Brooke Skye was over at her hot friend Kat Young’s house hanging out. The two decided to go out and hit some clubs and have some fun. Brooke wanted to take a shower and clean up just in case she met someone to hook up with at the club. While she was in the shower Kat grabbed the camera and went into the bathroom where she caught Brooke shaving her tender pussy. Brooke worked that shaver to get her pussy nice and clean.

Then Kat opened up the shower door and watched as Brooke shaved her nice long legs. These two hot girls were having fun, singing, playing and being sexy. Brooke Skye looks amazing naked and wet.

The pic has now been proven to be fake (thank goodness!) from the photo below:

Brooke Skye was house sitting for a friend of hers who owns a cool beach house where she spent the day relaxing and enjoying the sounds of the ocean. After a nice walk on the beach in her tight little tank top and super short shorts Brooke started to feel horny. The cool breeze on her nipples and the feel of the water on her feet put her in the mood to have sex.

(Click pic to watch the movie)

One problem. Brooke had left all of her toys at her place. No worries though, Brooke Skye is so talented at fingering herself she can make her tight pussy cum in a matter of minutes. She closed her eyes and thought about a strong guy undressing her as she pulled her shorts down, took her top off and started playing with her nice perky nipples. Once she was naked she sat down on the chair, spread her legs and used her fingers to go to work on her dripping wet pussy.

(click pic to watch movie)

Brooke Skye was out shopping one afternoon and hit up one of her favorite lingerie stores. She saw a lacey little thong that she thought was hot so she bought it and couldn’t wait to get home and try it on.

She got home, stripped naked then put on just the thong. The lace felt so good against Brooke Skye’s shaved pussy that she could feel herself getting wet and her perky nipples were getting hard.

She peeled the thong off and Brooke Skye started fingering her dripping wet pussy. It felt so good her entire body was throbbing with pleasure as she fingered deep and made herself cum. The thong turned her on so much she was going to have to save it for special occasions.

(Click PIC to ENLARGE for a closer look)

My magazine Hey Olivia is now available or pre-orders and we’re finishing up the ALL-NEW photoshoot I did just for you! I’m including my first poster. But can’t decide which to use… So I’m asking for your opinion!

(Click each Pic to ENLARGE)

Click HERE to VOTE NOW! And whatever pic you choose, will be the poster in every HEY OLIVIA magazine.

DEADLINE to VOTE is this Sunday night. After that, we’re going to PRINT and everyone is gonna start getting their mags!

And Click HERE to BUY NOW!!!!

And of course I’ll sign it! And YES, you can buy all magazines and send them in one envelope and I’ll sign all at once. Send in a SELF-ADDRESSED STAMPED ENVELOPE:

Olivia Munn c/o G4’s Attack of the Show

5850 West 3rd Street

Los Angeles, CA  90036

http://nextgenwalkthroughs….

Modern Warfare 2 Spec Ops guide to getting all 69 stars, veteran difficulty (when applicable)

Guide by Beer_Baron

http://nextgenwalkthroughs….

Modern Warfare 2 Spec Ops guide to getting all 69 stars, veteran difficulty (when applicable)

Guide by Beer_Baron

I did this just for you guy’s cause i know how much you like the miley pics

 MEMOIRS (Abridged) Includes articles and essays on various topics in SCIENCE, GEOGRAPHY, PHILOSOPHY, STATECRAFT etc. in addition to Travel notes.  Price Rs. 1oo, postage extra.  

                                                                                          By K.K.Subramanian

Waterfriend remembers his childhood

 Kunnathur Mana

My mother was born in a very illustrious family Kunnathur Padinjaredath.You can see the ancestral house near the Peruvanam temple south gopuram (gate)

I have vague memories of sitting upstairs; looking at the road. I must be four at that time.

The family came there in search of livelihood and became the tantry (main priest-they still are) of the temple. I can imagine mother (kali was her name-a goddess) walking towards the temple, holding the hands of the maid servant, almost naked, with only a plantain leaf strip to cover nakedness, not knowing what fate awaited her…tears swell in my eyes, even as I write these lines

She was married off at the tender age of thirteen or so to Subrahmanian Nambudiripad, aged forty plus, already having two wives, one living and the next one and her son still fresh in memory, and a daughter of mother’s age whom her brother married the same day, probably. Mother was dark, uncouth and short; my step sister was fair, lean and very handsome whom mother hated heartily!

I do not remember any one caring for her,  except her younger sister and some cousins. Uncle (eldest) never talked to her or even to her children (in all six, two died early). She had a sharp tongue and was outspoken but had a heart of gold. She was very lazy and father was the laziest!

I digressed…

Around 150 years ago, mother’s ancestor was married to the sister of the king of erstwhile Cochin State who was known as Shaktan Thampuran. He bestowed on the Kunnathur family tax free land. The family became rich.

