Mellomutt

Sitting Tricks [VIDEO]

2011-02-16T20:07:00.000-08:00

Maybe sitting around with some friends, not in your right mind, "Be cool if they could make a sport where you could just sit." "Dude...totally." Your thoughts in the comments.

Better Blogger Importer: Wordpress Plugin

2009-12-06T15:55:00.000-08:00

Download Better Blogger Importer Here

Created this blogger importer plugin for WordPress because the one that comes with WP, blogger.php, was ignoring comments. It could be because the client needed to import tens of thousands of comments and blogger is simply failing (which also happens if we attempted to simply export as a file from blogger).

So I made this. It allows you to pick a month and a year, then it'll grab the posts and comments for that month. It will ignore duplicates, so it can be run over and over again. Hopefully, it'll help someone else. Use at your own risk. I recommend doing your own testing and dry runs first.

To get it going:

It requires the Zend GData Framework installed on your server. Can find instructions for installation there as well. For myself, it was simply a matter of adding the path to the GData library to the PATH environment variable. Really surprised and pleased at how easy it was. Your mileage may vary.
You have to edit the plugin first. It requires a blogger username and password. Open the file in your editor of choice and search the source code for "monalisa25@gmail.com" without the quotes. You'll find two vars: $bloggeruser and $bloggerpass. Put in the appropriate values.
Place the file in the /wp-admin/import/ directory of your WordPress installation and upload.
Browse to your WordPress admin Import section. Should see Better Blogger Importer as an option.
First, it'll ask you to select a blog. Do so. (Some ppl have more than one under the same account.)
Now, it'll ask for a month and a year. Select your choices and hit Submit.
When it's finished, you should get a small report with the posts and comments tally. Again, it'll check to see if a post or comment already exists, and if so, will skip it.

You may notice how ugly the code is. There was a sense of urgency during its creation, and as long as it worked, no one seemed too picky. Besides, it was my first foray into WordPress plugins and the gdata framework. So suck it.

I'm sure someone out there can make this thing rock in ways I can only imagine.

Good luck! Hope this helps someone.

-Jason

Edit/Update:

Two issues have cropped when moving to production server:

Problem: the Zend GData library couldn't be found. (I thought it had been installed).

Solution: You need to upload the Zend library, then let your script know where it is.

So...I downloaded the library from here. Using WinRar, I extracted only the /library/ folder into the root of the site which gave me .../webroot/ZendGData-X.X.X/library. I renamed ZendGData-X.X.X to ZendGData (for simplicity's sake).
Next, I determine the absolute path of the web directory by uploading a temporary script that printed out $_SERVER['DOCUMENT_ROOT']. Using this, I came up with this path:

/var/www/vhosts/examplesite.com/httpdocs/

Use that path to craft this bit of code:

$zendpath = "/var/www/vhosts/examplesite.com/httpdocs/ZendGdata/library/";
set_include_path(get_include_path() . PATH_SEPARATOR . $zendpath);

Put that code just above the require_once 'Zend/Loader.php'; line in the betterblogger.php script. It should look something like this:

$zendpath = "/var/www/vhosts/examplesite.com/httpdocs/ZendGdata/library/";
set_include_path(get_include_path() . PATH_SEPARATOR . $zendpath);
require_once 'Zend/Loader.php';

That should tell your script where the Zend GData library is located.

Cool. But.

Hit another error.

Problem: Don't remember.

Solution: You may have to add this line to the betterblogger.php script:

Zend_Loader :: loadClass('Zend_Gdata_Feed');

And add it just below this line: Zend_Loader::loadClass('Zend_Gdata_ClientLogin');

So it should look like this in the script:

Zend_Loader::loadClass('Zend_Gdata_ClientLogin');

Zend_Loader :: loadClass('Zend_Gdata_Feed');

That fixed everything for me on this separate, evil server.

Ken Pierson of Habitat for Humanity is a Dick, IMHO

2008-01-01T02:21:00.000-08:00

I'm copy-pasting an email I recently received. I was given permission to post this as long as I kept the informant's contact info confidential. I'm not responsible for the comments, opinions, facts, etc. that follow.

"I wanted an extra job. I'm a software developer but I'm freelance. I was a network administrator. A database administrator. I created training manuals and taught classes in the use of various software applications. I manage 22 websites.

My money comes infrequently from the freelance tasks, regularly from ads on the websites. Not a lot of money at all. So another job would be good.

But not just any job. I felt that a job with a charitable organization would not only satisfy my bank account, but my human spirit.

It was a warehouse job.

Prerequisite: Be able to lift 75 lbs. Be able to follow instructions.

Details: Apply in person at the Habitat for Humanity of Moore County, NC.

I printed up my resume, knowing it would have no real bearing on the job, but should indicate that I do have a capacity for following instructions. I mean, I'm a programmer for frak's sake. But a resume might indicate that I'm a serious person going about serious business.

So I show up at the office for Habitat for Humanity, resume in hand. They tell me to go next door and ask for one of two people.

They get Ken to show up and I ask him about the job vacancy as I pass him my resume.

He refuses to accept the resume. Instead, he leads me to a room and pulls a paper from a cabinet drawer. He never smiles. He never winks or nods or shakes my hand. He hands me the paper and talks to me like I'm mildly retarded, "This is an application. You need to fill it out front and back. Then you need to go to the clerk of court, get them to give you your criminal history. It'll cost $15. Get a receipt. Bring it back here, and regardless of what happens, we'll reimburse the $15."

He hands me the paper and walks away before I can ask any questions about the job. Questions like, "How much does it pay? What exactly are the hours? Are weekends involved? Do I need to purchase any special gear? Is there a lifting test prior to job placement? What's the corporate culture like?"

The entire experience was less than 5 minutes in length.

So I'm driving back home in my nice applying-for-a-new-job clothes-and-shoes, smelling good and feeling fresh, and I'm thinking about the task I was given.

It'd take an hour's worth of driving just to get to the clerk of court and back. He never mentioned anything about paying for the gas. Then there's the time out of my life I'd spend AT the clerk of court's department. That'd be a nightmare. It always is for me. Without exception, I somehow manage to always confuse bureaucracy. I don't have a criminal record, other than some traffic violations that are years in the past. But they'd manage to tell me, "Oh they moved random records to a holding facility in Kansas and yours happens to be part of that as there was no recent activity on them lol! It'll take 6 to 8 weeks for copies to get here." "Could they just fax them?" "Flax?! LOL"

So I deliberate for a day or so. I decided that I needed answers before I would accept the challenge. I called Ken at the Habitat warehouse.

"Hi, this is Jason. I was interested in the warehouse job, but I had some questions."

He pauses for just a second.

"Didn't you read the ad in the paper?"

"Online, actually, but yeah. However, it never said anything about wages."

He pauses again. (This pause somehow makes me feel guilty, like they were looking for someone who would cart things around just to make their hearts happy and remuneration be damned, but they would offer token payment so everyone would feel good).

He says:

"$8 an hour."

And then he hangs up.

He hung up on me.

They must have wanted someone who didn't care about pay.

So I met Ken twice. Once in person, and once over the phone. He was a bit of a dick both times. Well, to be honest, he was a complete dick the second time. I'm sure there's stress, and there are expectations of a person in his position. But it doesn't matter to me. I don't want to work for him, regardless of the excuses. He's running a charity warehouse. I think he doesn't see the bigger picture. I had a bunch of books (nearly a hundred) that I considered giving to charity. I've purchased my share of books from the Habitat store and had often considered donating. I sold what books I could through eBay and used book stores, but there were some that weren't purchasable because they were alread prevalent on the shelves. I was familiar with the book inventory at Habitat, so I knew they could use them. I thought I'd bring them in on my first day. Sure, I'd look like a kiss-ass, but you can't deny that I would have enriched their inventory, increased sales, further helped the homeless.

But thanks to Ken, I sold them to a used book store instead.

Here's to Ken, a stranger in a position of authority, a real bastard, a dark face on a charitable organization."

Watch Battlestar Galactica Season 3 Episodes 1 through 11

2007-12-31T22:40:00.001-08:00

GWIMB - Immediately Shitty

2007-12-30T17:47:00.000-08:00

So he kicks off his muddy boots just inside the door.

Cooks some chili and leaves it out.

And leaves all his dishes in the sink.

I Understand Drugs and Alcohol

2007-11-23T22:05:00.000-08:00

It's taking a vacation without going anywhere. It's easy to type that, but I have an argument to back it up.

I think that who you are at the core remains basically intact while under the influence of drugs and alcohol.

Sure, you can be stripped of restraint but that doesn't allow you to say "It made me do this or that".

It ALLOWS you to do what you really wanted to do anyway. It doesn't MAKE you do anything. The you that is you is always there.

Some people use drugs and alcohol as an excuse. They want to say or do something, so they use, then do what they will, always knowing that their poison of choice can be used to explain away their behaviour. Chronic abusers, who've already been in trouble over their use of judgment-altering chemicals and despite knowing that they do things that hurt themselves and others, will partake of their poison again, deciding that it's worth it.

It is a great excuse, a great facilitator. It can be purging and satisfying, can clear the air. It can also reveal people for who they are. When you are exposed to their uninhibited thoughts, it can reveal their self-righteousness, their personal demons, their longings, their weaknesses. It can be a raw and brutal honesty: ugly or enlightening or both.

Oh, it does alter you. But everyone is affected differently. But why is that? Various amounts can be consumed and yet those who should be more severely affected still retain a sense of civility while chronic users can take a mere fraction of that amount and become a sower of chaos.

The thing is, it doesn't surprise us. Some people seem to be tempered: either by experience, tolerance levels, wisdom, common sense, or simple courtesy. This goes down to their core and it would take a vast dose of elephant-disabling drugs to purge them of these self-defining characteristics.

