Posts
As Alice's White Queen said, "I am trying to believe three impossible things before breakfast."
It is getting curiouser and curiouser.
I have asked about Facebook, Twitter, Plaxo and the other seemingly innocuous social type internet programs---and who is really behind them, what do they have to gain, do they harvest information about the members, is it all legit? I sniffed a sinister origin, and have asked many friends what they think and nobody seems to worry or even wonder about what comes their way on the net when asked to join or have been to confirm that Joe Blow wants to be a friend. Who can resist being a friend? Watch this little video below and if true will answer this question. What the hell, I am sure "they" have a dossier on me and have had one for a long time for I have been a rather mellow dissident and always have been a relatively harmless question-asker who nobody really should worry about.
Here’s a relevant video. I haven’t Snoped it yet, but I don’t always trust Snopes. This video answers my paranoia.
http://www.brasschecktv.com/page/603.html
With satellites that can track your every move, read the time on your wristwatch from miles above the earth, with tv cameras on street corners in major cities, with social security numbers, economic stress, environmental threats and terrorists, the coming identity card and even chip implants to assure you of your security and well being, we are already in a kind of cyber prison with invisible but impenetrable walls. We can run but we cannot hide any more.
But we must remind ourselves that we are immortal, eternal spiritual beings temporarily housed and even warehoused in this transportation and communication system of flesh that we are being more and more convinced is ourselves. This is a lie. We have been and are being implanted by electronic and ideas jammed in our heads through all the media and TV every day that we are weak and nothing, and have to worry about all this, but now our big brother is going to take care of us. where is this going? I think you thinkers know. Nowhere good. So rather than leave you with this doom message, which I have sworn never to do, I want you to know there is a way. Know thyself for who and what you are. Never think you are what they say you are or have become. You are your best friend. You are more powerful and good and greater than anyone every allowed you to think you are, and you, with your friends, can come together and defeat this oncoming blight by simply knowing who you are and your power is without limitation. "They" are cowards, hiding behind lies and terrified of you. Don't be fooled. Together, believing in ourselves and not in the lies that they want us to believe, we can kick their ass.
Lovingly
LDSledge
Maverick
Friday, May 8, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Voodoo Man
I haven't written anything for a while, so last night I decided I would write a little flash type fiction as fast as I could type, and I type very fast. I wrote this little story in around thirty minutes. I is a true story.
Voodoo Man
Our cook, Alonia, was a huge woman, weighing in at close to 300. She worked steady from seven in the morning until three and cooked everything “down.” What I mean by down is all meat was cooked in a gravy, and vegetables boiled right down to the bottom of the pot, but she was honest and faithful. And superstitious.
She wore a bandanna around her big round head and her eyes were bulging saucers, looking not unlike Hattie McDaniel in Gone With the Wind. I swear she must have copied the stereotype, she even looked and dressed like her, but in the forties all southern black domestics looked and dressed much the same as they did in the Civil War. Things and attitudes in the South had not changed much in the seventy five years since the war between the states was over.
I was ten years old in 1945 when Daddy came in and told Alonia that an old man by the name of Lazarus was in town and had been arrested as he got off the bus. I thought Hazel was going to faint when she heard the name.
“Mr. Laurie, you don’t mean Lazarus?”
“Little man, real dark complected, wears a black hat and got real black looking eyes.”
“Ooooweeee, she wheezed, looking all around. “That;’s the voodoo man--he real bad.”
Alonia lived in a little cabin in the pasture down below our house. She became very agitated.
“I ain’t goin’ to stay in that house tonight by myself,” she moaned.
“Don’t you worry, I am going down town to see what is going on.”
Daddy and I drove the half mile to our little village of Castor, Louisiana and arrived to see a scene like I had never seen before. We didn’t have any law in our little town, but there was the sheriff from Arcadia was standing by the bus with a long stick in his hand. A little black man was sitting on the ground with an open gash in his head that was gushing blood. There was blood all over his clothes and the ground around him.
An old suitcase stood open by the bus. It was brimming over with money. There were ones, fives, tens and twenty dollar bills, and a bunch of silver dimes and quarters.
