Just a mere few days after slagging iPhone-queuing losers, I've been re-acquainted with my own techno-lust:

Yep, I'm still lusting over a USD$100,000 fully electric car. Still, while I would shell out for one, I wouldn't queue for it ;)

I think the kids could fit in the boot and my servants could bring my surfboards.

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It's a phone for fucks sake.

You type numbers into it and it rings people.

Hardly revolutionary technology.

I hereby declare anyone who lined up for an iPhone to be the "Arseclown of the Month of June", every single last one of you. With any luck the iPhone has sterilising properties preventing any of you breeding, vastly improving our gene pool.

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Worms farms are pretty simple pieces of equipment. You have a few layers of trays where you put your veggie scraps and worms, separated by a perforated mesh that the worms can move through. The top and bottom are sealed to keep the worms in and insects out, while collecting (very fertile) liquid at the very bottom. You fill the bottom tray with scraps, then move on to the next tray up. When the worms are done with the bottom tray, you empty it into your garden as wonderful compost and soil improver, move that tray to the top and continue.

Most worm farms are made out of molded plastic. The structures are very simple. The material is cheap. The Chinese manufacturing miracle should be able to churn these things almost for free.

Thing is, the cheapest I've been able to find is $65 from The Watershed, run by Marrickville and Sydney councils. At Bunnings the cheapest is about $80, yet you can buy a Mitre Saw, full of complex machinery and electronics, for $30. Someone, somewhere is making a lot of profit on these worm farms.

If anyone out there has any expertise in plastics moulding and mass manufacturing, there's a lot of money to be made undercutting these price gougers.

One option is to make your own, but it shouldn't be so hard!

Now that I can do GPRS at only mildly extortionate rates ($0.0058 per kb from Exetel, thanks to Graeme's tip) I've been playing with Jabber clients on my mobile. It can be kinda handy, and it's kinda cool. Problem is, all the clients I've found are either seriously crap or lilwannabebillgatesware.

So does anyone know of a Jabber client for J2ME (or native Symbian) that is free/libre and doesn't suck?

I also wonder if you can get one that gzip compresses the Jabber stream. The Jabber protocol is _incredibly_ verbose XML, which means it could cost quite a bit uncompressed but would be easily compressed.

I just downloaded Safari, Apple's web browser, and installed it on the Windows machine here at work. It didn't stay on my hard drive long.

First problem is it doesn't support proxy servers. Presumably this is a beta "feature" which will be fixed soon. Second thing is it refuses to act in a Windows-ish way, instead having all the sizzle and CPU-burning features of OSX. Bollocks to that! If I wanted all that crap, I'd run OSX.

This is a pretty common thing for Apple to do. It's also the reason I don't have Quicktime installed. I can't stand applications that unilaterally decide to ignore all the UI standards of the host OS. Imagine how rabid the Apple fanbois would be if a Windows application didn't do things in an OSX-ish way?

Regardless, all I wanted to do is be able to test sites in Safari. It'll have to wait until proxies work.

Much of my work uses Skype for instant messaging and since the development is in completely the wrong timezone, I have to run it. This meant I installed it on my laptop at home. Recently though it's been crashing my entire machine. Full, hard lockup. Not sure what freaky stuff they're doing, but it's a good reminder to stick with free software.

Looks like I'm not the only one too.

When did web site become a single word?

"It's not right"

Damn straight girl. Prison sux. You'd better hope they don't find you mentally ill...

How much does it take to make someone feel empathy? At what point will Paris Hilton think, "Gee, imagine what this would be like without a rich family supporting me and constant media coverage? What would it be like if I couldn't afford an appeal? What if the system wasn't being watched, judged, and second-guessed by millions around the world?"

I'm not holding my breath...

It's not right? Darlin, that's about as right as it gets in this country. You couldn't find a fairer process anywhere. Democracy works best when people are watching and opining about the fairness of the process and the sentence. When no one is looking... that's when it starts to turn sour, rotten and corrupt.

