All records, albums, and operations to be moved here.
All records, albums, and operations to be moved here.
This caught my attention. I was introduced to GitS in my senior year of undergraduate school. Absolutely fantastic storyline and the second was ten times as elaborate as the first. A true mind-job.
Vision is hazy today. Hypoglycemia does that. You won't see me pushing any shopping carts, either. I'm barely allowed enough calories to wake up. It still amazes me. Society will give the drunks enough money to get drunk, the tweakers enough money to buy meth, the thieves enough money to maintain their lifestyle while they steal, but I'm left to starve off at 500 cals/day. This society isn't even kind enough to starve me outright. No. They want to t0rture me by giving me at least a little something. Say it takes 800 calories/day just to wake up, wash, brush teeth, walk to church, say prayers, walk to the library, and then spend the rest of the day laying down (and it probably takes more than that to carry what I carry). I am given 500. Wouldn't it be more humane to give me nothing?
Stingy. Stingy. Stingy. This village sets the bar for stingy. People can ask me,"What's wrong?" and I can answer,"I'm starving" and they'll just shrug and verbally reply "There's nothing I can do about that." What? Is there a shortage of twenty dollar bills in this area? I only need five for lunch. Everyone has had a grand time talking and gossiping and spreading the bad karma and pointing the bad finger and giving me the evil eye and laughing themselves up over how easily they can harass and harangue me but nobody can spend a single telephone call ensuring that I have a decent lunch. Starving artist (entertainer) indeed. This village owes me for the entertainment if nothing else. There's "not sharing" and then there's "stingy", I mean just out and out downright stingy. I think Seinfeld did an episode devoted to it. This village has the trademark, the copyright, the patent, the world patent, and emanates the aura of stingy.
Don't blame it on my Slashdot journal entries. Most of the people in this village don't even know about it, most that do know didn't know for at least six months. Don't blame it on my appearance. I've kept a cleaner appearance (and I keep improving with every passing season) and a more personable demeanor than every other drunk, dru6gie, thief, and scoad--and the village never had a problem enabling them. What shall we blame it on? Well, there's the obvious: the village could take responsibility for its own actions and shoulder its own guilt for this one. Sure, for the last six (maybe sixty) thousand years, it has been the custom to simply scapegoat the person calling "foul" (stingy) and then, after they're gone (d3ad), carefully note each and every thing they ever did wrong so as to assuage everyone's collective conscience. We can't do that anymore. This is the internet age. Everything is recorded nice and neat, day by day, in full detail.
Lip service doesn't buy lunch, folks. Saying,"Hi!" with a bright smile doesn't put hot water in my thermos. Waving to me from your car isn't buying me jalepeno cheese bagels (and let's talk about that for a second: Von's has gotten stingy with the jalepeno cheese bagels, since the remodeling there are hardly any jalepenos! And what about the single jalepeno cheese foccaccia breads? The Von's in PB still has them, why don't we? It's because the single foccaccias are only $0.55, and the bagels are [up to] $0.74! And $my_favorite_donut, they used to be laden with sugar and puffed up to the size of my whole hand, now they're sad looking dilapidated dry biscuits barely able to attract ants! STINGY STINGY STINGY!).
But you go on conducting yourselves this way, folks. I don't know who told you what about me before I arrived, and I don't know who's been telling you what about me since I've been here, and I am not going to be at fault for the little mud-slinging contest that's embedded in your social programme--that's all you. You've had six (maybe sixty) thousand years to fix it, to build in the proper safeguards and checks, but your money and status and power has always been some predominantly important that you never write a rule (or a law) unless you've already figured out the loophole. It is not my fault that you never considered what would ever happen if the printing press went plebium. It never occured to you how you would handle your stinking pile of poo if the scapegoat routine fizzled out.
Well, now it's fizzled out, and aside from the starvation vision, I'm presenting an appearance and demeanor--while homeless and penniless--that puts the lot of you--with all of your wealth and possessions--to shame. Figure it out. The guilt is all your own.
Have a nice day!
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S u p r s t i n G s c r o o g v i l l e
F l t h y s p r s t n G s c r U j v l e
Ha. This village thought of itself as "filthy rich", now it can be Filthysuperstingyscroogeville. Too bad there aren't enough characters to make it "Filthystinkingsuperstingyscroogeville". That's like Rumplestilskin twice! It may be the longest city name in America!
Someone gave me a few dollars this morning and asked me to pray for them. I'm not really down with that. If they want to give a few dollars to me, that's fine. If they don't, that's fine, too (the village really can't be any stingier than it has already demonstrated itself to be). I say prayer every morning, though. If someone wants me to pray for them, that's fine--I pray for the entire world every day. If someone wants to give a few dollars to me _and_ ask me to pray for them, that's fine (I would usually like to know what the special occasion is that I'm praying for... why should someone ask me to pray for them if there's no special intention? Can they not pray for themselves as long as it's just an ordinary everyday consideration?). So I felt bad about taking the few dollars in church, being paid for prayer (and my prayers are worth far more than the few dollars which I was given). I honored their request by lighting two special intentions candles and donating a dollar to the poor box.
