Technology & Education, Business & Pleasure

* This document was originally created as a cheat sheet/handout for a PowerPoint Office XP workshop. Some ideas are relevant to all versions.

• When you create a presentation, be sure to use the Task Pane: (View -> Task Pane).
• Create an Outline for your presentation. Think about what you’re trying to communicate and have a strong structure:
  • Opening slide
  • Overview
  • Content
  • Closure
• Choose a template
• From the Task Pane, click the little arrow.
  • Choose Slide Design
  • Pick a template
• Add slides by clicking Ctrl+M
• Add title, text and images for each slide
  • Remember — slides should not be too crowded:
    • 5X5 rule – 5 words a sentence, 5 sentences a slide.
  • Use scanned images or clip art.
• Go over your presentation.Does it support your verbal presentation?
  • Does it keep your original structure?
  • Are the images relevant to the slides?
  • Are the colors clear and easy to read?
• Add Animation to your slides, but remember:
  • The animation is there to help YOU control the rhythm of the presentation. Your content matters, do not let it take over.
  • Less is more. Flashy animation distracts the audience.
• To add animation, choose the Custom Animation menu from the Task Pane arrow. Pick an object and apply an animation for it.
• When you are done, go over the presentation.
  • Rehearse – does it fill your whole presentation time? Is it too long? Too short?
  • Print an outline (File -> Print -> Outline) and keep it to help you track your presentation.
• Print an outline by clicking on File -> Print and choose “Outline View”.
• Print handouts by choosing Handouts. Pick 3 slides per page in order to have notes space next to each slide.

Saturday evening. Last night was crazy. The guys at the office had a big project to do over the weekend, and I joined at some point, ending a long work-day at 4 am. Saturday morning was all about keeping awake and going for conferences with my professor, getting some tips and ideas for my final essay. then to nap for a bit, mini-shopping and out to Pasadena, for a drinking engagement that was scheduled a couple days earlier.

Sitting at 35’s and on to Barney’s Beanery, conversation at the smoking area got to Vegas, and the fact that I’ve never been to it. Stating that I’m planning on driving down there on July, ends with I’s suggestion that we go. or — “July? why wait till July? Let’s go now”.

So we went. Little Mike was a brave little car, driving down all the way, starting at about midnight. It did real well, until I noticed it was running out of gas. 50 miles from Vegas we refueled and Vegas started spreading in front of my eyes. It’s HUGE! not the city itself as much as all the hotels and attractions. It seemed that each hotel had its own roller coaster. And the city is alive. it’s about quarter to four when we arrive and everything is happening around us. Casino’s are full, streets are crowded and I’m falling asleep, being so tired from the long day behind me.

I and I sit at the Paris hotel bar. Dan is our bar-tender and we ask him to determine who had a worse day. Me or I.

At about 7 am it’s time to go to sleep, knowing that there’s a long drive back tomorrow, so we end up going to the Hooters hotel, where I find out there’s a dead roach in my bathroom.

At about 12 o’clock I’m finally ready to go, still half asleep, and we go to eat a burrito. I have this burrito problem, I really like them. So we end up in this small Mexican restaurant, where they still serve breakfast burritos and loads of other dishes whose names I can’t even pronounce.

Heading back out to LA, there’s a sign stating that in about 45 minutes of driving, there’s a Fashion outlet mall. Being the girl I am, we HAVE to stop. I run into the Lucky Brand jeans store, to find out that my jeans size differs according to the cut and model, since I am “between sizes”, which is a nice way of saying I gained weight and can’t fit into my old size anymore.

At approximately 6 PM we’re back in LA.

After dropping off I at his place, I drive home and listen to the remaining of my audiobook, Company, by Maxx Berry. It was a great book to listen to, and after 11 or 12 hours of listening to it, when it finally ends, I feel like my perspective over work and life has changed a bit.

It was a spontaneous short trip that was so awesome that I think I might just do it again. Gotta find a partner for the next one, any volunteers?

There is a man. He does not have red hair, does not wear glasses and has no special features. He never thought of white elephants.The white elephants, on the other hand, thought of him all the time. They thought of him when they woke up in the morning, while they ate, drank, ran, farted and right before they went to sleep.

