The Beginning of a Disaster

I went shopping for a Gerbil one day. I did that because I found a loose Gerbil in the hallway and put it in the aquarium pending owner identification. The Gerbil was fun to watch. Next day the owners showed up and claimed the Gerbil. I missed the Gerbil and went to the pet shop looking for a new Gerbil. The girl at the pet shop suggested a Rat instead of a Gerbil because (she said) Rats were much more intelligent and loving than Gerbils. So I bought a Rat. I named the Rat, 'Rat.'

She turned out to be a female. I enjoyed watching her do her thing in her glass cage. One day I took Rat out of her aquarium and put her on the couch next to me. She immediately hid herself under one of the cushions. Then, several minutes later as I watched tv, she 'attacked' my left hand from under the cushion. She was obviously playing with me!

This led to a relationship. She became my pet willingly. I took her out of the glass cage more and more often to play. Then one day as I stroked her she arched her butt up and shivered violently in my hand. I realized immediately that she had had an orgasm and that I had had sex with a Rat. I felt honored of course (nothing against you human females!), but it seemed to me that what we were doing was somehow unnatural. I thought that this female Rat was 'ready for Freddy.'

So I went to the pet shop and bought a male Rat. I named the male Rat, 'Freddy,' and I named the female rat, 'Wilma.' Fred and Wilma. Then I put Fred and Wilma in the aquarium together.
They were overjoyed. This was the beginning of a disaster.

I Have Raised Lots of Rats

Now that you have had time to think about tonight's word salad I will explain so that you will be able to rate yourselves:

The salad begins with a serving of pills to treat alcoholism and possibly masturbation leading to a cure for circumcision. Princess Masako is a glorious woman in the clutches of a feudal society whereas Kootch is somewhat more liberated than I would prefer. The Democratic Convention in Beantown was interesting at best. Horney animals should be given space, especially whales. Rats, of the other hand, can be handled horney with relative impunity. I know this because I have raised lots of rats.

Today is Your Lucky Day

Tonight's word salad reads as follows: Pill for masturbation Alcoholism might replace circumcision Princess Masako unliberated Kootch liberated too dam Well Democratic scripted Convention horney rats and whales mean disaster.

Did you get that? No? Maybe I will clarify later.

Playing chess stoned inspired me to grow some of my own, because I was too paranoid to trust other people's drugs. I dug out a teaspoonfull of Columbian Gold seeds from the freezer and sandwiched them inside a damp paper towel. Then I bought some potting soil from K-Mart, plus three big planters and some neon gro-lights. The seeds rose on the third day and I planted them in the three planters and turned on the lights and left them on 24 hours a day, in the walk-in closet. A few months later after a bit of trimming I had three handsome six foot Ganja plants suitable for harvesting. I did not attempt to force 'flowering' because I was satisfied with weak weed. When they were ready I skinned all the leaves off the plants, put them in a large container, and shredded them with a giant scissors. Then I let them dry out, turning the mass once a day until they were all fluff. Then I put the stuff into a plastic bag and stuffed it into the freezer and went in search of a head shop.

I found one in Aurora and bought a nice bong with a big bowl. I took the bong home and filled it with hot water. Then I stuffed the bowl full of freezer stuff and lit up. Not bad! I may have taken the bong and some of the Ganja to the DCC on one or two Friday nights, may not... I don't remember. But what I ended up with was about .5 cubic feet of passable pot which lasted me for several years.

Pot is illegal, of course, and therefore I do not recommend it. Note that.

But just between you and me I consider the judicious mixture of alcohol and marijuana to be the sweetest most innocuous high available. In fact I have had quite a few 'mystical experiences' using that combination. Do you know what a 'mystical experience' is? No? You only go to church? Then today is your lucky day.

Various drugs have been used to induce religious (mystical) experiences for thousands of years. It is my opinion (and the opinion of others) that the human impulse to believe in supernatural stuff had its origin in the drug experience thousands of years ago. The ancient Greeks, for example, did an analog of LSD. The Southwest Indians did Peyote, another 'hallucinogen.' (Pot is a mild hallucinogen). And I could go on and on but you get the idea. (If you are not connecting with this and Billy Graham is your idea of a mystical experience then flee!)

I want to tell you that you can overdo a mystical experience. I have done that more than once. If you drink too much beer and inhale too much Ganja you will have a very long night on the couch hoping you will not throw up. So I would advise you to approach the subject carefully over time. A mystical experience is not to be taken lightly.

Stoned Barracudas

Tournament games were usually played on Wednesday night. Friday night was blitz night. In a blitz game the players each had 5 minutes to play the entire game. The first player to run out of time lost no matter what, so it was easy to play an entire tournament in one evening. Some of the players would bring beer, making an interesting evening even more interesting. There was a small entry fee which was awarded to the winners at the close of play, then some of the players would stay, drinking beer and playing more blitz. I was shocked, shocked, when one of el fisho's Jewish friends brought some pot one night. Several of us, already slightly buzzed by the beer, took a hit or two of the pot and continued to play blitz, slightly stoned - which is a very interesting experience because one of the effects of pot is time distortion: time seems to slow down; blitz games seem to last forever. Pot also decreases aggression, hence the phrase, 'mellowed out.' The sight of a bunch of chess barracudas playing blitz stoned is hilarious, especially if you are one of them.

El fisho never attended these later sessions (having an image to nurture) though I have no doubt he knew they took place (I even wrote on the back of one of my scoresheets that I thought he had the club bugged). He would play occasionally play in the tournament but tended to leave early after a string of defeats.

One or two or the players objected to having to breathe the smoke, fearing they might flunk a drug test, so we would do the pot outside in one of the cars, then return to the club. These little parties would often go past midnight. Then the beer would run out, the munchies would set in and the pizza would arrive. Party over.

 

Well, Maybe

Just as the DCC had its 'resident fish,' so to say, it also had its 'resident master.' This guy dominated the club, winning most of the club's tournaments. He usually defeated me too, of course. So whenever I played him I played in 'self-defense;' I played to draw. I think I achieved exactly one tournament draw with this dude. This is it, played on 2-11-87. I have white.

 1. d4           g6
 2. e4           Bg7
 3. Nc3        d6
 4. f4           Nf6
 5. Nf3        O-O
 6. Be2        c5
 7. dc5         Qa5
 8. O-O       Qc5+
 9. Kh8        Nc6
10. h3          a6
11. a3           b5
12. Qd3       Qa7
13. Be3        Qb7
14. Nd4        Bd7
15. Bf3         Nd4
16. Bd4        Bc6
17. Rae1       Rfd8
18. Nd5        e5
19. Bc3         Bd5
20. ed5         ec4
21. Qd2        g5
22. g3           Qd7
23. Kh2        Qf5
24. gf             gf
25. Rg1         Kh8
26. Rg7         Kg7
27. Qd4         Rdc8
28. Rg1+       Kf8
29. Qf6          Qf6
30. Bf6           Rc2+
31. Rg2           Rac8
32. Be4           Rg2+
33. Kg2           draw agreed

I offered the draw which he immediately accepted. I used one hour and 23 minutes; he used one hour and ten minutes. The time control was 40/90, so I had 7 minutes to play 7 more moves and could easily have pressed for the win. My notes on the back of the scoresheet read, in part, '(He) became more and more uncomfortable as the game progressed. I loved it!' A last note dated 5-30-91 reads, 'White should win easily! You idiot!'

Well, maybe.

 

A Hit Man Comes to Denver

Chess was not the only reason I played, of course. My other motive was to scope out 'el fisho' in an attempt to understand more clearly what was going on and what might be his 'problem' with me. I soon learned that he was quite sensitive about his low chess rating. I suspected him of bringing in beginners or low-rated players for the sole purpose of defeating them in tournament games. I also suspected him of 'bribing' and/or 'threatening' (subtly of course) other players to lose or draw. He definitely tried to distract me in obvious ways several times during my own tournament games. At the time, my working theory for his behavior was 'Jewish Penis Envy' - I still had no clue about obsessional people or stalkers - so I was not surprised by his obvious 'ratings envy;' in fact I was gratified by it.

I've been reviewing my games from that period and (boom) three of them stand out. Those games puzzled me at the time but they now make sense. They were all played in round one; they were all rated tournament games; I had the white pieces in all three games; I had the same opponent in all three games; the opponent was officially a fish, in fact, even more of a fish than el fisho himself. The scoresheet for the first game shows my rating at 2003 and him unrated. The game ended in an 81 move draw. I chalked the result up to 'underestimation' and vowed to 'crush him next time' (this according to my notes on back of the scoresheet). He went on to lose the rest of his games for that month (we played one tournament game per week).

Next month we were paired again in round one. The scoresheet shows my rating at 2030, his still unrated. He won that game, then went on to lose (or draw) the rest of his games as usual. 

We were paired in round one yet again in the next rournament and he won that game also. My scoresheet for the game shows my rating at 2000 and his at 1450. I wrote on the back of the scoresheet, 'Saiki plays like a fish except against me. I decided to withdraw from chess for a while. The DCC gives me the willies.' That was 8-5-87. I continued to do the unrated blitz games on Saturday nights until the club disbanded. More on this tomorrow.