There must have been two dozen people standing around, watching. I remember the scene, still frozen in time. This seemingly harmless old black man, sitting on the hard dirt under the shade of a big sycamore tree right at the low board porch of Tooke’s cafe, butcher shop and grocery. The deputy was a large white man with a star on his chest He held a three foot stick, which I assumed he had used to hit the old man in the head blood pouring out of the coal black curls on his head.
Daddy was Mayor. He spoke to the sheriff.
The deputy pointed at the suit case. “Sonofabitch been stealing from people think he is some kind of hoodoo man. There must be five thousand dollars in there,”
Our little town, with its four stores, two gas stations, cafe, barbershop, depot and post office had a railroad track running through the center had never had any crime that would require the sheriff to come to town. Being Saturday, the town was filled with people who came in on wagons filled with cotton to be ginned pulled by mules, old trucks, even an A-Model Ford or two was putt putting down the one street. A crowd had gathered, about half white and half black onlookers. The blacks were cowed back, some holding their hands over their mouths, eyes wide in fear, looking at the little man sitting on the ground. He looked harmless enough, but he was enough to terrify Alonia.
“What you gonna do with him?” Daddy asked.
“Gonna take him in. We been keepin’ track of him. Heard he was headed for Castor to do more of his mischief. Need to get somebody to stich him up first.”
About that time, my granddaddy, who was a dentist, walked up. He had a little case and he bent over the little man and dabbed the blood away from the cut on his head and, poured some alcohol straight in the cut. The little man let out a holler as the alcohol scalded through the bloody mass.
“Hold still,” Grandaddy said, pinching the edges of the cut between his thumb and forefinger and began sewing the hole closed. Then he rinsed it again with alcohol and stood up.
“There, that should do it till you get him to Arcadia,: he said, wiping the blood from his hands with a cloth he had taken from the bag.
The sheriff stood the little man on his feet and put cuffs on him, then tucked him in the back seat of the sheriff’s car. He then closed thesuitcase and put it in the trunk.
He drove away and the crowd commenced to talk excitedly. I heard one of the black people say “that’s a hoodoo man. He can put the mojo on you.”
“Steal you soul,” one said, “make a walkin’ dead man outta you. I seen it happen. He one bad man.”
“Creep around at night, steal souls,” another said.
One bug eyed woman, wearing a red bandanna and carrying a walking stick said, “You can buy a spell from him and put the gris-gris on somebody. He burn candles an’ make spells. They work. I seen it happen.”
She went on, herself supposed to be a hoodoo woman who could do spells herself, “you listen tonight at nidnight, and see if a rooster don’t crow and a mockinbird don’t sing, and see if somebody don’t die hereabouts. He done took another one.”
A tall black man wearing overalls with no shirt under the galluses said, “He got all that money from the devil. He sold them souls to the devil. That Satan money we just seen.”
Daddy shook his head and smiled at me. I was wide eyed myself, listening to all this talk from this group of terrified men and women. The white people listened, though they avowed they didn’t believe in that, they were listening, very quietly.
Daddy moved back toward the car and we went home. He told Alonia what had happened.
“Wooie, Mr. Laurie, I am so glad that man is gone from here. Wherever he goes somebody dies, and he always has lots of money. Said he steals souls and sells them to the devil.”
I looked at daddy. He shook his head, and said” son don’t worry about that, ain’t nothing gonna happen.”
That night, a rooster crowed at midnight and a mockingbird sang in the plum orchard below the house. I slept upstairs with the windows open and I remember it was a full moon and that rooster crowed. And also, a dog howled. My skin crawled.
The next day I heard that Miz Skinner, the old maid that lived by herself in the big old house by the railroad, had died during the night.
Voodoo Man
Our cook, Alonia, was a huge woman, weighing in at close to 300. She worked steady from seven in the morning until three and cooked everything “down.” What I mean by down is all meat was cooked in a gravy, and vegetables boiled right down to the bottom of the pot, but she was honest and faithful. And superstitious.