Others find these social-lubricating qualities to be arbitrary restrictions and consider drugs and alcohol to be their liberators. They seethe at the seams, waiting for an excuse to be who they are at the core. You probably know them. Their jokes and asides always have an element of cruelty. They appreciate very little. They accept favors and gifts as due, or that these favors or gifts were given with an ulterior motive. These people are assholes waiting to happen.

Perhaps they find nothing in themselves to value, and so value nothing in others.

I don't like to hurt people. My motivation is basically selfish: I don't like people hurting me. There are entire treatises on the philosophy of selfishness, and how selfishness is the basis of even the most altruistic ventures.

It doesn't take page upon page of argument, metaphor and analogy to tell me that I'm motivated by my personal desires. If I give something, I only do it because I'm getting something in return, even if that reciprocal gift is merely my happiness with myself for doing so. Or maybe because the way I'd feel for not doing or giving something makes me feel less than happy, guilty even. Either way, in the end, it's all about me.

I had stayed dry for a bit. I had a reason, but it wasn't that important. I think too much, and get depressed and suicidal. I found I didn't sit around plotting murder, mine and others, when I felt the glee of alcohol in my veins. But after a dry spell, I start wondering how much longer I have to wake up to this shit.

So I said fuck it. I'm not hurting anyone by drinking, just me. If that shortens my time here, all the better, and in the meantime I get a chemical-semblance of joy.

So after a dry-spell, I take some shots, and I get back to my vacation/core-person theory.

I still feel like me, but the environment has changed. I know it's a result of my body's perceptions being distorted by a foreign chemical, but that bit of me that is me acknowledges that the world I perceive has been altered. So I am still here, just in a body whose wiring has been kinked.

Before, while sober, going to the bathroom meant taking off my headphones and heading toward the bathroom, my thoughts still on whatever project with which I was dealing.

While under the influence, the very act of getting up and heading down the hallway becomes an adventure in a strange, new world. The hallway is longer and darker than remembered, the walls are closer but taller. Even the color of the tiles spark thoughts in my head: it's like a a trillion morning glory flowers had been compressed into water-resistant blocks. If I concentrate, I can feel the sunlight they absorbed while they were alive trickling up through my feet. I know the tiles are ceramic, but entertaining these more romantic notions becomes easier, whereas I'd usually dismiss them as nonsense. The world is more interesting when I'm not sober.

Why do I have to drink to have these more-interesting thoughts?

Why do I have suicidal thoughts when I'm sober?

I'm aware of the perception-altering properties of certain molecules. I mean, 'taking a trip' especially made alot of sense in the context of LSD consumption. I've been there. What strikes me tonight, is the compunction. The desire. I could spend tons of dough and take a literal, physical vacation, ESCAPE. A BREAK. A HIATUS. Everyone wants to do it. A new start, a fresh beginning. Scrape off the old, embrace the new. Fresh sights, fresh smells, new ideas, new faces, new everything.

I could be enduring a long drive complete with crazy drivers coming at me at high speeds, crazy drivers passing me at high speeds only to meet up with them at the next intersection, completely alien surroundings in which to get lost, forced interaction and pleasantries with strangers, wear and tear on my vehicle, stops for gas and bathroom breaks, and then there's the going out for food, the items you forgot to pack, the huge amount of money you're spending for this temporary away-time (money that equates to diligent hours you've spent doing your job, day after day after day), etc... And in the end, you have to put everything together, then take the long drive back home and start the drudgery all over again. Isn't it that much harder after a break? Don't you realize how much you truly despise your job after a vacation? Who are you working for? But you've bought into the scheme, the ideal, the plan, the concept. You're life now requires that you do these things. To stop would invite disaster, and not just to you, but those you've brought along with you.

...OR, I could throw back a few shots and take a localized and cheap vacation, turning my present whereabouts into an interesting point of both departure and arrival.

So, here's to me. I'm not hurting you. I can help out on occasion. I feel good. George Bush is out of presidential terms. I'm not beholdent to an employer. And I have some interesting projects to work on.

So suck it.

Snoring Sound Effects

2007-11-21T00:46:00.000-08:00

If you're into sound effects and you want some snoring, here's a few wav files:

http://www.mediafire.com/?fxtmdszya1x

http://www.mediafire.com/?dgj39sujelt

http://www.mediafire.com/?a1tsnbsmsgd

http://www.mediafire.com/?6h0nx1nzop9 <-- Snoring With Ambient TV audio (FEAR)

My Grandmother's Death - It's All About Me

2007-11-10T02:13:00.000-08:00

maybe my emails got shunted to your spam folder since i did use some 'adult' words.

but i did send a couple of messages. you were looking for something different? or what?

when i moved back home, it was just my grandma and i. she had dementia. didn't know her age, didn't know her children. she was always in another place and time.

it kind of worked out. she needed someone to be there, and i needed somewhere to be.

the difference was that she didn't know it.

she would ask the same questions over and over.

"How old am I?"

"Where are we?"

"Who was that person?" (It was her son.)

If you would ask her how old she was, she'd say 31. She was 81. And she thought she was in South Caroline.

In her mind, her kids were still teenagers. So I'd remind her that they had grown up, had kids of their own. And some of those kids already had kids as well.

She always thought her children had gone out somewhere without telling her.

She mistook me for her first husband a few times. Her husbands had passed away some years back.

At first, I tried to correct her. Explain the current reality. It didn't matter. Just seconds after it was explained and she would ask a few more questions, the entire Q&A session was gone, forgotten, and she'd want to know: "Where are we?"

I even printed up a sheet of answers to the questions she would constantly ask to save me the trouble of having to answer the same query every couple of minutes.

I gave her the sheet and she read through it. Then immediately forgot about it.

She was always a sweet person. Anything she could do for you, she would. When someone would tell her something that didn't jibe with her understanding of the current situation, she'd say, "I'm getting so absent-minded."

She had lost 50 years of memories. And anything left was spotty and confused.

My mom, my aunts and uncles, they did not like this. It scared them. It upset them. Never mind how she might feel about it.

The person whose actions had effectively forged them into the people they were had no recollection of their lives.

They rarely came to visit.

I got so tired of answering the same questions over and over again, that I had given her the sheet of reality facts, but since I kept having to point out the sheet to her, it didn't really help. Even when she would accidentally discover the sheet sitting on the table in front of her (she'd say, "What's this?" and start reading it again), it would only spawn more questions.

"We're in North Carolina?" "81 years old! What happened to me?"

She always wanted to do laundry and wash dishes. She never cleaned the lint trap and the dishes would always have to be re-washed. And she could never remember where anything was, so I started putting labels on everything. But it didn't matter.

She couldn't see very well either.

I started humoring her instead of trying to tell her the truth. As it was pointless to answer one of her questions without having to spend some time explaining her condition, it was easier on both of us to just play along.

"Where'd those girls get to? They should have been back hours ago." (She's referring to her 50 year old daughters, but she thinks they're still in high school.)

"They went to town but they'll be back soon."

"It's 10 o'clock! Well, when they get back they're going to get a piece of my mind!"

"You gonna spank them?"

"I've half a mind to!"

"I think Wheel of Fortune is on. Wanna watch it 'til they get back?"

"Might as well."

In moments, it was all forgotten.

One night, she woke up in the wee hours of the morning, shuffling along with her walker, clothed in her PJ's, claiming: "That boy drove off with my car!".

She hasn't had a car for a long time. She hasn't been able to drive for longer than that. And I work nights (I work at the computer). Less distraction. (I did have to wake up at odd intervals to make sure she took her pills.)

'What boy, Grandma?"

"That boy that drove me home."

She had not been anywhere. Once a week, a couple of my aunts (her daughters) would take her to bingo for a couple of hours. That was my break, my vacation. But I was on-call 24/7.

But she had not gone to bingo. She had been home the entire day. She must have had a dream, or some memory had cropped up that seemed real to her.

"Grandma, you don't have a car. You were here all day yesterday."

"No! That boy brought me home and I just heard him drive off in my car!"

I'd never seen her so insistent on something. She would usually say, "Really? I must be getting really absent-minded." And she would chuckle and the incident would slip away from her mind, completely forgotten. For her, it had never happened.

But she wasn't listening. She insisted that some boy had stolen her vehicle.

I asked some questions about the boy, but she couldn't tell me anything. Didn't know his name. Didn't know what he looked like.

"Well, there's nothing we can do about it tonight. In the morning, we'll call the police and have them settle it. We'll get your car back."

"Alright. Then I'm going back to bed."

"Might as well. I'll listen for the phone in case someone calls."

"Maybe they found my car."

"That's what I'm thinking."

But a few minutes later, she came back out of her bedroom.

"I think this ceiling fan is about to fall on me."

Another thing about my Grandma, she had COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder, or something like that). She's smoked since she was 16.

One of the stories she always told was when was just turning 16. It was about her friend Daisy who worked for her parents at the general store just up the road [it's now an expensive gourmet restaurant] and Daisy would steal cigarettes from behind the counter. Daisy was older than my Grandma by a few years. They would sneak off to the dairy farm just down the road and smoke the stolen cigarettes.

My Grandma didn't remember much, but she never forgot the Daisy-Cigarette-Dairy-Farm story.

But with my Grandma's COPD, the air had to be moving or she'd have a coughing fit, and those could get scary. You'd have to talk calmly to her, pat her back, have her breathe from her inhaler, use a soothing and relaxing tone, and all the while she's struggling to gain to single breath, and you don't know if this is the time that you're going to have to give your grandmother CPR and try to call 911 at the same time.

That's why I had to install the ceiling fan in her room. If the air was still, she'd have a breathing attack.

But for some reason, she found the ceiling fan's movement frightening. I went to examine the fan, and everything seemed normal. It was even on the lowest setting. On the highest setting, it could look a bit wobbly. But that wasn't the case.

But since I'd decided to humor her, and since it was better for her to have the air moving, I told her I'd just turn it to the lowest setting, and I pulled the chain four times. That would put it back where it was initially: the lowest setting.

