30 October 2006

It would take 136.5 cans of Red Bull to kill me. . .

. . .According to this web site. You too can see how many cans of energy drinks it takes to kill you.

I came home from work last night at 230 AM and found a donkey in my living room. More later.

The above photo should give non-Va residents some idea of how many people how many people live in Tidewater, Virginia. Which reminds me, this apartment has a working fireplace. Hmm, perhaps I'll have a book burning.

Fire attracts guys. I don't know why. When you go camping, and it gets dark, you can always tell who the guys are. They're the ones poking the embers, tossing crickets in the flames, and burning marshmellows. Women, except tomboys, never actually eat burnt marshmellows. This is, (pay attention ladies), this is because burning marshmellows make great torches to look for crickets and fire-poking sticks.

The men, of course, always eat meat. Hot dogs, hamburgers, shish kabobs, etc. . .again-it's a hunter/gatherer thing.

Hmm. What else?


Definition: Gandhi.

The cold has left VA Beach. That's all for now folks.

26 October 2006

The Swedish Apartment Drummers

From a blog I read called the KludgeSpot. This is one of the most bizaar videos I have ever seen before in my life.

Apartment Drummers

25 October 2006

For Sale

One set of used bagpipes.

They don't work that well, but would make a great wineskin for 5 people.

I love Craigslist.

24 October 2006


As of yesterday, it is officially cold again in Virginia Beach, USA. (That's 60 degrees folks)

http://www.ccel.org/ <------This is a must go to, peruse, download, and read with coffee while sitting in a chair sideways web site.

23 October 2006

Macrobia 4

More Macrobia stuff added here. You can ignore everything in brackets. Comments welcome. I should note that these Macrobia posts should be read in the order starting from 1 going to 4.

Again, I'm copying and pasting from Word, so the formatting won't be the same.

Duncan MacKenzie and Michael Perez saw no more Rhino-riders the rest of the day. For two hours they rode the dusty road in silence. Michael, like most people in Macrobia, had never been outside the city’s gates. There was never a need to, and besides, it was nothing but a vast trackless wasteland decimated from the War of All Nations.
Since the Rhino encounter, the land was mostly flat. Thousands upon thousands of craters pock-marked the land, and great crevices as if giants had dragged their fingers through the earth, decorated the landscape. On top of it all, boulders lay strewn, with no definite shape or form. Huge and gnarled, as if blasted from the bowels of the planet.
MacKenzie abruptly veered off the road and parked in the shadow of an enormous slab of rock.
“Now you’ll see something worth seeing,” he said. There was a sound like a small explosion or gas seeping from a pipe and Michael saw a crack appear in the desert floor-perfectly straight. The crack widened until it was the width of a door. A ramp led into the ground and he saw reflective tags on either side. Duncan wheeled the bike down the ramp until his form became hazy.
“Are you coming?” Mac asked.
“Is it safe?”
“It’s saf-er.”
Michael, who still didn’t completely trust this stranger, hesitated.
“I think we’ll be safe here. There’s nobody else around here for miles. No sign of sweep patrols.”
“Have you forgotten satellites. . . and the drones?”
“We’re in the desert. They work by detecting heat.”
“And when the sun goes down. . .”
“They’ll still work by heat.”
“Right. But the desert loses a lot of heat at night. Animals don’t. We would be sitting ducks out here.”
A thumping sound appeared in the distance. Helicopter? Rhino? This wasn’t a helicopter and it didn’t sound like a Rhino.
“Quick! Michael. A Plower’s coming.”
“Plower? Like a Rhino-car?”
“More like a three-story Rhino with snowblades. Come on!”
The thumping intensified. Michael saw a large swirling pillar of dust, like a small tornado, approaching. Through the haze, he could make out bits and pieces of yellow and tan-coloured metal. The thing was enormous and dwarfed the Rhino. He turned, and with a great deal of hesitancy, followed Mac into the hole in the desert. Mac pulled a lever by the opening. There was a creaking and groaning of old chains as the door slowly creaked shut. It was pitch black. Mac flicked on the BMW’s headlight. “Welcome to the Underground,” he said. The Plower could just be heard.
* * *
Julia Tanya Fairchild was tired. She had planned on a quiet lunch with a fellow co-worker yesterday when the PM’s call sounded. She was waiting on Michael at the Blue Moose CafĂ©. . .
Julia was tall, athletic, blue-eyed, and sported shoulder length wavy red hair. She worked as a chemist in the QA/QC department at Z-Tec. Although she spent 8 years in college studying genetics, she never actually did any laboratory work. Originally, she did, but after her manager discovered she was the best chemist in the lab, they made her a supervisor and hadn’t pressed so much as a button on any lab equipment since. That was three years ago. Most of her time was spent in her office reviewing test results of the various new products Z-Tec analysed.
Z-Tec spent millions of dollars on field research looking for novel drugs. One chemical, called resveratrol, seemed to suppress cancer and increase telomerase production. Nobody knew exactly how it worked, but in all Z-Tec’s experiments, it increased life-span remarkably.
[make more interesting and add field exped/Malaysia/llama/Tibet and old men stuff here]
Julia Fairchild and Michael Perez were close friends. On Tuesday, as she walked into her office, she was surprised to see an official of the NSA waiting for her.
“Dr. Fairchild?” the man stood and stretched his hand towards her. “Lt. Jones from the NSA. How do you do?”
”Fine, thank you.” She didn’t offer to shake his hand. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for one of your co-workers. Perez. A Michael Perez. We are having some difficulty locating him and thought you might shed some light on his location.”
“Yes. Mr. Perez works here. He’s not in my department, but I know him. Is he in any trouble?”
“Ohh, no. Nothing of the sort,” he said. “It’s just that yesterday he didn’t come to the castle when the call went out. Perhaps he is ill?”
“Not that I know of,” Julia replied. She thought the little man from the NSA a little square and just a little cute. “Did you check his apartment?”
“He’s not there and wasn’t seen last night returning. Does Mr. Perez have a girlfriend?”
“Not to my immediate knowledge. I’m sure he’d tell me if he did.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure.” Julia felt it quite silly that her heart skipped a beat at this last question.
“Mr. Perez and you are quite close, are you not?”
“We’re a bit more than casual acquaintances. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Is he supposed to be in today?”
“Should be. You’re asking the wrong person.” And a lot of them, she thought to herself. “Why don’t you just stick around and wait for him yourself,” she smiled.
The little man from the NSA stared at her blankly.
“Why does the NSA want to see Mr. Perez?”
“Mr. Perez is very important right now. The Velkladdeur himself desires to see him, and I have reasons of my own.”
“Ohh, in that case. . .”
* * *
Richard Jones inserted the mini-tele-com device into his ear canal. Instantly, the sounds of Macrobia ceased. He wouldn’t hear a thing (unless Candy called) until he took them out.
With a population of 45 million (exactly 45,347,653 according to that morning’s Macro-news-comcast ), Macrobia was one of the largest cities on the planet-and very loud. Most people wore the mini-tele-com devices, or comtels, for this very reason. They blocked all sound except incoming tele-calls and voice messages.
He took the 0920 train back to the NSA’s headquarters and arrived exactly twenty minutes later. He knew his chances of Michael Perez ever returning to Z-Tec were slim at best. Fortunately, the hidden microphone he stuck under Julia’s desk might reveal otherwise.