Looking back I should have kept the dollars because, as I noted earlier, I was lucky enough to also receive the funds that I needed to replenish my sunflower kernels (finally). I could have had a full skilly'n'duff lunch. Instead I'll be looking forward to the two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Talk about denigration. This village is enough to make any honest human being, of any culture or religion, disgusted and sick.
Some woman left a few slips of paper next to this terminal. I came here, saw stray paper, and put them in the recycle bin (that was twenty minutes ago). She just now came up to me and asked about them, tapping her finger on the desk as if I did something wrong like dug in her purse and vindictively threw them out. I informed her that they are in the recycle bin just outside the door to the left. She then returned to the terminal she is currently using on the other side of the room. If she didn't care about them then why did she bother asking me about them, and why did she have such a haughty accusatory attitude about it? Seriously. People in Superstingyscroogeville are just chomping at the bit to look for excuses to try and harangue, accuse, defame, browbeat, or harp on homeless people.
Wish list (1-11)
1) Sixteen ounces of something like this. More pictures available here. I grow and I brew.
2) Soap. It would be nice to have a bar each of eucalyptus and tea. I like the peppermint and the almond, too. Citrus, one of the newest additions, sounds delightful but would have long term social stigmas associated with it if I were to use it daily--it would be something that I would rotate in once or twice weekly. Eucalyptus and tea first.
3) Shampoo and conditioner, travel sizes, Crew.
4) Moisturizer. I always kept one of the 18 oz. herbal moisturizer bottles around and I usually ordered one of the body wash tubes to compliment the other liquid soaps. The shimmer bronze sounds nice but it is not available in the hard bottle (travel) size. An 18 oz. pump top bottle is altogether too large, too heavy, and a potential mess for a homeless person.
5) It would be nice to have a CD player so that I might listen to my own audio environment. A useful one would need to have at least 60-second skip protection, a lock (locks the buttons and volume so that random bumps don't mess with the tuneage), and recharges its own batteries. A good portion of CD players support mp3 CDs and some will support ogg/vorbis as well: that's always a handy feature.
6) Any sort of audio playing device requires drivers to send the sound to the ear. A good pair of stereo headphones can usually be found in the $20-$30 price range though, if one is a true audiophile, quality buys can be found in odd places for $15.
7) This is a good album. No idea what the difference is between the ltd. ed. gold tin (mine was a silver tin) and the import.
8) Laptop. This is again one of those things that I would need to simply spend time, over the course of a month (at least), perusing and carousing and browsing and watching for until I happened across one that just fits. CDRW/DVD (preferably CD/DVDRW), at least 80 gb HD, about 2 gb RAM (what's the hottest RAM bus lately? I've been out of the loop for a while), 64 bit, greater than 2.0 GHz, preferably with as much L1/2/3 (on-die) cache as possible, preferably max out the FSB frequency, dedicated audio (Soundblaster Audigy or comparable), dedicated video (at one time I preferred Diamond, then it was nVidia, then it didn't really matter anymore and Radeons were plentiful and readily available, now I'm out of practice on these things), at least two USB ports, integrated wireless network, preferably with a hardwire ethernet adapter (preferably integrated so I don't need to play around with pcmcia cards), I always like to have a dialup modem (does anyone use those things now that we have near ubiquitous wireless now?), 15.4" or greater screen size (but skip any of those glare reducing/sideview blocking/ultrabright/supervibrant screen coatings--they're just gimmicks), minimum 1280x1024 screen resolution (1600x1200 is my preferred desktop), firewire... with a current order of Debian installation library (how many CDs are they up to? How long does it take to jigdo a whole set?), a current order of the Linuxfromscratch CDs (including the liveCD, and maybe a good Knoppix or Damnsmalllinux CD for generic rescue and maintenance purposes. It'd be nice to have WinXP Pro around just to play with, and MS Office apps are always handy/portable/compatible with non-techies.
9) If I had a laptop then I could skip the CD player and just have a personal music player. Solid state only. No hard drive based players. USB or firewire interface (ie. no proprietary docking stations or adapters). Music players don't need to be fancy but they should support standard mp3 format, preferably ogg/vorbis as well. I personally don't ever plan on using wma as long as I can install my own OS on a laptop system.
10) Electrical tape.
11) Duct tape.
