Business Surveillance Solutions

What an awesome day. The stock market rewards me, and I take profits. My skill set rewards me, and pays a few bills.

I sold a system today. I don't even want to talk about how much it costs. I got an unbelievable markup, as well. On the starter system! I haven't even begun earning their trust, and making recommendations.

For personal grins, I want to disguise a bluetooth device underneath a stupid antenna ball, with a fish-eye lens, to watch my car while I shop.

Come to think of it, why not record the entire drive. Every time I get in the car, I am on the clock. I could easily justify the expense.

There is a fellow in La Jolla, who I've heard wants the deluxe system. Hello, new tires! Aloha!

Five Five Five

haven't posted a stock chart, or "pick-to-click," in quite awhile

DPZ delivered a pop to the upside today, and may close above the 50-day

I feel blessed to have had the thought in the first place.

Twice blessed to have enough wisdom and foreskin to akt on it.

Thrice blessed, above all!

And, Etard is gapping higher, also! It's a four-peat!

Also shorted some CNET today. Let's hope, that's "one for the thumb."

Not For Profit

The last few weeks have been an on-going smak immersion, courtesy of the investment minds on Hansen Natural's Corp.'s message board.

The post in which I speak out about autism got zero recommendations. A random, wise crack response got three recos. My disappointment in humanity is tempered by the urgent need to refine my energies.

One poster said autism is "a subject near and dear." Then proceeded to put me on ignore because I felt differently about the stock. His definition of a "dear subject," translates, roughly, to, "I've heard of that."

Everybody pays lip service, because it is free.

I have the energy to start a 501c3 and make a difference. It would have an administrative budget of no more than ten percent, with a cap of one million dollars annually, in perpetuity.

Money would be raised for autism research, and some would be set aside for parent rest and respite. I would go door to door, selling mouldy flutie flakes. I will turn my desire into faith and action.

Behavioral, Rational, Unifying Market Model

The other day, a Saturday as I recollect, was a fine one for honeydew.

That's what I call it, when I run errands for the household. The phrase, honeydew, probably came out of World War II. I already knew what it meant, when Vin Scully used it to describe the man on the mound one day.

Twenty summers ago, Scully remarked how lefty Rick Honeycutt's name reminded him of the expression, "Honey-do. Honey, would you do the gutters this weekend? Honey, would you mow the grass?"

My honeydew the other day, included a trip to the post office. It was after hours, but the vestibule containing the stamp machine was open. A gentleman kept inserting his various bills into the coin changer, only to have them rejected with that annoying donkey sound. Finally, the machine relented, and he was on his way.

When I approached the machine, I was a little leery. The gentleman before me had fussed around for a seeming eternity. I slid my tender into the slot, and it came back with an, "eeey, ahhhh!" Then I turned on the charm, and danced a thrifty step to reflect my desire to see both of us, come away satisfied.

The next time I popped my wad into the box was paydirt. The sweet, metallic tinkling sound confirmed a trayful of quarters. As I skittered away, I manifested my gratitude upon the lady who came up to the machine, next.

She, too, got a rejection, at first. When I heard that whiny sound again, I turned around and said, "You've got to shake it up, a little bit."

She looked at the machine in puzzlement. It was mounted into the wall, and there was clearly no way to rock, tip, or leverage the element. When she looked back at me, I did another little dance, and repeated, "You've got to shake it up, a little bit!"

She smiled, and tried again. As I hit the swinging door, I heard the coin-ey sound in the tray, again, and floated on my way.

What this has to to with B.R.U.M.M., you'll have to stay tuned, dear reader. Until tomorrow, best regards to you, and may you manifest the christ love within you!

Great White Hunter

Just in, from nite pest control. A score of snails lie broken in the street. There were so many, I started chucking them against the house, in the corner by the iceplant. I got tired of picking them up, so I just used my snips to crush open their shell where they were caught.

There was an unexpected trophy at the end of my travail. The black widow by the front window, showed herself. I already took a good shot at her, three or four days ago, and whiffed.

I was watering, and I tried to bang the nozzle against her body. She scurried to safety and learned to fear me. I only got one other chance at her, day before. I got excited and tried to get the camera, to film the killing. By the time I found it and booted the thing, black lady had scurried into her hole.

Tonight, when my flashlight caught her napping, I went inside and got my torch. I knew it was full of butane, so I shook it up a bit, and headed outside. The flashlight beam was made into a pinpoint.