[how does he know MP if he doesn’t have chip???]
‘Where would I go if I were this guy?’ he asked himself. ‘Into the desert. Where else?’ The desert was where all the unchippers lived. How they managed to survive out there in the wild, craggy, rocks oozing radiation, was beyond his imagination. Somehow they survived. Occasionally, he saw an unchipper, an outsider-one of ‘those people.’ They always had weather-beaten skin like tanned leather. Not the smooth features of a city-dweller.
[all Macrobites are 1984 dumb]
Jones figured they got food by smuggling it out of the city since no drone ever detected any significant vegetation in the Scarred Lands. True, the drones wee very unstable due to radioactivity in the SL, and were notorious for breaking down. But it seemed miraculous how people survived out there.
At 9:42, Jones was back in his office. He made plans to scour the desert himself. By 10:00 AM, he reserved a helicopter and planned to leave the next day before dawn.
* * *

[insert later]
‘They’re searching. Looking. They know I’m here. They can’t find me. I’m hidden.’
Michael clawed at the metal band around his ankle. It would not come off, not without the security code-which he didn’t have. Only the NSA knew the code.
The clouds, unnaturally close in the night sky, looked like great puffy goblins streaking across the full moon. Earlier, a thunderstorm washed the land, giving the forest a rich, earthy smell. Up the hill and through the trees, he scrambled scurrying from tree to tree. Rarely looking up, but sensing his presence.
‘Velkladdeur’s near,’ he thought. And Velkladdeur knew this. Above him. In the clouds. He was coming. One cloud in particular floated slower than the others. One end pointy, the other a vague amorphous blob of white and grey. Sky-Hoverer. Velkladdeur is in the Sky-Hoverer. This Michael knew beyond all doubt. The dirigible was sending low frequency signals in all directions, like probing tentacles, lurking in the night sky. Silent. Creeping. Like some phantom creature of the deep seas.
[mention how the voice reverberates in his belly]
The Sky-Hoverer wafted soundlessly nearer. Mac promised him that even with the ankle bracelet, Velkladdeur could not find him. He was elusive on the details, but kept insisting that he would be ‘hidden.’
“Hidden in what?” he asked. He had to trust his red-headed friend.
The Sky-Hoverer was now so close its engines could be heard. A thrumming sound meant to resemble a flock of birds. A search light turned on. It traced a large circle around Michael.
Michael dropped to the ground and covered himself with leaves. Despite what Mac told him about the bracelet, he knew Velkladdeur had a link to it.
‘Curse that traitor Julia! Why did I allow her to give me that bracelet as a parting gift? I should have known better. Now I’m trapped!’
The light beam described an ever decreasing circle and Michael was in the middle.
“We know you’re here!” boomed a mechanical voice from above. “Show yourself!”
Michael ignored the command and remained motionless. If Mac said he was hidden, he was hidden. Something told him to be as quiet as possible though every fiber of his being shouted ‘run.’
For one full second, the beam lit up Michael. He didn’t blink. Couldn’t have because his eyes were shut. The light moved on.
‘How could the Sky-Hoverer not detect the bracelet? It was common knowledge that once the aircraft sensors passed over, they automatically triggered the bracelets and gave away ones coordinates. Apparently, this didn’t happen for the voice said, “Surrender! Yield to us!” in the same overpowering bass.
‘Perhaps,’ he grinned, ‘I just need an update.’
The Sky-Hoverer and Velkladdeur drifted North.
* * *
“Okay. Let me get this straight,” said Michael. “You are telling me that simply being underground and spending time with the Undergrounders, I acquire some magical ‘essence’ that shields me from the Velk, satellites, Sky-Hoverers, hunter probes, Prowlers, etc, etc, etc. . .and renders any Macrobian machine useless when one using it to find me has evil intentions?”
“That’s not how I would describe it,” said Mac, “but for the time-yes, that’s essentially what happens.”
Michael was back in the Underground at a de-radiation room. Earlier, he had found a safe house, (or safe cave in this instance), and spent the last half-hour listening, bewildered, at Mac’s explanation.
“And what precisely is this ‘essence’ composed of? Six years of college, and I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re educators, by their very worldview, cannot believe in such phenomenon. Underworlders have the ability to bond to nature in a way Macrobites do not. It’s more natural (an easier). [explain much better] Everything about Macrobia is artificial. It, this artificiality, doesn’t allow them to change their nature to conform with matter like us. It’s rather like a surgeon implanting a new organ into a patient. The new organ may work, but requires prodigious quantities of drugs to do so, lest the body reject it. Macrobia is a foreign particle. An invader. And as such, their machines cannot truly detect us-unless we so desire, or use their system-which we reject.
[explain. . . ]
* * *

I do is the shortest phrase in the English language

I do is the shortest phrase in the English language . . .
Someone once said I will is the longest sentence. Wonder what they were talking about?

Once upon a time on the 5th day of the 5th month of the 5th year of the century, there lived a man called Joey Cee. His nickname was Joe, after his favorite drink, iced mocha frappachino made by Nestle.