Nowadays I understand that Saiki was a chessic 'hit man' brought into the club by el fisho for the sole purpose of taking large chunks out of my chess rating. In real life he was a master or expert, probably from out of state. They may have flown him in once a week, or they may have simply paid his expenses for three or four months. I don't recall whether he was 'oriental-looking' but his name sounded Japanese-ish to me, so I asked kootch this morning whether she had ever heard the name, sah-ee-kee. She replied in the negative, but said the name sounded like 'Psyche.' Bingo! The guy's first name was Mark: Mark Psyche! And he did just that. I wonder how much they paid him...  

  

   

 

Power and Control

I played a lot of chess at the DCC in '86-'87, improving all the time. My chess rating peaked in '87 at over 2000 (expert class). Not long after that the DCC 'lost its lease' in the basement of the Capitol Hill Community Center and temporarily 'disappeared.' I am sure 'the fish' (BOOM) was responsible for that because he dominated the 'politics' and also the treasury of the club. Almost certainly one of the reasons for this temporary disbandment was my success - and by contrast - his failure. He would continue to exercise similar power at the DCC through much of the '90s.

For example, on two different occasions, when I decided (after weeks or months of inactivity) to return to play a little chess at the club I would arrive there only to find that the club had suddenly moved (that same night!) to a new location. And 'the fish' suddenly developed a sense of class during the McVeigh trial and had the club moved to a downtown location with a view. He had previously preferred basements and the back rooms of VFW 'bars.' (Some of the players would gather in the bar for a few beers after the tournament games but I was not one of them. I preferred to go home and analyze the game at my leisure with my own beer.)

When the 'excitement' of the trial was over he moved the club to an obscure location a few miles away, 'suddenly.' In fact, the classy downtown location turned out to be a case of, 'suddenly in,' and 'suddenly out.' The fish had power and control of the club; unfortunately he had no power and control at the club in the sense of being able to dominate other players over the board. 

 

Denver's Most Famous Fish

I met this sucker at the Denver Chess Club sometime in the winter of '75-'76. I remember the meeting because it was so unusual; it seemed to be 'staged.' We were all playing 'skittles' (informal unrated games) when another chess player pointed him out to me. The player said something like, 'See that guy over there? He is Denver's most famous lawyer.'

Like most other people I had a very low opinion of lawyers, famous or not. I wondered whether this 'famous lawyer' was any good at playing chess. Later, I challenged him to play. We played three games, all of which I won easily. The 'famous lawyer' was a fish. I would later come to think of him as 'the club fish,' because whereas most fish came and went quickly, or improved rapidly, this fish hung on grimly for years never getting any better.

I remembered other strange events involving this fish. He seemed to be 'interested' enough in me to invite me to join him from time to time. Three occasions come to mind: the first one involved a chess tournament in Colorado Springs. He invited  another player and me to drive there with him. During the drive there he seemed to know that I liked Beethoven, and put on some Beethoven music. That evening after the games I noticed another curious thing about this fish: he did not seem capable of relaxing and enjoying himself. (And in fact I have never seen this fish enjoying anything.) On the return trip to Denver the next evening we engaged in conversation. (The other player was 'missing.') He seemed interested in my financial situation. We touched briefly on the religious - philosophical area and when I told him I was not a believer he said (boom), 'You pay a price for that.' That pretty much ended the conversation. He dropped me off where he had picked me up, at the Bellview exit. Curiously, he avoided picking me up at, or returning me to, our home. I made a note never to repeat the unfortunate mistake of accepting another invitation from this fish.

And so, when one day at the DCC he invited me to attend a meeting with the club's landlords I replied that, 'Meetings bore me.' Do you know what a 'micro-expression is?' Yes? Well when I said that I saw a micro-expression cross his face for a fraction of a second. It was a look of sheer hatred.

Some time later at another chess tournament this fish invited me to lunch after the first games. I reluctantly agreed. The urgency of his request suggested to me that he had something to discuss, but as lunch dragged on it became clear that he had nothing worthwhile to say. I found his behavior very confusing.  

Bingo

After a couple of deletions and a few corrections and additions I have committed Friday night to the blogosphere. Now back to the dirty work.

In Denver again (about 1985) I continued working on Word Salad and the chess program. Then came a family tragedy: (delayed boom) we were babysitting Charlie (our grandson) one day when he told me about a conversation he overheard with his mother (Kathy) and an unidentified woman. It was about another tragedy, the night I got drunk and threatened Kootch and Jenny. I was infuriated that Kathy would talk so freely about this 'family secret' (boom-boom, the queer upstairs is having fun) in front of Charlie and a 'stranger.' I over-reacted and banned Kathy. Jenny chose also to be banned. This was the end of my relationship with them all.

I think it was in '86 that I found myself in need of legal advice regarding a problem with the neighbors (tap). I knew one lawyer, the stalker himself. (At the time I did not yet realize he was the stalker.) I showed up at the Denver Chess Club looking for him. The very first thing he said to me was, 'So, you're back in town.' 

Bingo! Nobody was even supposed to know that I had left town (for Orlando), other than Kootch and the kids. Why did this sucker seem to know so much about me? Why was he keeping tabs on me? I began to suspect that this son of a bitch was my problem. I still did not know about the category of demented people called, 'obsessionals,' or 'stalkers,' so it didn't seem to make sense. Yet this clue was too big to be ignored, and over the next weeks and months I recalled and analyzed my 'history' with this person.

After the chess games were over and the players were leaving the club that night I chased the sucker down as he was heading for his car. 'Chased' is not a bad word in this context, because he was walking unnaturally fast in an apparent attempt to avoid me. I caught up and asked him to recommend a lawyer, which he did; one of the members of his law firm. (1:10)   

  

I Love to Pee in my Pants

By that I mean I have always been able to experience Orgasm on Demand. In my younger days it took a minute or two. As I grew older it took a bit longer. In those days my sex life was 'auto.' I masturbated freely. I did it at least once a day. When I entered the world of hetero-sex it took longer, in fact, as long as she needed to 'get off.' I was a sexual colonel at least, maybe a general. And I credit this talent to the fact that I had not been circumcised like my brother.

Let me be very clear about this: I learned about sex in the middle of the night, alone at the age of 12, in a wet bed, in wet underpants.

I would wake up in the middle of the night having to pee. I would immediately realize that I had already peed in my pants and the bed was already wet. Question: should I get out of bed and go out on the back porch to pee? Good question. At first case I answered the question in the affirmative: I got out of bed in my wet underpants and went out to the potty on the (north) porch which was open to the night air, and peed like a gentleman. Then I returned to my (now cold) wet bed in my (now freezing) wet underpants. I did that once.

The girls (and the nuns) had a potty right next to our dormitory but us boys were forbidden to enter it. Our potty was way off on the back porch.

The very next time I woke up in the middle of the night in a wet bed I made the decision to pee in my pants instead of going out to the potty on the north porch. I figured that me and my pants were already wet - not to mention the bed - and a little more pee could only warm things up. I was right. I masturbated myself to a stunning orgasm after peeing in my underwear and went immediately to sleep. I did that for about two years. No! I did that for several months until one night I woke up in the middle of the night having to pee, but I was not already wet.

Correction: one night I woke up in the middle of the night having to pee. But this time my pants were dry. My bed was dry. I could have gone out to the north potty and peed, then returned to my bed and announced to Sister Charlotte next morning that my bed was dry. I could have done that. But instead I chose to pee in my pants and masturbate myself to sleep as usual. I had become sexually imprinted on wet bed (boom) and wet underpants.

To make a long story short I fashioned a perfect sex life for myself in those days, including, eventually, a raging panty fetish which I still enjoy.

I later went on to appreciate pussy. I eventually experienced a multitude of pussy. But my secret sex life remained in the background. When pussy was not available I fell back on my first sexual love of peeing in my pants and masturbating. So I say onto you that I have lived the perfect sexual life (being gassed here with LLG): I love pussy and I will fuck whatever pussy is available. I also love peeing (tap) in my pants and masturbating.

Perfect!

I mention this to you only because I think you need this information in order to 'understand' me. I do not for a second think that you are interested in my bizarre sexual life. 

A Perfect Sex Life

Damn this is fun! 2110 and I am approaching the peak of tonight's drunk. I began with a six-pac of (3.2) Coors Light and a pint of Canadian Mist. I have finished three of the beers and half of the pint. I began about 1600 with the beer. I must be peaking now. Things will go downhill from here pleasantly, if recent history is any guide. Back to the concept of Penis Envy. 

My brother and I eventually got sprung from the Catholic prison on 120 Queen Street, but it was clear that we now lived in different worlds. Neither of us knew it at the time but my brother, as a 'circumcate,'  suffered from penis envy. We grew up together in uneasy times. We hung with different crowds. We grew apart. This seemed to us at the time to be a natural thing.

My brother seemed to despise me. He seemed to surpass me. He was the first to buy a car. He excelled me in High School. He loved History whereas I thought History was crap. He connected with some priests in high school whereas I connected with none. When I eventually failed the 12th grade he was not at all sympathetic. Indeed, he seemed to delight in my failure. When I failed the 12th grade again he was ecstatic. He wrote in my yearbook, 'Bye!' (tap.)