She wore a bandanna around her big round head and her eyes were bulging saucers, looking not unlike Hattie McDaniel in Gone With the Wind. I swear she must have copied the stereotype, she even looked and dressed like her, but in the forties all southern black domestics looked and dressed much the same as they did in the Civil War. Things and attitudes in the South had not changed much in the seventy five years since the war between the states was over.
I was ten years old in 1945 when Daddy came in and told Alonia that an old man by the name of Lazarus was in town and had been arrested as he got off the bus. I thought Hazel was going to faint when she heard the name.
“Mr. Laurie, you don’t mean Lazarus?”
“Little man, real dark complected, wears a black hat and got real black looking eyes.”
“Ooooweeee, she wheezed, looking all around. “That;’s the voodoo man--he real bad.”
Alonia lived in a little cabin in the pasture down below our house. She became very agitated.
“I ain’t goin’ to stay in that house tonight by myself,” she moaned.
“Don’t you worry, I am going down town to see what is going on.”
Daddy and I drove the half mile to our little village of Castor, Louisiana and arrived to see a scene like I had never seen before. We didn’t have any law in our little town, but there was the sheriff from Arcadia was standing by the bus with a long stick in his hand. A little black man was sitting on the ground with an open gash in his head that was gushing blood. There was blood all over his clothes and the ground around him.
An old suitcase stood open by the bus. It was brimming over with money. There were ones, fives, tens and twenty dollar bills, and a bunch of silver dimes and quarters.
There must have been two dozen people standing around, watching. I remember the scene, still frozen in time. This seemingly harmless old black man, sitting on the hard dirt under the shade of a big sycamore tree right at the low board porch of Tooke’s cafe, butcher shop and grocery. The deputy was a large white man with a star on his chest He held a three foot stick, which I assumed he had used to hit the old man in the head blood pouring out of the coal black curls on his head.
Daddy was Mayor. He spoke to the sheriff.
The deputy pointed at the suit case. “Sonofabitch been stealing from people think he is some kind of hoodoo man. There must be five thousand dollars in there,”
Our little town, with its four stores, two gas stations, cafe, barbershop, depot and post office had a railroad track running through the center had never had any crime that would require the sheriff to come to town. Being Saturday, the town was filled with people who came in on wagons filled with cotton to be ginned pulled by mules, old trucks, even an A-Model Ford or two was putt putting down the one street. A crowd had gathered, about half white and half black onlookers. The blacks were cowed back, some holding their hands over their mouths, eyes wide in fear, looking at the little man sitting on the ground. He looked harmless enough, but he was enough to terrify Alonia.
“What you gonna do with him?” Daddy asked.
“Gonna take him in. We been keepin’ track of him. Heard he was headed for Castor to do more of his mischief. Need to get somebody to stich him up first.”
About that time, my granddaddy, who was a dentist, walked up. He had a little case and he bent over the little man and dabbed the blood away from the cut on his head and, poured some alcohol straight in the cut. The little man let out a holler as the alcohol scalded through the bloody mass.
“Hold still,” Grandaddy said, pinching the edges of the cut between his thumb and forefinger and began sewing the hole closed. Then he rinsed it again with alcohol and stood up.
“There, that should do it till you get him to Arcadia,: he said, wiping the blood from his hands with a cloth he had taken from the bag.
The sheriff stood the little man on his feet and put cuffs on him, then tucked him in the back seat of the sheriff’s car. He then closed thesuitcase and put it in the trunk.
He drove away and the crowd commenced to talk excitedly. I heard one of the black people say “that’s a hoodoo man. He can put the mojo on you.”
“Steal you soul,” one said, “make a walkin’ dead man outta you. I seen it happen. He one bad man.”
“Creep around at night, steal souls,” another said.
One bug eyed woman, wearing a red bandanna and carrying a walking stick said, “You can buy a spell from him and put the gris-gris on somebody. He burn candles an’ make spells. They work. I seen it happen.”
She went on, herself supposed to be a hoodoo woman who could do spells herself, “you listen tonight at nidnight, and see if a rooster don’t crow and a mockinbird don’t sing, and see if somebody don’t die hereabouts. He done took another one.”
