The energetic flow of qi through the body follows a specific order:
Beginning with the Lungs, the energy continues its flow to the large intestines and then follows this order:
Lungs —-> Large Intestine
Spleen <— Stomach
Heart —> Small Intestine
Kidney <— Urinary Bladder
Pericardium —-> San Jiao
Liver <— Gallbladder
Liver back to Poopy-Hole
OK, got that?
Each organ corresponds with a specific time of day when it has the most energy present. Each organ system has a channel or meridian. Many of these channels correlate to fascial tissue pathways. Using modern physiology and ancient medicine, acupuncture can reduce tension and inflammation, to eliminate the cause of pain and imbalance. (Yay, right? Thought so. Read on.)
If you are interested in using ancient knowledge and want to avoid using pharmaceuticals, acupuncture is a great option. Please look at my google business “Pokey-Merican Pokie-Puncture” to see reviews other patients have left, the ones that lived. There are more of them than of the others, so we're cool with that.
I am...
USA trained, and licensed in parts of California and New York
Over 10 years of experience
Specializing in pain symptoms, sports injuries, chronic pain, TV butt
Native English speaker
Fluent in medical Spanish
Can provide home visits
Home office just a 5 minute walk from Rio Rio park the Avenida de Las Avenidas
Vaccinated against rabies by Shaman Elizabeth
$50 per treatment, dead or alive.
Please text or email with questions, or send carrier lizard or small child with note.
dick-bollacks@qmail.com
+1 796 619 1833 9762 (Thursdays before 1 a.m. but after 2 a.m.)
Dr. Dick Dick
Calle Canton Gualaceo y Avenida de las Avenidas
Disclaimer: Disease goes back way farther than 3000 years, requires no training or advertising, and it is free. Sometimes works better than my poking.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? I just let the cat bite me whenever I need it.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Subject: ALL YOUR DATA HAS BEEN HACKED AND COPIED TO MY SERVERS. INSTRUCTIONS INSIDE
From: India Fitzpatrick <jerkwork@dumshit.come-on>
To: Me!!!!
Date: 2022-07-11
Hi There.
The following is the very last notification.
I broke into your system using the Wifi router you were connected to.
Several months prior, I easily accessed the devices that you previously used to get online.
All of the information from your own gadgets & devices has been quickly copied to my machines.
I can take advantage of all your messengers, social networking sites, emails, chat history, & contact information.
My virus regularly updates its signatures (driver-type), for that reason it remains not visible to anti-virus tools. I guess at this point you see, the reasons why I remained quite until this present day
Whilst gathering infos about you, I noticed that you are a huge fan of adult web pages and even more. You actually like to stop by porn websites & view filthy vids whilst getting an orgasmic pleasure.
I've already created a web cam shooting videos of you jerking off. The cropping and editing of the video clip you were seeing at that moment & your masturbation. Your own face is clearly visible. I do not believe this particular information would be really good for your profile.
I can easily direct this video footage to every person who realize your identity.
I in addition have no challenge with making all of your discreet data open public on the web. I'm sure you know what i am talking about.
It may be a huge disaster for you.
I am able to mess up your life forever.
I really think you seriously don't need that to occur.
Now let's fix it in this way: you transfer me 1200 $ (dollars) using Bitcoin equivalent at the moment of transaction), and I will asap get rid of all of your information from my servers. After that, we'll forget about one another.
My btc address for transfer: andifyoufallforthisyouaredumberthaniam
If you don't realize how to transfer money and what Bitcoin is. Simply just key in the Google "Get btc".
I give you two business days to send the funds. The timer launched monitoring automatically once you opened this email. I'll receive a warning when this letter is exposed.
Do not attempt to search aid, as the wallet can't be monitored, email the letter is originating from & can't be tracked either & generated automatically, hence there isn't any point in texting to me. Don't try to get in touch with the authorities & other protection solutions, & should you choose to do, your own data will undoubtedly be revealed.
Switching security passwords in social networking sites, e-mail, and devices won't help you, as all the information is already downloaded to my servers.
All the best and don't do something foolish. Think about your personal future.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff+snorp@nullabigmail.com
Me? Shaking in my booties.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Is the right match waiting on ezHarmony? Find Out Now! [Spam]
ezHarmony Info
Tue, Mar 9, 12:28 PM (many hours ago)
To me!
Q: Why is this message in spam?
A: It is similar to messages that were identified as spam in the past.
Meanwhile, ezHarmony sez: Get Started for free on the #1 pointless dating site. Subscribe Now!!!!
𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. (Hah! Think that'll do any good?)
𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘵 109001090010900.3 Dimwit Blvd., 17th Floor, Lost Angeles, CA 90024-783621
But Wait!!!! There's More!!!! (See below...)
Attention My Dear Friend
Mr. Richard Stephen a.k.a., Spam4U
3:13 AM (many, many hours ago)
To: Mr Doof
Date: Mar 11, 2021, 3:13 AM
Subject: Attention My Dear Friend Mr Doof
Mailed-by: fhirehose@xpostfacto.plalalala.or.jp
[security: plala.foodle-doo.or.jp did not encrypt this message Learn more if you dare.]
Note to reader: This message seems dangerous Similar messages were used to steal people's personal information. Avoid clicking links, downloading attachments, or replying with personal information if you are personal and actually do have information.
But hey, looks safe to me! Let's see what is says then.
Attention My Dear Friend
I am Mr. Richard Stephen, a senior officer at John F. Kennedy Semi-International Airport New York, sending you email from Japan (Go figgah!) during my search for undelivered parcels I discovered an abandoned shipment from a Diplomat from Africa and when scanned it revealed an undisclosed sum of money in a metal trunk box which could be approximately 12.5Million dollars.
The consignment was abandoned because the Contents of the consignment was not properly declared by the consignee as “MONEY” rather it was declared as personal effect to avoid interrogation and also the inability of the diplomat to pay for the United States Non Inspection Charges which is $3,800USD. On my assumption the consignment is still left in our Storage House here at the John F. Kennedy Semi-International Airport Queens New York till date. The details of the consignment including your name, your email address and the official documents from the United Nations office in Geneva are tagged on the Trunk box.