I moved in for the kill, squatting, balanced on the balls of my feet. The flashlight went into my left hand. I would make the final operation with the torch, with my right. She was exposed, about two inches from a wooden overhang. If she was alerted and made it to the edge of that wood, she was safe, all the way back to her hole. I clicked the lighter once. Misfire. Second click, ignition.

Another flick of my thumb, and blast-off. I pointed the lighter output, toward the gap between the spider and the overhang, and pushed it to within four inches.

She took a moment to arouse, then made a cut toward the gap. When she realized she might be trapped, she threw her body against the edge of her web, trying to attach herself to her attacker. Three times she heaved her little body towards my exposed index finger, and then she was done.

Her happy hunting ground, the little wedge of web between ledge and grass, now her tomb. Her bright red hourglass, sunny side up. Nice image; the camera will wait for natural light.

Great Spirit, we commend to your care another of our own. She flies fast and straight, like an arrow. Comfort that one, for I am the one, who will speak for her.

13:08 PDT Update. There is no sign of a struggle. Last night, her body was cradled in her web, like a hammock. Maybe the ants got her, or she blew away. Or, maybe she did a mind-meld on me, and willed herself to play dead until I went away.

that spider from 1970 is getting bigger and bigger all the time

14:18 Wednesday PDT Update on the infestation. Last night, while on pest duty, I chanced upon the black lady yet again.

There must be a term for the ability to see things that are there, but are unseen, until the power is called upon. At the other end of the spectrum, sometimes not even the spatial relationship of the tv remote, telephone or other ubiquitious object, can penetrate my visual cortex.

And, she had company. Her cousin had a little hidey-hole over by my tomato plant. Today, I dragged the vacuum cleaner out to the yard, and sucked about a billion spiders and eggs into their new, happy hepa home. Every corner and crevice got the pointy-shaped nozzle, and a good scrape down to the bare wood.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

Instititutional Learning Facilities

Dad recently said that, in his opinion, something happened during my adolescent years that has shaped my personality. He never heard the weed story, yet it wouldn't surprise him one bit. He told me once long ago, after I had messed up, that it was easy for him to excuse my behavior, because he's done it all before!

I know a few things about my Dad's opinions. I know how he feels about sports, politics, and morality. However, I do not know what his feelings are about spirituality. Other than it is a man's personal, sacred bastion, that apparently should not be shared with anyone.

The Gestapo death squads have been laid to rest, pop, and the Cossacks are half a world away. For all that I know, in my Dad's opinion, God never existed, and his belief system, is his own intellectual prowess and acheivement. I do know that today, he is the only member of the family living purely in the moment. That doesn't make solving the enigma any easier, but allows a rational framework.

One cannot say why the lady married him. My main theory is an unconscious biological urge that defied explanation, and later, justification. I see the same behavior in my sisters, and the reproductive choices that they have made.

Pity me, average fool. This child was born of parents destined to part ways. Each shares the responsibility, yet each blame and vilify the other. Almost like they hope a few of us children fail, so that they can continue their private battle.

When my dad told me that I need to introspectively search my life for answers, I accepted his recommendation. I reasoned that, if he is pushing me for answers, then, possibly, he is in a period of seeking. So, I rebutted with the professional's opinion. It is uphill work, for anyone to rebut her, since she is the only doctor in the family.

She points to likely oral and anal fixations, how this may possibly indicate trauma during those formative years. In other words, Dad was on the right track, just a decade off. Many of a person's deepest issues are buried in the subconscious.

I know I touched a nerve, because he defended himself, saying, "I was living in the house back then, but I don't remember any specific issues."

Neither do I, dad! I was too little, remember? Nobody knew in those days that children who are exposed to too much stress, develop higher cortisol levels. Even though Dr. Spock sold millions of books, nobody in those days knew that you weren't supposed to yell at your children. Nobody knew in those days, that you weren't supposed to hit your children.

Or maybe they did, and I just forgive too easily. Like my former mentor used to say, forgiveness is a device invented by the Catholic Church. The leadership needed some defense, to prevent their own genitals from being served to them in a sandwich, after word of their indecencies had reached the victim's family!

It's just tough, that's all. Finding acceptance, when answers are hard to come by. Something does happen at a certain age to boys, and at a different age for girls, where they form their sexual identity, and each parent certainly has a role.

Basically, the main competitor for my mother's affection left the house, before, or while I was making an important logical connection of a sort. K1 and K2 were so young, that I wonder if they have any memories of a father around the house.

