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  • Phishing anyone?

        Yesterday my Spam folder on G-mail contained a message purportedly from the Fulton Bank (where I do happen to have an account) The text looked a bit amateurish, full of subtle errors (awkward wording, failed word-wrap, etc. Still, the Bank’s legitimate site itself has provided not one but two Xanga Posts on today’s modern on-line duh-less-ness.
    1) They loudly trumpeted
    “Less Clicks!!” as the thrilling feature of some page make-over: Well, I think you learn in third grade that countables are ‘fewer’ and pourable shit like…um… Stupidity can be either More! or Less!
    2) No sooner had they clicked that campaign off into the cyber-trashcan then here comes a ‘typical’ photo of a ‘typical’ happy customer on their new Banner: a black fellow, kinda pudgy,
    holding his cute li’l daughter. Problem was, you moused-over the pix and saw a pop-up of the
    (in-house?) name-tag: mother and daughter(!)

    Ok, so on that shaky background I was ready to accept a not-ready-for-prime-time email.

    Take a quick look at the thing, and decide whether you might have fallen for it. Try to pretend
    you’re me, a guy who grew up trusting everyone, and who was taught to do what the suit-coats say, even if it is kinda unintelligible.

    But I’m growed-up now so this time I did the following:
    1) Tried to sign into my Fulton account, using the shortcut I have on my very own Desktop….and got a weird half-rendered torn-up page I’ve never seen before telling me my account may have been locked. It wanted my user-name, about which I modestly kept silent at that point and clicked out…

    2) Google searched ‘Fulton Bank spam email‘ something like that. One of the first results took me right back to the bogus(?) sign-in page I’d just escaped! Major plot-thickening-ness.
    Cup of coffee, then:

    3) Searched the supposed link hypertexted into the suspect email, and bingo, a report from the UK of the identical message and link. From a couple years ago. The poster,a volunteer who I assume never even heard of Fulton Bank luckily pointed out that the link was ‘spoofed’. Now I was doubly glad I hadn’t dreamed of clicking on it.
    4) Back to G-mail and my Spam Files. I mouse-over-ed the link and ‘Print-Screen-ed the display. Sure enough, the greasy dirtball had stuck the real name of the dirty target down there where the wary could easily see it. Guess I ain’t wary. I hadn’t noticed the discrepancy, even though I usually do check when folks link to stuff with only the words ‘go here’ and ‘there’.
    Anyway, the point of this public service post is..um.. be warned.

     
    And maybe it’s instructive to reveal a bit of my own naivety once in a while. A Safe Surf, and

    Happy Rosh Hashanah tomorrow/ JS

  • Experimental Goulash from Johnny’s “I hate Neutrinos” Cookbook

         I told someone yesterday that I hate neutrinos and it’s true. Always have. Remind me of rats loose in the house. Can’t catch ‘em, can’t keep ‘em out, can’t even play with them. Just a waste of time; multi-mega-nanos of seconds spent chasing their evil darting paths into new hiding places. Quick little buggers they are, neutrinos

    Um, quicker than we thought. With a ‘rest mass’ of a couple mere electron volts, they shouldn’t even be able to fly as fast as photons; at the speed of light, (or as I prefer, the speed of reality)
    But, as even those living under bridges have certainly heard these past few days, fly they do, and faster than the light in a vacuum. (*ed- for those of you who have the Pro-suck™ model with the handy night-light on the front-)
    Everybody seems to have something to say about the discovery; pronouncements with various levels of enlightenment and clarity. Crackpots have declared a national holiday, and are using the preliminary findings from CERN to ‘prove’ the ‘I told you so!’of any pet gadget they happen to be selling to the unwary.
    But this is a cookbook, (sorry), and so here is my culinary comment, ‘both interesting and ‘original‘, with all the perils thus implied. It’s not a ‘thought experiment, like EPR or Shroedinger’s Cat (originally) were. More like the Alain Aspect trials where skilled constructors actually get down on hands and knees to solve questions (in that case the truth of the Bell Inequality Theorem) (Lots of stuff to Google there, fascinating nights of reading when you should be doing your homework or taking the cat out for a walk)
    So the folks at CERN and St. Gasso(? wherever) measured the Time of Flight of bursts of neutrinos and found that the little eunuch rats arrived in the French cave faster than light. Only 60 nanoseconds, but today, a nanosecond isn’t some unbelievably short interval, impossible to measure. The GPS on your cheap phone measures ‘em every time you get lost going to the mall, and I fight with nanosecond switching times on transistors every day.