However, to enable me confirm if you are the actual recipient of this consignment as the assistant director of the Inspection Unit, I will advise you provide your current Phone Number and Full Address, to enable me cross check if it corresponds with the address on the official documents including the name of nearest Airport around your city. Please note that this consignment is supposed to have been returned to the United States Treasury Department as unclaimed delivery due to the delays in concluding the clearance processes so as a result of this, I will not be able to receive your details on my official email account. So in order to enable me to cross check your details, I will advise you to send the required details to my private email address for quick processing and response. Once I confirm you as the actual recipient of the box, I can get everything concluded within 48hours upon your acceptance and proceed to your address for delivery.
Lastly, be informed that the reason I have taken it upon myself to contact you personally about this abandoned consignment is because I want us to transact this business and share the money 70% for you and 30% for me since the consignment has not yet been returned to the United States Treasury Department after being abandoned by the diplomat so immediately the confirmation is made, I will go ahead and pay for the United States Non Inspection Fee of $3,800 dollars and arrange for the box to be delivered to your doorstep Or I can bring it by myself to avoid any more trouble but you have to assure me of my 30% share...
I wait to hear from you urgently if you are still alive and interested to receive your box and I will appreciate it if we can keep this deal confidential. My private Email: (stephenrichard466@gmail.com) for further directives: You can not call me on my telephone number for it will expose me more.
Thank you.
Mr. Richard Stephen
Special Junior Assistant Inspection Director Trainee (provisional)
John F. Kennedy Semi-International Airport
Queens New York, 11430 (eleventy-forty-three-oh hey)
United States
Have extra info to add?
If the commenting system is out again, then email sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Immediately changing my name and moving away and shaving off my eyebrows so's nobody knows me no more (but taking the cat just in case).
I want to leave the country. Legally. At least for a while. It's a thing.
I might hike or something.
To do that I need a passport.
Last week I checked at the post office to find out the days and hours I could do this.
The man I talked to said I'd need a photo. I knew that. He said it would cost $110. I knew that.
He said there was a $25 fee. I didn't know that, but OK.
To confirm I said "So that's $135." No, he said, $110 plus $25. "$135, right?" I said, hopefully.
He said that the passport fee was $110 and there was a $25 processing fee. I wrote all this down, added it up, and came to $135, which seemed to make sense to me.
He seemed dubious.
The hours were OK: Monday through Friday, from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m.
So far so good. He reminded me that I'd need a photo. Twice. (Three times in all.)
So far so good.
A few days ago I went back.
I was wearing pants.
And I had:
* The official form, filled out.
* $135 in cash, since I didn't want to mess with a check or credit card, which were both listed as options, on the form.
* Two photos, as required, in the correct size.
* An official birth certificate.
The form asked for my parents' full birth dates, but I only know the years so I just put them in. I hope it's good enough. I believe only terrorists know really detailed information like day of birth and month of birth, and normal people don't. I'm trying hard to seem normal so I think that's in my favor. We'll see.
The clerk saw that I had already signed the form and told me I'd have to come back in three years, after getting a spanking, because I shouldn't have.
He was right. On line 1476B, subsection 18, in bold, 3-point type it says not to. I'm a naughty one, I guess, but he pulled out a scrap of paper and had me sign it while he watched. He said that would work too.
This was obviously a test. And not just an ordinary test, but a two-part test.
First, to prove that I knew what a pen was.
If I had grabbed the pen and immediately poked both my eyes out, I'm sure I would have failed, oh so miserably.
Second, to prove I could write, I guess. I can, I could, I did, signing my very own name again, successfully.
I passed. OK so far.
Time to pay.
I offered $135 in cash.
No. They don't take cash.
There are two fees: $110 and $25. They have to be two separate transactions. The first one is $110. To pay that I had to buy a money order with cash, at a cost of $1.10, print my name on it and hand it back to the clerk.
I tried not to.
I tried giving him my credit card. He said it was good for only $25. But I could pay with a check if I wanted.
No. I had brought cash so I wouldn't have to do any of this stuff, but after a while we got it worked out. Meaning that we did it his way.
$110 in cash, plus $1.10 in cash, and then he gave me the money order, and then I handed back the money order.
On to the next part, also involving money. Yay!
The clerk accepted cash for the $25 fee, without twitching, while I held my breath. But he forgot to make me kiss his ring, which I'm having some guilty feelings about now. I should have reminded him. We'll see. I hope it doesn't come back to me later. I am on camera not kissing any rings at all.
Then.
He cut my photograph in two. I had brought two images on one sheet of photo paper, and handed them over, then he cut one off and gave it back to me. He said I could keep it for my records. But I have a mirror in my bathroom, which fills all my needs, so. What?
I reminded him that I was supposed to bring two. It's on the form. Bring two identical photographs. It's on the form.
He said they don't do that any more, so I should keep the second one. (The form lied to me. Nasty lying form. We isn't trusting it again, ever. Nasssssty form. We isn't ever trusting it again.)
While the clerk was mutilating my photograph I casually remarked that it's a good thing I'm not the kind of guy who, about now, would be standing there waving his arms and screaming. He didn't say anything. I'm not sure he heard me. Or maybe he was thinking how bitchin I looked in my 2x2-inch photo.
Probably not.
I don't think he was that impressed. I guess I just didn't come across as funny, or threatening, or bitchin. Anyway, I wasn't trying to be funny.
Then the clerk disappeared.
I had my credit card out, floating around. I had one stray floating photo, and that had to be recaptured too. And I had another piece or two of paper, plus two receipts, one for $110 and one for $25, signifying the two transactions, you know.
But I had no driver's license.
You have to bring one.
For identification.
I'd had it out, and I didn't want to lose it, because, you know....
And now I couldn't find it.
After a while the clerk came back and handed it to me. He had gone off to make a photocopy, which I hadn't known, because he's a mumbler. A really, really good mumbler.
In fact it was only then that I realized why I hadn't been able to understand any more than every third or fourth word. Because he must have been one of the best of the best. A mumbling instructor.
They ARE the best of the best.