Joey Cee, which wasn't his real name, preferred to call himself another sea-faring name, Nemo...latin for 'No Man.' Joey Cee was in a bit of a pickle, and like Puff who lived by the sea, was hungry due to a strange new illness, called by some Nemo's Revenge, and by others, the 7 year itch, a most strange malady. Now in his castle, a dark grim fortress, down next by the sea. Joey had a very old parchment purchased from the local merchants who sold their goods and wares at market every 5th day, using letters corresponding to numbers, as counting wasn't their specialty. (In this case the letter E'). Later, they decided to simply call the market 'E' and in due time it became popular among the traders to call the entire sea coast town, by the bay, 'E.' Although some maps still refer to it as E Bay, see. On the 5th line of the parchment, Joey Cee found a cure for Nemo's Revenge. But the cure called for a magical herb, a mystical plant unknown to any of his friends. After consulting the village elders, he decided to undertake a long journey to the Land of Nod. Day and night he traveled, toiling madly through swamps, crossing raging streams, torrid deserts, and high mountains. At long last, he arrived in the Land of Nod. And there, in a cave, atop a lonely mountain peak, stood a princess gazing into a large black cauldron. Joey Cee cleared his throat. He'd heard about this wily princess and was on his guard, all defenses up. He asked "Can you help me?"

The princess looked up from her boiling cauldron, wiped the sweat off her brow, and said ever so subtly. "I know what you are looking for. The plant...it's called Four Star Bane. I keep a store in my satchel, just picked some this morning, see?"

"Why...why...thank you!...But I have one more question, you creature of mystery."

She nodded and said "one more."

"What is your name, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"My name?"

"Yes...your name?"

"Well......my friends call me crazy, but you can call me Esther, see?"

by Puddle E. Glum

22 October 2006

Snakes on a plain

“And Moses made a serpent of brass, and put it upon a pole, and it came to pass, that if a serpent had bitten any man, when he beheld the serpent of brass, he lived.”
Numbers 21:9 (King James Version)

(How it really happened)

“Moses. We have a problem.”

“What is it this time, Aaron? Moabites, Ammonites, Canaanites, Parasites?”




“How much worse?”

“Much worse.”

“Well tell me brother. What in the Plains of Moab is it?”

“Reptiles, my lord. The long wrong oblong dry sly slinky cold-blooded kind.”

“Surely thou jesteth, my brother?”

“I jesteth not. We have adders in the attics, boas in the bedrooms, cobras in the closets, and vipers in the garage. Serpents in the synagogues, serpents in the Sanhedrin, and serpents in the sand.”

“Any rattlers?”

(Aaron nodding) “In the cribs.”

“So we’ve got problems with. . .snakes?”

“That’s right. You guessed it. We have . . .snakes on the plain.”

“How many?”

“Latest estimates show 10,000 score and ten.”

(Later that day in the Tabernacle)

Moses: Dear God, What do we do???

God: Do this. Take a snake, put it on a stake, and set it in the plain.

Moses: That’s insane!

God: Snakes on the plain, Moses. . .snakes on the plain.

Moses: But it seems so lame, and inhumane, and. . .and. . .

God: Silence! Moses, cut the flak! And don’t talk back no more no more no more no more.
Just make a snake, take the snake, stake the snake, forsake your ache, and stop this outbreak.

Quoth the Lord, forevermore.

And lo, Moses did as he was told and the rest is history.

by Puddle E. Glum

19 October 2006

Macrobia 3

Lieutenant Richard Lee Jones was 48 years of age and looked 30. He had never been sick a day in his life, and never passed up the opportunity to say so. Yet, every year, for one week, like clockwork, he contracted a fairly bad cold but never called it an actual sickness. He never used a sick day in his 15 years at the Bionomics Division of the NSA. He loved being in control. Every day he rose at precisely 5:50 AM and immediately started the coffee maker. Then he drank 8 ounces of water chilled to exactly 40 degrees F. At 6:00 AM, he took off the coffee, ate breakfast, brushed his teeth, used the bathroom, dressed for work, and departed his townhouse at 6:35 AM. 6:50 AM found him parking in spot 5A of the NSA parking lot and 6:59 AM found him scanning himself for another day of people monitoring. Or primed, prepped, and prepared for people-monitoring in the official NSA lingo.
Life in the early days of the Bionomics Division, was not always popular. For years a large segment of the Amexicada, or the USA as it was then called, fought against the perceived invasion of privacy the V-chips conferred. In time, like the now defunct credit card that preceded them, it evolved into a practical necessity. 15 years later, the Amexicadan Parliament passed the V-chip amendment, which required all citizens to have the microchip inserted into their body by the year 2015. Now, while it was not a criminal offense to be unchipped, it was so necessary to day-to-day life, that one was held to be a criminal if found without it. (It was criminal to be unchipped in some regions of Amexicada.)
Lt. Jones puzzled over how the man escaped. ‘What kind of electrical disturbance could cause the drone to break down?’ He wondered if the Velkladdaur knew he hadn’t quite told the truth in the matter. Truthfully, it had to be an electrical disturbance. There was no other explanation. 30 days.