    So what does this have to do with food?
    Answer: Lots. Your Mom makes all kinds of dishes; some you like, some you detest. And if you just had a way to know she was brewing up that evil Cilantro-Eggplant Meringue Surprise Goulash ‘before’ she started, well, you could take measures. Some sharp knives in the third drawer from the left. (not to give you any ideas…)
    But unfortunately, information travels, at best, at the speed of light. In fact, for sanity’s sake, Special Relativity absolutely condemns info to heed the cosmic speed limit.
    But now we have a breakthrough. And break on through we shall. Just follow the following instructions.
     The CERN/ OPERA experiments (all 16000+ of them) used a distance from the kitchen to the dining room table of 732 kilometers (+/- eight inches) No tunnel was needed; neutrinos blast through light-years of solid lead like rats through an open door.
    Now some arithmetic:
    Light/info travels 299,792,458 meters each second. Doesn’t ever stop for gas or to piss. And so it makes the trip from Switzerland to France in about 2.44 thousandths of a second. Not a lot of elapsed time, but long enough for your mom to commit her cutting hand’s atrophied muscles to slicing the first eggplant, and by then you’re dead meat.
    But the neutrinos, though, (you know, the ones created by the beta decay of her aging brain cells during the planning stage), get to your table 60 nano-seconds earlier than the light in the kitchen. Sixty thousandth’s of a millionth of a second. Not a lot of help. Like getting a death sentence moved from 6:00 AM to 6:30 AM. No, what we need is enough warning time so that we can get the f*ck out of harm’s way ‘before’ the die has been cast over there in the kitchen.
    Smells like time travel, and it truly is, speaking of killing yer mom.
    So how far apart must we be till the neutrinos’ speedy flight would enable them to relay us the news before the event even happened? We’d then be able to fire the LASER beam (*not included) at Mommy Dearest, or at least at her dumb vegetables, frying her, or them to an inedible crisp.
    Well, again, math to the rescue. The average diameter of the Earth is about 12,735 kilometers. (dig a hole straight down through the kitchen floor and when you come out the other side of the world, that’s how far from home you’ve wandered, so to speak. Now this number is a little more than 17 times as far as the CERN’s baseline. That means that their 60 nanosecond head-start, after you dug your hole, of course, is multiplied to a healthy 1020 nanoseconds. Whew, we can even go back to more graspable units, like calling it one microsecond + change. All the difference in the world. Even my old 6502 computer boards, working with a 2 Mhz clock, sat around and played with their private parts waiting for a whole microsecond to go by. Plenty of time now to fire the laser and kill the beast.
    So, bottom line, what does this Apocalypse look like?
    Well, you carefully ready and aim the laser, and watch the neutrino-detector (just out of curiosity; everything’s electronically-switched) with one eye and with the other, your doomed Mom, who has no idea of the excellent trick we about to play on her. Hmm, she’s dicking around at the counter, a cartoon light-bulb above her head hinting: “Yeah, that’s what I’ll make for dinner!”

    Don’t forget that your light-conveyed info about her reality is lagging her space-time world (if she even has one) by about six hundreths of a second. Now if you hadn’t sprung for Johnny’s Neutro-Goulash-killer you’d be up a crick. You’d helplessly watch her start the ‘food-preparation’ and that’d be it. Hung at dawn. But wait! The neutrino-buzzer sounds, triggers the laser and Kablooie! You smugly watch your hapless mom going for the knife just as the fireworks demolish her best-laid plan. Later, after the smoke has cleared, she’ll likely yell down the hole: “Now how’d you know what I had on the menu, Buster?” Don’t answer that question. It would violate the Time Traveller’s Rules of Order. Just calmly say “Lucky guess, Mom. Hey, what’s for supper?”