I imagined him at the front of a room. A room full of chairs, and in each chair a fresh, shiny clerk in training, and he was teaching each of them how to talk like you talk when you have a whole cheeseburger in your mouth. But he didn't have one.
I know.
I had him open his mouth and stick out his tongue and there was no cheeseburger in there. Anywhere.
He's a pro.
I could never, ever be that good.
But we got past it. You lean how to do that in relationships, so we worked, and got past it.
Only one thing left.
For some reason he had to check my birth certificate and find my birth date. I'm not sure why. It could be his hobby. But he got it wrong. He found the date I applied to get the copy, which is on there, and it says "December 23, 2010".
And that confused him. I'm way too young.
I directed him to the birth date line but it still, to him, seemed wrong. Somehow.
I told him that I should write Harry Shearer about how my day went but I don't think he heard me. Or he didn't care. Or he thought I was bluffing. Or doesn't know who Harry Shearer is. Not that Harry Shearer would care.
I'm just this guy, you know?
But it passed. We moved on.
The clerk decided that my birth date was my birth date and read it out loud. Four or five times.
I began to feel proud. My birth date, I think, must be a really good one.
It may have been a first for his collection, especially since I'm from a very small, really goofy state that has more cow poop than electricity.
He seemed pleased by all this in his expressionless, mumbling way.
Almost done. I had only to gather up my collection of waste paper and receipts, and leave.
While I did this the clerk told me that the process will take three to five weeks. He said this at least four times, except that once he said four to six weeks.
I think he wanted to see if I was paying attention.
I was paying attention.
Helpfully, the clerk finally informed me that if I want to know about the progress of my passport application I can check the web site. I pull out my receipts, looking them over for a tracking number while asking if there is a tracking number I can use.
No.
I am free to go to the web site and search around. Somewhere. Somewhere at the web site of the State Department there will be a place that will tell me where to go, and then if I want to, I can go there.
Fine, I said. I'll keep that secret close to my heart.
I said this with feeling. And I will do it too. I will keep this secret so very close to my heart, and cuddle with it whenever I am feeling lost and hopeless, or chilly.
That was it. I was told I was done.
Next I get to meet the TSA. I can't wait. I hear they're nice.
But first, "Quit whining. It ain't that bad," someone said, over my shoulder.
And that is exactly what the clerk then repeated. In fact, those were the clearest words he spoke, to which I replied "Oh, yeah?"
Directly following this we engaged in a reasonably short arm wrestling tournament (best one out of one) to settle our differences, which we did, pretty quickly, although there was too much grunting and screaming for my taste.
Who won isn't relevant, but I'd like to say right now that these injuries are taking a lot longer to heal than I'd hoped. I can still barely even use a spoon to feed myself, let alone the cat.
I have no idea when this cat showed up. I didn't used to have a cat, but he's a good conversationalist, and has been nice about licking my scabs to keep them from cracking. He's a good napper too, which I admire.
Sir! Mr. Clerk, Sir! (I have to call him that from now on) and I did part amicably though (I am legally required to say that). In fact, in a gesture of magnanimity, or possibly of pity (either works for me) he let me test-lick a whole new line of stamps that will be available soon: peach, plum, persimmon, cinnamon-ginger beer, and spicy green apple, in handy denominations from 47.25 cents up through $22.37 (for those larger, fatter letters full of legal documents, and for passport applications).
So.
That's all taken care of.
Now I guess I just wait for the FBI to kick my door down.
If they don't, I'm free to go.
Have extra info to add?
If the commenting system is out again, then email sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Yeah, right.
ABORT ALL AND ON GOING TRANSACTION NOW (ADVISE) Wednesday, January 19, 2011 8:47 PM From: "Western Union Transfer Office" To: undisclosed-recipients Attention Sir/Ma, After proper and several investigations and research at Western Union and MoneyGram Office, we found your name in Western Union database amongst those that have sent money through Western Union to Nigeria and this proves that you have truly been swindled by those unscrupulous persons by sending money to them through Western Union/MoneyGram in the course of getting one fund or the other that is not real, right now we are working hand in hand with Western Union to track every fraudsters down, do not respond to their e-mails, letters and phone calls any longer as they are scammers and you should be very careful to avoid being a victim to fraudsters any longer because they have nothing to offer you but to rip-off what you have worked earnestly hard to earn. In this regard a meeting was held between the Board of Directors of The Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) and as a consequence of our investigations it was agreed that the sum of sixty thousand US Dollars (US$60,000.00) should be transferred to you out of the funds that Federal Government of Nigeria has set aside as a compensation to everyone who have by one way or the other sent money to fraudsters in Nigeria. ***Please note that we will no longer be liable for any loss, cost or expense whatsoever, suffered or incurred by You in connection with the fraudsters. Be warned! We have deposited your fund at Western Union Money Transfer agent location EMS Post office Lagos, Nigeria. We have submitted your details to them so that your fund can be transferred to you. We have paid the Registration and Transfer fees and for security reasons we have also insured your fund to avoid misappropriation. Contact the Western Union agent office through any of the email addresses stated below; Contact Person: Amaechi Eze Contact Email : westernxxxx@yahoo.com Contact Phone : +234-xxx-140-5177 Yours sincerely, James Dobson, Investigation Officer. (Spam adapts to the future.)
I have almost enough cameras to open my own store. And guess what?
No really. Just try. Guess what?
The lovely I-5 overpass, which keeps me safely out of traffic.
I haven't been using any of them for a long time.
I should use some of them, being virtually knee deep in the critters, but instead of listening to that small, insistent voice that's been telling me to get out, I've been living on Deaf Row, photographically speaking.
Lovely, efficient concrete. We have concrete here. You?
At least for the winter. Maybe things will change now that the leaves are back. Time to get in shape. Move around. Accomplish something.
Random ugly guy who follows me around.
Even lizards can do that much. My goal for this year is to be as active as a lizard. Or better, if I can manage it.
Pants.
Somebody lost his pants. Not me. I value my pants, and very seldom go anywhere without them. I guess the good thing about forgetting your pants though is that if you do, someone will let you know before you get too far. Not this guy. He must have been quick on his feet, because his pants have been here for months. The rest of his clothes too, something I do not recommend for winter, even in Warm Drizzle Land. But who am I to judge?
