tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501606787228292102024-03-17T22:03:33.548-05:00Street Musician DanielDid you mean: "Street Musician Daniel"?Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.comBlogger2568125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-24558999886195990592024-03-13T15:24:00.007-05:002024-03-13T15:47:02.000-05:00An Invitation<p>When Google is making sure that hardly anyone sees a certain blog, then I guess its author is at liberty to write whatever hare-brained thing that comes to mind; as he tries to make sense of the shadows on the wall... </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSR1GC8lSe_CPIB5HDZgqogtsKO04iRp4c2iIetj7Mswzulmru3GBl0wVEnOwU7tIXZr1B08pE4mfFqANRr_iJcpp2x4dHp9qy-Gvql1p9rpSi6mGpxa_6ruGLrQhydi3UWtty-5mimsgtiYaKyi08Z1RFP2gWXSLK_tk35vCvbKGtZCXM89zKmw3zot8/s1621/429454290_420118593719272_2789543287778185949_n.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1621" data-original-width="1290" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSR1GC8lSe_CPIB5HDZgqogtsKO04iRp4c2iIetj7Mswzulmru3GBl0wVEnOwU7tIXZr1B08pE4mfFqANRr_iJcpp2x4dHp9qy-Gvql1p9rpSi6mGpxa_6ruGLrQhydi3UWtty-5mimsgtiYaKyi08Z1RFP2gWXSLK_tk35vCvbKGtZCXM89zKmw3zot8/w510-h640/429454290_420118593719272_2789543287778185949_n.jpg" width="510" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: medium;">Tanya invites me to join "the party."</span></span> <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p></p><p>I still haven't found the key to unlock the joy of writing just for the sake of it, with the journey being the reward, type of thing.</p><p>The obnoxious Big Tech bosses, already controlling what 90% of the people with smartphones are going to see and hear every minute of every day leading up to the November election, are really getting on my nerves with their shadow banning of this blog.</p><p>If I'm going to say positive things about <b>Robert F. Kennedy Jr</b> (*flag goes up somewhere in Mountain View, California*) then the algorithm is going to make sure that the post is seen by only a select handful of people -those already deemed to be lost causes -boomers and other incorrigible "Trumpers-" whose votes will just have to be annulled the "2020" way.</p><p>By them finding, for each, a corresponding "gullible person of color" who has been captured by the Google algorithm. One that they can scoop up in a van laden with pizza and a keg of beer, and whisk off to the polling site ("We can register you on the way there" [ using this app that Zuckerberg was generous enough to have underwritten the cost of, and made available to Meta users, upon whose phones records show that neither RFK Jr, nor anything positive about Trump has ever appeared]."</p><p>I'm starting to wonder if there isn't indeed wisdom in the perpetuity of the deep state and its "perpetual war" machine. Maybe, to hell with Trump, Kennedy and Ramaswami, and maybe Karrie should go jump in a Lake.</p><p>Maybe I should feel gratitude for the piled up bodies of dead Jews, and dead Palestinians, stacked to one side to leave room for some dead Chinese and dead Arabians to come. We might should thank the bodies for this high standard of living that we all enjoy in this, "the greatest country in the world." </p><p>Maybe I had everything backwards. Maybe the MAGA candidates are ironically making America "less great" by throwing a monkey wrench into the business of war. Maybe I should blithely snicker at the sight and sounds of groups of people of color, holding their phones and screaming "I hate Trump" at the night sky. </p><p>Maybe I should be investing my unemployment checks in Lockheed Martin and General Dynamics stock and thinking: "You go, people of color; do your thing, don't let Kamala and me down! Listen to what your phone say's!"</p><p>The Chinese did not give their citizens the same "M-rna" type vaccine that it was insisted that U.S. citizens, to include the children and, certainly, all the members of the military, be force fed. I sure hope that the next bio-weapon, er, virus, that is being developed doesn't decimate the U.S. military, while leaving the CCP-ers unscathed! That would fuel speculation that Biden and company have been useful idiots all this time; and that might be quite a leap to make... <br /></p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-77359548305240575092024-03-08T08:15:00.002-06:002024-03-08T08:27:48.389-06:00Can You Promise At Least 6 Ongoing Wars??I was thinking today about how interesting this blog might be still, to this day, if I were to still live under the wharf. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpK6dD6cvT2ZEj5Ddej7r8SLhKb1611TFKYZ71xAcmMOaPDhGi4ddN7bWJTF2AbFNlcxbKINqmVOcUCVjX_nzI7KfdtyAnUC93L8cBRd8S4ZJcyievnf5URW-LH10daiBRlIzo8x-ko2ndzoBBl_xx4chpdsjvvYqLr-L9Hkg1w4X9ThkhaJCX5E_5hLo/s640/s-l640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="639" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpK6dD6cvT2ZEj5Ddej7r8SLhKb1611TFKYZ71xAcmMOaPDhGi4ddN7bWJTF2AbFNlcxbKINqmVOcUCVjX_nzI7KfdtyAnUC93L8cBRd8S4ZJcyievnf5URW-LH10daiBRlIzo8x-ko2ndzoBBl_xx4chpdsjvvYqLr-L9Hkg1w4X9ThkhaJCX5E_5hLo/s320/s-l640.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Need a lift?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijoce1wSzWDy43aBGRs3JQBnFcQztd6c8_aHqquKKAJjtc8C0Nlpwy4ebuYOwzbkrNEf3XEQUa6zrY-RxQ9l1_yquHGv9ixbGTGGkSVrdlIx6tmgu2vwpBKvazUsLrXldNw47fKIhD0VNU2UtrMnWAi9-9jEz_w7A0SF9r1NAItxswSH2JfspOioDA22A/s640/s-l640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">Nee</a></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody></tbody></table>
Chances are that, if I lived there when the Covid thing came into play, I would have, one way or another found out about the nice hotel where the city was putting the homeless people.
I remember seeing the tent cities dissapear from under bridges everywhere and hearing the news that the homeless were being housed in a pretty nice hotel. They were being fed and I would imagine given some kind of funds for use on "personal items" ie. bottles of booze, weed and crack rocks and maybe toilet paper.
So, I suppose that, as soon as tourists started trickling back into town after the emergency had been lifted, I would have been back to busking, in a race to see if I could restablish an income at such a time that my hotel room and money for personal expenses had dried up.
So,it's hard to speculate with any certainty about whether or not this blog would be more interesting if I still lived under the wharf. I imagine I would have returned to there, sometime in the fall of 2022, and them might have endured some hard times over the course of the next year and a half, which would bring me up to this time now, when it is "different."
This is the word used by Jonah the kopra player who used to make $100+ a day quite regularly playing that interesting instrument.
Now he is peddliing a pedicab instead because "the Quearter is different now," according to him.
Things will hopefully become interesting enought to wrtie about here. Even though this blog is shadow banned by the algorithm. I suppose I could fool the algorithym by using sarcasm.
I could say that we need to start as many foreign wars as possible, so that foreigners will kille each other off, using weapons that were made in the U.S.A. and they could reduce the world's population to a level more comfortable for the likes of Bill Gates and other science buffs who have calculated just how many people need to be pared off the three of humanity.
It can't be Bill himself, because we need him alive in order to direct the operation.
But, if we can sell weopons to both sides and ciphon money off the treasuries of both nations that way; and then give the job of rebuilding those wiped out nations to good old American ventures, then it is quite reasonable to expect the U.S. citizens to enjoy a quality of life that is at least 5 fold better than anywhere else on the planet that is still standing.
This is how a magnificent, well oiled war machine should work.
We all live lives like the ones portrayed in the "Happy Days," sitcom of the 1970's and the rest of the world will just have to war amongst themselves for the scraps that fall off our table.
This is why offense is taken over people migrating here illegally, just so they can ride the gravy train. They are supposed to be in their hell hole countries aiming U.S.A. made rifles at their non-Christian contemporaries...
This is why I'm going to definitely vote for an "establishment" candidate this fall, be her democrat , or republican, that doesn't matter...
Sarcasm,-and algorithm'ss inability to discern it, and adjust the blog author's social credit score accordingly...Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-26403431828168104372024-02-21T16:51:00.002-06:002024-02-21T16:51:44.586-06:0068 Degrees On February 21stAnd, so I'm going out to busk until the sun goes down or I make my kratom money whichever comes first...Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-78676515209908778912024-02-18T10:18:00.000-06:002024-02-18T10:48:49.861-06:00A 4 GigaNight<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: x-large;">Back, After Almost A Month Without Internet </span></span><br /></p><p>I started a fast about 6 hours ago. But, not before the "one last hurrah" of a package of <b>Little Debbie™</b> Glazed Donut Sticks.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8Qm4azlHssi-wahvq49hbiSVOO9lQwfrbP4B3D_tbk5ra7Th0Gwg52vE4v7Rku6NDJKIwgaN9EhwJmPmiAg5PePXTxsJnOLEsQq-BGfwHfNxrQRoME5PmCs7x3wcnpa1GnSpE1bt6sJ6Hh7g3LjKFYUFqRHdURV-ZoG5S-Liwp7eMn8NI3wqI_R9_oA/s1280/2024-02-18-020730.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8Qm4azlHssi-wahvq49hbiSVOO9lQwfrbP4B3D_tbk5ra7Th0Gwg52vE4v7Rku6NDJKIwgaN9EhwJmPmiAg5PePXTxsJnOLEsQq-BGfwHfNxrQRoME5PmCs7x3wcnpa1GnSpE1bt6sJ6Hh7g3LjKFYUFqRHdURV-ZoG5S-Liwp7eMn8NI3wqI_R9_oA/w640-h360/2024-02-18-020730.jpg" width="575" /></a></div><p><br /><br />I guess I was sending the message to my brain of: This is the kind of thing we will be flushing out of every cell of the body, right down to the mitochondrion. </p><p>Sort of like putting a blood hound on the trail of a missing child by letting it sniff her dirty socks before setting out to search the countryside...</p><p></p><p>I wonder if the spelling of "Donut," rather than "Doughnut" on the product has anything to do with copyright issues. Perhaps the Dunkin' people have registered the name "doughnut." (Christ, I've already Googled "the plural of mitochondria," and now I have to look up "Dunkin' Doughnuts." I guess I'm a little rusty after not having been able to blog for about the past month...).<br />It's almost like you might glance quickly and see "DO NOT" -as much a warning as part of the brand name of the product.</p><p>I chose them as the lesser of evils. They have soy AND palm oils in them, so I guess that means only half the amount of soy oil as they might otherwise have, with only half the toxic effect that the former produces in me. And, "less than 2%" of titanium dioxide doesn't sound like it can hurt you much.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhPItthXEejbjrYouxPPBPd3VNB1f6FkjOHCDwGW4HgMSdO7LlxljJLnSKudI0eHlLVDyoIyeR3naEWi9cQoWABzv7ZOjqIgAHbKpMm_BhlWIbxVftiW9POXrv8gKumtuDIUESX4ZSj0KAUMgYBs1XuZh2y5FgTfxo1HagoS6SZcfgPDpwAp5KkikvxxU/s1280/2024-02-18-023320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhPItthXEejbjrYouxPPBPd3VNB1f6FkjOHCDwGW4HgMSdO7LlxljJLnSKudI0eHlLVDyoIyeR3naEWi9cQoWABzv7ZOjqIgAHbKpMm_BhlWIbxVftiW9POXrv8gKumtuDIUESX4ZSj0KAUMgYBs1XuZh2y5FgTfxo1HagoS6SZcfgPDpwAp5KkikvxxU/w400-h225/2024-02-18-023320.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: medium;">40 days of 40 bites..</span></span>.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: x-large;">The 12 Pound Tin of Jambalaya</span></span> <br /></p><p>The fasting seems to have been ordained by circumstances, the chief one being that Lent, a prescribed period of fasting and prayer which I have never seen "religiously" observed by any of the Catholics that I've ever known, is in full swing. </p><p>People will bicker over the significance of one word in the bible -"Man was created in <i>our</i> image," is one that comes to mind. This has spawned debates over how many Gods there actually are as, every iota of that book being divinely inspired, every word is important.</p><p>Not so much when it comes to the passages about Jesus fasting for 40 days and 40 nights to prepare for His imminent torture. These verses are slighted over and the following in the Lord's footsteps is amended to perhaps not eating meat every Friday during Lent, or perhaps even skipping the last meal on that day (but having a few crackers handy to quell any cravings that might emerge, should they become unbearable).</p><p>Unlike the interpretations of other words and phrases, which people have undoubtedly been burned at the stake over, the "40 days and 40 nights" has either been spun to mean "a long time," like the duration of time taken to flood the whole earth, back in Noah's time. People could only count to ten back then (20, if they were wearing sandals) and so, "40" probably was used instead of the word "innumerable," by those divinely inspired men. Like when a car doing "a hundred miles per hour" flies past you on the street. It might have been going 82 MPH, but "a hundred" gets the point across.</p><p>The Baptists that I bivouacked with for about a year or so in the late 1980's were of the same mind. They didn't smoke, drink, nor wear beards or mustaches, but they seemed to make up for lost time in the church basement, where vats of strong coffee, along with cakes and pies and puddings awaited them. I would add that, neither did they do drugs, but given the way they seemed to substitute food for all other excesses, I'm sure most of them were whacked out on "doctor prescribed medications," if not drugs. Every word is important.</p><p>I think the consensus, in these religions, is that Jesus was a master of fasting and praying and, until you can walk across a lake, you'd better stick to just skipping a meal every Friday during Lent, and not hurt yourself trying to copy Jesus, type of thing...<br /></p><p>So, Fat Tuesday arrived, the parades started on time, and I was once again looking out my window at a spectacle that would not be seen again for another year. I started to question just what what I had in common with the hundreds of people lining the streets, celebrating. Do I even belong as a member of humanity?</p><p>I found some encouragement in the fact that so many people had turned out for the parades, though. I think it would have been downright depressing to see the floats passing along a deserted street, their occupants holding beads, trinkets and lit up objects with nobody to throw them to. I was glad that the population weren't all holed up somewhere, smoking crack, and not to be bothered by wholesome family fun.</p><p>I still felt a bit alienated, but could see alcohol containers everywhere and figured that I would at least venture out to walk around drinking for free and, who knows, might find myself whooping it up as I jumped up and down with my hands outstretched, trying to get a glowing rubber ball or a light-up Frisbee thrown to me. I always wondered just how the guys on the floats picked out their targets. Of course, families with children usually walk away laden with beads around their necks and carrying a couple bags full of more, mostly plastic items (nothing heavy enough to injure someone caught by surprise and hit in the face with it).</p><p>There was one time when I had gone out to watch the parades and, noticing that nobody was throwing anything my way, began to sulk a bit, and was probably standing with my arms folded and my head down, feeling sorry for myself and wondering if that was New Orleans' way of telling me I wasn't wanted here, when a pretty nice object -a stuffed animal or something- came flying off a float and landed right at my feet, having obviously been aimed at me (the throwers are pretty accurate, having had so much practice).</p><p>I went out to Canal Street, where it became evident that a lot of cans of "hard seltzer" had been handed out, as part of some promotion, probably off the back of a pickup truck, with the White Claw Hard Seltzer logo painted on its side. These were all over the place, still cold, and with just one sip taken off a lot of them. I finished 3 or 4 of them, as I wandered around, stopping at one point to squat down and kneel in the grass by the trunk of a large oak tree, as I finished one. I then looked and saw a small pipe sitting in a nook in one of the roots of the tree, with its little bowl stuffed with what turned out to be some good weed. <i>Is New Orleans still telling me I'm not wanted here...?</i></p><p>I started heading towards the Brown Derby, after smoking the bowl, but then aborted that trip. I had been thinking of getting a dark beer, but had gotten drunk enough by the time I was half way there, off of unopened cans of beer laying in the grass in various spots, that I figured it was not necessary to spend any money. It wasn't Modelo Negro I was finding; but it was free...</p><p>I went back out after the parades had passed, and spotted a half dozen huge tin trays, covered with tin foil and full of jambalaya. I was on my way to the Winn Dixie to get some food. I had to kind of watch how much I spent, I thought, because having no phone and no Internet, I had no way to check the balance on any of my plastic cards. I had grabbed a bottle of spicy brown mustard, but then thought: what if the jambalaya isn't there any more? Mustard could probably wait, as I would probably rather have coffee and bottled water and "superfood" powder from WalMart to get me through to the end of the month, instead of mustard with nothing to put it on...</p><p>Getting back to the neighborhood, I saw that the tins of jambalaya were still there, so I was able to balance one in my arms and tote it, along with my groceries minus mustard into the Sacred Heart building. I started to regret not having spent $2.49 on the spicy brown mustard, but caught myself, and pushed the thought away. It takes discipline and practice to be able to invoke the Law of Attraction by feeling joy and gratitude for things not yet manifest -like someone who has ordered something they have always wanted and is tearing the wrappings off a package that arrives a few days later, thinking: <i>this must be it!! </i>already thrilled to have the thing they have always wanted, even though they haven't seen it yet, type of thing...<br /></p><p>So, instead of even thinking about the mustard, I felt grateful for the things that I did have. </p><p>And, there in the lobby, on a table where people leave stuff that they don't want, like the cans of green beans that come in the boxes of food that certain residents get, was a cardboard box, the size of a bread box. In it were probably about 2,500 little packets of...mustard. <br /></p><p>It's coming upon 12 hours into the fast, and I'm hungry. My mind is trying to trick me with the idea of: Why don't you just do a carnivore diet, and fool your body into thinking that it's fasting? Then, you can probably even sell your plasma while detoxing at the same time...<br />The mind: always suggesting you turn stones into bread then eat them...<br /><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: x-large;">Response To Comment</span></span></p><p>One of the last posts I put here before having my Internet connection die, was the one about Dorise Blackmon's memorial service. An "unknown" left a comment that I paraphrase as: Dorise was never a fan of yours after she found out about your child porn arrest. You should have paid your respects by not showing up.</p><p>If it's disrespectful to speak ill of the deceased, then, what is it to put lies in their mouths?</p><p>Dorise let me stash my extra guitar at her house, when I was homeless. I was walking towards the music store, in 2013, to buy a guitar tuner when she pulled up in her car with her girlfriend in the passenger seat and asked me where I was going, then told me: "Wait here 5 minutes," after I'd said I was on my way to buy a guitar tuner, then returned 5 minutes (out of her schedule) later and handed me a brand new Snark™tuner.<br />I've sat and hung out while she played about 240 times. Once, she and Tanya had started playing the song "Daniel," after I showed up. Since I was in a hurry to get to my spot that night, when the song got to the part where Elton sings: "I can see Daniel waving goodbye," I waved goodbye and walked off. About 3 hours later, when I was walking past them again, they stopped the song they were in the middle of and Dorise asked me: "Do you not like that song, 'Daniel?'" </p><p>Since they played instrumental versions of songs, they hadn't associated the "waving goodbye" line in the song with the way I'd walked off. And 3 hours later it still seemed to be bothering Dorise.