    Seriously…
    Yes, I of course do  herein propose and support a Long Baseline setup of the Neutrino excursion project. The receiving station must simply have enough time to send back its own neutrino burst in time for the transmitting facility to cancel the original sending of the initial neutrinos. Voila, we will then have nicely killed our own Mom, metaphorically speaking. Good work, little neutered ones. This may be the start of a changed relationship between us. JS/ Tel Aviv.


    Wu: So that’s why you bought those two shovels?
    Me: Yeah, Tel Aviv’s antipode falls right in the middle of the South Pacific. About as far as you can get from Chile and New Zealand.
    Wu: Ha, your Mom know how to swim, if she falls in?
    Me: No, but don’t let on. Be just like her to take lessons while we dig.
    Wu: While ‘we’ dig?
    Me: Sure, two shovels. We buddies, right.
    Wu: Um.. just keep the second one as a spare. Never know what might happen down there.
    Me: Ok, fine. I’ll get Albert to help…

  • Pavane for a Dead (?) Kitten

    Admission: I didn’t even know my camera could take ‘moovies’. My previous photographic boat-anchor was a Russian Pentax knock-off I got in the parking lot of a club from a junkie after I figured out he was putting my rent income in his arm. The thing was…um.. ‘warm to the touch’, but it worked.
    Anyway, I was looking at a batch of new photos a few weeks ago. I’d just loaded ‘em into The Computer (another derelict from a dead-beat) and one of them ‘moved’. ‘Bout fell off my chair! Turned out I’d accidentally hit a button somewhere. Clever people, the Fujis

    So I was ready when my kitty disappeared:
    I’d put this horizontal-axis Savonius-principle windmill up in the air the day before. The cat sat and watched it all day, entranced. He probably got a stiff neck from turning side-to-side for hours like the judges at ping-pong tournaments.
    Later that night I realized I had a re-use for a discarded metal band lying in the street, and quickly built a kalimba music-box to be played by the rotation. The ‘song’ was kinda an accident; the length-of-tine isn’t a linear function of pitch, so I was stuck with a morbid minor-key collection of notes. I made it run once for a quick test at midnight, fed the kitty, and went to sleep.
    In the morning it was already playing this funeral dirge, through the window, in an 8 mph breeze. Something registered, and sure enough, my kitty had apparently ‘gone on to his reward’ overnight. No sign of him, the little six-month old boy. Not flat on the street and not hiding somewhere injured by a competing bully male.
    Meanwhile ‘Nevermore–the Music Box’ droned on inexorably all day, sounding more and more like the music accompanying JFK’s final journey in DC in November’64. Entered my head that maybe the kitten had heard the music and took it as a portent. Or a hint?

    Anyway, I used my newly-discovered movie feature to shoot this clip. No Steady-Cam.™, although it’s probably in there somewhere. (Read the Book.) I posted the video and thought for a while what to say….



    Two days later, 11:30 PM, the cat meowed at the door(!).
    “Where the hell were you?”
    He just looked at me and indicated that his food dish was empty. No explanation offered, and I’ll most likely never know what happened.

    Oh and and today I suddenly realized (duh) that I can simply snip a bit off of the two ‘offending’ tines; raise the minor third to a major, and the flat 6 to a major 6. Remake of ‘Don’t worry, be happy’
    Dunno, the result might be too sickly sweet. I’ve gotten used to hearing ‘Pavane for a Dead Cat’ on repeat in the backyard. It don’t even sound sombre anymore. “Life’s a bitch, and then you get run over.” my kitty says, wise for his age.

  • Gaddafi is probably in there too

    Hey, I just shot a bunch of quick photos of my legumes, thinking to illustrate the challenge of not missing ‘em in the underbrush, the fog of battle, you know, the general confusion….
    But then:  Look what I found on Pix # 9!

    Here, I cheated for you and labeled the big boy, whom I  missed twice, in two passes. He’s the mature guy in the center; all the rest are tomorrow’s lubias.
    But who’s that hiding behind a leaf below? Just waiting to quietly laugh at me, a muffled ‘Duh, Solberg must be blind!’
    He looks like a ‘common least panda’ to me, but I need to Google that.
    Plus keep my eyes out for anyone else hiding in the vines.