SuperStinGscroogeville. SilverSpur G(hehehe... someone find 414-Brass Orchid and maybe you'll know what G is. If anyone comes up with it then I'll instantly know that they're in touch with my family and therefore instantly suspect with respect to motives. I doubt anyone could actually find Brass Orchid, or Lounge Lizard, or Howard Kosell, or Skywatcher, or any of the other 414ers who saw the full surname before I abbreviated to SSG). It's the same number of syllables.
SuperStingyScroogeville. StevieSniffleSpoofer. That's what Mary and Mary B. called me when I was 6-14 years old (give or take). I've always had sniffles... I was told it was an immune response artefact from all of the immunosuppressants that I was given in the hospital after the incident which resulted in the 2nd and 3rd degree burns which cover half of my upper body. Spoofer. That part always got to me because I didn't understand. My older brother would always push me into corners and provoke a fight--which he could always win... I mean, seriously, he was 17 months older than I to begin with, and my entire upper body muscle mass (pecs, lats, biceps, triceps, shoulders, neck, etc.) was practically burned away in that one incident. But the parents didn't care--well, they did try a few times at first, but as of about age seven they just let him go undisciplined. For them it was the lesser of two evils. If they let him take out his aggressions on me then they didn't have to deal with him. Dealing with me was easy--it was easy for them to bully and bulldog and cow down an ad0lescant if I asked for some semblance of household justice. Really a terribly bizarre situation to grow up in. Anyway, when I would visit with Mary and Mary B. I would often need to vent these tales of harassment, abuse, etc. I can remember quite often their question,"What did your Mom (stepmom) have to say when you told her how Robert was acting?" and I would give my impression of her reaction, usually to the tune of "Can't you see I'm busy doing $this_that_or_the_other! Don't bother me right now!" So they began calling me StevieSniffleSpoofer, or SSS. I didn't understand, at that age, that they meant "spoofer" in the comical rendition sense... I thought they meant "spoofer" in the sense of "he must be telling stories... there's no way anyone could possibly truly conduct a household like that." I guess even at that age they realized that there really wasn't anything they could do to help (aside from give me real love, which they did, which my family was mostly devoid of) since the stepmother had moved so quickly to legally adopt both my older brother and I.
So now La Jolla gets both. La Jolla gets to meet SSG, SuperstinGscroogeville, and La Jolla gets to be SSS, SuperStingyScroogeville. Welcome to my world, folks!
Don't say I didn't try to ask for some legitimate, honest assistance before escalating the situation to this. It's all recorded in previous entries. I know that, for thousands of years, the game for society (as a whole) to shirk responsibilities for these sorts of situations is to collectively claim,"Well, we didn't know!" and then scapegoat the target with vicious indignation until they leave, die, or are burned at the stake. Welcome to the internet age, dimwits. The "Well, we didn't know!" excuse has been cut off at the hips (cutting it off at the ankles or knees would have been far too generous given the fact that such a ridiculously dishonest game has been abused with such impunity for thousands of years).
That (ch1ldish) little game that's in the book of Jeremiah, (pph.),"Let us carefully note everything he says and so destroy him using his own words", that's cut off at the hip as well. I beat you to the punch. I've been doing my own careful recording for years before I even arrived here.
Have a nice day!
The guy across from me has a facial tick--that is to say that, since I sat down, he can't seem to help but keep picking at his face, wiping his face, caressing his chin, fiddling with his ear or lip, or whatever. That's almost as irritating as the people who sit in the computer lab and talk to their e-mail--sure, everyone does this at home, and some people do it at work in their own private cubes, but if you hang out in a coffee shop, tea parlor, salon, or wireless network hotspot you'll quickly find that people who have such psycho ticks end up being pushed out by those of us who have managed to quell those little neurological infirmities. Most kids develop them as they grow up: they pick them up from their 4dult family members, teachers, or other 4dults that they come in contact with. Most ad0lescents exhibit them and, by the time they've developed into young 4dulthood, they're usually laden with them. It's a constant self-improvement from young 4dulthood through to full 4dulthood to be aware of oneself and recondition the mind and body to be free of the ticks and infirmities. Those who fail at this task develop neurological diseases, addictions, or end up physically disabled by various acc1dents (automobile, home, work, whatever). The guy across from me looks to be about 45. He's seriously lacking in the self-control and self-improvement area. Of course there's the other possibility. 4dults who are embittered, arrogant, h4teful, spiteful, vengeful (etc. etc. etc.) tend to deliberately try to pass on such behavioral/neurological ticks.
