Wednesday, March 31, 2004
"Attention is energy. What you put your attention into, you get more of."
--St Stephen
"How to get out of Hell? You have to plug up the holes in your bucket, then you get higher. Most people who are in Hell are complaining. They think they're complaining because they're in Hell... uh-uh. They're in Hell because they're complaining."
--Stephen Gaskin
--St Stephen
"How to get out of Hell? You have to plug up the holes in your bucket, then you get higher. Most people who are in Hell are complaining. They think they're complaining because they're in Hell... uh-uh. They're in Hell because they're complaining."
--Stephen Gaskin
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
b l o g !
I should always blog. Not forget to blog bloging is good. Content justifies free blog....
Last tuesday my stepfather walked out of the house permanently. he pland to file for divorce. Masha is broken up, but all of us could see it coming. We all have wondered who Peter's new personality coach is.
Well he is almost done with school. If he ever writes his screen play he will graduate.
That reminds me this is my thesis paper....
Oh well I'll dig for poems and submit that.
Whose little problem is this any way?
Last tuesday my stepfather walked out of the house permanently. he pland to file for divorce. Masha is broken up, but all of us could see it coming. We all have wondered who Peter's new personality coach is.
Well he is almost done with school. If he ever writes his screen play he will graduate.
That reminds me this is my thesis paper....
Oh well I'll dig for poems and submit that.
Whose little problem is this any way?
Friday, March 26, 2004
Friday, March 19, 2004
HTM[1].HTM
Watch for this trojan VBS/Psyme
http://vil.nai.com/vil/content/v_100749.htm
This trojan exploits an unpatched (at the time of this writing) vulnerability in Internet Explorer. The vulnerability allows for the writing, and overwriting, of local files by exploiting the ADODB.Stream object. There are several variants of this trojan. Therefore this description is design to give an overview of how the trojan works.
The trojan exists as VBScript. This script contains instructions to download a remote executable, save it to a specified location on the local disk, and then execute it.
Restore for98/me
http://vil.nai.com/vil/content/v_100749.htm
This trojan exploits an unpatched (at the time of this writing) vulnerability in Internet Explorer. The vulnerability allows for the writing, and overwriting, of local files by exploiting the ADODB.Stream object. There are several variants of this trojan. Therefore this description is design to give an overview of how the trojan works.
The trojan exists as VBScript. This script contains instructions to download a remote executable, save it to a specified location on the local disk, and then execute it.
Restore for98/me
Sunday, March 14, 2004
I wanted to write a tribute to my grand father for his birth day. Although he is no longer alive in the usual sense, he lives for me and Masha, his daughter and Jim his son. Marie Weir also holds a torch for him still i think. From what I know Allen was a real charmer. Not that he was a player in the usual sense. If he did 'play the field' it was with diplomacy and tact, more than with real trysting, although I know he was a man in every proper sense.
Allen loved Spain, it's culture history and folklore. I know that the WARD family dates back to the revolutionary war. After that Benjamin Israel and Usul set off down the Ohio river on a barge they made.
Allen had some of that Pioneer spirit also. He met his wife and lifetime companion, Margaret, in Puerto Rico I think. they both decided to become teachers and join the Civil Service. A good career in those days between the wars.
Allen took his degree in Spanish Folklore, although I think he Balked at his final paper. He taught Spanish to American kids living in the Canal Zone of Panama, A U.S. controlled strip of inland waterway that represented the pinnacles of nineteenth century enterprise and twentieth century engineering. The C.Z brats as they call them selves now, were children of the Canals administrators. Most of them attended Balboa High School. They were colonials, and it seems that Allen was one of their most beloved teachers.
When I knew him, Allen read much of the time. He took a trip to the library once a week and brought back a stack of dreadful large print novels. He would also make one trip to see his wife who lived in a group home. We would also drive him out to see her on weekends and holidays. her dementia was such that she dragged him down into depression. But the weekly trips he made seemed to give him strength. He never complained, even when death ate him by inches and he could feel his own mind vanishing. The thing that took him at last was an aneurism in his heart which he carried for two decades. It was the day after we contacted Hospice and had them bring in a hospital bed to replace his own. Just days before, I had stayed to feed him lunch, cajoling him to swallow globs of nutritive homogeneous stew between paragraphs of Mallory's Arthur. Neither one of us seemed to care for Arthur or the stew. We both acknowledged that it was a formality. Just stay alive for this.
