your second finger should be placed on the second fret of the first string. As you will see, with this chord your fingers are closer together. For the D chord, only strings one to four must be strummed.

How to play electric guitar online - playing a scale

We have already looked at the parts of an electric guitar, how to hold an electric guitar, how to hold an electric guitar pick, and how to tune an electric guitar. In this lesson we move on to playing a scale.

How to play electric guitar online guide: playing a scale
Actually you will learn how to play a simple chromatic scale on your electric guitar. What you will learn is pretty easy so there's no need to fear. This will get your fingers accustomed to pressing down frets on your electric guitar.

Before we proceed you need to know how fingers on your fretting hand are identified. First of all there's the thumb, while the index finger is the first finger, the middle finger is the second finger, the ring finger is the third finger, and the little (pinky) finger is the fourth finger.
Do you have your guitar pick ready? Ok. Let's proceed with our lesson on how to play electric guitar online.

First thing I want you to do is play an open sixth string. (Don't know what I mean by an open string? It simply means that you shouldn't place your fingers on any fret, just hold the pick with your right hand - assuming that your are right-handed - and play a note.)
Next, curl your first finger and place it on the first fret of the sixth string. You need to apply enough pressure when pressing down the string, for the note to sound clean. Don't worry, as you continue practicing you will get better and better at this.

Then take your second finger and place it on the second fret of the sixth string and strike the string with your pick.

Repeat the process for the rest of your fingers, i.e. third finger on third fret, and fourth finger for the fourth fret.

Then move on to the fifth string. Play an open fifth string, then move on to first finger on first fret, take off your first finger and place the second finger on the second fret, followed by third finger on third fret, and fourth finger on fourth fret.

Repeat this process for the fourth, third, second, and first strings, but make a slight alteration on the third string. On the third string instead of playing frets, 1,2,3 and 4, play up to the third fret. Do this exercise over and over. This is a great way to start developing muscle strength. Try starting with the first string, then move on to second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth strings. Remember that practice makes perfect, and it's about the amount of time you put in

How to Play Electric Guitar for Beginners - Learn How to Tune an Electric Guitar.

Unfortunately, before you can begin playing your electric guitar it must be tuned. You can try getting a guitar player to do it for you if you know one. But since your electric guitar can go out of tune very easily or accidentally, it's important to be able to help yourself. For the purpose of this lesson we shall talk about tuning your guitar with an electronic tuner.
If your ears are developed enough you can try tuning your guitar by ear. Using a tuner to tune your electric guitar.

Well first of all you have to spend a few dollars. You should be able to find an electronic guitar tuner at your local music store or online for about $20 or more, easily. They are very easy to operate. A guitar tuner will be able to sense what string you are playing, whether it be E, A, D, G, B or E. Start by turning on the tuner and placing it on a table next to you.

It's so easy to tune your electric guitar with an electronic tuner. Plug the guitar into the tuner, pluck a string and watch the indicator. The tuner will tell you how far or close you are to the right pitch. In other words, it will tell you how sharp or flat you are from the right pitch. All you have to do is to turn your tuning peg in the right direction until the pitch is perfect. Repeat this procedure for all six strings and you're good to go.

How to Play Electric Guitar - Lesson Three - Holding a Pick

So we've learnt the different parts of the electric guitar and how to hold the instrument. In this our third lesson on how to play electric guitar for free, we shall learn how to hold a pick.

First of all, if you've not already done so, you need to buy a few picks. They're pretty cheap, costing about 30 or 40 cents each. Or borrow one or two if you can. There are many different shapes, sizes and brands available for you to choose from, but for starters you should buy medium gauge picks. The picks shouldn't be too flimsy, neither should they be too hard.
Don't buy picks that are too glossy and smooth. You may have trouble holding on to it, especially if you have sweaty hands. If you have already bought picks and you find they are too smooth, you can simply rough them up with a piece of fine sand paper. This will give you more grip.
How to play electric guitar for free - holding a pick
If you're a right-handed player, you hold the pick with the right hand, while a lefty (with a left-handed electric guitar) uses the left hand. This is the hand which is closest to the bridge of the guitar.

Hold the pick between your 1 st finger and thumb. Make sure you hold it with more of the side of your 1st finger and the flat part of your thumb. (Check out the picture on the left.) How to play electric guitar for free - mistakes to avoid when holding a pick. Avoid the mistake of holding the pick too far back or too far forward in your fingers. Also, you should try not to hold it too tight or too loose. You may feel the pick slipping around in your fingers and may be tempted to hold it tighter. Don't worry. It doesn't mean that you're holding the pick too loose.
Eventually, you will become accustomed to moving the pick back in position as you play. With practice you will become more and more comfortable.

Ensure that you hold the pick in the correct position as described above. This is important. Maybe you feel more comfortable holding it with your thumb and second finger, or holding it far down the first finger, or even your thumb, first, and second finger.
Don't.

If you hold your pick in these weird ways, you will only make it more difficult for yourself in the future. As your playing improves you will find these ways of holding a pick very problematic, and you will have to relearn how to hold it properly when certain intricate picking methods come your way in the future.

For example, if you use your thumb, as well as your first and second fingers to hold your pick, you can't use your second finger for other things. So while beginning players may feel that they have more control holding the pick in that manner, it puts them at a major disadvantage.

When holding your pick...

· The pointed end of the guitar pick should point directly away from your fist and protrude about half an inch.
· Position your hand over the body of your electric guitar. Your picking hand with knuckle facing you should hover over the strings.
· Your picking hand shouldn't rest on the strings or the body of your electric guitar.
· Do not use your entire arm for motion. Instead, use only your wrist.

Try this simple exercise. Strike the sixth string (lowest string) of your electric guitar in a downward motion. Make sure it doesn't rattle too much. If it does it means that you are striking the strings too hard or you're using too much of the pick surface. Try again.
When you're done, strike the string in an upward motion. Keep repeating the process (striking the string downwards, then upwards) with very little motion in your picking hand. Make each upward and downward stroke short. Your downstrokes should sound identical to your upstrokes. Try this exercise on all the other strings. Remember, practice makes perfect. The more time you spend on getting it right, the better.

How to Play Electric Guitars: Lesson Two - Holding the Electric Guitar

In our first lesson on how to play electric guitars we learnt the various parts of the electric guitar - headstock, tuning pegs, nut, frets, neck, pickup, bridge, body, tremolo, pickups, pickup switch, and volume and tone controls. In this our second lesson on how to play, we shall focus on how to hold the electric guitar.

What you need is an armless chair. Take a seat, make yourself comfortable, but ensure that your back is against the back of the chair. How do you hold your electric guitar? It's simple. Just ensure that the back of the body of the guitar comes in contact with your chest or stomach. The bottom of the neck should run parallel to the floor. So the thickest string (low E) should be closest to your face while the thinnest string (high E) should be closest to the floor. Hope you're not holding that guitar upside down. If you are just turn it in the other direction.

Are you a left handed player? If so you obviously need a left-handed electric guitar. And in that case the headstock will point to the right. On regular electric guitars (right-handed), the headstock points to the left.

How to play electric guitars - sitting

If you're sitting down, the body of your electric guitar will rest on one of your legs. Typically, a right handed player will rest the guitar on the right leg while a lefty will rest the guitar on the left leg.
(Please note that this posture doesn't apply to classical guitarists. Right handed classical players typically rest the guitar on their left thigh and maintain the instrument's neck at a 45 degree angle to the ground.)

How to play electric guitars - standing

Maybe you want to stand up with your guitar. You will need a shoulder strap. Put the strap over your head and put your right arm through the strap. The weight of the instrument should be across the upper-right area of your back. I'd suggest setting the strap so the guitar hangs at the same height as it would when you are sitting down. The bridge should be at roughly waist height. It's easier to play the instrument at this position. For now, don't worry about what you see your favorite stars doing - later on you can adjust the instrument to your personal preferences. That is when you become a better player.
I hope you're with me... You are? Ok. Let's proceed with our lesson on how to electric guitars - holding the electric guitar. Let's now talk about the fretting hand. It's the hand used to hold down the chords (or the notes if you prefer). It's the hand on the neck of your electric guitar. If you are a right hand player, it's your left hand. It's the opposite for a lefty. You should rest your thumb behind the neck of the guitar and curl your fingers at the knuckles over the strings.

How to Play Electric Guitar: Lesson One - Learn Electric Guitar Parts

How to play electric guitar - parts of an electric guitar
The first thing I want you to learn are the parts of the guitar. Check out the diagram below for an overview.

As you can see, it all starts with the headstock right at the top. This describes the part of the guitar that is attached to the slimmer neck of the instrument. Then there are the tuners. As the name suggests, the tuners are used to tune the instrument, or to adjust the pitch of each string. After the tuners, we move on to the nut. This is found between the headstock and the neck of the guitar. It is sometimes made of plastic or bone and contains six small grooves to guide each string up to the tuners.

In learning how to play the electric guitar, a lot of focus will be placed on the next part we shall talk about, none other but the neck of the guitar. This is where you will be placing your fingers a lot and holding different positions to create different notes.