The white elephants never thought of purple rain. And purple rain does not have consciousness.

I have thought of a good draft beer, about dancing as if I do not own a body, sing as if I could hold a tone and dream as if I did not have to wake up early in the morning.

I never thought of white elephants.
Up until today, when I bumped into one in the parking lot.

The white elephant walked over, real polite and shy, asking whether I had a spare minute.
Being shocked that I’m actually seeing a white elephant – I shook my head, agreeing.

That’s when I heard about the man who did not think of white elephants.  Since they haven’t crossed my mind before Jimmy (that’s how the white elephant introduce himself) walked up to me five minutes earlier, I tried to defend the man by saying that no one thinks of white elephants. They just don’t mean anything, they’re not important.

Jimmy looked at me, disappointed, and then walked away, slowly.

As his humongous figure drifted farther, I finally came to a realization that something pretty strange has just occurred. I did not think of white elephants.

Sure, I was playing the whole conversation with Jimmy in my mind, but Jimmy’s kind was not mentioned there.

There were two men who did not think of white elephants.

The next morning Jimmy in the parking lot again, only this time he wasn’t alone. He had two friends with him, and one of them was sitting on what used to be my car, right before it lost its shape under a few tons of a white elephant.

What the hell do you think you’re doing? I yelled at Jimmy, who looked at me, quite peaceful, asking quietly – are you thinking of white elephants now?

OF COURSE NOT! I’m thinking of my car!

Jimmy looked at me and I could tell he was not pleased. He gave me a nasty look, called his friends, and walked away.

A woman was walking towards her car when she saw what was left of my car. –What happened here? She asked.  I told her that a white elephant sat on my car, because I told him I never thought of white elephants. –well, I never think of white elephants either, she said.

Two men and a woman did not think of white elephants.

The next day, at the same parking lot, another woman walked by the car and asked what has happened to it. After explaining the situation to her, she also declared she never thinks of white elephants.

The man and the two women met in the parking lot the following day, telling the whole long story to everyone who walked by. By the end of the day there were 20 men and 16 women who did not think of white elephants. A week later there were over 700 people who did not think of white elephants.
Exactly on the one year anniversary to the car wreckage incident the entire population of planet earth did not think of white elephants.

Seeing that his plan to get one man to think of white elephants had the opposite influence, Jimmy decided he will make amendments.  Alas, since Jimmy was a white elephant, and as we said – white elephants do not think of purple rain, Jimmy could not make things right.  You see, when people think of purple rain, white elephants come to mind, because EVERYONE knows that white elephants do not think of purple rain

This following short story was written as a part of an essay for my English course.  It is based on articles, documentaries and stories about the torture at US detention centers and prisons in Afghanistan, Iraq and Cuba.  It’s not perfect, but nobody is…

—

“You are going to die here and no one will ever know”.

The bearded man looked at the soldier with terror.  His eyes open wide, mumbling prayers, hands and legs spread wide, chained to floor and ceiling.  He has been standing there for 8 hours, and unless he tells them what they want to hear, this nightmare will not end.

The bearded man, named Salaam, was looking at the young soldier yelling at him.  The soldier appeared to be his son’s age.  The soldier’s face was twisted with fury.  “Where are the explosives?  Who did you help?  Where is Bin Laden? Who were you trying to kill?  What army base were you after?” – questions were shooting from the soldier’s mouth quickly, almost uncontrolled.  A kick was directed at Salaam’s legs every time the soldier started a new question.  Praying for Allah to save him, Salaam kept on answering, “it is a mistake. You’ve got the wrong guy. I never tried to kill anyone.”

Later that night, in his cell, he was thinking of the young soldier and what made him act that way.  The young soldier’s name was David.  He was a good boy from a small town in Oklahoma.  He was about to start college in a few months, majoring Art at the University of Kentucky.  David was an artist.  His paintings were displayed in a few galleries throughout his Junior and Senior years in high school, gaining him the confidence any aspiring artist needs.  At night he’d go out with friends to watch a movie or have a video game marathon, returning home just before 11 pm, so that his parents wouldn’t be worried.  They trusted him to not drink and drive, but as they kept on reminding him, not all teenagers made sure they followed the law on that matter.