A few days later I heard the message from one of my housemates. They didn't know how to tell me, "I think your grandfather just died." I was gone in a minute, leaving a room full of blank puzzled faces to go look on Allen's face for the last time. We cremated him with azaleas from the garden and some silver coins we made.
Silver melts at 1650 degrees, quite a bit higher than the temperature necessary to render human flesh to ash.
Allen loved Spain, it's culture history and folklore. I know that the WARD family dates back to the revolutionary war. After that Benjamin Israel and Usul set off down the Ohio river on a barge they made.
Allen had some of that Pioneer spirit also. He met his wife and lifetime companion, Margaret, in Puerto Rico I think. they both decided to become teachers and join the Civil Service. A good career in those days between the wars.
Allen took his degree in Spanish Folklore, although I think he Balked at his final paper. He taught Spanish to American kids living in the Canal Zone of Panama, A U.S. controlled strip of inland waterway that represented the pinnacles of nineteenth century enterprise and twentieth century engineering. The C.Z brats as they call them selves now, were children of the Canals administrators. Most of them attended Balboa High School. They were colonials, and it seems that Allen was one of their most beloved teachers.
When I knew him, Allen read much of the time. He took a trip to the library once a week and brought back a stack of dreadful large print novels. He would also make one trip to see his wife who lived in a group home. We would also drive him out to see her on weekends and holidays. her dementia was such that she dragged him down into depression. But the weekly trips he made seemed to give him strength. He never complained, even when death ate him by inches and he could feel his own mind vanishing. The thing that took him at last was an aneurism in his heart which he carried for two decades. It was the day after we contacted Hospice and had them bring in a hospital bed to replace his own. Just days before, I had stayed to feed him lunch, cajoling him to swallow globs of nutritive homogeneous stew between paragraphs of Mallory's Arthur. Neither one of us seemed to care for Arthur or the stew. We both acknowledged that it was a formality. Just stay alive for this.
A few days later I heard the message from one of my housemates. They didn't know how to tell me, "I think your grandfather just died." I was gone in a minute, leaving a room full of blank puzzled faces to go look on Allen's face for the last time. We cremated him with azaleas from the garden and some silver coins we made.
Silver melts at 1650 degrees, quite a bit higher than the temperature necessary to render human flesh to ash.
Friday, March 12, 2004
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Allen Ward
The best part about coming to Florida was Meeting my grandfather, Allen Ward. He was a gentle person who taught school in the Panama Canal Zone (CZ.)
Tomorrow will be his birthday. When He died, It was on this very spot where I am typing now.
I hope that some way I am as good a person as he was.
Allen Used to love Music. He sang Barbershop. I had an old book of songs that were from his era. He must have picked it up at a yard sale. I actually learned to play guitar by picking away at Danny Boy and When You and I were Young Maggie. He would laugh if I got the notes wrong. and I'd Get him to sing them the right way. Once some one donated an old Hammond Organ... the churchy kind,with two keyboards and foot pedals. It had slider bars for all the different stops. Allen used to sneak over and play it when no one was around. That's why we got the thing really. My stepfather hated it. He always wanted to be a musician, and he could play piano reasonably well. Some how he missed the part where people gathered around wheezy old beast like the Hammond, and sang songs from another era.
Among Allen's other accomplishments was his military service. He flew in the Army Corps in WWI. He never flew any actual missions, But we still have his flight log and an old leather helmet. The plane that he trained in was called a Jenny . It was basically canvas an balsa wood with an engine. He really flew by the seat of his pants. I know most of this because my friend Denny was a Helicopter crew chief in Vietnam. He loves Aviation history, and would often draw him out about aircraft and flying. Denny was with Allen when he died.
My cousin Perry knew Allen when he was growing up. Allen showed him how to make kites. There is also the rusted remnant af a unicycle which Perry used to ride here. Once, in the garden, I dug up an old cap pistol. corroded almost beyond recognition. This house was built back in the sixties and my Grandparents were the first occupants, so i assume that the pistol was Perry's
Somehow I envy him. I only knew Allen as an old man. As an Adopted child, I knew only one Grandmother. She did not like me much. In fact My Adopted parents totally disowned me. At least I did get to know Allen in his later days. It's taken me twenty years to realize how much I loved him. When we first met, he was so exited that he could barely contain himself. he accepted me as if he had always known me and always loved me. I believe that Masha sought me out because she knew that it would matter to him to have a grandson. I just wish that I had realized what it meant sooner, while he was still living.