My brother eventually went on to excel me in every conventional respect. Whereas I only made it to Staff Sargeant in the USAF he made it to Colonel.

I relate this to you in order to ask you the question: is Penis Envy a good thing? Is circumcision a good thing intellectually? My brotherly experience tends to suggest that circumcision is a good thing. On the other hand circumcision leads inevitably to penis envy which is not a good thing.

And who knows about my brother's sex life? I can tell you that my sex life could not possibly have been better. I have experienced a perfect sex life. 

Penis Envy

Let me explain:

About the year 1947 my mother committed my brother and me to the Catholic orphanage in Charleston, S.C. She did this on the advice of a priest, Father Wolf, of Sacred Heart Parish. The theory seems to have been that since our father had abandoned the family and refused to pay child support, and since our grandmother with whom we had been living, was an incompetent babysitter, we deserved to be delivered into the loving hands of the nuns on 120 Queen street. Nice theory. My brother and I were so delivered. I was twelve years old, he was eleven. My brother and I found this new state to be devastating. We both began wetting the bed. The loving nuns responded to this urinary challenge asymmetrically: the nun overseeing my dormitory moved me as far away from her bed as possible. The nun overseeing my brother's dormitory had my brother circumcised. Both approaches apparently worked to the nuns' satisfaction.

Why had my brother and I been separated in the first place? I don't know. Other brothers were not so separated. In fact, I had three brothers (the Jones brothers) in my dormitory. The Driggers brothers also shared a dormitory. So I am mystified by our separation. They did not try to circumcise me. I suppose I was a bit too old for that sort of thing.

Sister Charlotte (the nun who dominated our dormitory) showed me how to curl the mattress up so as to dissipate moisture. She also showed me how to wash my sheets. This solved my problem, but not permanently. I continued to wet the bed.  

My brother, on the other hand, stopped wetting the bed immediately after being circumcised. Being circumcised at the age of eleven must not have been a fun thing. I think he was afraid they would cut the rest of it off. 

Jodan Yo!

Jodan yo! And in fact I did put that question to a nice Jewish psychiatrist one day in jest. I was frustrated by his apparent disinterest. I was paying this sucker 35 dollars an hour and he was just listening! He replied that he did not know. I then asked him whether he thought I was queer (tap). Again, he didn't know. It was at that point (I knew I wasn't queer OR schizophrenic) that I decided to dump the sucker. His name was Leib and he was a Jew (thump) and I had spent 350 bucks on this Jewish Idiot.

I mention this because I want keep you aware of the possibility that I might be crazy. I will return to Dr. Leib eventually. Before I fired Dr. Leib I asked him one day whether he thought 'free association' would be helpful. 'I don't think you could do that' was his reply.

Leib never said much to me so I don't know whether he was a Freudian or some other variant. I suspect that, being Jewish, he was a Freudian. Freud was a Jew too. Freud invented (tap), among other concepts, the concept of 'penis envy' (tap). Freud assigned Penis Envy to young girls. According to Freud penis envy was a rite of passage in young girls. Most of the world seems to have accepted this Freudian definition of a totally new concept. Not me. I knew about penis envy from my youth. (now the delete key works!) I knew that penis envy was a male thing not a female thing: my brother suffered from Penis Envy.

 

So tell Me Doc, Am I Schizophrenic?

TGIF again, and tomorrow looks like good hangover weather. Just returned after a walk in the maul, a visit to the super market, and a visit to the booze shop. They gassed me both in the maul and in the super market but missed the booze shop. The maul gas was too dilute to identify, but the supermarket version was definitely left lung gas. Gassing continues in the apartment at a slightly elevated level of about 20% of the pre-blog level, most of which happens in the living room.

Very interesting was my tape (the delete key does not work) of Alan Alda in Scientific American Frontiers' 'The Dark Side of the Universe.' I watched it after Today. Watching stuff like this is about as close as I ever get to a mystical experience without the aid of drugs. Very good show. I even learned a new term (which I forgot - standby...) 'super-symmetric particles.' I understand the astronomy very well but the sub-atomic physics is a bit murky. For example, a WIMP is a Weakly Interactive Massive Particle thought to exist - but not known to exist - which may explain, at least in part, the missing mass of the Universe. This is heady stuff compared to the state of Astronomy back in the days I bought my first telescope.

Bought a new video game the other day, Rainbow six 3, Raven Shield. Now learning how to play it. This one is probably an older version of Ghost Recon, only 19 bucks. Ghost Recon was quite good and I expect this one to be almost as good. I like 'first person shooters.' The best of the bunch so far is - in my humble opinion - Half Life. The absolute best video game of all time is Civilization III. One of the qualities which makes this game tops in my opinion is that when you play the game again you play in a new world. You can play the game over and over but you never play in the same world twice. Apparently the program creates a new world every time. It is sorta like the eternal rebirth of Buddhist mythology but not quite. I also like Microsoft Flight Simulator, of course, and I have spent countless hours above 25,000 feet cruising the world, as well as many hairy hours doing instrument approaches to various airports in bad weather. The latest version has a passable simulation of ATC, and the 'scenery' (World Geography according to Microsoft) improves with each iteration. Myst was also a glorious game, much different from those above. I have one of the sequels to Myst in my current inventory (Uru) but so far I have not figured out how to 'journey' away from the starting location. I come back to it from time to time, so far unsuccessfully. This game takes the edge off my arrogance. It takes me an hour or so to sharpen back up, so I load it only infrequently. I could 'cheat' of course, but for some reason I refuse to do it. I often cheat in C-III, so I have no moral compunctions preventing me from cheating in video games... except Uru. I suppose it's the principle of the thing: I figured out Myst without cheating; I ought to be able to figure out Uru.

So tell me, Doctor, am I schizophrenic? 

Leaving Orlando

I now believe the woman was one of 'them.' I also suspected her at the time. She may even have been describing the stalker himself when she referred to her former husband as 'a cruel man.' It is not impossible that she was his ex-wife (this queer, it turns out, was once a married man). She may have mentioned the affair with the pastor in order to give me the impression she had been in Orlando for some time. On the other hand she may have been a local; I remember her having a local accent.

After I had been in Orlando a couple of months the hangup phone calls began again. After the first few such calls I stopped answering that phone, but started counting the rings. I got a consistent reading of 32 rings, which suggested to me that a computer was being used to do the dialing. I gave out my other phone number to people who needed to contact me. That other phone stayed free of hangup calls until the last week (tap)  in Orlando.

The fact that the hangup caller had found me again, combined with the bitch in Orlando, and other indications, tended to dampen my enthusiasm for life in Orlando. I stopped searching for a job and made plans to return to Denver. I must have been in Orlando for six to eight months when I pulled up stakes. The departure was memorable (delayed tap): I rented a small trailer from a national rental firm. The local operator seemed to be very unfriendly, which was somewhat strange. He led me to a trailer with a bald tire on it. The tire was so bald that the threads were showing. He suggested I take that trailer. I asked him whether he thought that tire would last all the way to Denver. He replied in the negative, then took me to one with good tires. I accepted the new trailer and he clamped it to the ball on my bumper. It seemed to me that he did not screw the thing down tight enough but I let it go. Bad idea. About half way to Denver the thing jumped out of the socket. Only the safety chain prevented an accident. I'm pretty sure 'they' paid the son-of-a-bitch to try and fuck up my trip in some way. If so, it was, and con(BOOM)tinues to be one of their MOs.

The 'vacation' in Orlando was not a waste. I got a lot of work done on my programs, had some fun at Disneyland, and gained additional insight into the mind of the S.O.B. who was harrassing me. I returned to Denver intending to 'hunt the bastard down' (boom). Which I did.

 

No Pussy in Orlando

This second sortie turned out much better. I found an apartment in Orlando and settled in, then called Kootch. The plan was to find a Job and rebuild my life. It was about that time that I began work on a cryptographic system for use with e-mail. I was also working on a chess-playing program to allow two players to play over the phone using computers. This program had a graphic representation of the board and pieces. Players moved the pieces by typing the new coordinates. The program then moved the piece on both boards (via the telephone connection).

When I finished the crypto system I began work on a text editor. The two programs would eventually be merged to become Word Salad, my 'cryptographic word processor.' I wrote all this stuff in 'assembly language' which was much faster and more compact than Basic. In those days speed was essential because the 6502 processor ran at a pokey 1 mhz or so. At about this time I was also becoming familiar with a simple word processor (forget the name) which I bought at the computer store. My first notes were made with this program, but when my own text editor became usable I switched over.

Meanwhile I was looking for a job now and then, and not having much success.