She reluctantly went back to bed, and I quickly (but politely) went back to the computer.

A minute later: "Jason?" [whenever she said my name from another room, there was always a question mark. she wasn't quite sure she had it right, that she was asking for the right person]

"Yeah?"

"Something's wrong with this fan."

I go back in there, and she's sitting on the edge of the bed. She has her usual 3 cups of water sitting on the bedside table (She keeps getting up for water, forgetting that she's already done that).

"The fan looks fine, Grandma. You need it so you don't have a breathing attack."

She's having a bit of trouble breathing. But it's like she's anxious. Nervous. Not a physiological thing, but psychological.

"No problem. I'll turn it off and look at it in the morning."

"Thank you."

"Get you anything?"

She looks for her cigarettes and water.

"No, I'm OK. See ya in the morning."

"OK. Good night."

"Good night."

And she went to sleep. And then I turned the fan back on.

And then one day, one of her children (my aunt) drops by to pick her up for a visit.

This was one of the rarest aunts. She lived a couple of hours away.

My grandma leaves with her to stay a week or so, but within a couple of days my grandma was in the hospital. Very sick, couldn't move. Out of it.

My Grandma had been on three different prescription blood-thinners. This was to help prevent another stroke.

The doctors at the hospital took her off all three medications.

My Grandma has another stroke while in the hospital. She can no longer communicate. She can't keep her teeth in her mouth.

Within a week, she had passed away.

I personally thought it was for the best. Quality of life and all that. I didn't want to go to the funeral. I never understood the point of it.

I don't consider the corpse to be the person. They're gone. I had already said my good-byes some time back. The only reason to do it with a bunch of other living people, all at the same time, is for show. So they know you grieve, too, right? Look at me. I'm sad as well. Are you sad? Me, too.

The entire extended family came down. My Grandmother had 9 kids, who had kids who had kids. Lots of people show up.

I disappear. That guy who I do work for that lives in Wilmington, NC? He did a web site for an outdoor-camping-nature-loving company and I did a little bit of coding for it. They gave him a bunch of free stuff. He sent me one of his free hammocks. I couldn't remember the last time I was in a hammock.

That's a lie. When I was very very young, middle school(?), I thought it would be possible to have someone stand in a hammock while someone else swung the hammock around its swing-axis, 360 degrees. I think it was Jaime that got seriously hurt.

But I thought, Hey! Free hammock! And it was strung between some trees that were a bit away from the house. The hammock was constructed of this nylon-water-permeable-long-lasting substance. Plus, when you climbed in, the sides would fold up around you, creating a cozy little hiding place. (I used to go out there at night with my flashlight, a pillow, a blanket and a book. I'd squeeze in some uninterrupted me-time.

My mother enlists a few people to find me, and they cajole me into attending the funeral. Everyone thought I should be there because I was closest to her at the end. I thought that's why I didn't need to be there. A day and night did not pass where I did not imagine going into her bedroom to have her take her pills only to find that she won't wake up. Is this the moment where I have to try to find the pulse of my dead grandmother?

Through all of my her final years, my Grandma's basic nature remained the same. Regardless of who or where she thought she was, she'd have agreed to anything. She'd help as best she could.

I used to be like that. Someone in class would ask if I could spare a pencil, and I would say 'Here' and give him mine. Then I'd go to the teacher and ask to borrow a pencil because I couldn't find mine.

But then life experience accumulates. A huge bully guy says, "Give me that" and takes the pencil out of my hand. He was huge. And it was just a pencil.

I'm leaving a park after playing basketball and a guy asks if I could give him a ride to the convenience store. Sure! It's on my way. I stop to let him out, and he asks "Can I have this?" as he scoops up the change I'd been collecting in the center console and exits the vehicle.

I'm writing in a notebook at the park (no one was playing basketball and i'd gotten bored with just shooting baskets by myself) and an older black guy (now I realize he was probably just in his 20's, early 30's), in a collar shirt and tie, sits down on the only other bench. He starts talking, and then asking questions, but sophisticated questions, thinking-person questions, and we have a real conversation. he was making me think, so i started bringing my guns to bear, and i began asking him serious questions about the things he was talking about. he worked for a bank as a mortgage broker. he was telling me things that he was worried about. i told him things that i was worried about. he checks his watch and says he has to go, but then says "You don't have to carry the world on your shoulders". Then he said he had to stop at the convenient store up the road, did i need a ride? as a matter of fact, it wouldn't hurt as i had to be there anyway. So he drives us the couple of blocks, then turns about and goes back toward the park, finds a darkened area near the tennis courts, and parks. he puts his right hand on my crotch and asks, "How does that make you feel?" I'll admit that his hand sat there for a second or two while I realized that the situation had changed. I remember looking up at the sky, seeing the stars. I remember thinking, "There's still no one playing basketball, or the lights would be on and I wouldn't be able to see the stars." And trying to keep a congenial atmosphere, I look at him and smile a bit, reach down and take his hand off my crotch, put it on his leg, and say, "It doesn't really do anything for me. I'd better get going." And I exit the vehicle, afraid that he's going to grab me at any second, scoop up my basketball and notebook and shut the door. As I'm trying to leave in a nonchalant fashion, he yells "Hey! Jason!" as I'm walking away. He'd rolled down the window and was leaning over. He said, "I'm sorry. I hope this doesn't mean we can't be friends." I smiled and said "Nah" and then went to find a shadowy corner of the park to hide in for a bit. But then I have to make the trek to the convenient store where I was to wait for my ride. I never saw him again.

Or there's the first annual cross-country school-wide race, and my best friend and I (knowing we're the fastest runners from previous school-yard challenges) had planned to time the finish so we both break the ribbon at the same time. The track had been set to go around the school grounds in such a way that it would nearly equal a mile. Yet despite all the twists and turns, my best friend and I stayed neck and neck, and in the home stretch with the finish line ribbon in view, we pace ourselves, match each other's strides. And with no one behind for quite a distance, we can be leisurely about it, and so we keep pace with each other. Until the last couple of yards. He darts forward unexpectedly and claims the trophy. He's all smiles and trophy-waving. I did ask him about it. he said, "Sorry, I couldn't help it."

And then later, with a new best friend, the new best friend gets the citizenship award and i get runner-up. I didn't even know they HAD a citizenship award. He never spoke up in class or around anyone else but me, but I knew that my new best friend made fun of the disabled, the mentally deficient, the poor kids, the teachers, old people and the obese, and he did so on a daily basis. We had our own shows where he would make fun of them. I'd record them on the video camera while he acted out the scenes. (I was always more technical. I rigged up the VCR's, microphone and camcorder so we could edit, dub and splice). I never took it seriously because I really wanted a best friend, and I played along. I got a kick out of making him laugh, and the things that made him laugh were those things that belittled other people. We had invented our own sign language, and while I came up with the gestures, he came up with the meanings for the gestures. And pretty much every sign meant that one person or another ate poop. This guy won our school's first-ever Citizenship Award. And all because he never said anything out loud. The girl that won the spelling bee ate poop.

In middle school, I remember being about 4th in line as we were entering the building after gym class. There was a girl behind me, Lisa Fry, and she always smelled bad. She was obviously poor. And she must have wet the bed and not have taken, or been able to take, a shower. She was also not a small girl, and gym class exhausted her. I saw her reflection in the glass when I went to open the fairly-heavy-for-middle-school-kids door. She was struggling up the stairs. Her hands were on her knees, pushing herself up the steps, her hair matted down with sweat. So I stand aside and hold the door open for her. She casts me a glance as she skulks through. But then the next person in line was right behind her, impatiently behind her, so I keep the door open for them as well. Didn't want to just step through and let it slam on them. Then the next person, and the next, until my entire class had gone through while I held the door open. When the last had passed, and I was getting ready to step through myself, my young-ish teacher stopped me and said, "They don't appreciate what you did, but I do." And as you can see, I have always remembered that. I think that teacher died when her husband's drug dealer attempted to get his money for services rendered.