I have just one conscious memory, of his presence in our Atlee Drive house. One afternoon, K1 and I played a game in the driveway, called, 'let's rip open all the bags of manure and then spread the stuff, all over the driveway, and dance in it!"

That was a fun game until he got home from work, found out, and tanned our backsides. I remember K2 and I, crying on our beds. Our cheeks hurt so much, we were bawling with our red, swollen buns high in the air, too tender to touch. It's almost funny to remember.

B and L surely have vivid memories of father, in the house with us. They are very close in age, separated by two years. It is possible that B made her 'logical connection,' and L did not. That may help explain why, forty years later, she is still economically dependent on him.

Ah, dependencies. How they shift around. Four years ago it was two packs a day of tobacco. My drug of choice is now somewhat safer, although it is still a narcotic.

Pity me not, average fool. As Spinoza said, things that are most esteemed by men are riches, fame, and pleasures of sense."By sensual pleasure, the mind is enthralled to the extent of quiescence, as if the supreme good were actually attained."

To quote again

"... All the objects pursued by the multitude not only bring no remedy that tends to preserve our being, but even act as hindrances, causing the death not seldom of those who possess them, and always of those who are possessed by them."

I don't know who my father likes to quote. He likes to talk about topics that Dennis Prager mentions. I guess if I want to get to know him, that would be a place to start.

Mexican Insurance

The rig this time was my father's beige Malibu wagon. I don't know what the lady was driving, to and from work in, at that time. Maybe that green squareback, which never made the crossing. The lady had secured the best possible transportation. She always made proper provisions. Must be that New England sensibility.

On the way down, she always stopped at the same Mexican Insurance establishment, to insure our journey. She always kept one eye on the car, from the front counter.

Then, we were off, the six of us, precious freight. Mother and the ducklings, tooling around in a huge station wagon. Each of us, running a separate inner dialogue. K1 always had her nose in a book. Long, prosaic books, with obtuse titles.

K2 and I would usually have something going, like a shared comic book, or a game of 'tease K2 until he cried.'

B and L would probably have something going, as well, or separate boy daydreams. Mother would have her concentration on the task at hand. My step father, G, came along on this trip. At least I think he came along, because I remember his vacuous grin the night I first drank tequila.

Back then, I was a thin stripe of a lad. My dark hair had fallen to my shoulders. Mother has a framed, black and white photo of me on horseback. I was wearing a cowboy hat, slung low over my eyes. Another boy is seated on the horse behind me. We were probably sitting on his horse, since his father worked for the patron. Mom says that lots of people took me for a mexicano boy, based on that photo.

The rancho belonged to a Flintridge family friend. On our visits to this world, somewhere east of Ensenada, our family roamed and soared. The youngest, of which I was their leader, helped to carve a frisbee golf course out of the natural landscape. We would send our wacky discs flying high through the air, with the aim of plunking a predetermined target, like a rock.

During the day, sometimes we would drive into town. There was plenty of fresh fish, and not a few diversions for adolescent boys. I always thought there was real equine 'business' in those horse-shit cigarettes. Mom was permissive enough to let me buy a switchblade knife, and firecrackers. She never allowed me to have a bb-gun, but gave me enough ammo to level half of the rancho!

One day I noticed that a tree near the casa, had two curious seedlings. They were about eight inches tall. Since they were cannabis, I figured it was Providence, and gently uprooted them. I stashed them in a plastic bag in my stuff, and attempted to smuggle them across the border.

All went according to plan, until we got close to the frontier. Then, my scheme began to unravel. I started to get nervous, and, with about seven cars until freedom, I caved.

"Mom, I know this isn't the best time to tell you this, but remember those two marijuana plants that were by the house? Well, they're in my stuff."

She blanched. By the time we got to agent's booth, she was white, and was waved over for secondary inspection.

Next time I speak with her, I just want to know how she pulled it together. And thank her for not tossing me, and my weed, out onto the interstate!

Forgiveness Work

And I haven't even done gratitude, or the Ten Commandments! The gravity of the work that is to be done, is omnipresent. The work must begin from the inside out. One must forgive oneself, before one can forgive any others. I will start by forgiving myself.

I forgive myself.

Each offense that I have committed, has been in the name of my own self-defense. I hereby drop my defenses, in the name of not being offensive.

I forgive myself.

Deep internal forgiveness is needed to salve issues where one's best intentions have been laid.

I forgive myself.

Every time I am angry, I must forgive myself. Because my anger is a reaction to an invasion of my personal space. My personal space is a vast construct that others are not responsible for.