Tomorrow will be his birthday. When He died, It was on this very spot where I am typing now.
I hope that some way I am as good a person as he was.
Allen Used to love Music. He sang Barbershop. I had an old book of songs that were from his era. He must have picked it up at a yard sale. I actually learned to play guitar by picking away at Danny Boy and When You and I were Young Maggie. He would laugh if I got the notes wrong. and I'd Get him to sing them the right way. Once some one donated an old Hammond Organ... the churchy kind,with two keyboards and foot pedals. It had slider bars for all the different stops. Allen used to sneak over and play it when no one was around. That's why we got the thing really. My stepfather hated it. He always wanted to be a musician, and he could play piano reasonably well. Some how he missed the part where people gathered around wheezy old beast like the Hammond, and sang songs from another era.
Among Allen's other accomplishments was his military service. He flew in the Army Corps in WWI. He never flew any actual missions, But we still have his flight log and an old leather helmet. The plane that he trained in was called a Jenny . It was basically canvas an balsa wood with an engine. He really flew by the seat of his pants. I know most of this because my friend Denny was a Helicopter crew chief in Vietnam. He loves Aviation history, and would often draw him out about aircraft and flying. Denny was with Allen when he died.
My cousin Perry knew Allen when he was growing up. Allen showed him how to make kites. There is also the rusted remnant af a unicycle which Perry used to ride here. Once, in the garden, I dug up an old cap pistol. corroded almost beyond recognition. This house was built back in the sixties and my Grandparents were the first occupants, so i assume that the pistol was Perry's
Somehow I envy him. I only knew Allen as an old man. As an Adopted child, I knew only one Grandmother. She did not like me much. In fact My Adopted parents totally disowned me. At least I did get to know Allen in his later days. It's taken me twenty years to realize how much I loved him. When we first met, he was so exited that he could barely contain himself. he accepted me as if he had always known me and always loved me. I believe that Masha sought me out because she knew that it would matter to him to have a grandson. I just wish that I had realized what it meant sooner, while he was still living.
Sunday, March 07, 2004
I moved to Florida about twenty years ago.
I came because I wanted to be with family that I had never known before. I met my Natural Mother in early December, while I lived in a commune in Tennessee. I think I knew who she was from the first time we made eye contact.
When I worked on The Farm construction crew, Guys talked about telepathy. They meant nothing Mystical by that. If the guy you were working with finished nailing off a fascia board, and you had the next one in your hand and a pocket full of nails,.. that was telepathy. Of course when every body finished their job at the end of the day. that was telepathy too. Synchronicity would be another word, or Co-Ordination.
The morning of the day that my son was born, I asked my wife if she wanted me to stay. It was late November, she had a cold, and every one on the crew knew what my real job was; becoming a father.
D. said "no," she was fine.
We had guessed that she conceived in early February, so she was really due. That baby was so ready, we had been talking to him since the fourth of July, when he acknowledged the fireworks with some serious kicking.
Maybe he was "Just Dancing in the Dark." That was a popular song that summer. Springsteen.
Any way, Our "Telepathy," was way off that day. From what I understand, She went into labor about 12:30. A Fellow was dispatched, in our car, to find the construction site we were working on and pick me up. I don't remember the guy's name, I had never met him before and never saw him again, but I recognize in him, in some echo of people that i knew before and have known since. He looked shocked when I told him I couldn't drive a car.
I did have a license. But I earned that permit on a D.M.V. lot in Tennessee. The lady who tested me said that I should practice a lot before i got my real license. I asked him to drive.
We buried the child the next day.
It rained like hell.
Someone else dug the grave.
but I filled it in.
We grieved. F--K the whole community grieved! But then they had their own losses too.
My wife said she hated me. I stopped arguing.
Children on The Farm taunted me.
I did my Best. D. said the child was an accident.
I remember my roommate's hair was red.
Red Like Owen's Hair.
I never asked the Question.