That's when they come in and kick the crap out of you in the middle of the night for no reason at all. That's when they put you on too much of the wrong medication and you don't know which side is up for most of the day. That's when you die of thirst because you were strapped to a table for too long.

It's not right.

Imagine what this world would be like if we paid attention to all State-sanctioned punishment with that much interest and passion...

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I arrived in McRae, GA in the afternoon on Saturday, June 2nd after driving 300 miles from Charlotte, NC. It rained the whole way, and continued raining through the night. The town of McRae has a population of 2000. The prison holds 1700. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that prisoners are counted as residents... the town is tiny. At the point where two railroad tracks intersect, there is a block of old, boarded up shops. Farther down the main road there is a strip mall with a grocery store, discount clothing, and other assorted shops. The dairy queen marquee says "Jesus Loves You". I stopped at the Travel Lodge and inquired about a room. "$55" said the man from India.

"That's a bit high for me, is there anything else in the area?"
"There's one across the street and another at the other end of town."

I went to the one across the street, the Budget Motel. Another Indian woman greeted me, this time with a price of $35. I took it. I unloaded my luggage and drove into town. Oliver had warned me of the "gizmo" at the prison that can detect drugs on you, even if you touched something that had drugs on it at one point. Having spent two days travelling to see him, I wasn't going to take any chances, so I went to the discount clothing store and bought a new set of clothes. The only shoes that fit the bill (no sandals allowed) were a pair of brown leather clogs with a black faux fur lining... absolutely hideous... but shoes would be the major offender, second only to money.

I returned to the motel and turned on the TV. I was immediately confronted by hard-core porn. I had trouble getting to sleep, so I watched Pirates of the Carribean: the curse of the black pearl, and re-read Oliver's letters in the commercials. He was a creature of the sea before going to prison, and to the sea he will return when he gets out. He was even arrested whilst smuggling in the Carribean, but I will get to that later. He wrote, "20 months - maybe 16 if I'm lucky - and then rapidly arrange another boat - Oh yeah!! - Me & Jack Sparrow - Ho! Ho! Ho! You will always be welcome wench - ar ye strong? - can ye fight?"

I finally drifted off to sleep about 11:30. At midnight, there was a knock on the door. I ignored it and fell asleep again. At some unknown time later, the phone rang. I couldn't understand the heavy Indian accent at first, but eventually I understood it to say, "Is Michael there?". Nooooooo..... SLAM!

I had set my alarm for 7am, but because of the loud air conditioning, I didn't hear it, and woke on my own at 8:15. I had planned to take a shower, to further rid myself of any rogue drug traces, but I decided to just pack and go.

The prison was just up the road leading out of town. I went in with only my freshly washed driver's license and a $20 bill. Everyone else had bags full of quarters, and there was a change machine in the lobby, but it only accepts $1's and $5's. I went back to my car and got all the $1's I had, which was only 7. I changed them and proceded through the metal detector... there was no drug-detecting 'gizmo'.

The room looks like a high-school cafeteria, with rows of square tables fixed to the floor, and four grey, plastic chairs around each. The chairs were not fixed to the floor. At one end of the room, two guards sat on a raised platform behind a railling. There were 4 vending machines with soda, water, coffee, and various chips and sandwiches. There was an alcove with carpeting on the floor and half way up the walls. A TV was on at the end of the alcove and children played there. I was assigned a table and sat down to wait. After a few minutes, Oliver was escorted through a door.

He is tall and in good shape for 62. He has long strawberry blond hair and a thick white, trimmed beard and mustache peppered with strawberry blond. His face is smooth and free of age spots. Only the skin around his sharp blue eyes is wrinkled, which gives him a young, but infinitely wise look. We embraced. I had been instructed by Leo to cover him with hugs and kisses, but also warned that he had not touched a woman in 12 years, so it might be a bit messy...