  • My carbon footprint: Looks like I’m a diamond

    New Year’s Day (Rosh Hashanah) is approaching and along with that I am daily more aware of just how ‘different’ I am. Talking lifestyle here. I’ve assembled a few categories, to help me understand/ gloat.
    I’ve almost completed the year-long transform of a filthy junkyard/wasteland/hovel into a Paradise, through thousands of hours of unashamed hard work and surprisingly little cash outlay. The place is unrecognizable, teeming with crops, birds, wildlife, quiet stars, and a host of inventions in varying stages of success. Now to the itemization:



    1) Electricity: Ten months usage was 650 KwHrs. That’s a bit over 2 KwHr/day, and it cost me about $100 total. An average residence here uses more than that in one month, what with AC on and the windows open (too lazy to close ‘em), the TV on 24/7, nuisance outdoor lights blasting in people’s eyes (again, day and night: the timer stopped working a couple years ago), and who knows what other junk draining our poor little country’s generators. Anyway, go me!

    2) AC: With daily high temps here making boring excursions from 90 to 100 and back these last few months, I don’t even dream of needing an air-conditioner. Why? you ask. Well, with no buildings nearby to block the on-shore breeze (about 10 mph every day, 8AM to 7 PM), I have free evaporative cooling to spare. The passageway between my main hovel and the tacked-together with spit shed behind it gets a perfect cool breeze which passes through an oak tree. It can be 98 in the shade, but the air blowing past me in the corridor in down in the low 80s. I’ve channeled it into the bedroom with baffles and ducts, installed a pair of free fans high on the East wall to exhaust hot air from the tin building, and I also drip water slowly on the main exposed tin roof. I’m always happy to come here after working at, or even inside other people’s houses. All this is free, by the way.

    3) Cell phone: I place an average 1 call every two days, this despite a busy work schedule. (Yes, I converse face-to-face, tough at times but worth knowing in an emergency.) Other jokers here seem to call somebody every time they fart, and spend most of the day with one arm holding phone to ear, the other gesticulating into the wind. Sad and Stupid. Look at the sidewalk; you see at least 50% of pedestrians babbling away. (Or getting an update on walking? “Is it ‘left, right, left, right’.. or ‘right, left’?” Anyway, I pay an embarrassingly pitiful bill for my phone. Average $8 a month. What others pay, I don’t know, or even ask.

    4) TV: I have one, but haven’t watched it, or anyone else’s, in months. Probably no more insidious waste of time was ever invented. We have excellent commercial-free radio news and analysis here. Two hours in the morning and you know what’s happening. Plus you don’t have to sit down like a tired zombie to listen to the radio.

    5) Clothes: Total clothes purchase this year= one new pair of sneakers, $19 at Payless. I have the receipt. We seem to have a phenomenon here I’d call ‘Newly Nudist Apparel Castoff Syndrome. Piles of perfectly serviceable clothing mysteriously appear on the sidewalk every few days. I have a different colour sweatshirt for every day of the week. No, make that ‘every hour of the day… and week’. Almost costs more to wash them than it’s worth, with my ‘back stock’ filling boxes to the ceiling. (Of course one needs to compromise a bit on fashion choice, but 99% of my day is work or in the fields. Never heard a complaint from the Broccoli.)
    6) Transportation: Although my little 1987 car gets about 35 mpg, I still think twice before any trip: ‘Can this be combined with another task? What’s the best time/ shortest route?’ And whilst  hordes of bozos here drive useless pickup trucks around just for show, I modestly carry a metric ton or more of lumber on my 2X4 roof racks, bolted snazzily into the car-body. Meanwhile, the hot-air balloon ‘carpenters’ are trying to tie a couple 2X6s into the short bed and rear-view mirrors, ending up with a pathetic load which threatens every overhead electrical line. But I’m already at work.

    7) Plastic goddamn bags: Here called, absurdly, ‘nylon’, they litter the landscape like psoriasis. I’ve barely used one in years, preferring to demonstrate to the ‘People of the Bag’ how a grown man can actually carry 5 items in his hands at once. Bags, in my opinion, are for the defective, born with only prongs at the ends of their forearms. We’re supposed to have a law in effect mandating a one shekel cost per bag, in an effort to stop the bleeding, but it will never be enforced. Too many prongies, I guess. We are loudly green here… mainly on paper.

