Monthly Archives: November 2016

No Fries with that! Emergency Report

“What’s the difference between Ignorance and Arogance?”

A: “I don’t know, but who cares; I won.”
Fucking Drumpf. Barely a month in office and he not only shut down (chained the doors, for God’s sake!) NASA, NOAA, and the EPA, but also, for good(?) measure another agency, little known, which shared its acronym: Exo-Planet Alert!   ‘FEMA’s EPA’ those few who even knew it existed called it, since it was quietly funded by that parent organization.

And that’s why I’m sitting here in MacDonalds watching CNN on the hastily lashed-up TV and staring at the ‘No Fries!’ sign.

Fucking Drummpf! He had as much chance of ‘making America Great again’  (it already was, and with fries!) as one(1) drunken monkey at a broken typewriter typing the whole of Shakespeare.
The POS didn’t want aliens? Great, now they’re landing another shiny ship every fifteen minutes out near Boisie, Idaho, the ‘Home base’, I guess, but only till the potatoes run out.
Didn’t like NASA’s approach to space travel? Just great! Now he’s got his own space travel, but in the wrong direction for Humanity: Um, ‘Incoming!’
See, the ‘little-EPA’ boys knew about the threat. Some insiders even contend that the Perseid menace was clearly mentioned at a top-level security briefing which this short-attention-span POS attended, took no notes (except for bra sizes of two female staffers) and left dumber than he’d been before, if that is possible.

Scrapping Environmental Protection! Great Again, asshole! Idaho, as we speak,  HAS NO ENVIRONMENT to Protect. The Ape-men, or whatever term settles out for the ‘hairy’ (feathered?) creatures in the Main Stream Press, have turned the entire area, including parts of southern Canada, into a landscape resembling the Sahara desert on a bad hair day. Credit the ISS crew for that lone assessment; most of the other ‘eye-in-the-sky sats have gone either blind, deaf, dumb, or all three, either from de-funding or alien hacks. We’ll only know ‘when it’s over over there’. (More on that later)
No one’s even gotten a close-up look at ’em. The loop on CNN keeps re-playing the single fuzzy photo uploaded to Snapchat by a luckless motorist. He lost his life, car, and I-phone seconds later on I-84 when all three devices were melted into a pile of roadway scum.
Jim Holloway, ex-head of the now-dead Exo-planet Alert agency, tries but fails to keep his composure with the CNN anchor, explaining one moment where the stars in the constellation Perseus can been seen, reveals what was known, and when, about the obvious signs of an ETI civilization there, and then almost breaks down in grief and disgust on-camera.
Cut to commercial: MacD’s still showing the happy meal ‘au ‘pomme de terre’. French for ‘comes with fries’. Might as well say now ‘pomme de extra-terre’. And sources in the preposterous loony-bin called the ‘Trump administration’ are now reassuring the panicked low-infos that, um, not to worry, we’ll have our own ‘freedom-fries’ up and running real soon. Made from what? She swatted away the question; said they’ll be ‘great’.

When it’s Over Over here?
Um.. like, never? See, Idaho, and potatoes, are ‘appetizers for these hungry invaders from Perseus, the ‘radiant’ of the famous annual ‘Perseids’ meteor shower. Idaho is only a beach-head for them, and with the free world currently ‘led’ by an empty-headed moron withe the nutritional value of Diet Fresca (Remember: ‘An artificially-sweetened, artifically-flavored imitation fruit-drink beverage’.) we are headed for much worse than a shortage of ‘au gratin’.
Ex-President Barack Obama is reported to be somewhere between ‘livid’ and ‘inconsolable’. All his careful, discreet management of this threat, the contingency plans, his knowing awareness of the dangers from premature disclosure to the public, is now just waste-water over the dam.
Damn him to hell, that fucking Drumpf. And the sick little deplorables who dragged this dog-shit into the house stuck to their shoes.
I do have 3 potatoes in the fridge though. But I’ll scan the sky before I dare to open the door. So, worst case; ‘I got some groceries, some peanut butter,
oughta last a couple of days…
Yeah, and PALS:

OH, A DIET?… AS EPA DIES, REPORTS ‘ASTRO-PERSEID’ APES ATE IDAHO.’