<br />Then there were the times I showed up after they'd packed their gear in their van and Dorise would motion to me to walk with her and would buy me a veggie burger at a nearby bar.</p><p>All this <i>after</i> she found out about my "child porn" arrest. That happened in Mobile after I had wised off to a new Lieutenant who had taken over the downtown area and was against buskers, seeing them as little more than panhandlers. (He and a female officer walked up on me when I was busking, with him asking me, derisively, "What are you doing?" in a tone that implied: just what the hell do you think you're doing?!</p><p>I looked at them and said: "Golden Slumbers," by The Beatles, off Abbey Road.</p><p>"No, I meant what are you...oh, a smartass!"</p><p>I was searched, and amongst the pictures on my phone were some taken at a nude beach, which depicted nudists of all ages. Perfect, for the Lieutenant. I was charged with possession of child porn, held for about 2 weeks, then had all the charges dropped after a grand jury refused to return an indictment after seeing the "evidence."</p><p>But, then I had to leave Mobile, as the new Lieutenant knew I would have to. Because people trend towards being like "unknown," and, after seeing my picture in the local paper after the arrest, then seeing me back on the street 2 weeks later, along with a follow up article in the same paper, stating that the charges had been dropped "in the interest of justice" because none of the images had turned out to be pornographic, the people had already deemed me guilty by accusation.</p><p>"There's that child molester!" <br /></p><p>It's like these idiots who say that president Trump is a scoundrel because he's been impeached twice and indicted x number of times; when they were the ones who impeached him twice, and indicted him x number of times.</p><p>"Just because you got some fancy lawyer to get you off the hook doesn't mean you ain't a pervert!" said one yokel, to me. <br /></p><p>Yeah, I did pretty well busking the night before, and was able to hire OJ's "dream team" of lawyers.<br />That's how they run homeless people out of town. Another way is to fine them pretty heavily (for their means) and give them, say, 60 days to pay up, or go to jail for 60 days. When 60 days are up, the homeless guy is then some other county's problem; long gone, and never to be seen again because they would have issued a warrant for him -60 days on the original charge; plus maybe 10 more for "failure to appear" in court. The guys in the jail were saying things like:: "I know one thing; as soon as I get out of here, I'm getting the hell out of <b>Mobile</b>! F**k this place; these cops are assholes!" </p><p>Dorise had been a street musician her whole life; I think she was shaking her head over the way the cops in some places act, and not over the nude beach pictures from <b>Wilmington Lake, Vermont</b>, and wasn't just pretending to be my friend over the course of 10 years.</p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: x-large;">Alex Carter</span></span></p><p>He lives in <b>California</b>, and used to frequent this blog. That was when he was considering of "retiring" in <b>New Orleans</b> and probably wanted to to have some contact and potential life-lines here. <br />But, the last I saw, he has changed his plans, and now wants to retire in <b>Hawaii</b>. So, he has no need for <b>Dan McKenna</b>. Now he is online, kissing the asses of Hawaiian people; trying to ingratiate himself; sending gifts.</p><p>He doesn't seem to have grasped the concept of: wherever you go, there you are. This magic move to somewhere is going to be the key to his happiness, the change will do him good, he thinks. <br /></p><p>He has changed religions a few times; tried about a half dozen diets, dabbled in everything from drawing caricatures, making and selling ribbons, gathering and selling seashells, and flat out panhandling. He does profess to hate "bums," though.</p><p>He has taken up about a dozen different musical instruments, as if there is such a one that is going to unlock his abilities. It doesn't seem like he will ever realize that he, himself, is the constant. </p><p>It's always going to be <i>Alex Carter</i> playing the trumpet, or <i>Alex Carter</i> playing the violin, or <i>Alex Carter</i> playing the flute, or <i>Alex Carter</i> playing the ukulele. There's a pattern here.</p><p>So, he is going to move to Hawaii, where he will soon find himself annoyed at the "zombies" and bums, perpetually trying to be of service to people and garner appreciation for it, swapping one occupation for another, thinking that it is the environment that is "the problem," and, most likely starting to formulate a plan to get out of Hawaii, because he will have found the land of <i>"The Rolling Surf,"</i> to be so much like where he moved from that it really hadn't been worth the trouble and expense of getting there. <i>Alex</i> in San Jose, <i>Alex</i> in Hawaii...</p><p>Jealousy would be my guess as to the motive behind "unknown"s comment, since I'm 99% sure it's <b>Alex Carter.</b> He's old and set in his ways and it's easy to recognize his voice in the comment. Even the way the verbs are placed in the sentences is an identifier. He saw the pictures in the post of me in the company of the tribe of <b>New Orleans</b> artists -my tribe- and he couldn't stand it. <i>I know, I'll tell him that his deceased friend never really liked him; that will be a good use of my time! </i><br /></p><p>The timestamp on unknown's comment being within an hour of when <b>Alex</b> posted something to his own blog...another amateur mistake made by someone trying to pretend he is someone who knew <b>Dorise</b> well enough to know what her feelings (that she never expressed to me) were...</p><p>Woke liberal leftist trash (who, in all his anecdotal blogging, never once mentions ever having a girlfriend; so there's something to be read between the lines, too. I think Wendell, the flute player, might have said that the guy is a faggot)<br /></p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-40271315838067981402024-01-17T09:56:00.003-06:002024-01-17T09:56:32.890-06:00The Temperature Speaks For Itself<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP_xSUypsND35udER-zAkpkaSmq7DIt-ix4oohk7GdCFPw9kHvwHHHTcttdMxF6HBoZk6iLyo-X9BjcKqEib1OhN4uCrCTjbZVTVp7VjWYyADiWhEDPMj2ppy3F5Wzy_F1uYSnaAQLEq_6CYfEbpAK8FT7i-DIl6iay4pMvOSHazRsPjmLNzVCwXsk8P0/s1097/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-16%2018-50-43.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="1097" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP_xSUypsND35udER-zAkpkaSmq7DIt-ix4oohk7GdCFPw9kHvwHHHTcttdMxF6HBoZk6iLyo-X9BjcKqEib1OhN4uCrCTjbZVTVp7VjWYyADiWhEDPMj2ppy3F5Wzy_F1uYSnaAQLEq_6CYfEbpAK8FT7i-DIl6iay4pMvOSHazRsPjmLNzVCwXsk8P0/w640-h366/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-16%2018-50-43.png" width="640" /></a></div>The coldest temperature that I ever busked in was 37 degrees, and I remember that, in between songs, like if I was talking to someone, I had to keep my hands wrapped around the neck of the guitar. If I let go of it, the next time I fretted a chord or something, I would feel how the neck itself had dropped in temperature and it might have taken a minute or so of playing before the stinging in my fingertips subsided. At 37 degrees, I just relied upon a few simple chords that could be played using the strongest muscles in the hand, like a G major chord, played by wrapping the thumb around for the bottom note and using the third finger for the top note. The pinkie was kind of out of commission at that point.<p></p><p>I used to play at a <b>Kangaroo</b> store in <b>Jacksonville</b> that was across the street from a bank that had a large sign that alternated between time and temperature. I was able to not how every degree that it dropped below 50 became noticeable. As the temperature went from 44 to 43 was when the stinging in the fingertips started, with me having to blow on my hands in between songs and to keep one hand wrapped around the open position frets to keep the neck as warm as possible.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjhd7cNb6NMSjzUonvUWxwa2xl7l8l_PpLOSXsI30gEORK-wf3MSfBb-IGhxXU4uBVmO9mK1J9-Q2rQ3FvxJqom3Ppsy6k2XHnc30x628PKSDuzDfPwLpFx6fZZHzLTZowLiIrdjIY89ch02-eM9DAK-OuSorTGZqSsb6c40eezqFXwf-aJJIuEMWAorM/s801/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-17%2007-36-55.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="801" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjhd7cNb6NMSjzUonvUWxwa2xl7l8l_PpLOSXsI30gEORK-wf3MSfBb-IGhxXU4uBVmO9mK1J9-Q2rQ3FvxJqom3Ppsy6k2XHnc30x628PKSDuzDfPwLpFx6fZZHzLTZowLiIrdjIY89ch02-eM9DAK-OuSorTGZqSsb6c40eezqFXwf-aJJIuEMWAorM/w640-h394/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-17%2007-36-55.png" width="576" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>It is 34 now, according to the Bourbon Street webcam. At that temperature, I would be telling my hands to form certain notes and chords, but there wouldn't be enough strength in the fingers for them to obey.</p><p>If it were a matter of just sitting at the <b>Lilly Pad</b> with the guitar, wearing gloves and not playing, but rather just making myself visible, I might consider going down there. When it starts raining and I duck under the overhang to wait it out, I often get tipped by people who might make the observation of: I guess you're out of business; that sucks... before handing me a 10 or a 20. But, in a cold weather situation, the tourists are usually hurrying past, trying to get into the warmth of the bar as quickly as possible. It's unlikely that I could draw any of their attentions with the simple 3 chord songs I would be relegated to playing; the ones that are played using the thumb and the ring and first fingers.</p><p>Although, I will say that 99 times out of 100, I am rewarded in some way for just going out there. There are the tips that come from people who admire the courage, or desperation, of someone busking on a 43 degree night. "I don't know how you do it..." they might say. And it is also probable, in such situations, that someone who is in the 1% and might have about 500 bucks on them will drop a 50 dollar tip, thinking that that might be about all I stand to make on such a night. On more than one occasion different people have given me like 65 bucks and said: "Get a room, and get out of this cold, or sit in some bar, buying a drink every hour or so until the sun comes up" type of thing... But I would say that, more than 90 times out of 100, I end up thinking: <i>I sure am glad I decided to come out...</i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPV4ReCRPw1VgjqKM4DzcllLBQUAwDCWgkp_WpmPMqs5XkmRw4_3n8marG7n7eRo5rMebi5RaPIUK_-izRmQgG8wQ09qmC-HFZkwB65kBN7bBS6usv3aThtRgvJ_U3ODd9f5uKa7xHkJo1qjPyOzzoI3fiei6dATJ2wHx3_Snz9rRzobGN55eg0oult8/s752/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-17%2007-46-35.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="752" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPV4ReCRPw1VgjqKM4DzcllLBQUAwDCWgkp_WpmPMqs5XkmRw4_3n8marG7n7eRo5rMebi5RaPIUK_-izRmQgG8wQ09qmC-HFZkwB65kBN7bBS6usv3aThtRgvJ_U3ODd9f5uKa7xHkJo1qjPyOzzoI3fiei6dATJ2wHx3_Snz9rRzobGN55eg0oult8/w640-h392/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-17%2007-46-35.png" width="576" /></a></i></div><i><br /></i><p></p><p>But, right now Harold is inside with me, and I think I'll do the <b>Wim Hof </b>breathing method exercises for a half hour and then I might call Lilly. I'm sure the first thing out of her mouth, while skipping the formality of saying "hello" (she has caller ID and almost never say's that, but often continues a conversation from a previous call. The last time I called her, as soon as it connected, she said: "He's really polite; he's a nice guy, really polite; the girls thought so..." which was referring to Jacob after the time that we were busking and <b>Lilly</b> and the girls stopped on their way into the house and chatted for a bit.</p><p>During the pandemic lock down, she would answer with: "Did you get the vaccine?" and I would say that I hadn't even left the apartment all week, telling her that I had stocked up on groceries and cat food and was hunkering down. Not even <b>Lilly</b>'s worrying mind could envision me catching the big "C19" from <b>Harold</b>.</p><p>"You can't be sure, <b>Daniel</b>, maybe cats can spread it without getting sick themselves, and then you would be screwed. It's a horrible death, Daniel; horrible!"</p><p>She would then talk about how her and the girls had been bed-ridden with vaccine related symptoms, taking <b>Tylenol</b> and <b>NyQuil</b>, and basically suffering, probably to the same degree as they would have, had they gotten the virus.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYYIeaZwoeKm24RfHFPlKGajxZ2Kg84yei9g7Yu5cAlxg0dLj3WWyuVk605mK_EDJ2BA26EjGZCw1Ilt7UNI1yxioBXH-zbuyBLboK0Uttbm8dwf_vUQafRtVtPpRFvDNn5QJXcMN_kp7kT8V1Nl1SrtxCLRNgTI89p0smcjodY61qd_aL3EuamuGbfzc/s602/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-17%2007-57-53.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="602" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYYIeaZwoeKm24RfHFPlKGajxZ2Kg84yei9g7Yu5cAlxg0dLj3WWyuVk605mK_EDJ2BA26EjGZCw1Ilt7UNI1yxioBXH-zbuyBLboK0Uttbm8dwf_vUQafRtVtPpRFvDNn5QJXcMN_kp7kT8V1Nl1SrtxCLRNgTI89p0smcjodY61qd_aL3EuamuGbfzc/w400-h310/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-17%2007-57-53.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>It's just astounding how the <b>Phizers</b> and <b>Modernas</b> of the world, that account for something like 70% of the advertising revenue of what people had been conditioned to regard as the "mainstream" media, working in cahoots with the <b>Bill Gate's</b> and other <b>Davos</b> elitists of the world, were able to pull the wool over so many eyes. </p><p>Something like 72 news channels are owned by a handful of people, who were able to create the impression that "everyone, everywhere" was saying the same things; and so that became truth by preponderance. Not aware that they were all following the same marching orders, people would "flip through the channels," thinking: <i>"Oh, look, they're condemning <b>Trump</b>, too! And, so is this channel, and this one. They all are! If I was <b>Trump</b> I would just resign, because, obviously everyone is on to him, just look at all these reports, from <b>Whoopie</b> in the morning, all the way up until Colbert before midnight. "Everyone" can see what a jerk the guy is!"</i></p><p>I know some people are gullible, but, how hard is it to see that the democrats literally accuse "the other side" of doing exactly what they (the democrats) are doing?!<br /><b>Rachael</b> "If you take the vaccine, you won't get <b>Covid</b>, you can't spread it, etc." <b>Maddow</b> actually said she wasn't going to air <b>Trumps</b> "victory" speech, because she refuses to air "misinformation." Wow...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1Dd1K3wNpEAYt3iFlyzhdh18fTAeT4ysNkGlnjTiEdPPIU1x04FvMinM6nHKT1q5nMOF7ZMWkPXVDVvEhBUX2f8JUPs57iLEY4nnn4v2tdEivztSb0BJDZLhvDg8eA8RF1ZoSaX4u1hiK8cXwVdg-JRPK9v48tyHY3gzMCvWe-trTXwCWRIq3wwQSCg/s497/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-17%2008-02-27.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="489" data-original-width="497" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1Dd1K3wNpEAYt3iFlyzhdh18fTAeT4ysNkGlnjTiEdPPIU1x04FvMinM6nHKT1q5nMOF7ZMWkPXVDVvEhBUX2f8JUPs57iLEY4nnn4v2tdEivztSb0BJDZLhvDg8eA8RF1ZoSaX4u1hiK8cXwVdg-JRPK9v48tyHY3gzMCvWe-trTXwCWRIq3wwQSCg/w400-h394/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-17%2008-02-27.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />I guess <b>Don Lemon</b> at least won't shame all of the previously healthy young people who have dropped dead, the world over, in the past couple years; because of some factor that has surfaced in just the past couple of years...hmm <p></p><p>Funny how those incidents didn't get any media coverage. Even when that <b>Buffalo Bills</b> player collapsed on the field during a game, none of the announcers said anything like: "I wonder if it's one of those vaccine related heart issues that we've heard about..." Oh, my bad; I guess they <i>wouldn't</i> have heard about that; unless they were watching some podcast that they could get themselves fired from their jobs just for watching...<br /><b>Russell Brand</b> has shown about a 3 minute video of nothing but young athletes collapsing on tennis courts, basketball courts, soccer fields etc. etc. etc.<br />Oh, but I'm forgetting, <b>Russell</b> was accused of an incident of sexual harassment that allegedly took place like 20 years ago. I guess that means that video was <b>Photoshopped</b> or <b>AI generated.</b>..just the type of thing that someone anonymously accused of such a thing would produce. Sometimes I forget. <br /></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: x-large;">"Is There Anybody <i>Else</i> Up There?"</span></span> <br /></p><p>I admit that, at first, I was apprehensive. I noticed that the lion's share of people had capitulated to the fear mongers who have a monopoly on the mainstream venues.<br />Even <b>Catholic</b> people, who would normally have their throats blessed at the start of flu season each year, seemed to have relegated that particular article of faith to voodoo or witchcraft. Some kind of invocation to the <b>Holy Spirit</b> to ward off that year's strain of flu, is all well and good, but "not if my life depends upon it," type of thing.<br /></p><p>I was waiting to see if the city would be coming around yelling: "Bring out your dead," pulling tumbrels stacked high with cadavers, before even considering taking a medicine that later was proven to put healthy people under the age of 35 at a greater risk than from the C19 itself. (those statistics come from insurance providers, whose livelihoods depends upon cutting through the hype and the lies and analyzing hard cold facts.<br /><br />The tumbrels never materialized, and at the same time, I was seeing footage on the local news of the hospital down the street being overrun with C19 patients. On one such day, I had been to the very same emergency room because of a toothache, I think it was. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkgDMLixGXFpdHD9TW81o8K0KlukyOvFisuHnljOExbS9ULZpR2T4FM2GTRr7JgwogdgE2W_LDmidc-y65g8HaFjXPA1ffOpfECjVgLKh72dI049TVzHxiH4S7P6ubt-adVU5ltDoq7USzPp8hesXCe7LPG626qXbjNGS57b24Yc58FO6GKL95v_H16rM/s626/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-17%2009-27-00.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="476" data-original-width="626" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkgDMLixGXFpdHD9TW81o8K0KlukyOvFisuHnljOExbS9ULZpR2T4FM2GTRr7JgwogdgE2W_LDmidc-y65g8HaFjXPA1ffOpfECjVgLKh72dI049TVzHxiH4S7P6ubt-adVU5ltDoq7USzPp8hesXCe7LPG626qXbjNGS57b24Yc58FO6GKL95v_H16rM/w400-h304/Screenshot%20from%202024-01-17%2009-27-00.png" width="400" /></a></div><br />There was no such crowd of patients. Furthermore, there was a follow up report maybe a week later, ostensibly to illustrate that the situation was still dire. I recognized the people shown as being the same ones from the older broadcast; the guy in the <b>Houston Astros </b>shirt alongside the short pudgy lady with her jeans tucked inside her boots. Yeah, that was them...still in line a week later...<br /><br />It (the way fear had weakened people's faith) reminds me of the joke where I guy falls over a cliff and is hanging by that little tree branch that cartoon characters always seem to grab on their way down.<br />He is trying to hang on and is yelling for help: "Is anyone up there? Help!"<br />Then a voice like thunder cascades down, saying: "This is the Lord, your God. I will save you, but first you must have enough faith to let go of the branch..."<p></p><p>The guy thinks for a second, then yells: "Is there anybody *else* up there?!"</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uGDzeMFHSPVrejjENtOdrLRJziro4UzxtlIKQ8KJpJGcszJgm2N_Njfwb5sY4qFUrQmF29IlVAmAsoPzfwZB-cqdEuq7u1YOLHZ0Rgf_xC0_K-vjTX7OWbht5-37lXeG0RhmFe6mBnWH_gsl1TcH_PFv0qujhzHg4jaR9ydXWpfaZzADykq_0bhbwVQ/s1800/418523831_7025303980848638_3781473564228176740_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1198" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uGDzeMFHSPVrejjENtOdrLRJziro4UzxtlIKQ8KJpJGcszJgm2N_Njfwb5sY4qFUrQmF29IlVAmAsoPzfwZB-cqdEuq7u1YOLHZ0Rgf_xC0_K-vjTX7OWbht5-37lXeG0RhmFe6mBnWH_gsl1TcH_PFv0qujhzHg4jaR9ydXWpfaZzADykq_0bhbwVQ/w426-h640/418523831_7025303980848638_3781473564228176740_n.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Well, I've managed to stay up all night again. The sun will rise shortly. It's 24 degrees outside with a wind chill that makes it feel like 17. There's still a bunch of stuff I wouldn't mind staying up longer in order to get to...