My social life consisted of a weekly visit to the local chess club and a weekly visit to a local 'church group,' Orlando Unitarians (tap). Very strange people. I should have probably gone looking for some Catholic group. Before long a woman began subtly 'hitting on' me. She was about my age, not too bad looking (tap) but as I got to know her I realized she was quite ugly inside. She seemed to be well off financially (boom). She explained that her 'wealth' was part of a divorce settlement. Her former husband was a Las Vegas millionaire - a 'very cruel man.' That put me off even more than her own lack of inner beauty. We never got around to sex. She was totally unsexy to me. She had confided to me early on that she had recently had an affair with the church 'preacher' but 'that is over now.' Another turn-off. The last time I saw her was in her apartment. I had come over to retrieve a book I had lent to her. She offered me a glass of juice. The glass was clearly labeled, 'Poison.' I figured it was her idea of a joke. I took one sip out of sheer politeness but left the rest. I got no pussy whatsoever in Orlando. (1:10)

The Good Old Days

The day has been 'normal' so far: (tap) up at 0930, heavy gassing (throat gas) during my tape of the Today show, a little tv news, problems trying to sign in to bloggger (can't find server), brunch, and here I am. By the way, blogger always 'starts' with this font for some reason, so I will continue (right lung gas here - I'm back) with this font. I am also becoming more aware of the time/date issue with blogger. Blogger is off Denver time by one hour (dst?), so I correct the time and use that as my start time. I correct the time again before 'publishing.'

Where was I? Still in Denver running my BBS, receiving obscene messages from a nutcase out there somewhere. After six months (or so) of this I decided to 'fold' (tap) The Chess Board and head to Florida (tap). It would be my second try for Florida. The first try ended in disaster.

I think the first try was in '83: I loaded up the big blue marvel (my blue ford station wagon) with my most precious stuff and took off for Disneyland. I found a fancy motel in Kissimee and began to search for an apartment. About a week later I was ready to move in to the new apartment. I called Kootch the (tap) night before I planned to leave the motel. I told them (Kathy was there at the time) that I was 'in the middle of Florida.' That may have been a mistake. Next morning the big blue marvel was gone. I reported the theft to the local police who seemed to be only mildly interested. In fact, they seemed suspicious. They found the car in a swamp a year or so later. They called me in Denver wanting to know whether I wanted the rusty hulk back. I told them to stuff it.

I hung around the motel for a few days waiting for the cops to find the car. When it became clear they would not find it I called Kootch and advised her that I was flying back to Denver. I arrived in Denver with the clothes on my back and my briefcase, which contained, along with the usual briefcase stuff, a fully loaded .38 caliber Detective Special. (Or maybe it wasn't loaded. Now that I think about it I probably unloaded it before going to the airport. I had bought the gun in '80 when it became clear to me that I had a nutcase to worry about. Those were the good old days before the rise of terrorism made life complicated, and nobody was interested in the contents of my briefacase.)

I am convinced that they listened to my phone call - at least to the Denver side of the conversation - then hired some PI in Orlando to call around the motels in the area. When they found my location they hired a towing company to tow the car away to a 'safe' area. I am further convinced that the Nut Case then flew to Orlando to inspect the prize and confiscate whatever stuff appealed to him. Used underpants would certainly have been high on his list. There were lots of books (boom) too, probably not of much interest to the Old Sniffer. I eventually replaced most of the books but two irreplaceable items were, my high school yearbook, and my pilot log books. (1:20)

A Working Theory

Ugly messages then began to appear. Obscene messages. These messages were delivered by several different 'personalities' one of which I remember was, Michael Jackson. I thought (and still think)  that the stalker was actually sending those messages. I doubt that it was the kid programmer. I formulated a working theory: the S.O.B. was probably a Jewish chessplayer. I also figured that the S.O.B. (back then the word, 'stalker' was not part of my vocabulary) knew about the back door (there were rumors) and had discovered the secret of how to enter. Now that I think about it, it is almost funny: the stalker was as queer as a three dollar bill and wanted to enter my back door. Almost funny. Not quite.
 
Two other elements of my working theory were that (1) the S.O.B. was somebody I knew and whose voice I would recognize. (2) the S.O.B. knew something about the law.  

The Back Door

About this time (mid '80s) I was busy learning how to program my Apple II computer using Basic and Assembly Language. I was 'unemployed' and so I could spend my full time on these kinds of activities. Kootch was still working at K-mart. I also spent time studying chess, my other hobby. I decided to 'merge' the two hobbies by operating a 'BBS' (Bulletin Board System) for chess players. I called it, The Chess Board. Chess players could dial up my BBS  and make moves in the games they played with each other (like correspondence games). It was fun stuff for me. I had bought the BBS software from a Denver programmer (a kid!) who made some extra cash by selling such software.
 
By this time I was pretty paranoid. I knew that there was some creepy son-of-a-bitch out there somewhere who was trying  to fuck my life up, and I suspected there might be a 'back door' in the software which this S.O.B. might be able to utilize. So I studied the program code in detail before putting it 'on the air.' Most of it was written in Basic, which was easy to understand, but the 'driver' was written in 'machine language.' I was able to decipher the driver except for a few lines of code which made no sense to me. I deleted that code and put my BBS  online.
 
It all worked fine until one day the author of the software signed in. The system crashed immediately thereafter when he attempted to enter his 'back door.' He never called back. I think the main purpose of the back door was to punish people who were running pirated versions of his software.

 

Hangup Phone Calls

But I digress. After we moved to the current location (Kootch's condo) a new kind of telephone behavior began to manifest itself: the 'hangup call.' These calls only affected me, not Kootch. When I answered the phone the caller would hang up immediately; when Kootch answered the phone the caller would turn out to be a wrong number or a sales pitch of some kind. They never hung up on Kootch. This went on for years. We changed the phone number a few times but they had the new number within days.
 
It was during this period (about the mid '80s) that I began to suspect the caller was Jewish. The reason was that the calls would happen frequently during tv programs related to Jews - Holocaust programs, for example, which were much more frequent back then than they are now. I eventually stopped answering the phone, and the hangup calls stopped.
 
 

Jewish Agents

Been thinking about that bug. How did it get on our telephone? Who put it there? I suspect the culprit was one of Kathleen's boyfriends, a nice Jewish fella. He was an electronic tech, and would have had no trouble installing the thing. He only needed a little time alone, and an unsuspecting Kathy would have been easy (tap) to dupe. We had a rule against the kids bringing friends home unless one of us was present in the house, but this may have happened before we found it necessary to create the rule - or possibly Kathy simply broke the rule. Whatever.
 
I never liked the bastard, but I tolerated him because he was Kathy's friend. One day he volunteered (with Kathy) to cut the grass using our electric mower. The session didn't last very long because the idiot cut the electrical cord with the mower blades. End of romance. I never saw him again.
 
Some time after that fella, another Jewish 'envoy' (tap) infiltrated our home under the pretext of being a 'runaway.' She was a 'friend' of Jenny's. She stayed with us for about a week. I should have sent her home immediately but felt sorry for her. She turned out to have been a very bad influence on Jenny. I suspect that both of these Jews were in some sense 'agents' of the Jewish stalker.

 

The Harmonica Bug

Harrassment time must be over. I was able to correct and publish with no problems.
 
This brings us to the question of when this stalking began. I suspect it began in the late '60s. I don't know. What I do know is that by the late '70s my telephone began acting oddly. It would ring one ring then stop. If the phone was 'answered' only a dial tone would be heard. This went on for several years. At first I thought it was somebody's idea of a joke. But as time went on I formed the idea that it was a bizarre form of harrassment. Some years later I read that this telephone behavior indicated the presence of a 'harmonica bug.' Another name for this bug was 'infinity transmitter.' The bug was designed to react only to a certain tone on the line.
 
The 'bug' had to be physically installed inside a telephone. Once it was installed, the 'bugger' could dial the target number and blow into a modified harmonica as he dialed the last number. The bug would detect the tone and open the line (answer the phone). The phone would stay 'answered' even though it was still on the hook. The bugger could then hear any conversation taking place in the target room - most of the time. But one out of five times the bug would 'connect' during the ring cycle and the phone would ring. In that case the bugger would have to hang up and try again. The result of that was (another attempt to change fonts) that the phone would ring once. In retrospect it is clear that back in the late '70s we were being 'bugged.' We eventually got in the habit of unplugging that telephone, presumably foiling the bugger.
 
We acquired newer phones in the '80s, and also moved to our current location, and the odd phone behavior disappeared. But a new and different behavior then began to manifest itself: the hangup call.
 
 
 
 

Ugly and Gruesome

Well, that was fun to write, folks, but Saturday's hangover was not fun. I should probably mention here that if you are 'put off' by such religious criticism you should stop reading this. Go to church.
 
Back to the dirty work: A new hacker pattern is emerging: after I sign in to Blogger they disconnect my phone line and I get the 'connection lost' message. This was also a problem on my older computer, but I am seeing it on this one for the first time. I don't know whether they physically disconnect the line somewhere or whether they have a way to do it through my computer somehow. Harrassment is the name of the game.
 
Speaking of which, whereas it has been a quiet morning of watching tv, the boom-boom began as soon as I logged on to Blogger and started to write this. I am also having font problems again, and 'publishing' problems. I just tried to correct a previous post but when I hit the 'publish post' button Blogger went into some kind of loopy behavior and the correction was not published. We see here the stalker's need to harrass, plus the need to display power and control, combined with the need to 'communicate' (in the form of wall bangs). In short the stalker needs to participate. Why? I can only conclude that the stalker's life is so ugly, so gruesome, that he needs to leach on my life in order to find some modicum of happiness. He has no life of his own. He only has my life.
 