We talked about Leo, our mutual friend in Arsetralia, as he calls it. Leo grew up with Oliver and his son in Capetown, South Africa. Leo was drawn to Oliver's "60's attitude", and contributed to his own deliquency as well. Oliver told me about going for a walk in the hills near Table Mountain, in search of the fly agaric mushroom. They found one, and Leo said that he was going to eat one filament of the shroom, and if he died in 3 days, they would know why. He didn't die, and they threw a small, exclusive party. Oliver said that Leo had cleared out his living room of all furniture except for a shelf with glassware on it. Suddenly, Leo came running out of the hallway and ran three or four steps straight up the wall. He fell backwards, and knocked some of the glassware off the shelf onto the floor where it smashed into bits. Getting up, he went back down the hall and did the same again, this time landing on shards of broken glass. Upon rising, Oliver said that Leo didn't have a single cut on him. Leo said that this was what the Vikings took before going into battle, and that was how they got the reputation of being fierce fighters, and totally insane.

Oliver told me the story of his capture. His wife of 20 years was having an affair with a fellow invloved in drug dealing. The wife and their daughter disappeared one day, and Oliver was led to believe that they would be killed if he did not take a load of cocaine into the U.S. He almost made it, but was dobbed in by the wife's lover.

He has been in prison for 13 years, being shuffled from prison to prison according to the needs of the Corrections Corporation of America. He has researched the private prison industry and is convinced that a deal was struck with legislators; they received shares in CCA and Wakenhut/GEO in exchange for mandatory sentencing laws which keep the prisons full. The corporations receive $25,000 per person per year in tax money. The prisoners are used as slave labor for other industries, and receive substandard care, adding to the corporate profits.

I was transfixed by him. He urged me to look into his eyes as much as possible and not break away. His face is compelling, and easy to watch. Combined with tales of adventure, corruption and decadence, the time flew by. At times, I could see nothing but those eyes. The room disappeared, and we were completely alone inside each other's minds. The room was very cold though, and I was not allowed to go back to my car to get more clothes. I drew my arms inside my shirt, which concerned Oliver greatly. He asked the guard if there was something I could wear, or if they could adjust the air conditioning. No and no. "I'd love to give you some of my heat" he said, as his eyelids drooped over his pupils, leaving no doubt about his meaning.

The conversation turned steamy as he told me about his marriage and infidelities. A wife of a friend at a dinner party went into the kitchen to make coffee. She asked Oliver to help. As he walked into the kitchen, she flipped up her skirt, revealing a naked bum. "Do you want it or not?" she asked. He told me, "...as we were in the kitchen, being human beings, the husband called from the living room, 'where's that coffee?' The reply echoed down the hallway, 'We're coming!'"

I was not surprised, shocked or offended at his lasciviousness. Only the most naive person would expect any less from a man in prison for 13 years. I was pleased to be able to indulge him in a rare treat. At one point he interrupted me and said, 'This is marvellous, I feel like I'm sitting in a pub again!"

He asked me about my relationships, and why I had no children. I did my best to explain. He told me about his beliefs about the body and the spirit. He has become a member of the Lakota religion and goes to a sweat lodge inside the prison every Saturday. He said that in the intense heat, the spirit becomes distinct from the body for a short time. We talked at length about spirituality, and my rabid atheism. At times, he strayed into the realm of what I consider to be 'kookville', but I threw a few leading questions in, to see how far he would take it. He always stopped at the edge of looniness and offered a caveat that he had no proof, but was going on instinct. We wrangled with the question of life after death.

A prisoner sat at a small desk in the corner. He had a digital camera. Oliver proposed that we have a photo taken together to send to Leo. He could not accept my money, but agreed to let Oliver pay him later. We went into the carpeted alcove for the photo.

I invited him to visit me in Tucson when he gets out, but he said that he will be deported to Ireland immediately. He wants nothing more to do with the U.S. Government. Fair enough. He has a friend who will meet him in Ireland and help him get settled again.