<br />The highlights from the 2 playoff games that I missed because, in the case of one, I went to the memorial service for <b>Dorise Blackmon</b>, who passed away last November, on a day that I had been thinking about her for some reason... </p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-63453211214393834012024-01-17T04:07:00.000-06:002024-01-17T04:07:31.513-06:00Christmas Eve Eve Eve Live on Bourbon Street at the Lilly Pad<iframe width="480" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/6Dl5prg-VQY?si=ptw58kSVry6zn_Ob" frameborder="0"></iframe>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-28397008905681827562024-01-09T11:21:00.589-06:002024-01-09T17:30:11.348-06:00From The Big Head To Canal Street Thunderstorms; heavy downpours, Harold entrenched somewhere dry...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwXtLRz08eFMWrFb3vrr8aAAvDe26NpR9BE4QEJIym5L_TB0vMOjgRnoC54fPh6VwPv8J3yhETIPZFQzguJJQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />The uncluttered living room, which is where I spend all my time now, when I'm home; reminds me of a jail cell.<div>Some of my most content moments were spent while in solitary confinement in one county jai or another. All I needed was a good book and coffee and I would stay up all night, reading by whatever light filtered through the bars.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7b0TVcE_ULDFcbxzbv8_3goGVbbWcxPo1GvLyfOooZch2Hh4C-PEVyFvTn2abKQKPs1HWZ5wi0IQLnsU9iGAX3_God023wDMp4iG7UfB1tFVeCWVspxtKjzvWZNJl5RH43P_ovXI-ZKoHfbQq9NRKksUhK3BkzCjQyVOUSO6UadUqrqZpyBvU5iiK8U/s2560/17048261837231834802583214107368.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7b0TVcE_ULDFcbxzbv8_3goGVbbWcxPo1GvLyfOooZch2Hh4C-PEVyFvTn2abKQKPs1HWZ5wi0IQLnsU9iGAX3_God023wDMp4iG7UfB1tFVeCWVspxtKjzvWZNJl5RH43P_ovXI-ZKoHfbQq9NRKksUhK3BkzCjQyVOUSO6UadUqrqZpyBvU5iiK8U/w400-h300/17048261837231834802583214107368.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>What has to happen is, a period of extreme boredom has to set in. </div><div>Going from a busy lifestyle with all kinds of choices, and plenty of stimuli, on the outside to being thrown into an 8 foot by 9 foot cell with just a minimalist cot, and a stainless steel toilet/sink combination, with 4 walls, a ceiling and floor with bors in ther front and a slit of a window in back can bring this about.</div><div>Pacing back and forth is an option, and looking out the window at whatever the view is, another.</div><div>One time, in Jacksonville, I was on the 6th floor with a window that faced west. The sunlight would beam through the window for a few hours each day, right before dusk. Using a pencil, I would track the beam by putting marks on the wall, showing, for example, exactly where it fell on the wall when the evening meal showed up, and was pushed through the bars.</div><div>Soon, I had a functional sundial, accurate to within a couple minutes.</div><div>With the changing of the seasons, the exact spot where the sun went down would shift (to the left, if it was fall) so that it would go down to the right of some tall skinny building on the horizon, perhaps, but would shift, a quarter degree or so, to the left (if it was fall) each day, and might disappear behind the tall skinny building for a few days, before starting to touch the horizon on the other side of it. This became like a calendar of sorts, and I was able to protract where the sun would sink on whatever day I was slated to get out.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZoTXrMOW-wileEeT1flAQQkBm2GOpNfrPgSDdFqH0dLzzAr0Txuyx71TXoAhiUDV06y53R5f_Z0txOu9aLwCc_xBrQMsyT-N6zjHEX-9uaC37wstd65h2ic37ePY3GUS9LsbcyMHhJPBwSR1xo0Tl9G3aL43OxLDVe3W77naAm9J8mHlm9RoHcL6guk/s2560/17048282139123544613928871893125.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZoTXrMOW-wileEeT1flAQQkBm2GOpNfrPgSDdFqH0dLzzAr0Txuyx71TXoAhiUDV06y53R5f_Z0txOu9aLwCc_xBrQMsyT-N6zjHEX-9uaC37wstd65h2ic37ePY3GUS9LsbcyMHhJPBwSR1xo0Tl9G3aL43OxLDVe3W77naAm9J8mHlm9RoHcL6guk/w400-h300/17048282139123544613928871893125.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> I always liked the solitary confinement situations, where I would only be let out for an hour each day. This is an arrangement that is used to punish inmates who break the law, somehow, while in there. They can't put you in jail for attacking or stealing from someone, because you are already in jail. So, they make it "worse" for those hapless souls by locking them in a special cell (called a "lockdown cell," by the unimaginative institution) by themselves for 23 hours a day. Most other inmates hated this, as they were the gregarious types that would pass time, like 8 hours a day of it, playing Spades in a groups of about a half dozen. They would loudly slam the cards they were playing onto the stainless steel table, accompanied by a gutteral vocal ejaculation, the way Karate guys do when they punch and kick and break pieces of lumber.</div><div>I guess the idea behind all that racket is to add an element of intimidation and underscore the power of whatever card they are slamming down, as if to say "Take That!!"</div><div>After each card is so presented, in the manner of a basketball being slam-dunked, it's greatness is then hailed through the barking out of a series of various gutteral groans and ejaculations. These are invariably delivered, at least by the black inmates, with as much "bass" being put into their voices as possible. <br />Because of the acoustics of a jail pod, these notes get really muddled and it sounds like a pack of dogs all barking at once. Things like: "What cha gonna do?! Huh? What cha gonna do?! I got this hand; I got this hand, you ain't got s***!"<br />The irony is that, a lot of times it is a fight that breaks out during a card game that gets one or more of them sent to lockdown.<br /><br />Those types hate the solitary confinement. Another aspect of the punishment is that the lockdown cells are in an isolated part of the jail so, no talking half the night through the bars.<br />And, if the locked down inmate can't read, that's even worse.<br />But, I always enjoyed the peace that came with isolation.<br /> </div><div>I can't really tell which came first, the chicken, or the egg...</div><div>With the "chicken" being the uncluttered living room, and the eggs being the ideas.<br />It might be that I was ready to make a change, and decluttering the room was part of it. Or it might be that the spaciousness is helping me to keep my thoughts simple.<br />When all you have in a room is a couch, it's easy to sit on that couch and appreciate being alive and having air to breath. Then when I bring one item in from the other room, where I shoved everything. that item gets my full attention. That saves me from spending only 5 minutes on 25 different things and not getting very far into any of them. This gives me the chance to gradually add things to my environment. Just a guitar and one method book is enough to keep me busy. And it is a high quality of focus.<br />But, since the water from my bathroom sink comes out piping hot, but the tub's faucet is lukewarm, it just dawned on me that I can get some kind of attachment to connect a hose to the sink, and I can use that to fill the tub with hot water. I've had a lukewarm shower for about 2 years now, and only now did I think of that...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj03QsBD_DpdLFUIPdGI6Ea6ZECd6v913u-w-1OBkllXskF3BnRgH3lvbVaLzmiRDXEUiJabKn6GADJWegKKNznNyA_2IzcXs1_C8Rix7rsuzYstXkjbJdRIBiaZSsUYbT5m__Sf74OOlDAspp10StVSwnZRa_XBghhWNiAucAgu4i0qEEk1nviHZgr1j4/s2560/IMG_2024-01-01-11-43-15-694.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1920" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj03QsBD_DpdLFUIPdGI6Ea6ZECd6v913u-w-1OBkllXskF3BnRgH3lvbVaLzmiRDXEUiJabKn6GADJWegKKNznNyA_2IzcXs1_C8Rix7rsuzYstXkjbJdRIBiaZSsUYbT5m__Sf74OOlDAspp10StVSwnZRa_XBghhWNiAucAgu4i0qEEk1nviHZgr1j4/w480-h640/IMG_2024-01-01-11-43-15-694.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />Then, I was thinking how nice it would be to have some kind of jogging application that uses GPS on my phone, so I can start jogging and not have to measure or guesstimate the distances I might be running.<br />Not long after having that thought, I accidentally clicked on the Google Playstore app and, front and center on their page was a jogging app that does just that.<br />So, with fun added to jogging, especially for a statistician like myself who loves pie charts and graphs, that was a fortuitous discovery and might help me realize one of my new year resolutions, which is to start a jogging program, so as to help phase out tobacco, which is another one of my resolutions....<br />Right now, I resolve to get some sleep.<br />These are novel ideas that are coming to me, connecting the dots between things that have been right in front of me, forever, but that I just never noticed.<br />Earlier I tried the app while slowly jogging from where there is a large bust of some historical figure's head in the park to Canal Street, finding it to be .42 miles. Eventually, I would like to be able to run that distance in 2 minutes. </div></div>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-30622264352293014372024-01-01T11:11:00.001-06:002024-01-01T11:11:34.274-06:00My Stripped Down Environment<p>I woke up for the first time in 2024, </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUEiFw9ARRfndHY8kVz-BASAIz05iorYq-AqT8rAhb3zqtmW0bSRCf8m9_mVr60agjGZ1YZQn9LQ_wH0AtdF_j4rnFfJ2bBHr6Z7lCwCA0dK0NCCNFubYoh3eGRRtP1S_A3GdiyKTaQLjhZdcL7gHggPGWKGGr1wcV8yM17Em9dp-ioysxzCYFgTsS8U/s768/download.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUEiFw9ARRfndHY8kVz-BASAIz05iorYq-AqT8rAhb3zqtmW0bSRCf8m9_mVr60agjGZ1YZQn9LQ_wH0AtdF_j4rnFfJ2bBHr6Z7lCwCA0dK0NCCNFubYoh3eGRRtP1S_A3GdiyKTaQLjhZdcL7gHggPGWKGGr1wcV8yM17Em9dp-ioysxzCYFgTsS8U/w400-h400/download.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />and was in my stripped down environment, which I could ascertain the reality of by opening my eyes and scanning my surroundings.<br />The "decluttering," as promised by the author of the decluttering book, has returned positive results in the way of organizing my existence.<p></p><p>Before, I would wake up and then situate myself in front of my laptop, where I would succumb to the powers of suggestion and wind up retracing the previous day's cyber journey and wind up clicking my way into what was threatening to become an habitual state of mind.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;">No Longer In That Rut</h2><p>There was a literal rut in the couch cushion that was forming from me sitting in that same spot, day after carbon copy day.</p><p>My living room was cluttered with about 25 things that could only hope to attract about 4 percent of my attention each.</p><p>Now I wake up in the openness with a couch and 4 walls and immediately turn myself inward, fostering a feeling of gratitude, which is ironically "for everything I have," as I sit in the almost empty room.</p><p>So far this year I woke up with the idea of plugging my full sized USB keyboard into my Android phone, thinking that it would circumvent the "thumb typing" that had been my only method of blogging here using my phone, after the hot spot data runs out, typically half way through the month.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8On8YuO64SaLvClNTbPty6wRmptxqLZMNJnbhLdXXp1an_qi1sz5UbY6fks1k2jh9FqLOIgzxgtnJYTbFXNuo9yx2i4I3dXto6jxR92lp4fwXp50cc4WqlSJy7SYZWew0NKQn3D3as6IVK46SAbgSfghyphenhyphenfyyXiEdDSRWT-t1CIbP7M13jx0VmmjfeRjk/s2560/17041288732335930935525911977060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1920" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8On8YuO64SaLvClNTbPty6wRmptxqLZMNJnbhLdXXp1an_qi1sz5UbY6fks1k2jh9FqLOIgzxgtnJYTbFXNuo9yx2i4I3dXto6jxR92lp4fwXp50cc4WqlSJy7SYZWew0NKQn3D3as6IVK46SAbgSfghyphenhyphenfyyXiEdDSRWT-t1CIbP7M13jx0VmmjfeRjk/w300-h400/17041288732335930935525911977060.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The encroachment of clutter...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>I have already typed this in in about a third of the time it would have taken me with my thumbs -a great discovery made less than 8 hours into the new year!</p><p>The only thing I haven't been able to do is to add a photo and then to continue putting text in. Going to the editor, I see the photo displayed, but am unable to click in an area outside of it to resume typing...<br />But, I guess there are more ways than one to skin a cat...<br />I'm going to try to put a photo in now that the text is done. Done, except to add that I am about to run to the Brown Derby, where I should have a whole months worth of food money on my card, but where I might just get some juice in order to do a beginning of the year fast and cleanse.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;">$271 Friday Before Christmas</h2><div>Yeah, and follow that with a $3 New Year's Eve, but more on that later, I guess.</div><div>The alternative to embarking upon the juice fast and cleanse would be to go and sell plasma. It seems like the 3 dollars I split with Jacob last night is earmarked as bus fare to go and do just that; and get the 40 bucks that I would have been satisfied with from last night's playing.</div><div>It's not like a couple people didn't come and smoke us up and one of them give us some magic mushrooms. Peace of mind: priceless!</div><div><br /></div>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-43116121725300367782024-01-01T10:04:00.001-06:002024-01-01T10:04:26.610-06:00New Orleans New Year <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-66445441742606780482023-12-29T11:05:00.004-06:002023-12-29T11:05:26.663-06:00It's Time <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkrFUtbzoLDwppOKNrWPq3MZluR2ulLXQ3aHQESRymuDYzlIGhn0kms7ICk7EiW245lCsrhvaqBCT1KbOSi0yV9pUUc4iGB7cIrAd6saZfo_8p4tlV48qDaoUybXf1CcVSLm_Y3CfKd75vcgGuO1Iui3VDFqo3E3ODZ08dB_MsE3k6luTYr-BMiIIP6Uk/s2560/IMG_2023-12-29-09-41-54-615.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1920" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkrFUtbzoLDwppOKNrWPq3MZluR2ulLXQ3aHQESRymuDYzlIGhn0kms7ICk7EiW245lCsrhvaqBCT1KbOSi0yV9pUUc4iGB7cIrAd6saZfo_8p4tlV48qDaoUybXf1CcVSLm_Y3CfKd75vcgGuO1Iui3VDFqo3E3ODZ08dB_MsE3k6luTYr-BMiIIP6Uk/w300-h400/IMG_2023-12-29-09-41-54-615.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /> I remember the day I came across this book, perhaps 3 years ago.<p></p><p>My apartment was so cluttered that I had stacks of books everywhere. Some stacks were behind others and so I couldn't even see a spine or part of a cover sticking out that might remind me of having a book that I would have gotten somewhere, interested in reading.</p><p>I've got to organize my books, I thought. Just to emphasize this point, I said to myself: You see, for example, I've got this little light green colored one wedged in between two larger ones, and I can't even tell from here what book it is, or where I even got it. I definitely need to declutter this place!</p><p>Then, I went and pulled it from the stacks. It was the book shown.</p><p>I am thinking of practicing the art, as part of a broader ranging New Year's resolution.</p><p>And the place to start, according to marie, after resolving to stop capitalizing your name, perhaps, is in doing a visualization that she describes thusly: "This means visualizing the ideal lifestyle that you dream of."</p><p>I have come about putting my own visualization together by deciding to revert to the lifestyle I had in 1998, when, at the age of 35, I was a bundle of energy and would race against the neighbor's dog to a store a quarter mile away, where I would get a Sobe "power" drink (plus a treat for the dog) to start each day, around 1 PM.</p><p>I played the guitar at least 5 hours each day, and did about an hour and a half of working out on a weight set in the garage, consuming at least 3,500 calories, 25 grams of protein and 100 grams of carbs, all out of bottles labelled with names like: "Ripped Fuel," "Carbo Force," "XXL,"and "Metabalol." I didn't chew at all until the evening meal of fish and greens with garlic and hot sauce, to go with a bottle of red wine. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2117gT3QrAxkQ7pEgobKF9YaMx1c97xtTxj3ePWdNwPCQ9kS87sqiX3vqh22J9uTmb0jfwXWoJChhyphenhyphenHMU4bcWw3otCuRwN2iN_4KonTaUnfp4zXBZhHGTqp6KqO8WamWV7Ey5wTG89kv-7JhxoZs1ZmUar83j7HyMFOsx4N89b8FwzKmsKdbm7m0s7pg/s960/190d32b776e4c7f1c8dcad6abfea6fcf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2117gT3QrAxkQ7pEgobKF9YaMx1c97xtTxj3ePWdNwPCQ9kS87sqiX3vqh22J9uTmb0jfwXWoJChhyphenhyphenHMU4bcWw3otCuRwN2iN_4KonTaUnfp4zXBZhHGTqp6KqO8WamWV7Ey5wTG89kv-7JhxoZs1ZmUar83j7HyMFOsx4N89b8FwzKmsKdbm7m0s7pg/w400-h300/190d32b776e4c7f1c8dcad6abfea6fcf.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This one looks like it was taken from Emerson Pond, where my friend, Dave and I caught many a Painted Turtle...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>So, I visualize waking up in an uncluttered apartment, where I will create the only dirty dish in the place by making a cup of coffee, and then will do the WIM Hof breathing exercises, before stretching out for a mile jog to an outdoor gym comprised of equipment that utilizes the weight of a person's body as the "resistance," where I will work out before jogging home.</p><p>Switching my diet back will be a challenge, as I have, only in the past year, eaten things like pizza and even ice cream sodas.</p><p>The pizzas were thin crust, gluten free, organic and topped with white cheese and spinach, but still something I would have passed on in 1998.</p><p>The ice cream sodas were me trying to recapture a part of my 14 year old self, the part that did things just for the sake of being "creative." I kind of came to the conclusion that I was possessed of that energy <i>despite </i>the ice cream sodas.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjScF6JD4OCjkWfCH141P8R7jdXJtV_D_s7l3MhOlyte0qXUn5MEsL4SHG_foj1OLC3bZMOQEXKqltumMn0TDZ3473fKTwjLAhZwVKI2EIivO9vrQKqs19qKX0j2sAQtHNJcYSPJEUZpOHOl13B2BIj2ucQ9FPtYCEuFhj0hdrAhiAy68whWJETu98TSUY/s1024/monadnock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="658" data-original-width="1024" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjScF6JD4OCjkWfCH141P8R7jdXJtV_D_s7l3MhOlyte0qXUn5MEsL4SHG_foj1OLC3bZMOQEXKqltumMn0TDZ3473fKTwjLAhZwVKI2EIivO9vrQKqs19qKX0j2sAQtHNJcYSPJEUZpOHOl13B2BIj2ucQ9FPtYCEuFhj0hdrAhiAy68whWJETu98TSUY/w400-h258/monadnock.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I used to hop on my 10 speed bike and ride 37.5 miles to the base of Mt. Monadnock in New Hampshire, lock the thing up, then climb the 3,704 feet to the peak of it, eat a bagged lunch I'd brought, take a few pictures, then ride back home. That was just a typical summer vacation day when I was 13 or so.</p><p>I have lost some of that initiative, and perhaps it's because my house is too cluttered.</p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-73880615153021919042023-12-21T05:31:00.001-06:002023-12-21T05:31:18.270-06:00Treats Of Seedy Texture I guess I should be posting at least something.<div>I mixed powdered chia seeds into kombucha -apple flavored kombucha and, I've never tasted anything better in my life, unless it was some time I washed a lamb and feta pita down with a 40 dollar bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from the Russian River valley part of California.</div><div>I'll bet that there isn't a homeless problem in that valley..</div><div>Chia seeds and kombucha!</div><div>You can soak the chia seeds in hot water if you want the texture less seedy and more like tapioca, it's up to the individual. I'm not telling anyone how to prepare their kombucha and chia seed beverage.</div><div>I have been squandering a lot of time watching YouTube and searching for random things that pop into my head.</div><div>I don't know,; I like watching guys panning for gold somewhere in Alaska that can only be reached by helicopter and grainy black and white footage of Cassius Clay fighting that British champion...</div><div>It just gets to be time consuming..</div><div>The sun will be up soon and I still haven't checked out the volcanic activity in Iceland.</div><div>I want to see if the population is standing around the thing warming their hands, or what...</div>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-51481942799500753402023-12-19T09:31:00.007-06:002023-12-19T09:40:45.708-06:00Miracle Food Cures From The Bible<p>I seem to have, once again, made an abscess go away without having had to go to a hospital, or lanced it myself, using one of the hypodermic needles that I sometimes collect off the sidewalks of the <b>Quarter</b> and bring home. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipkQLwQwDBKR6XYWfLJzVxn65ZXVg8RUlRKoAFIrrkYrO47Y944WYBuXJKjW5XfMSapQR3wqmMAbeDFNqE4NPs0YGO636E6HSdKKz8YWBW5PTbzQT_VzMSrphYw-WXVz7dqwn-qBwKBN9t9DUZXioVmdFH4aEQfyLJ7RQPKrJPvaMkgr9e9wmRy3HFRks/s400/Miracle42.