Nor did I ask how she expected the infant to breath with his face squashed into her tit like it was before Deborah realized that BLUE was not the proper color for a nursing child.
When they asked for a name To put on the Death Certificate, knowing that D. wished to name him Orrin, after her Grandfather who died the week she conceived, I said Owen. That was the name we chose. D. Looked at me as if to say what. I repeated Owen Wheeler.
She now has a son named 'Orrin' after her grandfather.
The Week After owens death, we were visited by D.'s mother who stayed a week and by My own adoptive mother and sister, Very different people.
When they all had left, Pamela, the nurse we were staying with, told us of a strange message. someone wanted to meet us, preferably in neutral territory and they would not Identify themselves. The message was delivered over the phone by a man, Whom I later learned to be Peter.
I returned their call, made arrangements to meet, and learned nothing from him. Pamela asked at dinner if there was anyone that might be looking for me. I said right away, "Well, I' adopted, maybe my long lost parents are trying to contact me." Everyone laughed, and Pamela said she worried about De-programmers comin to save me from the cult of the farm. I laughed.
Two people waited on the porch of the dusty old gate house. I might as well have been a frontier hostel in the wild west. The woman was colorfully dressed in a type of Poncho worn by Guatemalan women. Both of them were smiling. They asked me into the back room, for privacy, and asked if i had any Idea why they had contacted me. I muttered something about adoption and Masha Blurted out " I'm your Mother"
I came to visit them in Florida and met my grand father who was delighted to see me for the first time. I after I returned to the farm, I conveyed their invitation to D. suggesting that work prospects were better in a state that had a housing industry and tourist trade. She still hated me and loved me and did everything she could to get pregnant again. I left the state. She wanted to live on the Farm. A month later she lived with my adopted parents and refused to anull the marriage. (they owned a three story marble mansion with an in ground swimming pool.)
My Dad Said I was no longer welcome in their home. He died March 9, 2002. No one told me. I found an obituary on the internet.
I wish this story had a punch line.
Any suggestions?
I came because I wanted to be with family that I had never known before. I met my Natural Mother in early December, while I lived in a commune in Tennessee. I think I knew who she was from the first time we made eye contact.
When I worked on The Farm construction crew, Guys talked about telepathy. They meant nothing Mystical by that. If the guy you were working with finished nailing off a fascia board, and you had the next one in your hand and a pocket full of nails,.. that was telepathy. Of course when every body finished their job at the end of the day. that was telepathy too. Synchronicity would be another word, or Co-Ordination.
The morning of the day that my son was born, I asked my wife if she wanted me to stay. It was late November, she had a cold, and every one on the crew knew what my real job was; becoming a father.
D. said "no," she was fine.
We had guessed that she conceived in early February, so she was really due. That baby was so ready, we had been talking to him since the fourth of July, when he acknowledged the fireworks with some serious kicking.
Maybe he was "Just Dancing in the Dark." That was a popular song that summer. Springsteen.
Any way, Our "Telepathy," was way off that day. From what I understand, She went into labor about 12:30. A Fellow was dispatched, in our car, to find the construction site we were working on and pick me up. I don't remember the guy's name, I had never met him before and never saw him again, but I recognize in him, in some echo of people that i knew before and have known since. He looked shocked when I told him I couldn't drive a car.
I did have a license. But I earned that permit on a D.M.V. lot in Tennessee. The lady who tested me said that I should practice a lot before i got my real license. I asked him to drive.
We buried the child the next day.
It rained like hell.
Someone else dug the grave.
but I filled it in.
We grieved. F--K the whole community grieved! But then they had their own losses too.
My wife said she hated me. I stopped arguing.
Children on The Farm taunted me.
I did my Best. D. said the child was an accident.
I remember my roommate's hair was red.
Red Like Owen's Hair.
I never asked the Question.
Nor did I ask how she expected the infant to breath with his face squashed into her tit like it was before Deborah realized that BLUE was not the proper color for a nursing child.
When they asked for a name To put on the Death Certificate, knowing that D. wished to name him Orrin, after her Grandfather who died the week she conceived, I said Owen. That was the name we chose. D. Looked at me as if to say what. I repeated Owen Wheeler.
She now has a son named 'Orrin' after her grandfather.
The Week After owens death, we were visited by D.'s mother who stayed a week and by My own adoptive mother and sister, Very different people.