A tall black man wearing overalls with no shirt under the galluses said, “He got all that money from the devil. He sold them souls to the devil. That Satan money we just seen.”
Daddy shook his head and smiled at me. I was wide eyed myself, listening to all this talk from this group of terrified men and women. The white people listened, though they avowed they didn’t believe in that, they were listening, very quietly.
Daddy moved back toward the car and we went home. He told Alonia what had happened.
“Wooie, Mr. Laurie, I am so glad that man is gone from here. Wherever he goes somebody dies, and he always has lots of money. Said he steals souls and sells them to the devil.”
I looked at daddy. He shook his head, and said” son don’t worry about that, ain’t nothing gonna happen.”
That night, a rooster crowed at midnight and a mockingbird sang in the plum orchard below the house. I slept upstairs with the windows open and I remember it was a full moon and that rooster crowed. And also, a dog howled. My skin crawled.
The next day I heard that Miz Skinner, the old maid that lived by herself in the big old house by the railroad, had died during the night.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Storm On The Gulf
Morning Storm On The Gulf
Omigod, this is one of those glorious spring days here on the gulf in Palm Harbor, eight miles from Clearwater. It is 6:30 a.m., and a storm hits with wind whipping the palms and big oaks, lightning and sky splitting thunder. It’s dark and threatening out there. My windows are open so I can feel the damp wind and occasionally a cold drop blown through the screen. The world smells rich and loamy, and the morning full of energy with the incessant rolling thunder, rain beating the roof, slashing of the limbs on the big oaks in their frenzied dance, and flicker of light through the dark jungle of my back yard from the lightning far above. The sky darkens and there is a riot of motion and sound everywhere, crashing fronds and frantic trees doing their prayer dance to the great storm god as the torrents pour from the heavens amid a shrieking climax of thunder and lightning. My backyard rain forest of palms, ferns, white bird palms, drink the warm downpour in a joyful feast of life as the storm peaks in an exultant climax with a huge drumroll in the sky, and I can feel the storm dissipating and moving inland, carrying with it the greatest orchestra of all in a traveling show that leaves a quietening here, distant thunder, the limbs and fronds now slowing to small dances in the zephyrs and my world and yard are sated and smiling a thank you for today’s blessing. Now there is only a steady gentle rain soothing my garden, me, my world in a post climatic peace. The world has made love.
Omigod, this is one of those glorious spring days here on the gulf in Palm Harbor, eight miles from Clearwater. It is 6:30 a.m., and a storm hits with wind whipping the palms and big oaks, lightning and sky splitting thunder. It’s dark and threatening out there. My windows are open so I can feel the damp wind and occasionally a cold drop blown through the screen. The world smells rich and loamy, and the morning full of energy with the incessant rolling thunder, rain beating the roof, slashing of the limbs on the big oaks in their frenzied dance, and flicker of light through the dark jungle of my back yard from the lightning far above. The sky darkens and there is a riot of motion and sound everywhere, crashing fronds and frantic trees doing their prayer dance to the great storm god as the torrents pour from the heavens amid a shrieking climax of thunder and lightning. My backyard rain forest of palms, ferns, white bird palms, drink the warm downpour in a joyful feast of life as the storm peaks in an exultant climax with a huge drumroll in the sky, and I can feel the storm dissipating and moving inland, carrying with it the greatest orchestra of all in a traveling show that leaves a quietening here, distant thunder, the limbs and fronds now slowing to small dances in the zephyrs and my world and yard are sated and smiling a thank you for today’s blessing. Now there is only a steady gentle rain soothing my garden, me, my world in a post climatic peace. The world has made love.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Responsibility
"No man is an island, entire of itself; every
man is a piece of the continent, a part of the
main. If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory
were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or
of thine own were: any man's death diminishes
me, because I am involved in mankind, and
therefore never send to know for whom the bells
tolls; it tolls for thee."