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="264" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipkQLwQwDBKR6XYWfLJzVxn65ZXVg8RUlRKoAFIrrkYrO47Y944WYBuXJKjW5XfMSapQR3wqmMAbeDFNqE4NPs0YGO636E6HSdKKz8YWBW5PTbzQT_VzMSrphYw-WXVz7dqwn-qBwKBN9t9DUZXioVmdFH4aEQfyLJ7RQPKrJPvaMkgr9e9wmRy3HFRks/w422-h640/Miracle42.jpg" width="422" /></a></div><br />They are pretty good for draining those infections, since they can draw as well as inject. Only when the pain in the gums is worse than the stab of the needle could ever be, does the idea of self-lancing become feasible...<br />This had been my body declaring in no uncertain terms that, no, the 35 years of health that I've enjoyed while avoiding certain foods has not made me invincible against them.<p></p><p>About 10 days before getting sick, I had been straightening out my refrigerator and, noticing a box of a certain seafood broth (meant to be the "stock" in making clam chowder or lobster bisque, perhaps) that had been in there for at least a couple months.</p><p>As I am pretty sure that refrigeration retards the multiplication of bacteria but doesn't stop it entirely, I unscrewed the cap and took a whiff of the seafood type broth. It smelled very peculiar, maybe like fermented lobster tail, or something; kind of like a linseed oil essence. I decided to toss it out, rather than rely upon boiling it to make it OK to eat. After all, there ain't a whole lot of calories in seafood stock, nor protein, carbs etc. You might get some calcium and maybe some trace minerals from the deep sea, but I think it's role is to just add flavor to -I don't know- crab cakes?</p><p>Within a half hour or so of having smelled the likely rancid stuff, my nose started to feel irritated. Soon the back of my throat felt weird and I felt like I might be "coming down" with something over the next few hours. That never came to fruition but made me wonder if people can get sick just from smelling food that has gone bad.</p><p>Out of all the foods that rot, it would be interesting to survey people on which ones smell the worst. Chicken would probably place or show, besting beef, in the stench-off, my opinion. Rotten eggs go back generations, striking the fear of metaphorically becoming one into whomever might be "the last one," in various competitive situations.</p><p>I think the rotted shellfish and crustaceans might not be as offensive because we might have developed an immunity against sea borne bacteria from our primordial ooze days. </p><p>This past Saturday, after having consumed the protein drink made from soy, yogurt and raw honey, I got a swollen gland in my throat. The throat became scratchy, then there was sneezing and some lung congestion.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-yLcR81IGu3ACt53SgoAsY-Ht-gnNnh6ryS-FYjbh9KlBcw4o0v-ElK3IwNm_DW3DY8EtzPsu0Tlb5fl2g1B4VIsXzDvH7emdYXS5DKy-00ro8U6AY-1K9oD13AlGBSlxEGqd-tsaAOMazkX2yY4Nm_JgGJ8sUop8xGLJP7RBr7gdsU53lyDLihxWq-w/s953/Screenshot%20from%202023-12-19%2007-27-39.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="953" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-yLcR81IGu3ACt53SgoAsY-Ht-gnNnh6ryS-FYjbh9KlBcw4o0v-ElK3IwNm_DW3DY8EtzPsu0Tlb5fl2g1B4VIsXzDvH7emdYXS5DKy-00ro8U6AY-1K9oD13AlGBSlxEGqd-tsaAOMazkX2yY4Nm_JgGJ8sUop8xGLJP7RBr7gdsU53lyDLihxWq-w/w400-h186/Screenshot%20from%202023-12-19%2007-27-39.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: medium;">Friday's post went semi-viral...why??</span></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>Then I ate the <b>Pillsbury Crescents™ </b>rolls, trying to get some hand eczema to flare up. This made me feel miserable enough to cancel busking and stay home instead. And to have an ice cream soda.</p><p>That's what started the toothache. Just like the folklore that has been handed down through the generations warns that it will. "<i>But you'll have to have them all pulled out, after the Savoy Truffle,"</i> sings <b>George Harrison</b> on the <b>White Album</b>. He's talking about teeth, of course.</p><p>I had always assumed the lore referred to the decaying of the tooth's enamel from eating sugary foods then maybe not brushing well enough. Now I think that it is actually the sugar in the blood stream that somehow feeds bacteria from the inside, weakening the body's immune response. </p><p>I was in so much pain that I could measure my heart rate using the throbs of pain in my gums. I had dug into a book I have on "<i>Miracle Food Cures From The Bible,"</i> and along with doing <b>Wim Hof's</b> deep breathing method, and doing acupressure at different spots on my head and neck, and soaking a face cloth in hot water and applying it to the side of my face that was swelling, and doing push ups and other exercises, I was able to find a couple bags of chamomile tea -one of the miracle cures from the bible for abscesses, with thyme being another- and stuffed one of them between my cheek and gum where the pain was.</p><p>This was somewhat of a leap of faith, trusting something from the bible, I thought. But then I thought that <b>Pharma</b> would always censure information about any cure not involving doctors and pharmacists and insurance companies, etc. and the fact that I had never heard of such cures meant nothing in the real sense. Hell, when I type in the word "kratom" in this editor, <b>Google</b> puts a red squiggly line under it, as if to imply "this is not even a word." I think that is because people use kratom (there's that line again) as a means of getting off of opiates, which must be disturbing news to the pharmaceutical companies, whose CEOs probably give their yachts names such as <i>"The SS Oxycontin."</i></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-family: helvetica;">Lov<i>e</i> Thy Neighbor<i> <br /></i></span></h2><p>So, my faith in the unerring wisdom of the Lord, and with a tea bag stuffed in my cheek so that I probably looked like a major league baseball player, I stepped out into the hall, to see my neighbor, <b>Wayne</b> emerging from his apartment one door down. He greeted me and I mumbled a reply as best as I could.</p><p>Wayne seemed to figure out right away that I had a toothache. Either he thought that the teabag in my cheek was part of an abscess, or that I had stuffed a teabag in my cheek because of one, he piped up and asked: "Bro, you got a toothache?"</p><p>"Ymmm, Immmm, gmmhh, fmuommmer, mmmhah"</p><p>"Come on, I got some stuff my dentist gave me that I never used. I don't like to take anything for pain, I like to tough it out..."</p><p>It's probably easier to "tough it out" after a dentist has done his part to relieve pressure, remove decay, etc. But, when you are in a situation that is only going to get worse until it kills you (which is another "belief" that I take with a grain of salt -pink salt, in the case of a toothache- as probably having originated with the medical association to keep people from using home remedies and other things, instead of letting them solve the problem at 90 dollars per hour.</p><p>My neighbor gave me a couple of antibiotic capsules and a small handful of, wait for it......hydro-codeine pills. It was a miracle cure, brought about by my faith in the bible. All I had to do was step outside my apartment with the chamomile tea bag in my cheek and, boom! -just like that- I found comfort.</p><p>In one of the anecdotes in the section of the miracle foods book that talked about thyme was the testimony of some herbalist who had affected the cure of some disease in a man, mentioning that he first got him to cut out white sugar and white flour from his diet.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-family: helvetica;">Resist the Pillsbury dough boy; and he will flee from you!</span></h2><p>Anyways, the sun is coming up on a beautiful Tuesday. I am on the lookout for a <b>Christmas</b> card that my mom has sent that might have money in it (along with "the thought" that actually counts) as well as a parcel from The <b>Lidgley</b>'s of <b>London,</b> who have resurfaced after having weathered the <b>U.K's</b> authoritarian <b>Covid</b> edicts and come through the immunization process unscathed. <br /></p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-82005158880571148832023-12-15T10:58:00.004-06:002023-12-15T11:10:03.425-06:00Something To Be Grateful For And Glad About<p>My hot spot data was "re-filled" at about 8 this morning. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-DvO2zXwwiIIqYQOl9wvwBcp61YBVeVsfNrHuv6AxBwoUindS5DZGoFuhSBsXiFOUMFDXZ3LB8juBcDibicuNHRyNeQOQ2iEvaRcyNkyA5qVx-ptEdiGKJe__2egibtbh_aoKGaZSSHz7nF8mJr4Zd-mx2PB4X3AfKAmP0WYU_qTFFUCmbazrP_u2Gw8/s1000/Crescents7.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-DvO2zXwwiIIqYQOl9wvwBcp61YBVeVsfNrHuv6AxBwoUindS5DZGoFuhSBsXiFOUMFDXZ3LB8juBcDibicuNHRyNeQOQ2iEvaRcyNkyA5qVx-ptEdiGKJe__2egibtbh_aoKGaZSSHz7nF8mJr4Zd-mx2PB4X3AfKAmP0WYU_qTFFUCmbazrP_u2Gw8/w400-h400/Crescents7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I now have 2.5 gigs to use, and will be very careful to not view short "reels" of video on <b>Facebook</b>, as that was where I think a lot of bytes were spent last month, when the data lasted only about11 days, instead of the whole month.<p></p><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: x-large;">Hand Eczema Update</span></span></h1><p>I ate one roll of the <b>Pillsbury Crescents,</b> and how stupid that was...</p><p>I was thinking that it would give me a flare up of hand eczema, like I haven't had in decades, so that I would be accepted into the clinical trial of the new miracle cream that some company is trying to put on the market.</p><p>This was stupid on so many levels.</p><p>First of all the phrase <i>"If you have your health, you have everything"</i> kind of surfaced in my memory right as I was starting to notice that I was starting to feel like crap after eating the things. This puts in jeopardy any trip to the plasma place that I might have been considering, since I don't feel up to it.</p><p>It might even screw up busking tonight, should I not be able to get to sleep because my mind is racing from having eaten this disease causing "food." Serendipity didn't disappoint, as I just happened to land on some video where the discussion was about how people are given medications to treat a slew of ailments, but never advised to stop eating the kind of crap that is making them sick. </p><p>They were talking about <b>Pillsbury Crescents</b>; I know they were. </p><p>Bleached white flour, sugar, soybean oil...and that's before you even get to the preservatives. They seem to be trying to position the "Some ingredients derived from bio-engineered sources" message on the label like it's a good thing. Right under the "no high fructose corn syrup" one. Who needs high fructose corn syrup when you've got bio-engineered ingredients; like who needs enemies with friends like them, type of thing...</p><p>I'm going to meditate and then try to sleep and maybe recover enough to make a plasma donation before they close at 5 PM. I don't think it's too cold to busk, in fact I just checked by going outside and estimating that it was about 65 degrees at 10 AM. </p><p>It's not too cold, so if I don't get the plasma money, at least there will be a couple hundred to be made at the <b>Lilly Pad</b> tonight...if I feel like playing for 5 hours, that is...<br />But, I'm glad to have the hot spot data. The last couple posts, done on my phone, were tedious and I was missing every 10th letter or so and had to back up and then had to scroll the screen manually because it wasn't keeping up. Those government phones come hard wired with <b>Google</b> and are just mind control tools. If I try to watch <b>Russel Brand,</b> the video will stop and start the whole way through. But if I want to hear someone talking about how <b>Trump</b> is going to personally shoot all the <b>Negros</b>, <b>Jews</b>, and homosexuals that will be lined up against the wall (that's really why he wants to build it so badly) and yadda, yadda...then the video will play in high resolution just fine; Rachael Maddow will look life-like. Yikes...<br />Sure, the legacy media were full of crap about all things <b>Covid</b>, and full of errors of omission about all things <b>Ukraine</b>, but that just means they are <i>overdue</i> to be correct; and this <b>"Trump</b>-will-come-into-your-house-and-eat-your-<b>Poptarts</b>-if-elected" narrative might be just that time.<br /></p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-83022171477351701952023-12-15T01:29:00.001-06:002023-12-15T01:29:30.241-06:00Hand Eczema I haven't had hand eczema since I was about 17, and was consuming the daily trays of school cafeteria food which were laden with soy based products I'm sure; and wasn't paying attention to the ingredients listed on anything.<div>I've read in more than one place that people are prone to being allergic to the foods they crave the most or vice versa and after being diagnosed with having food allergies are mortified over the thought of living the rest of their life without whatever that is be it Pillsbury crescents or circus peanuts candy.</div><div>I mentioned the latter because when I was just about 7 or 8 years old I got a hankering for Circus Panuts™ after trying them somewhere and making them my new favorite candy on the spot.</div><div>I begged my mom to get me some, and she soon came home with a family-sized bag of the things, probably the smallest bag of them sold at the grocery store.</div><div>I remember digging in to them, and them being delicious until about half way through the bag, when I got sick of them, literally. </div><div>Not in the stomach but more like when you chew too much tobacco and lose all desire for more. </div><div>Circus Peanuts™ are basically soy flour, sugar and God knows what to put them in the ballpark, at least, of being the color of real peanuts (like some opinions about presidents, I thought they looked too orange to be real).</div><div>But, I had gotten an acute craving for a food that I would turn out to have an intolerance for, with eczema being my body's way of protesting it.</div><div>I rolled up the cellophane bag of orange candy, put them in one of our kitchen cabinets, and never ate another Circus Peanut. That was 54 years ago; and mom, if you're seeing this, you can throw them out if they're still there.</div><div>I went to a dermatologist who diagnosed my condition as " hand eczema." I remember thinking: <i>isn't there a more Latin sounding term like rosacrucia Manis for the disease?</i></div><div>But, cutting certain foods out of my diet after switching to a chiropractor / nutritionist for my care signalled the end of hand eczema in my life. </div><div>Now almost 40 years later I get an invitation on Facebook to participate in a clinical research study on some new kind of topical cream that has been invented for sufferers of hand eczema.</div><div>I suspect that this is related to me being excluded from another study at the same place about a year ago because I had no medical history, as far as having been prescribed much of anything since the age of 19. Maybe that made them suspicious. Just a record of having been diagnosed and treated for hand eczema 41 years ago.</div><div>I'm not inferring that the research people unlawfully dug up my medical records and discovered it, that would be "underhanded." Facebook probably provided them with the tip after snooping through my blog posts and personal messages, and|or from listening to everything I say around my phone. Nothing underhanded about that...</div><div>So, I called and made an appointment.</div><div> I've not had problems with eczema for 40 years except on occasions when I ate something without knowing it's ingredients until after my fingers would start itching as if it was emanating from under the skin, and I would go back and read on the side of a box that I had eaten a bunch of hydrogenated soybean oil, perhaps in the guise of Malted Milk Balls™ which have, as a prime ingredient; listed even ahead of sugar and chocolate: hydrogenated soybean oil.</div><div>It might be problematic to show up for a hand eczema study without having any symptoms of hand eczema, I lamented.</div><div>I went out a little later, and was on my way to get some food at the Brown Derby -something healthy, to help me overcome a cold that has persisted the past 3 days which came on right after I consumed some protein powder that wound up having soy in it.</div><div>A gland swelled up in my throat, which then became scratchy, leading to sneezing and then ultimately a slight fever and, well, a cold.</div><div>I made it no further than the box outside our place where people place food donations, where I espied two cans of red salmon -the kind I can't even afford because it's $5 for a can half the size of one of pink salmon.</div><div>At that point, I could have turned around and gone right back inside without walking to the store, because I had enough to make a meal out of red salmon, and myriad other things in my cabinet.</div><div>Then I saw it.</div><div>A box full of Pillsbury "Crescents" croissant type rolls loaded with soybean oil both in the hydrogenated form and as a whole oil.</div><div>Sugar; white flour (bleached, at that) -it was all there- a recipe for hand eczema; there for the taking.</div><div>If I I chow down on those, then show up on Monday, they will probably admit me into the study and start giving me $75 per visit, over the next 4 weeks or whatever they said.</div><div>I'm in a quandary over the idea of making myself sick so I can get paid to research some new kind of cream which very well could make me even more sick, to the point of maybe killing me.</div><div>The fine print in the little booklet of "possible side effects" that comes with the newly invented cream might state as much...</div><div>I've always likened cream for eczema as being like spray paint to coat the leaves of a dying tree with green, as an alternative to transplanting it into good soil and giving it clean water and sunlight.</div><div> You are only treating the symptoms, and not the root cause (no pun intended).</div><div>That's where it stands right now. </div><div>I'm looking at my cans of salmon and there's the box of croissants that I grabbed...</div><div>Pillsbury Cresents; original crescents; air fryer ready; no high fructose corn syrup; no colors from artificial sources...</div><div>There's the little Pillsbury doughboy, looking pretty excited as he stands in front of an enlarged picture of the product. </div><div>It might as well say quick baked hand eczema, ready in 15 to 18 minutes.</div><div>When I was a kid, I used to interlace my fingers and grind them together, often to the point where my skin (my epidermis) broke and lymph oozed out, and eventually blood if I kept bearing down.</div><div>I still can't decide if it would be worth the suffering just to make 500 bucks by participating, I would be poisoning myself right down to the roots...</div>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-70179151336885697312023-12-13T03:56:00.001-06:002023-12-13T03:56:56.915-06:00Smart Post One work around for<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div> the problem of running out of hotspot data each month is to use the blogger app which is made to run on smartphones like the one in my left hand.<div>Not long after publishing my first post in weeks my data ran out, with Facebook reels watching being the only difference in the way I used the hotspot for however long it lasted...</div><div>And now I go to pose the question on Reddit somewhere; "Does watching reels on Facebook use a lot of data?"</div>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-37546880335388957442023-12-07T00:14:00.006-06:002023-12-07T00:20:33.883-06:00A Hertofore Not Even Dreamt Of Occurance<p> So, I went down to the <b>Brown Derby</b> to purchase my own whatever.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm1E900YYhwWQ915Sp8sIR2E5RLxfRcyNU0Rf0tpDsL7hoSDtOEMf8Mukejz58D9hjmpYgIXsKo6CnepWJjDVxC-a2fO0cZlqoys1sRrXH0HrSzF5_8XrbuEXAWrAcY-TbMJd3oztJTvbtrPE3v7JYwL-mlzAx0tnF6AiTmYT_QBS-L13VcI5CuG_qUNo/s1200/india-house-hostel-new-orleans-572547063.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm1E900YYhwWQ915Sp8sIR2E5RLxfRcyNU0Rf0tpDsL7hoSDtOEMf8Mukejz58D9hjmpYgIXsKo6CnepWJjDVxC-a2fO0cZlqoys1sRrXH0HrSzF5_8XrbuEXAWrAcY-TbMJd3oztJTvbtrPE3v7JYwL-mlzAx0tnF6AiTmYT_QBS-L13VcI5CuG_qUNo/w640-h426/india-house-hostel-new-orleans-572547063.jpg" width="575" /></a></div><br /><br />"What are you going to get?" asked <b>Jr</b>., who had shown up at my place half in the bag (three sheets to the wind, if you prefer). claiming that he would be able to meet all my needs.<p></p><p>"I need someone to jam with."</p><p>"I'm gonna get whatever I decide to, once I'm down there..."</p><p>"Well, yeah, that's good."