(Kootch just returned from her morning sortee <1020>. She is excited because a new stove is to be delivered this afternoon. She bought it over the weekend.)
 

Seven Times Down Eight Times Up

As I was doing my usual tapes tonight I suddenly focused on a slightly bizarre figure on top of my main tv set. He was faced away from me about 90 degrees. He seemed to be looking out the patio window. I looked over at the other dude on the other side of the tv set: he seemed to be staring at me eyes wide open as usual. Something was obviously wrong: they both should have been staring at me eyes wide open. One was, one wasn't. Clearly there was some sort of a problem. I got up and walked over to the tv. I grasped the deviant doll with my left hand and turned it around such that, from my usual position on the couch, it seemed to be staring at me. Then I went back to the couch and sat down, job done. That ought to have ended the matter.
 
But as my short-term memory rechecked the situation I became aware that what we had here was possibly significant. I wondered, first of all, why number one was staring out the window. That was enough: I then began to muster most of my available brain cells (very limited in number if you want to know) for the purpose of answering the question, "Why was this doll staring out the window when he ought to have been staring at me as usual? Did somebody rotate him?"
 
After a while the question faded away. Other stuff took over those previously available brain cells. But I remember thinking that those dolls were a gift from Japan. I remember thinking that those dolls could stare wherever they wanted to stare and it was no skin off my nose.
 
Then I remembered that those dolls were little round beings, weighted at the bottom. I remembered that you could roll those little dolls every which way, but that they would eventually return to right-side-up. I remembered furthermore that those dolls would never shut their eyes.  (You see the parable, I'm sure.) 
 
Those dolls are you. Your eyes are always wide open. Furthermore your center of gravity will not permit you to fall over permanently. Seven times down, eight times up.    

The name of those dolls is, 'Daruma.' You are Daruma.
 
 

Religious Nuttery

The last item on the back of the envelope for tonight is 'religious nuttery.' I am very interested in the subject of religious nuttery. So are you. I intend to discuss this subject, but it seems to me that first we need to narrow it a bit. I narrow the subject of religious nuttery to 'Western Religion.' I know a fair amount about 'western religion' whereas most other religions elude me, so I will exclude those other religions from consideration. By 'western religion' I mean the mono-theism invented by the Jews (or the Egyptians - take your choice). I also define all the various branches of the Judeo-Egyptian religion as being part of western religion. Both Christianity and Islam, as well as Judaism, fall within the category of 'western religion.' Furthermore, all varients thereof fall within that category.
 
In the spirit of this classification it is possible to mention the class of 'Eastern Religion.' Eastern religion, as I see it, includes Buddhism, Hinduism, Taoism, Shinto, etc. These excellent religions fall outside the category of 'western religion' and as such they will not be discussed except anecdotally. I would like to mention here, however, that I consider the Eastern religions to be 'psychological religions' whereas I consider Western religions to be 'surface religions.' By that I mean Eastern religions tend to be internal in nature whereas Western religions tend to be external in nature. To make the matter clearer, I see Eastern religions as personal religions whereas I see Western religions as public religions. This is the crux of the problem insofar as Western religion is concerned, as I see it.
 
So this discussion will center on the relative value of what I see as two alternative approaches to religion: the private and the public; the internal and the external; the yin and the yang.
 
There is yet another category to be defined, which is a recent category: Science. The old (traditional) religions sought to explain everyday stuff in terms of religion. Furthermore those old religions undertook to explain ultimate beginnings. They explained everything. This was their appeal. Those religions created 'myths' which 'explained' ultimate questions. Nowadays those old religious explanations have been superceded by scientific explanations.
 
This  fact allows us to place Eastern religions and Western religions in the same general category and to create a new category, the category of Science. So nowadays we have two general categories of thought which perport to 'explain things:' the category of religion and the category of science. 
 
(Darn this is fun!) 
 
 

An Interview With God

Interesting how a blog can induce you to clean up your 'image.' I did just that today, first thing.
 
Got slightly rained-on during my bike ride today. Could have been worse.
 
Poor Bobby Fisher. He now resides in a Japanese jail. Will Bobby Fisher become another Martha Stuart? Could well be. If so that would be a tragedy. In both cases talented people would have fallen afoul of The Law. And although we might sympathize with both individuals we understand that The Law is the ultimate standard by which we make judgements of right and wrong. Nobody is above the law. Not Martha, not Bobby. Right? Wrong. Very wrong. I will explain this assersion in a future post.
 
Third movement of Mozart's piano concerto number 21 sprung into my mind this afternoon for some obscure reason. I am playing it as I write this, looking for a clue. So far no joy.
 
Tonight's special creation - if I can pull it off - will be an interview with God. As you know, God does not talk to me as a matter of policy, and I am perfectly happy with that policy. But today God requested an interview. This request was conveyed through a deniable intermediary whom I will not further describe. I granted the interview out of curiosity. A partial transcript of the interview follows:
----------
me: High there.
gd: Hello.
me: You wanted to talk.
gd: Yes. I'll get right to the point: I've been getting Letters From the Earth to the effect that you have been dissing me. 
me: That bothers You?
gd: Somewhat. They say you called me an 'Idiot.'
me: That I did.
gd: This is an unfair characterization and I want you to withdraw it.
me: I will on one condition.
gd: Which is?
me: Tell me what Your strategy is for Sudan.
gd: Sudan?
me: Sudan is in Africa.
gd: I knew that.
me: Of course. So what is the strategy.
gd: Where is Africa?
me: Earth.
gd: Ahh.
me: Ten degrees North Lattitude; 30 Degrees East Longitude.
gd: Oh, THAT Africa.
me: Forgive me for mentioning this but You seem distracted.
gd: Quite right. I am a busy God. Very busy.
me: Busy doing what?
gd: Busy listening.
----------
I won't bore you with the rest of the interview, which went on to describe how seriously overburdened God was with just listening to all those prayers and stuff. You might be interested in the part where God explained how taxing it was to do His other job of... watching. Watching, it seems, is even more onerous than listening because watching involves much more information processing. Near the end of the interview God seemed to wax philosophical. We had just had a little drink together and God was 'in that mood.' Just before wrapping up the interview, God said to me confidentialy, "You know, R..., the Universe is just too big. I could handle it in the beginning but it grew. I thought at first that it would eventually stop growing. I had to revise that idea. Then I thought it would slow down and contract. I had to revise THAT idea. I realized only recently that it is actually speeding up! The Universe is getting out of hand, R..., and I don't quite... haven't quite come up with a new plan."
For the first time I felt empathy for God. I said, "Want some advice?" God replied in the affirmative. "Stop watching," I said. "Only listen." And with that, God disappeared with a poof. End of interview.
I should mention that I did not rule out further interviews.
 
 

Queer Jewish Lawyer Uses Power

The 'lung gases' are very 'portable,' and are probably commonly available 'defense' gases like Mace or Pepper gas. I occasionally encounter these gases in public places like the maul, the super market, the theater. Rarely, I have been gassed out in the open. The most recent such attack was about a week ago in our parking lot. The air around Kootch's Toyota was saturated with one of the lung gases. Another open air attack happened two or three weeks ago: at least an entire block was saturated with 'heavy' gas. I was riding my bike at the time, on my usual route. In both cases the air was dead calm, allowing the gas to persist in the target area. In the case of the parking lot they only needed to spray a short 'burst' in the vicinity of the car. But in the case of the bicycle ride they must have had to use a vehicle of some sort. If I am right about the non-portability of 'heavy' gas, it must have been done from an automobile.
 
This brings up the question: 'Why go to so much trouble for a cough or two? What is the payoff?' I suppose that such a 'scenerio' satisfies the most fundamental need of the stalker: the need to remind the stalkee to think about the stalker. The stalker fears being forgotten, and so uses various devices to remind the stalkee (the beloved/behated) to refocus his attention back onto the stalker. The stalker most probably believes or 'feels' that when the 'two of them' are 'thinking about each other' they are united on some 'mystical plane.' (I think I'm gonna throw up here.)
 
If I am correct, this stalker is a homosexual. Here, then, is the situation: There is a homosexual Jewish lawyer out there who is in love/hate with me who has enough money to pay at least several - possibly many - surrogates  to do most of the dirty work (like change fonts, for example. Changing fonts has been a 'problem' in my drog for some time now, but this is the first time I have seen it here . This brings up another need of the stalker, the need to express 'power and control.' In my drog I simply change the font back, but I'll leave this (thump) as is to give you an example of what is going on. This font change also brings up the question of whether the font change took place locally or at Blogger.)
 
Question: can I change the font back? Yep.
 
 

More Gas

Sneezing gas may or may not exist. If it does, it would explain my sudden, violent sneezing attacks.

