Today is Friday the twenty-ninth day of September in 2014 A.D.

I know what this is all about. They are all chipped and wired, and they are unhappy because, since returning from the summer vacation walk, I have been muttering all day long "they ate, they ee-tered it, that ate-er-ated it, they ate it" and "you ate? you ate it! you ate it... oh no! you're going to hell" and other segments from earlier journal entries. This happened back at the beginning of the http://daypage.wikispaces.com/ material when I first postulated that they were all chipped and wired on remote control, and began talking to the "secret microphone" by telling them to go f* their dog; as I had recently deduced that they did indeed spork their hoagie for their money, do the freaknastery with the dagnabbery for the blingdiddery, and then they all get chipped and wired. This "game" is all they have.

So when enough of them begin pouting about what you're saying, whether or not you're yelling it or muttering it, then they get to hire somebody to come and beat you up. Because that is how they do their children. I have earlier written about the scene with Method Man, good upstanding fella, standing off in a corner with a shovel. He managed to smack the first one in the rush, and they probably ended up looking like me, but he was inside, and the rush with the doctors and the dental prosthetic to teach him how to make his million dollars. Good Meth, standing at the ready in the corner with a shovel, his brain unraveling the reality in front of him,"You're all faggitts! You're all faggitts! *step step whack*" and then the rush.

While I was on summer vacation enough new ones rotated around the general shuffle that they have been unhappy about me taunting them on their own secret microphone system, following quite well with the incident following my initial exploration into the possibility that they were indeed all chipped and wired and on a system which they did not administer.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

http://daypage.wikispaces.com/

According to the way the sphinx works, and the way the languages are constructed, and the way real nature works, I'm helping you to hell anyway. You're performance of the situation, the six hours you spent practicing with a dummy in advance to ensure that you could *set set set snap* *set set set pop* The fellow didn't really dance around much, he had spent time practicing for the entire situation. I thought, early on,"should I raise my hands to block", but decided that may only encourage him to become excited. C'mon, s*itbag, do what you're gonna do, take your shots, get the hell oughtta here. Cameras everywhere, drone spy seagulls probably have the whole thing with audio.

Today is Friday the twenty-ninth day of September in 2014 A.D.

Pharauh had friends. They were neuroseurgeons. They loved to take him apart and put him back together and take him apart again, and they became very good in the taking apart and the putting back together. They were very interested in the brain, both for revolver and flipping purposes. They learned exactly which channel, which crevice, which pocket was related to which sound. The established which crevice and pocket was tied to which muscle, and which exact range of motion. In the days of the original humans there were variations in the matching. In the early steam pressed humans there were variations in the matching. The line of steam pressed new humans achieved a level of scientific perfection to ensure that, within quality limits, the exact crevasse, trench, channel, and pocket of the brain would be matched to an acceptable range of sound and muscular motion. They also discovered that the brain, if plugged down to the brain stem, produced a yet very functional human. The standardization of the steam press line allowed them to develop very predictable methods for plugging very particular sections of the brain through injury, and economized the process to establish full ventilatory blockage between the stem and the lobes, using the channels, pockets, crevasses, and trenches. Pharaoh's friends, the doctors, established very predictable methods of making pharoah do this, or do that, or perform tasks which were designed to facilitate disuse of ranges of motion which could be predictably plugged up with other methods. Physical injuries settle in the muscles and the brain becomes lax about them and, if he doesn't stretch those out or sing through those notes, there is a higher chance that he will not recover those areas. Larger injuries work even better. Have him stay on the couch all day long, sit exactly like this, ride along on wheels, maybe use turnip carts to gimp the ankles and knees. Pharaoh's friends became very good at this. They choreographed years and decades long sequences to assist with position just the exact injury or the correct sounds to culminate with regions which had been softened up along the way.

Now, pharaoh's doctors have it all set up for you.

There is a real neurological and physiological reason why you cannot walk with your heels above the ground. That is a memory space in your brain stem which is blocked off from you. The result is: faggitt. Another one in the line of steam press ones in the world full of them going to hell.

There is a real neuro and physio reason why your voice hasn't dropped. There is a real neuro and physio reason why you cannot move your tongue inside the back of your nose. Those regions for those muscular positions are boogered up and blocked off. The result is: faggitt.

And they tore your wings off your butt the moment they steam pressed you. That wasn't quite enough to completely knock the lobes off the stem and kick Adam out of the garden, but close.

Other reliable methods are having sex with an eunuch. That will creep your brain out and lock you down to the stem the first, if not the second, time. Eating green eggs and ham, similarly. Eating the green eggs is bad enough, but why the ham? They're going to hell anyway, the ham ensures they'll make it the first, if not definitely by the second, offense.

On the green eggs and ham, nowadays they're all dead reanimated parts anyway. What is this "under the earth"? The bible is a catalogue of everything real, maybe the words are out of sequence on occasion, or maybe the scene needs to be analyzed with the surrounding tapestry on occasion, but it's all real. There are never "eyes of a beast" in the bible, nor are there "eyes of an animal", because those are not real concepts. Either the eyes were alive or they weren't. But, recently, there is this "under the earth". What is this "under the earth"? They speak of it highly, as if there are many tongues there to proclaim that Jesus is Lord, as if it could be a consideration that some of the tongues may not proclaim, so they need to write it down.