</p><p>He invited me to make a detour to his place to get "loaded" before embarking upon my foray into <b>The Brown Derby.</b></p><p>But, assiduous student of history that I am, I knew that this ascension to the loaded plane would entail falling in place behind him as we climbed the stairs one floor to his apartment. I would hear him say exactly whatever he said the last time I had acquiesced, and was scaling the stairs with thoughts of a few gulps of vodka and some weed on my mind.</p><p>I think it would be upon reaching a certain step in the staircase that he would wail out: "Trumpets and violins!!" -a line from a Hendrix song that holds a pretty prominent spot in his vocabulary.</p><p>"Trumpets and violins!" has become a warning to me that, unless I was so drunk that, even if a fight broke out between us, we would each swing and miss, but still both fall to the floor from the momentum of the errant swings, I shouldn't hang out with him.</p><p>Once we entered his apartment, he would proceed straight to his electric guitar and amp and, after flipping on the switch to the latter, would hand me the former: "Here you go, all ready for you...Trumpets and violins!!"</p><p>And it would proceed according to a script well known to me by now. I've tried to radically break the pattern before by going right to the guitar and grabbing it before he could, on one occasion, and this seemed to disorient him briefly, but after a couple trumpets and violins, he had regained a sense of awareness and was thrusting a bottle of Gavno* vodka towards me, and saying: "A sip; not half the bottle!" He say's that; Every time.</p><p>And, so we were right back to where we would have been had he handed me the guitar himself and then gone to his freezer for the Gavno.</p><p>*"Gavno" is the Russian word for "shit." I'm drawing a blank on what the actual brand name is, of the cheapest vodka sold at the <b>Brown Derby</b>, but I think Gavno can't be far off.</p><p>I decided to go to the <b>Brown Derby</b> and get my own stuff. The fact that Jacob and I had busked on both Monday and Tuesday nights, drawing about $18 each with about 5 hours of effort playing, meant that I had that option. What price can one put on freedom from Jr.? 18 bucks surely seemed like a bargain.</p><p>But, as I started walking towards the store (he had been ready to walk with me, before I told him that I might jog some of the way) I started to contend with the negative emotions that were present, which manifested in the form of anger.</p><p>Stepping back from myself it seemed that I was angry because I felt that he was trying to buy my company with intoxicants; and, maybe more specifically, employ those substances to put me in the mood to jam with him, but I was most angry over the power dynamic whereby he would be in control of the intoxicants and I would have to meekly ask him for every sip I took, or if he was planning upon lighting the joint any time soon, type of thing.</p><p>So, swelled up with the pride that a man feels after he has gone out and worked and doesn't have to resort to charity, I shook off the negative feelings and started to enjoy a walk through the park towards <b>The Brown Derby.</b></p><p>I thought about how <b>The Law of Attraction</b> has been working lately to the point where I almost feel like I'm on <b>Spy TV</b> (Like, the producers aim was to leave a copy of the law of attraction book somewhere and let someone find it. Then, observing that he actually sits somewhere and reads through the thing, they then they drop things in various places right ahead of where he is walking the next day -a 5 dollar bill just laying here on the side of the bar, a half smoked blunt crushed on the sidewalk another hundred yards ahead, and then...what's he always drinking, <b>Celsius</b>, right?...an unopened can of it, cold, and perched right atop this trash can that he's about to come upon...maybe someone bought it and then, after reading the fine print, decided to leave it for someone else who might want it, type of thing.</p><p>Those who know the secret of the <b>Law of Attraction,</b> know enough to totally surrender control of the details to a higher intelligence. It is perhaps beyond Man's capacity to have a pregnant and/or lactating woman show up at the <b>Brown Derby </b>and decide not to drink a <b>Celsius</b> that she just bought at that very moment; that's just beyond Man's understanding. And, she might have just driven there from <b>Bugloosa, Louisiana.</b> How is one supposed to envision all the details of such a circumstance and then see it manifest?</p><p>Then, after following and covertly filming me all day, they would have placed a box full of dried dog shit on the little shelf outside my apartment door and would be there to capture my eyes lighting up and my face full of gratitude and happiness over what the next blessing could possibly be, and would all bark out: "You're on <b>Spy TV</b>!!" just when I had peered inside the box and my nose was beginning to wrinkle at the stench..<br /> </p><p>That's how it has seemed.</p><p>I went to the <b>Brown Derby</b> and got a gallon of alkaline water, having not felt 100% after having had a large cup of coffee made with tap water earlier.</p><p>A large black man, who sells crack, was at the <b>Brown Derby.</b> He is someone who knows me from seeing me on <b>Bourbon Street,</b> and greets me as "guitar man." </p><p>I used to run errands for people like <b>Carlos</b>, who got their money on a plastic card on the first of every month, but who dreaded making the trek to the store to hit up the ATM machine, because they could hardly walk, and would have to inch along, using a "walker."</p><p>Being familiar with the neighborhood that the <b>Brown Derby</b> is situated nearby, Carlos thought it not unreasonable, on the first of one month, a few seconds after midnight, if, after withdrawing $220 in cash from the machine, I could pick him up a 20 dollar crack rock.</p><p>I supposed, in order to help support the big guy's family, I would bring him some business. The big guy would "bless" me with 20 dollar rocks bigger than what <b>Carlos</b> himself might be sold. One time, one of the big guy's friends was hanging around him, and after I had gotten <b>Carlos</b>' rock and was walking away, the friend said something, to which the big guy replied: "That's cause I know him; he's good people," which I assume was germane to what the friend had judged as being an awfully fat 20.</p><p><b>Carlos</b> had looked at the rock, and what flashed over his face, I believe was contempt for all the others whom he had sent on the same errand and how those motherf****ers must have been breaking off a piece for themselves and bringing the remainder to him; and then being treated to a hit by him. I felt a tinge of pity for whomever else he had sent before me.</p><p></p><p>So, there was the big guy in the place. He asked me if I was "alright," by which he was insinuating: "or are you alright, except for not having crack?</p><p>I had just 9 dollars on me. Even if I wanted to feel like <b>King Kong</b> for about 45 minutes, and then spend the next 3 hours biting my nails, feeling like nobody could ever love me, and jumping out of my skin at the slightest sound, I couldn't afford it; I was a buck short of the minimum purchase of a 10 dollar rock. Maybe in some neighborhoods you can get a 5 dollar rock, but <b>The Brown Derby</b> is in a little more upscale neighborhood; -more classy people, type of thing...</p><p>I was lamenting the fact that 9 dollars had me also short of being able to get an ounce of kratom. Those come to $10.98, after tax.</p><p>I was wondering if, in order to safeguard me against even considering a 10 dollar rock (and it would have been a fat one for guitar man) the higher intelligence that animates the universe, right down to the level of pregnant and/or lactating women, had arranged things so that I would have only 9 dollars. That would be depriving me of one thing to keep me safe from another...</p><p>I was pondering this as I was leaving the <b>Brown Derby</b> and, there in the parking lot, was laying a capsule of kratom; the extra-potent kind of extract that is sold inside. I knew it was kratom because of the logo on the capsule; I washed it down with blackberry flavored <b>Celsius</b>..</p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: x-large;">The Pothole</span></span></p><p>Then, I went to the <b>India House</b> hostel to see if there was any un-smoked weed in their ashtray. There wasn't; but I thought to check inside a certain pothole in the street right in front of the place. I had found roaches in there before. There were two sizeable roaches of a dank smelling herb at the bottom of it. The pothole is just small enough so that the tire of a vehicle riding over it wouldn't bottom out and crush any roach sitting at its bottom. I'm wondering if, since I have struck up conversations with some of the guests of <b>India House</b> while sniping the ash trays on the porch, and have been espied walking away, at times, by staff members, who quickly rushed outside to find that lighters, packs of cigarettes and cellphones that had been sitting on the table next to the ashtray were still there, if one of those staffers might be leaving his/her roach ends in the pothole (I love the pun) for me, like I leave chicken bones with some meat still on them for the possum that lives around our parking lot.<br /></p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-90313562359380454662023-12-04T10:37:00.001-06:002023-12-04T10:37:11.256-06:00Pegged Pretty Well<p>I haven't had Internet access for the past month, at least.</p><p>I now know how dependent one can become on the little device in the pockets of about 80% of the population. Most of the remaining 20% are either older than 60 or younger than 4, I would guess.</p><p>The battery on my phone became useless, so that I had to keep the "immobile" phone permanently plugged in. This was an inconvenience, but not to the degree that it became after the malfunctioning battery swelled up so much that it was no longer making contact with the pins in the socket, rendering the phone itself useless.</p><p>It hadn't dawned upon me that, in order to order a replacement, I would have to log in to sites like ebay; which would require me to confirm my identity by tapping "yes" in response to a text message sent to my phone.</p><p>I had to resort to living the way I used to, years ago. I was reading books and watching TV. It was weird.</p><p>In a certain way, the quality of my life improved. After a couple weeks, I stopped reaching for the device any time I wondered about anything at all, like how much money was in my account. I would just swipe my card at the store with my fingers crossed, type of thing.<br /></p><p>I couldn't contact anyone; nor update this blog. It felt like I was in prison, on Alcatraz perhaps, and nobody knew it, so they couldn't write to me, nor could I inform anyone that I was alive.</p><p>I would go to Elizabet's apartment and use her phone so I could at least call my mom and explain why I had disappeared.</p><p>While I was using her phone ads would occasionally pop up. One of them was from some entity that was begging for money to save kittens that were at risk. The cute kittens shown would surely die if Elizabet didn't send money. That particular one hit her phone on the 1st of December -the very day that her money comes in every month from wherever she gets it. Those poor little kitties.</p><p>Elizabet has 3 cats, and does about $150 a month in business with the "Chewy" online pet supply store.</p><p>I never got ads like that on my phone when it was working. Mine were always from Donald Trump, asking for money. Or from Ukrainian women looking for American husbands.<br />I guess the algorithm has got both Elizabet and I <b>pegged pretty well..</b>.<br /></p><p>But, at this moment, after not having slept in 24 hours or so, I will do the prudent thing and type no more, as my attitude is teetering at the top of a cliff, with a 200 foot plunge into the ocean of negativity at risk.</p><p> <br /></p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-82785630039180645302023-10-19T05:06:00.003-05:002023-10-19T05:41:05.016-05:00Let Cooler Heads Prevail<h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">Thursday: Solve The World's Problems </span><br /></h2><p>"What a difference a day makes."</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqC18QPfHFf9MeKJNqhaSMdvvNTV5Ii-5tUuvvo5LXoHCcNfu6yM7ZCws0w2ns2AkKZBZPq-961HwWW-jDCW-tAdYPPqaDDrMEiVlkEcuJyFgGCq7dYfgGW-VBOO-G3bFFDfTCmEwk8FT-CXcycnzFFe3qMqkaYt9PHsnSDTTWyS3e0dx-8kFN7dR6NhY/s2048/20140721-ISRAEL-slide-J0OU-superJumbo-3441412377.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqC18QPfHFf9MeKJNqhaSMdvvNTV5Ii-5tUuvvo5LXoHCcNfu6yM7ZCws0w2ns2AkKZBZPq-961HwWW-jDCW-tAdYPPqaDDrMEiVlkEcuJyFgGCq7dYfgGW-VBOO-G3bFFDfTCmEwk8FT-CXcycnzFFe3qMqkaYt9PHsnSDTTWyS3e0dx-8kFN7dR6NhY/w640-h426/20140721-ISRAEL-slide-J0OU-superJumbo-3441412377.jpeg" width="576" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: medium;">"The first thing you do, when you get up in the morning, is: make your bed.."</span></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>I used to find myself humming that song in the past, after I had gone from having a lousy day to feeling on top of the world 24 hours later.</p><p>The table was set for me to have a lousy day, today (Wednesday -although it's already "tomorrow" now).</p><p>I didn't wake up until about 2 in the afternoon and with a brain fog that I attribute to the "non dairy" <b>Cherry Garcia </b>flavored <b>Ben & Jerry's</b> ice cream I had eaten the night before, in the course of being sucked into watching "just one more" video, over and over until the sun was up.</p><p>At this point I am wondering if I should just try to start nurturing more healthy addictions, rather than trying to become totally free of them. <i>Addicted to jogging... </i><br /></p><p>The <b>Youtube</b> videos are becoming like a book I can't put down. Only one that never ends because, as soon as I turn a page, another one appears at the back of it.</p><p>I'm pretty sure the artificial intelligence (<b>AI</b>) that is being developed by the media platforms is behind this.</p><p>I have my doubts that there is even a war in the <b>Ukraine</b>. I have never seen any videos shot on the phones of any of the participants in that engagement. It would probably be impossible for me to fly over there and check out the situation for myself.</p><p>I can picture a travel agent: "Right now we are offering a special package to <b>Buenos Aires</b> which includes a round trip ticket, plus a coupon for 3 days and 4 nights in a fine hotel. It's our <i>"Carnival Season Special!"</i></p><p>"Any flights to <b>Ukraine</b> available?"</p><p>"What about <b>Belarus</b>?"</p><p>A guy I met in <b>Saint Augustine</b> was an <b>Iraqi War</b> veteran and he had all kinds of stuff on his phone that he shot right in the middle of battle. In one (which he told me was hard for him to watch) another soldier about 20 feet away from him was seen getting hit by, I'm guessing a bullet, then becoming motionless. "He was was one of my best friends," the guy had said. <i>And now, you can whip out your phone and watch him die whenever you want? Hmmm...</i><br /></p><p>So, with everyone carrying a smartphone these days, why are there not countless videos like that, with click-bait titles like: <i>"Soldier was on Zoom call with girlfriend when killed by shrapnel"?</i></p><p>I guess that is because "violence" isn't allowed on <b>Youtube</b>. Maybe there is plenty of stuff like that on X that I just don't know about. </p><p>But I became suspicious after seeing the same artillery ravaged buildings over and over in "news" reports on the <b>Murdoch</b>-owned outlets. Then the same people being carried on stretchers into the same hospitals -the same rockets being launched from the same fields, etc.<br /></p><p>It would be clever of the parties involved to just fake everything, and keep a tight lid on it, then continue to bilk the U.S. and other taxpayers out of billions of dollars, to be divvied up amongst the elites. On the same idea as that fake moon voyage movie. That might explain why <b>Hollywood</b> is on strike; they're all over there, writing and directing for <b>CNN</b>...<br /></p><p>As far as the <b>Hamas</b> thing... I can understand the sentiment of people wanting revenge. I've heard enough drunken macho men in bars saying things like: "if anyone ever messed with one of <i>my</i> kids, I'd be in jail for murder right now!" to be able to fathom the emotions.</p><p>Israel can't bring back the dead, but they can make things worse for the living.. </p><p>First, they can re-assess their "most sophisticated intelligence network in the world," after admitting that they had been "had," and then upgrade the system to incorporate detection of metallic flying objects the size of horses coming into their airspace.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Bz4qyj_QGwe4SxQb6TotNbMHEilzwnG_WzI3rG6OKZXFP775DV1jxQVO9if65Vcs3RjLCneyMQuLoeNKR2LjbZEA-mD8JUXTZj7CgPmXZqGk3LU0h26pDQmTHGpVIOmG6f_Xv_-x76DxWCD2V5-K4NJ7ugakOZBcfpngdnK-oqTO7FdpZaWHApae-70/s720/Gaza-City-Palestinian-Ham-039.webp" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="378" data-original-width="720" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Bz4qyj_QGwe4SxQb6TotNbMHEilzwnG_WzI3rG6OKZXFP775DV1jxQVO9if65Vcs3RjLCneyMQuLoeNKR2LjbZEA-mD8JUXTZj7CgPmXZqGk3LU0h26pDQmTHGpVIOmG6f_Xv_-x76DxWCD2V5-K4NJ7ugakOZBcfpngdnK-oqTO7FdpZaWHApae-70/w400-h210/Gaza-City-Palestinian-Ham-039.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: medium;">"Stop wiggling; this is a video, not a still-shot!"</span></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>Hesitating to act would frustrate, and maybe even lay bare the plans of whomever masterminded the attack, taking for granted, most likely, that the <b>Israeli</b> response would be what we are seeing now. You don't want to play into their hands...<br /></p><p>Then, they could open a gate into a section of Israel, in order to admit any <b>Palestinian</b> civilians seeking to evacuate the <b>Gaza Strip</b>. They could pat them down for weapons, then house them there (perhaps it might resemble an "open air prison" but...). After about 3 weeks without electricity, water nor Internet (but not particularly in that order of priority) a large portion of the <b>Palestinians</b> (am I even supposed to capitalize that, given there is no such nation?) would become amenable to this arrangement.</p><p>How large a percentage of them would <b>Hamas</b> be able to physically stop from escaping through this <b>Gate of Amnesty</b>? Trying to gun them down before they left would put the <b>Hamas</b> guys (a.k.a. the other team") out in the open; for <b>Israeli</b> snipers.</p><p>Then, with very few civilians left in the territory,, blockades could be set up to starve <b>Hamas</b> in their tunnels. Soon, they would be out of rockets, their cellphone batteries would be dead, they would start to fight amongst themselves in their tunnels over the last morsels of food. <b>Biden</b>, et. al. wouldn't have to keep appealing for more "humanitarian aid," and the mission of the Israeli soldiers could then entail honing the skill of shooting the <b>Hamas</b> guy's head while missing the head of the child he is holding in front of him like a medieval era shield -not too challenging for a sharpshooter.</p><p>The entrances to the tunnels could eventually be uncovered and then a page taken out of the "extermination using noxious gasses" handbook of the <b>Nazis</b>, in order to turn those tunnels into quick, painless and humane gas chambers. Seems apropos in some sense...</p><p>And, what of the <b>Palestinian</b> children caught in the crossfire?</p><p>Well, once I was in the <b>Walmart</b> in <b>Gretna</b> and there was a large woman of color in there shopping. She had with her a couple boys around 7 or 9 years old. The circumstance of them both being shirtless revealed them to be on the road to obesity. One of them was barefooted. Despite their pudginess, they still possessed enough energy to run amok, up and down the aisles of the store; often out of sight of whom I'm guessing was their mother. </p><p>Up and down the aisles they ran, pulling things off shelves, leaving them laying on the floor, Never a word of reproach from the large woman of color.</p><p>I was one of only a handful of white people in the store, which is the norm in the <b>Gretna Walmart</b>. </p><p>Spotting me, the kids seemed to begin concentrating their mischief especially where I would be able to observe them, Their faces were kind of blank as they made a mess of the aisle around me. Then, one of them ran up and slapped the box out of my hands that I was reading the ingredients of. At that point both of the boys assumed an attitude of: "what are you gonna do, you wanna fight?" as they bounced around in front of me with scowls on their faces. Then appeared the mother, whom I expected, wrongly, was going to tell her kids something like: "Stop bothering that man!" She only gave me the family scowl when I appealed to her by looking her way.