I think I'm 13 or 14. I'm playing around with a couple of kids at the court. Shooting hoops, playing some 21. They're 2/3 my size, so I'm not taking it seriously at all, just having fun, joking around, letting them get away with stuff. But they weren't strangers to basketball. They knew the rules, could shoot, could move, could pass. They were just small. So we decide to play Two-on-One, them against me. Just for fun. And I could pack their junk. But that was fun, too. SMACK! Eat my justice! Go get that ball I just hit into the corner of the fence while we wait for you to return. A truck pulls up and 3 guys get out. At least in their 20's. I'm just starting high school. These guys use the other end of the court to shoot around. Two of them take their shirts off and I label them as rednecks. Farmer's tans. They shoot with two hands. They dribble like they're thinking about dribbling. When they try to dribble between their legs, you see them psyching themselves up for the single dribble between their legs. And the leg in front: it always comes up off the court when they bounce the ball underneath it. I don't care. I just want to play ball. So when the three rednecks ask if we want to play a game, I ask the kids I was shooting around with if that would be alright. They are more than ready. I've got that feeling I get: Game Time. Fun. Excitement. Adventure. I never expect to win, but I always try for it. And these guys were twice our size, at least in weight. It was just to be a spontaneous match between people looking for something a little more interesting than "I'm gonna see if I can make it from here". So we play Three-on-Three. 3 Kids vs. 3 Men. We wipe the court with them. We were playing to 11. We won 11-3. They shot alot, but nothing was going in. The rednecks want to play again. We're lovers of the game, so we're like 'Hell yeah'. Fun! But this time, since we beat them so readily last game, we just play around. We try some crazy passes, try some crazy shots. We would drive and toss the ball to someone we thought was open, but that someone wasn't, so the ball would go out of bounds. A typical mistake performed by tired, arrogant players. We lose 11-8. My "team" is EXHAUSTED. But the game is over, it was better than nothing, and we're clasping hands and saying "Good game", walking around with our hands behind our heads while we catch our breath and cool down. But one of the rednecks says, "One more" and tosses the ball to me. I ask my teammates if they have one more in them, and they have more energy than me, so we're on. I played lazy. I didn't care. I was tired. But my younger teammates weren't. I didn't even try to score. I only set up assists. They were running around and I'd pass it when I thought it was right and they'd score. They were hitting their layups and mid-court fade-aways. I was glad of it, since I couldn't do anything except set them up. I'd be fairly stationary, accepting passes, tossing them back, while they ran around and through the other guys until I could pass it back. Since I'd shown my skillZ in the first game, I'd fake a drive or a shot, and the other team would jump on me, attempting to stop me, which would allow me to pass to my now-open teammates who'd drop it in from close-range, and I never actually had to really score. But they eventually caught on to my fakes, which allowed me to 'not fake' and take a cheap-free shot for a point. The rednecks were getting tired, too. We beat them 11-7. Game over. Everyone is milling around in random directions, catching their breath. And I was thinking, "Man, that was FUN! I feel good, terrific, I wish I wasn't so tired..." And bolstered by our win, coupled with my youth-powered-energy-cells, I run toward the goal, jump, and grasp the rim. I'm excited that I was able to do this, so I hang there for a bit, feeling complete. Then the redneckiest of the rednecks says, "Lucky bullshit" as he and his teammates walk away. Still hanging onto the rim, I twist my wrist so my body spins in mid-air to face him. And I'll be damned if I didn't say out loud, "Two out of three". Basically saying: We, us three kids, two of us are at least half your age, and we still managed to beat you the majority of the time." The guy stops and turns toward me. Please help me understand why I let go of that rim. Why did I drop down toward the court where this huge guy was running toward me? When, instead, I could have pulled myself up onto the goal post where the most harm they could do was throw their basketball at me? (Which I would have caught and bitten until the air leaked out). But no. I dropped toward the court and the guy slams into me, wraps his arms around me. Instinctively, I had twisted away from him. He ended up grabbing me from behind. But then I change tactics. We're both shirtless and sweaty, so I spin, I twist again like I did last summer, and now I'm sort of facing him, but he's got me pressed tight against his flesh. I only know one thing: Go for the balls. So he's trying to squeeze me death, and I kick my right leg back, then pull it forward and up. I drive my knee directly into his ball sack. Here's a thing they never tell you: In a fight, there's is no disabling move except a fatal one. In a fight, all pain is swept aside until the fight is over. There is either too much death, or not enough. And I knew I had connected. I knew that I had driven my knee directly into the guy's testicles. There may have been the slightest of pauses. But all that happened was him saying: "So that's how you want to play." And he picked me up and slammed me onto the concrete basketball court. My breath left me. Before I tell you the rest, you should know that I had been doing situps everyday for some time. Part of it was an aspect of gym class, the other part was me trying to be attractive. Anyhoosier, this guy started trying to punch my nuts, to exact vengeance for my knee's atrocities. However, his face was pressed into my shoulder because the arm that wasn't trying to damage my sack was wrapped around me, preventing me from escaping. But since he couldn't see what he was doing, and since I kept pulling my legs up to protect my genitals, his fist kept coming down on my stomach. Of course my stomach muscles were clenched. I was tense all over. So his fist would come down, I would feel it hit, but he kept missing both my scrotum and my solar plexus. He kept trying, and while he's trying, I open my eyes and see my young teammates standing nearby, watching. I'm being punch in the stomach repeatedly. I'm looking my curious teammates in the eye and i'm yelling at them: "Help me! Someone help me!" After awhile (I guess the games of basketball really did wear him out), the redneck stops punching me and stands up. I lay there for a few seconds, then stand up to see the rednecks walking toward the gate. My teammates had run off into the playground equipment. I started walking toward the gate as well. I was giving the stink-eye to the rednecks and the shortest-fattest redneck (it was like he didn't have a neck, the tops of his shoulders intersected with his earlobes, not as a result of muscle, but like a congenital condition, he couldn't quite move hims arms at right-angles to his body) catches me looking and says "What? You want some more?" and I didn't want any more, but I was so full of rage that I just kept staring at him. But he didn't do anything. They left the park, climbed into their truck and drove off. I walk across the baseball field toward the community pool where my family was swimming. I was bruised. The concrete court had scraped skin off of me in a few places. And I had a dangerous, murderous glint in my eyes. Back at the pool, my mom asks, "What happened?!" I told her I fell down while playing basketball. It was accepted. I began to get jittery as the ordeal began to sink in. Shaky breaths, shaky hands, muscles twitching. But diving into the pool for a game of Shark hid all that.

So an Ex Gets My Email Address

2007-11-09T20:41:00.000-08:00

A married woman contacts me and give me a synopsis of her current life. She's an ex-girlfriend. I hesitated to respond, bu I did. I gave a few lines about my life and signed off with 'Take care!'. Like, thanks for the ping. PONG! End.

But I get another email with a cat picture.

I did not have the energy to respond. But she sends another email. In both emails, she had asked about my websites, so I felt she was either sincerely interested, or was hitting me up for some free site consultancy (cuz that is definitely a word).

But when it comes to my sites, I'll talk about them. So in a clinical-, detached-style, I tell her how the sites make money.

I never get a response. Guess she got what she wanted.

But I wasn't done. I mean, that was it? It was almost interesting.

So I send another email. Since she was obviously devoted to her cats, I gave her my cat story:

i know my emails have been impersonal. i'm not sure what it is you want. why find me to chat with? surely you know other people. just curious.

i like Remy's looks. he looks like he has a story to tell.

An eon ago, I was a given a kitten named Lucy. I didn't want to change her name and confuse her, but I did give her the surname of Vagina. Don't know why. Maybe because she was a pussy, or I thought it'd be funny. But Lucy V grew up and was impregnated by a neighbor's cat, thus validating my surname choice.

Poe and Puck are her offspring. I found homes for the rest of the litter, but got stuck with those two. Puck was the first one to leave the nest and start exploring, getting into things. So named him Puck after the mischievous sprite in A Midsummer Night's Dream.

The vet wouldn't have them fixed until they were 4 months old, but apparently cats become sexually active at a very tender age. Poe and Puck get their incest on and that's how I ended up with Yuki. Probably why he has that allergy condition. He's also a screamer. He strolls into the middle of a room and starts yelling until you pay attention. It stopped being cute about a year ago.

Puck got very sick. I woke up one morning when he peed a little on my arm. I changed the sheets to solve the problem, but it was more serious than that. The next morning Puck wouldn't move. He just laid there and cried pitifully. And he had that sick-cat look, with the greasy fur and rheumy eyes.

Rushed him to the vet to find he had a severly obstructed bladder. This is apparently a common male cat condition, but Puck's had gone on for too long. His body's waste wasn't leaving his system. His bladder had become so distended that he had lost all muscle control. He could only micturate a few drops and those were bloody, so they 'manually expressed" him. They literally squeezed the piss out of him. They said he probably would not have lasted the rest of that day if I hadn't brought him in. So, whew. Puck's my man, my buddy. I'm responsible for his well-being and I nearly screwed that up.

But because they have to wait for test results, and because he had an allergic reaction to the first antibiotic they gave him, he has to stay under supervision and since it was the weekend, that meant a 24 hour emergency clinic and those aren't cheap. But when I went to pick up Puck from my vet and take him to the clinic, he was wearing one of those funnels to stop him from pulling out the stitches where they had put in a catheter. His eyes were goopy and they explained that when cats are sedated, their eyes do not shut and so they dry out, unless lubricant is applied. He was still midly sedated, and I'd never seen a more pathetic creature in my life. I realized then just how close I had come to losing him and while the vet was explaining things to me, i felt a lump form in my throat and my eyes started to sting and water, and i feel ridiculous and i'm scratching Puck's head and hoping the doc only asks me yes or no questions because I knew my voice was going to break if I tried to speak.

Futiley trying to lock down my reaction, I manage to get Puck to my car without openly bawling. In the parking lot for the clinic, however, that's another story.

So Puck's in the care of professionals, and I get pulled for having an overdue inspection sticker. Just a warning, but I knew I had to get it done. Only to find out that to get my vehicle up to inspection standards, it would cost $1,000. Not all at once, mind you. It was first this one thing, then another. Then another. And now Puck has recuperated. It's a week later and the total bill for his care came to $2,000.

Alright! That's everything I had managed to save. So now no cash to pay any utilities or rent, or even get food. And I had needed those savings because I had just finished building a singles site for a client. It was supposed to be a 3 month project that ended up taking 9 months, though they had paid out some of the cost as it went along. Once it was completed, the details of the contract had been met, but they suddenly wanted to change everything. I said, Sure, but pay me the remainder of what you owe first. And they said, No, we want a site. I said, I built you a site per your specifications. They said, Yes, but we just changed those. I said, That is very nice but you can stick your site in your hoo-ha. None of that is verbatim, but it's how it played out.

So I was forced to move back home. And my car died irreparably (it's irreparable if you can't buy the pieces you need to make it go again). But my cats finally got what they wanted since they could now go outside. Lucy got sick and disappeared forever before I could get her to the vet. Puck's condition has cropped up a few times, but I do tech and web work for a local vet so we just trade services. But you're right, he's the head honcho. I've seen him sneak up on a bird and take it down as it tried to fly to safety. Pretty raw animal savagery, but I did feel a glimmer of pride. That's my Pucky-man. "in ur fieldz eatin ur birdz"

When I got Yuki fixed, the doctor said he wanted to talk to me before I took him home. The doc had performed the new type of neutering where they basically pit his testicles like olives. They remain, but all the important bits are cleaned out. In the room with a half-conscous Yuki, the doctor said, in all seriousness: "Yuki has big balls."