Someone in here smells like bad vodka. It's probably the younger guy, the 25-to-30 year old La Jollan that's been sitting with Ron for the last month. After mass this morning I found enough money to buy a new package of sunflower kernels--I've been empty for near a week (and the skilly'n'duff just really isn't worth it without the sunflower kernels... they add fibre, there's something about sunflower which works better than peanuts, almonds, or cashews, and I really like cashews... they have their own unique sunflower oil... and they add a little bit of salt which helps the curry and cayenne powders to dissolve and soak into the noodles). Armed with these funds I walked to the country market to purchase the sunflower kernels and saw this younger guy picking up Jool's cart (which was empty). I soon found out that Jool and Bus Stop Texas Ron had been hanging out drinking and, for some reason or other, the police arrived and took Jool off. If you ask me they should've taken Ron, too, but I have a good notion that Ron is part of their "in" circle... and this younger fella (who has been helping to ensure that Ron stays imbalanced, as I've recently heard that Ron has once again become the proud owner of visible poo stains all over his pants... something that I never let happen when I sat with Ron) probably is as well. What I do know is that there's no shortage of mar*juana for that younger fella. He'll practically hand it out like candy to the dirty drunks who whizz, poo, vomit, throw trash, spill beer, stain sidewalks, leave dirty clothes, etc. everywhere... but for some reason he'll go out of his way to act like I don't even exist. I can only imagine that his behavior is a result of some set of lies and defamations that the likes of Ron and Little Bitty Bob have probably spread about me.
Oh yes. Little Bitty Bob lives in a gated community around here someplace. I've suspected from the very beginning that everyone I meet on the street, supposedly also homeless, are in reality just wealthy trust-fund (or some other source of independent wealth) recipients who simply have nothing better to do with their time than hang out on the street and pretend to be homeless. In this fashion they also divert attention from me... as they probably tell everyone else that they meet,"Oh? That guy? Yeah, he's not really homeless--or at least he doesn't have to be. He gets a check, he has money in the bank, he could have a home, he just likes to walk around and look like a j0ke." I'm about 98.583% positive that's the running story in this area for anyone who asks about the guy with the three bags and a duffel on the umbrella.
The joke's on you, nin-come-poops. I've suspected the diversionary play since before I arrived here. I'd seen it in Whitehorse, Yukon, CA when I was there for a quarter. The folks in Whitehorse didn't have the resources to play it as well but it was also a smaller and more remote town so a greater percentage of the daily people were in on the ploy from the start. I'm playing along, biding my time, waiting for that one golden opportunity--and there's always one--to make this hurt as much, for as long, as I possibly can. I know that it's the oldest game in the book--play someone for an idiot and then kick them out (or fire them, or set them up to have the police take them off and throw them in jail, or drive them to depression and su1cide, etc.). I learned that game from my own family, for pete's sake--don't even think for a moment that I haven't been watching this entire village with a shrewd jeweler's loop the entire time that I've been here. I play that game for fun because I have no funds available to do anything else with my time. I know for a fact that the target always gets at least one golden opportunity to blow the whole shebang open. Sometimes they get more than one. Sometimes, if they know how to work it, they can skip the first one to bait the players, draw them in deeper, and then use a triple-barbed hook to ensure that nobody gets away free and clear.
I aim to skewer this entire village, maybe this entire county, possibly this entire state, and preferably this entire nation, with an umbrella laden with seventy-times-seventy-seven septuple barbed hooks. You will tear yourselves to shreds trying to get away from me.
I do not get a check. I do not have any funds available. I am not given any opportunities. I do have experience in professional environments. I do have marketable professional skills. Nobody will hire me, either in my field of work or out of it. The only "work" which I've been made aware of is from dirty, lower class scum who think they'll get away hiring homeless people for labor at a tenth of the cost that they should pay if they would use a day labor or temp labor service. That's not "work", that's exploitation, slavery, and very likely illegal (and rightfully so, as opposed to the mar*juana laws, which are in no way, not morally, not scientifically, not even socially right). I refuse to participate in it.
Have a nice day!
It's really too bad that I can't transfer the subscriber status from the HiLJ account to here. Oh well. That's life.
I had some stuff to write. I would rather enjoy morning coffee and a donut before I become too involved with this.
Superstingyscroogeville. That's La Jolla, CA. The general population here is so pompous, so arrogant, so ridiculously self-absorbed that, unless you have the backing of the governor, the president, the Pope, Muhammed, the Dalai Lama, (and you'll probably need all of the heads of state in the UN as well), then these people will happily watch you starve to d3ath in the streets. At the same time they think it's their right to harass and harangue anyone they wish at will.
Little Bitty Bob... formerly powerchair Bob... it has been confirmed that asshat lives in a gated community. It is also quite likely that the idiots who stuck a knife in my nose and threatened to k1ll me on several occasions (in gruesome detail) are also residents in some gated community. They all look (and act, and present themselves) like worthless scoads. I can only wonder who they screwed over and left for d3ad to make their money.
Wasn't there something about a PASCAL programmer knowing the value of everything and the Wirth of nothing?