As the time drew towards 3:00, our gaze was still locked. He informed me that I would be easy to hypnotize. He told me to count down from ten slowly, staring into his eyes. When I finished, he did the same. I locked into his gaze, and his face seemed to change. I saw age spots where there were none, then his face metamorphosed into what looked like an indigenous Mexican. Then told me to close my eyes. "Some flickering" he said. "What's the flickering?" I asked. He said that it is the eye movements from REM sleep.

"Visitation is over" announced the guard. We stood and hugged, and kissed, and hugged again. He thanked me for the visit and the intimacy. I said I would try to visit again over the Christmas break.

I left with the other visitors. A young black woman guard asked me if he was my husband. "No, just a friend." She raised an eyebrow.

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On Cecil Robinson's Death
by W. Edward Morgan
Oct 1990

Roar in my
pain demented head.

-------------------------

If I believed in such things, W. Edward Morgan would be my Godfather. He is the reason for my existence, and surpassed only by my mother's obstetrician in being my oldest friend... longest and most elderly.

Ed was the lawyer in the case of Elfbrandt v. Russel in the U.S. Supreme Court. The case challenged the requirement that public school teachers sign an oath of loyalty to the U.S. Government, including a statement that you were not a communist. Barbara Elfbrandt was a tenured teacher at that point, so she could not be fired for refusing to sign the oath, but the school refused to pay her. A community of supporters formed around Barbara and her husband to provide support for them while the challenge was working its way through the system. My parents met on the campaign, and the rest is history...

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Today is/was/woulda-been pred's birthday. Of course, it should have no significance now, since the 3rd anniversary of his death is June 4th. I wondered if I should do something predlike, or something to remember him by. But then I suddenly knew that he would rather I be able to forget him... to pass the day in blissful ignorance. This voice... this opinion... I know that it is him. It is my memory of him, but that is all I ever had anyway. You only know people by how your brain interprets their speech and behavior. It's like etching chemicals on glass... the more you know someone, the stronger the impression... but it is still just an impression. Pred's impression is fading every day, but there are scratches that will remain in my mind until I die. Those scratches _are_ him, even if they spell out: "go on and forget me, get on with yer life dude."

Like a scene from "The Life of Brian", my mind repeats the conversation. I just wanted him to know that he was very special to me and to many people, and a very hard person to forget. But he half laughed, half cried the reply as I cradled him on his last night at home. The morphine pills weren't helping anymore, and the trips from the bed to the hot bath kept him up all night. In the morning his father took him to the hospital for the last time.

"MOnday 24th. My birthday. I go to Edgecliffe to get more ascorbate shot up me then to Randwick to scream at my oncologist. I can't walk straight. I think I will have to end the log here since I am perpertually weak. I am dying. Goodbye.

<predator>"

I suppose a quick death was the best present he could have gotten. Well, happy bloody b'day, dude... and I _am_ getting on with my life, but I still won't forget you.

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So, kfish is in Japan, working for a renowned university. Right? I will present evidence, dear esteemed members of the jury, that kfish is swanning around with buxom blonde wenches who shade his delicate dome and is in fact riding motorbikes for Ducati!

Exhibit A:

The defense council will try and convince you that this is in fact a photo of Ducati rider, Gianluca Nannelli, that I ripped from a magazine while awaiting surgery. Do not fall for their attempts to confuse you and just let the photo do the talking.

Is this or is this not kfish? Answers here.

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The ligament was re-attached to my finger bone this morning and I'm now sitting at home with a cast up to my elbow. My right arm will be in some variety of this state for three months. This means:

- one handed typing (I'm right now cursing my complex passwords)

- only one hand for arse-slapping during sex

- No driving my car

- No riding my motorbike

As my motorbike is how I reach my clients, earning an income is going to be more challenging than rehab.

I've not had surgery or been under a general anesthetic since I was five. As someone who's stayed clear of amphetamines, I really, really, enjoyed going under. I just wish the come-on could have been drawn out a little more, rather than the "ooooh that feels nice hey look my arm is magically in plaster" experience that I had ;)

I'd tick the box and pay extra for that.