The neck of the guitar is attached to the body. On the body of your electric guitar, you will find pickups. These are almost like microphones. They pick up, or capture the sound of the instrument so they can be amplified. (If you've got an acoustic or acoustic/electric guitar, your guitar would come with a sound hole. This hole is found on the body of the guitar and is meant to amplifier the sound of the guitar.) Electric guitars replace this part with pick-ups.

There's a pickup switch located on the body of the guitar used to select different pickups for different tones and sounds.

Next in line is the bridge of your guitar. It is a piece of hardware attached to the body of the guitar. The strings run from the tuning pegs to the bridge.

Then there's the tremolo (aka Whammy Bar). This is a bar connected to the bridge of the guitar. By moving the tremolo bar up or down, you can move the bridge, thus changing the pitch.
On the body of an electric guitar, you will find volume and tone control knobs used to adjust guitar volume and tone.

Before you begin the actual process of learning how to play electric guitar, let's talk a little more about the neck of the guitar. In particular, we shall focus on the frets. What are these? These are strips of metal running along the surface of the guitar's neck. Guitarists also refer to the space between two strips of metal as a fret. So the fret can mean two different things. If you want to learn how to play electric guitar, you must first know these parts. Take time to learn them because they are important for understanding subsequent lessons.

Beginner guitar tips

The next 6 postings will have some beginner guitar tips.
Whether you have already played the guitar or just starting out, have a look to see wat new things you can learn.

That sums up the F1

That sums up the F1 suspension postings.
I'll try looking for some new postings later on in the year.
Stay Tuned.

F1 Suspension Trends

Heres an article I found regarding F1.
It's written by Peter Wright

Tyres-suspension-aerodynamics-chassis: one integrated system, made up of highly inter-dependent parts, that determines the performance of any racecar, except when maximum power or maximum braking is applied. If one part is changed, the effect ripples around the others until a new order is arrived at, where the whole is back in optimised harmony. This year a major player - the tyres - have, and continue to undergo substantial changes, while the other parts struggle to keep up.

The suspension determines the attitude at which the tyre is presented to the track, and the vertical load on it, both quasi-steady-state and oscillating due to track undulations. It also feeds back to the chassis the loads that the tyres generate in response. In turn the chassis responds, taking up an attitude that, in turn, determines the aerodynamic loads on it and alters the attitude and loads on the tyres. Both messages and responses, from chassis to tyres, go by way of the suspension and are shaped by it.

The tyre war between Goodyear and Bridgestone is fast changing both the construction of the tyres and the forces that they are able to generate through the development of tread compounds. Tyre characteristics and their interaction with the dynamics and aerodynamics of a car are not a precise enough science, even in Formula 1, to look at the characteristics of a new tyre and dial straight in the appropriate changes to the suspension etc. that are needed to re-optimise the whole system. Instead the engineers must dig deep into their boxes of tools and go round and round the loop of changes until they find out just what the new tyre wants, and tune out the negative side effects of those primary changes. If they are lucky, the changes will be within the adjustment range of the suspension geometry and spring and damper settings. If not it may require a whole new geometry (new pickup points in the monocoque or on the gearbox, or new uprights) or, worse still, a different weight distribution or aerodynamics.

In V7N3 I described how suspension engineers were equipping themselves with the option to run a third spring and/or damper on either axle, in order to separate out roll characteristics from those controlling vertical motion. Behind this trend there is a more fundamental suspension/tyre issue that really came to a head when Jacques Villeneuve joined Williams last year.

Since running active suspension, Williams had been pursuing a policy of developing suspension and aerodynamics to allow the suspension to be as soft as possible for mechanical grip. Active suspension had allowed the compromise between suspension stiffness and controlling the ride height to be resolved in the favour of both features. Since it's ban in 1993, they have worked hard to ensure that the aerodynamic demands did not limit how soft the suspension was set up. In early 1994, when Senna first drove for them, the FW16 initially possessed less than ideal aerodynamics, preventing Senna from dominating in the way that people had expected. The problem was identified and resolved and, guided by the smooth driving style of Damon Hill, they have set the standards for both high and low speed grip since that time.

For Villeneuve ultimate grip is less important than the ability to place the car exactly where he wants it, when he wants to. For this he needs a highly reactive car, and that means one that has stiff suspension. It is a question of achieving a balance between the greatest potential performance and realising as much of that potential as possible. Conventional theory indicates that ultimate grip comes from varying the load on the tyre as little as possible i.e. a softly sprung and optimally damper suspension. If the oscillating load has an amplitude equal to the steady vertical load on the tyre, the load will be zero, once per cycle. At that point the tyre cannot grip, and will slide. The analysis becomes very complex at this stage, but in essence the conditions at the contact patch are "stick-slip", rather than steady "sticking". Oscillating loads of the same magnitude as the steady load are common on a stiffly sprung car at low speeds, and this condition usually appears to reduce the grip.

However, there are characteristics of the tyre that, under certain conditions, prefer the "stick-slip" situation. For a start, it heats up the tyre faster and, when optimum tyre temperature is not attainable, may raise the temperature and so achieve higher grip. For Qualifying, when overheating the tyres is not a terminal problem, many drivers stiffen the suspension compared to race settings. Forcing a race compound to behave like a qualifying one, by treating it harshly to achieve optimum temperature, and a more responsive car are both desirable for a single quick lap. For the race however, drivers tend to adjust to a smoother driving style, and a set-up that looks after the tyres on a car that is heavy with fuel, is of paramount importance.

There are two aspects of the tyre war that emphasise these differences. Firstly, the compounds being developed are more marginal, and so need careful treatment during the race. Secondly, with two types of rubber from different manufacturers, scattered in small lumps all over the track, there is a real problem with tyres picking up this incompatible debris and ceasing to perform as advertised. A stiff car, which is more aggressive towards it's tyres, seems to have less problem in scrubbing off any pickup. A typical case of real life interfering with theory, and one that keeps the race engineers busy during the free practice periods, changing springs and damper settings to suit track, tyres and driver.

Most of the top teams develop their own dampers, working with damper manufacturers to make the more specialised cylinder and valve components. Because there is still considerable mystique surrounding damper technology, details of what goes on inside them is well guarded. Apart from the introduction of the third damper, described in V7N3, there are two main areas of damper R&D. The first is to develop a development tool or procedure to assist in the quick setting up of dampers, and their associated springs, for a given circuit. The rate at which circuits are being altered and re-surfaced these days means that databases, gleaned in the preceding years, are not much help. After the 50% wind tunnel, the next "must have" is a 4-post, electro-hydraulic, road simulation rig. With the car placed on it, and aerodynamic loads imposed via two further servo-actuators, it is possible to excite the suspension with an actual track profile, at any simulated speed. The ability to measure any parameter and study particular conditions in the laboratory is a valuable tool in understanding suspension dynamics and validating models. In particular, it can be used to study the second issue:

Without active control, it is not possible to change the damping to suit varying conditions. With rising rate suspensions, the stiffness increases as the suspension is compressed by the aerodynamic downforce and ideally the damping would increase too. For a long time, a way of achieving this has been sought and a clever mechanism is bound to appear soon, if it has not already done so.

Two regulations new this year, have had an influence on suspension linkage design. In 1996, Tyrrell decided to test the FIA's interpretation of "aerodynamic effect", in regard to components that moved relative to the entirely sprung part of the car. They made the entire top front wishbone into a streamlined shape, forcing a new regulation to define suspension linkages as having no greater aspect ratio (defined, in this case, as chord to thickness ratio of a transverse section) than 3.5:1. There is a sufficient aerodynamic advantage in streamlining the linkages, especially the top one, that there became an even greater reason to manufacture them from individually shaped CFRP mouldings, rather than standard section streamline, steel tubing.

There are a number of constructors however, who prefer to retain steel for most if not all suspension members, adding a CFRP sleeve to streamline them. This may have something to do with the second regulation, which states that the forward, bottom wishbone strut must be the strongest in tension, and be able to articulate, without necking out the inner joint, at least 60� or until the wheel hits something solid on the car (i.e. the side impact structure for the front wheel). This regulation is a reinforcement of the need to try and prevent the front wheel striking the driver's head, in the event of a front/three-quarters impact into a barrier. CFRP linkages tend to shatter in an impact, and are unlikely to retain the wheel. Steel with sufficient ductility stands a chance, and provided that the front lower link is intact, will stop the wheel swinging up into the cockpit. It has not been possible to define a test that will ensure success under all possible types of impact, and so a sensible requirement has been stipulated. Only time will show whether it is the right one. Once again one is reminded that safety is a statistical science, based on experiment.

