What a strange thing they've done to Blogspot. If you see a picture of a hat nearby, I've defeated their attempts to force this blog to look like everyone else's. The difficulty is, I had to resort to html script, not exactly something I like to do every day. This $2 hat, which is a straw panama hat, now sells for $20.
Internet privacy. Do you care? If you are as well informed as the average user, no. But we always know who is first to squawk when they are arrested. The SOPA replacement, CISPA, is about to become a reality. The difference is the big Internet companies which opposed SOPA will, under the new law, have immunity from litigation. You can’t sue, so they are free to trade your information as another commodity. And when they begin making this revenue, you can bet your every e-mail, every search, every post, will be scrutinized by strangers with a hidden agenda.
Yes, the giants are quite aware that small-minded people will cave if anyone suggests they only oppose the bill because they have something to hide. You know who you are. Myself? Well, I don’t really care, because I have a ready-made cyber identity that could countermand almost any angle of social prosecution. It’s called this blog. You might say I’ve created my own hubris without becoming its victim. For anything I may be accused of, I’ve got up to 21,000 people who plain know otherwise, and that wins trials in America
Not the weather again! Yessir, and it was the worst storm in years, even if I said that before. I can tell by how far the rainwater backs up toward the mound where I park my scooter. A bad storm gets up to the rear tire. This storm had both tires under four inches of water. No pictures, it was night time. That’s why I want my next house to have a porch. A sit-down watch the show porch.
I decided against a movie, nothing to see. “Titanic” in 3D, please, don’t make me ill. Or the “Hunger Games”, another worn out contest to the death lottery in another post-nuclear US of A. The only really new material I’ve seen in the second half of my life is the 1979 “Alien” series, which still outclasses all imitators. In 1994-1995, I dated a Sigourney Weaver look-a-like, but mine was 5 foot 6, that is, five inches shorter than the real one. I know, it is hard to imagine Sigourney being that proportionate at almost six feet tall.
Where I would have a hard time naming five politicians, I can smell a rat like the best. And something is afoot with this next federal election. Somebody, or something, doesn’t like Ron Paul, I detect just too many of what appear to be unrelated incongruities. Like hearing some other candidate’s people refused to sign a loyalty pledge, and the newscast omitting there had been a Ron Paul rally nearby shortly before. I’m no political expert but I know weakness and insincerity. My bullshit detector is right off the scale. There is something different about this one.
So I wrote a 12-bar Blues song in A. It’s called “Since You ‘Bin Gone”. That’s also the lyrics, repeated randomly. But that’s how we play Blues lead breaks at this time, so the words have to fit in between. Makes perfect sense to me.
This is Metal Storm. In my day, the Vulcan electric Gatling gun was considered fast at 6,000 rpm. Can you even imagine 16,000 rounds per second? With zero moving parts. It doesn’t just kill, it obliterates. The principle is the “bullets” are lined up inside a barrel and detonated by electrical impulse. It requires no human operator and, when the bullets are replaced by explosives, can stop any conventional attack in one second. It can also launch fireworks displays. I just don’t want the job reloading the thing.
Bingo was again a success, meaning everybody walked away happy. Smaller crowds means repeat winners and one guy took in half the cash himself. In addition to three games, he also won the powerball. I did okay enough to stop in afterward at Whiskey Tango again. First weekend I’ve even been there and it was packed full of men, easily outnumbering the women six to one. No band, but loud canned music, I actually enjoyed the place because I used to hang out at meat markets. Except the women back then were far younger and had less plastic parts.
So when I say I don’t enjoy pick up bars, it largely depends on the bar. If it reminds me of the good old days, it is tolerable. I cry over the lack of women, but let me tell you the guys were a bleak and pathetic looking bunch. All swagger and talk. They certainly aren’t fooling the few women present (who are no prizes themselves).
This is not new; this situation was very common back in my college days at what we called jock parties. Uncool surplus males and beefy already passed-around women trying to dress 19 again but not quite succeeding. Ladies, there is something with bopper fashion and streaked hair that does not mix well. But then, Florida is the home of the 30-something bar maid.
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