I laughed and told him that I was aware of that. That I played with them. Nothing weird. Just sort of like, "I got your nose!" except with his big furry balls. They were fun, made great conversation pieces. The doc explained that his balls will probably get even bigger for a while as a result of the operation, but the swelling will go down over the next few days. Shame. Yuki's in my lap right now, and his berries are merely a shadow of their former majesty.

K, so all that. Just started typing stuff, sorry. But it's my sincere belief that you don't have to read it. Once, I was very down and Yuki, as a tiny kitten, crawled up my leg, then my shirt, then started licking my face. And suddenly I wasn't down anymore. Yeah, I pretty much get affection solely from my cats. But they don't come with alot of baggage and they don't care about mine. I was asked if I would do it again, knowing in advance how much money Puck would cost me. I'm not very practical. And even if it's ultimately a ridiculous thing to do, I'd have to do it again. I wouldn't like myself very much otherwise.

And with them being outside cats, I don't even have to maintain a litter box. All good things!

It's been several days and have heard nothing. I don't like 'keeping it light'. Don't waste my fucking time. 'Chattin'. I probably poured too much reality-sputum on her sputum-catcher.

How about a 3rd Party Account of a 6th Party's Real-life Soap Opera/Jerry Springer Show?

2007-09-18T03:08:00.001-07:00

If this is gonna take awhile, let me know in advance, cuz I gots kids to feed and I needs to know what the dealio is wit Myranda, but my shift be startin in a haf hour:
ok, this may take a while to explain, so please be patient (and sorry I
didn't send this out sooner)
As long as it ain't longer thans a haf hour. I gots me a date wit a tru playa, and my kids be wit my momma. You know I ain't playin.

I been praying that Myranda's been trying to gets ahold of Bailey's berf certiferkit so she can get Darrel penned down as the baby's daddy, but I's afraid they won't give hers a copy for the MS peeps?
Because Myranda was trying to get Bailey's birth certificate straight before
all this happened by having Darrel named as the father and have his
signature on the document the state suspended it and wouldn't give Myranda a
copy of it to take to MS.
That's some fucked up shit. They know she's that baby's mama. Have 'em call me. True. I tell 'em. I gots ur back, girl.

I'm all like, WTF OMG! WHAT ABOUT THE BERF CERTIFERKIT? The po-po in miss said they needs a copy, but what ifs he wents to the moms and saw things be ok?
If you recall there was a deputy in MS that told her if she would bring a
copy of the birth certificate he would go with her to get Bailey... He has
been to Darrel's mother's house and seen Bailey and told Myranda that he
looks good, he's being fed, etc...
Daaaaaamn, that don't help! But she's dat baby's mama so she gots some say. she needs to talk to somebody.

Ain't she done nuffin to try to see her baby?
Myranda talked to Darrel and tried to get him to agree to let her come visit
Bailey, but he told her that the only place he would meet her would be at
his mother's house and if she showed up he would probably call the police
and have her arrested for criminal trespass. Myranda decided not to risk
it, since she has had a lot of conflicting things told to her by different
people/agencies, etc since this all started.
Fuck all dem. She's that baby's mama. She should see her kid no matter what. Fuck all dem. You know her kid wants to be wit her mama.

But then I'm like, how can Myranda gets help?!
She was given the number to an agency that provides free legal help to women
in Baton Rouge, but when she called them on Friday she was told that they
only make appointments on Mondays between certain hours and so she was
supposed to call today and try to get an appointment. Hopefully these
people will be able to help her get everything that needs to be done legally
started.
That's how you work it, girl. You gets yourself some connexions. They tell you whats you gotta do to get to see your baby. If its me, I just go see her. But that's just me and I knows you don't want no troubles right now. You just do what you gotta do. Ya hear me?

I'm very concerned fo ur ass. I'm gonna pray for you and ur ass.
Thank you again for everyone's concern and prayers - Carbly

Girl, it ain't nothing. U know I love you, and dat girl Myranda. We sisters in the Lord. I gotcho back girlfren.

Attack of the GWIMB

2007-09-09T09:28:00.000-07:00

Find myself stuck with the GWIMB again.

The date: 9-9-2007.

It is a Sunday.

It has only been 2 days.

He's not here when I wake up.

Thus, the sink:

He slept in a new place last night.

Left the afghan on the floor and a cushion shoved out of place underneath the couch cover, like a cyst under the skin of an olive-green hippo. To the left, you can make out an empty cigarette pack and a cup, which, too, is empty.

There are 2 dogs here that have to be separated. One is always in a cage and there is a loose schedule of rotation so they get to taste freedom regularly throughout the day. One of those dogs, sadly enough, belongs to GWIMB. While I was asleep, he left with his dog. He also left the other dog in the cage. GWIMB does this often. He doesn't think of the alternate cagings as a means of preventing a dog fight. He thinks of it as a system of suffering, and the dog that is not his should suffer more.

Maybe he wouldn't intentionally torture a dog. Maybe he's just a lazy, self-centered asshole that couldn't be bothered. Those are your options.

Cop Arrests Skaters on "Go Skateboarding Day"

2007-06-29T07:22:00.000-07:00

This was sent to me by a frequenter of the the wblivesurf.com forum. Click here for thread where the relevant info pops up.

"An incredible act of police brutality was committed on GoSkateboarding Day by the Hot Springs, Arkansas Police Department.Video of the incident is below. After you watch it, we ask ALL of youto flood their phone-lines and email address (below) with complaints regarding the main policeman involved, Officer Joey Williams. You should also contact your local news organizations to help spread theword.

The more attention this officer gets, the better for us.

Hot Springs Arkansas Police Department
Phone: (501) 321-6789
Fax: (501) 321-6708
Chief of Police, Bobby Southard
Email: bsouthard@cityhs.net
641 Malvern Avenue Hot Springs, Arkansas 71901"

GWIMB the Un-fucking-believable

2007-06-29T04:49:00.000-07:00

I watched some movies with my aunts.

Came back and saw that GWIMB had been by.

Half-full bottle of tequila and margarita mix on the counter.

In the morning, I go to check on the day and notice that the car is missing.

It's been moved, parked on the side of the road.

But not completely...

He'd taken the spare key and basically stole the car.

Then returned it.

Did I mention that he doesn't have a license? Yeah, this whole DUI thing.

The driver-side window is part-way down and every dash compartment has been opened and left that way.

I get my keys to move the car, and when I open the door,

I'm greeted with the stench of vomit...

I hold my breath and drive it back to its spot.

Walking back inside, I see GWIMB sit up and light a cigarette.

I tell him, "You left the car parked half in the road. And there's vomit in it. If you would clean that up, that would be cool."

He didn't respond.

But later when I checked, he had cleaned up the vomit.

Burritos, Moon Pies and Beer Cans

2007-06-20T05:26:00.000-07:00

Empty microwavable burrito bag. All 10 Gone in 1 Night. Plus, the cheese packet for the macaroni from 3 nights ago.

Beer cans and moon pie wrappers. Bag of charcoal and an emtpy cigarette pack. It don't get more GWIMB.

This lies just inside the front door. The debris around the wrapper is a result of a lack of a debris-catching mat, which GWIMB hung over the fence 3 days ago.

GWIMB - Catching Up

2007-06-11T10:27:00.000-07:00

This is when Gwimb left the phone on the grill during the nearly 100 degree day. The angry, well-cooked, black plastic skin of the phone bit me.

Again, the phone is left outside, this time on the ground as it starts to rain. But now with the phone book! Convenient!

This is an old situation. The SUV that he drunkenly wrecked not long after he got it and, for some reason, one of those jacuzzi bath tubs has been keeping it company. (On the right side of the photo, you'll see part of a car seat leaning against the SUV. However, the seat does not belong to the SUV. Is nice!)

Ah, the classics.

Just your typical milk jug containing some yellow-brown liquid that isn't gasoline. Or milk.

You simply gotta have this work of modern art. It's titled "The Cheerwine Cooler and a Tire Embracing an Empty Beer Box and a Pair of Shoes".

The yard would feel naked without a pair of Gwimb's boxers peppered with some cigarette butts.

This is why dryer's have flat tops: they can support your clean clothes for days after you finished washing them.

The Public Voted - The Politicians Ignored

2007-03-24T00:49:00.000-07:00

Saw a Digg post entitled:

Voters Appalled Over Forced Amendment to Marijuana Law Passed by the People
Description: Missoula, MT has fallen victim to the illusion of democracy. Initiative 2, passed on November 7th, 2006 was passed to recommend a lower priority to marijuana-based crimes.. Now, on March 22nd, 2007, the County Commissioners have voted (2-1) to alter the initiative. The reason? "A gut feeling" that voters weren't aware of what they voted for.

The post linked to:

What Do You Think About Initiative 2 Being Amended Despite Public Opposition?

That post outlines the issue and has some links to greater detail about the controversy.

Seems to me that these County Commissioners forgot they were "public servants" and became instead "fascist dictators". But that's understandable. No doubt they were voted into office because the people wanted them to do their thinking for them. Not because the people thought they'd represent their interests. That's ridiculous. Public voting on issues isn't to find out what the public wants, it's just busy work so the public can feel that they are "involved" without actually making a difference. That helps quiet the rabble-rousers and can calm those who are frustrated with current policy.

Here's a link to the county commissioners' home page: http://www.co.missoula.mt.us/mcbcc/

There you can find a picture of one of the two commissioners who decided to ignore the public vote:

This is Jean Curtiss. In her spare time, she likes to read, quilt and garden. That bit of information comes straight from their web site. Sorry, fellas, she's married. You can contact her here: jcurtiss@co.missoula.mt.us

I think you should tell her how you feel about our "leaders"...er..."public servants"... ignoring votes and deciding what is best for their constituency, despite having previously consulted the constituency about what the constituency thought was best for the constituency. Constituency.

The other commissioner that chose to ignore the public vote did not have a photo, but instead this image:
Which shows the Hammer of Democracy coming down on a ballot box. This image represents Barbara Evans. You can contact her here: bevans@co.missoula.mt.us From her page on the site: Her interests include writing, soil and water gardening, and sewing.