John Donne
Devotions upon
Emergent Occasions, no. 17
(Meditation)
1624 (published)
I was a courtroom lawyer for forty three years. I told my juries that what they did that day in their verdict would create many effects unknown to them. It was like dropping a pebble in a pool, and the ripples spread out to touch every inch of the pool’s edges. You never know what effect your act or omission today has on someone far away, even unknown. My words spoken long ago have come back to me in the mouths of strangers, most of whom have reported having been happily changed, bemused or even enlightened. I never heard of those bad things I may have done or said, and what changes they evoked. I am sure they are there, in abundance.
Responsibility in its broadest definition doesn’t mean blame; it contains an essence that elevates one who is responsible to a state far above that of the human, but including human. It means one who is willing and able to be at cause over every phase of his life, the lives of others, and all things sentient and non sentient in the universe. A fully responsible man would literally be a God.
Life is tough. Man is ill equipped physically and mentally to handle things that come his way on a regular basis. Growing up in a world that believes in force as its means of survival seems to require that one use force, when understanding would resolve any conflict. Man wants to be happy, and feels he must fight to survive, and meaning well sometimes steps on others toes in the process, bumps them in the crowd, says and does stupid hurtful things to his friends, spouse, children. These insults affect the lives of those who received them, and they repeat them, like echoes.
I was a Boy Scout and active in the Scouts with my sons. Their Pledge is one of taking responsibility for self and others. It means more than just being helpful. It means giving service and exchange in abundance, giving more value than one receives. This oath and the definition of responsibility represents the spiritual ideal of mankind: Love of one another.
It is so easy to communicate through a smile, a nod, a friendly acknowledgement. Most people have never been acknowledged for who they are or what they do. It is so easy to say, “Hey, you are looking terrific today.” Find something you truly admire about that kid, man, lady, nearby while you stand in line at the market or bank and sincerely tell him or her about it. There is always something. Emerson said, “Every man is in some way superior to me, and in that I can learn from him.” One thing you can get from that guy in line is a smile, for he is burdened, you can count on it. You can move him out of it for just a moment, and that may be enough to get him through the day. You get it back double over.
I noticed that when most clients brought their kids in, they didn’t introduce them. Kids are adults that have not achieved full growth, and probably have never been acknowledged as a person. I would squat by the kid, offer my hand (not some shallow high five) but a real handshake as I looked him right in the eye, being really sincere, and said, “I’m L.D., what’s your name?” He would tell me. I would say that I was glad to meet him, and really meant it. You could tell he knew it, for he would brighten up. In a short time he would be hanging on my leg or wanting to sit in my lap or tell me something important about his day. I would let him and listen. Usually the parents were amazed that their kid had opened up like that to a stranger—and to a lawyer at that! That kid would go away realizing he was worthy.
I am responsible for you, though I don’t know you. You are part of the fabric of my universe, and when I see you we will know one another, for we are somehow kindred spirits. And if you just cut a few of the little threads holding yourself, you will know and show that you love me and I love you. That is the way things should be. That is responsibility.
“Don’t send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
man is a piece of the continent, a part of the
main. If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory
were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or
of thine own were: any man's death diminishes
me, because I am involved in mankind, and
therefore never send to know for whom the bells
tolls; it tolls for thee."
John Donne
Devotions upon
Emergent Occasions, no. 17
(Meditation)
1624 (published)
I was a courtroom lawyer for forty three years. I told my juries that what they did that day in their verdict would create many effects unknown to them. It was like dropping a pebble in a pool, and the ripples spread out to touch every inch of the pool’s edges. You never know what effect your act or omission today has on someone far away, even unknown. My words spoken long ago have come back to me in the mouths of strangers, most of whom have reported having been happily changed, bemused or even enlightened. I never heard of those bad things I may have done or said, and what changes they evoked. I am sure they are there, in abundance.
Responsibility in its broadest definition doesn’t mean blame; it contains an essence that elevates one who is responsible to a state far above that of the human, but including human. It means one who is willing and able to be at cause over every phase of his life, the lives of others, and all things sentient and non sentient in the universe. A fully responsible man would literally be a God.