* * *
“A.J. old boy, how are you?”
Michael wanted to crawl away and die. He rolled to his side and saw the face of a tall, thin, red-haired man with a beak of a nose staring at him.
“I thought you would be here. Helloooo A.J.” the red-head kicked Michael’s foot. “You awake or not?” He smiled and continued, “sleeping your life away?”
‘He doesn’t look like a sweep patroller,’ thought Michael. He crawled from under the jeep and looked at a man his own age that he had never seen before. ‘It would good to know knew in the world he was.’
“Come on. We’ve got to run,” said Red. “Are you ready to run?”
“Believe me. I’m more than ready to.” Michael crawled from under the jeep and shook his hand. A prickly sensation ran up Michael’s arm. ‘Did I go to high school with this guy?’ he thought.
Red said, ”You wouldn’t believe the trouble I went through to get here. Thankfully, I caught you before you went to the hives.”
“Yeah,” he pointed to the dome-shaped buildings. “Sure you are all right?”
“Sure. A little light-headed. Why don’t you go on ahead without me. I’ll catch up in a bit.”
”You might find that more difficult than you think.” He looked to the sweep patrollers-now placing their hand-cuffed prisoner into a dark sedan. “Come on now. My ride is by the hives. We’ll take it.”
They joined the parade of people walking to the hives. The dusty path was nearly a mile from the parking lot to the first of the hive buildings. With each step, Michael found the presence of evil growing stronger. A half-mile away and his breathing increased notably. His head hurt and his palms became sweaty. He looked to his unknown traveler friend, whistling away as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Who is this guy?” thought Michael. “And why is he going toward the hives?”
“Where am I going?” said the stranger. “You’ll see.” Michael’s nerves, stressed all morning nearly burst at this last comment. They continued in silence.
The first building loomed directly in front of them. People were entering the glass doors that encircled the building at ground level. Nobody was leaving-just entering like a gigantic mouth. Swallowing people. Devouring people. His head throbbed.
“Look here, man. I hate to break the news to you buddy, but A.J. here is feeling a little sick. How about I catch up with you tomorrow?”
“Can you promise you have a tomorrow? What do you think you’ll find when you get back to 331 Newport Street?”
“Michael stopped and looked at the red-head. “How do you know where I live?” The moment the words came out of his mouth, he realized his mistake.
“I know about you than you think,” said the stranger. “Perhaps even more than you know about yourself,” and in a barely audible voice added, “Mr. Perez.”
They arrived at the front of the building and walked around it. Michael felt like walking through jelly. He felt compelled to run into the nearest glass door and scream, “Let me in!”
“Don’t do it,” said the stranger in a calm but stern voice. “Keep walking. Look straight ahead.”
They came to a short grassy hill with steps leading down to a paved lot with half a dozen white vehicles stenciled with the letters TGC on their sides. In addition to a few motorcycles. “Trans-Genic Center. That’s what the letters stand for. You wanted to know.”
This was indeed what Michael wanted to know. He said nothing. They stopped by a TGC- stenciled BMW motorcycle.
“By the way, you can call me Duncan Mackenzie. Better yet, just call me Mac.”
Mac undid a clasp on the bike and produced two helmets. He pressed a switch inside them and gave one to Michael. “This trip might be a little rough. Put this in your ear.” He gave him an earpiece with a transparent wire attached to it. “You’ll have to twist it a little to get it in there.”
Michael inserted it into his hear with the end of the wire in front of his mouth. “It feels like a pencil eraser stuck in my ear.”
“You’ll get used to it. Won’t even know it’s there after awhile.”
Mac pressed a switch on his watch and talked. Michael heard his voice, loud and clear, and faintly metallic, in his ear. “Works by infrared. Useful when you don’t want people listening in on random radio-linked voices.” Michael got the idea.
Mac and Michael jumped on the BMW and headed to the front of the first hive. They made a sharp right and drove leisurely past four more identical hive buildings on the same road. Michael found that the evil presence seemed muted with the helmet. Soon, they passed the fifth hive.
The road continued on past some abandoned warehouses. Then it led through a massive junkyard of scrapped cars, office machines, and old airplanes. The road became worse and pockmarked with holes. At times, great sections of the road were completely eroded. Mac carefully threaded his way down the eroded banks and up the other sides. After a time, the junk disappeared until all he saw was a desolate wasteland. No trees, plants, and no farms. Simply an enormous wasteland of rocks and sand.
“We’re going to my place,” said Mac suddenly.
“A little dusty, isn’t it? Why so much dust?”
“Can’t see much.”
“Exactly. Dust covers hidden cameras, and is hard on equipment. Makes it easy to hide from prying eyes. Useful when you want to hide.”
“You can hide for only so long before the satellites find you.”
“Not if you’re underground.”
“You live in a hole in the ground. . .like a hobbit?”
“Err, not quite.”

Michael heard a throaty, thumping sound-like a helicopter. Ahead of them, and to their left, another road joined theirs. A cloud of dust was moving along it caused by a large boxy vehicle with large squares sticking out the sides. Mac gunned the BMW’s engine hoping to arrive at the intersection before the other car. They arrived the same time, but as the road widened at this point, the two vehicles didn’t collide.
The boxy car, now only a few feet from them and parallel, had an open cockpit and looked to be made of concrete. The two side squares were fairly curved, and swept back. The driver, wearing a helmet and goggles, didn’t look at them. The noise was deafening.
“What is it?” asked Michael.
Michael looked at the large, lumbering, sand-colored square upon wheels. Black smoke belched from its rear. It smelled like sulfur. The two wings moved slightly and extended outward. At once Mac shot forward ahead of the Rhino.
They’re nuclear-powered,” came Mac’s tinny voice over the sound. “Those two wings are boosters. You don’t want to be behind a Rhino when those things fire up. It’s like being stuck behind a jet engine-and very loud.” Michael wondered if anything could get louder. “They also fire rockets from the wings. Very useful.”
Mac increased his speed and soon the Rhino was merely another lumbering dust cloud.
“Friends of yours?”
“Hardly. Rhino operators are usually unchippers and not overly friendly. They’re rough people. I call the drivers Ruff and Gruff. Those guys only shave about three times a month and you can never understand what they’re saying.

Ruff and Gruff were shaggy old souls,
and shaggy old souls were they.
They smoked, and choked, and lived on coke,
And used up mom’s DNA.
Stay out in the sun too long,
And soon you’ll be as old as they.”

“I’m confused,” said Michael.
“I’ll explain later.”
“Please do.”

* * *
“Good morning Mr. Jones,” came the cheery voice of Candy Skipper.
“Any messages?” asked Jones.
Candy Skipper, fond of chewing gum, mini-skirts, different hair styles, and Celtic pewter jewelry was the secretary of Lt. Richard Jones. She was his complete opposite, yet for obscure reasons unfathomable to her creative mind, she had developed a crush on the Lt. Whether he knew this is a matter of some debate, but Candy, due to her unique mindset, felt it would be a serious social faux pas to come out and tell him.
In celebration of pay day, Candy wore green hair, gold shirt, and silver skirt.
“The techies have been calling all morning. They’re down in room 312. . .

The drone lay on a white table. It’s insides spread out like a bad car wreck.
“What have you found?” asked Jones.
“Nothing to speak of. All the systems are working properly, at least until we completely disassembled everything.”
“I want a test run.”
“We’ve done that.”
“It went perfectly. Killed all our test rats in one fell swoop. Even Smart Sparky got zapped.”
“Sparky’s dead?”
“Tragic, I know boss. . .but science is science.”
“We downloaded the video and see the unchipper in the plaza. The best we can figure out is the tramp stood directly in the line of sight between the drone and Mr. No-chip while the video was running. Sort of like the moon during a solar eclipse. See right here at 17’00”35.6. And then as we go to 17’00”42.7.” Here the technician fast-forwarded the downloaded video. “Here we see the plaza empty except for these two.”
“You didn’t get a video of the unchipper’s face?”
“Nope. Strangest thing too. All the video shows is the back of his head. When he turned around facing a camera, there either was somebody directly in front of him, or in once instance, the video just went blank. It’s probably just an electrical surge in the wiring induced by the Prime Minister’s call.”
Jones put his face in his hands, and then said. “Get me a picture of the unchipper anyways. The best you can come up with. A close-up. I want to see what the guy was wearing. The Velkladdeur seems to think it important to find this guy.”
The technician whistled. “What for?”
“Not certain. But know this. When the Velkladdeur wants his man, that man has something worth taking.”