At 11pm, David would be home, wishing his mom good night, having a short conversation with his father, summing up his day, and by midnight he was asleep.

David just graduated from high school a couple of months before 19 terrorists crashed a few planes into buildings, killing a few thousand people, changing a nation forever.  Several days later, when the president announced a war on terrorism – David knew he had to join the army, so he could help make the world a better place.

On David’s way to the Bagram prison he was stationed to, a suicide bomber blew up one of the busses, killing 4 soldiers, injuring 59.  Among the 4 soldiers was Jonathan, David’s childhood friend.  Every night, before he went to sleep, David would pray to God to help him find the one responsible for the attack that took his friend away from him.  Every night, he would wake up in terror, reliving the bomb.  Every morning he would go to a new detainee, chain him up and interrogate him, looking for answers to the same meaningful questions.

Salaam’s hands are tired.  He’s been hanging all night long.  Someone forgot to untie him and kick him back to his cell.  He hasn’t eaten in over a day; he did not drink for longer than he can remember.  His legs hurt everywhere the soldier kicked him.  Salaam’s legs are a mixture of black and blue bruises.  His clothes smell like urine, a reminder for last night’s mishap, when he couldn’t hold himself any longer.  He feels shame.  Shame that at his age he has the same capabilities as a newborn baby.  His vision goes blurry and he’s drifting away from consciousness.  The room seems dimmer and then a bright light blinds Salaam.  His whole life does not flash in front of him.  No meaningful insight fills his mind.  He is simply dying.

Three hours go by.  The door opens and David walks in.  He sees a dead detainee.  He does not even remember his name.  They all look the same to him.  The body is taken away.  The family is notified.  Forms are filled.

New detainees arrive; David goes into an interrogation room to squeeze out some information.  In a small village in Afghanistan a family mourns for its dead father.  His 19-year-old son swears to avenge.

It’s a Friday afternoon, office is stuffy and my right hand is bothering me. Doc says it’s “like tennis elbow, yes?”, and that without proper rest all we can try is anti-inflammatory non-steroid medication. It’s been 4 days since I started taking the medication and there’s no improvement. So it goes.

For tomorrow I have to finish reading 2 chapters of “Nemesis” by Chalmers Johnson. I also must read through acts 3, 4 and 5 of “Titus Andronicus” and summarize approximately 5 articles that deal with US foreign policy. preferably ones discussing US military presence in foreign countries. I should have done that in the course of the past 4 weeks but was low on motivation and discouraged by the lack of interest i have in these topics. Tomorrow we will also view a few more scenes from the movie “Titus” that appalled me last week. So it goes.

I’ve been researching blogs and implementation of multi user blogging systems, testing it in one of my domains, registrations are now open in: www.write22.net/MU

Target audience is aspiring writers (ones who can spell better than I do), but all are welcome.

So it went, and is going a whole lot better.

This weekend I’ll be driving down to San Diego, to a children’s books fair of some sort.

Saturday morning and I get to class late, having to run a few test with a faculty member.

Titus Andronicus is what we read for the English 101 course, in LACC.
Act 2 is up today. Last act was pretty interesting and the outline that I read for Act 2 does not seem to pleasant. Tamora’s sons rape and mutilate Lavinia, pretty daughter of Titus.

Getting a little sick at the thought, I googled the synopsis for the play. It goes downhill from here.

Lavinia’s husband is murdered, Titus’s sons are blamed and executed, Titus acts crazy, then kills those who raped his daughter, turns them into pie and feed it to their mother. He later kills their mother and his own daughter, because she was raped.

Sickening.

The whole play is tragic/sick/disturbing, but what bothered me more than everything else is Titus’ reaction.
It’s a type of honor killing I’m used to hearing about in some Arab nations, not in class.

I’ve gone soft. I read this book and watch the movie, and all I can feel is nausea. Don’t enjoy the writing, knowing the plot.