</p><p>Am I writing this for mere catharsis?</p><p>No, the point I want to make is: Let's say, at some point a grenade with its pin pulled out slid across the floor and came to rest at my feet, thrown by a terrorist. If, in the split second that I had to try to save my own life, I glanced around, looking for a place to throw it where there were no people, but didn't see any. The choice I would probably make would be to toss it towards the scowling woman and her unruly kids. Then, I might position myself so as to shield any better behaved people who might be towards the other end of the aisle.</p><p>So, you have these <b>Palestinian</b> kids, whose first words might have been "Gas the Jews!" and who, by all reports, are being raised to be terrorists -being taught to play games like "stab the Jew," in lieu of kick-ball, by parents who (overwhelmingly) voted <b>Hamas</b> into power -Your vote; your choice, type of thing- and you have this choice between throwing a cyanide canister into a tunnel, where some of these kids might be, or letting <b>Hamas</b> live, that they might murder you and your own (well behaved) kids some day.</p><p>I often think about how, if I'm ever on a commercial jet flight and the plane is hijacked and set on a course to crash into a heavily populated area, the <b>United States Air Force</b> is instructed to shoot it down before it reaches its intended target. That would really suck for the few being sacrificed for the welfare of the many.</p><p>And, what if I was still alive for the 4 minutes or so of falling to earth. That's a long time to think about what your government just did... <br /></p><p>What if it was my nation that was being targeted by <b>Hamas</b>? I think I would have to shoot down the plane, so to speak.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0yuzFIKSQx4DceaAAjiwqc9wwcLoc4tNQa7Ccpk5MSuJc194gYmz3FvCPxrFgloUorVXq6f8tJj1LgNf9XAb6ojYCPFv58qEbt1ZZod4rNdZlt7HQfwWZUX6R1AZEL_IJYTBTCO1MCQ4lEOyxoEITkZeP_pxUvdbpaFjxhyr36dDMExecl2_-euoPWU/s570/Brickhouse-Nutrition%E2%80%99s-Field-of-Greens.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="570" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0yuzFIKSQx4DceaAAjiwqc9wwcLoc4tNQa7Ccpk5MSuJc194gYmz3FvCPxrFgloUorVXq6f8tJj1LgNf9XAb6ojYCPFv58qEbt1ZZod4rNdZlt7HQfwWZUX6R1AZEL_IJYTBTCO1MCQ4lEOyxoEITkZeP_pxUvdbpaFjxhyr36dDMExecl2_-euoPWU/w400-h400/Brickhouse-Nutrition%E2%80%99s-Field-of-Greens.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Maybe if they starve <b>Hamas</b> long enough, so they look like Auschwitz inmates after a couple months, they will hardly be able to lift a rifle to defend themselves, and the Israeli army will find them easy pickings in a close combat situation. Then, they can rescue the human shields and nurse them back to health -give them something like <b>Field of Greens™</b>nutritional supplement, and they will be back in the pink in short order. Their chances of such would certainly be better than mine of landing on a huge pile of hay, in the hijacked plane analogy above.</p><p>This idea of being patient (because nothing will bring back the dead; the hostages are like the hijacked plane's passengers, and there is no urgency to act while still pissed off...cool, calm and calculated will win the day, in my opinion) has the added benefit that it might expose the <b>Military Industrial Complex</b> as the greedy S.O.B.s that many believe them to be. <b>Biden</b> won't have to ask congress for all those billions, as this would be a cheaper solution (leave it to the <b>Jews</b> to come up with a frugal battle plan is what you're thinking, right?) to just place <b>Gaza</b> under siege, and starve them. All that ammunition they have stored away isn't going to help the cause if they are wielding it against each other, over the last can of mackerel. Let's see how evident <b>Biden</b>'s disappointment will be when billions in weaponry is not needed. Just some <b>World War II</b> era cyanide dispensers. <br /></p><p>Right now, the barrage of rockets slicing through the air might as well be sky-writing: <b>"Send money,!"</b> in various languages. Not a good look for a country that is taking this seriously, and can afford to be patient. What would another few months be for a people who have been dealing with this crap for centuries?<br /></p><p>Alternatively, they could detonate a couple strategically placed atomic bombs, Hiroshima-style over "the strip," after having patiently waiting for the winds to shift so that the fallout would be primarily on Arab nations (a <i>west</i> wind, appropriately enough). That's what I'd do if anyone ever messed with one of <i>my</i> kids.<br /></p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-51328116104165784712023-10-16T02:04:00.009-05:002023-10-19T00:42:30.680-05:00Are There Those Who Will Be Roasted Alive?<p>I'll probably manage my hot spot data better this monthly cycle and not run out a half month from now. 15 days between posts is nearly a record for this blog...</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-2FhksU1XPAPowmUAZiGClzXXWa2eaMDpmRm9AUzekG6kbwqTVALbKAgF2NegVK5ZSxYrLERnwgJqa7V_1yWkb4lb_YGqvpmuQEvXqKPAABjqfQZYbiBXDObryQO5mXTeLGNedEoOyVJa4thy5gQMMMmfILThpUJZwwQQnM4V_P04Qhoygi7TG4J-ww/s474/th-1547706.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-2FhksU1XPAPowmUAZiGClzXXWa2eaMDpmRm9AUzekG6kbwqTVALbKAgF2NegVK5ZSxYrLERnwgJqa7V_1yWkb4lb_YGqvpmuQEvXqKPAABjqfQZYbiBXDObryQO5mXTeLGNedEoOyVJa4thy5gQMMMmfILThpUJZwwQQnM4V_P04Qhoygi7TG4J-ww/s16000/th-1547706.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: medium;">Self Improvement to be emphasized...</span></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>Of course, with a title like the one above, the bulk of the traffic to it will be -the first "crawl" by the <b>Google</b> algorithm; that will be 1 view. And then, well, not much more, after at least one opinion expressed here will raise a flag (or flip some flag bit to "one") and only those assiduous enough to have scrolled past 12 pages of results from a search for "playing street music in the <b>French Quarter</b>" might even see it.</p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: x-large;">When I'm 61...</span></span><br /></p><p>Having just passed the milestone of a birthday, my emphasis has been upon self improvement and living more in the present moment; and frankly, the issue of whether or not to put more than 5 minutes a day into this blog is up for internal debate...</p><p>The whole idea of some person half a world away being led here after having done a Google Search for: "What's it like to play in the French Quarter? has proven to have had some impediment to the realization of, put in place..</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLH5dj_byzqEAAnSAKHqxrXMX-o_AuLMCom3z9Bx-1-_x91jtaFjSWGhhORNPlaD0HepiX3N7Z27JQGtapofTAvRePlNAvzSxHRTF-q5xAJBhMXFjCl6BsWk1M7hToDr_lbDknVSCs6DRTsE5CnOh6Pb5qRKO61CDZ1CqQ3q3qsSR1Jc7FrSGn-og7sj8/s2048/Gaza.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLH5dj_byzqEAAnSAKHqxrXMX-o_AuLMCom3z9Bx-1-_x91jtaFjSWGhhORNPlaD0HepiX3N7Z27JQGtapofTAvRePlNAvzSxHRTF-q5xAJBhMXFjCl6BsWk1M7hToDr_lbDknVSCs6DRTsE5CnOh6Pb5qRKO61CDZ1CqQ3q3qsSR1Jc7FrSGn-og7sj8/w640-h480/Gaza.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h4><i style="color: #ffa400;">Set aside a time each morning to find a quiet place to meditate. Let go of any over rational, or judgemental thoughts. Focus your attention on what is right in front of you, in the present moment... Let go of the past and the future, along with any resentments, regrets or worries; and just "be."</i></h4></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p></p><p>The baby has been thrown out with the bath water; with the baby being stuff that might amuse and inform people about busking in the <b>Quarter</b>; and the bathwater being me stating anything that is counter to the narrative that has been established by the "owners of the world" "deep state" types. Whomever is "above" Biden and Trudeau; as well as the president of Brazil, I believe, and others.<br /></p><p>I kind of hope it's just some nerds working in Big Tech who, in a mindset similar to that of 10 year old kids burning ants alive with magnifying glasses; are seeing if they can start World War III, just to create the coolest and largest scale computer hack ever...</p><p>It seems like maybe a narrative will be spun that Israel went too far with their retaliation for the murders of 1,300 or so of their Jewish citizens. Then all the other Moslem nations might jump in which would place all of them in the crosshairs of the U.S. Military, which would go to war, after all the natural resources in the entire middle east, but mainly to "stand with" Israel. It will be important for all of us to understand that...</p><p>This will put China and North Korea and other such countries in the position of possibly choosing sides, setting the table for a full fledged World War III.</p><p>Iran might be hoping Israel drops one or two small nuclear bombs on Gaza, with a clear conscience (because they warned them ahead of time with pamphlets) so that, when the Hamas soldiers do eventually come out of their tunnels, they will be in a Gaza sized sand box....</p><p>But at the same time, like ants from underground nests, might appear in the streets of the western world, thousands of armed fighters who look remarkably like the BLM protesters -just flying green and red, instead of black -who will instantiate a slaughter of their own of American Jews; and for good measure, any other "oppressors" they run in to. White, middle class Trump supporters come to mind.</p><p>It is easy to see how the deep state army will already be connected to each other through social media, while the other group will find their phones unresponsive, and thus, will have become sitting ducks...<br />I thought the solution to Israel's dilemma should be to just collude with the social media companies so that the entire Hamas force could be made visible to the Israeli army through some kind of "app," coded for just that purpose. The whole Hamas "army" is undoubtedly on social media; staring at their screens, clicking and scrolling away all the live long day, like the bulk of their contemporaries. </p><p>Why not give the Israeli fighters something that will render a map that would have a flashing red dot showing the location of every single Hamas guy's phone (hint: probably within a foot of his head during most waking hours) and then they could micro-target them that way. </p><p>They could nickname that app "Ferret," after that adorable animal that can crawl through holes apparently only half as wide as their bodies, to enter tunnels and kill rodents. And maybe there will be an acronym for it, using words like "fumigate" and "tunnel" as part of it....</p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-family: helvetica;">Being Having Been Born</span><br /></h3><p>If Israel really has the kind of technical cyber-geniuses that their Netinyahu guy says they do, then it should be child's play for them to hack the cellphone towers to use as military tools, in divining the locations of all the Hamas troops who are in mid tweet or uploading a dead baby pic. This is preferable, in my opinion, to the dropping of impersonal and non-discriminating bombs, that might impact children. Their only sins <b>being having been born</b> there.</p><p>Then, after a global outbreak of hostilities ensues, that same technology could be used in the U.S. to point out the locations of the <b>MAGA</b> types. You get the idea. Not to worry, though; nobody's going to behave like a 10 year old kid with a magnifying glass...</p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-80344804892248555642023-10-01T04:56:00.002-05:002023-10-01T05:03:36.957-05:00Thank You<p>I set out on foot, my bike having been stolen about a week prior. I had my backpack on my back. It was empty. I had tightened the straps on it so it would cling to my body and not sag as much in its emptiness. </p><p>I was walking the one mile or so to the <b>Winn Dixie</b> for food, compiling a grocery list in my head as I walked. I was having an internal argument with myself over whether I was going to buy the most healthy and cleansing foods i.e. prune juice, apple juice, and plenty of alkaline water, or if I was going to splurge on this occasion of having my food card replenished after having run out of money 5 days prior. </p><p>Splurging would, on this evening, mean getting a pint of ice cream and a bottle of some kind of soda in order to make what would be called a "root beer float," should that be the actual flavor of the some kind of soda. </p><p>Yes, the 5 day stretch, after my food money ran out, proved to be mostly a test of the tap water that comes out of my sink. Everything else I ate -the most unpopular items with me that had been passed over the entire month until the point my hunger had increased enough to make them seem edible- were things I had eaten before and I knew what to expect as far as their effect upon me. </p><p>Pasta would fill me up, but would make me feel sluggish the next morning. I would wake up feeling emotionally kind of low. Maybe this has to do with blood sugar levels or maybe I'm geared more towards the keto diet and should cut back on, or eliminate entirely all carbohydrates. </p><p><b>Jordan Peterson </b>discovered that he had been subjecting himself to "carbohydrate poisoning," as he put it, on the diet that he had been on before having had an epiphany which led him to start subsisting upon nothing but red meat. Not even any leafy green vegetables, and certainly not a baked potato to go with his one staple of steak. His recovery from a host of ailments is something that can be read about by <b>Googling</b> him and "diet." Everything from psoriasis to brain fog to chronic fatigue; and taking "an hour to get out of bed in the morning" went away. </p><p>I kind of knew, from having used my own body as a laboratory for nutritional experimentation, that he was eventually going to want to add some greens (because of the amino acids, according to some) and at that point, might be able to live a long and happy life. I had left a comment on one of his videos suggesting that he add mushrooms to the red meat only fare as an experiment. This came only from a gut instinct that I had (excuse the pun). </p><p>I felt rather weak, physically, as I walked the mile or so to the store; maybe that's part of the reason the foods that I had eaten the past 5 days were the last things left on the shelf; not a lot of energy in corn mixed with black beans in spaghetti sauce, perhaps. </p><p>This might have concerned me given the prospect of having to make the return trip with the backpack laden with whatever I bought. I have a habit of forgetting about that walk back while grabbing stuff off the shelves. A 3 liter bottle of alkaline water along with a half gallon of "Simply Apple" juice is a not insignificant weight to carry a mile. Add things like jars of peanut butter and instant coffee, as well as frozen fish, and the weight accrues. </p><p>Once I had stuffed my backpack with what I bought and was hoisting it up upon my back, I had to think: this is going to be some good exercise, in an attempt to put a positive spin on things. </p><p>There was a half pint of ice cream and a can of <b>Monster Nitro Coffee</b> flavored soda in there. I had bought those so as to give myself the option of splurging or not. But I know that is like someone picking up a rock of crack on the way home, thinking he might just save it for some time in the future; when he might want to feel like <b>King Kong</b> for an hour or so; not necessarily for smoking that night... </p><p>Right now, I'm home, and the thin crust "white" pizza with spinach as a topping has come out of the oven and I will pause here to go and eat probably the whole thing, before it cools to the point where it won't be as good as right now. It came out about 12 minutes ago... </p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: x-large;">Post Pizza </span></span><br /></p><p>Well that was that; I ate half of it. The other half will have to be refrigerated and then re-heated, which may or may not revitalize it... </p><p>Then, I guess the next juice, and then water only, fast and cleanse will take place. </p><p>The meditations and sleep affirmations that I've been listening to are seeming to have a positive effect upon me. I had enough points accumulated in my "rewards" account to have gotten a 25 ounce can of <b>Foster's Lager</b> or their ale, but the thought didn't cross my mind, even though I was within 10 feet of them while grabbing some <b>kombucha</b> and <b>Simply Apple</b> juice. I guess I can't say it didn't cross my mind, or, how would I have noted that I was within 10 feet of them (and they were on sale for $2.50 + tax)? </p><p>I have been entertaining the notion of taking a more proactive stance on my diet and, rather than trying to cleanse myself of toxins through fasting, I might try to exercise more and build more muscle mass on a diet of fish and greens with plenty of accoutrements like vinegar and garlic, as well as basil and oregano, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme, type of thing... </p><p>I think this is because I am drawing upon the memory of when I was in the best shape of my life, and that involved a lot of pretty intense exercise. </p><p>In 1998, I would start a typical day by racing against the neighbor's dog (she would let it out for that purpose) a quarter mile to a store at the end of our street. The dog wasn't a particularly fast breed, short legged and long haired, and so it was a pretty evenly matched contest. I would pretty much sprint the whole way with <b>Rosie</b> panting along beside me. I'm not a dog psychologist but I suspect that there is some gene in dogs that makes them want to stay right by the side of any human that they are accompanying. And so, if the human breaks into a run, then it is genetically programmed into the dog to keep up. The treat of a little tin of gourmet dog food that I always bought her might have added an incentive. </p><p>We would walk back, with me sipping on the <b>Sobe</b> "Power" drink that I would usually get. </p><p>Then there was the weight set in the garage that I would work out with pretty intensely while consuming sometimes 5,000 calories. </p><p>That's right, the <b>"Nitro Fuel,</b>" and "<b>Carbo Force,</b>" and "<b>Metabalol</b>" drinks that I used as pre and inter (intra?) workout drinks gave me around 1,500 calories. But there was a drink named <b>"XXL"</b> which had 1,150 calories per bottle. If I had smoked weed before working out -which was the case, except for maybe 5% of the time when I didn't have any- I might go through 3 bottles of <b>XXL</b> during a 2 hour workout. They were like thick frappes -delicious; and containing every vitamin, mineral and amino acid you may have ever heard of. They were listed on the back of the bottle; a lot of them being like 3,000% of the "recommended daily allowance" of whatever it was. </p><p>So, the yin and yang of the dietary thing, I would conclude, is that one should either consume a lot of calories, but then exercise vigorously, in order to feel at peak vibrancy, or one should fast on water alone for up to a month at a time, and exercise only by walking to a store and carrying a couple gallons of water back home. Both seem to yield the same result of feeling wonderful; with the former just being more proactive, and maybe better suited to the physical world, whereas the latter might help one along more in the metaphysical one... </p><p>I had left for the store in a pretty upbeat mood, having done my meditations and visualizations and this turned out to be a buffer against a lot of the negativity I would encounter during the trip. </p><p>Basically, I had to wait to get in line until after it had already been announced that "the store is now closed," i.e. after midnight. I have to do this every month, it seems. I get behind the last customer in line and, by the time my food card gets swiped it is a minute or so after midnight and the transaction is "approved." </p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: x-large;">Slovenly, Big Boned White Woman Alert!! </span></span><br /></p><p>On this occasion there was a rather slovenly looking big boned white woman who just looked like a neo-progressive liberal Democrat to me, of the type that would stand on one side of a street and hurl insults at a group of people on the other side who are lined up outside a <b>Trump</b> rally.