‘PAN’: A BOT IN A MANITOBAN ‘AP’!!!

Mystery Solved!! Nice detective work, Johnny.
Oh, and credit to ‘Networx’, (Tm) the nifty up/down-load monitor, plus a generic ‘connections’ viewer.
I guess I should have known better than to download an ‘AP’, even one which simply sends (‘sent‘) me weekly reports on Arctic sea-ice and reindeer populations, etc. The site had a ‘dot-ca’ address; if ya cain’t trust Canadians, well, who can ya trust?

Turns out that the ‘AP’, with all its animated graphs of Eskimo ice-cube prices, is just a cover for ‘PAN’, the bot which takes up more than half the file-size. ‘Palindrome-Attack-Net’ is what the pros call it, I now know.
Just now typed a dumb throwaway Pal: ‘MT PINATUBA- A BUT,A NIP. TM.’ into freaking Ms-Notepad, while watching the meters. Sure enough, an instant connection established to, you guessed it, New Zealand. That’d be my nemesis, Julie-Anne, of KIWI LEEKS fame. She don’t respect my privacy, my right to original creations, and worse. That ‘Tm‘ in the Pinatuba Pal means ‘Trademarked! Which makes her guilty of a federal crime now. ‘Lock her up!’ I say.
So that’s about it. I deleted the AP, and of course wanted to warn anyone else not to click on it.
Feeling kinda thrilled after killing this dragon, I’ll admit. Just typed:
TORONTO: ROT? / NO-ROT? and the meters just sat there flat-lined. Yippie.

We flew by mistake to Saratoga.. and all my Ma got was a rash.

Ok, my Mum’s arguably senile. But reflexively, I trusted her, y’know, after twenty years of ‘Eat yer vegetables, son!’
The ‘iffy’ DeHavilland Twin Otter turbo-prop we dutifully boarded for our ‘Florida Getaway to Sarasota’ did look a bit small for a trip of that import, but I followed her to our seats like an obedient lemming.

Excited about the trip (I’d brought along my favorite shorts, a gift from Beth Seedsower of Xanga fame), I only started to feel mildly puzzled, like any self-respecting lemming, when it dawned om me that the late-afternoon Sun was shining through the cabin windows from the left(!) Headed south, it shoulda been from the right; i.e. the West!
Above the low-level clouds I had no ground reference, but at least I wasn’t kept in suspense for too long. We landed, bumpily, taxied to the terminal and, as I scanned the scene for palm trees to no great avail, it all became clear.

No, not ‘pilot-error’… ‘Mommy-error’. I should have asked how she managed a $59 round-trip flight to Sarasota.
Ha, easy; click instead on ‘Saratoga’!
Here’s the Terminal.

saratoga_county_airportNo aligators, coral beaches, bikini girls, In fact, no sign at all. Done on purpose, I’m guessing, to delay the let-down.
Now don’t think I haven’t a soft spot for Saratoga Springs, NY. In my youth I went through a series of deep and formative romances with Skidmore Girls. They are by now all grown up, still gorgeous and outrageously smart, and probably hammering that ‘glass ceiling’ as well as any woman can. Liz Reston, ‘niece-of’ a NYT writer I wish I was the equal of comes especially to mind.
But they weren’t waiting for me at the airport though. Just me, and my Mom, who’d been scratching and itching herself since we got to cruise altitude (probably from the cheap ‘non-genuine-Naugahyde seats’ in the Otter. The fever and chills only started the first night.
After I’d decided, assessing all my powers of restraint, not to mention, or , even to hint, that we ‘weren’t in Florida anymore, Mamma‘.
Sadly, I still have no idea where she thought she was headed; we did our best to enjoy the crisp fall weather, walked a full 100 meters of a nature trail near the hotel, and, while she rested, I got to wistfully pass by the old ‘Annendale Road’ off-campus Housing-for-theAlluring’ I remembered well. Jeez, girls these days look so ‘little’, so ‘young’. Mebbe it wuz the LSD back then?
 Anyway, to finish here, we’re both now back home, safe, happy, and blissfully confused.
I decided to post this, as a ‘Memo’. A ‘Warning’?
Note-to Me: I’ve driven PA to Sarasota (FLA!) and back a half-dozen times. Twenty-three hours, including two(2) rest stops to piss. Next time I’ll be sure to take my Ma along. Maybe drugged, in the trunk. Unlock and say “Surprise, Verna! And welcome to New Jersey! Hot out, ain’t it?”