The most recent addition to the gas family (tap) is what I call, 'heavy gas.' This gas manifests as a feeling the air has suddenly become thicker, heavier. It is a feeling of being slightly smothered. I suppose it acts on the smaller passages, constricting them. This effect is felt immediately and does not persist after the gas has been dispersed. It is the least irritating of the gases, mucus membranewise (a dash of right lung gas here (thump)). Heavy gas is available in large quantities and can be administered over long periods of time. It doesn't seem to be too 'portable,' and probably comes in large containers. (Nor is throat gas very 'portable.') Heavy gas was introduced after the ventilation system was installed.

Throat Gas

The next type is 'throat gas.' This gas is felt in the throat as a peppery sensation. It also produces coughing as well as an even spray of fine mucus. I remember breathing something like it at a battery factory many years ago when I worked for Honeywell IPG. I think Sulphuric Acid fumes was the culprit in that case. Throat gas was 'introduced' somewhat later than the lung gases.

Lung Gas

The gassing attacks continue at a very low level. I estimate that level at about ten percent of the pre-blog level. The pre-blog level was about ten percent of the pre-fan level. Therefore the current intensity of the gassing attack is about one percent of the 1998-2003 level. In those days and especially during those long nights I several times counted my peak coughing rate at about 600 coughs per hour (faint boom). Things are improving.

This 'lull' has allowed me to study the gas effects in detail. I can now recognize very low concentrations of gas by the small effects they produce. It is now clear to me that they could have been gassing me for years at this low level (tap) before they began to make it obvious with high concentrations (faint boom). By way of illustration, a minimal attack may cause (depending on the type of gas and the 'dosage') a 'catch' in the throat, or a slow buildup of mucus which results in a need to 'clear the throat,' or in some cases an unnoticable buildup of mucus which partially evaporates and becomes thick. This last case might be discovered when I attempt to speak.

By contrast, a heavy attack causes (in the case of 'lung' gas) a sudden burning sensation in the upper bronchial system, watery eyes, running sinuses, and violent coughing which produces large amounts of thin watery mucus with each cough; a literal fine spray (boom). Even if I evacuate the area immediately, the symptoms persist (except for the cough) for five to ten minutes.

They use several types of gas. I don't know the 'names' or the chemistry of those gases but I can classify them by the symptoms they produce. I noticed the lung gases first. There are two kinds of lung gas: right lung gas and left lung gas. That is to say, one gas is felt initially or exclusively in the right bronchial system, while the other gas is felt initially or exclusively (depending on 'dosage') in the left. Sounds bizarre. Gas is gas and both lungs should react the same (boom) to either. I think the difference may be due to 'sensitization.' The theory goes like this: I sleep only on the side. About 60 percent of time I sleep on the left side. The weight of the internal organs tends to compress the left lung, leaving the right (top) lung to do most of the breathing. As a result the right lung gets most of the gas and becomes 'sensitized' to that particular gas. Same process with the left lung. The theory is somewhat suspect, but will have to do until a better one comes along. Mucus production is assymetrical with these gases depending on which type is being 'applied.'

A Small Vocabulary

Boom-boom time again. Kootch is asleep.

This may be a good time to describe the language of deniability in greater detail. In descending order of violence the words of this language are:

The bowling ball drop. This one is too violent to be called a stomp. The drop happens just above me. It is quite startling. The room shakes. Things rattle.

The stomp. This also happens just above me but is much less violent than the drop.

The wall bang. This can happen in other rooms or in the 'same' room. Much less violent than the stomp. The wall bang produces a deep booming sound.

The thump. Not a drop, or a stomp, or a bang, or a tap. Just a thump. The thump might be a timid wall bang or the result of a small object being dropped.

The tap. Taps can be loud, medium, or barely detectable. Taps can indicate approval, agreement, or simply 'interest.' For example, most of the time they will tap the floor or wall in the bathroom above when I pee. This behavior may be a reaction to my bathroom fan, which is fairly loud. I turn that fan on before I start peeing in order to reduce 'shy bladder syndrome.' If you have ever tried to pee when you knew somebody was listening or watching you know what I mean by shy bladder syndrome. They must not like that fan. They also tap in the kitchen and in the living room. In the kitchen such taps may indicate simply, 'I see you' or 'I know you're in the kitchen.' In the living room such taps usually seem to indicate 'agreement' to something I've said, either to Kootch or to the tv. Kootch appears not to notice these taps. Come to think of it, the taps tend to be louder in noisy environments. I suppose the idea is to be heard above the ambient noise. When I am in bed next to the two window fans running at full power the noise level is quite high and the 'taps' need to be quite loud. The bedroom is the only place where they employ what I will call the 'anticipation thump.' This thump seems to be timed to my cough: they have just released a dose of gas and they try to time the thump to my first cough. I have used this knowlege to dive under the covers during times of heavy gassing, escaping much of it.

So they have a vocabulary of five 'words,' all deniable, of course.

Pain

My modem appears to be 'under attack' again. Maybe this is why I am having so much trouble publishing (thump) the most recent post... yep, we are definitely under attack. I conclude tentatively that that post 'hurt' the target group. If so, their pain has only just begun. It is possible, of course, that this is only part of their game. Sorta like cat and mouse (tap). I wouldn't know.

After saving the above in Draft form I see that the previous post is now showing as having been published. But when I try to view the published page I get a '404 - page not found' error. Hmm.

(later) The previous post published successfully this time. Also, my modem seems to be acting normally.

Networking

This leads me to speculate that the most 'successful' sociopaths are lawyers (tap of approval). Of that group the most successful would tend to be 'criminal' defense attorneys (criminal both in the sense of specializing in criminal defense, and in the sense of being themselves criminals (boom)). It would also follow that such lawyers understand many of their clients instinctively. This may or may not make them more effective, but the first task of a lawyer is to understand the client and it saves time if both are on the same wavelength. I would further speculate that sociopaths tend to recognize one another almost immediately, whether the relationship is client-based or not. A simple conversation might be sufficient. In any case, such lawyers would tend to build a network around them and their work, composed of like-minded individuals. For example, a private detective working for such a lawyer would most likely have no sense of ethics, and would as a result of that 'quality' be very useful on occasion. The sole constraint on such a group would be The Law.

There must be a hierarchy of concerns which would assist the group in their process of vetting any particular proposed activity. 'What are the chances of getting caught?' This is probably at the top of the list if the proposed activity is obviously criminal in nature. The next concern might be, 'If caught, what is the downside?' I could go on with this but I think you get the idea: such a person or group would value The Law only in the sense that it is the language they speak to power, and the more fluent their speech the more powerful they become. Esoteric notions (idealism for example) would not enter their calculations except as camouflage.

As it is with some lawyers so it is with some cops (stomp). The sociopaths find each other in spite of slightly different professions. In this manner the criminal lawyer adds to his network, which may take years to build. But this network is not limited to those in the Criminal Justice System. Other recruits could come from those professions which regularly come into contact with that system. Physicians, for example.

Fellow sociopaths are not the only candidates for inclusion. I have already mentioned the 'ethnic gullibility' of Jews. Homosexuals are yet another obvious category. This group contains a specially vulnerable sub-group, the closeted homosexuals. Members of this group can be manipulated by simply being threatened with exposure, while the larger group might be vulnerable to sexual hatred. The lawyer-sociopath would over time become adept at exploiting all these types.

Smoke and Mirrors

Their latest harrassment idea is to toggle the circuit breaker off and on rapidly at night. This causes the back-up power supply for my computer to beep, waking me up. They do 30-40 toggles at a 'toggling.' The easy fix is to unplug my computer before hitting the sack. If the power supply does not detect a current drain it won't beep when the power fails. There were two such togglings last night and one this morning which served as an alarm clock (tap from above) about 0900. The circuit breaker is located downstairs in the laundry room, a common area. The circuit breaker game is a long-standing one. I have played it myself from time to time. I once flipped off the breaker to the apartment below us and it stayed off for two days. On other occasions it stayed off for at least several hours. I did that in order to confirm my impression that nobody actually 'lived' down there. I can no longer flip the upstairs breaker because they put a lock on it. The lock allows the breaker to perform its protective function while at the same time preventing mischief.

'Game' may be a good word in the current context. The stalker wants to 'play,' as well as 'communicate.' The tap (above) communicates 'benigh agreement' or 'approval.' As a substitute for actual words it fits the general theme of 'deniability.' Communication with Deniability. Strange idea. The stalker must live in a smoke and mirror world where nothing is as it seems. Must take a lot of effort to maintain such a world. By contrast my world is simple.

Gassing, on the other hand is not 'play.' Gassing is an assault, an attack, and also a form of communicating rage. Gassing forces a response, as in 'conversation.' The gasser controls the conversation. In the sequence, (gas, cough, bang,) the gasser initiates and terminates the conversation. This is control. Control is essential when you live in a smoke and mirror world; smoke needs to appear, mirrors need to move. Choreography comes into play. Control is all the more essential when you have no self-control. The lack of internal control creates a need for external control. You cannot control yourself so you are forced to control others in order to maintain 'order.' This requires, in turn, Power. 'No internal power' requires you to have external power. External Power requires wealth. But wealth is not enough. Knowlege of The Law is necessary. Law is the language of power. You need to speak the language, then you can manipulate the power behind the law, the police (thump).

