I imagine that there must be one or two of you out there wondering how ol' Slippy got to be such an emotional, nervous wreck to begin with. Well, there's a whole bunch of reasons I won't go into, but one event which had a major impact on my mental health was being a passenger involved in a bus crash in London several years ago. What follows is a free-expression poem/essay that describes the sequence of the day as viewed from within my own mind, written not long after the event. It's rough going in places, but it does give an illustration of how my mind and nerves clash against each other and leave me like a rabbit in the headlights.

To Make Sense of the Insensible

(must I admit the inadmissible?)

Who says it's NOT my fault?

I don't like it here, I don't want to be here

I wanted to stay at home, be lazy, be selfish.

We should have set out at lunchtime

I dragged my feet, held back and waited.

2hrs behind We should have known where we were going,

I didn't read the signs, went the wrong way.

2hrs20 behind We should have changed at Hampstead,

I didn't think, got off early, had to get to another train.

2hrs30 behind We should have had lunch when we got there

I chose to eat at Euston. 3 o'clock came and went

2hrs50 behind We should have been dressed for walking and stairs,

I made you wear "nice" shoes which hurt your feet.

Too many stairs, too many tunnels,

Because of me, you walked too far

Even without all that followed,

Once again you suffer by my choices

3hrs behind We should have been able to move from place to place at speed

I got scared of the crowd, panicked, couldn't breath, had to get away

Followed the signs, wasted time, the way out the way out.

Couldn't breath, needed air, fresh air

The way out - lifts, dead end, no stairs, no way out

Round the corner, I waited, I hid, tried to breath

Then back, when the people were gone, the lifts a way free

But you worried for me, cared for me,

Held me up and breathed with me.

Frustration for you, when I won't let you help

Or take control of myself

Again, by my choices are you wronged

i can't think why you don't blame me hate me hurt me hate me

Who says it IS my fault?

These streets are too narrow, this hill is too steep.

My chest's getting tight. Something's wrong. Something red.

there's something red ahead is that it?

no, not that. like that, but not that. not quite

Human-packed places, must I treat as a game

Controlling my motion round all, that my name

may stand proud next the Hi-Score in "Running The Crowd"

- A game played in my mind, when life is too loud -

Enabling fears to be put to one side

So I pass through without panic, enjoying the ride

Seen how I move, have you as you follow,

Tho your ease in this chaos, could I but borrow.

If I had been thus on this day of strange things

We would have passed thru aloft bright unreal wings

My focus, a shield, to mind us on track

Would have brought us our goal and as swiftly right back

I should have made sensible plans as our guide

But my mind, distracted, is logic denied

And while thinking I'm thinking "My Love, how is she?"

Something darker is whining "What of me? What of ME?"

Convinced my bemusement is true love's concern

For thee, but my own selfishness has me turned.

We're heading uphill, toward a mirror-bus, coming down.

I can see it so close. This road is too narrow. We slow.

The tube should have run, Euston to Edgeware.

One derailed last week though. They closed for repairs.

We should have had seatbelts, and headrests and more

Seats facing backwards, crash avoidance on board.

We miss it, but barely. Indifference on faces through twice-windowed nothing.

I'm scared, mind darting. Something's still wrong. Something loud.

there's something loud something red ahead is that it?

no, not that. almost. similar, but louder. that's wrong.

Mirror-bus two. Stood standing, still, stationery. So Steep.

This one looks closer. We surely can't miss? Snail's pace.

We shouldn't have busses in this day and age

I can be anywhere at the turn of a page.

Damn, that was close. Our mirror near-merged, but we passed.

But that's not it. I can smell something there. Something hard.

Who says it was ANYONE'S fault?

We're cresting the hill,

I'm panicking. All alone.

Nothing around me, nothing exists.

I'm leaning way forwards, chair gripped in white fists.

I'm cold, not breathing

("We crested the hill at what felt like walking pace, I muttered under my breath...")

Me: Oh shit, I can't breath. We're going to hit something

You: (leaning toward me) What did you say? Babe?

Me: (shouting above the noise in my head) We're going to hit something, I know it.

You: (putting your hand on my back) Y'what babe? Still can't hea...

("...and the world seemed to disappear from around me. I could no longer feel your hand on my back. Something felt terribly wrong. That panic attack earlier happened for a reason. And the attack of nerves a couple of weeks before. I've had that before too. Before the bus ahead was even in my line of sight, I KNEW we were going to hit something. I was trying, desperately to deny it. It couldn't be real, this sense of doom. There's no such thing as premonition. But I could...")