Breakfast crow.
So I have 11 cameras and somehow have been managing not to use any of them.* "This must end, Fool!" I'm thinking quietly to myself. I don't much walk around and talk to myself any more, though the arm waving part was kind of fun. No. I do not do that any more. Times have changed.
I have no idea how I managed this. I must be secretly talented.
The deal is now, you see people all over, talking to air friends. Yesterday there was this guy at the supermarket pushing a cart and confiding to empty space about how he shouldn't be saying any of this, and then blah-blah blah-blah blah-blah blah-blah blah-blah. He went past three times at full volume. I sincerely did not want to know. Like if he knew I heard, would he have to kill me too?
I was only there for the apples.
Please?
Bureaucrat Row. One of many infestations in this gummint town.
Even women and old people are doing this now. Some of them have things sticking out of their heads. They may in fact be pod people. I mean, this thing, coming out of the ear. You would sort of expect them to be less obvious.
Unless they had already taken over.
That's one reason I stay home a lot.
If they come for me there, at least they'll have to get through the door first.
And then there's my weasel.
So far it's been all quiet. My luck has held.
Or maybe there really is some protective value in a weasel. I have to hope, because I can't take the chance of test firing him, of draining off that blood lust in useless target practice and possibly leaving me with an amiable beady-eyed floppy-toy.
No. This guy will have to remain armed and unused until crunch time. I'll have to trust his killer instincts and try to get my part right, making sure he's fully alert when the time comes, and not asleep, having lunch, or defecating in a corner, and just as important if not more so, I must be absolutely sure that I get his business end pointed away from me.
Staying home and waiting is disquieting enough, but going out is much worse. You nearly have to drag me away.
Except for backpacking.
Even the drains have name tags now. I believe this one is Mo Dumping.
One of the really nice things about backpacking is that you don't see many pod people on the trail. Maybe the slugs get them, or the crows. Or it could be fungus.
We have a lot of fungi around here, and generally speaking if you don't bother it, it won't bother you.
Or if you don't lie down and stay still for too long. There is no official time limit, but you find out pretty fast if you've exceeded it. Also, never poke a fungus with a sharp stick and then lie down for a nap, even if you think that it's your friend. They really do not like it.
And friends don't poke friends. Not with a stick anyway.
The gray havens of our NIMBY overlords.
And the other thing is, if you get up early and go for a walk, you don't see too many.
Pod people.
Fungi are always there. Fungi never sleep, but as noted they tend to live and let live.
I would kill for a chance to see this well without glasses.
"So hey," I thought, "Let's take one of our many cameras and walk to the post office!" I (and/or "we") almost tingled with joy.
As a dorky shut-in this seemed like the height of boldness, but probably safe, if I kept my pants on the whole time.
And what better camera to take along than the teeny-tiny one I got that takes terrible photos? Taking that would re-acquaint me with it, and since the photos would be crummy no matter what, I could play all the way there and back again, and not worry, even about the pod people, because they don't get out of bed until later.
And since this camera is so small, I could call it ultralight get credit for that too, so before long I had my pants on and was ready to go (in the sense of "out the door").
Or even this well.
All in all I'd have to say that it was a nice walk. First I let my head fill with air and then I let it go.
Cryptic mystic symbols left for us by the Ancients.
You know, the way you blow up a rubber balloon and then let it run around the room to make the cat crazy. Or just because. Just because you have nothing else to do, or just because you do have something else to do, but want to prove that you can put it off because you really are that powerful.
If you haven't advanced to that level, it's a lot like staying in your underwear and eating nothing all day but ice cream and potato chips, without brushing your teeth even once. Complete control.
Ditto, with teeth. (And what looks like a ritual fungus.)
So there I was, tromping along this little leafy green path that we will soon have to tear out because it was built with socialist government tax money and will make us become depraved and eat each other's children and pets if we don't destroy it soon.
I myself do draw the line at pets though - I absolutely cannot stand the taste of fur or the way it gets stuck in my teeth.
So there I was, thinking about the old days when this was a working rail line and how, if society still made any sense it still could be. Could be providing jobs, generating profits, maintaining an export route along which our cut down old-growth forests could be shipped to far away lands where tiny people speaking a singsong language ground them to bits and made particle board which they sold back to us as cheap furniture for our cardboard-box houses under the bridge.
The way home.
Come to think of it, that's still happening, just not along this line, which is now a "greenway".
So maybe socialism is OK, at least for some things, and I won't have to eat the neighbor's cat. This week.
Yellow-backed pedal masher.
Well, after my head ran out of air I just trudged along and looked at stuff. And swung the camera around whenever the voices in my head said to, and pretty much had a good time despite the desperate world situation and all.
The ugly guy again. He seems to have picked up some neck wiring.
But all is not thoroughly safe.
A couple days back there were several demented deer on the trail. Considering that this trail runs nearly within spitting distance (if you are a better spitter than I am) of the major west-coast, north-south highway (you know, I think it may be the front teeth that do it) and is roaring with traffic day and night, year in and year out (in the sense that you need to have them), it's surprising that there are deer out here.
Oops. Glasses fell off again.
Even demented ones.
But then if you were a deer and lived here, you'd pretty well need to be demented.
BirdCam view of ugly guy just before the BirdCam operator nailed his hat.
Women get all wiggly over deer, and tend to squeak a lot. They do that with flowers too, even ones that haven't been killed yet, or even sanitized, but deer, well they have been called the cockroaches of the woods.
I guess by the people who know those things.
You know, the people (guys) who know all things, and would be impressed by nothing less than a herd of drunken shaved musk oxen doing a can-can. On roller skates.
Suspiciously vigorous leafy greens.
But still.
If you've ever gotten up partway through the night and taken a whizz into the bushes, not too far off because you don't, really don't, wish to go thrashing through the brush in the absolute dark, way out there somewhere, all alone, and then, just about the time you get back into your sleeping bag, a deer with a really bad attitude comes over to groove on your urine, and stands around snorting and stomping its hooves and generally making an aggressive, threatening racket, like it expects you to (a) clear the hell out of there and let it lap in peace, or (b) come right back outside again and piss some more, and make it salty this time, then you genuinely do want deer to be like cockroaches so you can put your boots on and go out there and do some stompin' of your own.