It was interesting to have the surgeon meet you pre-op, ask which finger it was then mark it with a big red permanent marker arrow and the words "this one"
;)

As I type this though, the local anesthetic in my hand is wearing of f and man, there's a sting in my finger.

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"In a time of almost vanilla everything, the stirrer spoon should go to anyone willing to put their head above the trench parapet of life and be stupid enough to go over the top. We are so humdrum in our lives. It is unfortunate that in our quest for consumption we have completely forgotten the concept of taste and proportion."

 Unfortunately there was no attribution to this quote (perhaps he/she were afraid to put their head above the trench parapet?). We are the most passive population in the world and this is not to our benefit.

Anyone care to join me going over the parapet? 

Speaking of consumption ;) I picked up Josh Pike's new album "Memories and Dust" the other day and I'm enjoying thoroughly. There's a few good gems on this album.

On Saturday, whilst playing football for my local aussie rules club, I had the good fortune to disconnect the tendon on my right-hand ring finger from said finger while tackling an opponent.

This has resulted in a finger that a) I can no longer control, b) has a habit of getting caught on things and c) makes riding my motorbike really, really challenging. These tendons have a habit of disappearing as far back as the shoulder but it appears mine is still in my hand.

Surgery: Thursday.

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While watching scooch represent the UK in last nights Eurovision song contest, I had an epiphany wherein I realised what I love most about the Eurovision song contest - Australia isn't in it.

I doubt I could find as much humour in Eurovision as I currently do if I had the trauma of watching some hideously cliched act represent Australia.

I want you all to close your eyes for a moment and imagine what an Australian act in Eurovision would look like. Once you've done that, I want you to go one step further and imagine what it would look like if we actually hosted it.

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Yay! Everybody jump up and down and rejoice! Smile! And remember...
at all times, all things are working together for good!

Ok... now that you're all happy, come help me stuff (no folding, thank
Dwight :), stamp, label and seal 3000 envelopes containing letters to
mostly white, relatively affluent Americans, begging for money so that
mostly brown, relatively poor Mexicans don't have to drink their own
urine :)

C'mon, it's a good cause and you know it! just 2 hours of your time
Saturday morning at 11:00 (late enough to sleep off a hangover) at St.
Mark's. I'll even bring danish and coffee :)

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I keep getting flashes of places in Sydney. I've been dreaming about it lately. Mostly places that I modelled in... perhaps because I was forced to study them in minute detail for 3 or 4 hours a week... Brandling St., a dusty, crude barn with an outdoor toilet and stuffy artists, but the only place with a rope hanging from the ceiling to use for balance and creative poses... The Royal Arse Society in Lavender Bay... more stuffy artists, but a nice room above the art gallery. Surprisingly one of the only studios that had any kind of lighting system. By far the most appreciative teachers and students...

And I think about places I frequented on my bike... the ride from the icecream factory to work and back, I must have done nearly a thousand times... I can still see the place where the path winds under the train tracks near Wolli Creek. Sometimes the path would be flooded, and it is near enough to the sea that the water is very salty. I rode through the water once and it nearly ruined my bike. Sand and salt got in everywhere. So if it was flooded, I had to turn around and ride over the tracks at Tempe train station. I remember riding past the abortion clinic every day. Some days there would be one little old lady out there with a sign, talking to women going in and out. That was something I loved about Australia... there was no real debate about abortion... the whole country seemed to agree that it was none of their business. There has been a rise in opposition in the last few years, but compared to this country, they are insignificant.

But this appeared recently on Sydney Indy, and I thought it was a brilliant description of my all time favorite place in Sydney: Newtown...

Kicks in Newtown
Submitted by Anonymous on Mon, 07/05/2007 - 14:58. Creative Writing | Sydney Basin | Features

Twisted Bent & Messy on an afternoon in Newtown

Its night time, almost naturally you could say. The night scene shifts into gear along King St. unperterbed and unshaken; It just comes – it wants to come. It strikes down, not like lightning or a waterfall, but like a jovial parade, eager and keen and always on the lookout for kicks.

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