Oh, and here’s ‘Julie-the Kiwi-leeks’s hacked version of the story; sucks to be you, kid.

HOW WE DO ‘GULF’? AH, ‘SARATOGA'(?!) MEMO:’ HOW-TO’: ‘TWO HOME, MA GOT A RASH, A FLU. GOD! EWW! OH.

So what does ‘KIWI LEEKS’ want from me? Help!

Yes, what does ‘Julie-Anne Aux-Saussage’  want from me?
These last two weeks have not been easy; I’ve spent hours I’ll never get back trying to answer this question.
Nowadays, with IP tracking, packet-sniffing, Face-Book snooping, one can get at least a skeleton-grasp: She’s an immigrant to New Zealand from (possibly) French Guiana, 29 years old, unmarried, living in a rental at 23 Hereford, near the corner with Fitzgerald in Christchurch, NZ.

Her IP is (usually) 116.193.192.027. She is a fervid vegan (Doesn’t wear leather shoes) and has a small organic vegetable business somewhere outside of town, selling onions, garlic, and the like. But mainly ‘LEEKS‘, a member of the onion family, beloved principally by folks who dream of clearing out an entire crowded elevator with one horrid ‘leek-breath.’ Of watching panicked victims decide, spur of the moment, to all get off at the 3rd Floor… for impromptu root-canal surgery.
Anyway, her satanic contribution to world-wide halitosis is registered for tax purposes as ‘KIWI LEEKS, Ltd’
Ok, none of this explains why she should have hacked my email, published all my precious Palindromes for anyone to claim as their own, and kinda made my life a living Hell. What ideology could motivate her? I mean, I raise only vegetables here in Israel, and have never posted anything disparaging about vegetarians. (Oh, except once jokingly asking why, if they love animals so much, they persist in eating the animals’ food.)

I’m pretty sure that the key to this all was a post a few weeks back where I revealed my secret encryption system. Simple and effective: I and my trusted confidantes merely reverse the letter-order of the message. Un-breakable. Or so I thought.
 Julie-Anne apparently thought differently. And must have spent hours cracking the code.
In conclusion; to what depths have we sunken that a fellow so innocent and well-intentioned as your Writer should be anonymously tortured… and without even so much as a published political ‘I believe’ Manifesto with which I could at least argue?
Meanwhile, the last ‘gold’ she found was this (banal, agree with me) MSG to an old High School classmate, Tess, who is now ‘good at computers’:

‘D’- “LO BOOT DATA” CPU?- TESSIE: H-S WAS INTENSE! E’S NET… ‘N I SAW SHE IS SET UP; ‘C’ A TAD TOO BOLD?
(We’re trying to get an emulation of Ellen (‘E’)’s pioneering early-days network back on-line, just as an ‘in-memorium’. And I’m having techie problems using my own computer as a ‘server’. Font-sizes.. stuff like that there..)

What this has to do with:
Kiwi Birds:

220px-tetuatahianui

or Leeks:

160px-leek
Yup, that’s today’s Question!

WU: You sure this is all true, Solberg?

ME: Ok, mostly. She’s actually 31… And ‘in a relationship’. With what, I’m not sure; Reality?

WU: Sorry, I wasn’t just talking about details.. Um, why do you DO this stuff, guy?

ME: You heard the one about why the dog licks himself?

WU: Yeah; ‘because he can’. Ok, I get it. Carry on, bro.