    8) Turn signals: Number of turns I make a day: Oh, about 50. Number of times I didn’t signal this year: Maybe a dozen. Must’ve been drunk. Anyway, this is an environmental issue because the Israelis with their close-to-zero use of signals waste each others’ gas, brakes, and nerves every stupid minute they drive. Oh, and time. Like waiting for some brain-dead to pass through a ‘T’ intersection, only to watch the fool turn right before he gets there.
    Like I said before, ‘go me’. At least you know which direction I’m going.

    Ok, the Reader can  easily say “Big Deal, one righteous yid; what about real change?” and yes, my second-by-second attempts to diplomatically effect a sea-change in every one of these issues for 17 years have mainly left me angry and bitter. A few isolated victories, but to call me a one-man whirl-wind whistle-stop of social progress would be to vastly overestimate the wind left in my whistle. Still I persist, though the temptation is to drop by the airport, you know, to see if the planes look up to a transAtlantic flight. Let it never be said that my motto was ‘Veni, vidi, Vacati’ (‘I came, I saw…(!)… I bolted’.)
    What I need, reading all this, is some ‘swagger’. Some visible sign in public that my choices give me a life worthy of envy and emulation. (Ok, I want the jealous to just die inside every time they see me.) But I am fighting a very stubborn and deeply-entrenched role model here, the user, the consumer, the ‘don’t give a shit, what, I care? personna. “Wake me up when we run out of oil, or water, or electricity, when the place is finally so slopped-up with thoughtlessness and thoughtless litter that I can no longer breathe. Until then, f*ck it.”
    9) Oh yeah, I forgot one: Sound Pollution. I suffer around the clock for every local dildo’s mandatory barking dog, his failed car alarm, ditto house alarm, his pitiful ‘gardeners’ using 120 decibel blowhards instead of working five minutes with a goddamn broom, and all this on an irritating background of cell-phone conversations in my face. Now I can honestly say that in 15 years, almost no one has ever heard me speak a word into my phone. It’s not rocket science, and there’s always somewhere to go for a few minutes if one is considerate. Speaking of which, I don’t even know whether my car horn blows. Never use it. This in a country where they start the clamour even before the light changes. And sit on the stupid thing anytime they

    a) pass by someone they know
    b) need to brake, whether it’s a crippled old lady in a cross-walk or a child in a stroller
    c) and yeah, every time they ‘get somewhere’. To, like, announce to all the mothers in the neighborhood who just spent 4 hours getting the little kid to fall asleep.
    Needless to say, I don’t do any of this shit. Now to receive my medal. There was a medal? Uh-oh, no medal.

  • Update on the Butterfly Affair

        Oops, can’t ‘update’ a non-existent post, so this shall be your first report on my sad learning experience.
      It all started that day I noticed I had (count ‘em) 16 caterpillars ready to spin their mummy-like chrysalises, and thence to be adult Papillo Machaons.
     Photo courtesy of Oz Ritner, who has a beautiful site on Israeli Lepidoptera.This species is the ‘Old World’ version of the familiar Tiger Swallowtail, P. glaucus. Luckily its host plant here is the easy-to-grow Common Rue. What the adults like, I still don’t know. One thing’s for certain, they absolutely abhorred my spiffy cage/palace I built in a frenzied fever.

     Like an expectant mom arranging the crib, etc in the future newborn’s little bedroom. I gave them shelves of Rue, and seven kinds of colorful flowers, in baskets, in planters, hell, in garden-fresh vinaigrette sauce with a side of organic passiflora. Two trays, complete with washed stones for comfortable standing/seating, contained sugar-water, stale beer, and past-its-sell-by melons, cut into attractive cubes.
        So what did the ingrates say to all this maternal brouhaha?
    “We jus wanna get the f*ck outta heah!” And to prove it they buzzed against the mosquito netting sun-up to sun-down, some even tearing off parts of their wings. Not a one even alighted on a flower, or even sampled the repast. Not once. And I watched.
    It took me three (3) anguished days to admit failure and release them. Yesterday. Only God and His chief entomologist knows how humongous a cage I’d need to spring for in order to make these prima donnas happy.
    So there ya go: the Dream, the Hard work to make it Come True…. and the Dashing of Hope against the Rocks. All in one post.