Insults composed of empty headed talking points. </p><p>She was poking at her phone (or propaganda portal) and so I asked her if she had the time. </p><p>"It's 11:56," she snapped, seemingly annoyed over having had to glance a couple inches upward to read the time. </p><p>Then I added, by way of explanation, and as a way of trying to tell her to go ahead of me because I wasn't ready to swipe my card: "I have to wait until after midnight to swipe my card so, why don't you..." </p><p>At which point she cut me off and barked something to the effect of: "I can't help you, I don't even know why you're talking to me, to tell you the truth!" said with such venom that, had I not been in such a positive and "grateful for everything" frame of mind and finding myself feeling, more than anything else, sorry for her for the fact that she has to live her life under such a burden of negative emotions, a frame of mind in which I just politely said: "You've helped me a lot by giving me the time, sorry if I interrupted you," rather than what I would have said if I were still drinking and not following the self improvement regimen, which would have been: "That's because you're a neo-progressive liberal Democrat who most likely f***s n*****s I can smell it on you. You look like trailer trash, but the truth is much worse that that!" </p><p>That would have made her day the way that a hunter traipsing through the woods with his shotgun loaded for deer's day would be made upon seeing a deer. </p><p>She has been brainwashed by her phone, courtesy of <b>Google</b> and <b>Facebook</b>, with their globalist agenda to subjugate the democracies of the world and bring them under the control of a handful of elitist billionaires, namely, them. </p><p>So this dumpy looking middle aged white woman is another product of the attempt to divide the populations of said nations against themselves and all she "knows" is she hates straight white males with a passion, and would walk up to <b>Donald Trump</b> and punch him in the face if she ever saw him. </p><p>She wouldn't be able to tell you why this is so. (Don't ask her why this is so, or you will give yourself away as being one of the previously nameless and faceless enemies that "all she knows" is that she hates. She wouldn't give them the time of day. Or, at least not civilly... </p><p>So, it's a minefield out there, with the majority of the population glued to their phone screens, subjected to the bias of a monopolistic search engine company, and being manipulated. </p><p>There was another older white lady in the store who had made the mistake of not entering her phone number when prompted to do so. She spoke in the amplified voice of someone who is hard of hearing, and was trying to explain to the staff, all of whom were Negroes, what had happened. </p><p>Since the store was "now closed," none of the staff members seemed to want to deal with her. They would have to refund the money back onto her card and then allow her to add her phone number, so she would receive the discounts, then re-swipe each item. Too much work for the first cashier that she had asked, apparently. </p><p>That cashier decided to delegate the task to the manager on duty, a slightly older black lady whom she had to walk about 20 feet to get to. She went over and explained that there was a lady, adding the apparently relevant detail that it was "a <i>white</i> lady" over there, who was embroiled in this complex situation that she (the cashier) just didn't want to deal with. "I told her just come back in the morning.." she said. </p><p>The upshot was that this older white lady customer was treated like a dog. They lied to her and told her that she was out of luck -she would just have to pay the additional $35 or so for her groceries because it couldn't be undone, etc. It was just bullshit that they were pulling out of their asses in order to try to avoid doing any more work after "the store is now closed." </p><p>Overhearing all of this, as I waited for the clock to strike midnight while holding my tongue involving the ignorant trailer trash woman, I walked over and suggested: "You would have to void her purchase and credit the money back to her card, then she could ring everything up again, after putting her phone number in.." </p><p>Somehow, I think that got their attention at some level. </p><p>I think they were Intimidated by the sound of so many "white" words, such as "void" and "purchase" and "credit it back to her card," <i>why, those are like the high fa-looting things that the white managers who work the day shift use..</i> </p><p>Erring on the side of caution, they began the process of fixing the situation. </p><p>At 3 minutes past midnight, I had scanned all my items. and so I swiped my card, which went through. </p><p>Hoisting my backpack onto my shoulders, I estimated that it weighed about 30 pounds. I was going to have to work for that root beer float, I thought. </p><p>I started walking slowly towards <b>Sacred Heart</b>, a mile away, with the onus of the backpack, which suddenly seemed a half pint of ice cream too heavy. </p><p>Rather than complain internally about having to tote 30 pounds for a mile, I opened one of the <b>Celsius</b> energy drinks I had gotten, and slugged it down. I soon welcomed the exercise of carrying the load, having just a mist of sweat breaking out, as if I was in a gym doing a moderate workout, back in 1998, perhaps. </p><p>I decided that <b>Celsius</b> energy drinks are, as advertised, a good pre-workout drink. </p><p>"Thank you," I said to myself (and God). </p><p>No sooner had I uttered that when a Ford Ranger type vehicle had materialized by my side halfway across the Winn Dixie parking lot. </p><p>"How far do you have to walk?" asked the lady behind the wheel. It was the hard of hearing lady whom I had helped with getting her discount. "Come on, I'll give you a ride..."<br />"Thank you."<br /></p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-975916930776224042023-09-27T00:13:00.003-05:002023-09-27T00:30:05.469-05:00"This Could Be The Last Time..."<h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">Trumpets And Violins </span><br /></h2><p><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWJnxzWfi4P8EHR9xNwwcf5DIgrmmkTM8FQjhoucZcIehgC8OftiS4x39YX8mCSDNjFVh6ngmOXLLi25hgAa5TGTPOKmEscsA_ea3wZKn9EG6T35gQyaWocZw4BxMEPvIT2v9dX7YHHQeh5WK-0S4QN7tdpnqPrcIW5ic9kL9lmc0yNP4UlsISNp7qPs/s2048/330648875_596144991893957_1659710916282086751_n.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWJnxzWfi4P8EHR9xNwwcf5DIgrmmkTM8FQjhoucZcIehgC8OftiS4x39YX8mCSDNjFVh6ngmOXLLi25hgAa5TGTPOKmEscsA_ea3wZKn9EG6T35gQyaWocZw4BxMEPvIT2v9dX7YHHQeh5WK-0S4QN7tdpnqPrcIW5ic9kL9lmc0yNP4UlsISNp7qPs/s320/330648875_596144991893957_1659710916282086751_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #ffa400; font-size: medium;">A chord! Thank you...</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>I wasn't so much bored as I was uncomfortable from the heat in the apartment. Thankfully, when the plumber type workers left at around 9 pm., they cut the water back on that feeds our air conditioning units.<p></p><p>So, I wasn't too uninterested in a variety of things; it's just that it wasn't an appealing thought to sit and sweat and read, or sweat more while playing the guitar, or even probably sweat more than just sitting there if I played chess against the computer or dug into my <b>Python</b> programming studies...</p><p>So, I was just sitting passively watching <b>Hodgetwins</b> videos, which burns only the calories required to laugh every now and then.</p><p>I actually said: "This could be the last time," to Jr after he had shown up after the water had been on for maybe a half hour and it was already down into the high 70's in the apartment.</p><p>He wanted to jam, but I could tell he was already pretty buzzed, and it is a fact that Jr is only about 58% as interesting/fun to hang around with after his blood alcohol level reaches a certain point.</p><p>There is a <b>Hendrix</b> song that has a verse containing the words: "<i>trumpets and violins"</i> and there seems to be a stage of inebriation at which Jr. starts to sing that very song, loud and out of tune. To me, it has become informative to be able to hear him do so. <i>"Trumpets and violins!"</i> is a sound that Jr. makes which indicates that he is functioning at a very basic level, which yields very predictable behavior out of him. In the trumpets and violins stage, he will say and do the exact same things that he said and did the last last time he had reached the t&v level of drunkenness.</p><p>So, as I felt my ambition for doing anything returning with the cooling of my room, Jr. showed up.</p><p>I was ready to just tell him that I didn't want to jam with him; but he said he had some bud and I considered that after smoking some I might actually get into the mood to play one of his guitars and, against the odds, enjoy it...</p><p>I had <b>Mick Jagger</b> singing <i>"Maybe the last time, I don't know.."</i> in my head as I went with him to his place while he voiced encouragement by pointing out how much fun we were going to have...</p><p>He had already sang the Hendrix line, and that should have been the only sign I needed to make some excuse for not wanting to jam. The perfectly legitimate one that actually exists is that I have plans to go to the plasma place and get the 40 bucks, so that I can use some of it to put new strings on my guitar, so I can use it to get hopefully enough to buy another bike. I'm trying to accomplish that without depriving myself of creature comforts like at least a tablespoon of <b>kratom</b> as my morning cup of tea each day. Why I would awaken sleeping dogs by drinking a miserly portion of the guy's vodka, or smoking some of his bud -just to join him on whatever plateau of intoxication he was at became a mystery to me that I was already mulling over as we climbed the stairs to his place. He had showed up at my place as I was watching the last <b>Hodgetwin's</b> video and, true to form, had started to babble loudly over the audio of it, as if trying to get me to pay attention to him instead of the video.<br /></p><p>After telling him that "this might be the last time" I was going to go and "make noise" with him I should have gone over, in order, all the things that he has done, each past time, that have become annoyances to me, from having seen them repeated. But instead I suppose I must have acted insanely when I quietly hoped that maybe he had somehow "changed" and it wouldn't be like that, this time. That was an example of doing the same thing -going to his place to jam when he is already singing about trumpets and violins- and expecting a different result. Insanity. <br /></p><p>So, yeah, we got there and he immediately plugged in his electric guitar and handed it to me. This always made me feel like I was being required to play; with the vodka and weed that he, in effect, lured me into his company with, being the implicit reward for having played decently for at least 5 minutes (I am starting to suspect that the purpose of this, especially given that he will turn the amplifier up almost all the way, just as I am getting going, has something to do with him wanting his neighbors to hear it; for whatever reason).</p><p>Then he emerged from his room and showed me the joint that he had just rolled in there, but didn't light it. Of course he didn't light it, because it was to be like a carrot in front of my nose, and I would have to give him X amount of company in exchange for smoking. </p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><blockquote><span style="color: #ffa400;">You shouldn't have to become falling down drunk just to appreciate another's company; and see eye to eye with him... </span> </blockquote><br /></h2><p>Once I recognized the pattern, I couldn't deal with it. I got one toke off the joint and then it somehow went out of sight into some ashtray or something.</p><p>Then, after having asked him if "the joint" had gone out, or something? and gotten basically ignored; and after I tuned his acoustic up as well as I could and then we traded guitars, so I could tune the other one to the first, only to hear him wildly tuning the one that I was supposed to be tuning to, to who knows what; I left.</p><p>That was the shortest stint of "jamming" with him to date at about 12 minutes; but it was also the quickest that he had ever run through the checklist of things that I wish he wouldn't always do, but he always does. I had left before the one particularly bothersome thing had happened; which is when he starts drunkenly singing one particular song by <b>Robin Trower,</b> or somebody, over the top of whatever I'm playing, regardless of how much it's NOT that particular song. And, then when he gets to a certain point in singing that song over the chords to a totally different song will start barking: "A chord; A chord!!" telling me, ostensibly, that the next chord in the song that I wasn't even playing should have been an A major chord. If I do humor him by going to an A chord, he will always say "Thank, you!" in a snide tone of voice that implies that I should have known what the next chord in a song I wasn't even playing should have been. But, I left before having had to endure that. As soon as he had de-tuned the guitar that I had just spent 5 minutes tuning then handed to him. <i>"...Maybe the last time, I don't know..."</i></p><p>It really should be the last time anyone will ever read anything like "I hung out with Jr." on this blog. <b>You shouldn't have to become falling down drunk just to appreciate another's company; and see eye to eye with him... </b><br /></p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-35358043141357468532023-09-24T23:59:00.006-05:002023-10-01T05:50:41.676-05:00I Remember Her Teeth<h2 style="text-align: left;">Bike Disappears From Where It Was</h2><p>The bike being stolen was sort of a surprise but, had I noticed that there is some kind of construction going on at <b>Harrah's Casino,</b> right across the street from where I park my bike, in the hopes that the casino is heavily surveilled by camera and that everybody knows it and that nobody would risk stealing a bike even from across the street. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Z_-dOglTc57EC-P5Klz0gU33sDtf3xXUBNFFPoUiiOTtUYW-RePktndBZvfe2vDSkzRc0l24yhILxU7A0F1u7UEqv2ylEo0SkP5ek0dzpeej8Skr0K5wGnna_dEfbIuKiQTwYBeIHwwlcJsQeX5xKDJ6HUyB9ZtRLuvh4-DZ0lDSo7mBWA-tjmRJwCU/s697/ten-things.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="517" data-original-width="697" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Z_-dOglTc57EC-P5Klz0gU33sDtf3xXUBNFFPoUiiOTtUYW-RePktndBZvfe2vDSkzRc0l24yhILxU7A0F1u7UEqv2ylEo0SkP5ek0dzpeej8Skr0K5wGnna_dEfbIuKiQTwYBeIHwwlcJsQeX5xKDJ6HUyB9ZtRLuvh4-DZ0lDSo7mBWA-tjmRJwCU/w400-h296/ten-things.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-size: medium;">"I'm buying that bike from you!"</span></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />I'd gotten used to that spot being well lit and having a lot of people passing by. But the construction has diverted them to different entrances and is even blocking some of the light and probably at least one "camera angle" from the casino's most likely state of the art surveillance system. <p></p><p>I mean, their stuff has to include the surrounding areas so that in the case that, say, someone produces a gun and robs all the other roulette players, and then makes a run for it on foot, he can be virtually pursued by someone with control over all the neighborhood cameras. So, that had been the logic behind me locking my bike there when I go busking with Jacob. I think some very enterprising bike thief took note of all the camera views that the construction trailer and the cranes and tractors were obstructing and concluded that a bike could be stolen off the rack I use, off camera.</p><p>It was a very old, perhaps antique, bike that had some damage done to it such that it was about the crappiest thing that I could ride, in the practical sense. The seat was at a gruesome angle, for example, from <b>Patrick</b> my alcoholic ex-friend, having tried to put a better one on the thing. It, sadly, was a better seat that wouldn't fit and would mangle and render useless the part of the bike that holds the seat should you try to brute-force it with a sledgehammer, or something; you drunk. </p><p>So, I was ready to go and sell plasma today for 75 bucks and was going to try to buy another bike for as small a percentage of 75 bucks as I could...<br /></p><p>But, none of that is as important as a memory I have of riding the yellow bike that <b>Dorothy</b>, a social worker of sorts who worked, or maybe still does, at <b>Sacred Heart</b> once gave me..</p><p>It is a mystery to me why some of the bikes I have owned have elicited a lot of compliments from random people. I suppose that the bikes which they say nothing about, speaks volumes about them, too.</p><p>"That's an antique!" had been the most glowing of praise I'd gotten in 2 years of riding the "antique." An old beach cruiser that is painted in the "black and gold" of the local football heroes, and even had a "<b>Saints</b>" logo of some kind on it.</p><p>I will miss is the fact that the thing was equipped with tires that were made of such thick rubber as to almost be solid. Even when they were flat you could ride on them because they were made of such thick rubber. I'll miss the tires. Not so much the seat, or the fact that it had no gears; it was stuck at beach cruising speed. </p><p>The yellow bike was also a beach cruiser, but actually had 5 gears; and in the top one, you could get home from the beach in a hurry; maybe 20 miles per hour. Not bad for something with a cushy seat.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">She Knew I Had A Price </span><br /></h2><p>But that yellow bike got the most compliments of all, with the best one coming from a certain skinny tarot card reader (I found a picture of her [top] but she was at least 10 years older when I rode by and she pointed at it and said: "I'm gonna buy that bike from you!!" imparted along with: "I'm saving up for it already!" or words to that effect. I kind of admired her attitude and her belief that she could indeed have the bike; she only had to save up enough to meet my price -something that every man has a one of.</p><p>It was easily a $300 bike and, being brand new and yellow (and having gears) meant, I guess that the: "That's a really nice bike!"s had flowed steadily.</p><p>I actually thought about selling the bike to the skinny tarot card reader with interestingly positioned teeth. She is a brown skinned Cajun or Creole or whatever the most exotic bloodline is in greater New Orleans, and she looked so much the part of the tarot card reader, because you could tell from looking at her that her bloodline went way back to some isolated clan that you would imagine could really read the hell out of some tarot cards.