Two Premature ‘Concession Speeches’:

I might as well beat the headlines here. (There’s a nice, common word for getting a story to press before the competition: why can’t I recall it??? (ed- ‘scoop’, duh!)
At any rate: here’s Hillary Clinton’s transcript following an un-anticipated (God forbid!) defeat:

‘My fellow citizens of all flavors; I stand here, proud but for now overcome with emotion, to acknowledge and accept the verdict of the United States electorate. Sadly, millions of citizens of all pigments, genders, and world-views were not able to prevail over the amply
-demonstrated allure of Misogyny, Racism, Xenophobia, and the cheapening ‘Reality-TV culture’ which has infected our national conversation.
A great many of my brothers and sisters, of all political and ethnic stripes, must be asking themselves at this point : ‘What is to become of us?!’
I dearly wish I could offer an ‘encouraging word’.
But sadly, hopes for optimism are in un-precendently short supply at this point. As today’s youth might put it, and surely will after the full horror of my oponent’s utter unfitness for the role becomes a grim reality: ‘So, how’s that Trump thing working out for you?’
But I shall not belabor the obvious. We are today poised to plunge over a cliff. My warning voice, along with those of men and women of greater eloquence and import than mine, was
tonight un-heeded by the electorate. ‘Long live the Electorate’ has never sounded so plaintive, so doomed. ‘I wish you all well.

And now, ‘Das Drumpf’:

My fellow real Amerikans: Do not be deceived by the Lyin’ media, Lyin’ Clinton, Lyin’ ‘rigged’ poll-watcher lackeys. We have tonight scored a great Victory, believe me, a knockout blow to the swamp-dwelling evil forces. The true results from this election will come to light shortly, as our people invoke their god-given right to demand Justice. My rallies have drawn thousands, millions, of great, decent folks, and their salutes to ‘One Nation, One leader, under One God’ will not be stopped by the gang of international hook- nosed usurpers who, trust me, shall be vanquished in due time.
departs from script– .. ‘I might have said, ‘I’ll keep you in suspense’. That’s what they said I said. well, yeah, believe me, we’re gonna build a great wall… I mean.. the second amendment people… who knows.. fat college women voting ten times… we’ll grab ’em by the
puss.. {Break for ‘commercial}

My Secure E-mail System: Explained

Ok, I’ve had at least 400 jobs, looking back through WP and Xanga Archives. These ‘gigs‘ are, oddly, as real to me as my actual real-life back-breaking work. I wake up in a sweat some nights worrying that a deadline for naming a break-thru hair-color product for a company in Oregon might has passed without my magical last-minute input.
Only to realize that, like the following: ‘It wuz only a dream!’

Onward to my current position, about which I can’t speak overmuch here. (NDA: ‘Non-Disclosure Agreement’ with a penalty clause stiffer than the 5 million bucks that molested chicks from ‘The Apprentice’ face.
I can reveal that it’s with NASA. And even go so far as to hint ‘Building Nine’.
That’s where (according to foreign sources) we work on ‘experimental’ shit.
Lots of my co-workers in the sprawling two-story pre-fab complex near Mesa AZ wear the classic white lab-jackets. Bio-chemists, mainly. And no, no ‘pen-protector’ shirt-pockets. That’s my job; documentation. Official title: ‘E-DOC’-3′

I will mention that colonies on Mars, should that happen in my lifetime, will owe me a small (OK, ‘minuscule’) debt for what we are doing.
In simple words: ‘The ‘Nauts’ are gonna be hungry, and not just for glass-dome lettuce, ugh.‘ I mean, you try spending a year in a sardine can in space, watch your mind fry from cosmic rays, eat the same goddamn tooth-paste spam twice a day? What you’ll crave is MEAT. Mac D’s would be the wet dream, but you’ll be ok with….
With what we’re working on.
Wish I could be more specific, but let’s just say that the optimal animal-protein source, given the constraints, has been determined, by folks well above my pay-scale, to be ‘a large, sedentary, ruminating herbivore’. Ok, you’re probably already thinking ‘Cows’. Sorry, think ‘larger’. As in ‘Elephant’.
Only problem is that the couple species of modern elephant have adapted, of course, to the CO2 concentration in the Earth’s atmosphere. Understandable; so have Homo sapiens.
But if it were possible to ‘re-do’ a critter from long ago, to ‘teach’ him to love Mars’ CO2-rich atmosphere?

mammothvsmastodon
I know what you’re thinking, and I’ll spare you the suspense:
Rumors are already floating around here; every poor-soul day-shifter frustrated by the high-tension security here in ‘Nine’ has a theory. Some of ’em even call us ‘Jurassinine Pork’, which is scary.