Maternal grandfather was very intelligent, so too was my uncle. At that time a rich local Nambudiri of Chittoor mana established a school, where we all studied, and uncle was the first student, duly initiated before a lighted lamp etc. Of course the student was without a shirt! I had a few classmates, topless, in primary school. Grandmother was wise, cultured and well versed in puranas (old legends of Hindu religion).When she got angry and shouted like a lioness, her husband shivered like a mouse! She did like my mother, always told me to look after her well but did nothing when she needed assistance. In fact no one accompanied her when she left the house built by father, and we were travelling in a country boat, through the swollen river. Being a fool, I enjoyed the trip!…

Earliest memories centre around a small village Thalore, near Trichur. I was about four. Mother had given birth to a dead baby and so she continued to feed me. I just came in from the spacious orchard where I was playing, lay down in my mother’s lap and started sucking her big breast. (In those days our women folk did not wear blouse.) “Ma, who put sugar in your milk?” -I asked. She just pushed me off and that was the end breast feeding !

I had a playmate Bhagi about eight years or so . She was attached to our maid servant Madhavi. I always thought she was her daughter.

 One day the girl was mopping the kitchen floor. I said something .She didn’t listen and I gave a blow on her back with an iron ladle. The poor girl cried out aloud inviting the attention of mother and paternal grand mother I felt guilty and wretched. Perhaps that was the only time I used violence against any living creature…..

With just a piece of cloth tied like lady’s bikini, I used to accompany Madhavi to the grocery shop owned by a Tamil Brahmin .He would give a piece of jaggery. We never got chocolates in those days.

Father and mother slept in the upstairs bed room. I slept with them. Mother used to tell stories. Elder brother used to sleep with grandmother. He was her favourite. Paternal uncle Krishnaphan was an occasional visitor. We loved him, as he was a good storyteller. About Lilliputs we heard from him. He was dark and fat unlike another p. uncle Vasudevaphan who was slim and fair, the first person to go to school from K.K. family. He was teacher and a close friend of E.M.S. Namboodiripad.

One day an old lady came, covered up to the neck in pure white dhoti (in north India only a widow will dress in white) Do you know her? –they asked. When I blinked, they all laughed . I felt ashamed. It was mother’s ma. As a girl, she was born and brought up in the same house where we were staying temporarily-the great Veembur Kadalayil Mana (which was lying vacant at the time. Mahatma Gandhi visited the house in 1929). Father who was a good architect and astrologer was making our house near the river, about four miles away. One day brother and I accompanied him to see the construction work. My legs were paining like hell. I earned the reputation of having walked four miles when four years old.    

 At that time , another paternal uncle, Parameswaran by name, took me with him to fort Tripunithura where royal family members lived. By custom, only a nambudiri may marry a princess. And, in a nambudiri family only the eldest can marry; others may have legitimate relationship with women of other upper castes, the latter not entitled for a share of nambudiri property. They are not allowed to share meals with us.(My grandfather’s younger brother’s daughter was my schoolmate .I never knew about the blood relationship, though I somehow liked her. Of course I was too shy to talk to her! )

That is how uncle married a real princess and lived in Palace no.11. I was too small to notice the clean bed, the sumptuous food (at home we had it only on birthdays or during Onam) The great festival was going on at the Poornathrayeesha (Krishna) temple and there were any number of elephants (I wanted to become a mahout-I am never tired of watching these majestic animals)

An elephant was being fed. Uncle asked me-do you want to mount it . I shook my head. The mahout lifted me and handed over to his colleague sitting on the elephant. He placed me on its neck. I felt uncomfortable, its hair pricking my naked bottom and I being lifted up and down by the motion of its head while eating; still I enjoyed it .

One day we were taken to Akavoormana near river Periyar. We enjoyed playing in the shallow swift flowing water. I lay down in the water and was carried away some distance. Flapping my arms I managed to remain floating. Thus I learnt the rudiments of swimming. I do not know how to swim really. Like cattle only my head remains above water.

There were two young elephants there. As a baby Ramankutty used to roam about in the house and snatch things from the kitchen. Even now I like to have a baby elephant ….

Vasudevan uncle (the youngest among five brothers, father being the eldest) was working as teacher in Namboori Vidyalaya at Trichur. I would look with admiration  the fat books in his shelf. One day when I grow up I shall read them!

Savithri was born. I refused to see the baby. I wanted a brother. This dislike of girls remained for a long time to come.

When Vas uncle brought a wife I was too shy to meet her. Afterwards the words “cheriamme “automatically escaped from my mouth and all exclaimed “today it will rain” 

   Recently, during morning walk I reached the church and, turning right, easily located the arch, proclaiming entry towards the Shiv temple. I went through it and turned right. A little further, I had hardly turned left when I could easily spot the old gate as it was in 1937! It was something like a flashback in TV screen! The front yard was very small. (in my mind it was very big.)The main building was intact, though concretised. I saw mother’s bedroom upstairs where I slept. Through the left side I traced a few steps and saw the workplace where women husked rice .It was locked. I could easily see the rope swing and Bhagi and I playing there. The reddish brown cow must be somewhere nearby. Bhagi showed me how to pick silky smooth, egg shaped thing (she called it pattunni) from the cow’s skin. She would place it on a stone and crush it with another stone spilling blood. Ma must be in the kitchen. The great surprise was when I turned to the east courtyard and looked to the flight of steps leading to the orchard. I was expecting at least thirty steps. I could count hardly four! To the child everything appears on a mega screen. To the grown up, it is all on TV screen. The surroundings had been cut into plots and sold. There are flats now. But the main structure is unoccupied till now.