* * *

“Here you go Lt.” The technician laid a digitally-enhanced photo on Rick’s desk. “Abercrombie and Fitch khaki pants and looks like size 32-34 waist. Light blue long-sleeved shirt with partially rolled-up sleeves. The shoes appear to be size 11 black Adidas hiking boots.”
“Thank you. That only narrows it down to about. . .3,000 different people in this city.”
* * *
The Velkladdeur sat alone in his office brooding over the fact that an unchipped man escaped with his life intact and his identity unknown. He knew that Lt. Jones most likely would never find the man within 30 days- if ever, but he felt it was good practice for the NSA employees to see a man killing himself to get a job done. Every once in a while the agency needed a good shake down. And if he had to sacrifice a man-so be it. He knew fear or threat bred loyalty to an organization. He had seen this countless numbers of times in his life.
The Velkladdeur was old, much older than anybody knew. True, his 157-year-old body had been artificially lengthened by gene therapy, but the fact remained that although his body was in excellent condition, his mind was subject to unexplainable fits of anger and increasingly, for the past decade, he made choices solely by instinct rather than through conscious thought. His formidable mind gave him the ability to make logical inferences about events rivaling that of any supercomputer.
Whoever this unknown man was, Velkladdeur knew he divined his presence. The world is a cohesive whole. Everything is linked to everything else. When a man talks at 11:00 AM, the words affect the very fabric of space so that one well in tune, one whose mind is in-phase with the space-time continuum, will detect the waves or ripples generated from the speech and discern his location.
“I must find this man!”
The Velkladdeur viewed all the possible outcomes from each decision he made. Ina great many future outcomes, he saw his body lying in state in a large auditorium. This did not frighten him. Throughout his life, he had met others like this unchipped man and eliminated them.
An hour past sunset, the Velkladdeur made his way to the roof of the NSA. He had a room, surprisingly small, that he entered on a weekly basis. Once inside, he closed and locked the doors, lie down on a table, and shut his eyes. The room, sound-proof and always kept at 98.6 F and 0% humidity, was a key component for his longevity. He pressed a button on the wall, placed a visor over his eyes, and waited.
A series of images flashed off and on at such a rate it seemed to be mere pulses of light. The images were discrete pictures of daily events in his life. A daily photographic record of his last 67 years. It was found out that viewing these clips reinforced the neural network in his genetically-enhanced brain. It also forced his brain into a default-type setting. When humans first started undergoing gene therapy trials, the neurons had trouble adapting to the increased life span. As a result, people went insane, which defeated the purpose of gene enhancement. In 1999, Dr. Abram Nasglow, a cognitive scientist at MIT, discovered that if you stimulated neurons, new and more connections would form between them, so that thinking became clearer. One of the drawbacks was the Velkladdeur was unable to dream.

Macrobia 2

“You lost him?” asked the VelkLaddeur.
“No, Sir. We got him, but somehow he escaped,” said Lt. Jones.
“What do you mean ‘you got him.’ If you got him, he would be dead.”
“Yes, Sir. But you see, when we sent in the corpse collection unit, all they found was an old man named Max Dudley.”
“Didn’t the drones see the unchipper in the plaza?”
“That they did, Sir. But there was some kind of electrical disturbance that confused the drone’s circuitry. The unchipper must have escaped then. The most likely explanation is the drone. . .once the electrical disturbance ceased. . .automatically assumed Mr. Dudley was the unchipped man.”
“Mr. Dudley was a chipped man Lt. How could the drone assume otherwise? Machines never assume Lt. Never. What kind of electrical disturbance was this?”
“We’re still uncertain. Our tech guys are checking it out as we speak. Nothing’s turned up yet. It seems in perfect working order.”
“Keep looking Lt. And keep looking until you find the problem. The last thing we need is another unchipped cowboy running around footloose and fancy free.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I want a full report of the problem ASAP. See to it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“One more thing. See the safe nurse before you leave.”
“But, Sir.”
“You know the Law Codes. Eye for eye and tooth for tooth.”
“What if we don’t find him?”
“Thirty days Lt. You have thirty days before the methyl butyrate is released.”
Lt. Jones left the VelkLaddeur’s office. The last thing he saw was his Cheshire cat-like grin. It unnerved him.
Lt. Jones grumbled to himself as he walked the long corridor to the safe nurse’s lab. He hated this building, the National Security Agency. Every conversation was under constant surveillance, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. One couldn’t even grumble aloud without it going on record. Secretly, he was glad when it was quitting time. Working in the NSA gave one a headache. One couldn’t even go to the bathroom without some roving mechanical Cyclops staring at you. Yet, this was the case for all government buildings. Constant surveillance. Always watching.
Lt. Jones entered the safe nurse lab where he instinctively held out his hand and passed it over the receptionist’s scanner. It beeped.
“We’ve been expecting you,” said a thin, middle-aged woman with short hair, plain face, who could easily have passed for a man. Her name tag said Leah. Dr. Charan will see you now. She led him to a small room with pink walls and told him to sit on a table. Leah closed the door and left. He tried the door. Locked. The room was bare. No cabinets, tables, or anything to suggest he was in a doctor’s office, yet he knew he was monitored. A moment later the door opened.
Dr. Ali Singhe Charan was short, bald, bushy gray eyebrows, and wrinkly forehead. “You know how this works,” said Dr. Charan immediately. “Same principle as the V-chip in your right arm. This will be in your left arm. Roll up your sleeves.”
Jones rolled up his left sleeve and relaxed as Dr. Charan rubbed alcohol on his arm. Then he picked up a needle, inserted a rice-sized capsule, and carefully inserted it in the lt’s arm.
That’s it?” asked Jones.
“Yes,” replied Charan. “In 30 days the capsule is programmed to release 100 micrograms of hexylbutyrate and 50 micrograms of pentane dioxide. First you fall asleep, then the heart stops beating. So quick, easy, and painless.”
“And the antidote?”
“There is no antidote for the red capsule. We remove it manually.”
Lt. Jones forced a grin. “I feel like Damocles.”
“You are Damocles,” said Dr. Charan.