    I’ll still raise the caterpillars though. Sometimes when they look up at me through the chicken-wire bird-protection screen they almost seem to be saying, weakly, ‘Um…thank you Johnny. Nom nom.’. Then they grow up, metamorphose, and curse the hand that fed them. Nature can be so cruel.

  • Stop-Action,Non-stop Action, and Mysterious Inaction

          Hey, I remember back when we used to sit around arguing whether a horse’s four feet were ever  off the ground all at once while running. Tempers flared between the ‘Yup’s and the ‘No way!’s. I was usually the guy in the corner quietly dreaming of a device which could settle the issue. And in fact, I lived to see the invention of the ‘camera’, of trip-wires triggering Trigger as he ran past men in black hoods squinting into lenses, and of course, you know the rest of the story.
       I thought of this while trying to catch my new windmill blades in a blur of glory. Kinda the opposite problem. Even in waning sunset, the exposure-time is short enough to ‘freeze’ the action. (I know, read the damn manual.)
    But actually, my real problem is more complex; sociological, even. See, I have to site the windmill where the wind blows. Which here implies a clear line-of sight from the road. Ok, let’s talk about what kind of man would build a windmill out of a junk washing-machine. For me it’s perfect, but I know the local natives well enough by now. I don’t particularly need curiosity-seekers seeking all over my garden, if only for the time I’d lose being diplomatic.
    And also, I’m sure I’d probably cave in and give each and every one a basket of the ‘pick of the day’, kinda like paying a kid a nickle to get lost.
    Sooo, I carefully took a picture of the contraption from the road, there at the first jewish speed-bump in the block, where everybody slows down anyway. (Our town of 8000 has probably 600 speed-bumps, about two every block. Yeah, I know, you can’t believe any culture could be that stupid. Think again.)
    Anyway, whew! It doesn’t exactly SOL (‘screaming out loud’), even after I painted the blades green and blue, (what I had on hand.)

    And this second photo is what a guy with a nose problem (or binoculars) will see if he waddles in to get a closer look. Only, it’ll just be a blur of course. Unless he brings his camera. Oh shit, hey have them in phones these days I hear.

    Now to Non-stop action. I built this emergency fruit and vegetable stand for a local supermarket. The co-owner’s partner was away for the week in Europe, and so an opportunity presented itself to replace the existing relic, without heavy aesthetic and budgetary discussions. It took me 24 work-hours to build, which in my current frenetic explosion of newly beer-less ambition (one month, and I think it’s forever this time)  required a day and a half of real life.
     
    All the while diligently watering and tieing-up a couple thousand lubias, limas, cantelopes, tomatoes, eggplants… and the little-known ‘summer savory’(?). What is it? I have ten of them, if anyone’s interested.
    Pictured above is the finished unit. It’s now as we speak resting for the Saturday  night on the porch in front of the Super’s main door. Theft? It took four strong souls to put it there. I’ll take a chance.

    And finally, this seems to be a troubled season for caterpillars and butterflies. I filmed this guy after mysteriously losing the first three, one right after another. And ten minutes later he too was gone! Birds? Alien abductions? I made them an entire Rue bed (their favorite host plant) but haven’t seen but one yellow Tiger Swallowtail this year so far. And she didn’t stop to lay eggs. Damn.
    Maybe it’s the ‘banned in the rest of the world’ Methyl Bromide the dinosaur ‘farmers’ use here before planting, to kill all life on earth underneath acres of polyethylene
    sheeting. I smell the stuff escaping in the breeze, blowing in from the fields up-wind.
    The windmill warns me though.
    And yeah, “that’s why I built it, guy…
    Now take this free carrot and… you know, go away.