Originally, it belonged to Moothedath Kadalayil which was merged with Veembur Kadalayil. On shifting to Pazhai, the house was sold to Akavoor Mana, my paternal grand mother’s maiden house (illam). We were just living there. The Akavoor namboodiri even suggested,” sister, why don’t you live here, why build a new house?” But father wanted to be near our village. 

Official music video for Party In The U.S.A. available now on iTunes here http://bit.ly/mileypartyintheusa Taken from her new album The Time of Our Lives available exclusively at WalMart.

Text MILEYWORLD to 66937 to get a Free Miley Wallpaper for your phone!

It’s not really free…

What is it with Miley Cyrus and provocative posing? The Disney Hannah Montana star is at it again, with the above shot being published on Twitter by director Adam Shankman.

Shankman defended the picture by saying “Miley is a sweet angel who works tirelessly and endlessly, and is allowed to have fun in the make up room! Seriously! Lighten up or no more behind the scenes pics! She’s like my angel little sister.”

Yeah good….but he seems to forget that not only is Miley 16, she’s also Disney’s BIGGEST star. Then again, we all know that the Jonas Brothers are all about selling sex to little girls, so maybe it should come as no surprise that Miley keeps playing the jail bait card. On the bright side, at least she’s not mocking Asians again.

Just so you know im seventeen so im aloud  to do this, Haha…

Enjoy

“So Miley cyrus birthday just last week and all people asking how old enough if she good to do the humping! I set record straight and if I get ask my Miley to date I sure know how to pimp the shit out!”

In a role that looks likely to eclipse fellow rocker Steven Adler’s appearance in slasher comedy ‘Dahmer vs. Gacy’ erstwhile Black Label Society/Ozzy axeman Zakk Wylde plays Uncle Jed to title charcter Bones White in late-80s set coming-of-age flick ‘`Bones.’

The movie,  the writing and directorial debut of Frank Pestarino, is described as a “heart-breaking…story [about] four teens growing up in 1989 blue-collar New York” and a bond that ties them together for life. Hmmm. Like…finding a dead body?!

swimming pools, movie stars....

And then there’s the cast. Wylde notwithstanding it consists of a bunch of still unknown but rapidly climbing actors such as 13-year old Jimmy Bennett (‘Bones White’), most recently — and geekily — seen as ‘Young James T. Kirk’ in ‘Star Trek’ and Toe Thompson in Robert Rodriguez’ ‘Shorts.’

Melissa Ordway (‘17 Again’) plays ‘Samantha Reeves.’ Jonna Walsh (‘Couple’s Retreat’) is Samantha’s little sis, ‘Kelly Reeves.’ Jesse James plays ‘Derrick Scott’ in this movie. At 20-years old  his resume already stretches back as far as ‘Walker, Texas Ranger,’ ‘As Good As It Gets,’ and ’Gods and Monsters,’ making stops in ”Blow’ and ‘The Butterfly Effect’ along the way. 

Perhaps most Geektastic of all, however, is the casting of Donnie Most, sorry Don Most, as ‘Mr. Reeves,’ the girls’ father. Most remains most famous for  his role as ‘Ralph Malph’ in ’Happy Days,’ but was also in early 80s series ‘Dungeons & Dragons,’ the late 80s’ ‘Teen Wolf’ animated series, and had one- or two-off appearances in ‘Baywatch,’ ‘Star Trek: Voyager,’ and as the voice of ‘The White Rabbit’ in ‘Sabrina the Teenage Witch.’

I’m not privvy to the plot at all, but the general premise and a cast consisting of a very unlikely musician crossover, a bunch of legit up-and-comers, and a Tarantino-style resurrection move, smell to me like either a classic-in-the-making or an unmitigated disaster.

Mr. Pestarino, it is now largely down to you.

Sigfrido vence a los nibelungos [editar]

En el reino de los nibelungos, vivía un rey llamado Nibelungo, quien tenía dos hijos: Schilbungo y Nibelungo. Ambos murieron a manos de Sigfrido. En realidad Sigfrido, caminando, se encuentra con unos hombres extrayendo un tesoro, quienes al verlo, lo llaman y le dicen a Sigfrido que los ayude a llevar el tesoro y que él se quedaría con una parte de éste. Sigfrido, ya cansado, sigue alzando el botín pensando en las grandes riquezas, pero cuando estaban por llegar a su destino, los hombres traicionan a Sigfrido e intentan asesinarlo. De la batalla sale victorioso Sigfrido, quedándose con todo el tesoro, y a su vez con 1000 hombres, a los cuales se los lleva a su reino y los utiliza como esclavos.

