Affordable Connectivity For Some

(This is an old post that I merely proof read, but it was placed as if a new post)

I'm working offline for a while, "A week to ten days," according to a guy with a heavy Indian accent.

The "Affordable Connectivity Plan" that I've had since the  "pandemic" has summarily expired. 

I can't help but wonder if this isn't just a means of censoring information from certain people; ones who used their free data to visit non-mainstream media sites. 

They can't cancel people like Russell Brand and Tucker Carlson or Joe Rogan (though not through lack of trying) so maybe they are trying to work on the opposite end of the pipeline, and just shut off the service of those who qualify for the ACP, but are using it to view pod-casters such as those named above, or other anti-establishment slanted information. 

The canopies pop up on city corners everywhere, under which are given away free smartphones, to those who qualify by being unemployed and/or on food stamps. -Trojan Horse devices that are actually propaganda dissemination devices -coming pre-loaded with the Google Search function that is never going to reveal any websites other than those that are approved by the "deep state."

You will have to scroll about 4 pages down to find this blog, even if the search term you type in is "Street Musician Daniel," for example. 

This shadow banning first started within a day or two after I posted a music video on Youtube that was making fun of, then candidate, Joe Biden. 

An average of about 450 viewers a day suddenly fell to more like 12. 

And, now I will have to pay 10 dollars for every 2 gigs of data I use, or basically about 2 hours of video watching.

I'm almost willing to bet that if I had been a consumer of only the mainstream shills for the War Machine, Big Pharma and other powerful interests,  like a good little sheep; they probably would have renewed my service, so as to keep me "informed." 

Before I get too upset, I need to wait a few more days to see if they hook me back up, as the representative that I spoke to promised me (in a heavy Indian accent).

It has been about 3 years since I was ever asked to log in to the hot spot. 

It has been a weird Wednesday. I woke up at several points, the first time being about 9 in the morning when I actually felt up to riding my bike a mile to the where the plasma bus stops.

I could undergo the "new donor" procedure at the one across the river.

I wouldn't have had a fever, and the stethoscope would have recorded a minimum of wheezing from the cold which is almost gone after 16 days. 

Then, waking again around noon, I felt more tired. My diet the previous day had been sprinkled sugar and cocoa into peanut butter with coconut oil stirred nto it. 

By 6 at night, I was feeling the cold (or flu) coming back; as, I felt the slight chill of a fever and was racked with violent coughing fits. I was also out of coffee. 

So, I went to the Family Dollar where I bought a liter of spring water while stealing a one dollar box of individually packaged single-serving coffee packets. Driven to crime to support  a caffeine habit...

I must admit I have fallen morally, and become a thief after something like 35 years of being honest to the point of having returned a wallet that I found that had $990 dollar in it (2002) and having alerted an elderly lady who was in line in front of me at the register of a Circle K store in St. Augustine, that she had dropped a 50 dollar bill which had fluttered down and almost landed at my feet (2010 -I could have feigned tying my boot and become 50 bucks richer). And then there was the time the same year when, after my then girlfriend Karrie had come out of a certain liquor store and produced a bottle of whiskey from under her coat, I went back into that store and placed another bottle of the same whiskey on the counter, paid for it, then returned it to the shelf, telling the clerk/owner "I had a talk with my little Mexican girlfriend about how she is a representative of me wherever she goes, and she won't be shoplifting in here any more." 

"Yeah, I keep a tight inventory on what I sell each day, and I noticed the bottle missing right after she left without buying anything. It's good that you just did that, because I was about to tell you that neither one of you were welcome back in here," he had said. 

But, fast-forward to today -when every business that hasn't locked their entire inventory in glass fronted cases is teetering on the brink of insolvency because of rampant, unchecked shoplifting; and I'm afraid that I have gone to the precipice of the proverbial cliff that my dad once posited to me that "everyone" might jump off, with the inquiry of: "would you jump off, too?" and have jumped off. 

This might be kind of my reaction to having had the free data plan cancelled, along with the resurgence of the cold/flu. This has also coincided with me running out of bottled water, and having used the tap water -water that has been recently flagged for containing permanent toxins due to a bunch of fluorocarbons having been dumped, upstream, into the Mississippi River in past years, probably with Bugalosa, Louisiana (with it's nation-leading crime rates) atop the list of offenders. That has made the acquisition acquisition of spring water almost a life or death matter. The coffee was just me stealing something because "everyone else is doing it." 

That's about it on this Wednesday night that will soon elapse into Thursday, and put me within 5 days of having my food stamp card loaded with $284. In the meantime, I think I will finally be poised to show up in Gretna to go through the sometimes tedious process of becoming a new donor. I'll just be 50 cents short of a return trip, should they not be able to take my plasma. 

I don't even want to try to get the 2 quarters from Jr., as it has become clear that he is primarily in the market of buying the company of others. History has shown that, he would tell me "Yeah, I got 50 cents I can give you, I can help you out!" But then would tell me to grab a seat and hang out at a rate that would amount to me getting 50 cents per hour of listening to his drunken rants. I would be required to play his guitar, while he played sloppily along, enjoying his pot and alcohol buzz while I would be cold sober and have to grin and bear it until some point at which he felt he had gotten 50 cents worth of "a buddy" out of me. 

