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Love this article….

The NEF argues we need to achieve truly happy lives, we need to challenge social norms and reset the industrial clock ticking in our heads. It sees the 21-hour week as integral to this for two reasons: it will redistribute paid work, offering the hope of a more equal society (right now too many are overworked, or underemployed). At the same time, it would give us all time for the things we value but rarely have time to do well such as care for our family, travel, read or continue learning (as opposed to feeding consumerism).

Some of the videos I’ve watched online lately focus on what people wanted to be when they were kids, and how most of us don’t strive for that once we reach adulthood.  We’re happy with our 9 to 5, especially if that 9 to 5 includes a cause.  Or we’re unhappy, but we live life for the weekends.  But what most of us don’t do is strive for something more.  We’re convinced we have these major limitations and believe it’s crazy to think we can do something big.

These videos encouraged me to start thinking about who and what I wanted to be when I was a kid.  My superstars were 80′s pop singers: Madonna, Cindy Lauper, Michael Jackson.  I wanted to be a superstar, because superstars had the power to change the world.  As I reached my teens, I wasn’t so impressed with singers and pop stars.  I started learning more about scholars.  Later, the Internet came about.  That’s when I met my real superstars.  Below are a few examples as well as some fantastic and inspiring videos.

Sally figured her fear and loathing of monsters (and frankly, some fascination) came from muttered conversations she heard as a child.
Her family was a sturdy bunch of scotch-irish, and true to their superstitious personalities, they would gather in the kitchen on Sundays and talk about monsters.
Or at least Sally thought that’s what they were saying.
“Cherokee Power Company is coming,” her Aunt Ida Mae would say, with a dark look outside. “Wonder how bad it will be this time?”
Sally didn’t know it was the monthly electric bill they were describing.
In Sally’s mind, Cherokee Power was a dark man carrying a tomahawk and wearing feathers in his hair.
He came when you least expected it, causing shrieks of fear among the womenfolk. Cherokee Power was one bad-ass, she knew.
Sally wasn’t supposed to say “ass,” but she couldn’t think of
another word to describe Cherokee Power.
Likewise, she had other ideas about the demons that bothered her many relatives who worked at the cotton mill.
J.B. Tisdale was another monster her parents and relatives couldn’t seem to shake off.
“That John Brown J.B. Tisdale,” her father would whisper late in the night.
Sally’s room was right next to her parents, so she knew what they were saying.
She wasn’t supposed to be listening, but she couldn’t help herself.
“I think J.B. is gonna take us all out right before Christmas,” her father said.
“Oh lord,” Sally thought. “J.B. Tisdale was going to kill her parents. Right before Christmas. No Santa this year, kids. J.B. Tisdale gonna take care of that.”
The J.B. Tisdale monster took on special significance in Sally’s mind.
She tried to imagine what sort of monster he could be.
Did he have scales and a forked tongue?
Did he have cloven feet?
It didn’t help matters that her family, in the best tradition of Scotch-Irish, had a healthy fear of hell and the devil.
Living with the boogey man was just another fact of life.
He was always hiding around the corner, waiting to get you if you smacked your sister or said a curse word.
The worst monster of all, Sally knew, was the “Surance Man,” because he actually came by the house.
He was a monster in the flesh, come to life in a tacky suit and a fake smile.
Sally thought the ‘Surance Man had fangs.
She could almost see them glistening underneath his rubbery lips.
Sometimes her Grandma Juanita would make the grandkids all play dead when the ‘Surance Man” appeared at her door.
He was just looking for the life insurance payment that was due, but Sally thought he was awful.
“Freeze,” Grandma Juanita would order to all the little kids who were playing in her living room.
Sally often wondered what the ‘Surance Man” thought when he peered in the window and saw an old lady and a bunch of younguns froze up, trying their best to look dead.
He rang the doorbell repeatedly, but sometimes he drove away.
Sally didn’t know why the devil drove an old yellow Buick, but who cared.
Grandma Juanita fought him off, most of the time.
“Begosh and begorrah,” she would mutter under her breath.
Sally thought it was a special way to get rid of the ‘Surance Man.
She would say it herself, sometimes, just to ward off monsters.
To feel better and safer, Sally lined the monsters up in her head.
There they were, Cherokee Power, J.B. Tisdale and the ‘Surance Man.
She thought about them late at night and vowed to take them down.
It wasn’t until years later her kin tried to tell her she was wrong.
“You know Sally,” her mother said, Cherokee Power was just the light bill. It wasn’t a real person. Why’d you ever think that, honey? They don’t even call it that anymore. It went out of business. Now we get real good rates because we’re over 65.”
J.B. Tisdale was a real asshole, they explained over Sunday dinner.
Tisdale once owned the mill where her parents worked, until they could retire.
J.B. Tisdale, like most monsters, was never totally gone. For right now, he was buried under the old mill.
“Buried him years ago underneath the mill,” her father said. “Then they plowed that down to make room for some apartments for poor people.”
As for the ‘Surance Man, he was just the church deacon dressed in a tacky suit, they said.
It was his weekday job to collect life insurance payments from the people in the community.
Despite their reassurances, Sally knew that these creatures were often the worst monsters of all.
She gave a shiver and thanked Jesus and crossed her fingers for keeping them away from her kin for a long time.