Life is tough. Man is ill equipped physically and mentally to handle things that come his way on a regular basis. Growing up in a world that believes in force as its means of survival seems to require that one use force, when understanding would resolve any conflict. Man wants to be happy, and feels he must fight to survive, and meaning well sometimes steps on others toes in the process, bumps them in the crowd, says and does stupid hurtful things to his friends, spouse, children. These insults affect the lives of those who received them, and they repeat them, like echoes.
I was a Boy Scout and active in the Scouts with my sons. Their Pledge is one of taking responsibility for self and others. It means more than just being helpful. It means giving service and exchange in abundance, giving more value than one receives. This oath and the definition of responsibility represents the spiritual ideal of mankind: Love of one another.
It is so easy to communicate through a smile, a nod, a friendly acknowledgement. Most people have never been acknowledged for who they are or what they do. It is so easy to say, “Hey, you are looking terrific today.” Find something you truly admire about that kid, man, lady, nearby while you stand in line at the market or bank and sincerely tell him or her about it. There is always something. Emerson said, “Every man is in some way superior to me, and in that I can learn from him.” One thing you can get from that guy in line is a smile, for he is burdened, you can count on it. You can move him out of it for just a moment, and that may be enough to get him through the day. You get it back double over.
I noticed that when most clients brought their kids in, they didn’t introduce them. Kids are adults that have not achieved full growth, and probably have never been acknowledged as a person. I would squat by the kid, offer my hand (not some shallow high five) but a real handshake as I looked him right in the eye, being really sincere, and said, “I’m L.D., what’s your name?” He would tell me. I would say that I was glad to meet him, and really meant it. You could tell he knew it, for he would brighten up. In a short time he would be hanging on my leg or wanting to sit in my lap or tell me something important about his day. I would let him and listen. Usually the parents were amazed that their kid had opened up like that to a stranger—and to a lawyer at that! That kid would go away realizing he was worthy.
I am responsible for you, though I don’t know you. You are part of the fabric of my universe, and when I see you we will know one another, for we are somehow kindred spirits. And if you just cut a few of the little threads holding yourself, you will know and show that you love me and I love you. That is the way things should be. That is responsibility.
“Don’t send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Random
This is a randomized blog, written on the 24th of March 09.
I googled myself and found the following article that I had written in the mid eighties. I was asked by OSA to go to a convention in San Francisco onTorts and Religion. There had been a rash of lawsuits against churches and the convention was packed with religious representatives of every description: Moonies, Hare Krishnas, Baptists, Methodists, Presbyterians, Catholics, Scientologists, Buddhists, etc. The cult of psychiatry was there represented by "Dr." Jolly West, of University of Southern Cal., who was reputed to have killed the university's pet elephant by drugging it with too much LSD. Tim McNamara, an old frat bro (TEKE) from LSU was there representing the Catholic Church from Lafayette, Louisiana. That was a period when the very first lawsuits were developing against priests for sexual abuse, and suits against evangelists for hustling too much money from converts. One church had all of its churches and branches closed in the northeast from a judgment of millions, saying the convert was brainwished and should not have donated that money.
I wrote a piece and sent it to many ministers, warning them of what was coming.
http://www.helium.com/items/989269-torts-religion-and-the-menace-of-psychiatry
I learned that many ministers, to be ordained, must take a course psychology, and in some cases had to be psychoanalyzed. Now this is such an extraordinary thing. Psychiatry does not believe in God or the spirit of man. On top of that, if a penitent confesses suicidal intent, then the priest or confessor much refer them to a psych or if not, his church can be suit if suicide does result for not sending the person to a psych. So what is a religion purporting to represent God doing referring its parishioners to a cult/business---for it is not medicine and cannot rank out there with medical doctors---in the first place. What is it doing consorting with these cretins in requiring their sanction in order to be men and women of god?
Here's some information that may be useful:
FIRST
Emergency
The Emergency Number worldwide for Mobile is 112. If you find Yourself out of the coverage area of your mobile network and there is an Emergency, dial 112 and the mobile will search any existing network to Establish the emergency number for you, and interestingly, this number 112 can be dialed even if the keypad is locked. Try it out.