I forgive myself.

When I make a mistake at work, I may self-critique for forgetfulness, or pride. I must forgive myself often at work.

I forgive myself.

When another person interrupts my liberties, I shall not be quick to judge, lest I be judged by yet another.

I forgive myself.

I forgive others.

I forgive you.

Graduation Day

I am feeling so much anxiety right now. I am supposed to go golfing with my father tomorrow. Then my nephew's graduation is in the afternoon.

I told my father, about two weeks ago, that I would love to play golf with him. We were going to go last week, but he called to cancel. He didn't give me any reason, just a melancholy tone in his voice that could only leave me wondering.

I think that's what I need to do tomorrow. My back hurts, and I feel like I don't have any stability. I haven't swung a golf club in about five years. The last thing I want to do is risk another back injury, not right now. Not when I don't have any health insurance.

I know the reaction I'm going to get, and that is the reason that I am anxious. He will dismiss me, and then I will have to deal with that.

Oh well. What is the difference between today, and any other day over the last forty-four years?

Looking For A Laptop

Until yesterday, I was. On our way home from a fruitless effort at Fry's, the beloved drove us home via Mount Acadia Blvd. I perked up when I saw a neighborhood laptop computer store, and quickly asked her to please drive us into the little strip mall.

The beloved reminded me, as she signaled and made the turn, that one of the best computers she ever got, was from a local reseller. Scant need for courage here, as the first PC that I owned came from Computer 4 Less when it was on University Ave.

I walked out of there twenty minutes later with a used Toshiba Satellite that has everything I need for my independent contracting. It would have been nice to be able to wait until next month, and get a super deal on a new Centrino-based notebook.

I daresay that it is less likely that the next generation of notebooks will have the specific I/O ports I need. There was only one laptop on display at Fry's, that had a native DB-9 serial port. I almost walked out with that one (Generic 1.2 Processor, VIA Chipset) instead of my "new" PIII.

Which cost a fraction of what Fry's wanted. Best Buy didn't have a single laptop with the native serial port. I loved their hot-shot salesman, young ace who tried to bring my attention to a laptop that he termed a "monster," with TV tuner card, and that's where I interrupted him.

Hey, Ace, thanks, but I just need a functioning Windows XP notebook with a serial port, and the 10/100 port. I mainly use it to run Hyperterm and a web browser. For me, it is just another tool in the bag. It happens that this tool is a finely engineered laptop by the company that I consider the benchmark for them.

Laptops and Desktops
3582 Mt Acadia Blvd. Ste A
www.khalids.com

Into Harm's Way

Photos dated 03 March, 2003.




That day, I took my camera to the bay, to watch the Nimitz depart.









The photos do the rest of the speaking.

These and more are on Yahoo!

http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/chillblaine2k/my_photos

Congratulations Congressman Bilbray

Score one for the good guys. Brian Bilbray has defeated Kristine Kehoe for Duke Cunningham's vacated congressional seat. In this photo, Bilbray is speaking on the issue that he had been lobbying for, immigration reform.

Kehoe ran her whole campaign in a negative way, choosing to attack Bilbray because he went to Washington and became a lobbyist. By pandering to every possible special interest, Democrats only spotlight their relative weakness on values and issues.

How else is an honest politician supposed to make money, after leaving office. If Duke Cunningham had an ounce of patience, these words don't make it onto paper. He could have walked away from politics, and had a lucrative career in the private sector.

Nice campaign, Kehoe. Those television commercials that you paid for, were a transparent lie. People can tell the difference between a good lobbyist and a bad lobbyist.

Phil Angelides is going to face Arnold for Governer. Could it possibly get any easier than this?

Book Review

"The Macrobiotic Way: The Complete Macrobiotic Diet & Exercise Book," written by Michio Kushi, with a foreword by John Denver. Avery Publishing Group, Inc. Garden City Park, New York. Copyright 1985, 1993 by Michio Kushi and Stephen Blauer.

In my opinion, you should go out and buy this book, or steal it, but only if absolutely necessary.

This person, Kushi, has saved countless lives, and enhanced the life of each of his readers times ten, at least!

Excerpt:

"If You're An Athelete

"The myths surrounding nutrition are at present only beginning to fade. It is commonly believed that in order to build up big, strong muscles, you need lots of protein. This is simply not the case. Even a body-builder's need for protein is the same as anyone else's. It is prolonged, strenous exercise, not protein, that builds and strengthens muscles."