F1 Suspension System

F1 Suspension

Unless formula one car suspensions have an incredible stiffness, these are one of the most important things to make a car drivable. It is probably one of the most difficult things that can be set on a car, and influences understeer and oversteer hugely. As tires are the only contact between the car and the road surface, you can image how important it is to keep the tires as good as possible on the track, no matter what bump or speed the car may encounter.
Forces to cope with

Weight transfer is the general term for most forces a car undergoes in any change of condition. It is a shifting of loading on the four outmost corners of the car. Acceleration means load is transferred to the back of the car, the opposite occurs when braking. In corners, most weight becomes lying in the two outside wheels. These kinds of weight transfer can be expressed and calculated with the following formula:

dW = (m * h * a) / t

with dW symbolising the total weight transfer due to an acceleration a (m/s�),
a total vehicle mass m (in kg),
h the height is the height of center of gravity,
t is the track width. (For longitudinal weight transfer, use wheel base instead of t).
Different types of weight transfer:
Heave is the motion of the chassis when all four wheels go up or down in unison i.e. when a car drives through Aux Rouges at Spa, that car is pushed down onto the track, due to the surface which is basically a narrow valley. When thus driving over a hill, the opposite occurs and the car wants to fly away.

Pitch is when the front and rear of the chassis go in opposite directions, either up or down. This occurs at braking when the car seemingly bends forward, or accelerating so that the car want to raise its nose.

Roll is a side-to-side movement of the car. The suspension on the outer side of the car compresses while the inner suspension extends. This occurs during cornering.

Warp is the movement of the diagonally opposed wheels in opposite directions i.e. the front left suspension compresses as the right rear extends.

Yaw is the rotation of the car in a horizontal plane around a vertical axis. This occurs during cornering.
Weight transfer has to be absorbed or taken up by the suspension system, otherwise it will be expended at the tire contact patch meaning a loss of adhesion and a spin-out. How this weight is divided between the front end suspension and the rear end suspension is a relationship known as "roll couple distribution".

The above picture shows the virtual front of a formula one car without its nose. I must say virtually, as in reality, the rockers (see further) cannot be seen when taking off the nose, as they are placed a little deeper into the chassis.

Pushrod and pullrods are the diagonal bars between the car's body and the upright (where the suspernsion arms are attached to the wheels, near the brakes). There is always one for each wheel, but a car does not have pull and push rods at the same time. That would be completely useless, as these arms just do the same, it's only another way to get the same effect. The difference can be found in its name, as the pull rod pulls the rocker, while the push rod pushed it. On the picture we have push rods (when the wheel is pushed up, due to a burb or something, the push rod pushed the rocker up) connecting a rocker in the upper part of the chssis with the lower upright. A pull rod goes the other way, connecting a rocker located low in the chassis, with the upper site of the wheel, almost where the upper suspension arms meet the upright. Pull rods were first brought to Formula 1 by Gordon Murray with Brabham in the 70s but now all formula one teams make use of the push rods, as pull rods are quite hard to implement in a high nosed car. The advantages of a pull rod lie in the possibility to make the nose lower, assemble most suspension parts lower to the ground and thus lowering the height of the center of gravity.

Rockers are also known as bell cranks or linkages. This is the lever that translates the push\pull rods motion into the rotary force on the torsion bar and the up\down motion of the damper. the rocker also has mounts for antiroll bars and sensors for wheel travel. The rocker translates the wheel movement onto the dampers with a multiplicator. The movements of the damper are thus larger than those of the wheel itself. That means if a wheel moves 1cm, the damper will undergo a movement of about 2 to 3 cm (these are only estimated numbers). It's partially this principly of multiplicating the movement onto the damper that causes the enormous stiffness of the suspension.

On this particular drawing you can also notice the torsion bar passing trough the middle of the rockers. The torsion bar is thereby fixed onto the chassis, allowing the rocker to rotate around it. When a wheel pushed the rocker up, it twists and pushed the damper down.
As you can also see on the picture, both rockers on each side are connected with each other with an anti-roll bar (roll : see types of weight transfer). Anti-roll bars resist roll by twisting themselves, acting as torsion springs. The anti-roll bar should be handling approximately 50% of the front roll resistance, with the other 50% split between the front springs. To avoid some misunderstandings, a roll bar has nothing whatsoever to do with spring rate. Changing bars can only make the front end stiffer or softer in terms of roll rate and not spring rate.

The springs or torsion bars are the parts of the suspension that actually absorb the bumps. In simple terms, the softer the suspension on the car, the quicker it will travel through a corner. This has the adverse effect of making the car less sensitive to the drivers input, causing sloppy handling. A harder sprung car will have less mechanical grip through the corner, but the handling will be more sensitive and more direct, ideal for circuits such as Monaco where the drivers must be inch perfect between the barriers.

Shock absorbers on the other hand dampen the motion of suspension. They do not absorb impacts, but damp the motion of the vehicle. As the name itself says, it particularly acts on the first impact, while the springs work during all the event. If you would have a car with springs, but no or bad shock absorbers, you will keep bumping up and down for a while, and in corners, a wheel might get off the ground a lot easier, because the opposite wheel bends down too much. Shock absorbers are thus tie-down devices for springs which control the springs' oscillation. Oscillation is the up and down movement of a spring, and unless it has a damping device on it, the spring will oscillate infinitely until internal friction in the spring stops its movement. Shock absorbers can be adjusted for "rebound' and "bump".

F1 springs are made by specialist companies like Eibach, with springs often designed in part by the F1 teams to suit certain characteristics.

Packers or bump rubbers can be used to prevent the springs or torsion bars compressing too far. This allows the suspension to be soft, and preserverves the car to hit the ground due to the high downforce. These packers should although not come into play in corners, because if the suspension is that soft that it leans on the packers in a corner, no more energy is dissipated into the suspension, which results in decreased grip. They are useful on modern cars to preserve the wooden plank under the car, the rules stating that no more than 1 mm can be worn during the race. (Hence Schumacher's exclusion from Spa 1994)

Formula 1

The next couple of posts will concern Formula 1 and its suspension system.
I find this really interesting since I am on the Formula SAE team at my school.
Stay tuned for the next ones.

Thanks

Thanks all for reading these stories
I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted.