Pond-O-Slime (and dead stuff).
But besides that you learn how demented deer can be.
And they can be. Especially around quality urine.
So last time, a couple days back there I was, doing my routine trudge back from the post office when this deer clops across the trail ahead of me, coming out of a sort of marshy, mucky tangle of brush and willows all full of sucking sounds and no doubt populated by many, many things that I never want to have dinner with, considering the many beaks and probes and claws and feelers and sucking parts and all, and it (the deer) goes up the bank on the right side, and OK. Fine.
Then another one follows it. OK guys. Done yet?
No, because there's a third one. Cloppity-clop. Up over the bank too.
If truth is beauty, this must be totally false.
It was about then that I began thinking of cameras. Because hey. You never know when you'll meet someone who might be impressed by a picture of a deer running around. Running around what is officially inside the city limits.
But the trick with photography is the having-the-camera part.
Because hey (to repeat this for emphasis) you can't make a camera out of sticks the way you can with fire. Although, granted, even with fire you do have to know what you're doing, but you can, when in need, do it.
Outer wall of a large, suspicious building hidden behind a small, but equally suspicious sapling.
So then, to rub it in, a bit farther on, the deer came zooming from right to left. One. Two. Three. I know this because I still have enough fingers to count that high, which I did, on the spot, and haven't washed them since.
And then, rubbing it in harder, and producing a sort of mental rash that I still haven't quite gotten over, they come out ahead of me again, from left to right, and nearly clobber a cyclist. "Big deal," you may say, "We could do with a few less cyclists around here." Or would one need to say "a few fewer cyclists"? Or simply "fewer cyclists"? I guess the ungenerous thought is "not so many of those ludicrous, panting fools".
But I digress. The point follows...
Right away you see the difference between rubbing sticks together and capturing for posterity even a few photons rebounding from a ruminant's rump.
Crowbot eyeing the ugly guy who is, however, too bony to make a good stew.
So today, having completely forgotten all about the deer, I go in to check my mail, but with the key difference that THIS time I HAVE a camera, in working order and all, though it is a very tiny one with a plastic lens and barely works at all, but is still nevertheless a camera and does sort of work in its own disturbing and wildly unpredictable way, and I don't see any deer, nor do I want to, or anything. (In case you mistakenly thought that this was the point. It isn't.)
All I wanted to do was go get my damn mail and turn the camera's crank a few times while walking along and take whatever came out the back end, all of which I did, and had a pretty good time of it, which I had to do because I don't really have any friends unless you count dust bunnies, but they don't even have eyes, although I did see a real bunny today, but, as with most of his kind, it proved to be both quicker AND (very important point here) smarter than the guy who's typing this, so no, I didn't get a photo of the bunny either.
Just some plants, some cars, a cyclist, and the unliving undead walking guy, etc., as shown here.
* I just got another one today. Anybody want to buy some used cameras?
Excellent Letter From Mr William Patricks For the benefit of our both Family.
From Mr Williams Patricks,
Director Incharge of Dept Recovery Department In Bank Of Africa (b.o.a) Ouagadougou Burkina Faso.
West Africa. Dear Partner,
This is an Excellent Letter from Mr Williams Patricks the chief auditor incharge of debt recovery department section in bank of africa (B.O.A). ouagadougou burkina faso west africa.
My dear partner in advance,I presumed that all is well with you and your family,
Please let this do not be a surprise proposal to you because i got your contact information from the international directory in few weeks ago before i decided to contact you on this magnitude and lucrative transaction for our future survival in life.Moreover, I have laid all the solemn trust in you before i decided to disclose this successful & confidential Project to you.
I am Mr Williams Patricks the chief auditor incharge of debt recovery department section in foreign remittance department in our bank and i have had the intent to contact you over this financial project worth the sum of thirty one million, united states dollars ($31,000,000.00 ) for our success.
This is an abandoned sum that belongs to one of our bank foreign customers who died along with his entire family through plane crash disaster since few years ago.Meanwhile i was very fortune to came across the deceased file when i was arranging the old and abandoned customers files in other to sign and submit to the entire bank management for an official re-documentations after the audit meeting 2009.
Please be informed clearly that it was stated in our banking rules and regulations which was signed lawfully that if such fund remains unclaimed till the period of 8 years started from the date when the beneficiary died, the money will be transferred into the treasury as an unclaimed fund.
As an honour and advantage bestowed to our foreign customers base on the rules guideing our bank, it was stated obviously that if you are not a burkina faso citizen, You have the absolute authority to claim the fund hence you are a foreigner despite your differences from the country of origin of the deceased.So the request of you as a foreigner is necessary to apply for the claim and transfer of the fund smoothly into your reliable bank account as the next of kin or extended relative to the deceased.
On the transfer of this fund into your account, { 35% } will be your share in respect of the account provision and your assistance rendered during the transfer of the fund into your bank account and 45% will be my share being the codinator of the Project. and10%will be for the expencies that will occure during the Project.while 10 % will be shared to the respectable organisations centers such as charity organisation, motherless babies homes, and helpless disabled people in the world.
If you are really sure of your trustworthy, accountability and confidentiality on this Project, contact me and agree that you will not change your mind to cheat or disappoint me when the fund have getting into your account.
Besides you should not entertain any fear because i am sure of the success as an insider in the bank ok.Please reply through my private Email adress below williamspatricks@[redacted].com with the assurance, include your private telephone and fax numbers necessary to facilitate an easy communications in this transaction as soon as you reply so that i will let you know the next step to follow in order to finalize this Project immediately.I expect your urgent communications.
Yours sincerely MR WILLIAMS.
[Maybe you got one of these too. If not, enjoy mine.]
It's a basic rule of life that you can learn from others.
Well, no, not a rule. Exactly.
Rules all are published in books, aren't they? And each and every one of those books is a textbook. Right? And each textbook is one you have had your nosed stuffed into in grade school. Of course. Otherwise it isn't a rule. Because rules are important. So important that they are voted on by huge committees of sighing adults, whose entire lives are taken up by the process, and who regard their doings with the utmost respect. And so keep doing those doings until they fall over from either age or exhaustion. Or sometimes, perhaps, from lack of food. So important is the process.