Excerpt:

"The word vegetable is derived from a Latin word meaning able to live or grow, vigorous, lively, and full of life. In keeping with their names, vegetables supply the full spectrum of vitamins and minerals we need to live and grow in good health."

Best Regards.

Do Not Shake Hands With This Woman

Jessica Alba was on the "Tonight Show" recently. This is one beautiful but strange young lady. She has a compulsive obsession about dirt and germs. She described to Jay how she needs to carry anti-bacterial wipes with her, and use them for any foreign surface.

Is her petite compulsion the only interesting thing they could find to talk about? Jessica says that she, "has to know," what, if any, foreign substances she may encounter. Jay even presented her with a UV-emitting bodily fluid detector.

I know that there are some harmful bacteria out there, but have you ever heard of washing your hands? Studies will prove that anti-bacterial sprays, soaps, wipes and other products, actually do more harm than good. Human beings could not survive without beneficial bacteria, which perform tasks throughout the body.

One of the places where bacteria are hard at work, is in the intestines. Half of the mass of human feces is bacteria. It didn't come from the food. Our bodies produce acidophilus bifidus, which breaks down food.

Every time I open a yogurt, I am doing so to unlock the acidophilus.

Then I flipped to see Dave tease Lindsey Lohan, trying to get her to name boyfriends. She asked, "why don't you talk about who you are dating," or something, and Paul chimes in, "because we're so old!." Letterman leaned back and agreed, "Yes, it's because we're old, we are so DESPerately old."

Seen This Man

You Find That Man! Photo Dated 11 July 2002

I owe much of my telecom career, and a good deal of my spirituality, to the individual under the white hat.

I have been ardently looking for the standing gentleman in the white polo shirt, T.C. The photo was taken by T.C.'s lovely daughter, who was waitressing our table at Charlie's. She had recently married a young man who was away at officer candidate school for the U.S.M.C.

I googled the fellow to no avail. It appears the earth completely swallowed him. He must have been one of those souls, who were needed more by the universal trust. I am extra-ordinarily grateful for the sacrifices he made for me, before he was summoned away. This man was downsized from Fiber Optic Project Manager, to part-time general services.

Nevertheless, one day he invited me to visit him near his workplace, to accept Jesus into my heart.

If this is farewell, friend, then so be it. When my work is done, I will look for you first, on the other side!

Matthew

Dignified Garbage

Time to take on a pretty big dog. There is an individual in my family, who has wrongly assumed the mantle of father figure. I am the law west of the Pecos, and it is time to engage. For the sake of my mother-in-law.

This is a man who will brown-nose his dessicated mother all the way to her grave. Yet he willfully destroys every single thing that he creates.

I am as serene as a napping tiger, sheltered by a tree, under cerulean skies, safe among his own kind, about to engage a horribly vicious, rabid, mad, dog. And I will fly to Syracuse and get in his face, if I have to.

Hey, Joe. Today is the beginning of the end, Joe.

16:12 General Quarters.

Sixty minutes is hitting the fan on the east coast. It has been three hours since directly informing my sister that I "needed to have a word, today," with her.

Systems stable on all code platforms, since first season. Present moon waxing into unheard territory. Phenomenal, sustained response from new neuro-peptide chains. Continue impulse power. New signaling and encoding techniques performing flawlessly. The solstice is upon us!

To Life!

Arnold in 2008

After years of a vague, disaffected libertarianism, I did the unthinkable on Friday.

I joined the Republican Party.

I hope they find something for me to do on the re-elect Schwarzenegger. I'll go door to door in the most heavily Democratic districts. I'll go on Ebay and buy the old campaign buttons for Lincoln, Eisenhower, Reagan and both 41 and 43. Right next to my button for J.F.K.!

Every time I sing with the conscious mind, I am sending a little bit of comfort to our leaders, no matter their personal beliefs. They are the only ones in charge, to pray for!

There are issues coming down the pike that are too irresistable to ignore. My blood is boiling with an overwhelming urgency, to defend lady liberty. I'm even going to register to vote.

Speaking of vote, I wonder if either of our Senate seats will be up for grabs.....

Network Engineering

I am so exhausted, that I feel like I could sleep for days. I just got off the phone with my brother, who lives in another state with his family. Sometimes those cordless phones are a blessing, because they let the phone take the blame for discontinuing the call.

My mentor and former boss, A.C., used to have a more direct approach to ending a phone call. He would just say, 'Alright, now, get off my phone..." and that was that. His nephew, R.P., was similarly direct, with own his characteristic slyness.