This has inspired my latest "im in ur base killing ur dOOds" image:

Guy Who Isn't My Brother - Flashlight and Drill Bit Theft

2007-03-24T00:17:00.000-07:00

Last night, my cousin came to visit and I was going to show her damage from the fire. Went to get my flashlight, and it's missing. So is the battery that typically sits on the charger.

HRMRMRMRMRMR, WHERE COULD IT BE?

The next day when The Guy Who Isn't My Brother (GWIMB) shows up, I ask him if he knew the whereabouts of said flashlight.

"Oh, it's in my truck," he said. He then went to retrieve it.

Fine. SUPER.

I decided to hide my flashlight. That's what I've been reduced to. It is MY flashlight. If only he'd ask first. In my head I've been hearing the Duke: "I just don't like other people touching my things."

So I go to hide the flashlight and that's when I notice my drill. This drill uses the same rechargeable battery as the flashlight. I'd been keeping them together. They had been given to me as a gift and it's been one of the better ones. I can't say I use them all the time, but I definitely appreciate having them around when the odd moment arises when you need a drill or flashlight.

There's a huge new bit on the drill. I'd used the drill last when I implemented the gate-latch-spring device (I invented, wassup). And now I recognize the bit. It's the titanium bit that was in my fancy bit case. I'd never had an opportunity to use it. But where was the bit that was in it? There's a slot on the back of the drill for 2 bits to be stored. One is usually blank, as the two bits are a philips screwdriver head and a flat screwdriver head. The other is usually in the drill mouth. So there's the new bit, but where's the flathead?

HRMRMRMRMMRMRRMRMRM....

GWIMB called about something, but I ask about the drill bit. He said it was probably in his pocket.

Fine. SPECTACULAR.

He then wanted to borrow my DVD player again. I told him it's the last time. It's been making funny noises and mostly likely as a result of being transported every few days.

GOD DAMMIT TO HELL.

I don't have much, so I suppose that's why the few nice things I have are important to me. Of course, these are the things the GWIMB wants. Fuck this.

Gotta hide the drill, too.

Guy Who Isn't My Brother - Dresser Update / Phone Call

2007-03-22T05:39:00.000-07:00

This morning he comes in and mucks about, takes a shower, and I hear him rummaging in his bureau at the end of the hall. Visible to all who enter. Visible to me. Visible to him.

This is the aftermath.

He closed one drawer, opened another, and pulled clothes even farther away from the bureau. This is what he does.

The other day I received a phone call. It was from a guy who runs a lawn maintenance crew saying that he was returning a call that he'd received earlier in the day.

I told him it was probably my brother and I'd let him know that the call was returned.

I did. My brother called him back and spoke with him for a bit. Turns out some cell phone numbers had gotten changed so it was just a matter of misinformation.

Just before my brother hangs up, he says, "Stay gay."

And he laughs and asks me, "Didn't the guy sound gay to you?"

"Not really, no. Maybe we weren't talking to the same guy."

"He was gay."

Whether the guy was gay or not, it doesn't matter. The guy who is not my brother did not miss an opportunity to be an asshole. It's what he does.

What I'd like is for someone to call, talk to my brother, pretend to discover that they have the wrong number and, just before they hang up, call him a faggot.

That would piss him off. He'd probably talk about suing someone. I'd hem and haw, and then mention that he had told a complete stranger to 'stay gay' just before he hung up the phone. I'd then tell him that there's no difference, and people can say what they like.

This is true. But, as one learns, no one wants candor, harsh words or doses of reality from strangers. And it's much easier to be angry at someone who doesn't know you. Of course, familiarity breeds contempt as well. An adage I subscribe to wholeheartedly. Some people are deserving of anger, hatred and ill-wishing. I firmly believe the world would be a better place should some people get snuffed out.

And then you exclaim: "But then how would we recognize the behaviour of someone who is geared to commit atrocities unless we have prior models to use as gauges?"

Right. We've only had the one genocidal maniac. Oh, wait. We've had plenty, haven't we? And we still have genocidal maniacs.

They sure keep us anti-genocidal-maniacs busy, don't they?

I guess it makes me glad that the guy who isn't my brother is poor and without political connections. Otherwise, I'd be forced to become the leader of some underground Anti-Guy-Who-Isn't-My-Brother rebellion. And my posts would be more frequent and probably illustrated with photos of gutted homosexuals and beheaded creditors.

Let's all take a moment of silence, and give thanks that the Guy-Who-Isn't is stricken with poverty and is one of his own worst enemies.

Guy Who Isn't My Brother - Fucktard Frenzy

2007-03-21T08:26:00.000-07:00

By the way, this guy wrecked his truck over the weekend. Then said he wasn't going to drink again.

He came home drunk last night.

The first thing I notice when I get up is that he's left a bowl of rice on the counter.

Quick inspection reveals that the rice has been cooked, but left sitting out for some time. The bottom bits are still soft, but the top of it is covered is hard, dried-out grains. Like a mass grave full of mummified maggots.

I glance around, and sure enough, he's left out the box of instant rice. He did put it on the little shelf above the sink, so at least he didn't just abandon it on the counter. However...when I go to put the box back into the cabinet I notice the weight, or lack thereof.

Here I've turned the box on its side, but you do not have to worry about the rice spilling out. The thoughtful fucker left about 35 grains for the next person to enjoy. He then conscientiously closed the box and, with foresight and aplomb, placed the box on the shelf above the sink.

Last night, while I was watching a movie, I watched him get up, grab a cup from the cabinet and pour himself something to drink. He goes back to sleep.

Some time later, he repeats the process.

Instead of using the same cup, he grabs another one, pours himself something to drink and sets it next to the last cup. That is so awesome.

And here we have a classic. He never re-closes the bread properly.
So for hours, it sits like this:
And when I find it, the edges of the bread have started hardening. I love that.

All he has to do is twirl the end and tuck it under the bag. I don't mess with the ties after the initial opening. There's no need and it's a bit of a hassle when you just want a quick sandwich (my favored fare). But my god, man, the shit dries out if you don't even twirl and tuck! We're talking 1.5 seconds.

But all of the above is typical of this asshole. He takes what he wants and ignores the aftermath. He takes advantage of the fact that those people with whom he lives do not like living in a pig sty, so eventually they clean up after him because they get tired of waiting for him to come through on his promises to "take care of it".

And for the love of Heinlein, you always hear this WHILE you are cleaning up his mess (usually you make a lot of noise so he notices what you're doing): "I was going to take care of that."

It's one of those things you are at least taught, if not actually learn, in kindergarten: pick up after yourself. Then it sort gets drilled into over your time in elementary school and by your parents at home. And then you have to decide. Do you want to live like a white-trash redneck? Apparently he's made his choice. Fair enough. Except this is the kind of decision that affects those people with whom you live.

And now, another classic. The dresser at the end of the hall:
The clothes on top of the dresser are my fault. I found them on the dryer and thought I'd help him out a bit by getting them all the way to his bureau (approximately 4.7 steps). This picture is a couple of days old. There have been no changes in dresser status as of this writing.

I watch quite a few movies.

2007-03-14T22:55:00.000-07:00

i rent at least 6 movies a week. I'm also a member of netflix and blockbuster online. I'm obsessed with escaping reality.

The 'guy who isn't my brother', the guy who lives here, the guy who snores like a drunk Satan with a cocaine addiction, he watches these movies.

He sometimes watches them while I'm asleep, or I'm out and about, painting towns red (but mostly yellow and brown).

He takes the previous movie out of the player and tosses it on top of the entertainment center, next to their respective sleeves or boxes.

I called him on it once. I said, "Dude, put them back into their sleeves. The cats hop up here and knock things down." He knows this.

I've found discs lying around again. I put them up.

Well, today, he was watching a movie and I see one lying on top of the entertainment center, bereft of sleeve.

So I said, "Seriously, put them back into the sleeve. Don't just lay them down."

He said, "I didn't know where it came from."

I didn't say anything, but I kept moving around, refilling pet food and water bowls, but his words kept screaming through my brain.

Eventually, I say, "You look at the disc. You match up the name with the name on the sleeve or box."

I had decided that if he wants to pretend to be ignorant, then I'll treat him like he's ignorant.

He didn't say anything in return.

I imagine he was thinking, "Fuck you, motherfucker."

But he couldn't say it without giving up his "I just didn't know, I'm innocent" stance.

Ha.

Played.

And now the incident is burned in our memory.

So if it happens again, I can assume he's just ignorant.

I can patronize him and get away with it: "Remember when I said you match up the names? They usually print the titles on the discs themselves...see...right here...then you look at the sleeves and boxes up here, read the titles, and see which one matches the title that's on the disc. There's usually no more than 9 options to look thru, but it's usually as easy as just seeing which one is empty. Even if it's not the right one but it's empty, go ahead and put it in there just to protect the disc and save me from possibly having to purchase it. If it's the pets doing this, I'm going have to keep the movies in the bedroom since I can't afford buying them very often. That'd be great. Thanks."

I always feel better after I publish shit about the shit with which I have to deal. It's no longer a secret burden. I don't feel like I'm whining or complaining or wasting people's time. I mean, you can just not read it. You can click away, close the window.