This blog entry is the very rough, coarse, most likely to be re-written 7 more times, 1st (2nd really) draft of chapter 1 of something I'm calling Macrobia, a city-state in the not too distant future of the United States.

This chapter is spread out over a few blog entries because of the word limit. . .and to make it easier to read.

Feel free to comment, critique, offer suggestions, food, and Nepalese Rupees. All will be welcome.



PS. I'm copying and pasting this thing from Word.

The call, a high pitched wailing cry, went out from the walls of the castle. Almost by instinct, people everywhere in the plaza emptied their pockets of everything. Receipts, credit cards, pens, watches, necklaces, even cash, and immediately laid it down. Michael hesitated, even though he knew they would check his pockets. Still, there was the chance. He hesitated, thought better, and pulled out a wad of cash and a handkerchief, and shoved it in a crack in the nearby concrete wall.
Michael Perez was a shade under 6-foot-tall and fair in complexion. His thin angular face and dark-grey eyes seemed to pierce one’s soul. People found it difficult to look him in the eyes. They said they felt transparent in his presence and were found wanting. He wore his hair short and as a rule never let it go more than 6 weeks without getting it cut. His long, thin, but very dark eyebrows gave his face a hawk-like bearing. He wore sand-colored khakis and denim long-sleeved shirt. He always wore khakis and long-sleeved shirt, and never varied.
“Of all the times for the Prime Minister to call, it had to be now,” he thought to himself. He looked around. Everyone looked like hippies in a drug-induced stupor. . .or just stupid. He felt ridiculous leaving his money out for the entire world to see. But everyone knew the Law and the sweep patrols were always more than happy to remind you.
“I don’t care what anyone thinks. I’m not going to the PM.” The plaza was nearly deserted. A few stragglers hurried past, but other than that nobody remained. Lots of shops surrounded the brick-lined square. He walked in the opposite direction from the PM’s castle keeping his head down to avoid suspicion. Not everyone had to see the PM today. You only had to see him once a year, but once a year was enough.
Michael picked up his pace, and came to a deserted street. It hit him at once like a splash of cold water. “He’s coming. Velkladdeur is coming. He’s at the end of the street.” Michael had developed an uncanny intuition. He could divine events before they happened, and he felt Velkladdeur, the chief of the PM’s secret police, approaching in his mind’s eye. His hair stood on end. His skin crawled. He turned and walked back towards the shopping plaza and the PM.
The plaza was empty. A wave of nausea hit him. He gulped and ran towards the only door left open. Too late. It snapped shut.
“Man, man, man, man, man, MAN. . .this is not good,” he thought. “Hide. I must hide.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a tarp-covered park bench adjacent to a construction site. Velkladdeur’s presence was gone, but something else approached. Drone. A flying globe that detected motion. A flying machine, basketball-sized, that sensed the smell of blood. He felt the flying droid hovering around the corner. He turned towards the tarp and nearly ran into a homeless man-the Can Man.
The Can Man was a balding fellow with short, curly, greasy, brown hair. You smelled him before you saw him. The Can Man could always be recognized by his clothes, since he always wore the same thing; faded blue-jeans, tee-shirt, and faded denim jacket. Even in the middle of summer. People said he had a wardrobe full of identical outfits, sort of like a regular Ernest P. Worrell of whom he bore a slight resemblance. The Can Man walked around the city with a black garbage bag collecting aluminum cans to get insulin money for his diabetic wife. There was a slightly devious look in his eyes. Not enough to commit a big crime, like murder, but perhaps a pickpocket or two.
Michael glared for an instant, and then grinned. The Can Man said, “sorry,” in his soft timid voice. Michael ran on.
He dropped to the ground and rolled under the tarp. Seconds later the drone rounded the corner and hovered over the very spot Michael stood. It paused for a moment as if sniffing the air, and then silently buzzed through the air zigzagging to detect the subtle change in the air temperature. It hovered above the tarp-covered picnic table. Michael froze. The flying drones, some no bigger than a sparrow, detected humans by hat and movement. Lie perfectly still and there was a chance you could avoid detection.
“Steady. . .steady, Michael,” he told himself. “Just don’t move.” Every muscle in his body relaxed. He could feel the faint metallic clicking of the manhunter probe slowly ejecting from the drone.
Michael sensed rather than felt the tip of the long, snaky probe rest against the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure if the probe registered his existence or not. An alternate thought struck him. “It may think Mr. Can is me.” He didn’t know for sure.

Heart rate: 80 bpm
Blood type: O+
Height: 1.98 m
Weight: 51.1 kg
ID Number: 63MX4R_hss