Story 5-Fiction

Enjoy,
The Mouse,
by Saki

Theodoric Voler had been brought up, from infancy to the confines of middle age, by a fond mother whose chief solicitude had been to keep him screened from what she called the coarser realities of life. When she died she left Theodoric alone in a world that was as real as ever, and a good deal coarser than he considered it had any need to be. To a man of his temperament and upbringing even a simple railway journey was crammed with petty annoyances and minor discords, and as he settled himself down in a second-class compartment one September morning he was conscious of ruffled feelings and general mental discomposure. He had been staying at a country vicarage, the inmates of which had been certainly neither brutal nor bacchanalian, but their supervision of the domestic establishment had been of that lax order which invites disaster. The pony carriage that was to take him to the station had never been properly ordered, and when the moment for his departure drew near, the handyman who should have produced the required article was nowhere to be found. In this emergency Theodoric, to his mute but very intense disgust, found himself obliged to collaborate with the vicar's daughter in the task of harnessing the pony, which necessitated groping about in an ill-lighted outbuilding called a stable, and smelling very like one - except in patches where it smelled of mice. Without being actually afraid of mice, Theodoric classed them among the coarser incidents of life, and considered that Providence, with a little exercise of moral courage, might long ago have recognised that they were not indispensable, and have withdrawn them from circulation. As the train glided out of the station Theodoric's nervous imagination accused himself of exhaling a weak odour of stable yard, and possibly of displaying a mouldy straw or two on his unusually well-brushed garments. Fortunately the only other occupation of the compartment, a lady of about the same age as himself, seemed inclined for slumber rather than scrutiny; the train was not due to stop till the terminus was reached, in about an hour's time, and the carriage was of the old-fashioned sort that held no communication with a corridor, therefore no further travelling companions were likely to intrude on Theodoric's semiprivacy. And yet the train had scarcely attained its normal speed before he became reluctantly but vividly aware that he was not alone with the slumbering lady; he was not even alone in his own clothes. A warm, creeping movement over his flesh betrayed the unwelcome and highly resented presence, unseen but poignant, of a strayed mouse, that had evidently dashed into its present retreat during the episode of the pony harnessing. Furtive stamps and shakes and wildly directed pinches failed to dislodge the intruder, whose motto, indeed, seemed to be Excelsior; and the lawful occupant of the clothes lay back against the cushions and endeavoured rapidly to evolve some means for putting an end to the dual ownership. It was unthinkable that he should continue for the space of a whole hour in the horrible position of a Rowton House for vagrant mice (already his imagination had at least doubled the numbers of the alien invasion). On the other hand, nothing less drastic than partial disrobing would ease him of his tormentor, and to undress in the presence of a lady, even for so laudable a purpose, was an idea that made his ear tips tingle in a blush of abject shame. He had never been able to bring himself even to the mild exposure of open-work socks in the presence of the fair sex. And yet - the lady in this case was to all appearances soundly and securely asleep; the mouse, on the other hand, seemed to be trying to crowd a wanderjahr into a few strenuous minutes. If there is any truth in the theory of transmigration, this particular mouse must certainly have been in a former state a member of the Alpine Club. Sometimes in its eagerness it lost its footing and slipped for half an inch or so; and then, in fright, or more probably temper, it bit. Theodoric was goaded into the most audacious undertaking of his life. Crimsoning to the hue of a beetroot and keeping an agonised watch on his slumbering fellow traveller, he swiftly and noiselessly secured the ends of his railway rug to the racks on either side of the carriage, so that a substantial curtain hung athwart the compartment. In the narrow dressing room that he had thus improvised he proceeded with violent haste to extricate himself partially and the mouse entirely from the surrounding casings of tweed and half-wool. As the unravelled mouse gave a wild leap to the floor, the rug, slipping its fastening at either end, also came down with a heart-curdling flop, and almost simultaneously the awakened sleeper opened her eyes. With a movement almost quicker than the mouse's, Theodoric pounced on the rug and hauled its ample folds chin-high over his dismantled person as he collapsed into the farther corner of the carriage. The blood raced and beat in the veins of his neck and forehead, while he waited dumbly for the communication cord to be pulled. The lady, however, contented herself with a silent stare at her strangely muffled companion. How much had she seen, Theodoric queried to himself; and in any case what on earth must she think of his present posture?
< 2 >
"I think I have caught a chill," he ventured desperately. "Really, I'm sorry," she replied. "I was just going to ask you if you would open this window." "I fancy it's malaria," he added, his teeth chattering slightly, as much from fright as from a desire to support his theory. "I've got some brandy in my holdall, if you'll kindly reach it down for me," said his companion. "Not for worlds - I mean, I never take anything for it," he assured her earnestly.
"I suppose you caught it in the tropics?"
Theodoric, whose acquaintance with the tropics was limited to an annual present of a chest of tea from an uncle in Ceylon, felt that even the malaria was slipping from him. Would it be possible, he wondered to disclose the real state of affairs to her in small instalments? "Are you afraid of mice?" he ventured, growing, if possible, more scarlet in the face.
"Not unless they came in quantities. Why do you ask?" "I had one crawling inside my clothes just now," said Theodoric in a voice that hardly seemed his own. "It was a most awkward situation."
"It must have been, if you wear your clothes at all tight," she observed. "But mice have strange ideas of comfort." "I had to get rid of it while you were asleep," he continued. Then, with a gulp, he added, "It was getting rid of it that brought me to - to this."
"Surely leaving off one small mouse wouldn't bring on a chill," she exclaimed, with a levity that Theodoric accounted abominable.
Evidently she had detected something of his predicament, and was enjoying his confusion. All the blood in his body seemed to have mobilised in one concentrated blush, and an agony of abasement, worse than a myriad mice, crept up and down over his soul. And then, as reflection began to assert itself, sheer terror took the place of humiliation. With every minute that passed the train was rushing nearer to the crowded and bustling terminus, where dozens of prying eyes would be exchanged for the one paralysing pair that watched him from the farther corner of the carriage. There was one slender, despairing chance, which the next few minutes must decide. His fellow traveller might relapse into a blessed slumber. But as the minutes throbbed by that chance ebbed away. The furtive glance which Theodoric stole at her from time to time disclosed only an unwinking wakefulness.
< 3 >
"I think we must be getting near now," she presently observed.
Theodoric had already noted with growing terror the recurring stacks of small, ugly dwellings that heralded the journey's end. The words acted as a signal. Like a hunted beast breaking cover and dashing madly toward some other haven of momentary safety he threw aside his rug, and struggled frantically into his dishevelled garments. He was conscious of dull suburban stations racing past the window, of a choking, hammering sensation in his throat and heart, and of an icy silence in that corner toward which he dared not look. Then as he sank back in his seat, clothed and almost delirious, the train slowed down to a final crawl, and the woman spoke. "Would you be so kind," she asked, "as to get me a porter to put me into a cab? It's a shame to trouble you when you're feeling unwell, but being blind makes one so helpless at a railway station."

Story 4-Fiction

Here, enjoy another
This ones called Yellow Paint Robert Louis Stevenson

In a certain city there lived a physician who sold yellow paint. This was of so singular a virtue that whoso was bedaubed with it from head to heel was set free from the dangers of life, and the bondage of sin, and the fear of death for ever. So the physician said in his prospectus; and so said all the citizens in the city; and there was nothing more urgent in men's hearts than to be properly painted themselves, and nothing they took more delight in than to see others painted. There was in the same city a young man of a very good family but of a somewhat reckless life, who had reached the age of manhood, and would have nothing to say to the paint: "Tomorrow was soon enough," said he; and when the morrow came he would still put it off. She might have continued to do until his death; only, he had a friend of about his own age and much of his own manners; and this youth, taking a walk in the public street, with not one fleck of paint upon his body, was suddenly run down by a water-cart and cut off in the heyday of his nakedness. This shook the other to the soul; so that I never beheld a man more earnest to be painted; and on the very same evening, in the presence of all his family, to appropriate music, and himself weeping aloud, he received three complete coats and a touch of varnish on the top. The physician (who was himself affected even to tears) protested he had never done a job so thorough. Some two months afterwards, the young man was carried on a stretcher to the physician's house. "What is the meaning of this?" he cried, as soon as the door was opened. "I was to be set free from all the dangers of life; and here have I been run down by that self-same water-cart, and my leg is broken." "Dear me!" said the physician. "This is very sad. But I perceive I must explain to you the action of my paint. A broken bone is a mighty small affair at the worst of it; and it belongs to a class of accident to which my paint is quite inapplicable. Sin, my dear young friend, sin is the sole calamity that a wise man should apprehend; it is against sin that I have fitted you out; and when you come to be tempted, you will give me news of my paint."
< 2 >
"Oh!" said the young man, "I did not understand that, and it seems rather disappointing. But I have no doubt all is for the best; and in the meanwhile, I shall be obliged to you if you will set my leg." "That is none of my business," said the physician; "but if your bearers will carry you round the corner to the surgeon's, I feel sure he will afford relief." Some three years later, the young man came running to the physician's house in a great perturbation. "What is the meaning of this?" he cried. "Here was I to be set free from the bondage of sin; and I have just committed forgery, arson and murder." "Dear me," said the physician. "This is very serious. Off with your clothes at once." And as soon as the young man had stripped, he examined him from head to foot. "No," he cried with great relief, "there is not a flake broken. Cheer up, my young friend, your paint is as good as new." "Good God!" cried the young man, "and what then can be the use of it?" "Why," said the physician, "I perceive I must explain to you the nature of the action of my paint. It does not exactly prevent sin; it extenuates instead the painful consequences. It is not so much for this world, as for the next; it is not against life; in short, it is against death that I have fitted you out. And when you come to die, you will give me news of my paint." "Oh!" cried the young man, "I had not understood that, and it seems a little disappointing. But there is no doubt all is for the best: and in the meanwhile, I shall be obliged if you will help me to undo the evil I have brought on innocent persons." "That is none of my business," said the physician; "but if you will go round the corner to the police office, I feel sure it will afford you relief to give yourself up." Six weeks later, the physician was called to the town gaol. "What is the meaning of this?" cried the young man. "Here am I literally crusted with your paint; and I have broken my leg, and committed all the crimes in the calendar, and must be hanged tomorrow; and am in the meanwhile in a fear so extreme that I lack words to picture it." "Dear me," said the physician. "This is really amazing. Well, well; perhaps, if you had not been painted, you would have been more frightened still."

