Selasa, 11 Oktober 2011
Instant Messanger favorit saya
Sebenarnya , saya tidak terlalu aktif menggunakan ini . Namun , saya biasa memakai ym, skype, dan google plus . Untuk ym, saya hanya menggunakan untuk chatting text . Skype saya gunakan untuk video call , namun setelah ada google plus ternyata kualitas gambar dan maksimal orang untuk conference lebih unggul.
Pentingnya E-mail dan Blog
Menurut Saya , e-mail itu penting sekali karna mempunyai e-mail itu sudah seperti identitas yang sudah di miliki semua masyarakat . E-mail mudah di pakai , fiturnya juga sudah lengkap . E-mail itu juga wajib bila kita ingin mempunyai fasilitas lain seperti Facebook , jadi kita lebih mudah untuk mengkontrol . Dalam hal melamar pekerjaan juga jadi lebih mudah , dulu kita hanya bisa menulis di kertas dan harus mengirimnya lewat pos . Selain membutuhkan waktu juga membutuhkan biaya lebih. Namun setelah ada dan mengenal e-mail, itu menjadi lebih mudah . Karna kita hanya perlu membuka e-mail, lalu mengetik surat tersebut dan langsung mengirimnya tanpa biaya tambahan dan tanpa menunggu lama surat tersebut langsung sampai . Itu pun berlaku sama , bagi kita yang ingin mengirim surat ke keluarga atau teman yang berada jauh dari tempat tinggal kita .Dan satu lagi, kita tidak hanya bisa mengirim tulisan , kita juga bisa mengirim gambar .
Dan blog juga sekarang telah menjadi bagian penting . Ada blog yang di buat untuk pribadi , namun ada juga yang untuk komersial . Untuk blog pribadi , biasanya berisi cerita atau pengalaman si pemilik . Biasanya , pemilik membuat novel yang nantinya bisa di bukukan . Dan untuk blog komersial, biasanya berisi tips , pengetahuan umum dan lain-lain . Dan yang sekarang , pengalaman saya yaitu memiliki blog untuk kepentingan belajar saya , di blog ini hanya berisi tugas-tugas dari dosen saya . Jadi, mereka hanya melihat isi blog saya dan memberinya nilai .
Dan blog juga sekarang telah menjadi bagian penting . Ada blog yang di buat untuk pribadi , namun ada juga yang untuk komersial . Untuk blog pribadi , biasanya berisi cerita atau pengalaman si pemilik . Biasanya , pemilik membuat novel yang nantinya bisa di bukukan . Dan untuk blog komersial, biasanya berisi tips , pengetahuan umum dan lain-lain . Dan yang sekarang , pengalaman saya yaitu memiliki blog untuk kepentingan belajar saya , di blog ini hanya berisi tugas-tugas dari dosen saya . Jadi, mereka hanya melihat isi blog saya dan memberinya nilai .
Minggu, 14 Agustus 2011
Phychology service-task 3
1. Honestly
2. Diligent
3. Friendly
4. Cares
5. Polite
6. Brave
7. Funny
8. Obedient
Why customers leave the restaurant and hotel*
1. Service is not good
2. Dirty place
3. Untidy
4. Noisy
5. Rude waiter
6. The service doesn’t match expectations
7. Long in serving food
8. The food is not tasty
Jumat, 20 Mei 2011
How can I help?
How can I help?
Setting: Ram Dass was a young man from the United States visiting Japan when this happened. He had been taking training in the Japanese martial art of Aikido and he was pretty proud of his skill – and anxious to show it off.
The train clanked and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty – a few housewives with their kids in tow, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.
At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the afternoon quiet was shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The man staggered into our car. He wore laborer’s clothing, and he was big, drunk and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that the baby was unharmed.
Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. The laborer (A laborer is someone who does rough work, like digging ditches.) aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its
stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.
I was young then, some twenty years ago, and in pretty good shape. I’d been putting in a solid eight hours of Aikido training nearly every day for the past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. The trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of Aikido, we were not allowed to fight.
“Aikido,” my teacher had said again and again, “is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight, has broken his connection with the universe. If you try to dominate people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it.”
I listened to his words. I tried hard. I even went so far as to cross the street to avoid the chimpira, the pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty.
“This is it!” I said to myself as I got my feet. “People are in danger. If I don’t do something fast, somebody will probably get hurt.”
Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage. “Aha!” he roared. “A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners.”
I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to make the first move. I wanted him mad, so I pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss.
“All right!” he hollered. “You’re gonna get a lesson.” He gathered himself for a rush at me.