Read my shit at your own risk.

book store rant

2007-03-08T05:20:00.000-08:00

i cannot tell you how pissed i am at these so called "book stores". they rarely have brautigan, and if they do, it's only 'In Watermelon Sugar'. good story, but where's The Hawkline Monster: A Gothic Western? Where's 'Loading Mercury with a Pitchfork'? and they only have a couple of hugo and nebula award winning books. always the same. their shelves are void of all of the classics of the sci-fi/social commentary/satire genre. they only have a couple of LeGuin, and those are only her fantasy novels. Only a single Jack McDevitt book: Chindi, which is like the 5th book in the series. There is no Joe Haldeman. They have some Orson Scott Card, but they fail to have Ender's Game. only a couple from the original Dune series by Frank Herbert. and never, ever will you find Whipping Star, or Destination:Void, or any of the Pandora series. These books are so pregnant with original thoughts and ideas, written by a veritable genius with an incredible imagination, you'd think they'd have at least 2 of each, with someone constantly monitoring the supply. As it is, they have one or two of the original series, and those are never the first and second novels, yet they carry almost every single one of the Dune spin-off novels written by Frank's son Brian and Kevin J. Anderson. If writing was a high school, these guys would ride the short bus. They are capitalizing on the Dune phenomenon, which became a phenomenon because there are so few authors that actually have something to say, and the imagination to create worlds and characters to reveal those somethings. Yet you can't find these novels in a so-called book store....
What they do have is a bunch of Star Trek and Star Wars novels. Tons of Margaret Weis, Mercedes Lackey, Kevin Anderson, Peirs Anthony...the commercial fantasy writers. And, good lord, let's not forget Robert Jordan. His Wheel of Time books are about 1000 pages each. They wouldn't be that long if he didn't feel the need to repeat everything he said in the previous chapter, belaboring the obvious, and never, ever using a different plot line. Sometimes, he'll even describe the same thing three times in the same chapter. And just when you think he's finished, a new chapter starts and he has to describe it again.... I did get hooked on his stories. I mean, you invest so much time in the first couple of stories that even though you might not like what ur getting into, you want to find out what happens. So I invented the quote method of reading. I skim the pages until I see that someone is actually talking in the story, I see what they say, who is speaking and to whom they are speaking, then i skip ahead to the next conversation...lo and behold this method really works. I missed none of the story since the descriptions had already been covered a couple of dozen times, I never felt lost, or said to myself "Why did he/she...?" or "Who is...?" and if i did miss a description of a new character....no sweat...since i know another description will be coming up shortly. jordan is an asshole. he wants you to feel that you've spent so much time with these characters that you know them, feel a personal involvement, but then you realize that you do know them, and you don't like them very much. he has to make them dense and one-dimensional, incredibly stupid even, otherwise his plot lines wouldn't work, the drama wouldn't unfold. at the end you feel like you've just spent a sequential 48 hours teaching geometry to a mentally handicapped class. you're tired, frustrated, and realize your time would have been better spent cleaning tile grout with your tongue. at least you'd have clean tile grout when you were done.

Membership Contradictions

2007-03-08T05:08:00.000-08:00

This is a letter I sent to Borders. I'm a member of their Rewards program, and so I got an email. I attempted to take advantage of their offer.
------------------------------------------------------

I signed up for the Borders Rewards program at my local Waldenbooks.

I get an email from Borders regarding a 40% discount if I get the Harry Potter 7 book pre-order through the email.

I attempt to do so. I click on the link.

I keep getting a 500 internal server error for the website. I call the local Waldenbooks, discussing the problem, hoping they'd just let me do the discount via the phone.

The woman tells me that the site is probably down because of the bad weather we're having.
I tell her that other sites are coming up fine, it's not the weather.

Unless, of course, the Borders web server is located in my town and the rain seeped into the routers.

It could happen.

She gives me a number for Borders customer service.

She says to try the site again sometime in the middle of next week.

When the bad weather has passed.

I realize that I'm talking to someone who thinks she's talking to someone who thinks the local weather affects her franchise store's website.

So I just agree with her, tell her I'll try that, thank you, and hang up.

If I were someone who would believe her local-weather/random-net theory, I would have waited until the middle of next week.

I wouldn't have tried again at 6:00 pm that very same evening.
About 6:00 pm that evening, the site is back online.

My local store does not show up as a valid location. The closest store on the site is an hour away.
Because of my work and responsibilities, the general accoutrements of my life, such a trip is not easily accomplished.

Not to mention the cost of gas. And time out of my life. Like the time I'm spending on this email.

I call the Borders customer service number the Waldenbooks employee gave me.

The woman who eventually answers, after several automated attempts to get me to hang up,asks me how she can provide 'excellent customer service'.

I tell her my troubles, and she said that if my store wasn't popping up in the local listing,then try again later.

She was going to try when got off work at 11:00 pm.

Apparently, at night, certain stores start appearing in the list.

Mine should be one of them.

This doesn't appeal to my sense of reason. But who am I to argue?

However, something isn't sitting right.

So I call my local store again to inform them that the weather must have let up,because I'm now able to access the site. Only their store isn't appearing in the list.

They regret to inform me that they are not fully merged. That Borders is unable to ship to their Waldenbooks store.

I mention that I joined the Borders Rewards program at THEIR store.
They regretted to inform me that they are not fully merged.

But sure, they can pre-order. But it's 25.99.

That sounds like a normal price for a hardcover. Not a 40% off price.

While I'm chatting with the Waldenbooks employee on the phone, I'm also looking up the Waldenbooks website.

It appears that they are linked with Amazon. List price is $34.99. Maybe the local store does have a good deal.

However...

Amazon/Waldenbooks lists a mark-down price of $18.xx. Even with shipping, it's $22.xx.

I mention the difference in price to the Waldenbooks employee.

The employee at the store was not aware of this price difference. She said, "We're not really linked with our website either."

Dear Borders:

Is there any way you guys can cut out all the b.s. and just offer the lowest price to whoever wants the book, wherever they want to get it?

Especially for those who sign up for your Rewards Program?

I think that would make a good slogan and one helluva good business decision.
Just my opinion, of course.

Here's hoping,
Jason

I Look Like I Lost a Bet

2007-03-05T03:18:00.000-08:00

This is from an old email broadcast I sent out to compadres. But I like it, so, here.
.........................

i cut my hair again, but for a change, i used scissors to start. this would make it easier when i got to the electric clippers.

once I'm finished, i see that i made some errors in hair-length judgment. i must have cut closer to my scalp with the scissors than i could with the clippers. but only in indiscreet places, like the side of my head. i look like "di, di, dit", but spoken with a retard's voice.

i look like i lost a bet with myself. i bet that i could cut my hair like a professional and i lost. i saw it in the mirror after i did it, but i didn't take much notice. i said to myself, "who's gonna care? i have no one to impress anyway."

i was 'volunteered' to run errands in preparation for the yard sale tomorrow. pick up poster board, change 2 twenties into 40 one dollar bills, and get burrito-making groceries. i also wanted to cash a check i got for some comp tech work. 40 dollaz, y'all. this would have been a short trip except that i had to go by my bank. closest branch is about 20 minutes away.

when i get to the bank, i see my shadow on the parking lot and can tell i've clipped my hair. that's all good. i also look chimp-like. i push my chest out a bit and hold my back so i don't look so oppressed. approaching the entrance, i see my reflection in the glass of the door, and i look like a serious working-class banking-type person. possibly discharged from the military for innapropriate barbering.

in the reflection, i also see an older gentleman coming up behind me. but he's far enough behind me that 'holding the door open for the elderly' becomes a gentlemanly courtesy that could be ignored considering our fast-paced society.

my bank has an airlock type of entrance. 2 sets of swinging doors. by the time i get to the second set, 2 steps away from the first, the inner voices kick in and tell me they'd decided that the old man wasn't THAT far away from the door, that he was close enough to watch me step through and let the door close just a moment before he got to it making him think 'Punk', and not wanting to disappoint the voices, i'd reconsidered not being courteous, and also disregarding the smaller inner voices that tell me that opening doors for men is gay, i turned around and pushed the door open for him.

i expected nothing in return. i was just trying to quiet the inner voices. at the most, a nod of acknowledgment would have been sufficient. after living for so long with these voices and responding to them, i've become accustomed to nods. i appreciate them. they impart all the information one secretly expects and hopes for.

i think of japanese samurai bowing to show respect.

but this 80 year old man steps thru and says, "THANK you, good sir." and smiles at me.

more than i expected. a nod times 1,000. he called me 'sir'.

so all i have to do at the bank is go to the island with all the slips of paper, but i realize that i don't need a slip, i'm just gonna cash. still need a pen though. i endorse the check. been getting good at writing my signature fast and outrageous-like. i think 'autograph'.

i start walking toward the entrance to the crazy serpentine roped-out walkway to get to a teller (i always think biology at these moments, wavy-ridged stuff equals greater surface area, the bank designer must have realized that you can pack more people into a line this way)...

but as soon as i step inside the rope-lined path, a teller says "I can take you here..." she's near me, on the opposite end of the walkway's exit...so i'm thrown into a quandary...do i walk the path and then walk back down to her end, or do i ignore the pre-set path and just go directly toward her, saving steps and time....

and because i get into such a weird state of mind when i'm in public, and because i was sorta headed in the opposite direction, and because i had only JUST entered the roped path, i perform a full 270 degree turn. i realized it was excessive when i did it. i could have done a simpler 90 degree turn to start heading in her direction, but the voices and the hair were currently in charge.

i thought she might smile at my eccentric display of responding to her voice. but she didn't. she didn't acknowledge my pirouette in any way other than to ignore it. i pacified myself with the thought that she probably sees people pirouette several times a day. it's probably why she works here.

without a hint of job-satisfaction, she accepts my check and asks for id. i realize that i have a bank member card. first time i've been to the bank with it. it has a picture of me on the front. as i'm rifling through my wallet to find the card, the thought occurs: "I just cut my hair. I must look like a retarded terrorist."

i hand her the card. afraid of the repercussions, i see her look at me. she hands the card back and opens her cash drawer.

card in hand, i glance at the picture on it. i look out of place. you can see exactly what i was thinking. out of all the places i could possibly be, sitting in this windowless room, trying to look happy and staring at the eye of a camera mounted on an elevated telescoping arm is in the bottom 3.

why do i feel relieved? why do i feel like i got away with something?

so she hands me the money and says "Have a good day" and i respond "Thanks, you too" and as i turn away i remember that i had to turn 2 twenties into ones.

spinning back to the counter, i say "Oh yeah, can I change these twenties to ones..." and that's when i see the old man standing there, ready to take my place at the teller's station.