Schooling is similar to jamming. same basic concept. It’s a stage in life when you school. You do not have to take any specific classes, just to be in that state of mind that forces you to learn something new each day.

I’m schooling.

I school the married life, the existence of a couple and not only one. I school and not learn, because there’s nothing to learn. There are no manuals or tutorials, just the days that go by that keep on proving that we (or at least I) don’t know all that much.

I school in school, in LACC, some odd English 101 course. A course that forces me to read books about US foreign policy, enjoy Kurt Vonnegut’s “Mother Night” and wrestle my way through Titus Andronicus. It is schooling because it is all about experiencing, learning, reading and writing, because it introduces me to new ideas, people, thoughts and ways of reflection.

I school my work. Every day, every hour. Either by learning to manage my time and projects, plan and design a workshop or try and create a useful online tutorial for faculty. It is about avoiding politics, avoiding conflict and accomplishing as much possible in this limited time. I haven’t mastered the work schooling part of my life, but this process seems to be easier and easier.

One of these days I’ll graduate

Saturday (aka caturday by some ultra-geek dudes) noon, and its 94 degrees out there. Got myself melting to the car seat as I’m driving down to Long Beach, to visit my adopted aunt and hang out for the day. My adopted aunt is not really my aunt. She’s my distant cusins’ best friend, and made me feel at home when I got to this new place and world 9 months ago.

We had planned to go to the beach, but since I’m lazy - we decided to forget about the driving and use the pool at the back yard.

The next 2 hours were a cycle of diving in to the chilly water, drying out and reading the new David Grossman book. Getting sun-tan (or burnt) in the process.

Evening, after some crazy shopping at the nearest Staples and some shoe store, relaxing, eating and having a smoke out by the pool with my classy auntie. We’re talking. One topic leads to the next and Hannukah comes up.

Hannukah, the feast of lights and one of my favorite Jewish holidays (mostly because there isn’t much praying, synagogue time or any other mandatory thing). I haven’t been keeping this holiday religiously for a few years now, but this year, being distant from the family, I actually wanted to celebrate it, and to celebrate it right.
The first night was with my boss/friend and her family, second night alone, third was with my auntie and then back home, about to light alone. I’m talking to my aunt, whose husband is in the hospital for a few days, and we’re contemplating having a conference call/synchronou candle lighting. It takes me 10 minutes to figure out how to pull it off, but it works.

3 people, 3 locations, 2 Menorah’s, 3 blessings and 2 people singing (while i hum in the background, can’t even try and sing with those two singers. I’m musically deaf when it comes to singing). It was the most unique candle lighting I’ve ever taken part of.

Back to April 2008, after this long smoke break of memories, just finished watching “Things we lost in the fire”, interesting, strange, sad and amusing movie. Girls day out is officially over.

–
edits:  Thanks dear classy girl for the corrections 

Last Thursday was my birthday.  It was the first birthday I ever celebrated away from home and my family.

This birthday I rediscovered my friends, after years of knowing them, they surprised me.
It started with my husband and 3 dear friends who called and sang happy birthday to me over the phone.  First couple of calls - awesome.  At some point I did not want to hear that song anymore.

It continued with my Facebook wall, which was filling up with birthday wishes by the minute.  My hero, Emmanuel, who saves me from all the wrongs of this city on a daily basis, spent the evening prior to my birthday supporting my impulses and strange reactions (I’m a girl.  I age.  We don’t take it that well…)

My family called to wish me a happy birthday.  Even though my Jewish birthday is still a week and a half away.

I did not plan to go out on my birthday.  As I mentioned, I don’t deal with birthdays well.  A faculty member at my college, who shares a smoke with me a few times a week, was shocked to discover I don’t plan on going out.  Later that evening, she picked me up at my place and we drove to the glorious Farmer’s Market, at the Grove (Fairfax and 3rd, Highly recommended), where we had a couple of beers, a smoke and a good, relaxing laugh.

My birthday celebration was good and whole this year.  It helped me realize that my friends are important to me, and that I mean something for them.  Calling, posting wall messages (darn youngsters and their Web2.0) and letting me know that they do remember, and it doesn’t matter how many miles are between us.