El punto débil de Sigfrido [editar]

Sigfrido halla al dragón Fafner y tras derrotarlo, se baña en su sangre, ya que según la tradición esto le haría invulnerable, pero al hacerlo una hoja de tilo cae en su espalda convirtiendo esa zona en su talón de Aquiles.

La acción del poema es la siguiente: Sigfrido y Krimilda son dos hijos de reyes. Tras múltiples peripecias, se conocen y se casan. Por otra parte, el hermano mayor de Krimilda, el rey Gunter, desea casarse con Brunilda, reina de Islandia, caracterizada por su belleza, su vigor físico y su bravura. Sigfrido ayuda a Gunter y con su manto mágico pelea sin que Brunilda se dé cuenta, con lo que Gunter consigue su propósito.

Al poco tiempo surge la enemistad entre Brunilda y Krimilda, cuando se descubre la treta entre Sigfrido y Gunter, por lo que la primera decide vengarse a través de Hagen, un caballero de la corte de Gunter que desea poseer el tesoro nibelungo de Sigfrido. Y lo hace a traición, ya que averigua por Krimilda cuál es el punto débil de Sigfrido, cuya imbatibilidad se atribuye a la sangre de un dragón con la que bañó su cuerpo. Hagen mata en una cacería a Sigfrido, arrebata el tesoro a Krimilda y lo esconde. El ataque mortal a Sigfrido es posible, ya que, al momento de bañarse con la sangre del dragón, una hoja cubrió la espalda del héroe a la altura del corazón, dejándola vulnerable.

La desconfianza de Hagen [editar]

La segunda parte tiene lugar trece años después de estos hechos. Atila, rey de los hunos, desea casarse con Krimilda, la cual, deseosa de vengarse de los asesinos de Sigfrido, accede. Krimilda va al reino de Atila, se casa con él y tienen un hijo. Pasan otros trece años y la heroína pide a su esposo que invite a la corte a su hermano el rey Gunter y su séquito. Este accede, pese a las recomendaciones en contra de Hagen.

Venganza de Krimilda [editar]

Gunter y Hagen parten acompañados de mil guerreros y tras un largo viaje llegan al castillo de Atila. Poco tiempo después de su llegada empiezan las escaramuzas, al principio con poca intensidad, pero después se generalizan. Mueren primero los caballeros menos importantes, y después lo hacen los de más valor. Hagen asesina al hijo de Krimilda y Atila. Al final, Gunter y Hagen son derrotados y hechos presos. Krimilda exige a Hagen que les diga dónde está el tesoro de Sigfrido, y tras la negativa del prisionero, lo mata. El rey Atila reconoce el valor de su enemigo Hagen, por lo que reprocha a Krimilda su muerte; su pesar es compartido por el caballero Hildebrando, que decide vengar a Hagen y asesina a Krimilda. Con este sangriento desenlace concluye el Cantar de los nibelungos.

Spam is mainly just a minor irritation I face as I briefly sift through my junk mail box to check nothing important accidentally found its way in. However for many idiots and elderly it is a large problem particularly as few people can pass up the chance to make a bit of apparent quick cash. However the guy in the following article made quite an income from his spam machinations! Unfortunately for him he got caught and now faces 4 years in jail and the confiscation of the funds he made through spamming…so not only will he waste his next 4 years but his last 3 or so amount to a big fat nothing.

It seems to me that the best advice anyone could give to someone making money illegally would be to spend it while you can on things that can’t be taken away. Learn a language, go travelling, eat and drink like a king and hit the hookers and blow! Cars, houses, TVs  and bank accounts will all be quickly acquired by the government, so they can spend it on hookers and blow!

http://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/news/2009/11/godfather-of-spam-goes-to-prison-for-four-years.ars

Enjoy the article,

TWH

The Men Who Stare at Goats, starring George Clooney and Ewan McGreggor.

McGreggor plays Bob Wilton, a midwestern American journalist compelled to travel to Iraq and write a life-changing story after his wife leaves him for his editor. In Iran while waiting to cross the boarder, he meets Lyn Cassady (Clooney), a man Wilton discovers is a former member of the First Earth Battalion, a group of psychic spies trained secretly by the government.

Cassady is the most powerful government trained psychic spy, who once killed a goat just by staring at it. Turns out, Cassady is wrecked with grief about killing an innocent animal and is crossing into Iran seeking redemption by freeing a group of goats being held in captivity by the government for psychic testing. Wilton joins Cassady to complete his mission in the hopes of finding a story.

Now, I had no idea what the hell this movie was about when I went to go see it. I only knew I’m always up for McGreggor and Clooney for two hours. I asked my date if he knew. “It’s about goats,” he replied, “some guy can kill ‘em with his mind”. I had heard it received mixed reviews.