He'd had his papers ready to place on the counter. I feel like an ass. The teller has no such qualms.

Looking at the old man, she points down to the other end of the bank, at the only other teller available.

"She'll take you down there."

He keeps standing there with papers in his hand, looking at both of us in turn. He looks confused. I feel like an ass. He assumes I've already had my turn. It should be his. But the teller assumes that he is hard of hearing.

"SHE'LL TAKE YOU DOWN THERE!"

He follows her finger and sees the lone teller at the opposite end of the bank. He smiles at both of us and heads toward the remote end of the counter.

I was this close to saying, "That's ok, you can go ahead" but it all happened so fast.

I place the twenties she had just given me back onto the counter and say:

"Can I get these in ones?"

She scoops them up and heads to the money counting machine behind her.

For some reason, I feel the need to explain.

I say, "Having a yard sale. Hehe"

She says, "Mmm."

I start thinking about the counting machine. How does it work? How does it know it has only 1 bill at a time? Why does she trust it more than herself? How would I design it? I'm contemplating tiny air suction devices to grab a bill, and another set of suction devices on top that don't suck as hard, and the bottom set moves to pull the bill away from the one stuck on top, but what if there are 3 bills stuck together, would there be a 3rd set of suction devices...

"Here ya go," the teller says, in the same voice that one says "You may go."

I glance back as I'm exiting the bank and I see the old man talking to his teller and, for the second time but for slightly different reasons, I'm glad that I was intuitively wise enough not to let him go in front of me.

Smoking Sucks, Unless You Smoke

2007-03-05T02:49:00.000-08:00

k, i quit smoking for a couple of days. but i found myself sitting around thinking about 'not smoking'.

not doing shit but sitting around and thinking about not smoking.

"right now, i'm not smoking."

but i wasn't doing anything else. and i bored myself.

so i started smoking again.

and that very same evening, i created a script that checks to see if YouTube videos are still active.

not just disabled by user. not just disabled by copyright infringement.

it checks to see if the actual flv video file exists on the YT servers.

the script allowed me to removed bogus vids off the Trinity.

sweet.

well, as you know, i do not like my brother.

i love him. he's my brother.

but i don't like him.

i can't forget this, not because i have a grudge, but because he does something every day
that reminds me of why i don't like him as a person.

yet, he is a big fan of the online games i've installed.

this pissed me off.

he's using the shit i've been a part of for years.

under my name.

so, i'm not without some smarts.

i made a couple of .bat files that allow me to disable/enable access to the game by renaming key files.

however, this meant i couldn't play it while he was present.

but when i quit smoking, i knew i needed something to occupy my time.

so i purchased another game.

it looked interesting, i got into it.

my brother found out about the multiplayer aspects of the game.

he was excited and showed me how he accessed the multiplayer servers.

i already knew.

but i acted semi-interested. i said, "i couldn't get the servers to show up."

he said, "you just click this..."

i fucking knew that. but i had to pretend i didn't.

i said, "huh..."

so he was away for part of the day.

and i made something.

i used flash. made an exe projector file using a screenshot of the opening of the game.

i replaced the exe that gets started when the multiplayer aspect of the game gets started.

so now,

if you try to start multiplayer, you get my flash exe.

it takes over the screen, shows a screenshot from the opening of the game,

then shows: "Can't connect" and offers an exit button.

how sweet is that?

he hasn't tried it yet, but there was a sweet setup last night.

he was watching T.V.

i was at the computer.

i clicked the multiplayer icon to test.

i got my flash exe.

i closed it.

i said, "Have you seen this?!"

and he looks, and i double-click...

and my flash exe takes over....

he says, "No...."

i say, "Hmmm..."

and i feel bad for a moment.

but all i have to do is:

look at the clothes he leaves on the floor

look at the coffee grains he leaves on the counter

look at the empty water/food bowls for the animals

look at the bloody spots his in-heat dog drops on the floor

look at the discs he removes from the DVD player and sets on the entertainment center

(he doesn't rent or purchase movies, he partakes of those i get, but just takes them out and leaves them laying around)

k, so, this is shit everyone has to deal with.

it's like being married.

without the sex.

and your spouse is a fucking redneck white-trash asshole dickhead with a case of B.O.

and so, my video of what my new game hack looks like.

it's attached.

[this is a copy of my email text, so no attachment, and blog-readers lose the greatest reason to read this shit]

my Knight Rider Dog story

2007-03-01T23:38:00.000-08:00

so bev, the lady living next door, j.d.'s ex-whatever, called twice today asking for him. he wasn't here and the second time she called she said, "Please let him know, it's urgent that I speak with him."

"Ok, I'll leave a note."

"I made dinner if you'd like to come have some."

"I've already eaten, but thank you. Appreciate that."

so i was watching Family Guy that evening, it's dark out, Izzy was on my lap. There's a scene in the show where they do a Knight Rider cut-away moment. The scene freezes and shrinks into the background while Kitt, the knight rider car, zooms across the twilight desert sands toward the foreground.

Izzy jumps up, and says "Merf!" The door is open and she's looking outside, her ears are up.

The other dogs run outside to investigate. I hear them barking at something. Izzy runs outside as well, merfing as she taps across the floor.

They bark for bit, then Izzy runs back in and jumps back onto the pillow in my lap. She's still looking outside, her ears are still up.

I asked, "What? Is it Kitt? Is it Knight Rider?"

They always do this. It's always nothing.

and I start singing, loudly, the Knight Rider theme to Izzy. "DOOT DOO DOO DOOT DOOT DOOT DOO DOO DOOT DOOT..."

I'm only a quarter of the way through my rendition when I hear someone at the door say, "Hey!"

I get up and walk toward the darkened porch.

The 'someone' says, "Hey, Jason!"

They're just outside the porch screen.

"Yeah? Who's there?"

"Sorry, but ur dogs were in the road. They got out."

It was Bev, she had some other dog on a leash and was walking away from the gate.

I thank her for putting them back.

She says, "You need to fix that."

I say "Fuck you. I didn't leave the gate open. Can't fix people leaving it open, now can you?"

but out loud, i say "Yeah, thanks for putting them back."

and then I sit inside, with Izzy on my lap, wondering "how much of the Knight Rider song did she heard me sing? did she like it?"

"did she let the dogs out just to see if j.d. was home?"

"is every one of my neighbors destined to be an insane jackass?"

"DOOT DOO DOO DOOT DOOT DOOT DOO DOO DOOT DOOT..."

current book: State of Fear

2007-03-01T22:09:00.000-08:00

I've been reading Michael Crichton's 'State of Fear'. First novel I've read of his that includes footnotes pointing to scientific research papers.

the main thrust of the novel is that no hard evidence has been found to support global warming.

in fact, much evidence points the other way.

in his book, he keeps reinforcing the idea that what we take for granted, those things of which we are so certain, have no grounding in reality.

this is hard to for me to type, as i've always wanted to believe in global warming.

why would I want to believe in this? well, we have better, non-polluting technologies already available. whether they contribute to global warming or not, that point is moot: they're not adding toxins to the air. also, i feel that oil companies have too much influence in the government, and the world's dependence on oil is a source of much strife, warfare, and antagonism. so fuck oil. give us the alternatives. we can do it. we could have done it at least 10 years ago.

why didn't we do it?

believing in global warming is another way for me to say, "make things cheaper for the average joe and stop killing people for no real reason". and by saying global warming is a real threat, then i can bring the problem to everyone.

here's the thing: our government acknowledges global warming, yet refuses to do anything about it except make promises. we all suspect Big Oil to be the puppeteer. however, to placate concerned citizens, environmental agencies are brought to life to deal with global warming. now, these agencies have become a billion dollar program, and since many major scientific research programs are dependent on government funding, the papers they eventually publish must acknowledge the impending threat of "abrupt climate change", "global warming", etc., etc. then, and only then, can their data be presented, even if it contradicts the statements they have been required to make. or the data must be presented in such a way that their conclusions are obscured or misleading.

ok, the main point of this post is to see if the science in Crichton's novel has real-life substance.

Common Knowledge: Greenland's Ice Sheet is Melting
Status: False?
Data: In the past 20 years, the average temperature of Greenland has been dropping
Link: http://www.ingentaconnect.com/content/klu/clim/2004/00000063/F0020001/05140445

Common Knowledge: Antarctica is Warming Up
Status: False?
Data: In the novel, he displays a graph, and I found the data source.
From the Weather Station at Punta Arenas, the closest city to Antarctica, at the tip of South America, here is their chart:
Link: http://data.giss.nasa.gov/cgi-bin/gistemp/gistemp_station.py?id=304859340004&data_set=1&num_neighbors=1
Notes: It shows a general trend downward.

BIG FIND:
In the story, a summary of relevant material is printed out and handed to the protagonist.
It lists the titles of scientific papers, the authors, the publications, and their conclusions, which the protagonist then later verifies.

This is my own verification. I mean, the author is constantly warning against just accepting what you read or hear. However, I'm still having to read something that may as well be fiction, but at least I know he's finding real-life sources and not inventing them for shits and giggles.

Another thing: as I was reading through (skimming) the file to which I'm about to paste the link, I noticed that he took quotes from it. And that his arguments are based directly on the arguments offered in the file.

He uses this line in the novel:
“Nothing is so fervently believed as that which is not known.” – Montaigne.

Here's the PDF link:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/graphics/2006/11/05/warm-refs.pdf

After that discovery, I feel my work is done. There are many more references in the novel. It has a bibliography and an appendix or two.

Here's a great article from the author himself, Michael Crichton. It's on the book's official web page. He discusses many things, not just the weather. Give it a shot.
http://www.crichton-official.com/fear/