There's something not right.

there's nothing red, nothing loud, nothing hard that I feel that I hear that I see

there is i'm sure of it. redness, not blood. noise (silence). hardness(too soft)

I'm shouting and screaming

SOMETHINGS NOT RIGHT

RIGHT NOT LEFT

LEFT SOMETHING RED

RED SOMETHING

RED RIGHT RED RIGHT

Not making a sound.

Coasting downhill, in gear, it feels,

Not fast, not slow

My eyes fixed ahead

My God, there it is. There's something red. Is that it? Is that it?

I can't tell. Can't be sure. It doesn't feel right it feels....(argh, can't. let me. let me. stop holding me down stop)

Looking for'd looking down

How steep is this hill

That I can look down?

("...see the colour of the impact in my bones and teeth long before. I could feel three distinct, different pitches of scream. One high, desperate, constant, loud. One mid-range, articulate, broken, angry, loud. The third scream....strange, The first two, though felt and not heard, felt like an echo of sound. The third felt like an echo of THOUGHT and it wailed and wailed and begged and cried. It pleaded and clung, oh the poor wretched thing without strength screaming screaming at me to help it help it do something please oh god please. I heard, I'm sure, a soul departing, a spirit torn from it's body wrongly, injustly. A soul died, before the crash happened. I don't know if it was the soul of the lost man, the trapped boy or the driver. Nor even if the soul's body, is alone, alive, dead.")

That road is so narrow

There's lights up ahead

A queue, cars waiting

Oh no, something red.

OH JESUS IT'S RED

IT'S LOUD AND IT'S RED

IT'S HARD AND IT'S RED

IT'S WRONG AND IT'S RED

shout something!

but what if I'm wrong?

do something!

but i'll look a fool!

we missed two already

my judgement is wrong

it's getting closer!

we're not braking!

we're veering left

the red moving right!

we'll miss it. we'll miss it.

"The road must split there. There must be another lane. We're going to move safely around that bus, just as soon as the wall in the corner of my vision begins to curve away from us. But there isn't a curve there, the wall is still straight. We're not far from it, must be close to the pavement. There isn't another lane. Through the window ahead, there's a red shape. I can't make out details on anything. Nothing exists apart from the red shape, filling the lower-right hand quarter of the patch of sky I can see ahead of us. That's all I can see, red and sky. Something in me is saying we should be doing something but it's too late now too late. Oh god, we're not going to make it. It's too late to shout now. Oh Tracy, I Love You!!!!"

not left! not right!

right! not red! NOT RED!

we're veering, but it looks close

the red in the window ahead

we're not slowing

he hasn't seen

we're drifting, not turning

not heading between

As the red shape moves across the square of sky

Time runs so slowly. Room for a thousand thoughts to pass

As an eyelid moves down, to cover the eye and return, blinked

We hit it we hit it we hit it

Still moving, the red hit and gone we hit it

At the moment of impact, the bus changes shape, fast thinking ceasing

And motion returns, we ragdolls back at Newton's mercy in realtime

But now the thoughts race time back to a crawl

Something crunched, time stops

Pressure on elbow and shin, something gives

No pain, not me broken

Exchange of potential to empty seat

I'm back in my seat looking left

Time is slowed, nothing moves

This body too slow, so slow, not enough time

Damn it, why are things moving so slowly

Holding on reaching out

You staring ahead, rabbit-eyes in twin-lamps

Would that time not return after now

That the aftermath never be allowed to become

That our thoughts race so fast we may live out our days in mind

In the instant between this moment and that.

And pass from here knowing yet nothing of sorrow

But no, speed of thought may not unleash us from this cruel mercy

Merely frustrates as muscles fail to respond in good time

And destroys as our screaming minds wander

Down not-often travelled avenues of self-loathing

oh. the wall.

yes. the wall.

that's not another lane

The lights should have changed, the bus ahead moved long since.

But displaced train journeys had already tipped the balance in favour of gridlock

The driver should have slowed through gears, applied brakes (foot- and air-)

But somehow he didn't. And I felt it happening.

The people on the pavement should have been facing oncoming traffic

But they weren't. They weren't. They didn't see us coming.

The driver ahead should have been checking behind, seen us coming.

He could have given warning, shouted, moved, done something. ANYTHING!

We should have hit full on square, let the busses and cars take the impact

But we hit turning left, deflected onto the pavement, into the wall, and something else

...a man lost

...a boy trapped

Again we hit, or is it the first time? There's silence. Dead silence.