It is an arduous way to live, but if you are a 'sociopath' you either live that way or you go to jail.

Shift Work

There was a huge stomp or heavy dropped object just above me as I signed in to Blogger just now. It must have awakened Kootch, as she made a potty visit soon after. I take it this sort of thing indicates extreme rage on the part of the stalkers. They often do this in response to things I do or things I say down here. These outbursts appear to be spontaneous and uncontrollable. They don't appear to understand that I don't give a shit about their rage. I suppose their behavior serves the purpose of 'communication.' They want to communicate their emotional state to me. Bizarre.

Stomping as a form of communication began in the early '90s after I had revealed in my drog that I knew the identity of the head stalker. They would stomp the floor above me when acts of violence were being shown on tv. A favorite tactic was to do this while I replayed my daily tape of the Today Show. This went on for years. I called this behavior 'Very Subtle Death Threats,' or VSDTs. They were the kind of death threats a lawyer would issue: you get the message but you can't prove it. This form of VSDT stopped with the gassing attacks. The gassing attack was more than a threat, it was an actual assault. Stomping during violence on tv gave way to wall-banging when I coughed during a gassing attack. Even clearing my throat would and still does produce a 'demonstration' of some sort from above.

So there has been a progression, an evolution, in their behavior. 'Escalation' might be a better word. They have moved beyond imagination into action. And I should mention that this is a 24-7 behavior. Somebody is always awake up there to do gassing, stomping, etc. I think they work in shifts.

Friday Night Crap

Rereading the crap I wrote Friday night reminded of the gulf between inebriation and sobriety. It was fun to write at the time, but not fun to reread sober. Clearly I will have to drop the drunk version. But this leaves only the 'stalker' version, which is not much fun to write. A further complication is that I don't like doing anything that isn't fun. Somehow I'm going to have to make this more fun, or just grit my teeth and do it.

A Comfortable Relationship

I like to talk about God. I even talk to God now and then. Not often. I talk, God listens. God does not talk back. No phone calls. No telegrams from God. Nothing in the mail. No faxes. No e-mails. This is what I call a comfortable relationship. I talk to God mostly in the summertime during thunderstorms. When a bolt of lightening hits nearby and there is a loud thunderclap I like to say something like, 'Missed again, Idiot.'

This is a succinct summary of my Friday night blogging.

TGIF Again

TGIF again. Kootch and I had our weekly in-depth dialog during her suppertime (I never drink on a full stomach). She seemed a bit distracted as I played about 12 minutes of last night's Leno. I told her about Gail, an old lady who cut my hair today. I made the appointment with Gail yesterday for 1130 today after realizing yesterday that they would not get around to seeing me. I requested Kootch to be back from her morning sortie by 1100 and to wake me up if necessary. That was superfluous: she could only re-enter the apartment if I was indeed awake. In fact, sometimes I am too asleep to hear her knock on the door. In those cases she goes around the building to my bedroom window and throws a rock against the window. This always wakes me up and I let her in. But this morning I woke up way too soon (0430?) and stayed awake.

Gail turned out to be fun. She began by giving me a shampoo. I did not protest even though I had only just showered and washed my hair. Then she began to cut my hair. You probably know how barbers like to banter. Barbers are banterers. Gail carried on in that fashion as she cut my hair. I did my best to be polite given my personal constraints (I am not an accomplished banterer). As time went on I slowly answered Gail's existential questions.

Near the end, Gail seemed to become almost uncommunicative (wall-bang from above), as she relenquished her role of barber-banterer. She charged me sixteen dollars. I gave her a twenty and told her to keep the change. It was a fine haircut. I told Gail I would recommend her to my wife. Gail seemed pleased.

Introspection

For the past several days a certain Mozart tune has been circulating round and round inside my skull. I whistle it from time to time. Then I forget it for a while. Then there it is again. I'm sure you know what I mean because the same thing has probably happened to you. I wonder about stuff like this, and I think I have figured out why this tune keeps popping up. It is my blogger theme song. No kidding. Somewhere deep down in the folds of my cortex my brain has really embraced Blogger and is celebrating this fact by 'playing' the 'soldiers march' from the first act of Cosi Fan Tutte.

Kootch just returned from her walk. I'll leave Blogger for a while but I'll be back.

Locks and Stuff

Kootch just left for her morning walk and visit to K-Mart. She usually leaves the place around 0700. Often she has to wake me up so that I can set the dead bolt. Locks are not enough. They have a key to the apartment and they also know the combination to the simple combo lock. I could change the locks but that would be futile, since they would have a new key and know the new combination within a day or two (being gassed lightly here). I also set the chain stop and the two door locks out of habit. When I leave the place Kootch goes through the same procedure. It is rare that both Kootch and I are out of the apartment. When that happens I use a combination (4-digit) padlock fixed to a chain attached to a loop bracket inside the door. This allows the door to be opened just enough to do and undo the padlock. A determined burglar could easily break in despite this arrangement but would not be able to hide the evidence of unlawful entry. They don't like 'evidence.' No lawyer likes 'evidence,' especially not 'admissible evidence.'

In fact I usually use two digital padlocks. I do this because they often try to 'break' the combination. Sometimes they succeed with one of the locks. I know this because they have screwed up more than once by forgetting to re-attach the chain to the lock they just 'broke.' Whether they did so on purpose or by accident I don't know. I always change the combination to the padlocks before using them. Then I write down the two combinations and recheck to make sure they work. I use a random method. No 'favorite' numbers.

Each padlock provides for ten thousand possibilities. The padlocks are 'anti-scan.' That is, they can't simply put pressure on the lock as they scan through the possibilities. The lock won't let them do that. They have to release pressure then reapply it with each tumble. Breaking even one of these lock combinations could tend to tie up your whole day, especially if you screwed up when you stumbled on the right combination. But they try it anyway. Kootch knows how to set the locks herself and has done it a few times.

I am fairly sure the 'locksmiths' used to live in the apartment across the hall from us (being gassed again here). They have since moved out, but there is certainly somebody living nearby who is willing and able to replace them - possibly even the same folks.

Another Test

this is a test. This is only a test. If this had been a real emergency you would have been instructed to bend over and kiss your ass goodbye.

Alright! I have just done my first link in this blog. Easy as cake: copy, link, paste! What an awesome tool! Lessee... maybe I can use this technique to make a link to this site from a previous post. Lezdoit... yep, it worked. Now, if only I can remember how to do this drunk...

Notice, by the way, that it has been a week since my last drunk. Since then I have been recovering. My brain cells have been slowly reorganized themselves into something which resembles a 69 year old brain. You know what that means. Yep, tonight is drunk night. Tonight is drog night. I will try and remember not to scandalize you too much.

Good News - Bad News

The page-loading problem disappeared immediately after I mentioned it and I was able to surf around in MSNBC quite smoothly after exiting Blogger.

Another possible result of this blog is a reduction in the gassing attack. They seem to be trying to recalibrate the dose, looking for the least amount of gas which I can detect. I like the trend. I hope it goes to zero and stays there.

They don't gas Kootch, of course. Nor do they drop bowling balls on the floor above her head or bang the walls. Kootch is not the target. When Kootch is around they are fairly discreet. This is good for Kootch. Unfortunately it also means that Kootch and I live in different 'realities.' She finds it difficult to relate to my complaints and this sort of buttresses her denial. It's a 'good news - bad news' situation: the good news is that Kootch is relatively sheltered from these creepy people. So I go along with Kootch in her denial. I no longer complain to her. Kootch doesn't know I am writing this.

But I think Kootch knows on some level that what I have been saying is true. I see symptoms of stress in Kootch which may, in part at least, be the result of 'unconscious knowlege.' I think Kootch is coping as best she can, and now that I understand her method we get along quite well. The subject of 'stalking' rarely comes up.

Interesting Developments

This blog may already have produced some results. The July 'Communicator' mentions that we have a new Maintenance Man. Apparently the old one is no longer with us. I had contacted him also about the gas and he did a perfunctory investigation: he knocked on the door of the apartment downstairs. Nobody answered. End of investigation. (At the time I thought the gas was being forced up from below. I thought they were gassing me from below as they harrassed me from above. I later discovered that they used very little electricity down there and the place was as vacant as it looked. In fact I went so far as to check the common mail box area while the postal service had it open. For at least a year there was a marker in the mail box for the apartment below which indicated it was vacant.)

A new set of rules and regulations also arrived recently. This is a much enlarged version of the previous set. Lots of lawyer stuff. Looks to me like they are going to try and make me remove my ventilation system or redo it to their satisfaction. I look forward to a very interesting discussion with their lawyer. Yas...

My modem is no longer 'under attack' as previously described, but (tap from above) may be under attack by another method. I now get frequent 'server not found' errors and navigating within blogger takes huge amounts of time.

Where there is a Will there is a Way

I think we are seeing the evolution of a method here. I write my drunk version on Friday nights. I read that version on Tuesday morning. I don't like what I read. I 'correct' it and republish it.