Also, Happy Halloween =D

Story 3-Comedy

Heres yet another story, haha
Its called Baggio's Story by Charlie Fish

Iwould like to be a philosopher.Well, anyone who has said the word 'Why' can argue that he is a philosopher, so I want to be more than that. I want to be remembered as a philosopher. One day soon I will be dead. People will look back at my life, and they might say I was a martial artist; for I have earned a seventh dan black belt (in both karate and judo). They might say I was a musician; for I have composed successful operas (in three different languages). They might say I was a footballer; for I used to represent Italy (and scored twenty-seven goals for my country during my career). But above all, they will say, he was a great philosopher. The difference between a hobby and greatness is total immersion, to the sacrifice of all else. I must devote my entire life to this pursuit; I must give up absolutely everything for this cause. I assumed that giving up my material wealth would be the easiest part of this quest, but it is proving not to be straightforward. Yesterday, I hired a removal van and packed it with all of my possessions, leaving my house utterly bare. I drove out to the public common and unpacked the van there, laying every item out upon the grass. I labelled my bank cards with the relevant pin numbers. I labelled my bicycle lock with its code. I labelled my house keys with their address, and my car keys with instructions to find the car. I abandoned the rented van, for liabilities are also proprietary. Finally, I stripped the clothes off my back and folded them into a neat pile. And I walked away. It was late by then, and cold. I decided to forestall the next part of my mission until the morning. So I wandered the streets, looking for a warm place to sleep for a few hours. No haven was forthcoming. The few warm corners I did find were barred to me by people that I suppose took issue with my nakedness. I ended up walking aimlessly all night, to keep from freezing. As the sun rose and the pre-dawn chill passed, I found myself approaching the common again - my subconscious mind had guided me in a large circle back to where I started. The soft, dewy grass soothed my aching feet.
2
I walked up to the pile of my belongings. There were a few people staring at it as they passed, mostly early morning joggers and peripatetic tramps. To my surprise, not a single item was missing. Ashamed as I am to admit it, my first reaction was to feel hurt that nobody had valued my possessions enough to claim them; but of course I did not indulge my misplaced pride. I waved down a passing cyclist and asked him why he had not stopped to take something. 'This stuff is yours?' he asked. 'Not anymore,' I replied, 'I wish to give it all away. Would you like to take something? Perhaps this stylish Armani duffle coat? It is a cold morning, after all.' He looked at me, and then glanced all around him as if looking for a candid camera. 'No thanks,' he frowned, and cycled away. I noticed a vagrant inspecting the pile of goods, and I approached him. 'Would you like some help carrying a few items away?' I asked. 'Jumble sale, is it?' he mumbled, his eyes still casting over the assortment of household wares. 'If you like,' I remarked, 'except that every item is free of charge.' 'Just looking,' he grunted. I mentally shrugged my shoulders and prepared to walk away, but an irresistible impulse to see the job through to completion compelled me to do one more thing. I walked over to my writing desk, which was on the grass between my mixing deck and my unicycle, and I pulled a bullet-tip pen out of the top drawer. I carried over a large imitation Caravaggio I had knocked off during primary school (perfect in every detail, of course), and propped it against the desk so that the back of the frame was facing outwards. I wrote across the wood in bold lettering: EVERYTHING FREE. HELP YOURSELF. 'Excuse me, sir,' came a voice from behind me. I capped the pen and turned around. It was a policeman. 'Is that your van, sir?' 'No,' I said, looking over to where the rented van was parked. He sensed he would have to be more specific. 'Did you rent that van, sir?' 'Yes.' 'It's illegally parked, sir, you'll have to move it at once.' The policeman surveyed the pile of personal property laid out on the ground in front of us and his brow creased. 'Are these things yours, sir?'
4
'No.' 'They are your things, sir. Look, this golf bag has your name on it. You're that footballer, played for Italy didn't you?' .'I am a philosopher,' I retorted. 'I'm afraid you can't leave these things here, sir.' 'They're not my things anymore. I've given them away.' 'Regardless, sir, you can't leave 'em here.' 'I will leave them here. You'll have to arrest me.' 'I'm not going to arrest you, sir, although I will insist that you put some clothes on and pack these things back into your van.' With frustration, I intercepted an attractive young mother that was pushing two children in a pram. 'Excuse me, madam,' I smiled. 'Can I interest you in a proposition?' The woman stopped and eyed me with suspicion. I continued: 'I would like to give you everything I own, and in return all I ask is that you take responsibility for it. You see, this policeman here insists that I must move it all away, but I don't want anything to do with it.' 'Don't be silly,' admonished the woman. 'But these commodities are worth hundreds of thousands of pounds!' I appealed. The woman cocked her head and scratched her chin. She surveyed the paraphernalia on offer, and her brow furrowed as if conducting a challenging mental calculation. At last, after a full minute, she spoke: 'I'll give you ten grand for the lot.' I sighed. I might even have rolled my eyes. 'You can have it for free,' I clarified. 'All of it.' 'Well, if you're gonna play hardball, no deal,' she huffed, and stomped away. I turned back to the policeman with an exasperated look. He glared at me as if he were a teacher expecting an apology from a naughty pupil. 'Well,' I said, 'if you're not going to arrest me...' And I walked away. My attention turned fully to the task at hand. The path to greatness is total sacrifice. To be a philosopher, all I need is my mind and a pen. Everything else must go. I intend to make the ultimate living sacrifice: I will give away my free will. With no distractions, I will achieve a purity of mind more complete than anyone has achieved before me. And the consequences of my sacrifice will be the subject of my study.
4
Then I will be, above all, a philosopher. It has now been three days since I gave away my free will and my experiment is not going well. Before I decided to relinquish my freedom, part of me was concerned about the degradation and humiliation to which I would be exposing myself; for if I was commanded to do housework in a bikini for the rest of my waking life, I would do it. That is a natural risk of devolving my decision-making. And another part of me hoped with eternal optimism that, unfettered by laziness or lack of self-belief, I would be able to reach my full potential; for if I was commanded to colonise the moon I would devote every fibre of my being to that purpose until it was achieved. That is the divine potential of foregoing free will. These extremes of possibility excited me. And I felt certain that whatever happened, I would be inspired by the insights into the human psyche that this noble pursuit would provide. However, I find myself neither in heaven nor hell, but a cramped and lifeless purgatory. I gave away my free will at random so my ego would not contaminate the decision. I asked each passer-by if he or she would accept responsibility for my decisions until one of them said yes. After many rejections, a tall, dark-haired, smiling man stopped to consider my proposal. To protect his identity, I will call him Leo. 'So I'd make all your decisions,' Leo affirmed. 'I could make you do whatever I wanted? Even -' 'Yes, even that,' I interrupted. 'The lone exception is that I reserve the right to make one recurring decision: While you're asleep I may choose to muse and write, for I wish to be remembered as a philosopher.' 'What do you expect for me to decide to do with your life?' he asked. 'What if I mess it up, or waste it?' 'You can do whatever you want; it's not my place to say. Even if you feel like you're wasting my life you'll be doing me a great service, for by taking away my responsibility for making decisions, you're freeing my mind to think clearer and deeper than ever before.'
5
'For how long?' he queried. 'If you accept, that is not for me to decide,' I responded. He asked a number of practical questions such as where I would live and how I would eat, and each time I replied with a similar answer. It would all be up to him. 'It's quite a responsibility,' he said at last. He surveyed me with considerable curiosity. 'It is likely to be a significant commitment of time and effort,' I admitted. 'But I have no expectations, so you have no responsibility to me in that sense. If you desire payment, you can make me work for you in whatever way you want.' 'Well, if I can make you decide anytime to take back responsibility for your own decisions, then it's zero risk for me... I have just one more question.' 'Yes?' 'If I told you to, would you kill yourself?' 'Without hesitation.' 'I'm in.' He took me back to his home, a claustrophobic one-bedroom flat in a converted Victorian terrace. The place was tidy enough, but structurally questionable. The fading patterned wallpaper had the occasional inexplicable dent or damp patch in it. He briefly showed me around and then gave me some instructions. 'Right,' he asserted. 'If you're hungry, you're to eat bread. If you're thirsty, you're to drink water. If you need the toilet, go. If you're tired, sleep. If there's danger, you must get away from it. Those basic rules last forever, and take priority over any other decisions I make for you, unless I specifically override them. Do you understand?' 'Yes,' I nodded. Inwardly, I felt pleased that he seemed to have grasped his new role quickly and with intelligence. 'Excellent,' Leo smiled. 'I'm late for work now. Stay in here and watch TV till I get back.' 'What channel?' I asked. 'Channel one,' he ordered, and turned to leave, bolting the door behind him. For nine hours I obeyed, absorbing inane daywatch with all its empty rhetoric. I felt a frisson of excitement when I heard him come back in - now the game would really begin. But I was to be sadly disappointed. His opening words were: 'I thought you might've tried to steal everything.' I shook my head in response. 'You're serious about this, then?' he asked, without needing an answer.
< 6 >
Then he set about his daily rituals, barely acknowledging me at all. I had not been given any other decision beyond watching television, so I continued to watch as he showered, ironed his shirts, prepared supper, called his mother... He gave me a portion of food and told me to eat it, and three hours later he went to bed. That was it. No scintillating conversational exchanges. No deep analysis of the potential of my sacrifice. No bizarre or daring decisions. No imagination whatsoever. Time passed until I felt I could safely assume he was asleep, but I was too discouraged, too brainwashed by hours of dullness, to take up a pen and begin my philosophical musings. So I tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep. The next day, yesterday, I hoped for better things. But the same tedious scene was played out; and again today. I have subjugated myself to a dolt. I am this man's puppet, yet he plays me with no imagination, no art. Without imagination, a puppet is an empty thing; but with imagination, all the world's a stage. If only he used me with a bit more creativity; then we could achieve powerful things. Even if he abused me I'd prefer it, if he showed a little flair. But it is clear that this man will not catalyse my mission. He is incapable. Now I must focus on training my mind to think more deeply, so that it doesn't matter what my body is doing. I must start writing my philosophical masterpiece. He is asleep now, and the pen is in my hand. Six months have passed, and my life has changed forever. All concern I ever had for the direction and meaning of my life has faded away. My past achievements mean nothing to me anymore. Even my philosophical opus, although I still think about it sometimes, has fallen by the wayside. And I'm happier than I've ever been. My master, Leo, is wiser and more cunning than I suspected. Those first few days of dullness were merely his way of helping me to appreciate the consequences of being a creature without free will. I laugh at myself now for having been so arrogant. On the eighth day - it feels so long ago now - I confronted him. He had just returned from work and started his usual routine (I was watching television of course), when I blurted out: 'I'm bored!'
< 7 >
'Then decide to be happy,' he ordered. 'But how can I? You've been given an opportunity that is unique in the history of humankind and you're too much of an imbecile to do anything with it.' He raised his eyebrows, and let a silence hang in the air for a moment. 'Did you just decide to say that? To insult me? Did you decide off your own back?' 'No,' I objected, 'I've been bursting to say it for days and I was no longer able to hold back.' 'Fine. Keep watching television.' 'But what will that achieve?' 'You tell me,' he countered. 'You're the one who gave up your free will.' 'Yes, but -' 'But what?' he interrupted, splaying his arms in the air. This was the most animated I'd seen him. 'You told me it didn't matter if I wasted your life. You told me I had no responsibility to achieve anything with you. So, tell me, why are you doing this?' 'I gave away my need to make decisions so I could focus more of my mind on deeper thoughts,' I explained. 'You're so full of yourself! Can't you see how ridiculous that is?' 'I'm a greater person than you'll ever be!' I yelled. 'Really? What makes you so great?' he shouted back. 'I have the achievements of several lifetimes behind me, and you still live in a crappy flat and call your mother every day!' 'Well, now I control you, so you're only as great as me. If you don't like that, then leave! Every day I come back from work and I expect you not to be here, because you've given up; because you've decided to make your own decisions again and get out of here. Why are you still here?' He had started pacing around in front of me as he said this, like a buzzing mosquito. I felt disproportionately annoyed at him, and I was determined to swat him away. 'If you want me to leave, tell me to leave. Tell me to choose another master.' 'Why should I? It makes no odds to me.' 'Well then, leave me alone, so I can get on with my thinking. Your shallow little brain is sapping my thoughts away.'
< 8 >
'You're full of crap. Show me one deep thought you've written since you've been here.' 'I've not yet committed anything to paper.' 'Then tell me one deep thought you've come up with since being here.' 'No!' I whined. 'Ha! A-ha! That's not your decision to make,' he asserted, with some degree of glee. 'I'm deciding that you will tell me all of your deepest thoughts.' 'I -' I started, but then I realised that I had to comply. I had no free will, and I had been given a direct order, so I had to comply. I opened my mouth, ready to dispense some overblown piece of wisdom that would quieten him at last, but with a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach, I realised that I could not think of anything at all. The sinking feeling grew into a mental panic. That was the turning point: I realised that I had not had a single deep thought since the day I gave away everything I owned at the public common. I had not written a word of philosophy since this experiment began. And it was my own fault, not Leo's. That single revelation, the possibility that I was failing because I was inadequate, terrified me to the core. I stayed quiet. 'There you go,' Leo said calmly. 'Now watch television and think about what you've done. Think about what you want. I'm going to bed.' As he left he added: 'If you're not here in the morning, goodbye.' But I stayed. I was too shaken to move on. I didn't even have anywhere to go - and now I could see that I might have given it all away for nothing. Had I ever had a deep thought in my life? The more I thought about it the more it scared me. I was all success and no soul. I watched television all night that night, numbing my brain to the emptiness of my situation. Leo did not say a word to me in the morning as he got up and left for work. I cried. I wasn't even sure what for. I had to think. Leo had ordered me to think about what I wanted. Without really being conscious that I was making a decision to do so, I left the flat and went for a walk.
< 9 >
I inhaled the crisp sunshine air as I approached the public common. I cast my eyes over the scattered people jogging, walking, chatting, sitting; and I asked myself, 'Why?' Why was I here? Why had I done all the things I had done? Why was I unhappy? I was back in the flat when Leo returned from work. The television was off. 'How are you feeling?' asked Leo. 'Lost,' I admitted. 'I would like to stay, if I may.' 'Sure,' he nodded sympathetically. He studied me for a while, and I think the corners of his mouth raised into a half-smile, but only for a second. 'I'm going out for a couple of beers with some friends of mine. Do you want to come?' 'If you say so,' I whimpered. 'Come.' I got to know his friends in the weeks after that, and I began to rediscover myself. I had never had that kind of companionship before - it made me see things in a different way. These new friends did not judge me for what I had done badly, or for what I had not yet achieved. The people I used to call friends were only friends while I was successful, but these new friends had no expectations from me, and they included me in their lives without conditions. These friends became a sounding board for my thoughts and worries, an earthly touchstone for my life rather than having to measure myself against the entire cosmos. I came to value them above all else. I took a gardening job and started paying Leo some rent. Of course, I had to start making some of my own decisions again, but only small ones. The big decisions, about where my life was going, or how I could inject meaning into it, did not trouble me anymore. Leo became less of a master and more of a mentor for me. I grew to view him very fondly. And what surprised me most was the realisation of how lonely I had been before. My friends, and Leo - my best friend - have helped me to appreciate the small things in life. The most important things. Now that the burden of aimless ambition has faded away, I can work with them to build a quieter purpose in our lives.
< 10 > One day soon I will be dead. People will look back at my life, and they might say I was a martial artist; they might say I was a musician; they might say I was a footballer. They might even say I was a philosopher, for now that my personality has become less broad and more deep, my thoughts have become deeper too. Recently I have felt the edges of philosophical inspiration tickling my mind, and it won't be long before it becomes clear enough to commit to paper. But I think I would prefer it if they said, above all, he was my friend.