Am I deaf, no I hear blood rushing in my ears

I can't see, am i blind, no there's my Love my Love i see nothing else

Is she ok, broken, bleeding, no, stunned

Those rabbit eyes, lost, staring, is she dead is she dead is my love dead?

Pray NO NO NO NO NO she's staring she's staring not moving pray NO!

You: (rabbit eyes, staring) what happened?

Me: (low, muttering, angry) That driver better be dead if he's not I'll kill him i'll kill him he didn't even brake

Me: (louder, concerned, anger gone, confusion) Are you okay, are you hurt, any pain, anyth...

Thank God she's ok my love my love get her safe make her safe get away

Look round first anyone hurt anyone hurt? No. Tears, stunned faces, no blood

Someone's screaming downstairs, I'm sure. The two voices I felt before. The first two, I hear them now. Or do I? I can't tell. I don't know. Is there silence or noise? All I can hear is my love's heart. All I can see is my love's life, living in her still.

A face on the stairs, a man, 'Anyone hurt up here?' No thank God, we're ok up here but he's looking out the window

My bag in my hand, my love behind me, her hand somewhere near,

I see it I feel it come with me my love be safe we must we must

"Let's get the fuck out of here"

But he's in my way I want to get out panic rising

I'm not in control, not thinking

My animal brain has reared up his head roared warning

Safety safety! Get away! Bad here! Take Mate! Get away! Safe ground! SAFE GROUND!

But he's there, on the stair

He's looking through the window

What does he see

I need to get free, For an instant my mind sees me throw him aside

"Excuse me, please, " (desperate, afraid, pleading) "please let us past we got to get out of here"

Down the stairs, see a bag on the floor, move it aside

People around looking at the wall

The wall behind the open door the wall the wall

The wall is screaming I swear it the wall the wall

There are people, by the stair, not in the way

No threat, ignore, get safe,

Go back back, down and back, way out, safe ground

Growling, hissing, back arched, shoulders tight

Head low and swinging, finding safe route,

My Mate follows close, afraid, not seeing.

Shape. Smell. Blood. Female. Not mine. Sitting, damaged,

His eyes, ape-man burning within, meet hers.

One eye bleeds and sees not but she does not know it

The other eye sees but the mind behind it does not care

The ape-man blows the scent of blood from his nose

And allows his need for escape free reign once more

My mate? She there?

Her touch on my arm, she follows unsure

Protect. Get Safe! Protect.

Open way, daylight. Move go quick jump turn where she? where she?

Take hold catch mate safe ground safe safe safe safe we.

Safe

Me. You. Safe. We Safe. Ground. We're Safe!

Slight reason returning

The caveman subdued

My logical eyes on you looking, scanning checking for

for

for anything, cynical part questing (will she slow us? is she hurt?)

The rest caring, stroking, guiding, looking only in her eyes

She stops, rabbit-eyes again again the rabbit-eyes

Something she sees something

something red?

"Oh, shit, baby, don't look don't look baby come this way let's get away get you safe."

I see no blood

Slowly, realisation

People are gathered

There's something...my God there's....

Oh no, not....

The screaming? Woman? Child? Not man.

Please no, don't....

Oh, I can't, no pl.....

Oh, no, there's someone

Someone trapped

trapped under there

Should I help? Must I see?

May I run? Ought I flee?

I should have sat you by the wall, away from the scene, around the corner, sat you down

But I left you there, standing, lost and afraid.

I tried to re-assure you, but I needed to be

Needed to see if I could be

be something more than I always am?

But I couldn't I couldn't, I could feel your heartbeat fading in my ear as I moved away from you

My mind was turned towards you

So my eyes didn't see what lie there before me

I looked and spoke "Can I help? What can I do?"

"I'm thin, let me under. I'll do something"

A voice is shouting please for everyone to back away

Relieved, I back away, too afraid to help, glad to be told to be told

Follows next, strange confused flight.

A need to be safe, to be home

Taking turns at collapse, then failing together

Cold posts our support, no strength for each other

But no blame, when tears fade, still love and protection

We should have sat by the wall, round the corner, sat us down waited.

i can't hear any sirens yet can you no where are they someone's...

trapped

...someone's...

under

...why don't they come have you called they've all called on their way someone's trapped

a child a child i know it's a child poor thing poor thing

Waited and seen, but I couldn't be there

I had to needed to had get away get home go home

So we walked and we sat and we shrugged and we cried

and we drank and we walked and we screamed and we tried

Oh god I'm lost I don't know what to do where to go what to do

I can't choose can't decide I'm looking not seeing not looking

She's lost too, help her, make her safe

But I can't I don't know where to go what to do

Why must I be the one, why must it be me to choose

because it's your fault she's here

because it's your fault you're here

I know the crash wasn't my fault, but if I had been less {me} and more {myself} we wouldn't have been involved, and wouldn't have known anything about it.