Using goats as mind murder test subjects was a real experiment used by the paranormal military program. It is used as an example in The Men Who Stare At Goats by Ron Johnson, a book that examines connections between paranormal military programs and psychological techniques being used for interrogation in the War on Terror (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Men_Who_Stare_at_Goats).

So what happened here was a writer read this book and decided to turn one tiny example into a feature film. Remember in English class when you were told to write an original short story based on a recent news article? It’s a really good exercise. What I like about this scenario is that the writer chose to evolve complete fiction from a single fleeting fact, instead of writing a movie based wholly on facts.

I love bio pics and movies inspired by true events. JFK, Blow, Good Morning Vietnam, Selena, Catch Me If You Can, and The Way We Were are all great movies based on history. But as we learned from Citizen Kane in Film 101, the way people are perceived from memory is rarely who they truly were. Sometimes a true story feature can become hard to follow or feel rushed because there are so many facts that piece the puzzle together. A two-hour movie cannot possibly show the full picture. Bad acting, direction, or writing could also muddle a movie’s depiction of events. Changeling starring Angelina Jolie is an example of this type of bad true-life movie (If you enjoy watching Jolie sob uncontrollably and look helpless for almost three hours while maintaining zero to little sympathy for her character, Changeling is for you). What’s fun about The Men Who Stare At Goats is that it was based on only one fact, with a ton of fictional characters and obstacles created around it.

It’s a fun movie, definitely unique. I prefer when McGreggor uses his native accent rather than Americanizing his speech, but George Clooney was most energetic and fit for a man pushing fifty. I’d recommend seeing The Men Who Stare At Goats over The Twilight Saga: New Moon or Old Dogs, but I’d sooner recommend Fantastic Mr. Fox or Ninja Assassin over Goats if you were looking to attend the cinema this week.

The H1N1 Swine Flu virus knows no borders,has no boundaries, and has absolutely no respect for religious or cultural traditions.

This year at the annual Hajj to Mecca,  Four foreign pilgrims have died of swine flu, the Saudi Health Ministry announced on Saturday.

The Saudi Arabia Health Ministry  said none of the four foreign victims had been vaccinated against the H1N1 virus, as has been recommended by The Health Ministry.

An official statement released by the ministry said all had underlying health problems, including cancer and respiratory illness, AFP news agency reported.

Three of the victims died in Medina and one in Mecca.

http://www.arabnews.com/?page=1&section=0&article=128688&d=22&m=11&y=200Over

The BBC is reporting that….up to three million Muslims from around the world take part in the holy pilgrimage every year, but health officials have expressed fears that it could provide a breeding ground for the virus.

Authorities had tried to prepare for any outbreaks by installing thermal cameras at airports and sea terminals, deploying 15,000 additional health workers and ensuring hundreds of extra beds were available.

The Hajj (Arabic: حج‎ Ḥaǧǧ) is a pilgrimage to Mecca. It is currently the largest annual pilgrimage in the world,^[1] and is the fifth pillar of Islam, a moral obligation that must be carried out at least once in their lifetime by every able-bodied Muslim who can afford to do so. The Hajj is a demonstration of the solidarity of the Muslim people, and their submission to Allah (God).^[2] The pilgrimage occurs from the 7th to 13th day of Dhu al-Hijjah, the 12th month of the Islamic calendar. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hajj)

The Health Minister has reported that there are 16 other people that have been diagnosed with swine flu and four remain in hospital in “critical condition”.

He added 12 others had recovered following treatment.

The Saudi government has recommended the elderly, pregnant women, people with chronic diseases and children skip the Hajj this year.

The Saudi government has said all pilgrims need a certificate of vaccination before they can apply for a visa.

This is real people, and this disease is spreading worldwide,at a rapid pace.

I encourage everyone to get a H1N1 swine flu shot as soon as you can.The reports of any side effects are exaggerated, and will cause millions of people to perish from the lack of the vaccine.

Any paranoia surrounding any alledged complications from the shot are totally unsubstantiated, and if those people out there insist on not receiving the vaccine, then we as a society should only expect more mounting mass casualties from the swine flu, as exhibited this weekend, unfortunately in Mecca.

If it can happen in Mecca, it can happen anywhere.

Please everyone, wash your hands, and go get the shot.

To follow the full story, click on the links for my sources below…

http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5iDApMAhUln5jw-ffhzIZCh0I_-bgD9C41MJ00

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/8372378.stm

http://www.saudiembassy.net/latest_news/news11210903.aspx

Ms. Collins, in “Putting the Fond in Farewell,” says that by announcing that her show’s 25th season will be her last, Oprah Winfrey provided a useful tip in navigating life: Quit while you’re ahead.  Mr. Blow writes “In Defense of New York.”  He says questioning whether New York City can handle the trial of 9/11 mastermind Khalid Shaikh Mohammed is an insult. New Yorkers live with the threat of terrorism every day.  Mr. Cohen, in “What Makes Cities Live,” says wholesale gentrification deadens. The fight for the genuine in the world’s great cities is also a fight for jobs, workers and creativity.  Mr. Herbert addresses “An American Catastrophe,” and says Detroit and its environs are suffering because of policies that resulted in the implosion of crucially important components of America’s manufacturing base.  Here’s Ms. Collins:

Few people have spent more time contemplating The Journey of Life than Oprah Winfrey, and on Friday she provided another useful tip in navigating it: Quit while you’re ahead.