One night, he was very tired after a series of configuration updates. When our conversation was drawing to a close, something in his home, must have mesmerized him. Instead of ending the call by saying, "I'll let you go," he inadvertently assumed the burden by saying, "I'll let me go..."

And that is that. Very good chat with the bro-ski. I feel like an important network device in my mind has been reset back to the default settings. This device was going into broadcast mode whenever my brother opened his pie-hole. When this happened, all my vital functions were under synaptic 'denial-of-service' attacks. My initial response filtered down to a bite your tongue, don't litigate the mouthpiece, pick your battles and move on.

After years and years, today I realized how to re-engineer the device. I picked up the phone, and told him how I felt about a certain issue that was bothering me. I used "feel" words, and kept re-assuring him that I loved him. His steel trap of a mind instantly made the connection between my words and my cursed actions of years of engagements.

On to the next one.

Synapse

Wavelengths and Elegant Coding.

Or, "So, what you're saying, is that light is a particle, and, it's also a wave, wait, uh, whoaaa..."

Artificial lighting is a fascinating invention of man. As we strive to dominate our environment, we have turned night into day. Cities, and their associated productions, can turn their wheels continuously.

We have the capability to bathe our surroundings with beneficial wavelengths. Unfortunately, we have chosen to light most of our workspaces with flourescent, for it's great economies of scale. The diagram at left, is a spectrum diagram of the light emitted by some random manufacturer of "cool white" bulbs.

No wonder most plants brought into the office, do not live. The person probably thinks they didn't water enough, or watered too much. Nope. That plant depends on photosynthesis at a particular wavelength, to thrive. The photons cannot be absorbed by the plant at these frequencies.

There is a generous portion of things that we are understanding. There is a vast amount of things, that defy our understanding of reason. There is a reason the ocean is slate on a cloudy day.

There is a reason that some plants are green. It is because that plant is absorbing light mostly in the blue and red ends of the visible spectrum, and very little in the green wavelengths. Light in the green wavelengths is reflected, giving us the green leaf color we see.

There is a reason that some people are green. It is partly because that individual is absorbing light of dubious quality, light that comes out of a fragile, noxious cylinder. Snap!

Death To The Machines

I made this picture with Paint, about three years ago, after I quit smoking. I started smoking cigarettes in college, and kept it up into my thirties. When I got into telecom, I realized an entirely new plane of stress. My one-pack a day habit, doubled. The daily cash cost of the addiction was staggering.

When I made up my mind, I went cold turkey. True grit. Nicotine settles into nerve tissue, and must be completely swept from the body. For twenty years, I answered to a brutal mistress. That devotion had to be denied, the way one avoids an abusive lover.

A weight bench helped in the first few days. The cravings come in waves. The first impulse to smoke must be met with an exercise, a replacement habit. The cravings diminish very gradually, but I knew after three weeks that I was on my way.

This picture took about twenty minutes to make. The vast machinery of cigarette production is being overrun by bees. This simple insect, endowed with elegant programming by it's creator, overwrites the bad code, and recycle the used detritus. The area of the soul that once sought destruction, and isolation, and dis-ease, has been reclaimed, by those forces who cannot see the world, just the simple job before them. The organic sweetening of heart, and crystalline purification of the One with in Ether-nity.

Welcome to the Machine

I am running madcap out of lifetime to enjoy Pink Floyd! Ah, forget that noise. Roger Waters is a flippin' genius! His muse speaks with the mutual fabric.

There is a fellow in my distant past, we'll call him The Con. It wasn't his Christian name. I'll not say his real name. I'll only say that, according to the government, the popularity of his name has been declining. Only fifeteen years ago, his name was on the list of the five hundred most popular baby names.

Today, sadly, it's popularity has been eclipsed by more than a thousand other male baby names.

The Con was one existential fellow, really loved the Pink. When he was in the hole, Floyd was sanctuary. One night at the pizza shop, he made a connection with another man on that level.

The gentleman said,"Man, you white boys sure like that Pink Floyd. Well, thats a'ight, because when I was in prison, a lot of the white boys on my level, listened to that music. After awhile, I started to like them a lot. So, I'm just giving you a rough time, bro."

One fine day The Con schooled me on vehicular operations and maintenance. My RX-7 had a leaky oil seal. We drove to the area near Brown Field, where all the auto salvage yards are located. Destination: Ecology Auto Wrecking. Operation: Driving the Machine, Part II; Crimes Against The Racoon. ....... @^@ .....!