I don't believe in psychic abilities or premonition, but I do believe in an intuitive sense, a feeling given when all the sensory inputs add up just so and trigger something in the animal brain. I know because I KNEW we were going to crash into something red. And I KNEW there were going to be two audible voices screaming clearly over (or under) all the other screams and cries and noise.

I dearly wish I had listened to that animal brain. The world as seen when that part of the brain is in control is a much simpler place, details are only seen when something is important. I swear upon my very existence that there was only one thing I could see in any detail from the moment we crested that hill to the moment we stepped safely through our front door at home. You, my love, were all I could see. Yours the only voice that meant anything.

My caveman got us away from the danger, even though it's usefulness had long since past....there WAS no danger to us once the bus had stopped. Poor thing, he was trying to step in earlier, take control and shout and scream, but my fear of failure held him down tight, wouldn't let him do the best thing.

And then it was you that asked people for ...

I screamed inside, wailing silently, it was a child, trapped under that bus, I know. It hit him

(them?)

as it deflected away, away from the first impact, from the impact with the red

(red. bus. right. left. wrong. oh, my)

shape. With the red shape. Didn't see but I know I

know. It hit him, he went down. It didn't stop. It went over, he went under.

I see it in my mind. A child

(boy? girl? baby? teen? I don't know I don't know)

I know it. I know it.

...help, got directions, tried to find a way to get a cab, to get home, get us safe.

It was you that made fast, good decisions, held back the panic to try and take control, though you were lost and hurt and screaming inside.

My madness and tears brought you close to your own, but you held on, held on.

It was you found the place

It was you rang the bell

It was you kept your head

It was you took control

It was you bade us sit and wait

It was you quested after we thought cab was late

It was you led me there, got in first

Got in first to welcome me in

And I'll never forget what will of control over fear was exerted by you

And I'll never forget the fear stopping me

And I'll never forget what selfless deeds came from you

And I'll never forget the selfishness that screamed out of me

And I'll never forget the pride that I feel to know you

Nor the shame that it is to be me.

I hear them now, still. The screams. The unvoiced, unborn, unheard screams.

And they will be with me tomorrow.

Edit: Much, much later. Unimportant, but the driver was actually a woman. As for the screams? There had been a man and his sons (or grandsons, I'm not sure) walking along the pavement that day. The eldest boy said afterwards that he felt the wind from the bus as it took the man and the younger boy from right beside him. The man didn't make it. The younger boy was trapped, but they freed him. He was in hospital for a while with chest injuries, but bounced back with the resilience of youth and was back at school before the year was out. There were police investigations and things. The driver claimed that the brakes failed. Everybody was, apparently busy suing everybody else over it. We didn't sue anyone. I have never really dealt with this, and I still hear those horrible screams to this day. In times of stress, I still have flashbacks, replaying that whole incident in my mind.

The Ballad of Gregorian P.

Come, sit alongside a while and I'll tell,
The tale of a man and a magical spell,
Of flower and faery, and cups of tea,
Heed you the ballad of Gregorian P.

Now, Gregorian P. was a man of some years,
Who would lean on his crutch, and was oft prone to tears,
Woodcutter by trade, he had not much wealth,
His hovel, wife and crutch, he had stuff-all else.

His wife, though once happy, was fed up, it seems,
With a diet of tree-roots, robbed cabbage, old beans;
With washing in rivers, three scrubs and a rinse,
So she up and took off with a smart Elfin Prince.

So our hero sat babbling by the babbling brook,
A-moanin' and a-wailin', he raged and he shook,
As he sat a-cryin', a-weepin' and blinking,
There, from behind him, what's that he heard tinkling?

"Who's that tinkling behind?" cried he,
"Tis I," said a faery, "Just little old me."
"Well please, leave me be," Gregorian coughed,
"Still here?" quipped our hero, "Go on, bugger off!"

"But I came to give you this thing," said the sprite,
"Into your dark, dreary world to shed light.
"Tis a fine magic jug, the best in the land,
"Here take it, please. Just hold out your hand."