  • Туннель любви

        We’ll get to the title shortly, But first: (I tried 16 times to get it to print the Russian first, ‘Туннель любви’ followed by “Tunnel of Love/Lubia” before giving up. A Xanga bug?
    Note: It may be time in the rotation to publish an actual factual post. (The previous TMI saga was fiction, except for me riding out the ongoing nuclear crisis at home down-wind and down-stream. Sorry, nothing gross happened in fact. I was simply re-asserting ownership of the acronym TMI for its rightful owners by writing a purposely icky story.
    My pattern, without willing it so, seems to be Parody, Spoof, Fabrication, Fake expose, and then Truth, sorta. I do apologize to readers who are never sure what’s real and what’s whole-cloth here. It’s become a sort of inside joke. Humorous, maybe, but a dis-service to trusting first-time readers.
    Still, the pleasure of reading a confabulation and knowing it is such is itself a small gift I enjoy giving. Especially since I can’t write much about my job, (and I can’t even tell you why not,) Ok, on
    with the Lubia Truth.

    Lubia is a long string-bean, associated, here in Israel at least, with Iraqis. Eaten year round but especially on Rosh Hashanah. When the price goes way up. Yippie, I’ll be rich!
    Maybe. Planting it for the first time, and in near-commercial quantity, I carefully Googled the
    damn weed’s name, all the better to avoid mistakes.No luck. ‘Google Images’ returns mostly pix of Russian whores. Why? I suspected a virus, until it dawned on me that the Russian root word for ‘Love’ is… Lubya.
    And try entering ‘Lubia growing’ instead and you get ‘Little Lubia is growing up fast; click here to see her tits.’ I passed on that.
    Now Lubia, in a perfect world, wants to spread out flat on the ground in about 12 directions, with runners that get to 16 feet within a couple weeks. Hmm… I planted it a foot spacing, 3 feet between rows. Naive twas I. I had an impossible jungle already after two weeks.
    Sooo… after nights of tormented doom-scenaria, I consulted with locals who grew the stuff, and got a variety of battle plans, each of which I am trying separately. The one I most like is pictured here, my Tunnel of Love ” (Russian: Туннель любви“. The plants are supposed to crawl up over the trellis, across its ‘ceiling’, and then down the other side, where they can fight with the Lubias coming in the opposite direction. I love a good vegetable war. Serves ‘em right. Only problem so far is that my hands are aching from constantly tying the vines to strings. Must be my Arthuritus, or maybe corporal-tunnel syndrome.
    Yes, of course I have a back-up plan; glad you asked. I can rent out the acreage for Russian
    weddings. They’ll enter one end single and emerge married at the far exit. Magic. Anything for a buck.

    Since I shot this, I’ve added plastic mesh, about 6 inch squares, to both sides and the top. Oughta be romantic as hell inside.

    And here is another way to fight the demon. See the little red knots? They don’t tie themselves…

  • JS does TMI

         I had a rash all over my butt when it happened. Two weeks. Only went away slowly when I took off that god-damn lead apron I made in a hurry. Probably didn’t wash the Sulfuric acid off the battery plates good enough. The diarrhea stayed with me though, for a month at least. I wrote it down each day, you know, the details, color, amount, etc. Wonder if I can find that book…
         I still say it was from the river. I was swimming there, in the Susquehanna about a dozen miles downstream when I heard about the accident on somebody’s car radio parked up on the bank. He left in a hurry.
        A lot of people evacuated. I thought about it too, but hell, being stuck in a traffic jam, dribbling all over the car seat, probably throwing up out the window as the radiation got worse. Not that I didn’t puke enough staying at home. Mostly on the lawn, even though I tried to stay indoors, especially after the reports of a hydrogen gas buildup in the containment building. Looked like pizza after a turn or two in a blender. I’d post the pictures except that this was before digital cameras and scanners. Oh yeah, and the internet. In those days if you needed to know more about prolapsed hemorrhoids you had to call somebody, which was embarrassing. Or do what I did; signed up for a mail-order course from, in my case, Texas Medical Institute. Course I missed the whole section on the anus and the rectum while the meltdown was happening. So I had to kinda ‘solve’ the painful, itching symptoms at least, using another homemade device. Which I won’t go into. TMI, you know.