At the current moment, this is not necessarily a thought for the masses. Unless something dramatic happens on the economic front, most of us are not going to be able to quit — period.

But the greatest decision a stellar public figure can make is to resist the temptation to keep doing the same thing forever. Even if the fans don’t want you to stop.

One day you’re the champion of the world, the people’s choice. Then, next thing you know, you’re losing a unanimous decision to Trevor Berbick. Or putting “Dictator for Life” on your business cards.

We are talking here about a timely and well-planned leave-taking — like George Washington, refusing a third term. Or the end of “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.”

This is not to be confused with its evil twin sister, the Abrupt Rogue Departure. You cannot get yourself elected governor, serve for two and a half years, disappear for the better part of another and then announce you’re quitting because nobody likes a lame duck. Well, it turns out you can, but it is a really, really bad idea.

“I love this show. This show has been my life. And I love it enough to know when it’s time to say goodbye,” Winfrey told her fans tearily. She’s not actually leaving until the end of season 25, nearly two years from now. Talk about long-term planning.

However, if she really wanted to drive home how much her viewers were going to be losing, she might have picked a more inspiring lead-in to her announcement than a 20-minute interview with Ray Romano. (Along with a promo for an upcoming interview with a woman whose husband was addicted to porn.)

It’s been quite a run for the Oprah brand. The über-guests, the good works. The Obama campaign. Her forays into books (we will really miss the book thing) and spirituality (not so much). She never coasted.

Her next step seems to involve a new cable TV channel. But since Winfrey has — I believe this is an exact figure — a trilliondy-billion dollars, she probably has more than one option.

Her audience, of course, doesn’t want her to move on. Americans are congenitally attached to too much of a good thing: “Law & Order.” Professional sports. Christmas. (The national calendar seems to be divided into two seasons: Baseball and Holiday Shopping.)

The idea that anything popular should stay around until we turn green at the sight of it is not, of course, confined to our culture. The British have Tony Blair and The Spice Girls Reunion Tour.

We do hate change. Even though we know that our demand for more of the same is a treacherous road that will eventually lead to Sharon Stone in “Basic Instinct 2.”

Nowhere is the need for the graceful exit more apparent than in our politics. This week Senator Robert Byrd turned 92. He has been in office for more than 50 years. That’s an all-time record for Congress. In fact, it is probably a record for every deliberative body since Athens in the Age of Pericles.

To be fair, this was not entirely his idea. The Democratic Party begged Byrd to stay and hang onto a seat that will probably fall to the opposition when he leaves. But still, this is not a record that we want to encourage other people to aspire to break.

Nothing becomes a politician like a timely departure. If Rudy Giuliani had quit after 2001, we’d still think of him as America’s Mayor instead of the worst presidential candidate in the history of the world.

Imagine how much better Joe Lieberman would look if he had called it a day after the vice presidential run. Or Ross Perot if he had stopped in 1992.

Mayor Michael Bloomberg hasn’t even begun his controversial third term and already he seems to have shrunk to a pocketsize.

And what a revered figure Ralph Nader would be if he had called it quits back in the 1990s. He’d be an icon — the pioneer of consumerism who had the corporation’s number from the get-go, instead of the guy who robbed Al Gore of the presidency and then just wouldn’t stop talking. He could have spent the last 15 years giving inspiring lectures to college students and now it would be time for the comeback tour. People would be flocking to hear him explain how the structure of the American economy failed its people in last year’s collapse.

By the way, you can have a comeback tour if you retire gracefully. Just not one every single year.

Here’s Mr. Blow:

Representative John Shadegg of Arizona really knows how to put on a show.

Earlier this month, he used a live baby as part of a quasi-ventriloquist act on the House floor. Creepy? Yes. Still, we let it slide.

But he doesn’t get two passes in a row. Monday, he took a swipe at Mayor Michael Bloomberg of New York City for saying that the city could handle the security for the trial of 9/11 mastermind Khalid Shaikh Mohammed.

Shadegg sniped, “I saw the mayor of New York today said ‘We’re tough. We can do it.’ Well mayor, how are you going to feel when it’s your daughter that’s kidnapped, at school, by a terrorist?”

Say what you will about New Yorkers, but question our toughness, you will not.

Whether a civil or military trial would provide the best chances of securing a conviction while simultaneously signaling to the world a righting of America’s moral compass is a fair debate. But questioning whether New York City can handle the trial is an insult.

(By the way, what’s with this business of the mayor’s daughter being kidnapped? It sounds like the plot of a Jackie Chan movie.)