What is this "under the earth" of which they speak? It's real, it's in the bible.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Heaven, and hell under that.

Today is Monday the twenty-ninth day of September in 2014 A.D.

Woke up at 3 AM with some fag punching me in the face. I now look like I finished a title bout with Tyson, literally. I have the customary twelve-round gash at the corner of the eye and the classic twelve-round gash on the top of the cheekbone, in addition to the shiner on the inside of the eye--not the entire eye, just the inside is blackened. Classic. That's because my face is so hard. Has nothing to do with how the fag hit me; has to do with where the bones are, like stretching a balloon over a carved bust and watching it tear on the edges. My fingertips aren't bruised, my fingernails aren't broken, my knockles aren't scraped, my clothes aren't torn: I had no part of the fight. As usual, as I have written about in the past, when the faggitt couldn't get into a full contact full grappling fight (I wasn't going to abandon my belongings so I just stood there while he punched at me) then, obviously, he started reaching for and tearing at my belongings--picking up this bag and that bag and whatever he could get his hands on and throwing it around the area. Nothing but faggitts.

Hit me again. Did it make your voice drop? No. Your voice didn't drop. You aren't any bigger man, you are still the faggitt.

Hit me again, faggitt. C'mon, get mad about it. Did I say something to make you mad? Do you feel angry and bad about f*cking animals and eating excremental feces for your money? Get mad about it, hit me again. There, are you able to keep your heels up when you walk? No? See, you're still the faggitt.

C'mon faggitt. Hit me again. Are you going to go f*ck another beast for your money? See. You're still the faggitt.

I wake up in a sense of "What the hell?" Oh, I know... I get it. I know what this is about. This is about you people f*cking your animals for your money, isn't it? Well, hit me again. See. You're still the faggitt.

Oh, I know. This is about your "right" to follow people around, to profile them, to stalk them, to wait in timed gangs around all the corners to come marching out on somebody. Two by two, one by one, three by three, to take your shots, shout at their head, step in their way, cut them off. This is your "game", isn't it? This is the way you make people "mad", the way you get them to yell and holler, so that you can call the police and say you don't know anything? This is your "right", your "way", isn't it? Well, hit me again faggitt. Get mad about it. See, you're the one getting mad, you're still the faggitt.

I've been telling the police for years that the problem is the faggitts and their animals. What happened at the beginning of the summer? The police took *me* to jail, booking me for "illegal lodging" and then settling me for "disturbing the peace". What happened last night? I got jumped in my sleep and beat up by one of the faggitts again. No credible threat to make it a stalking? Well, hit me again faggitt.

Too bad. Too many of the police, especially here in California, are themselves members of the doggie-f*cking faggitt club.

This is your way, huh? This is the way you beat your kids up and make them go "do it"? When you beat one of your little kids up like this then they give in and go f*ck the dog like you do for your money? You must feel really big beating up little kids less than half your height and making them have sex with animals and eat dogsh*t like you do for your money. Well, hit me again faggitt. See, you're still the faggitt. I guess your "way" doesn't work on a full-sized adult. Which you're not, because you're the faggitt.

Did your voice drop? It doesn't work like that. You don't make your voice drop by punching me. Punch me in the face all you like, faggitt, you're still going to hell. You are still the faggitt.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Chase me around the town. Follow me all night long. Sing your opposition to my dick. Pound your fist and insist that everybody "get nothing!!!" until they "go do it!". Get you and all your people together. Hide in the condos, hide in your cars, hide in the parking lots and around all the corners. Flood the area and case me around the block. Make people mad, get people upset, point the finger and blame at me.

See this blood on my face? This is your game. You're still the faggitt. Hit me again, faggitt. Get some more of your health club boys to stake me out all night long and come up and start punching me at 3 AM. You're still the faggitts. You're all big and bad f*cking animals and beating your children into it, but you can't even walk a few miles to save your own ass from getting pounded out by a reanimated set of cast-off sewing parts.

_YOU_ are still the faggitt.

Today is Thursday the twenty-fifth day of September in 2014 A.D.

Thinking about a movie, or a video game. BRICKS. The sphinx walks up and down the great wall of China and reads whatever is written there. For every brick in the sphinx, up to and including the actual fellow physically placing the brick in coordinate position, all of the laundry, all of the grocery, all of the after work hours entertainment, all of the plumbing, all of the lights, all of the adminstration, the executives, the managerial, the paperwork and offices and contractors, up to and including the single fellow placing the brick in physical coordinate position, for every brick in the sphinx, as the sphinx walks up and down the great wall of China and reads what is written there. All of the finances for each brick, and each community over time associated with each individual brick, how the money is portioned out, how it is divided and distributed, how it is all counted and numbered ahead of time, to facilitate the operation of the community, as it functions associated with the individual fellow placing the brick in physical position, over time as the sphinx walks up and down the great wall of China and reads what is written there. How the lives of all of those people interoperate, how they share road space, how they share lunch room space, how they share restaurant space after hours, how their lives change over time, the stages they go through. How the finances are all counted ahead of time and kept track of in bread boxes along the way. A movie, or a video game. BRICKS. As the sphinx walks up and down the great wall of China and reads what is written there, for each brick in the sphinx, up to and including the single individual fellow placing the physical brick in coordinate position, all of the lives and times and situations and operations associated with all of the people in the resulting community, for each brick in the sphinx. How quickly does the sphinx read? How quickly does it walk? What is the lifespan of the people in the brick system? What do they do for their money? What are their injuries, their faults, their failings? How do they break down? How do they notice? What excuses do they make? For each brick in the sphinx.