Story 2-Comedy

Heres another story
It is called Doctor Moreau Did It
It's translated by Michele McKay Aynesworth

1
Everything in life has its season. And so the day came when Marina said, "I want you to meet my folks."
2
Ten years have passed since that muggy summer afternoon out in Acassuso. I can still see the eucalyptus trees swaying overhead and smell the distant rain; it's Marina's face I can't remember. She was a knockout, I'm sure of that. I was in love with her, of course, but no one can deny she was a knockout. And what else . . . what else can I remember? She was a tall brunette, dumb and cheerful, infinitely loveable. How many times we swore we were meant for each other! I wonder if I seem as hazy to her now as she does to me.
3
We were in our twenties, and everything was going right for me. Till then, I'd never known bad luck, and if I had, I'd forgotten it. With wide-eyed optimism, I took for granted the honesty of politicians, the promotions I'd earn during my career, the completion of my studies, and the dignity of mankind. I inhabited the best of all possible worlds. Except for minor, foreseeable blips, my plans were all on target. There was no doubt that within a year at most Marina and I would wed. So, as everything in life has its season, the day came when Marina said, "I want you to meet my folks."
4
Señora Stella Maris was an older version of Marina (whose whole name was, unfortunately, Marina Ondina). I expected Marina to be just like her in another twenty years when we'd have a daughter of our own with names less cloying. Such was the long-range goal I had in mind as I said hello. Señora Stella Maris was, of course, an elegant lady of forty-five, tall, brunette, and cheerful. Marina's father, on the other hand, turned out to be the most disgusting man I've ever known. His lot in life was to be short. Now this is not a serious problem. He was not a dwarf, he just wasn't very tall. What completely floored me was the fact that his head alone took up more that half his height. And, my God, what a head! The first thing that caught my attention (or, rather, put me off) was his strange color. His skin, reflecting the shifting light, could be dazzling at times, varying from pink to black with all the shades in between. At the same time, it seemed clammy and sticky. He was completely bald and clearly always had been. No hair would ever sprout on that head. Its upper half threatened to become a perfect globe, but, foiled at the equator (more or less at the height of his missing ears), the head morphed into a cylindrical column which, without any transition for neck or shoulders, became lost among the folds of a kind of yellow, floor-length terry-cloth tunic. In other words, Marina's father had the same diameter from top to bottom. He was a round-topped monolith, wrapped half-way up with a yellow towel. Located a few centimeters above the toga, Señor Octavio's mouth, a mobile, toothless fissure, at once supple and hard as horn, would draw in until it disappeared — or would open so wide it seemed his throat had been slit, and his head, left to teeter on its precarious base by the slipshod assassin, seemed likely to come crashing down at the slightest movement. Where his ears and nose should have been, the skin was as polished and smooth as his bald pate — nothing, not even a scar or a wrinkle, not the slightest mark. The two eyes were huge, round, and bloodshot, with no eyebrows or eyelashes, no whites, no pupils, no expression.
< 2 >