Caught! He sensed the drone scrape cells from his skin. Just a few were needed for a complete DNA analysis. Why did the drone register him as 63MX4R_hss? He had never been chipped before. His employer kept prodding him to do so, but something about the process bothered him. Nobody dared appear before the PM without proper identification. To do so was certain death. Besides, you couldn’t carry on business without it for long in the city.
He felt the sensor remove from his body and recoil back to the drone. It flew away. Michael relaxed.
Sometime later he heard voices on the plaza. He rolled over and gasped. The Can Man was lying beside him the entire time. His eyes stared directly into Michael. A thin mucus covered them. He was dead.
Michael rolled away and emptied his stomach. A minute later he left the tarp in time to see the first people emerge from the PM’s cathedral. “Something is different about them,” he wondered. “Their eyes. . .they’re glazy, hollow. . .and yet, they live.”
Two women and a little boy walked past. He followed them.
The mass of people headed towards a complex of dome-shaped buildings a mile away. Michael felt compelled to investigate. The closer the buildings, the greater the sense of evil grew on him. “I must…not…enter…that…complex. Complex bad.”
The air seemed heavier, thicker. And, “are my eyes getting blurry?” He wondered.
They walked by a gravel parking lot. “Now is my chance. I’ll just act like I’m going to my car, then duck out of site until everybody is gone.” Michael scrambled three feet down a dusty path and surveyed the lot. “Let’s see now. What kind of a car would Mr. Perez, molecular biologist at ZantraTec Pharmaceuticals drive? The white Mustang? Nope. Too flashy. The black Ford SUV? It would be easy to hide under, but too hot in the July sun. And in this corner we have a green Jeep. Ahh, just right.”
Michael walked to a dirty Wrangler and peered inside. “Whoever owns this thing, must have stock in McDonalds and Marlboro.” The floor was littered with cigarette butts and Big Mac wrappers. It was an older model Jeep, one that required you to punch in a numeric password to open. Unlike the newer versions that only required one to pass your arm over a dash-mounted scanner. The scanner detected the microchip in your arm and presto. . .the door unlocked itself. In the decade since the government began mass-chipping the population, automobile thefts dropped to virtually zero. Still, some people refused to purchase new cars and relied on pre-2015 models.
Embedded microchips first became available in the 1990s when Applied Digital Solutions of Delray Beach, Florida created a device about the size of a grain of rice that could easily be inserted into a person. The VeriChip™ was a tiny implantable radio frequency identification device or RFID. In humans, the microchip is inserted in the back of the upper right arm. Because of its tiny size, it is practically undetectable once embedded. A polyethylene cover helps the chip bond with the skin so it doesn’t migrate.
The chip works in much the same manner as the bar code scanner at your local grocery store. Only instead of a bar code, one has the half inch long microchip in your shoulder. When a scanner or reader passes over, a radio signal energizes the dormant VeriChip™ which then transmits a unique sixteen digit identification number. This number is used to provide access to a secure database in Switzerland containing the person’s complete medical history.
“Ow! Let me go!” shouted a voice. Michael heard scuffling at the end of the parking lot. Two men wearing identical clothing; black pants, black shirt, black shoes, were arresting somebody. The sweep patrol.
In a matter of seconds, the sweep patrollers subdued the man, scanned him, and subjected him to a breath test on their portable GC-MS systems that monitored volatile organic compounds, or VOC’s, that were considered markers for various disease. They also told you what food you ate, how much, and where you purchased it.
A crowd gathered around the scene like a pack of hyenas. And like hyenas, they laughed and stared at the prisoner.
Michael threw himself to the ground and rolled under the Jeep. He didn’t hear or see the man in black watching him. So when a face appeared some time after the mass of people had passed by, he thought for certain he was caught.

14 October 2006

Sir Spam-a-lot

This message came to my e-mail account. It's from a perfect stranger, and I have no clue what he, or she, or it is talking about.

Who else would think this was a good idea?
has just been released.
More photos coming soon! They are known by any number of other names, such as foo fighters, flying saucers, and Transient Luminescent Phenomena.
One of the issues I hit while setting. " I was suddenly hit with such a strong feeling of utter emptiness that I didn't have the heart to continue.
Well, besides fly and make guacamole.
" Do you need me to slow down? Often, however, we exit a sold-out theater feeling deceived after the hype. Someone should remind him of this fact, because likely he's forgotten about it, along with his name. While I do not expect car stereo manufacturers to grok podcasting, it would be nice if. They are no standard shape, but instead seem to vary as fashion demands. While the latter is perhaps a more accurate description, it is too sterile to capture the imagination of most researchers and seems confine to a doctor of geology studying Pine Bush, NY. Occasionally, it is reported that the objects seem aware of humans and will react to being seen.
Finally, they fell apart.
They are no standard shape, but instead seem to vary as fashion demands.
You know that, right?
Already, their were website scrutinizing the fliers and trying to ponder Shane's next move.
While the latter is perhaps a more accurate description, it is too sterile to capture the imagination of most researchers and seems confine to a doctor of geology studying Pine Bush, NY. He looks like he would be good at frisbee, but further testing will be necessary.
No, I was frozen simply by the raw passion of their kiss-the opposite of the complete emptiness that had washed over me and from which I was still trying to escape.
Occasionally, it is reported that the objects seem aware of humans and will react to being seen.
While I do not expect car stereo manufacturers to grok podcasting, it would be nice if.

13 October 2006


Had some free time today. I thought I'd post a picture of myself.

12 October 2006


I must say, I envy people who own their very own washing machines.

These people are superb.

God likes them.

I dream of no more trips to the laundromat with a bulging pocket full of quarters jangling in your pants making you look like a circus clown with a tumor on his thigh. No more reading 3 year old McCall’s magazines with the coupon for a free bottle of slim fast cut out. No more deep conversations with 50 year old greasy, slobbery men, wearing shorts and too small tee- shirts, who scratch their bellys and play video games and still live with mom. No more quality time spent wanting to smack little unruly children wandering around the parking lot playing tag, and sometimes running up to the chair you’re sitting on and holding on to it for dear life because they’ve made it ‘home.’ No more mumbling under you breath saying “Please don’t look at me like that ever again woman.”

I want to be REALLY happy in Life, not simply mediocre happy.

My sister is a year and a half younger and single. It would be very strange to see her wedding, to see her married. To know that she’s doing all those things married people do that single people don’t, or rather shouldn’t, because if they wait, it will be better than if they hadn’t. So, they wait, and get antsy, and pester God with silly questions, and go outside and run 12 miles, then take a shower, a cold one, because they’re hot and salty, which makes them thirsty, so they drink water, tap water, which isn’t cold enough. So they put it in the freezer to chill, meanwhile they chill, by taking a nap, and oversleep because of a heat headache. So they make coffee, boil it to extract extra caffeine. Drink it to make the headache go away, which it does, in time. Of course now they have to go to the bathroom since the caffeine is a highly diuretic substance, which makes them thirsty again, so they get the water from the freezer, but it’s harder than a deBeers diamond, so they make iced coffee, which breaks the blender, and splashes coffee on their white tee-shirt, which means another laundromat trip to Hades across the River Styx, trying to avoid Medusa, but can’t, Pandora’s Box has been opened, the goddess has perceived your singlehood, asks if you want to be REALLY happy, so you put on solemn airs and say as seriously as you can, “Por lo siento senorita, para yo no hablo ingles bien,” she is not amused, nor are her 7 out of wedlock children, she’s leaves in disgust, but not after forgetting and leaving a dirty sock on the floor, which falls by your foot, which you try to avoid by contorting your body like a Hindu mystic, and in doing so convince the guy across the room, the ‘big-boned’ fella with Big Mac and fries breath, you need more trans-5-omega-7-gluclosidase mindotoxine pills to cure you, he’s an expert in such things, read it in Cosmopolitan, right beside the astrology column.......ahhhhhhhhhh........Life.