</p><p>She looked like "the savage that might wander out of the bayou and try to communicate using hand signals and such." What she lacked in sophistication she altogether probably, just from the looks of her, could make up for by being able to tell you your future pretty accurately. I do believe she, whom I have seen, off and on, over the entire 13 years that I've been around here, is in the upper echelon of tarot card readers, ranking amongst those who stay in pretty nice hotels in the Quarter when not sitting behind their tables.</p><p>This skinny one with interesting teeth (she has slight gaps between them, but they are symmetrically spaced gaps between each tooth such that the pedals of a flower are evoked in her smile, more so than lack of access to qualified dental professionals in the bayou. She places a crystal ball type thing which is illuminated but has some color to it; it's not crystal clear. It's a yellowish glow that it wouldn't surprise me if it was making her skin tone look more beautiful; like the savage that came out of the bayou is a very pretty one. </p><p>But, I had always thought she was a very pretty tarot card reader, and 13 years after first seeing her, she was still looking girlish when she pointed her finger and said: "I'm gonna buy that bike off you!" as I rode past.<br />I immediately started to compose a scene in my head where I would indeed make overtures towards offering the bike for sale; and I would be very easy to negotiate the price with, as I had been given the bike for free, by Dorothy. </p><p>I would probably have come up with a figure of $125 for a bike that went for $375 new and was in new condition. I sort of wanted her to have the bike because she wanted it so much. </p><p>I just wanted to conduct the deal such that, after she went for a spin on it, to see if it would be love at first ride, and after she had handed me the $125, I would have said: "Well, all we need to do now is the kiss to make the sale official," and act incredulous over her being unwise to that particular French Quarter tradition. "They believed that the essential ownership of the bike didn't truly change hands until the kiss to seal the deal is performed. I thought that was a Cajun thing..."</p><p>Then, I might have offhandedly asked: "Can you put your tongue in my mouth, too, when we do it?"<br />That's kind of why I would have reduced my asking price, but the fact that I had gotten the bike for free factored in. I really wondered why she wanted the yellow bike so much; why <i>that</i> one?</p><p>"It symbolized a kiss for luck as the new bike owner rode off; you're pulling my leg, you must have never bought a bike before...." <br /></p><p>A tarot card reader who looks that authentic, and can afford to stay in hotels and just come out with her crystal ball and her "just crawled out of the bayou-ness" surely has a good chance of having a boyfriend.<br /></p><p>Someone had made a donation of the bike and had placed it in the stewardship of Dorothy, who had held onto it for quite a while and had rebuffed more than one advance upon ownership of it. It had sat in her office and I guess she was trying to decide who to give it to when one of my bikes was stolen.</p><p>Which brings things full circle to being grateful that the busking business will pick up in October.</p><p>And there are brighter lights illuminating the 900 block now, since the installation of some pretty bright halogen type bulbs into what used the be the quaintly dim gas burning lamps that were replicas of the ones that were in the neighborhood for about 260 years; until now.</p><p>They are so much brighter that I was remarking to Jacob how it used to be a tragic oversight to ever forget to bring my spotlight to the Lilly Pad. I would have to ride all the way back home and get it, then return 45 minutes after having left, with it.</p><p>Now, It's almost bright enough to busk without extra light. Before tourists used to cross over to the other side of the street when approaching the few buskers that ever tried to play there. As dark as it used to be, you couldn't really tell if those were banjos or rifles from a distance at which it's safe to cross over to the other sidewalk.</p><p>It used to be that every repair made to Lilly's block had to meet with the approval of a committee of historians who would make sure you were using 260 year old building supplies so as to preserve the historic look of the block. But, it became hard to extrapolate that law out to webcams, which are in every nook and cranny; and so why not open the floodgates and bring in the LED halogen street lights.</p><p>The days of gas flames and little battery powered spotlights have come and gone...<br /></p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-89453197340416372612023-09-06T12:30:00.003-05:002023-09-06T12:30:46.273-05:00On A 3 Day Juice Cleanse And Detox<p>I'll probably have this post shadow banned for mentioning such a thing as a "juice cleanse" when there are probably perfectly fine pharmaceuticals that doctors can prescribe and insurance companies can foot some of the bill for that will accomplish the same detoxification of the body and mind; with strokes or heart attacks or in rare cases death being the only side effects to worry about...</p><p>I've been having all my needs met met by the universe. Needing less and less has helped that along...<br />An waiting to come across my next free 10 dollars so I can sign up for 12 gigabytes a month for a year; which will be around 6 times the amount that lasted me half of last month....<br />And then I might be blogging more; and the AI robots can go ahead and disappear most of it.<br /></p><p>It's nice and sunny out, albeit about 89 degrees; but time for a bike ride to see what I come across, just laying there...<br />I haven't been busking much; and that is to protect myself from getting drunk. I can't trust myself in that regard just yet. Maybe a few days of detoxing will fortify me.</p><p>At least I was true enough to myself to answer in the affirmative the question: "You just want to go out there and play so you can drink and smoke weed and then maybe even do some coke if you make enough money, right?"</p><p>I'm rigorously using the Deepak Chopra and Joe Dispenza videos to reprogram my mind and conquer addictions etc., along with the water only fast that should take me to the weekend. Saving money on food is just a fringe benefit of the detox...<br /></p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-55896846228828543242023-08-30T02:19:00.002-05:002023-08-30T04:44:51.398-05:00Maggie Fiasco<p>Happy Tuesday morning to all my readers...<br /></p><p>I was remembering, a little while back, about a couple people whom I've met who had given themselves nicknames. </p><p>The first being "<b>Raven Madd,"</b> which was the pseudonym that Angela Washington, a black girl that I once dated (and even lived with for a few months) had given herself.</p><p>Angela was a black lady whom I would have to consider a racist, only because her race was the primary filter through which she saw the world.</p><p>I would be driving her somewhere and she would be looking at the faces of the other motorists, wanting to see their reactions to a white guy and a black girl together in a vehicle. She might, at some, point lean over and kiss me on the cheek if she thought that some redneck in a pickup truck needed to see that, perhaps to clarify to him that, yes, we were a couple.</p><p>We were in the deep south of <b>Jacksonville, Florida</b> where the relationships between the blacks and whites were noticeably different from the <b>Massachusetts</b> that I had left in 1993. For one thing, you would see a table with all blacks sitting at it and another one with all white, in places where the 2 races were mixed, such as a workplace that might have a dozen or so of each. When lunchtime came the break room would become segregated as each group would, almost subconsciously I often considered, eat with their own race. There would be a "black" table and a "white" one in divers places. Even in a hospital waiting room, or at the DMV, I would see the races congregated together with few exceptions.</p><p>One time, at labor pool job, I had offered a black co-worker some of the cold drink I was drinking "If you don't mind drinking out of the same can as someone else," I had said. He took a few gulps then handed it back to me and when I resumed drinking it I noticed that he watched me with some slight appearance of interest and awe as I resumed drinking off it, as if he had never seen a white guy drink "behind" a black one. </p><p>"Did you see the dirty look that guy in the pickup truck was giving us?" Angela would ask.</p><p>"No, I didn't really notice. Why would he be giving us a dirty look?"</p><p>She explained, after this incident which would in no way be the last such, that it was "the whole thing" about how people would think that if a white guy had a black girlfriend, there relationship must have the dynamic of the guy being kind of like the master and the girl a slave. It would piss off the blacks who saw us as a couple because they would also make that assumption and would be mad at her for indulging me in such a way.</p><p>She never extended her observation to what reasons "everyone" would think a black girl wanted to be with a white guy for, besides love.</p><p>Angela was proud of the fact that she could sound white enough on the phone to fool most people. "When I'm calling a restaurant to make reservations, or even the phone company to ask about my bill, they have no idea they're talking to a black lady," she once told me. The biggest feather in her cap, though, was from when she worked as a 1-900 operator on some kind of sex hotline and, using her voice, would be able to get her customers masturbating to what they imagined was a sexy young white lady.</p><p>She said that she would never eat watermelon or fried chicken in public. When I pressed her for her reason, she said it was because of the the stereotype that many whites perpetuated about blacks being always eating those two things.</p><p></p><p>"Well, but do you even like watermelon and fried chicken?"</p><p>"Hell yeah, I love me some watermelon on a hot summer day; and I could live on fried chicken; but I just eat them in the privacy of my apartment!"</p><p>I stopped short of asking her if she sent someone to the store for the watermelon, and if they delivered it to her apartment in a plain paper bag..</p><p>She was <b>Raven Madd</b>, on Facebook et. al.</p><p>The other person went by <b>Maggie Fiasco.</b> I never liked that and just the fact, in general, that someone would deem themselves a "fiasco." One girl's fiasco is another's normalcy. And, I've been being coached by the Affirmation Industry online that to call yourself a fiasco is to send signals out into the universe that will just attract more fiascosity into your life.<br /></p><p>But somehow, I had a passing thought or two about <b>Maggie</b>, from <b>Sacramento, California</b> Sunday morning. Had I known how much of a fiasco the trip to the plasma place was going to be I might have drawn a connection to this otherwise random musing.</p><p>Sundays can be "a little hectic" at the plasma place. The way they get people to donate twice per week is to offer something like 40 bucks for the first one, in a given week, but then to provide a bonus in the form of say 80 bucks for the second one. These can't be on consecutive days and they have to occur before the week, ending on Sunday, is over. A couple Sundays ago I got there around 2:15 in the afternoon to find about 25 people ahead of me. They were short staffed and I wound up leaving about 6 hours later. That probably won't happen again, I thought. In fact they might have taken drastic measures to insure against such a thing by maybe hiring extra staff, or something.</p><p>I got there pretty early. I had somehow succeeded in being awake and having a pretty good energy level when the 8 am. opening time of the place rolled around.</p><p>I stayed positive by telling myself that, if I had to spend 5 hours sitting there reading <i>"Under The Dome</i> (a novel)" by <b>Stephen King,</b> well, that is time I wouldn't have to spend doing the same thing at home.</p><p>This time, there were about 30 people ahead of me when I walked in the place. Nobody had even donated yet because of what I was led to believe was: "the system is down." The guy sitting next to me said that he had gotten there a half hour before they opened, had stood in a line at the door, like he was waiting to get <b>Grateful Dead</b> tickets for a show that promised to sell out within an hour; and he was barely ahead of me, who had just walked in.</p><p>They said that, as soon as the system was no longer "down," they were going to take donors in, in groups of 12, and perform mass stabbings of them (with the plasmapheresis needles, that is). They would catch everybody up; there wouldn't be people leaving at 9 at night, 6 hours after the place closed; like 2 Sundays ago...</p><p>I was Grateful for the <b>Stephen King</b> novel. I figured I had about 5 hours to go on it before I was done. And if the story got really good near the end there would be few things I'd rather be doing than sitting there reading and waiting for the system to come up.</p><p>Not so, for some of the people around me. Of course, to a man, they were all staring at their phones. A smallish, kind of light skinned black guy sitting across from me kept his knees rapidly bouncing, with a nervous impatience similar to what cats will do in the seconds leading up to their pouncing at a mouse or something.</p><p>I was glad that my own state of mind was much more tranquil, and that I had done deep breathing exercises and meditations upon being in the present moment, and that I had brought along a novel 1,070 pages in length.</p><p>Sunday being the last day in the week to claim the bonus, there was no possibility of leaving to return on a less hectic day; we were all trapped and doomed to our fates. Then a petite girl and a guy who seemed to be her boyfriend sat to my immediate left, perhaps subconsciously thinking that I represented the white section, since I was the only other white donor there, besides that girl. Her "boyfriend" looked kind of Latino. She was kind of scrawny and pale skinned and looked like she was once much prettier. She had kind of a drug ravaged look about her. Soon, her legs started bouncing up and down impatiently, in time with the guy across from us.</p><p>Then, there was a commotion as some staff members entered the front door with a huge cooler almost the size of a coffin. They had gone and gotten pizza, as a token of their appreciation of us bearing with the inconvenience of the system being down.</p><p>If they run all the affairs of that place like they handled the giving out of the pizza then that would explain their not getting donors out of there until 6 hours after the place closed.</p><p>All they did was to announce something about "pizza." Nothing about forming a line or that everyone can get one slice and then if there is still pizza left over, maybe seconds would be orderly distributed. Just "You're all welcome to some pizza!"</p><p>A scene ensued that I can only compare to a flock of pigeons having peanuts thrown to them, or maybe raccoons, after one of them has managed to topple a garbage can, spilling its contents on the ground in front of them all..</p><p>A crowd of about a dozen prospective donors of life-saving plasma amassed in front of the table that the pizzas were being set on, with the ones in front almost using the basketball move of "boxing out" to keep people from reaching past them to grab what they were grabbing. The first couple people to get there took entire pizza pies which they treated like a rebounded basketball that they had just grabbed, keeping a low center of gravity and using their elbows to create separation between them and the rest of the herd.They were able to spirit them off to less populated areas of the lobby to eat, because their competitors at the table had their eyes on the prize and seemed just glad to have those front runners out of their way.</p><p>Soon there were people munching away here and there with none of them apparently concerned about anyone who hadn't gotten any. I consoled myself with the fact that I didn't really want any pizza. The whole scene had kind of made me sick to my stomach to watch. Thankfully, I had arrived at the place with enough peace of mind to have kept me from saying: "Animals!" too loudly at the sight of the scene. Having run out of pizza so quickly, they decided to order more.It arrived about 45 minutes later, and the whole act was repeated, with most of those who had gotten all the pizza the first time getting all of it again.<br /></p><p><i>I thought you were supposed to arrive at the donation center adequately fed and well hydrated.<br /></i></p><p>I think the lone white white employee, the manager apparently is afraid to say things like: "Why don't we form a single line and then everyone will have a chance to get a slice..."<br /></p><p>And, maybe add well rested to that list. I nodded off a couple times while hooked up to the machine and was just able to complete my donation before being warned that if I closed my eyes again they were going to unplug me, and I would only be compensated 5 dollars just for having shown up.</p><p>Then, as soon as I walked out of the place I saw the #62 bus go by, so I took my time in <b>WalMart</b>, getting cash back for the bus fare and a 9% alcohol beer that made me fall asleep on the #62. I slept until it had gone all the way to <b>Canal Street </b>and back, waking up when it was back at the same <b>WalMart</b> where I had started. I had to pay another fare and then ride back home again on it.</p><p>But I'm not going to start calling myself <b>Danny Fiasco</b> any time soon.. </p><p> <br /></p>Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-650160678722829210.post-82122990937618245812023-08-22T23:36:00.005-05:002023-08-22T23:55:05.045-05:00Clinical Study Put On "Pause"<div style="height: 228px; width: 100%;"><iframe src="https://audio.com/embed/audio/1774991821277545?theme=image" style="border-radius: 6px; border: none; display: block; height: 204px; width: 100%;"></iframe><a href="https://audio.com/easystick" style="color: #a4abb6; display: block; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">@easystick</a></div>Wow, like I could have gone out and busked instead of having tried to get to sleep early enough to wake up and ride my bike 4 miles so I could participate in the shingled vaccine study.
But I didn't; and, then they called me and told me that the study had been "paused" and for me not to come.
I am pretty sure this is the guardian angels of mine intervening so I wouldn't poison myself with some "vaccine."
Anyways, I'm going to sell my plasma and then hopefully be back home in time to hang out and jam with Jacob in the evening...
And that's where it stands right now. Not too tangled up in blue...Daniel McKenna IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04157964564856145960noreply@blogger.com0