5
"Señor Octavio is on a diet," explained Señora Stella Maris, seeing me stare at the plate intended for her husband. Señora Stella Maris, Marina, and I ate what you might call normal food. Señor Octavio's plate, on the other hand, was like an anthology of sea life. The sudden stench exploded in my nostrils, bringing tears to my eyes. Since my future father-in-law's sleeves were knotted at the ends, he wielded his knife and fork like a person who'd forgotten to remove his gloves. Round after round of raw fish, mollusks, and crustaceans were quickly polished off. By my estimate he ate at least five kilos of the gaudy things; I could make out squid, shrimp, oysters, crabs, snails, jellyfish, mussels, clams, starfish, sea urchins, coral, sponges, and fish of questionable identity. "Señor Octavio is on a diet," repeated Señora Stella Maris toward the end of the meal. "Shall we have our coffee in the living room?" I made way for Señor Octavio and watched him walk by. He moved erratically, sometimes taking a very quick step, sometimes a very slow one, without the regularity of a limp. His way of walking made me think of a car with four different wheels — triangular, oblong, round, and oval. I already mentioned that his yellow toga covered him completely, except for his head. The garment's tail was so long it dragged behind him like a bridal train. Señora Stella Maris placed a tray of cups on an elaborate, eight-sided coffee table flanked by two small sofas. Marina and I sat in one of them; facing us, with the table in between, sat Señor Octavio and his wife. I now noticed another oddity. As if to emphasize important points when he spoke, invisible arms seemed in motion beneath Señor Octavio's tunic. So violent and frequent were the yellow bubbles formed by the toga, his body appeared to be boiling. Señor Octavio hogged the conversation. He talked and talked and talked. I wasn't really listening, however. I was asking myself, "Could this monster possibly be the father of Marina, my lovely, delightful, angelic Marina?" Suddenly I was sure that in her youth Señora Stella Maris had been unfaithful to her husband and that Marina was the fruit of an illicit love affair. Carried away by this idea, I found myself casting complicitous looks at Señora Stella Maris (fortunately, she didn't see them) as if to say I was in on her secret, but wasn't about to give her away. On the contrary, I approved wholeheartedly, and, in fact, would have forgiven anything rather than acknowledge this babbling monster as the father of my Marina.
<3>
A question aimed my way brought me back to the present. The conversation had sunk to a new low, with Señora Stella Maris holding forth energetically on the topic of illnesses--one she seemed right at home with. "You're like a fish in water," remarked Señor Octavio. Smiling proudly, she plunged ahead. Her résumé was impressive: operations, fractures, heart attacks, liver ailments, nervous breakdowns . . . . Being somewhat timid, I'd kept quiet up to now, but stung by a look from Marina, I humbly offered up the asthma attacks that plagued me from time to time. "For asthma," said Señor Octavio, his voice bubbling over, "there's nothing better than the sea. The sea is far better than any of those worthless cures doctors prescribe, except, of course, for cod liver oil." "Really, Octavio," retorted his wife, "you can't be serious. Remember that time in Mar del Plata, I caught a cold that lasted two months." "Stop fishing for arguments," Señor Octavio insisted. "You caught that cold here, just a few kilometers from Buenos Aires, when we were going to Mar del Plata, not in Mar del Plata. There's nothing like the sea for one's health." "Of course, of course," they said, we said, I said; "the coastal climate, the iodine, the sand . . . ." "Nothing better than the sea," repeated Señor Octavio in a tone of unshakable authority. "Eight days at sea, and so long asthma! You won't even remember you had it." "Sure, Daddy," agreed Marina, "you like the sea because you're an Aquarius, but there are people who feel out of place in . . . . Me, for example, even though I'm a Pisces . . . ." "And my sign is Cancer," said Señora Stella Maris, "but I don't much like the sea, either." "Well, as far as I'm concerned," Marina confessed, "it gives me the creeps." "Eyewash," said Señor Octavio. "It's all a matter of getting the body to adapt. Once you get used to it, you'll see how the sea can soothe your nerves." "Talk about nerves," interrupted Señora Stella Maris, "what a scare we had on that flight from Rio . . . ." "I warned you." (Señor Octavio's guiding rule of conduct was to argue with whatever was said.) "I told you, go by boat. Boats are safe, comfortable, cheap, you can smell the sea, you can watch the fish . . . . Planes may take less time, but there's just no comparison."
4
The force with which he said this left us at a loss for words. I didn't feel up to any more conversation. As a matter of fact, I didn't feel up to much at all. Though his high-handed pronouncements were delivered with a surprising friendliness, Señor Octavio's monstrous appearance — his watery voice, the smell of his seafood diet — convinced me it was time to go. I could feel the sweat breaking out on my brow, my shirt collar getting tighter. I was quite disoriented, sick, in fact, and only wanted to go home. My legs began to sway uncontrollably, and the rumblings in my stomach promised imminent eruption. But that yapping threesome was unstoppable. Though their comments always met with an objection from Señor Octavio, Señora Stella Maris and Marina did not seem to mind. This was clearly their normal way of conversing. Once more I realized that my opinion was being asked for. The topic for debate was where Marina and I should go on our honeymoon. Running her words together without much conviction, Marina suggested the countryside, the hills of Córdoba, the northern provinces; Señor Octavio held firmly for Mar del Plata. "It's healthier," he said, "more natural. You have the sea, the salt, the iodine, the sand, the seashells . . . . Nothing better than the sea." I was about to pass out. I thought I could hear Marina arguing in favor of somewhere quiet, away from the tourists . . . . "You want somewhere quiet?" Señor Octavio was not to be outdone. "You've got San Clemente, Santa Clara del Mar, Santa Teresita . . . . There's scads of quiet places on the Atlantic coast!" With great effort I got up and announced feebly that it was time to go. "So early?" asked Señor Octavio, checking his watch. "It's just eight minutes to midnight." The reproach accompanying his words threw me back on the sofa. What a powerful influence that dreadful man exerted! I clung to the hope that a bottle of whiskey recently brought in by Señora Stella Maris might boost my spirits and emptied my glass in one swallow. "In my heyday," Señor Octavio was saying, "when I was young, we would go down to the waterfront bars in Bah'a Blanca to dance . . . ."
5
I was momentarily distracted as I tried to imagine Señor Octavio dancing. "Sometimes we would dance till the sun came up. But young people these days, eight o'clock and they're already in bed, with their wittle bwankeypoos and their wittle hot water bottles . . . . Ha, ha, ha! Like a bunch of kindergarten kids." Señor Octavio's monologue, punctuated in its final phase by the offensive baby talk, had taken on the unmistakable tone of a personal attack. I stood up, resolved to use force if necessary to get away. Luckily, I didn't have to resort to violence. Señor Octavio recovered his charm and, after holding out the knotted end of his sleeve to me, said, with the unhurried ease of someone preparing to bring a perfect day to a close, "Well," — and through the terry-cloth sleeves, he rubbed his hands together — "now to bed with a good book." I nodded vigorously. I wanted to get out of that house. If I'd stayed another second, I believe I would've fainted. "I'll walk you to the sidewalk," Marina said.
6
The blessed fragrance of pine and fir trees hit me as we crossed the yard. I breathed deeply, letting the fresh air dispel any lingering fish odors. I felt refreshed; suddenly my stomach trouble was gone. "You saw poor Daddy?" began Marina. "Yes," I answered vaguely, not sure what to say. "He's much better," she continued, putting her arm around my waist like someone about to confide a secret. "A year ago we couldn't get him out of the pool. Day and night in the pool. Now, at least, he eats at the table and sleeps in his bed. That's progress, isn't it?" She said so many things, but I focused on one, the least important: "Your house has a swimming pool?" "Of course, didn't I tell you? In the back yard. I can't show it to you now because Daddy's using it. Every night he takes a dip before he goes to bed. He digests his food better that way." I asked a stupid question: "Doesn't it interfere with his digestion?" "Oh, no, just the reverse. He needs salt water. True, when he's in the water, he gets very aggressive and doesn't recognize anyone, not even us. When he's back on land, well, you saw how nice and friendly he is . . . ."
6
Appalled, and wanting to stall, I checked my watch. Marina was waiting for me to make a move. "And the neighbors?" I asked. "Don't they complain?" "Why should they? There's no noise. Daddy couldn't be any quieter. He doesn't even dive in. He goes to the edge of the pool and lets himself slide in like this: shhhh . . . ." Her hand slithered softly over my face. Startled, I jumped back. Marina tried to put me at ease with a funny story: "One night he was halfway under water, near the edge of the pool. Our neighbor's little dog came through the hedge and started sniffing around the pool. Then some of Daddy's arms popped out and . . . shak!" And with a playful smile, Marina pretended to strangle me. She didn't touch me, she just moved forward, with her arms, suddenly strong and rubbery, stretched out in my direction. If before I had jumped backward, I now flew several meters. Marina started laughing, amused by this overreaction. She laughed and laughed and laughed. Her mouth seemed to open all the way to the back of her neck, her head became rounder and longer, her nose and ears disappeared, she lost her magnificent dark hair, her skin tone was alternating between black and pink . . . . To keep from falling, I leaned against a tree. "Hey, what's the matter?" Marina shook my arm, and I came to my senses. She was the same adorable Marina as always: a tall brunette, dumb and cheerful, infinitely loveable. "It's nothing," I said, fighting to breathe. "I just don't feel very good." To cheer me up even more, she said, "Why don't you come over for a swim tomorrow morning. It's Sunday, you know. Bring your suit, and in you go." I promised I would, around ten. I said good-bye to Marina as always, with a kiss. "See you tomorrow," I said.
7But I didn't go back. With sudden clarity, before the train had reached the second stop on my way home, I knew what I had to do. For the next two weeks I was a whirlwind of feverish activity, putting all my affairs in order. I avoided answering the phone and managed to change my address as well as my job. As the crime stories say, I no longer frequented the usual places. In time, I was able to settle permanently in the province of La Pampa. The city of Santa Rosa enjoys a very dry climate and is located as far from the Atlantic Ocean as it is from the Pacific.