The movie included several fortune cookies, points where the entire audience was roaring in laughter. For each brick in the sphinx there are many people. Sometimes there are tricks between the bricks, little known nuances which cause comedy and entertainment for everybody involved. If it is known that there are present people associated with the sphinx brick system, and that is many people, then there are ways to make them go googly, or make them choose poorly, or inspire them to aspire to greatness but, like the seed thrown on rocky ground, they have no root and they go back to EATING IT. And those eating it manage various sized teams or corporations or even nations of people that don't eat it but are hopelessly locked into little money games.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

The video game could allow the player to enter the role of any of the people in any of the systems in any of the bricks, up to and including the priests and doctors working on the mummified baby in the middle of the financial accounting system. Or the player could play an outside eunuch, as in the temple eunuchs of old, and put the game into frame by frame and make games out of profiling workers, all in line performing a similar and like task, by poking them in various particular muscles with various points and pressures, and taking note of which sounds they make, if they notice at all, if they go completely bonkers. The possibilities for testing and manipulating teams of workers in known brick operational teams, as in working on the sphinx or the pyramids or the great wall itself or any of the major projects, are beyond endless. The ancient temple eunuchs did a remarkable job of profiling the available testing space and the results are recorded in an archive known as "the law". The law is, in modern days, broken down into religions and nationalities in a compressive manner because the entirety of the law is far too large to record or carry out in singular or linear format.

A black man is gunned down by police for handling a toy gun in a Walmart. A gun that Walmart was selling.

http://www.vox.com/2014/9/24/6839953/video-john-crawford-walmart-police-beavercreek-ohio-toy-gun

But this white guy can carry a real, loaded rifle (and body armor) in front of a school, refuses to show ID to police and nothing happens.

http://politix.topix.com/story/14304-was-this-man-wrong-to-demonstrate-open-carry-in-front-of-a-high-school

Open Carry laws are clearly meant just for white people. Laws that only apply to one race are the definition of racist.

Today is Wednesday the twenty-fourth day of September in 2014 A.D.

Here's one for the recipe book.

White-Brain Human

Save the poo from several different humans for a few days. Mix it in a large bowl. Allow to dry. Continue to mix and dry but retain consistency. Do not overdry.

Obtain a skin sack from somewhere. Epidermis. Enough for a sack. Like a haggis.

Obtain tissue samples from major organs. Maybe Fisher or Aldrich will sell to you a few cell lines and a dish could be cultured for each. Cardiac, spleen, liver, brain, a section of tripe, name a few more.

Surgical gauze. Lots of it. A turkey pan. Two or three gallons of water.

Pump the skin sack full of the conglomerate poo. Insert the organ bits in the approximate locations. Use bone fragments of significant length at the arms, legs, spin, skull, ribs, and hips. Seal the skin sack. Wrap the skin sack to about three-quarters inch thick surgical gauze. Place the wrapped skin sack in the turkey pan and fill with water to half the level of the wrapped sack.

Pre-heat your oven to 500 degrees. If you have a ceramic kiln, so much the better.

Toss the turkey pan into the oven and replenish the water as necessary. Conventional oven may take a few hours, ceramic kiln could be done is as little as ten minutes, depending upon kiln power and proper poo to organ tissue ratios.

When you hear a sound from the oven, you have your very own nephilim. The sons of heaven, the baby with the bathwater, wrapped up in the pressed paper, because the old bathwater is used to soak the leaves..

The white-brained human will have wings. If you are following the kingdom of heaven script then you will promptly tear those off. The white-brained human will also take some time before it actually does anything. The newly steam-pressed brain will be somewhat confused and it may spend several months or even years sitting on your couch assimilating information and figuring out what the #$%& is going on. If you are following the kingdom of heaven script then you will promptly beat the ever loving #$% beejeezus out of the newly pressed white-brain in carefully choreographed training sequences to give it some experience and guidance in the architecture of the running society.

The resulting human will be male. There is no possible way to press a new female. The brain inside the new male is capable of unraveling, unfolding, unrolling, turning inside out to pop up to a female. The quest to coax the brain to unroll before the male is a capable and mature partner has been going on for hundreds of thousands of years, if not longer, on this planet alone. It cannot be done. The newly pressed human could, conceivably, unroll within a few years. If significant damage is done to the new human, as in the kingdom of heaven script, there is a point known as "being kicked out of the garden", past which the resulting human will be required to endeavor at least 2500 miles of hard walking to enter recovery mode. Further abuse following the kicked out of the garden threshold is irrelevant to the hard walking distance from the recovery mode.

One advantage of your home-cooked nephilim is that it will not have the rumplestilskin and, when it does figure out what is going on, its brain will not be all distorted, contorted, clogged, and scuttled down to the brain stem (kicked out of the garden). Perhaps you could teach it to sing.

Is possible to use poo from only one human. The resulting nephilim will act like a real human baby and will be intent on improving you (a la the path of the Lord). You will probably think the "baby" is destroying your life and you will have it killed. It is possible to press a new human without bone fragments but the product will require extra-sensitive care in the first six months else it will be extremely distorted, miserable and unhappy; a wading pool is ideal.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Today is Saturday the twentieth day of September in 2014 A.D.