And each item output from the committee is printed posthaste, in a list, in a book, and that book, those books, are distributed immediately. Because of the extreme importance.
These are the rules, after all, and need to be out there.
And one of these rules, near the top of the list, is the one that says you can learn from others. Mostly, I believe, if I've got it right, if I remember it right, is that each and every one of us is required to learn almost every single thing from our parents.
You know who they are.
That's the beauty of it. Parents are handy, and they get paid to bring up loads and loads of children. Messy, loud, vagrant children, sprawling every which way and running into things and making them sticky. Parents have to deal with all this because it is a requirement of the job. And to make up for that, and because of the high rate of pay among parents as well, they inculcate us with the rules.
Of course not all of them work well. Parents. Some parents are faulty, or behind the times. Some simply don't care, or have the right tools. This is true, and this is sad, but this is life. We all live it from time to time, life. And those who live learn. The two go together.
If not from our parents then, we must learn from others.
And that brings us to Mil Millington. And Margret. And "Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About". The only real guide any man would ever need in life. To be honest about it.
Sorry, parents. But this is done better than you can do.
It is one giant web page. If you define "giant" as being full of words. Ask me, it ain't half long enough. And no longer maintained. He had a mailing list, and though I joined it way late, I still got a couple of updates, but it appears that is over now.
Owell.
He has books. "A Certain Chemistry" is my only confirmed read so far. But I do have a copy of "Love and Other Near Death Experiences". The local library has been generous and has agreed to loan me the second one, now that I've returned the first. Or they didn't recognize that it was me again. Doesn't matter as long as I have the book, and a working lock on my front door. It's mine for a couple of weeks and they won't get it back until I'm done.
And I mean that.
Meanwhile, if you can read, and if you can read with little pain and so on, try "Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About". There's a link at the end of this page. It will do you good. Your parents should rest easier knowing that you're getting honest instruction, especially if they're still alive. Because at minimum, if you are busy reading, you will have no idea which direction they took while sneaking away.
So, a sample:
What Margret and I have, essentially, is a Mexican stand-off with love instead of guns. OK, yes, sometimes there are guns too. The important thing is the mindset, though. Sure, people can argue about important issues, that's fine, good luck to them I say. But where, I ask you, are those people when you take away the meaningful sources of disagreement? Lost. Utterly lost. Let me illustrate the common mistakes amateurs might make using something that happened the other week. You will need:
Margret.
Me.
A roast chicken.
We're having tea and on the table are the plates, a selection of vegetables and a roast chicken in an incredibly hot metal baking tray. Getting this chicken to the table has been an heroic race that ended only fractions of a second short of a major skin graft. Due to this haste it is, however, not sitting precisely centrally on the coaster. Some kind of weird, hippie, neo-Buddhist couple might have failed even at this point and simply got on with eating the meal. Fortunately, Margret is there to become loudly agitated that radiant heat might creep past the edge of the coaster, through the table cloth, through the protective insulating sheet under the table cloth, and affect the second-hand table itself. She shouts and wails. I nudge the tray into the centre of the coaster, but, in doing so, about half a teaspoon of the gravy spills over the side onto the table cloth. Outside birds fall mute, mid-song. Inside, frozen in time, the camera swings around us sitting at the table, like in The Matrix.
'What the hell did you do that for? Quick, clean it up - quick,' insists Margret (where an amateur would have, say, shrugged).
'No,' I reply (at the moment when another amateur would have been returning from the kitchen with a cloth), 'I'm eating my tea. I'm going to sit here and eat my tea. Then I'll clean it up.'
'No, clean it up now.'
'No.'
'Yes.'
'No. I'm going to eat my tea first.'
'Clean it up now.'
A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, so a couple of semi-pros might have worked this up into a shouting match. But I am not about to stoop to childish name-calling. Instead I lift up the tray and pour some more gravy onto the table.
'OK?' I say, 'Now stop it. I'll clean it up after.'
'Clean it up now.'
I tip a little more gravy onto the table.
'I'm just going to keep doing it every time you say that. I'll clean it up later.'
'Do it now.'
More gravy.
'Now.'
More gravy.
This continues until we run out of gravy.
I must make it clear that my actions here seemed perfectly rational at the time. I've mulled them over since, of course, and am relieved to find that they still hold up to examination: it's pleasing to know I can make good decisions under pressure. Anyway, we eat the meal from a table awash with gravy. I am happy to have argued my point persuasively. Margret has a smile fixed to her face due to the belief (incorrect, yes, but it's only her enjoyment that matters) that I've clearly done something hugely stupid that she can bring up later in any number of arguments - possibly years from now. Everyone wins. We eat, united in contentment. I clean up the table.
Do you see? I want everyone to try this out at home and write me a report for next week.
Once again I find myself behind the times. Hey, I could claim to be on top of things, then walk around like I had an ego up my butt, you know, sort of sniffing at some higher air, but I'd still be clueless. Just like most of us.
Out of curiosity yesterday or out of boredom I hunted for news of my high school class. They should have had a reunion last year. I'd like to wait until my 50th before actually attending a high school reunion. By then I'd finally have something worthwhile to talk about. No, I'm not working on my portable, safe, back yard fusion reactor which needs only a few more months, or a year, two or three years, tops, before it's ready, and will sell for $27.50, or no more than $57.75, worst case. I'm talking about surviving. Getting old, getting past all the early crap, and talking to anyone else who has made it. By then we won't care about trying to impress anyone. There was a good quote that floated by a month or two back, but I let it go by without making a note. It was something like: When you are young you are obsessed about what people think of you. At middle age you are proud to show others that you are doing things your way. In later years you realize that no one ever even noticed you.
That's when I want to get there. When things have cooled down to a nice even glow.
I didn't locate anything about my class. I even hate to think of "my class". Buncha losers. But I did find a rudimentary web site devoted to an annual reunion of all classes at the high school I attended.