So Gregorian P. his hand was out-held,
And there was the jug, the best in the world,
It came with a parchment, though what it decreed,
Our hero was clueless; He'd ne'er learned to read.

"Just ask," spoke a magical voice in the base,
"And all that you wish shall be yours with due haste,"
So he spoke to the jug - his tears, all but gone,
And wished for the things he'd wanted so long:

He called for his pipe and his fiddlers three,
and......Oops, wrong poem, how careless of me,
What he asked for was food, and lots more to boot,
To banish the taste of cabbage and root.

He asked for some ice-cream and plate-loads of jelly,
And while we're about it, a ginormous telly,
A new music system, with all-around sound,
Oh, and an Alsatian from the dog pound.

"I quite like the sound of a nubile young vixen,"
He said "with long hair, and a clean pair of knicks on,
"I want one that cooks, and won't disappear,
"With a smart Elfin Prince (Who I'm quite sure is queer)"

Gregorian P. got his every wish,
And much more besides, he'd no cause to bitch,
He'd no need to moan, his life was quite good,
But then, from the door, sounded hard fist on wood.

"Knock knock," said the door, and then "rat-a-tat,"
"All right, I'm coming. Stay where you're at."
Gregorian answered the door with a frown,
There was no-one to see, but then he looked down.

There stood a dwarf, hoary and old,
With a long, flowing beard and glasses of gold,
"My name is Thruppence, how do you do?"
"Quite well," said our hero, "and how about you?"

"Not bad," said the dwarf, "though I'd be much better,
"If you'd honoured this bill, which I sent with a letter,
"Twas for gifts from the jug, did you not get it?"
"Not sure," said our hero, "Perhaps the dog et it?"

"Whatever and maybe, sir, that's by-the-by,
"You'd best pay up, quick, lest I poke out yer eyes."
Gregorian P. collapsed in a faint,
When he saw what was owed - a small sum it ain't!

"Did you not read the contract? Did you not see,
"You'd be charged for each item, plus VAT?"
"No, I confess, I don't read too well,
"Or even at all, so send me to hell!"

"A faery gave me the jug, don't you know?
"She'd pressed it upon me, though I'd told her to go."
"A faery, you say? Ooh, that cheeky young cow!
"I sacked her last Thursday, so where is she now?"

"I'm here," cried the faery, "I'm ever so sorry,
"Should I take back these goods? I'll go get the lorry."
"You best had, young sprite, lest I give you a spank,
"And you sir, owe nothing, not to me nor the bank."

"Though I'll leave you the Vixen, which you have serviced well,
"And she'll soon need new batteries, which it seems I can sell,
"At a reasonable rate, I'm sure you'll agree,
"So if you're ever in need, I'm Thruppence, call on me."

Gregorian P. sat, gibbered and wept,
As the dwarf took the bed in which he had just slept,
He felt quite forsaken with everything gone,
A lonely old man, with naught but a song.

So the moral of the story is this:
If you're in debt to a dwarf, then don't take the piss,
He'll poke out your eyes, and leave you quite blind,
Oh, and don't trust a faery, tinkling behind.

The Ballad of Gregorian P. by Simon "Slippy" Lane is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 License.

make
chmod +x pdb2txt
sudo cp pdb2txt /usr/bin/
touch convertpdb
chmod +x convertpdb
gedit convertpdb&

#!/bin/bash
# A script which uses pdb2txt and sed to convert DOC format Palm OS ebooks (.pdb/# DOC.pdb) into text files.

# Searches for *.pdb in all folders one level below the current folder

# Specifying the -r parameter will replace existing text files. Normal behaviour is to skip the conversion of files where a .txt file of the same name already exists

if [ "$1" = "-r" ]; then
replace=1
else
replace=0
fi
for folder in *; do
if (test -d "$folder"); then
echo "+Processing folder $folder"
cd "$folder"
for pdbfile in *.pdb; do
if (test -e "$pdbfile"); then
pdbname="${pdbfile%.pdb}".txt
if (test -e "$pdbname"); then
fexists=1
else
fexists=0
fi
if [ $fexists = 0 ] || [ $replace = 1 ]; then
echo " +Converting $pdbfile to $pdbname"
pdb2txt "$pdbfile" | sed 's/"/"/g' > "$pdbname"
else
echo " -Skipping $pdbfile"
fi
else
echo " -Nothing to convert ($pdbfile)"
fi
done
cd ..
fi
done

sudo cp convertpdbs /usr/bin/

So now, typing convertpdbs and hitting enter in a terminal window will search through every folder one level below the current folder, converting all pdb's to text files as it goes. Adding -r to the command line will replace any conflicting .txt files without prompting. Leaving off the -r will skip conversion where there are conflicting file names.