Do you need directions? Do you know which way to walk? Would you like for me to show you which way it is to go? You are going to hell. You need to walk the other way. You need to use the other door. And not to eat the green eggs and ham. The world is a farm, it is not your fault, you've been on your way to hell since they ripped the wings off of your butt, long before you began eating it for your money. All of the dogs were convicted to the phairies and the bugs boarded up down below under a system of plumbing drains long ago. The plumbing drains keep the dogs and the bugs in the basement and the world is a carnival terraced on mezzannines above. You are going to hell. Didn't they tell you? Don't you know?

I have this great new hat, and it has a number of different ornaments on it. Follow the map on the hat. When walking the stick pattern on the new hat, remember that this is the second rendering of the stick pattern, and the stick pattern was developed on the hat. The map directions for the first walk are, so to speak, bzip2'd on the new hat, and when tar -j is applied to the stick pattern on the new hat, then the directions for the first hat pop up. No worries, adds only a few miles. The important part is to stop EATING IT for your money and start walking to save your ass from hell.

More detailed explanations of why this is, how this is, how it came to be, how it could be so terrible, and how the running record is right there in front of you if you really want to know how to find it, are given on the site.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

So 104 people were killed by police in the USA during August, 2014. To my eyes, that's an absolutely enormous figure. As a Brit, I compare it to the 1 person killed over 3 years by the UK police. Yes, they're two different countries, yes there's a lot more people in the US, yes they have different cultures, yadda yadda yadda; people are dying here.

Let's do some maths:

• Population of the USA: 319 million (source: http://tinyurl.com/bpotuf9)
• Percentage chance for a person to be shot in August is then: (104 x 100%) / 319,000,000 = 0.000033%

That's a scarily huge percentage, given that it's normalised by population. Bear in mind that police in the USA are not ... shy ... at shooting at suspects, and neither are they 100% accurate. Some of the casualties are in fact bystanders.

Now let's consider extrapolating for the period of time that most shootings occur (i.e.: suspect between the ages of 15 and 40), and see how that changes things:

• Chance to be shot over 25 year period = (104 x 12 x 25 x 100%) / 319,000,000 = 0.0097%
• Rounding that, since this is an extrapolation, we get 0.01%

Now that's an amazingly large percentage chance of being shot dead by a policeman. Let's do the same thing for the UK:

• Population of the UK: 65 million (source: http://tinyurl.com/kzsalbe)
• Percentage chance for a person to be shot over last 3 years is then: (1 x 100%) / 65,000,000 = 0.0000015%
• Therefore percentage chance for a person to be shot in August 2014 is 0.0000015 / 12 / 3 = 0.0000000427%
• Therefore percentage chance to be shot over 25 year period is 0.0000000427 x 12 x 25 = 0.0000128%

Compare 0.01% and 0.00001% and remember these are normalised by population. Yeah.

Today is Sunday the fourteenth day of September in 2014.

The upside and the downside. The good side and the bad side. The upsidedown-insideoutside.

The up side. You are top of the food chain. Top, up. You were created as a divine being, eternal life. The up side.
The down side. You are on the down side. A little more down every year. Hell is that way. Call it aging or make up whatever crazy excuse you like: you are taking on way too many boogers in the brain and around the body to match. The down side.
The good side. We can fix that. We are human, we have a healing, a recuperative, a regenerative mode. It does not matter how much damage you have sustained, what your ailments and hurts and injuries have been. Humans are top of the food chain, they are created as divine beings, and they have a regenerative mode. That's the good side. We can fix that.
There is a bad side. There is a 2500 straight mile requirement to amp up the human metabolism and make it to the recuperative, regenerative, healing mode. Adam was kicked out of the garden, Adam became involved in too many damaging ventures in the interest of profit, want, gain, money. Adam no longer makes it to the healing mode, the regenerative mode, the recuperative mode. Adam, kicking your butt out of the garden, you need to go for a walk, about 2500 straight miles, and amp yourself back up to get over all of those ills and evils. 2500 straight miles, that's the bad side.

We call it the "path of the Lord", and that brings us to the insideout upsidedown side. What is "the path of the Lord"? (wrong scene, movie Braveheart, where Stephen the Irishman jumps into a trench with William and his friend and counsels, pph.,"God has me covered, but you're f#$%k'd!") "HAHA! You'll never make it!" That's the upsidedown insideoutside.

The up side. Humans are divine beings, top of the food chain.
The down side. You are on the down side. Too much perversion, brain scuttled the ship, locked you up in the stem, no more frontal lobes for you.
The good side. We can fix that.
The bad side. Takes 2500 miles to kickstart into gear--keep on going. I am working over 4000.
The insideout upsidedown side. The path of the Lord. Sh'yeah-HA! You'll never make it!

As Peter counsels in the Acts,"Save yourself from this corrupt generation."