Why? Um… ‘cuz nothing, nada, about what we are doing here: food for Martians, cloning extinct beasts, was supposed to leak out.
Which is today’s topic: E-Security.
I’d have to say that I’m closest here to ‘Tom’ (not his real name. For some reason we ‘click’. He shares with me tales of his Mother’s lack of enthusiasm with her ‘genius’ son ‘raising mice’ (His cover story. And yet Tom’s current ‘mouse’, almost touching the ceiling in its pen near the back wall, and covered with the thickest hairy coat one could dream of in the frigid Martian winter, is the perfect retort to her derision. If only he could tell her.
We agreed on a fool-proof encryption scheme for our e-mail chats. Simply reverse the letters of the text. Who would guess? And so yesterday, his birthday, I sent this cryptic message:
HAH, TOM: MA MADE FUN.. AN’ U FED A MAMMOTH..AH.

My relationship with Samir is less congenial. A 40-ish 2nd-generation immigrant from Tunisia, he studied genetics at Princeton, wrangled a doctorate from Cal-Tech, and has been on the West coast ever since, ending up as my ‘boss’, I guess I’d have to say. I also have to say that his obsession with Islamic mysticism has both Tom and me a bit worried. Oh well, we at least have a viable ‘beast’ to brag about, complete with tons of fertile ‘compost’ (read ‘poop’) and enough methane (farts) to light up a whole Martian dome. Sam, meanwhile, is still working on the DNA stage, for the competing candidate, the mastadon, analyzing the helix to death….and looking for the Koran in there to boot. Nothing I can do, I told Tom on our secure server last night, but to bitch quietly and salute. I sent him:
MASTADON DNA’S SUFI CODE? AS A NASA E-DOC, I FUSS… AND NOD AT SAM.

So thrilled that we figured out how to finesse a totally private channel. All the text is reversed beyond recognition, as you must agree.

Clk-clk-clk-Clock Ch-ch-ch-Changes

I need help!
My hard-won mantras for ‘understanding’ what ‘simply moving the long and short Hands of the Clock’ means… are losing their clout, their ‘prowess for all time‘ knack at dispelling confusion.
Readers in The US, Canada, and UK will need to deal with this presently; here in Israel we are already ‘back in sync’ (one way to see it) with our ‘real’ Time-zone: two hours ahead of Greenwich.
The Sun, I keep whistling to myself in the dark, couldn’t care less what the rumoured ‘life’ on its Third Rock out does to its timepieces. Newton Rulez! (Ok, Einstein, on Mercury.)
But meanwhile, my ‘been there; done that’ confidence in successfully navigating the twice-yearly ‘revolution’ looks more like ‘Been there, didn’t get that done!’

I walk outside with my bucket of cat-food to distribute, (and thereby quiet a 14-feline chorus of annoyingly-petulant wailing fur-balls.)  Darkness on the face of the Earth. The ‘new’ clock calls the Time ‘Five and a half bells’ 5:30 AM. I chant: ‘Ok, this is what was last week called 6:30.
Back then, of course, as now, the sun was rising about a minute later each morning, and it was becoming increasingly ‘wrong’ to drive to the corner store which opens at 6:30 without headlights.
Now, suddenly, Eli, the beloved store-owner and often my first (or only) contact with humanity daily, pulls into his postage-stamp parking lot in full sunlight. At ‘what is now called ‘the new six-thirty’ but was, only a few days ago 7:30!’
My cats, bless their furry hearts, haven’t changed their watches. And as a life-long farmer, we milked the cows by the sun; as in: as early in the morning when you could be sure, visually, that you didn’t mistakenly herd ‘Beulah’ into the milk parlour when she was officially on the ‘dry’ list of girls on ‘maternity leave’. ‘Lassie’ could smell their ‘paperwork’ in the dark, of course, but still, nothing like a human, to be 100% sure.
And so, as I mentioned, I am now desperately chanting my  ‘save-me’ Mantra:
‘It is now Six AM… what used to be called ‘Seven AM.’  Do you know where your cows are?’ (As the old Public Service Announcement once asked parents about their kids’ wanderings.)
And frankly, my dears, I sadly haven’t a clue, although I do give a damn.
Anyone have a better way to ‘grok’ this?