Here's a screenshot of it working, which you can click to embiggen:


Happy readings!

1. WWdN: In Exile - This is Wil Wheaton's blog. You may know Wil as Wesley Crusher, but his many readers know him as a proud geek, family man, writer, performer, humorist, imaginary rock star and all-round great blogger. He has something for everyone in his blogs, including - but not limited to - humorous anecdotes about his Trek years and his encounters with cast members in the years since.
2. Mattress Police - Antisocial Commentary - An indescribably funny blog, conceived and written by the irrefutable Diesel. Diesel's cutting humour and sardonic style never fail to bring a smile to my lips.
3. Player Vs Player Online - Best Webcomic Evar! Scott Kurtz is a fantastic artist and writer with an apparent understanding of geek culture and a genuine love of the silly and surreal. The strip centers around the often-stereotypical staff of a game reviews magazine, but goes way beyond that concept. Skull the Troll would be anyone's choice of imaginary friend, and the LOLbat triumphs over evil every time, never failing to deliver a LOLspeak witticism or two.
4. Ask Dave Taylor! - I couldn't make a list like this without at least one slightly linuxy link now, could I? Dave Taylor is little short of a god to a lot of computer users. It's a simple enough concept: people write in to him with their computer questions and he answers them. The delight here is in the eclectic nature of the questions and answers. There's a lot of Linux there, but there's also a lot of info for Windows users and Mac owners. There's even tips on how to repair a washed, squashed or smashed cellphone. Got a question? Ask Dave Taylor.
5. LHC Machine Outreach Blog - Okay, this might be a little bit too specialist, but it's the rolling status update blog for the Large Hadron Collider experiment at CERN, Switzerland. Countdown to the end of the world, or scientifically valid experiment? Who cares, I just think it's cool.
   

So, the Waboba ball, eh? This miraculous new toy that looks a bit like a hackysack or small juggler's ball, and has the wonderous property of bouncing and skimming across the water. Here's a little snippet about it from the site:

The Waboba Ball is made of polymere gel and has a elastan coating. The mix of different gels makes the ball bounce and float on water. The ball is made to endure some rough handling, but do not bounce it on the ground or on walls etc.
The ball is CE marked. It is not recommended for use by children under 3 years. Waboba is a registered trade mark and the ball ball is internationally patented.

• Team Mythbusters- to "take down" or otherwise punish Team 'A' Team and Team McGyver
• Team 'A' Team - to escape the clutches of Team Mythbusters and bring the rogue McGyver in for questioning
• Team McGyver - to escape Team 'A' Team AND Team Mythbusters and return to his deep cover operations

1. There is no moral high ground. Each group (or individual) is working, in their own way for the greater good.
2. The teams are exclusive, and there will be no side-switching.
3. McGyver must continue to play rogue, and must not break cover.
4. McGyver's inventory consists of the ubiquitous Swiss Army utility knife, a packet of Wrigley's Extra chewing gum, three deceased termites and whatever is in the back of the van.
5. The 'A' team have weapons which, as to the rules set in the TV show are incapable of harming anybody, but they have access to anything which could conceivably be in the Mythbusters workshop, apart from explosive or combustible materials, which have been used up in construction the Mythbusters' own arsenal.
6. The Mythbusters may not construct any new tools as they are outside the workshop. Also, sixty percent of their equipment will fail, and forty percent of that will happen catastrophically.

"It sucks"

"Do I really need to sleep for all five and a half of those hours? Could I cram some more friendfeed time in there somewhere?

touch scripts
chmod +x scripts
gedit scripts &

(Pictureclicking resulteth in embiggenment.)

1. Install Christopher Finke's Feed Sidebar
   
   • Click here to get the .xpi file from the firefox addons page
   • An installation dialog should open with an install button counting down from 5.
   • After the countdown, click the "Install Now" button.
   • After a few moments, the Addons window should open. Click the "Restart Firefox" button.
   • Once Firefox has restarted, open the Addons window by pressing Ctrl-Shift-A
   • Find and select the Feed Sidebar addon, and click the "Preferences" button.
   • Here, I set my feeds to update every 2 minutes, hide read items and show items from all days. You can set it how you want.
   • When you're done with that, close the Feed Sidebar options window
   • You have successfully completed the first step in this two-step howto. Easy, wasn't it? Okay, onwards to step 2...
     