SECOND
Have you locked your keys in the car?
Does your car have remote keyless entry? This may come in handy someday. Good reason to own a cell phone: If you lock your keys In the car and the spare keys are at home, call someone at home on their cell phone from your cell phone. Hold your cell phone about a foot >From your car door and have the person at your home press the unlock button, holding it near the mobile phone on their end. Your car will unlock. Saves someone from having to drive your keys to you. Distance is no object. You could be hundreds of miles away, and if you can reach someone who has the other 'remote' for your car, you can unlock the doors (or the trunk).
Editor's Note: It works fine! We tried it out and it unlocked our car over a cell phone!'
THIRD
Hidden Battery Power
Imagine your cell battery is very low. To activate, press the keys *3370#. Your cell phone will restart with this reserve and the instrument will show a 50% increase in battery. This reserve will get charged when you charge your cell phone next time.
FOURTH
How to disable a STOLEN mobile phone?
To check your Mobile phone's serial number, key in the following Digits on your phone: *#06#. A 15-digit code will appear on the screen. This number is unique to your handset. Write it down and keep it somewhere safe.
If your phone gets stolen, you can phone your service provider and give them this code. They will then be able to block your handset so even if the thief changes the SIM card, your phone will be totally useless. You probably won't get your phone back, but at least you know that whoever stole it can't use/sell it either. If everybody does this, there would be no point in people stealing mobile phones.
And Finally.
FIFTH
Free Directory Service for Cells
Cell phone companies are charging us $1.00 to $1.75 or more for 411 information calls when they don't have to. Most of us do not carry a telephone directory in our vehicle, which makes this situation even more of a problem. When you need to use the 411 information option, simply dial: (800)FREE411, or (800)
"Making love to a woman--an activity full of delights, but none of them predictable and the best of them capable of inflicting grievous injury on a man.
I googled myself and found the following article that I had written in the mid eighties. I was asked by OSA to go to a convention in San Francisco onTorts and Religion. There had been a rash of lawsuits against churches and the convention was packed with religious representatives of every description: Moonies, Hare Krishnas, Baptists, Methodists, Presbyterians, Catholics, Scientologists, Buddhists, etc. The cult of psychiatry was there represented by "Dr." Jolly West, of University of Southern Cal., who was reputed to have killed the university's pet elephant by drugging it with too much LSD. Tim McNamara, an old frat bro (TEKE) from LSU was there representing the Catholic Church from Lafayette, Louisiana. That was a period when the very first lawsuits were developing against priests for sexual abuse, and suits against evangelists for hustling too much money from converts. One church had all of its churches and branches closed in the northeast from a judgment of millions, saying the convert was brainwished and should not have donated that money.
I wrote a piece and sent it to many ministers, warning them of what was coming.
http://www.helium.com/items/989269-torts-religion-and-the-menace-of-psychiatry
I learned that many ministers, to be ordained, must take a course psychology, and in some cases had to be psychoanalyzed. Now this is such an extraordinary thing. Psychiatry does not believe in God or the spirit of man. On top of that, if a penitent confesses suicidal intent, then the priest or confessor much refer them to a psych or if not, his church can be suit if suicide does result for not sending the person to a psych. So what is a religion purporting to represent God doing referring its parishioners to a cult/business---for it is not medicine and cannot rank out there with medical doctors---in the first place. What is it doing consorting with these cretins in requiring their sanction in order to be men and women of god?
Here's some information that may be useful:
FIRST
Emergency
The Emergency Number worldwide for Mobile is 112. If you find Yourself out of the coverage area of your mobile network and there is an Emergency, dial 112 and the mobile will search any existing network to Establish the emergency number for you, and interestingly, this number 112 can be dialed even if the keypad is locked. Try it out.
SECOND
Have you locked your keys in the car?
Does your car have remote keyless entry? This may come in handy someday. Good reason to own a cell phone: If you lock your keys In the car and the spare keys are at home, call someone at home on their cell phone from your cell phone. Hold your cell phone about a foot >From your car door and have the person at your home press the unlock button, holding it near the mobile phone on their end. Your car will unlock. Saves someone from having to drive your keys to you. Distance is no object. You could be hundreds of miles away, and if you can reach someone who has the other 'remote' for your car, you can unlock the doors (or the trunk).