Back to being 'the meat in the sandwich:' When I finally realized how they were gassing me I made a few improvements to the apartment. I sealed the area inside the wall around the electrical outlets with a foam which expands to fill gaps and cracks. This helped. I installed fans in the living room window which blew air out; then opened the bedroom window, allowing fresh air to enter the bedroom. This REALLY helped, especially at night when I was in bed trying to sleep. But the incoming air was too full of allergens and pollutants at times, so I installed filters in the bedroom window. The filters worked but slowed the airflow too much. I then installed fans in the bedroom window blowing air in. This combination of fans and filters turned out to be the best arrangement. I had 'defeated' the gassers! I thought.

I made these changes reluctantly, and only after several attempts to get somebody in 'authority' to investigate the situation. I called the police. I called the EPA. I called the 'Association' (local homeowners association). I called the management company (which manages maintenance of the grounds). None of those fine folks was willing to get involved. I had even gone to my HMO for help when the tissues in my throat became so swollen I could barely speak. No joy. (They stomped the floor above me just now as I wrote that.) So I was clearly on my own. Only I could save myself. I am certain that if I had done nothing they would have eventually gassed me to death. And it would have been 'legal!'

The arrangement is not perfect but it has significantly reduced their ability to gas me. I estimate that it reduced their ability by 90 percent. Nowadays they are reduced to polluting the air just outside my bedroom window at night. some of their gas gets drawn into the bedroom, but it soon exits down the hallway and eventually out the living room window. They are still able to gas me in the living room (as I watch tv) by forcing gas down through some rather large openings in the furnace/air conditioner closet. Sealing this area will be my next project. Meanwhile I avoid most of that gas by opening the patio door and moving from my favorite spot on the couch to the side nearest the door. This works most of the time. However sometimes the outside breeze is such that little air is drawn in through the patio door. In that case I turn the two fans in the living room window up to full power. That almost always works.

The drawback to all this outside air is most obvious in deep winter and high summer. On a cold winter night the temperature in my bedroon can get below 40 degrees F. I stay warm under several layers of stuff, one of which is a down-filled comforter. The incoming air totally defeats the air conditioner in summer, so we do without it most of the time.

The Wishing Well

I like to walk around in the Southglenn Maul. I do it from time to time in all seasons. Good exercise. Lately I have been fascinated by what I call 'the black hole of Galileo.'

They call it 'The Wishing Well.' It is a physical vortex made of plastic which resembles the visual representation of a Black Hole. The main idea of The Wishing Well is that you have an opportunity do an experiment. The Wishing Well asks you the question, "Will a heavy coin go down the Wishing Well before a light coin?" If you are at all interested in Science and you have a few coins in your pocket you will not be able to resist the appeal of The Wishing Well. You will do the experiment. Furthermore you may remember Galileo's experiment with the inclined plane where he proved that the weight (mass) of falling objects has no bearing on how fast they fall. You will do the experiment. You will time various coins as they make their way down the Wishing Well. You will be surprised by the result if you remember Galileo.

I don't want to spoil the experiment for you so I will stop here. Later I might launch into some sort of esoteric analysis of Galileo vs The Wishing Well. Maybe not.

I think we can wrap this up now. I have reached the point of alcoholic unreliability. Any further posts will be done to my drog. I wish you all a happy 4th of July.

Blog Anxiety

Enough 'history' for tonight. I have a buzz on and this is funtime. I'll get back to 'history' soon enough. This brings us to my idea of what is 'fun.'

First of all, 'fun' for me is a Beethoven Piano Concerto. Sounds dreary, I know. I also like Mozart Operas. I like Sissela Bok. I saw her on the latest version of NOW with Bill Moyers. (I also watched the McLaughlin Group this week as usual.) For me this is fun stuff, but I understand if you don't exactly share those opinions.

I have discovered 'blog anxiety.' Blog Anxiety is something like Drog Anxiety. Let me explain: if you write a drog and you think your drog is being read by unauthorized persons, that gives rise to 'drog anxiety.' But if you write a blog you KNOW that blog is being read by 'unauthorized persons.' Hence the anxiety. In the case of a drog you don't know. Maybe yes maybe no. But in the case of a blog you KNOW.

Am I Crazy or Not?

I was able to publish the previously unpublishable this morning after a sober review and a few minor corrections. I even wrote a couple of new posts and published them. This puts to rest my previous rationalization that I would come across as angry and bitter if I tried this stuff sober. I am now willing to admit that I like to drog and blog drunk because it is simply more fun to do it drunk than sober.

Now I want to continue the description of harrassment from above by making the connection between (stomps and wall bangs) and gassings. I noticed in 1997 or so that the folks upstairs had a habit of stomping the floor or banging the walls whenever I coughed. It was unbelievable but also undeniable. This conjunction of events occured far too often to possibly be denied. At first I thought it was simply another way They had conjured up to remind me that they were aware of what was going on in our apartment. I thought it was a sort of celebration as well: celebration of my distress, however small that distress might be. But gradually I came to understand that they were gassing me and that they were celebrating a successful gassing event whenever they stomped or banged. At first this was difficult to realize. But as time went on the gassings became so much more obvious that they (the gassings) eventually entered the realm of the undeniable. They were gassing me and they wanted me to know it. The gassing continues to this day.

The apartment above has since changed hands at least twice, but the gassings and the stomps and bangs continued as if there had been no such changes. In fact, the apartment above was 'vacant' for almost a year before the current 'occupants' moved in, but the gassing and stomping remained pretty much constant. This brings up the question of my sanity: am I imagining all this stomping and gassing? Am I insane? I think not. In fact I am certain that the 'theater of the above' was designed to raise that question, if not in my mind, then in the minds of anybody who might hear my story. And so I pass this information on to you. I report. You decide. I do this not unmindful of how titillating a blog this would be if I were indeed crazy. And so, in that spirit, I write this blog. I report. You decide.

Am I crazy or not?

All the world wants to know.

We are the meat in the Sandwich

Which brings us to the setting for this little drama: our apartment. We are the meat in the sandwich. That is, we live on the second floor of a three story building. It is an entirely wood-frame building. Stomps, slams, wall bangs, even taps, especially those from above, are quite noticable. The apartments above and below are mirror images of one another. There are twenty three apartments and one laundry room.

The apartment stacks share a common inner wall interface. That is to say that if you were to blow air into the inner wall of the apartment above, that air would find its way down into the two apartments below by way of that common inner wall, through various holes created in the structure for plumbing and wiring. The air would escape through various wall openings such as electrical outlets.

(0830 and the numbers are now 3.7 million bytes and 42.4 bytes.)

Knowing these structural facts you could, if you had a nasty disposition, a vaccuum cleaner, and some sort of noxious gas like pepper spray or mace, make life miserable for the folks in the two apartments below: You could devise an 'attachment' to your vaccuum cleaner blower such that you could inject that gas into the inner wall under pressure through (for example) your own electrical outlets. The gas would then seep into the apartments below. There is a problem with this if you only want to gas the folks in the middle apartment: you would have to seal up those openings in the walls of the bottom apartment. Or, you could simply rent the bottom apartment and not occupy it. Or both.
(This would be expensive only if money was a problem, which it isn't in this case.)

That is what is actually going on here. In addition to being harrassed from above by stomps and wall bangs, etc, I am being gassed.

Them

This stalker doesn't have the technical skills to accomplish such hackery, of course, but he does have the money to pay people who do have such skills. Money appears to be no object, in fact, and this stalker has 'hired' many people to assist him in his little hobby. For that reason I think in terms of 'them,' not 'him.' I am usually affected only indirectly by the stalker, through surrogates, though I have no doubt the stalker in person often does the 'affecting.' So I will refer to them all simply as, 'Them.' I will describe what 'They' are doing and what 'They' have done. When I use the term I mean to include them all.

By the way, the creation of this draft has been accompanied by many faint taps from above as They - in this case probably the stalker himself - read what I am writing and 'comment' on it. The Stalker desires to participate in the life of the Target, and this sort of voyeuristic activity serves that purpose. True, it is a pathetic kind of participation but the Stalker takes what he can get. Something is better than nothing.

(0800 and the numbers are now 3 million and 35.5 million bytes as my modem continues to work overtime.)

A Strange Malady Attacks my Modem

Since I have been writing this Blog my modem has been acting strangely. It is constantly active. Even after the page has loaded completely the modem continues (as indicated by the little icon in the lower right corner of the screen) to send and receive non-stop. I take it that hackers are at work here attempting to interfere with the creation of this Blog. If so, they are having limited success. Although I cannot view the Blog (I get a 'server not found' error) I have indications that it has indeed been 'published.'

Ok, I just tried again and got a successful load. The blog has been published. I like to save the published blog as a file on my desktop just in case it ever gets deleted.

Which brings us to Saturday morning at 0700 local sober as a judge. I just checked the modem icon at 0713. It shows 2 million bytes sent and 22 million bytes received. I'll just sit here doing nothing for ten minutes, then check it again. Standby... ten minutes later the numbers are 2.4 million vs 26 million. I think you will agree this is a very abnormal situation. This Jewish lawyer stalker is nothing if not high tech.