    Wu: Eeew. Gross!
    Js: Yeah, a pretty shitty way to heat water, I say.
    Wu: No, I mean the asshole part.
    Js: Yeah, I’m not sure that Texas Institute is even accredited.
    Wu: You don’t get it bud, do you?
    Js: Get what? There’s a lot of important historical information here…
    Wu: One could even call it ‘too much’.

  • Product Review: The TS-241-C See-Saw Saw

         Cops work in pairs around here. One can read, kinda,the other pretends to be able to write…. sorta…
    Anyway I knew I wuz burnt when I saw ‘em walking toward my chicken-house, where I was busy trying to coax more than one egg a month from my two ‘free’ range hens.
    I’d seen the piece in the morning’s English-edition ‘Ha’aretz’ paper : “See-saw Seat Sought”
    The article went on to describe a ‘wave of playground vandalism’, and mentioned that a suspect was expected to be aprehended shortly.


    My Defense: I don’t know what came over me. One fine morning I awoke with weird mood-swings, felt myself sliding, bored, down that slippery metal slope towards criminal activity. Helpless, I watched as I ascended the monkey-ladder into a world of passion unleashed. I don’t know, something about the innocent little munchkins sitting on the see-saw seats… And having that very seat, all mine now, under my bed.
    Not that ‘See-saw Vandal‘ looks particularly attractive on anyone’s resume, and not to mention what happens in jail when they find out that I’m the perverted dirt-ball who sent little Melanie home in tears from school. Might as well forget my plans to run for a Knesset seat, even on the Communist ticket.

       Anyway, the fat cop didn’t waste much time with small talk:
    “Officer Tom seen yer ‘Thom Sawyer’ See-saw saw at the scene.”
    I gulped, but not audibly.
    “Yes, the very same see-saw saw that you used to saw the ‘see’ off the see-saw. On the night of May 29th”, his partner, ‘Tom’ continued.
    Cursed Internet. Why in the hell did I assume that if they sell it openly, if it’s a simple ‘Add to Cart’ click, it’s probably legal? And ‘flaming red’ for the colour of the’ shock-resistant poly-propylene handle’? Dumb choice. Now I realize.
        It seemed like a freaking god-send at the time. A simple 180 degree flip of the handle and the saw goes from high-quality wood cross-cut blade to hack-saw metal cutting function. Just that alone saved me hours, on those frenetic nights when I cruised from park to elementary-school to day-care center, steering with one hand, then ‘having my way’ with an embarrassingly-long rap-sheet of gaily-coloured steel-and-pine attractions. Usually I
    settled for simply cutting off the ‘Teeter’ end of the ‘Teeter-totter’. Somehow the name helped me to
    get…you know… off. But some nights, it’s all such a blur, after the second or third time, I needed to whack off both sides of the apparatus, leaving bloody stumps, symbolically. God help me, I hope I don’t have amputee-fetish.
        So, all in all, the handcuffs felt ‘right’ somehow. It wuz gonna happen, sooner or later, like in Bonnie and Clyde.
    Was it worth it? Hard to say. They subpoena-ed my credit-card records. $59.95 plus shipping. For that money, a dozen or so furtive ‘little-death’ experiences there in the dark, un-observed (or so I thought) play-lots.
       My first ‘peak-experience’, at age 12 or so, was one morning at recess when I finally, after months of un-success, managed to grapple my way to the top of a mighty and highly high swing-set at the elementary
    school they finally built us in time for 6th grade. My public defender may or may not decide to make
    something of this.
    Plus, I bought a brand new welder, and I’m willing to repair all the damage my lasciviousness has done.
    A gorgeous welder, all solid-state, with stick-in electrodes spitting fire and jism, and all at my
    command…
    Jeezuz, I need help.


    Wu: I been saying that for years.
    Js: So where do I start, friend?
    Wu: Well, for one, I just pull the bolts connecting the seat to the crossbar. Lots quieter. They’re usually 12 millimeter.
    Js: Yeah but the ratchet sound kinda destroys the mood for me and then… Wait! That’s your ‘help’, Wu?
    Wu. The First Step in getting better is like, not getting caught, duh. But anyway, how much you want for the saw?
    Js: I knew I was in good hands here.