2. Add Friendfeed to your live bookmarks
   
   • Click here to go straight to the atom feed for your friendfeed page
   • On the preview page that loads, there is a dropdown box at the top. Click it, and select "Live Bookmarks"
   • Click the "Subscribe Now" button
   • Shazam, there you have it. Friendfeed (and your other Live Bookmarks) sitting quite happily in your sidebar.
     

A Glimpse of Paradise

They awakened me from cryogenic sleep in what they said was, by my frame of reference, the year 2110, a mere hundred years from the date of my voluntary entombment.

"Why so soon?" I tried to ask the white-suited figure looming over me, but all that came out was a croak, and my throat instantly felt like someone had just poured a vat of acid down it.
"Shh. Don't try and talk, Mr. Harrison. Your vocal chords will be useless for a few days. In fact, it'll be a week or so before you're able to do much of anything, I'm afraid. Sure, cryogenic stasis takes it's toll on the body, but the reanimation process is what really does you in. Just mouth the words, and the computer will do the rest for you, okay?"

Okay, I get it, came a voice that sounded almost exactly like my own, from - I guessed - a speaker embedded somewhere in the couch upon which I lay.

"Good. I can see you're going to be one of the less troublesome recoveries I supervise. My name's Nikolai, by the way."

Glad to know you, Nikolai, and please, call me Harry. A thin smile was all I could muster, but my guardian (he seemed like such to me, anyway) seemed to appreciate the effort. So, forgive my bluntness, but why only a hundred years? I had elected to be frozen for at least a thousand.

"Ah, you can blame human biology for that. Seems that after about a hundred and fifty years or so, the ol' cell structure starts to decay, and that decay increases exponentially, reaching a peak within about ten years. I say a peak, because immediately after that point, there really is no chance at all of successful reanimation. To be honest, there's not really much chance of successful reanimation even in the early stages of decay. It only takes a few cells in the wrong place to not reanimate and you can be left with almost no brain function. So, we defrost everyone early enough to allow for a big safety margin. You're only the second batch since this discovery, but we've not had a failed recovery yet. The hundred-and-sixty-year limit came from fast-time computer projections. You can be frozen again in a year or two, if you wish; it will take your body that long to return to peak physical condition even with all the therapies we can supply - but I suggest you don't make a decision until that point. This is, if you don't mind my saying so, a pretty darned good time to be alive.

I had hoped that we would be okay. The future looked so bleak in my day. I'm sure you know that's why so many of us opted for cryostasis at the time, even though we knew there was no recovery method which worked, and that there was the possibility that there may never be one.

"Lucky for you we figured it out, eh?"

Lucky for me, if this is indeed a better world. Still, from what little of it I see, there appears to be enough energy to power all this stuff. That's probably a good sign..

"Of course, it was in your time that they started to realise there was a pending energy crisis, wasn't it? Well, it wasn't long after that when "pending" became "ongoing". Fusion still wasn't viable - cold fusion even less so - and nuclear energy was becoming more and more controversial - especially when it was realised that the nuclear fuel reserves were even more depleted than the fossil fuels. Sure, there were grandiose schemes involving spaceborne mirrors and microwave beams and the like, but all were deemed too costly in initial energy resources to be of benefit. Growing crops for fuel couldn't be viable unless we could use the oceans or the deserts - which we couldn't - as they would have taken up all the land needed for food crops. All that was left was the big two "environmentally sound" energy sources - kinetic (wind, wave, water) and electromagnetic (passive conversion of solar radiation, for the most part)."

"I should stop here," he said, "and ask you if you think you're ready for all this information, but from the look on your face, I can guess you're pretty hungry for news, huh?"

Hungry ain't the half of it, although not for news so much as information. I want to know how it all works, how you manage your environment. The environmental issues were the biggest thing affecting my decision to wait it out, as it were.

"Sure, and feel free to interrupt if you need anything. So, the reason our environment works - and our energy needs are fullfilled - today, is quite simple. We stopped thinking so big! Okay, yes, we still did big stuff, I admit. For instance, there are still a couple of nuclear reactors running, but they're providing the vast energy resources required for the fusion research labs, whose operators are still defiant that they can get it working right, in the face of years of evidence to the contrary. We also have some massive seaborne wind and wave farms, and some rather hefty electromagnetic collectors in out-of-the-way places where there's plenty of radio energy and no-one to need it. Oh and there's the big microrevolving, ultratorque dynamos on fault lines here and there, but the biggest energy contributions by far come from thinking small. MicroPower, we call it.