Story 1-Comedy

I actually found this story somewhere.
Its called
Professor Panini
I have to give credit to the author, his name is Matthew Grigg

Before my many years' service in a restaurant, I attended a top science university. The year was 2023 and I was finishing the project that would win me my professorship. In the end, it resulted in my becoming a kitchen employee. My forty-second birthday had made a lonely visit the week before, and I was once again by myself in the flat. Like countless other mornings, I ordered a bagel from the toaster. 'Yes, sir!' it replied with robotic relish, and I began the day's work on the project. It was a magnificent machine, the thing I was making - capable of transferring the minds of any two beings into each other's bodies. As the toaster began serving my bagel on to a plate, I realised the project was in fact ready for testing. I retrieved the duck and the cat - which I had bought for this purpose ñ from their containers, and set about calibrating the machine in their direction. Once ready, I leant against the table, holding the bagel I was too excited to eat, and initiated the transfer sequence. As expected, the machine whirred and hummed into action, my nerves tingling at its synthetic sounds. The machine hushed, extraction and injection nozzles poised, scrutinizing its targets. The cat, though, was suddenly gripped by terrible alarm. The brute leapt into the air, flinging itself onto the machine. I watched in horror as the nozzles swung towards me; and, with a terrible, psychedelic whirl of colours, felt my mind wrenched from its sockets. When I awoke, moments later, I noticed first that I was two feet shorter. Then, I realised the lack of my limbs, and finally it occurred to me that I was a toaster. I saw immediately the solution to the situation - the machine could easily reverse the transfer - but was then struck by my utter inability to carry this out. After some consideration, using what I supposed must be the toaster's onboard computer, I devised a strategy for rescue. I began to familiarise myself with my new body: the grill, the bread bin, the speaker and the spring mechanism. Through the device's rudimentary eye - with which it served its creations - I could see the internal telephone on the wall. Aiming carefully, I began propelling slices of bread at it. The toaster was fed by a large stock of the stuff, yet as more and more bounced lamely off the phone, I began to fear its exhaustion.
< 2 >
*Toasting the bread before launch proved a wiser tactic. A slice of crusty wholemeal knocked the receiver off its cradle, and the immovable voice of the reception clerk answered. Resisting the urge to exclaim my unlikely predicament, I called from the table: 'I'm having a bit of trouble up here, Room 91. Could you lend a hand?''Certainly, sir. There's a burst water pipe on the floor above, I suppose I'll kill two birds with one stone and sort you out on the way,' The clerk arrived promptly, leaving his 'caution, wet floor' sign in the corridor. He came in, surveying the room in his usual dry, disapproving fashion. I spoke immediately, saying I was on the intercom, and requested that he simply press the large button on the machine before him. 'This one, sir?' he asked, and before I could correct him, the room was filled with a terrible, whirling light, and he fell to the ground. A minute later he stood up again, uncertainly, and began moving in a manner that can only be described as a waddle. The duck, meanwhile, was scrutinising the flat with an air of wearied distaste. I gazed at the scene with dismay. Suddenly an idea struck the clerk, and with avian glee he tottered towards the window. I spluttered a horrified warning to no avail. He leapt triumphantly from the balcony, spread his 'wings' and disappeared. I would have wept, but managed only to eject a few crumbs.
*Hours of melancholy calculation and terrible guilt gave no progress, and left me with a woeful regret for the day's events. Determined not to give up hope, I began to burn clumsy messages into slices of bread, and slung these desperate distress calls through the window. I sought not only my own salvation, but also to account for the bizarre demise of the clerk, who must no doubt have been discovered on the street below. I soon found my bread bin to be empty, and sank again into a morose meditation.A large movement shocked me from my morbid contemplation. Before me, having clambered up from the floor, stood my own body. It regarded me with dim cheer.
< 3 > 'I have been upgraded,' it announced in monotone. The room was silent as I struggled to cope with this information. Then: 'Would you like some toast?' The truth dawned on me, and I wasted no time in seeing the utility of this revelation. I informed the toaster, which was now in control of my body, that I wished it to fetch help. It regarded me warily, then asked if I would like that buttered. Maintaining patience, I explained the instruction more thoroughly. I watched with surreal anticipation as my body of forty-two years jerked its way out of the flat. It rounded the corner, and there was a hope-dashing crash. It had tripped up on the 'caution: wet floor' sign. To my joyous relief, however, I heard the thing continue on its way down the corridor. Minutes passed, then hours. I entertained myself flicking wheat-based projectiles at the cat. On the dawn of the third day, I concluded that the toaster had failed in its piloting of my body, and that help was not on its way. Gripped by the despair of one who must solve the puzzle of toaster suicide, I resigned myself to my fate. Pushed on by a grim fervour, I began igniting the entire stock of bread. As the smoke poured from my casing, and the first hints of deadly flame flickered in my mechanisms, I began the solemn disclosure of my own eulogy. Suddenly the fire alarm leapt into action, hurling thick jets of water across the flat, desperate to save its occupants. A piercing wail erupted from all sides, and a squabbling mixture of annoyance, relief and curiosity filtered into my mind.
*Once the firemen had visited and deactivated the alarm, I was identified as the fault, unplugged and hauled away to a repair shop. The staff there, finding nothing to remove but a faulty speech chip, apparently put me up for sale. I only know this because, on being reconnected to the mains, I found myself in a shiny, spacious kitchen. Missing my electronic voice, I could only listen to the conversation of the staff, discussing the odd conduct of their new cook. The end of their hurried discussion heralded his arrival. I gazed at the door in silent surrender, as my body stepped proudly on to the premises, displaying its newly designed menu. At the top of the list I could discern 'Buttered bagel'.

Some Short Stories

The next few blogs will be a couple of short stories that either found somewhere, or that I have written myself.
enjoy!

The German Autobahn

Ever wonder if the autobahn is as cool as it sounds? Where everyone drives insanely fast? Im talking about 150+km/h here...



Well sorry but thats not exactly true.
Contrary to popular belief, there are speed limits on the autobahn. These occur near major cities, in tunnels, in high traffic, and near major interchanges.
According to the German Federal Transport Ministry and the United States Diplomatic Mission to Germany site,

"Speed limits are 50 km per hour in cities and towns and 100 km on the highway unless otherwise marked; there is no speed limit on the Autobahn, except where marked (but a top speed of 130 km is recommended by the German authorities). "

Here are a handful of traffic regulations for the German Autobahn

• Passing on the right is strictly prohibited! Slower vehicles must move to the right to allow faster traffic to pass, and drivers should stay in the right lane except to pass. When passing, you must do so as quickly as possible, and it's in your best interest to do so lest you become a hood ornament on that Porsche that was just a speck in your mirror a second ago and now is close enough for you to see the look of distain on the driver's face. You are, however, allowed to pass on the right in heavy traffic when vehicles have started queuing, but only at a slow speed.
  
• Stopping, parking, U-turns, and backing-up are strictly verboten, including on shoulders and ramps (except for emergencies, of course.)
  
• Entering and exiting is permitted only at marked interchanges.
  
• Traffic entering the Autobahn must yield to traffic already on the Autobahn.
  
• During traffic jams, motorists in the left lane are required to move as far to the left as possible and those in the adjacent center or right lane must move as far to the right in their lane as possible, thus creating a gap between the lanes for emergency vehicles to pass through.

Source: Getting Around Germany

Feel like driving fast but don't know where to go?
Check this out (its in Germany by the way)

Did you know that you can also get your license in Germany due to reciprocity?
Click here to read about it.

Hour Glass Watch

So i have no life, so heres my next blog, oh man.


I admit i never used to wear a watch. I just used my cellphone to keep track of time. I don't know about you but it starts to get annoying afterwards, especially when you forget your cellphone at home. You are left without two important things; a way of communicating, and your only method of keeping track of time, ( unless of course you use a sundial), but enough about me, heres my take on the hour glass watch.

In reality its called the "Sand+Time" watch.
The beauty of it lies in the unification of modern technologies and old ways of measuring time (no its not a sundial).
Keeping with the "2 technology theme", the watch employs two modes of telling time.

The first mode is actually a screensaver that takes the form of a sand hourglass counting a certain time unit set by the user to their preference.
As time goes on the "grains of sand", i.e pixels, fall from the top of the watch to the bottom across the LED screen.

The second mode displays the time in numbers, the way most people are used too.

I honestly think its very cool and i would very much love to wear this gorgeous time piece.

Now for the sad part.
It's purely a conceptual design by Russian designer Pavel Balykin, so I guess I won't be seeing one on a store shelf anytime soon. Only time will tell.

Be sure to check out his website.
-----------------------------------------
Oh, and yes, i do wear a watch nowadays.