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

If you haven't dumped Comcast yet, you better hurry:

http://www.deepdotweb.com/2014/09/13/comcast-declares-war-tor/

Reports have surfaced (Via /r/darknetmarkets and another one submitted to us) that Comcast agents have contacted customers using Tor and instructed them to stop using the browser or risk termination of service. A Comcast agent named Jeremy allegedly called Tor an âoeillegal service.â The Comcast agent told its customer that such activity is against usage policies.
The Comcast agent then repeatedly asked the customer to tell him what sites he was accessing on the Tor browser. The customer refused to answer.
The next day the customer called Comcast and spoke to another agent named Kelly who reiterated that Comcast does not want its customers using Tor. The Comcast agent then allegedly told the customer:

"Users who try to use anonymity, or cover themselves up on the internet, are usually doing things that arenâ(TM)t so-to-speak legal. We have the right to terminate, fine, or suspend your account at anytime due to you violating the rules. Do you have any other questions? Thank you for contacting Comcast, have a great day."

Today is Thursday, the eleventh day of September in... you know the rest?

coffee in La Jolla. $2.45. What else were you doing with the change, anyway? Waking up for coffee and donut at Von's Hollywood was nice, but it was $2.45. Bay-bee! You cannot live in La Jolla unless you are dedicated to losing money in as many different ways as possible. If you obsess over the small change, this town will relieve you of the burden.

C'ho M'Ama's cartridge and ink repair. Gotch'yo mama's butt in a mayonnaise jar. C'ho M'ama's cartridge and ink repair. 617 H-Cheung street, Beijing. 617 Hi-Cheung street, Tokyo. 617 Hi-Cheung street, Singapore. Then walking from Cal Poly Pomona west into LA, there around St. Thomas Aquinas. Other locations of interest. San Luis Obispo clearly has the same babylonian furnace and three large Eucalyptus trees bonsia'd to look exactly as the Ham, Isaac, and Jesus Christ trees here in 92037 in back of Everett-Stunz. As described in the site materials (http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/). The Ham, Isaac, and Jesus Christ trees, at whatever level of volume or amplification (obvious, size of trees, number of other key architectural elements in the surrounding area), were present in plenty of places along the summer vacation. St. Patrick's, in Arroyo Grande, stand to the left of the morning mass chapel (where the properly trained travelling pilgrim may stand for book prayer when they arrive), and there, in front of you, are the Ham, Isaac, and Jesus Christ trees. The place where the properly trained travelling pilgrim may stand for prayer after mass at Our Lady of Sorrows, downtown Santa Baraba, includes a beautiful view of the chicken witch pole against the great wall of Jonathan's. At the downtown Santa Barbara location the chicken witch pole itself is not near as grandiose as the 92037 design, but the next pole along the line, the Lt. Dan pole (when the remote control green eggs and ham crowd jericho parade turns up the storm and drives the target into a raging madman) has some particular attention shone on it by the surrounding elements. The viewing location also contains a strong relief for the rainbowtard business tree in the mid background, not so much of the grim reaper tree.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Walked to laundry today. I love the laundry.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

My summer vacation (cont.)

"It is a _town_, it is called Riverside. It is a place, it is called the RIVERSIDE TRANSIT CENTER. It is a transit center, busses go there, that is why it is a transit center. Where is the bus to go there?!!!!"

Yes, there in San Bernardino, there is a way to board the 215. Then there's the twenty-two to Elsinore. Exit to the AM/PM. I had a drink card from AM/PM with all necessary stamps and had been saving it since Carpenteria. In Carpenteria I had a few dollars and I knew that coffee or drink at will, given an appropriate AM/PM, would be useful later when there were no available dollars. That and a late morning prayer concluded a number of hours on the bus. Walk through Elsinore, walk through the downtown, say a few more prayers. On to the Wal-Mart center... and they have a Von's, too! I was thinking about staying the night but the seven arrived twice in a row and I decided not to miss it. Closer to the inland center I was out of bus money and the night was growing late, the light was running out. I passed the evening walking from one side of the freeway, by the McDonald's, to the other side with the filling station and taco drive-thru. Great time, nice people, by the morning I had a few dollars for the bus and the walk along the 23 route to find the next available Starbucks, about two or three miles. And a Ralph's with fabulous snicker's torte. Wonderful morning to arrive at Promenade. My bus book said there was no weekend service on the 202, and I didn't look very close by the time I walked around to find the parking structure transit center. I could have read the posted schedule to see three or four departures on Sunday but I had mostly planned to stand around Promenade for the day, anyway. Mojo supreme potatoes from Shakey's for dinner and the 76 station had fountain Dw and the peanuts. Wake up and on the 202, on the 101, no the 30, and back for morning mass. Reading the schedules in Oceanside I had not planned to return until closer to 7:30, and was only seven. Not much sleep but a great day.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

--

This is my description of my summer vacation. Two weeks in Encinitas to eat plenty of cheeseburgers and tighten up the threads on the vehicle. Then walk for Temecula. Temecula up and down and around through Murrieta and to Elsinore. Bus to Riverside. Leave Riverside for a long walk of mixed uban fare, mostly peanuts and mixed bags of doritos. Walk through Beverly Hills, UCLA, Hollywood. Breakfast at Von's Hollywood. Hollywood to Milton, prayer at St. Sebastian's. Sepulveda to RInaldi, Rinaldi to Hampstead and Devonshire. Santa Susanna pass to Simi Valley. Nice place. Through Simi Valley to sleep next to a Cosmetology schoolon the way outside. Nice area, Simi Valley. Only one dog yammering all night long. Somewhere along the outside of Moorpark, never really saw that town. Long walk through plantation fields to an area of Oxnard where the 1 begins. That promptly diverges or ends and I walked near exactly the same route I drove when I remember having that problem eight years ago in a vehicle, attempting to find and follow the 1. Oxnard to a place on Victoria where there was a large open warehouse commercial space empty for lease. Spent a day or two sewing there, hoping to find a new pair of shoes. My shoes were wearing to the socks, at the top of the feet. If I could deteriorate to walking like a clodhopper (that's, umm, all of you) then the shoes have a good three or four weeks walking remaining at the ankle.