When they all had left, Pamela, the nurse we were staying with, told us of a strange message. someone wanted to meet us, preferably in neutral territory and they would not Identify themselves. The message was delivered over the phone by a man, Whom I later learned to be Peter.
I returned their call, made arrangements to meet, and learned nothing from him. Pamela asked at dinner if there was anyone that might be looking for me. I said right away, "Well, I' adopted, maybe my long lost parents are trying to contact me." Everyone laughed, and Pamela said she worried about De-programmers comin to save me from the cult of the farm. I laughed.
Two people waited on the porch of the dusty old gate house. I might as well have been a frontier hostel in the wild west. The woman was colorfully dressed in a type of Poncho worn by Guatemalan women. Both of them were smiling. They asked me into the back room, for privacy, and asked if i had any Idea why they had contacted me. I muttered something about adoption and Masha Blurted out " I'm your Mother"
I came to visit them in Florida and met my grand father who was delighted to see me for the first time. I after I returned to the farm, I conveyed their invitation to D. suggesting that work prospects were better in a state that had a housing industry and tourist trade. She still hated me and loved me and did everything she could to get pregnant again. I left the state. She wanted to live on the Farm. A month later she lived with my adopted parents and refused to anull the marriage. (they owned a three story marble mansion with an in ground swimming pool.)
My Dad Said I was no longer welcome in their home. He died March 9, 2002. No one told me. I found an obituary on the internet.
I wish this story had a punch line.
Any suggestions?
Thursday, March 04, 2004
Grave & Gathering Dangers
The McAl-Qaedazation of terrorism has exploded thanks to Bush."
Manuel Valenzuela Seems to have some insight. The War movement is not about oil or money but power itself, a power which grows beyond the ability of People to control it
Manuel Valenzuela Seems to have some insight. The War movement is not about oil or money but power itself, a power which grows beyond the ability of People to control it
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Study: Very few bloggers on Net
I feel small.
44% of Internet users have created content for the online world through building or posting to Web sites, creating blogs, and sharing files
In a national phone survey between March 12 and May 20, 2003, the Pew Internet & American Life Project found that more than 53 million American adults have used the Internet to publish their thoughts, respond to others, post pictures, share files and otherwise contribute to the explosion of content available online. Some 44% of the nation’s adult Internet users (those 18 and over) have done at least one of the following:
21% of Internet users say they have posted photographs to Web sites.
17% have posted written material on Web sites.
13% maintain their own Web sites.
10% have posted comments to an online newsgroup. A small fraction of them have posted files to a newsgroup such as video, audio, or photo files.
8% have contributed material to Web sites run by their businesses.
7% have contributed material to Web sites run by organizations to which they belong such as church or professional groups.
7% have Web cams running on their computers that allow other Internet users to see live pictures of them and their surroundings.
6% have posted artwork on Web sites.
5% have contributed audio files to Web sites.
4% have contributed material to Web sites created for their families.
3% have contributed video files to Web sites.
2% maintain Web diaries or Web blogs, according to respondents to this phone survey. In other phone surveys prior to this one, and one more recently fielded in early 2004, we have heard that between 2% and 7% of adult Internet users have created diaries or blogs. In this survey we found that 11% of Internet users have read the blogs or diaries of other Internet users. About a third of these blog visitors have posted material to the blog.
Most of those who do contribute material are not constantly updating or freshening content. Rather, they occasionally add to the material they have posted, created, or shared. For instance, more than two thirds of those who have their own Web sites add new content only every few weeks or less often than that. There is a similar story related to the small proportion of Americans who have blogs.
The most eager and productive content creators break into three distinct groups:
Power creators are the Internet users who are most enthusiastic about content-creating activities. They are young – their average age is 25 – and they are more likely than other kinds of creators do things like use instant messaging, play games, and download music. And they are the most likely group to be blogging.
Older creators have an average age of 58 and are experienced Internet users. They are highly educated, like sharing pictures, and are the most likely of the creator groups to have built their own Web sites. They are also the most likely to have used the Internet for genealogical research.
Content omnivores are among the heaviest overall users of the Internet. Most are employed. Most log on frequently and spend considerable time online doing a variety of activities. They are likely to have broadband connections at home. The average age of this group is 40.
Monday, March 01, 2004
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