Right. They've taken to forming an annual herd in the gym for some reason. The photos were more depressing that the reality would have been. No life in them. In a real situation there is always at least one good looking woman, or some guy telling a joke. Some life. Not in the photo. They were all standing like zombies and most of them were old. Sure, lots of them were from classes even before mine, but I realized that a lot of the people there would look like my former classmates now look. Not like me. I can still scare people occasionally. I used to pass for someone 15 to 20 years younger than I was. Not quite so much any more, but aside from some gray hairs in my beard and nose and a few more wrinkles around the eyes I don't look any older than some hard-ridden 35 year olds. Which in itself could be a good reason to attend a high school reunion. Be surrounded by people your own age who look old enough to be your parents. Who cares if you've never amounted to much. Get old enough and people stop caring how many toys they have, or how big the house is and start fearing death. So if you're youngish looking and in good health you've got them aced.
The main thing is, though, as dumb and slow as I am, these people were a lot worse off, the ones in the photo. They made a point of going and congealing into a puddle inside an old high school gym with other losers so they could stand and listen to the rancid old school fight song and feel like they still belonged to something. Mindless. Pointless. Like me, true, but more so.
I keep missing opportunities but yet I'm not quite as pathetic as they are. Just sort of pathetic.
You get an idea how dumb you are when you hear a really good comedian, or read a stellar novel, or sit through a movie so compelling that you forget to breathe. Especially the comedians, who can take something absolutely ordinary make it bizarre and alien. And make stuff shoot out your nose. Try it sometime. Go grocery shopping and stop in front of the canned beets and come up with a five minute monologue that will make people go crazy. That is genius. It is not easy.
Sometimes you can be sort of bright and sort of creative and pay close attention and come up with something worthwhile, or at least grab it when it goes by. The really great ones, the masters, the geniuses among us, pull things out of blank, empty space. I don't think I'll do that even once. But maybe if I pay enough attention, maybe then, just once, please, I might be able to grab something when it swims by.
Like Eric Nakagawa, "a software developer in Hawaii, [who] posted a single photo of a fat, smiling cat he found on the Internet, with the caption, "I can has cheezburger?" in January, 2007, at a Web site he created. It was supposed to be a joke. Soon after he posted a few more images in the same vein: cute cats with funny captions written in a silly, invented hybrid of Internet shorthand and baby-talk. Then he turned the site into a blog, so that visitors could comment on the postings. What happened after that would have been hard for anyone to predict." So saith Business Week. Now that can't be hard, can it? I mean, even I could do that. I hear that he was unemployed at the time and first hosted "I Can Has Cheezburger?" on a $6.95 per month site. And this was January, 2007. Not long ago. Very late in life for the internet. You would have expected this around 1993 maybe. But even by the late 1990s you normally didn't get much beyond Hampsterdance. Somehow. Things are speeding up.
The boys who did YouTube weren't the first to do web videos. They just got something right, or reintroduced the right idea at the right moment. Something. I, like you, am still clueless.
By July of 2007 "I Can Has Cheezburger?" was pulling in around $5,600 a month and made it to number 26 on the most-linked-to blogs list on Technorati.
I could handle that.
Maybe I'm not paying attention. In fact I'm sure of it, or I would be rolling in dough right at this moment.
So instead I listened to "Ben Huh Chief Cheezeburger On The ShoeMoney Show", an audio recording of an interview with the new cheez head. Eric Nakagawa and his partner sold out. The site now belongs to Ben Huh. He has eight staff: three moderators/posters, two full time developers, two part time developers, and one editor. The site gets 7000 submissions a day, of which about six see daylight. It gets around two million hits a day, and 80% of them are direct, coming from people who know where they are going, and go there directly, with great vigor. The staff is totally focused on making the site interesting and easy to use. This is smart since the visitors provide the content.
How about a great business model? It's spreading to all sorts of businesses. The average person gets a thrill when something they submit is used. Then the site owner gets the money. And then everyone is happy.
Now there are three sister sites as well: "Loldogs 'n' Cute Puppies" (dogs), "Pundit Kitchen" (politics), and "Graph Jam" (stories told through graphs).
One moral of the story I got from the ShoeMoney interview: have fun. Maybe you could call it a business plan.
I've heard this one before. A big problem, maybe the biggest, is to break out of one's own prison. Your thoughts keep you boxed in, and that's why most of us never start those new businesses or shock people with originality. Here's the rule: If you start out to have fun you will, and maybe make money too. If you set out only to make money you probably won't do that, or have fun either. There is a reason why we go through life seeing only the ordinary, being only ordinary. Because we have to. No one can be creative every minute. You can't question every assumption, every social convention, every habit all the time. People blind since birth who have been given sight as adults can't handle it. Their nervous systems don't know what to ignore, so they get a lot of noise but can't pick out the signal.
The way to do something original is to destroy part of your life but not too much of it. You can't be either totally creative or totally mundane. Either way you will die. Explode from overload or expire from boredom. The right way seems to be to get to a level adequate to handle the mandatory needs of life, and then to engage in extraordinary play with the rest.
Now just let me go back in time about two years and see if I can get to this cheezburger thing first. Then I will be the one going home with the golden hairball.
I have finally succeeded in finding someone weirder than I am.
I am not weird. I am unique. I am special. I am fun, and inquisitive, though I have secrets. Very special secrets that I will not tell you about because that would make me just like you. And maybe I don't want to either like you or to be like you, and maybe not have you like me either. Also, being honest here, just why would you be interested in any of my secrets anyway?
Are they really secrets or am I just being private? Is that allowed anymore?
Maybe that's enough, the just wanting privacy thing. People think that if you like being anonymous and quiet and sort of staying over there at the edge where things are calm and no one asks you to do things you don't want to, that you have a disability, a "secret", and then they want to "know" it, and bug you about it. Which ruins all the fun of either being private or having secrets, or of both having secrets and keeping your own thoughts in a carefully tended garden where they can play without being loudly hooted at by boors with bad breath and sticky fingers. Maybe it was my friend Arnie who first clued me in to this. It is my first memory of the difference between me and normal people. I was still in grade school, the lower grades, and hence very young in today's terms, since today is several decades farther on. Arnie was over at my place one day. Come to think of it now, we moved out of that place around the time I was 10, and I don't recall my sister, who was born when I was eight, so we're looking back through a long time tunnel.