We New Yorkers live with the threat of terrorism every day — on our trains, in our high-rises, in our plazas. But we’ve learned to cope. Not by being afraid, but by being vigilant. Bringing Mohammed to Manhattan isn’t going to move the needle much.

A police spokesman told Reuters that “eight terrorism plots against the city have been scuttled since 2001, including plots to blow up the Brooklyn Bridge and the retaining wall at ground zero.”

Yet the city didn’t blink. Schools still opened, trains still ran and the Naked Cowboy still serenaded gaggles of grown women who giggled like schoolgirls.

So Mr. Congressman, how many terror plots have been squashed in your district? Take your time. I’ll wait.

We love this city, and nothing and no one will make us afraid to be in it. We refuse to be cowed by cowards — not by those hiding in the Hindu Kush or by those hyperventilating in the halls of Congress.

And what galls us most is having watched for years as politicians like Shadegg used fear-mongering about 9/11 and the threat of attacks as a political tool.

Former Mayor Rudy Giuliani used it to sidestep the extreme racial divisiveness he fostered in the city. Former President George W. Bush used it as a Trojan horse to ravage our civil liberties. Dick Cheney is still using it to shield his transgressions.

Let us be clear: The fear tactics that work in the hinterlands don’t work here.

We rose from the ashes of the Twin Towers. We don’t need a puppeteering politician from Phoenix lecturing us about being tough in the face of terror.

Nice alliteration.  He left out “pusillanimous,” though.  Here’s Mr. Cohen:

A couple of blocks and your life changes in this city. New York is worldly but fiercely local. Another borough is as remote as another country. Europe, just across the pond, can seem closer than across town.

Not so long ago, my office was moved a couple of blocks, a little west and a little south, from 43rd Street to Renzo Piano’s handsome light-filled building between 40th and 41st Streets. It proved to be a change of worlds.

The former headquarters was trapped in the neon tentacles of Times Square, a once seedy part of town re-imagined as the tourist-filled set for a movie called “New York,” a place where people from out of town loiter six-abreast gazing at the flashing lights while New Yorkers try to dodge the phalanxes of flesh.

The new premises, as I’ve gradually learned, placed us just within the garment district, an area where zoning laws have protected apparel manufacturing space and so held off the developers who would otherwise have turned clothes factories into condos and created yet another gentrified district bereft of seediness, tawdriness, community and that strange high-low alchemy essential to any great city’s mystery and charge.

I’ve come to love the dull, solid mid-rise brick buildings of the garment district, a universe away from the high-rise glass-and-neon of that other country two blocks away where Planet Hollywood and M&M’s World strut their stuff.

It’s wonderful to wander far from the movie theaters (or so it seems) past emporiums of buttons, palaces of thread, empires of zippers, long pink gowns, canary yellow chiffon skirts (on sale for $10), trimmings, lace, beads, ribbons, fake pearls, glittering belts, shoulder pads and ruffles — not to mention “Spandex World,” and “Leather Impact.” Stores have names like “Joyce Button and Trims.” They look like they’ve been there forever, or at least the American version of forever.

The pleasure, I think, comes from the sense of something still purposeful and authentic, woven by the years — a slither of town between 35th and 40th Streets where designers, manufacturers, small retailers, showroom owners and others interact and create, and where money, big money, has not swept all in its path.

The area still has pungency. It has not surrendered to the great anaesthetizing march of modernity. It has not chased its working class to faraway suburbs. It has not become a hollow movie-set version of an authentic place — a “garment district” cleansed to quaintness, shaped for the well-to-do, complete with guides relating the rich history of immigrants and their sewing machines.

Unlike Paris — where the horse butchers and the tripe restaurants and the hammering of artisans and the garlic-whiff of the morning Métro are long gone — New York preserves, in small enclaves, its shabby splendor. Its center, unlike London, has not become a near-exclusive preserve of the super-rich.

No — miracle of miracles — people here still buy and use sewing machines! A million square feet or so are devoted to garment manufacturing. The jobs have not all vanished to Bangladesh.

It’s funny how we crave the authentic, the unspoiled, the genuine — the un-globalized and un-homogenized and un-gentrified — only to destroy them. And then, as if in remorse, attempt to create unthreatening Disney versions of the authentic, the unspoiled and the genuine. It’s funny how the rich, tired of grilled tuna or Chilean sea bass, weary of New York generic (never simmered, always seared), want to eat like the poor, while the poor just want to be rich.

Speaking of food, the move has also brought deliverance from theme restaurants and chains to a garment-district diversity as wondrous as the ostrich feathers and sequined robes in store windows. Let’s face it: Dives are the last redoubt of genuine fare in New York.

I’ve found a Balkan cellar whose cevapcici (grilled lozenges of minced meat) take me back to Sarajevo days; a deli whose tongue sandwiches remind me of the tongue my mother prepared; a Chinese hole-in-the-wall with heartwarming oxtail on rice; and a Szechuan joint whose duck tongues on a bed of scallion, dressed in a scallion pesto, are a little miracle of many-layered succulence — the reddish-brown Szechuan pepper imparting a numbing-tingling heat, the duck tongues crunchy (about the consistency of frogs’ legs) and gelatinous and looking, in the pesto-green sauce, a little like asparagus tips. If you wish, you may follow that with a fish-head (carp) stew in spiced chili broth that’s hot enough to ease your eyes from their sockets.