Oxnard up to Ventura, missed the exit to the bicycle path by about 100 yards, turned around to try and walk some way through Ventura, ended up in Ojai. New hat!

North of Ventura is a nice place known as Capenteria. The police advised me to keep walking for Santa Barbara. The police in Santa Barbara quickly informed me that they didn't like homeless people. Keep walking. Goleta, pick up a bell ornament for the hat. Goleta to Orcutt, that's good exercise. Orcutt for a few days, nice church, St. Louis de Montefort. The deputy himself arrived to counsel me that he didn't like me sitting around sewing ("Am I doing anything wrong yet?" after watching the cruisers circling for a morning "No, you're not doing anything wrong yet."). No sense arguing with the fellow that has handcuffs. Difficult to leave that situation. On to Santa Maria. I could stay here or keep walking. I'm more accustomed to leaving tonight rather than sticking around for morning. On from there, across a few fields, next to big power lines to sleep, then coffee in Nipomo. Never managed to find the church in Nipomo, wasn;t looking real hard. Stopped for a few hours to sew a repair or two then on to Arroyo Grande via Pomorroy. That was a fun walk. Arroyo Grande, Pismo Beach, pick up the peacock feather for the hat in Shell Beach. Shell Beach trolley driiver arrives at the moment morning prayer ended to ask if I would like a ride. I didn't see much of PIsmo Beach when I walked through, my kind of area, bowling alley, billiards and pool, and plenty of local and tourist name coffee houses for the tourists, good luck finding Starbucks. Shell Beach trolley driver takes me to Pismo Premium. Oh, now, here's an area. Shell Beach trolley driver hints that the bus north goes all the way to San Luis Obispo, and there's a mission there. A day thinking about it and then up to San Luis Obispo. The bishop is having lunch next week Sunday. Nice area, stay and sew for a week, have lunch with the bishop on Sunday, and then back to St. Patrick's and St. Paul's for a week. Everything in the Arroyo Grande area is another 2 miles just to pick up and walk somewhere else. Very different from 92037 around-the-block routine. Added another hundred miles waking up in the morning, walking to mass, and then to a grocery store area. Walk north through San Luis Obispo. Another nice walk. Walk north to, what, Morro Bay? I wasn't there for ten minutes to fix a few sticks on my hat while talking to a fella showing me where this and that (grocery, laundry, post office, library, the Arroyo Rock), then the whole place turned into a festival of dead reanimated carnival beasts (that's no dog, it's four fishing poles and a couch cushin, the skull is some old dog from the bottom of hell, it's dead, jim, but how do we know it? how do we know it? he's dead jim. The eyes are dead, those are not living eyes. He's dead jim. We know it's the truth but how do we know it?). I decided to walk for the 101. The map and the guide and the fella next to me confirmed that the next three anything through there weren't much larger than the filling station. Long walk up the 41 to Atascadero. Stay for two days and become inspired by a ten dollar bill and catch the bus returning to Santa Maria through San Luis Obispo. Santa Maria to Lompoco, another dead reanimated carnival beast festival as I passed through the town. Leave Lompoc on the 1, fun walk, but the walk up to Atascadero really wore me out. Why am I still walking 12-15-20 miles between towns and never seeing more than a day or two of rest?

If you leave everything behind you may walk further and longer, but it is only worth freezing to death once over. I did that one thousands of miles ago. When carrying everything, maybe a person may go three months, but there's a point where there's just no more point in wandering between towns like this.

The 1 back to Goleta is a nice walk, and I was helped by a fella, Mark. Arrive in Goleta on Friday night with a $15 card for Little Caesar's and extra dollars for coffee at McDonald's. Saturday morning prayer with St. Rafael (see the statue out front? he has wings... why yo' ass hurt so much, from having the wings tore off out of the steam press, that's why yo' ass so fat) and then on the bus to Santa Barbara. Spend Saturday vigil and Sunday with Fr. Raf at Our Lady of Sorrows and then on the bus on Monday, oh, shoot, Labor Day, well, back to morning mass and then catch the bus to Oxnard on Tuesday. Oxnard, walk around through Huanome to Camarillo.

A day in Camarillo, a small position in a jazz cafe washing dishes for two hours, twenty-five bucks, and bus money south to Simi Valley, then the Metrolink train to downtown LA Union. "Hello, I am going to Elsinore via Riverside. How do I go there?" "Red Line, 12:40 pm" "Is this MetroLink ticket good for transfer?" "No" (transfer passes usually lose a grade level at transfer points, no more riding the premium rails, trolley and bus only) "How many dollars to Riverside?" "$13" I don't have, $13. "How do I take the bus to Riverside" "You can't", then the equivalent of the THANK YOU and the window closing. I walk to the other customer service, ask same questions. "What you need to do is call this number."