A fraction of a second before he could move, someone shouted “Hey!” It was earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it – as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something, and he had suddenly stumbled upon it, “Hey!”
I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little, old Japanese man. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share.
“C’mere,” the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. “C’mere and talk with me.” He waved his hand slightly.
The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old
gentleman, and roared above the clacking wheels, “Why the hell should I talk to you?” The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop him in his socks.
The old man continued to beam at the laborer. “Whatcha been drinkin’?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. “I been drinkin’ sake,” the laborer bellowed back, “and it’s none of your business!” Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” the old man said, “absolutely wonderful! You see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife (she’s 76, you know), we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree has done better than I expected, though, especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening – even when it rains!” He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling.
As he struggled to follow the old man’s conversation, the drunk’s face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. “Yeah,” he said “I love persimmons, too…” His voice trailed off.
“Yes,” said the old man, smiling, “and I’m sure you have a wonderful wife.”
“No,” replied the laborer. “My wife died.” Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. “I don’t got no wife. I don’t got no home. I don’t got no job. I’m so ashamed of myself.” Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled through his body.
Now it was my turn. Standing there in my well-scrubbed youthful innocence, my make-this-world-safe-for-democracy righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was.
Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. “My, my,” he said, “that is a difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it.”
I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy, matted hair.
As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I had just seen Aikido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love. I would have to practice the art, with an entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of conflict.
Setting: Ram Dass was a young man from the United States visiting Japan when this happened. He had been taking training in the Japanese martial art of Aikido and he was pretty proud of his skill – and anxious to show it off.
The train clanked and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty – a few housewives with their kids in tow, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.
At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the afternoon quiet was shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The man staggered into our car. He wore laborer’s clothing, and he was big, drunk and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that the baby was unharmed.
Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. The laborer (A laborer is someone who does rough work, like digging ditches.) aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its
stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.
I was young then, some twenty years ago, and in pretty good shape. I’d been putting in a solid eight hours of Aikido training nearly every day for the past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. The trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of Aikido, we were not allowed to fight.
“Aikido,” my teacher had said again and again, “is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight, has broken his connection with the universe. If you try to dominate people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it.”
I listened to his words. I tried hard. I even went so far as to cross the street to avoid the chimpira, the pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty.
“This is it!” I said to myself as I got my feet. “People are in danger. If I don’t do something fast, somebody will probably get hurt.”
Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage. “Aha!” he roared. “A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners.”
I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to make the first move. I wanted him mad, so I pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss.
“All right!” he hollered. “You’re gonna get a lesson.” He gathered himself for a rush at me.
A fraction of a second before he could move, someone shouted “Hey!” It was earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it – as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something, and he had suddenly stumbled upon it, “Hey!”
I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little, old Japanese man. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share.
“C’mere,” the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. “C’mere and talk with me.” He waved his hand slightly.
The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old
gentleman, and roared above the clacking wheels, “Why the hell should I talk to you?” The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop him in his socks.
The old man continued to beam at the laborer. “Whatcha been drinkin’?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. “I been drinkin’ sake,” the laborer bellowed back, “and it’s none of your business!” Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” the old man said, “absolutely wonderful! You see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife (she’s 76, you know), we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree has done better than I expected, though, especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening – even when it rains!” He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling.
As he struggled to follow the old man’s conversation, the drunk’s face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. “Yeah,” he said “I love persimmons, too…” His voice trailed off.
“Yes,” said the old man, smiling, “and I’m sure you have a wonderful wife.”
“No,” replied the laborer. “My wife died.” Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. “I don’t got no wife. I don’t got no home. I don’t got no job. I’m so ashamed of myself.” Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled through his body.
Now it was my turn. Standing there in my well-scrubbed youthful innocence, my make-this-world-safe-for-democracy righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was.
Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. “My, my,” he said, “that is a difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it.”
I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy, matted hair.
As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I had just seen Aikido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love. I would have to practice the art, with an entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of conflict.
Kamis, 19 Mei 2011
curug panjang with 3aph3
ga nyangka kalo bakal ada kecelakaan kaya gitu .. sampe sekarang masih inget bgt kejadian yg menyeramkan itu . mata masih ngantuk, fikiran juga masih blm tenang .. temen yg 1 masih sakit kaki sm tangannya, yg 1 lagi masih trauma .. hmm tp ini bakal bener-bener jd UNFORGETTABLE MOMENT, di hari terakhir kita berharap seneng-seneng tp ???? cuma bisa bilang alhamdulilah masih di beri nafas, semoga ini bisa jd pelajaran untuk kita semua
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