Arnie and I were playing Chinese checkers and eating candy. I think I noticed that some of the marbles were sticky. Arnie did it.
Right there, that was it. He had sticky fingers. This is something that I have strenuously avoided my whole life, even then. I could not believe that he would let his fingers get sticky, or put up with it once it happened. He said it didn't bother him, so I tried it. I got so sticky that I could hardly spread my fingers. You could almost hear the velcro rip as I pulled the fingers apart, then allowed them to magnetically back together again, and then repeated the cycle.
I think that Arnie did wash his hands before he went home, but I did it almost immediately, after 15 minutes or so of trying on stickiness for size. It didn't work for me then and doesn't now.
I don't like getting stuck in things, especially the thoughts of others. Don't like ceremony or routine. My most hated word is "should", most hated phrase is "supposed to". I like taking a clean look at things and coming to my own conclusions, which is one reason I didn't do any research papers in college.
Luckily I was able to get by. No one really demanded any, but it was an option. I preferred to go the other way, to do my own reading directly from original sources, do my own thinking, and then write down my thoughts. Good thing that I was in literature instead of sociology or history. Not like today, when teachers demand research, and students then pay others halfway around the world to whip up something, or cut and paste from Wikipedia. There was cheating way back when, but I never saw the point. I was paying for the pain, might as well attain the gain. No one ever came close to pretending that I ever, ever could have stolen words elsewhere. Because they were original. That was obvious.
Because they were weird.
That's another word I hate. Weird. My sister gets a pass. She can say it. She has paid her dues, and I owe her apologies for many things, so she gets in free. If you say it you might go home with a bloody mouth and swollen lips. Just because. Just because you're an idiot. At least say something that requires a few seconds of thought. Please. It will be easier all around. And I won't have to go to jail to get my point across succinctly. So there I am, being original in my own sort of way, a legend in my own mind, which is not too bad considering that people will get all freaky if you tell them you have enough clothes to do laundry once a month. How stupid are they?
And this one wasn't my idea, it came from a friend who once confided that he'd bought enough socks and underwear to go two weeks. A month is a whole lot better, so I customized his method. Sometimes I can stretch to five or six weeks with a bit of judicious hand laundering. Once you've stopped spending two hours every week doing laundry you gain a new perspective. One month's laundry takes maybe two and a half hours. Compare that to about nine hours the old way.
But an idiot will say, of course, "That's weird". Which is equivalent to saying, "I'm a total idiot and I've never had a thought or emotion unique to me. All I know is what I see on TV, so I'll go ahead and bray now", or of just standing there and drooling while staring at the wall, waiting for instructions.
So if you (yes even you) go off half cocked, fully cocked or otherwise and do something not even remotely original but only uncommon or even unexpected, then you will see the whole flock pivot to face you and quack and gabble in unison, "That's weird", and then stand there, waiting for you to burst into flame and quit annoying them by being not what they all are.
Which is a good reason to keep to yourself. Which will inspire more unique thinking. Which will trigger more idiots to gabble and drool.
Which is tolerable in a way, but they can be dangerous in groups, if challenged, or if simply startled too suddenly by originality.
This is the story of my life. But now we have the internet, so now it's possible to run across things that force you to admit that there are people out there more original and more creative, harder working, odder, stranger, more wonderful and scary than you could ever be. And they even provide (1) photos, and (2) stepwise instructions. Right now, I can honestly say that I have no idea how I found the mouse mouse. Maybe it was a couple of weeks ago when I was searching for video clips of how to make and use lightweight backpacking stoves for my other blog. Somehow I can't quite remember the connection, but bing! there was a picture of a mouse with a mouse inside it.
This was the interface of electronics and taxidermy, of computing and biology, of irony and butchery. Someone stuffed a dead mouse with a computer mouse, and posted the results for the world to see.
I wouldn't have done that, probably, but I sent it to my sister. She needed to see it.
Hey lookee, kid, I didn't do this, but someone did, and they're weirder than I am. I'm not weird if you'll recall but in case you need proof again, here it is, kid.
I haven't heard from her. I'm sure she liked it in her own way. I didn't dig through the details but only looked at the photos and she probably never visited the Instructables web site, but she had proof. One or two photos included with the email would have been enough. Remember now, I'm not weird, right? I know I'm your brother and I spook you every now and then, but lookee here, this is really weird, right? I mean. Look, eegh.
For good measure, and in the interests of providing balanced coverage, and also to prove that compared to the rest of the world, even to little girls, I'm pretty harmless after all, I sent another URL and another photo or two on mouse taxidermy (amateur, home-style, kitchen table hacking) showing a young girl holding up two dead and dried mice in costume. She seems pretty happy about it. The girl in the pictures, not my sister, who still hasn't responded. She seems to think it's normal and fun, the girl.
This could be true where she comes from. Who can say?
I myself, having thought it through have decided not to call it weird. (What in hell is that word even supposed to mean anyway?) But to think of it as possibly gruesome and perverse (which can be a fun way to label other people), or maybe only as unnecessarily strange. I say "strange" as in unfathomable.
I like little things. I especially like rodents, and kept hamsters for years. But live, playful, healthy and happy hamsters, and respectfully buried them when they wore out. Given that keeping a pet often involves imprisonment, especially for small animals, I always regarded keeping a pet as involving a sacred contract. In turn for imprisoning a hamster, who would gladly have run off to be suddenly eaten if given the chance, it was my responsibility to give it the best and most solicitous care that I could, first to make up for the evil that I did by keeping it in a cage and then because it deserved the most interesting life I could imagine for it in payment for depriving it of its natural entertainment by running free and dying young.
None of this, in my book, involves killing an animal, hacking it up, and stitching it back together around a miniature computer mouse. Or stuffing if full of LEDs and batteries. Or dressing its tiny dead body in tiny crude costumes and playing house.
So OK, there they are, playing with their dead things. I hope my sister is happy now.
ABORT ALL AND ON GOING TRANSACTION NOW (ADVISE) 