Editor's Note: It works fine! We tried it out and it unlocked our car over a cell phone!'
THIRD
Hidden Battery Power
Imagine your cell battery is very low. To activate, press the keys *3370#. Your cell phone will restart with this reserve and the instrument will show a 50% increase in battery. This reserve will get charged when you charge your cell phone next time.
FOURTH
How to disable a STOLEN mobile phone?
To check your Mobile phone's serial number, key in the following Digits on your phone: *#06#. A 15-digit code will appear on the screen. This number is unique to your handset. Write it down and keep it somewhere safe.
If your phone gets stolen, you can phone your service provider and give them this code. They will then be able to block your handset so even if the thief changes the SIM card, your phone will be totally useless. You probably won't get your phone back, but at least you know that whoever stole it can't use/sell it either. If everybody does this, there would be no point in people stealing mobile phones.
And Finally.
FIFTH
Free Directory Service for Cells
Cell phone companies are charging us $1.00 to $1.75 or more for 411 information calls when they don't have to. Most of us do not carry a telephone directory in our vehicle, which makes this situation even more of a problem. When you need to use the 411 information option, simply dial: (800)FREE411, or (800)
"Making love to a woman--an activity full of delights, but none of them predictable and the best of them capable of inflicting grievous injury on a man.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Right there in front of my nose
In my quest for defining and locating the Supreme Being, I knew it was not an entity cast in the beingness of man. It is the allness of all. So what does that mean? Just what it says, it is everything everywhere.. And I am in the center of it all. This beingness is not just connected, it IS everything. The very molecules of air that circulate around and in my body, in this pen I grasp, and in the nupernova in a nebula that I have never heard of trillions of light years away. All. Unimaginably, all.
Sitting in my car with the seat kicked back, ready to nap (poco reposa in Italian) with the windows open, the cool breezes from the gulf ruffling the scruffs of hair I have managed to grow on the circumference of my head, I looked into the tangled bare limbs of the tree above, and realized that they were perfect. The bark on the tree was perfection, then it dawned on me that everything was perfection, in perfect coordination and balance with everything else.
I tried to conceive of what kind of mind that could create that leaf dancing in the breeze above my head. This is beyond belief, but it was made, it was not just grown out of some sea of ammonia. Perhaps it all evolved through some implacable force that ruled out the inferior and allowed only the winning superior to survive and reproduce, constantly squeezing out the losers, now we have the winners today but tomorrow they may be squashed in the remorseless advance of evolution toward a better leaf, tree, squirrel. But it was made ultimately by intelligence and not by accident. That would be all too improbable.
So I decided to mock up a prayer:
Oh thou great intelligence, now that I know you are there and where you are, I ask of you, what may I brace myself against to hold the line? It is so like lifting myself by my bootstraps. I know that I am responsible, ultimately, for all. And in seeking more responsibility, I am forever pushing to remove the stain within that flaws me. I now know that it is simply ethics, but how do I change me? How may I atone for my excesses and for my omissions, for my failure to act when I should have acted, for the gnawing in my loins and struggles within that must be quietened to fit this society of man, so I may do no harm, and serve others.
I am about to go to sleep, and now, after knowing you, I rest, in your arms. I am safe. I know you are only good, and will do no harm. You are my best friend. I am a mirror of you, under the mask I wear that reflects the conflict I lived before I knew that we are one.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Daybreak
It is still dark, though it is seven A.M. There is a vague hint that morning is imminent, the light is changing, the leaves of my oak are particularizing, coming out of hiding in the night, awakening, changing from an umber mass to individuate themselves in the graying light.I welcome the new challenge of the day. I have plans but have kept from myself what will really happen, so I can have mystery and game. I will rise and stretch, exercise, coffee, break the fast and then get on my motorcycle and attend to things on my list.
What is next? What joy will I feast on in the coming hours? It is up to me.
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