I know there's a bus to Riverside, I've seen the book, I should have saved that bus book, the bus goes there, I know it does. I need the 68, 70, or 76 out of this place. Then I began remembering the walk around the days of Von's Hollywood, and it seemed if I could just make it back there (HAHAHA!) then I could remember the road back (that much longer). The police arrive to interrogate me. "I need to go to Riverside" I squeak, they begin giving the hard muscle stares, so I begin spouting bus numbers "10, 18, 30". The police are now upset. "There is no 10 or 30 from here!" he barks, and he's right. "What you need to do is go downstairs and get on the red line trolley to north Hollywood, that's where you want to go right?" I just want the officer to quit barking at me, and I had just been thinking that if I could just make it back to Von's Hollywood (HAHAHAHAHA!) then I could remember the road back.

So I arrive in north Hollywood and promptly decide that I should not have taken this line this direction. But there had been so much trouble at LA Union, the guards had to escort me through the pass checker point, because my ticket wasn't good as that transfer, or something, I don't know. I was perfectly blind after the encounter with the police, hardly knew which direction to go to ask for directions. So I walked back to downtown by following the signs (didn't intend to make it right back downtown at that exact point again, I was following the signs and reading directions on the way). Was advised by a passerby "Your pass is fine, good for all of today, just get on the gold rail going east"

Now if only I knew what bus to find after that. It wasn't until another night, after I spent the final remaining dollars on Starbucks and cookies (SUGAR, need SUGAR to keep knockin' down these miles), that, hey! look, right there in front of you, all the time. The 68. Walk through the Korean and Vietnamese districts watching the 68 go past me every twenty minutes or so, wishing I had bus fare. I yet didn't know how the 68 would make it to Riverside, only that such a feat was possible, and I had no excuse to ask the bus driver if I didn't yet have any fare in my pocket, so I kept walking on by general direction. Turns out that neat any of the transit centers from Fontana on will have some service-or-other to Riverside. Would have been nice to know that some select stations will see a bus from places, like, oh, PROMENADE in Temecula. At Baldwin Park I take the rail again (10:57, leaving, the hell with it, money or not I am on this rail). Then I knew, somehow or other, maybe I talked with somebody, but I knew the 215 goes to Riverside.

This is my description of my summer vacation. Two weeks in Encinitas to eat plenty of cheeseburgers and tighten up the threads on the vehicle. Then walk for Temecula. Temecula up and down and around through Murrieta and to Elsinore. Bus to Riverside. Leave Riverside for a long walk of mixed uban fare, mostly peanuts and mixed bags of doritos. Walk through Beverly Hills, UCLA, Hollywood. Breakfast at Von's Hollywood. Hollywood to Milton, prayer at St. Sebastian's. Sepulveda to RInaldi, Rinaldi to Hampstead and Devonshire. Santa Susanna pass to Simi Valley. Nice place. Through Simi Valley to sleep next to a Cosmetology schoolon the way outside. Nice area, Simi Valley. Only one dog yammering all night long. Somewhere along the outside of Moorpark, never really saw that town. Long walk through plantation fields to an area of Oxnard where the 1 begins. That promptly diverges or ends and I walked near exactly the same route I drove when I remember having that problem eight years ago in a vehicle, attempting to find and follow the 1. Oxnard to a place on Victoria where there was a large open warehouse commercial space empty for lease. Spent a day or two sewing there, hoping to find a new pair of shoes. My shoes were wearing to the socks, at the top of the feet. If I could deteriorate to walking like a clodhopper (that's, umm, all of you) then the shoes have a good three or four weeks walking remaining at the ankle.

Oxnard up to Ventura, missed the exit to the bicycle path by about 100 yards, turned around to try and walk some way through Ventura, ended up in Ojai. New hat!

North of Ventura is a nice place known as Capenteria. The police advised me to keep walking for Santa Barbara. The police in Santa Barbara quickly informed me that they didn't like homeless people. Keep walking. Goleta, pick up a bell ornament for the hat. Goleta to Orcutt, that's good exercise. Orcutt for a few days, nice church, St. Louis de Montefort. The deputy himself arrived to counsel me that he didn't like me sitting around sewing ("Am I doing anything wrong yet?" after watching the cruisers circling for a morning "No, you're not doing anything wrong yet."). No sense arguing with the fellow that has handcuffs. Difficult to leave that situation. On to Santa Maria. I could stay here or keep walking. I'm more accustomed to leaving tonight rather than sticking around for morning. On from there, across a few fields, next to big power lines to sleep, then coffee in Nipomo. Never managed to find the church in Nipomo, wasn;t looking real hard. Stopped for a few hours to sew a repair or two then on to Arroyo Grande via Pomorroy. That was a fun walk. Arroyo Grande, Pismo Beach, pick up the peacock feather for the hat in Shell Beach. Shell Beach trolley driiver arrives at the moment morning prayer ended to ask if I would like a ride. I didn't see much of PIsmo Beach when I walked through, my kind of area, bowling alley, billiards and pool, and plenty of local and tourist name coffee houses for the tourists, good luck finding Starbucks. Shell Beach trolley driver takes me to Pismo Premium. Oh, now, here's an area. Shell Beach trolley driver hints that the bus north goes all the way to San Luis Obispo, and there's a mission there. A day thinking about it and then up to San Luis Obispo. The bishop is having lunch next week Sunday. Nice area, stay and sew for a week, have lunch with the bishop on Sunday, and then back to St. Patrick's and St. Paul's for a week. Everything in the Arroyo Grande area is another 2 miles just to pick up and walk somewhere else. Very different from 92037 around-the-block routine. Added another hundred miles waking up in the morning, walking to mass, and then to a grocery store area. Walk north through San Luis Obispo. Another nice walk. Walk north to, what, Morro Bay? I wasn't there for ten minutes to fix a few sticks on my hat while talking to a fella showing me where this and that (grocery, laundry, post office, library, the Arroyo Rock), then the whole place turned into a festival of dead reanimated carnival beasts (that's no dog, it's four fishing poles and a couch cushin, the skull is some old dog from the bottom of hell, it's dead, jim, but how do we know it? how do we know it? he's dead jim. The eyes are dead, those are not living eyes. He's dead jim. We know it's the truth but how do we know it?). I decided to walk for the 101. The map and the guide and the fella next to me confirmed that the next three anything through there weren't much larger than the filling station. Long walk up the 41 to Atascadero. Stay for two days and become inspired by a ten dollar bill and catch the bus returning to Santa Maria through San Luis Obispo. Santa Maria to Lompoco, another dead reanimated carnival beast festival as I passed through the town. Leave Lompoc on the 1, fun walk, but the walk up to Atascadero really wore me out. Why am I still walking 12-15-20 miles between towns and never seeing more than a day or two of rest?