09 October 2006


By Michael Crichton is not worth reading. It has potential, but he should re-write the book because it's f-l-a-t.

State Farm sent me a gift certificate for paying my bills on time. With it, I bought two books at Amazon.com, and one only cost me 46 cents.

08 October 2006


The Bushes were in town yesterday.

Former President George H.W. Bush and his sons, President George W. Bush and Florida Gov. Jeb Bush, after the christening of the aircraft carrier named for the senior Bush. DELORES JOHNSON / THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT

07 October 2006

Let them eat cake

My sister, God help her, baked this cake from scratch in our oven. In most cases, I would lick the icing in some obscure part of the cake so as not to arouse suspicion. In this case, it just didn't seem right anywhere.

06 October 2006

Obsessive Compulsive. . .me?

You May Be a Bit Obsessive Compulsive...

Meticulous and detailed oriented, you have some irrational obsessions.

Maybe it's your super neat closet or washing your hands a gazillion times.

You probably know it's weird, but you just can't stop thinking about it.

In fact, the more you think about your quirks, the more you have to do them.

05 October 2006


"I spend way too much time reading blogs of strangers cause it's addicting to read the personal and semi-private online journals which tells me that I have a curious nature, much more than normal, and I should really find some other things to do with my life so as not to waste so much time because, after all, what good can one glean from the perusing of all this blogomania?" thinks Jason as he types on his Compaq at 3 PM while staring out the window at the cleaning ladies troop from apartment to apartment on golf carts sweating profusely in the 75 degree sunny weather here in Virginia Beach and the squirrels who play in the front grassy area before the children return from school and chase them with rusty tricycles and streamers and ice cream in their pudgy little hands.

The area beside the apartment complex here to Regent University (a mile away) is a large, wooded area home to fat old foxes who come out at night looking for rabbits and other small furry creatures with whom or of whom, I forget which it's supposed to be, they can spend and agreeable night with. The creature I saw the other night was the fattest fox I have ever seen. It was checking out the 3 large rabbits that hang out in my front yard and when it saw me coming, trooped off back to the woods.

Have you ever felt like Charlie from Flowers for Algernon. . .after he comes down from his medication? Yeah, it's kind of a bazaar feeling, knowing that you have a prodigious quantity of knowledge in your mind, but can't access it for unexplainable reasons. . .actually you could, but to do so would require something extraordinary to jog your memory banks.

I wonder what heaven will be like has been the dominant thought in my mind, not brain, mind, mind you, lately and I cannot seem to get rid of it nor do I want to. I also have this incredible feeling that God is staring at me like a giant biologist looking down through a rather large microscope and keeping me separate from other humans to see what I do. It's like he is reserving me for some future event in the Earth's history and right now I'm not ready to do that task, deed, or work, but will soon be called to do it for nobody else will know how or won't want to and this is one reason why I am not yet married as it would be in the best interest of humanity in the long term if I do it. . .sort of like Jeremiah the prophet. Nevertheless, in the meantime I feel absolutely compelled and driven to write like a madman, (this is horrendous writing and I know it and do not even care to know what my grammar is like-though actually I do), write write write right now. Ahora. Ecrivez maintenant. Blog blog blog. Slog slog slog. Slog through the blog. Slog through the blog like a frog in the bog. Blog like a song like a frog in the smog. "A chain in a cog," said the rooster to the throng. "That's my song," said the biker to King Kong as he sat on a log in the bog on a log while he hummed a little song.

03 October 2006

100th post

So, I thought the last 9 minutes of 2001, A Space Odyssey would be good to post.

Why not.

02 October 2006

A Survey

Name:Johann Mikael Parishnikov
Birthdate:in the 70's
Birthplace:Fairmont, WV
Current Location:Chesapeake, VA
Hair Color:brown
Boyfriend/Girlfriend:again. . .nope
Overused Phraze:phraze is spelled wrong
Food:Mexican and rotisserie cornish game hens
Candy:only cough drops
Number:googleplex and pi
Color:deep deep violet bordering on indigo
Animal:Siberian tiger, Great Horned owl, many pleistocene epoch creatures
Alcohol Drink:robotussin
Body Part on Opposite sex:The cerebral cortex
This or That
Pepsi or Coke:Neither
McDonalds or BurgerKing:I am on a lifelong boycott of both
Strawberry or Watermelon:Strawberry
Hot tea or Ice tea:hot
Chocolate or Vanilladepends on what's being consumed
Hot Chocolate or Coffee:coffee
Kiss or Hug:again. . .depend on who the other is. . .and what species
Dog or Cat:cat
Rap or Punk:neither
Summer or Winter:both. . .I love weather
Scary Movies or Funny Movies:funny
Love or Money:love
Bedtime:6 AM
Most Missed Memory:hearing normally
Best phyiscal feature:cerebellum
First Thought Waking Up:drink water
Goal for this year:to finish this book I'm procrastinating on
Best Friends:a few
Fears:nothing really
Heritage:French, Canadian, English, Irish. . .I'm a Japethite
Longest relationship:3 months maybe
Ever Drank:once a margarita
Ever Smoked:nope
Pot:they're for cooking
Ever been Drunk:nope
Ever been beaten up:close to it
Ever beaten someone up:sort of
Ever Shoplifted:nope
Ever Skinny Dipped:nope
Ever Kissed Opposite sex:yes
Been Dumped Lately:nope
Favorite Eye Color:blue
Favorite Hair Color:NA
Short or Long:long
Height:taller than normal
Style:slightly wavy
Looks or Personality:I'll have to re-check my Myers-Briggs book
Hot or Cuteboth
Drugs and Alcohol:nope
Muscular or Really Skinny:athletical
Number of Regrets in the Past:3.7
What country do you want to Visit:England
How do you want to Die:in my sleep
Been to the Mall Lately:a month ago for 1/2 and hour
Do you like Thunderstorms:yes
Get along with your Parents:yes
Health Freak:healthy but not freaky about it
Do you think your Attractive:sometimes
Believe in Yourself:yes
Want to go to College:I did
Do you Smoke:nope
Do you Drink:nope
Shower Daily:yes
Been in Love:perhaps
Do yo Sing:in the shower and in the car
Want to get Married:someday
Do you want Children:this depends on the previous question
Have your future kids names planned out:I muse about it on occasion
Hate anyone:not any people