He would start passing me his bottle at intervals calculated to keep me in a state of half drunkenness,  and wanting more. All this has played out so many times that I've lost count, and patience, with it and am starting to feel like I'm Charlie Brown, trying to kick a football that Lucy is holding.

I'll take my chances with random strangers at the bus stop should I become stranded in Gretna. In the worst case, I could sleep outside, then return to Octapharma in the morning, hoping that my blood pressure or heart rate would be back within their acceptable range (I've mainly had the problem of my blood pressure being too low, which I think is due to my putting myself in a deep relaxed state as a means of staying patient at those times when there are a dozen people ahead of me, they are short staffed, with the whole donation process bound to take 5 hours. Add in travel time and the 75 bucks I get could wind up being paid at a rate of $10.25 per hour. 

That raises the issue of: Why not, instead, busk in the Quarter, where 10 bucks an hour is what I averaged 12 years ago; before I acquired all the skills I've accrued since then?

I look forward to things getting better... 

I've done another raid on the abandoned apartment of one Carlos, during which it dawned on me that, in my prior forays into it, I hadn't once thought to look in the
refrigerator/freezer, which has been plugged in and running since he left.
There was, on one shelf, bricks of Velveeta style "processed" cheese, stacked like gold bars in Fort Knox, and elsewhere, plenty of air tight packets of
things like "Pasta With Garden Vegetables In Tomato Sauce," and
condensed tomato soup, as well as Meals Ready To Eat style packets of "white chicken (with rib meat) fully cooked," that can be submerged in a pan of hot water and come out steaming and, well, ready to eat...
The freezer yielded some frozen pork, the price tag on which indicating that it dated back no further than the Biden administration, as it was about
20% higher than what pork used to be, before almost
half of U.S. tax dollars started going to some corrupt overseas regime to be spent on weaponry from a handful of contractors, enriching them and their lobbyists, while paper money is made out of thin air to grease the wheels of an "entitlement" economy with one downside being the inflation of the price of pork reflected in Carlos' freezer, but I digress...
The refrigerator is also rodent and insect proof, and Carlos had stored a
few boxes in there, probably for safe keeping. Because, in the less secure pantry closet,
every cardboard box on the shelves had been chewed through by mice
and/or rats, with whatever contents that had eluded their cute little whisker
flanked mouths having cascaded to its floor, accumulated to a depth of about an inch (an inch and a half if your measurement factors in the hundreds (thousands?) of huge
roaches [Palmetto bugs to some, huge roaches to others] atop the pile. They all shot off in different directions and had vanished into various crevices, taking about the same amount of time it had taken the beam of light to go from my flashlight to them, once I switched it on).
It's going to take a little elbow grease in order to get apartment A 106
ready for its next unwitting inhabitants. On the whole, at least the smell in there isn't as
pungent as what has wafted from some of the dwellings where the bodies of residents,
who hadn't been seen around by anyone in maybe a month, have been discovered (usually by the rent
collector).
That particular essence, while probably never confused with Wind Song perfume; does at least share with it the attribute that it "stays on your mind."
The Eu de Delinquent Renter is a funk that manages to penetrate even into a closed closet and
through the fabrics hung within.
You might spot a nice looking shirt amidst a heap of
them in the dumpster and think it might look good on you.
But Gain detergent with Oxy Clean be damned; the tenacity of that
odor is such that; even though you might look pretty dapper when decked
out in it; you're going to have trouble getting the babes, so it's best just to
leave the thing for the trash collectors.
Concurrently, in the lobby, will appear a hastily printed out and Scotch taped up somewhere notice, adorned with the image of a face that you have perhaps seen from time to time (but not in the past month or so, come to think of it...) This is often lifted from a Facebook
profile and might be 15 years out of date. The announcement will state that "In Loving Memory Of" a person who's full name you probably never knew until just then, and at a given time and place, there will be a ceremony held to "celebration of the life" of this individual (a life lived in a rat infested hell-hole, but a life nonetheless).
And, since it would be pathetic if nobody were to attend the celebration and one would genuinely feel bad for the few close relatives who did show up; "Cookies and refreshments will be served afterwards" would be added at the bottom of the notice, insuring that at least half of the Sacred Heart residents would be there; celebrating...
But Carlos's place is certainly salvageable. In fact, having visited him a few times there, I would have to say that it doesn't smell much worse now than when he was living there.      

When I was letting Harold out last night, I cracked open the door to A 106, offering him the chance to explore. I wanted to see if his curiosity -the level of which purportedly being enough to kill him- would
be enough to make him want to go in there; with eyes darting around, and nose and whiskers twitching; but he
balked; perhaps fearful that Carlos might still be in there. He had never been mean to Harold (but he is still a 6 foot tall, 220 pound nigger*) and so I guess the furry creature wanted to err on the side of caution.

I was kind of curious myself, about letting Harold in there. I would have propped the door open, to give him an escape route.
Then I could count the number of dead rodents that had been layed at our doorstep in
the morning. It would be great fun for both of us, perhaps the most fun I've had with Harold since I got him.
But, alas, he decided not to risk any of his 9 lives, but just went outside instead.
And, alas, Carlos isn't a coffee drinker, as a thorough search search reveals. Nor is he a tea drinker, as
evidenced by several boxes of it that were still tightly sealed and showed no
signs of being gnawed upon. I guess it just isn't the rodent's cup of tea..

*Carlos would laugh his head off at that so; shut up, cancel culture...