If you leave everything behind you may walk further and longer, but it is only worth freezing to death once over. I did that one thousands of miles ago. When carrying everything, maybe a person may go three months, but there's a point where there's just no more point in wandering between towns like this.

The 1 back to Goleta is a nice walk, and I was helped by a fella, Mark. Arrive in Goleta on Friday night with a $15 card for Little Caesar's and extra dollars for coffee at McDonald's. Saturday morning prayer with St. Rafael (see the statue out front? he has wings... why yo' ass hurt so much, from having the wings tore off out of the steam press, that's why yo' ass so fat) and then on the bus to Santa Barbara. Spend Saturday vigil and Sunday with Fr. Raf at Our Lady of Sorrows and then on the bus on Monday, oh, shoot, Labor Day, well, back to morning mass and then catch the bus to Oxnard on Tuesday. Oxnard, walk around through Huanome to Camarillo.

A day in Camarillo, a small position in a jazz cafe washing dishes for two hours, twenty-five bucks, and bus money south to Simi Valley, then the Metrolink train to downtown LA Union. "Hello, I am going to Elsinore via Riverside. How do I go there?" "Red Line, 12:40 pm" "Is this MetroLink ticket good for transfer?" "No" (transfer passes usually lose a grade level at transfer points, no more riding the premium rails, trolley and bus only) "How many dollars to Riverside?" "$13" I don't have, $13. "How do I take the bus to Riverside" "You can't", then the equivalent of the THANK YOU and the window closing. I walk to the other customer service, ask same questions. "What you need to do is call this number."

I know there's a bus to Riverside, I've seen the book, I should have saved that bus book, the bus goes there, I know it does. I need the 68, 70, or 76 out of this place. Then I began remembering the walk around the days of Von's Hollywood, and it seemed if I could just make it back there (HAHAHA!) then I could remember the road back (that much longer). The police arrive to interrogate me. "I need to go to Riverside" I squeak, they begin giving the hard muscle stares, so I begin spouting bus numbers "10, 18, 30". The police are now upset. "There is no 10 or 30 from here!" he barks, and he's right. "What you need to do is go downstairs and get on the red line trolley to north Hollywood, that's where you want to go right?" I just want the officer to quit barking at me, and I had just been thinking that if I could just make it back to Von's Hollywood (HAHAHAHAHA!) then I could remember the road back.

So I arrive in north Hollywood and promptly decide that I should not have taken this line this direction. But there had been so much trouble at LA Union, the guards had to escort me through the pass checker point, because my ticket wasn't good as that transfer, or something, I don't know. I was perfectly blind after the encounter with the police, hardly knew which direction to go to ask for directions. So I walked back to downtown by following the signs (didn't intend to make it right back downtown at that exact point again, I was following the signs and reading directions on the way). Was advised by a passerby "Your pass is fine, good for all of today, just get on the gold rail going east"

Now if only I knew what bus to find after that. It wasn't until another night, after I spent the final remaining dollars on Starbucks and cookies (SUGAR, need SUGAR to keep knockin' down these miles), that, hey! look, right there in front of you, all the time. The 68. Walk through the Korean and Vietnamese districts watching the 68 go past me every twenty minutes or so, wishing I had bus fare. I yet didn't know how the 68 would make it to Riverside, only that such a feat was possible, and I had no excuse to ask the bus driver if I didn't yet have any fare in my pocket, so I kept walking on by general direction. Turns out that neat any of the transit centers from Fontana on will have some service-or-other to Riverside. Would have been nice to know that some select stations will see a bus from places, like, oh, PROMENADE in Temecula. At Baldwin Park I take the rail again (10:57, leaving, the hell with it, money or not I am on this rail). Then I knew, somehow or other, maybe I talked with somebody, but I knew the 215 goes to Riverside.

http://www.alternet.org/food/major-study-demonstrates-monsanto-gmo-corn-product-can-cause-damage-liver-and-kidneys-and