Two blocks away they’re eating burgers and Bubba Gump shrimp and never dreaming of this other land just around the corner. You don’t have to travel far to change countries; and you can travel across the world and still find yourself in the globalized mall of bright lights, bland foods and brands.

I’m grateful for my New York journeys and for the zoning laws that make them possible. Wholesale gentrification deadens. There’s an untamed thread that binds button stores and stir-fried intestines with chili: They’re genuine. The fight for the genuine in the world’s great cities is also a fight for jobs, workers and creativity.

It’s sort of telling that Mr. Cohen didn’t seem to be aware of that “other world” a couple of blocks from his old office.  Canalized much, sir?  Here’s Mr. Herbert, writing from Detroit:

In many ways, it’s like a ghost town. It’s eerily quiet. Driving around in the middle of the afternoon, in a city that once was among the most productive on the planet, you see very little traffic, minimal commercial activity, hardly any pedestrians.

What you’ll see are endless acres of urban ruin, block after block and mile after mile of empty and rotting office buildings, storefronts, hotels, apartment buildings and private homes. It’s a scene of devastation and disintegration that stuns the mind, a major American city that still is home to 900,0000 people but which looks at times like a cross between postwar Berlin and the ruin of an ancient civilization.

Detroit was the arsenal of democracy in World War II and the incubator of the American middle class. It was the city that taught mass production to the rest of the world. It was a place that made cars, trucks and other tangible products, not derivatives. And it was the architect of the quintessentially American idea of putting people to work and paying them a decent wage. It’s frightening to think seriously about what we’ve allowed to happen to this city and what is now happening to the middle class and the American economy as a whole.

I was in Detroit with Harley Shaiken, a professor at the University of California, Berkeley, who specializes in labor issues. He grew up in Detroit and his love for the city and its people are palpable, as is his grief for the horrors the city has endured.

The popular narrative of what happened to Detroit contains a great deal of truth but its focus is too narrow to account for the astonishing decline of this former industrial colossus. Yes, there were the riots of 1967, and white flight; and political leadership that was not just shortsighted but at times embarrassingly incompetent and corrupt. And, yes, the auto industry was a case study in self-destruction.

But as Mr. Shaiken points out, Detroit was still viable enough for the Republican Party to hold its convention here in 1980, when it nominated Ronald Reagan. And it was not the riots, but the devastating recession of the early ’80s that really knocked the city senseless. “That’s when the place really cracked,” said Mr. Shaiken, “and that was about aggressive globalization and the lack of an industrial policy, not the riots.”

Detroit and its environs are suffering the agonies of the economic damned because of policies, crafted at the highest national and corporate levels, that resulted in the implosion of crucially important components of America’s manufacturing base. Those decisions have had a profound effect on the fortunes not just of Detroit, or even Michigan, but the entire U.S. economy.

“We’ve been living with the illusion that manufacturing — making things — is so 20th century,” said Mr. Shaiken, “and that we could succeed by concentrating, for example, on complex financial instruments while abandoning the industrial base that sustained so many American families.”

The idea that the fallout from the wrongheaded economic concepts of the past 30 or 40 years could be contained, with the damage limited to the increasingly troubled urban areas while sparing prosperous suburbia, has now proved as phony as Bernie Madoff’s fortune. Americans, whether they live in big cities, suburban towns or rural areas, need jobs, and when those jobs are eliminated (for whatever reasons — technological advances, globalization) without being replaced, the national economy is guaranteed at some point to hit a wall.

Professor Shaiken and I drove past vast lots filled with rubble and garbage and weeds, past the old Michigan Central Terminal, which was once Detroit’s answer to New York’s Grand Central Terminal but which has long since been abandoned; past a onetime Cadillac manufacturing plant that is now an empty lot.

We stopped at an old Ford plant and stood in a stiff, cold wind, reading a plaque put up by the Michigan Historical Commission: “Here at his Highland Park plant, Henry Ford began the mass production of automobiles on a moving assembly line. By 1915 Ford built a million Model T’s. In 1925 over 9,000 were assembled in a single day. Mass production soon moved from here to all phases of American industry and set the pattern of abundance for 20th century living.”

Professor Shaiken’s grandfather, Philip Chapman, took a job at the Highland Park plant in 1914, earning five dollars a day, and worked on production at Ford until his retirement in the mid-1950s.

We’re at a period no less significant to the U.S. than Mr. Chapman’s early years at Ford. We need a revitalized industrial policy, including the creation of whole new industries, if American families are to prosper in the coming decades. If there is any sense of urgency about this in the hearts and minds of our corporate and government leaders, I’ve missed it.