"You see, each and every one of us is a power plant, a power drain and a heatsink, all in one. We generate and use so much energy - in the form of heat, sound and movement - and most of it would get wasted if it weren't for our MicroPower systems. All of our clothing, for instance, is embedded with thousands of nanogenerators of different types. Some convert light that falls on them directly into electricity, others from temperature variaton, others still from the kinetic energy imparted into them when the clothing moves. All of this energy is stored in molecular batteries woven into the clothing itself, and is then transferred to the grid through resonant wave energy transfer stations."

He stopped a moment, apparently to push a few buttons on the console at which he was seated, then looked up at me again as I spoke.

Sounds like quite an inconvenience, having to dump power every so often. How does that work?

"Oh no, it's no inconvenience at all. The wave stations are little devices embedded in doorways and private and public fixtures all over the place, and the transfer need not be complete. It's all automated, transparent."

So, the cost of these devices must have had quite an impact on the economy.

"The cost? Oh, negligible. Most of the initial financial cost was in developing the technologies to make these devices and make them cheaply. I'm no scientist, but I believe that a lot of nanofactoring is done using cellular automata. The devices are "grown" to a certain stage, and then they kind of build themselves the rest of the way. Most of us don't concern ourselves overmuch with the "ins and outs" of it all really. It just works, you know?"

Hah, everything just almost worked in my day, or it just worked and then it just stopped. Still, I've always been a bit of a technologist. Could you give me some examples of this MicroPower stuff?

"Examples? Well, it'd be easier to give you examples of what doesn't have some kind of generator or waste energy reclaimer in it. Nothing. There is nothing in our society today which doesn't generate energy or, at the very least reclaim some of the energy put into the device. Without modifying our energy-use behaviour a great deal from your time, we have found that each of us is, on average, generating about five-hundred watts of power per day more than we consume. Of course, in time, our energy usage will go up, but research into more and more efficient ways of generating, using and reclaiming energy is always taking place, and so far the technology is keeping up with the demand.

"Of course, all of this means that we still have some of the old energy resources left for really huge projects - space launches and the like - although, again, research into improving the efficiency and reducing the energy costs of such events is paramount. Still, it won't be many more years before the automated factories start throwing water, hydrocarbons and other resources back to us from the asteroid belt, paying back the cost of their development and launch many, many times over."

Sounds like you guys have got it all worked out. Mind if we talk more a bit later on? I hope you're not offended, but I'm feeling rather sleepy, all of a sudden.

I didn't hear a response, so I guess I must have fallen asleep right about then.

* * *

"Hey, Harry. How did your physical therapy go this morning?"
"Not bad. Could have been better, though. I'm dropping a little below the recovery curve, apparently." I wouldn't admit to my guardian that I was more than a little disappointed by this fact, but I'm sure he could tell. After all, he'd been nursing me for more than a month now, had come to know me quite intimately. "I feel like my body isn't my own. Like I'm having to learn a completely new set of physical responses, you know?"

He bent down close to my ear and, in a slightly mocking, conspirational whisper, he said "Hmmm. I'll let you in on a little secret, Harry, if you'll promise not to tell."

Joining in the game, I nodded my head as emphatically as I could, which - even with nearly five weeks of recovery therapy - was not very emphatically at all, as it happens. "Do tell, my friend. Your secret shall not pass my lips, no matter what the severity." I was already feeling happier, bless this dear, sweet young man for his charm.

"Well, for a start, nobody has matched the predicted recovery curve yet. It's purely an expected average over a given number of recoveries, and so far, even the average has fallen below the curve."

"That makes sense, I suppose. Things like that weren't so different in my day."

"And secondly," he continued, smiling at my little interruption, "Your brain and body have been effectively isolated from each other for a hundred years, and although the process is termed 'suspended animation', the animation of your biologic system is merely slowed to a crawl. Without reinforcement, neural pathways do lose cohesion, even in the cryogenic state, and so when you are defrosted, as it were, the effect is not dissimilar to what would be expected if you'd had your consciousness transferred to an entirely new brain in an entirely new body."

"You say 'expected'. I take it that means that we have not yet reached singularity? The Cure for Death?"

"Well, I believe there were several 'singularity' hypotheses in your time, Harry, and more still have arisen since, but no, we have not yet reached that stage, although we are probably not many years from it. Very many of the pieces required for such an advance are already employed in the recovery bed in which you spend so many hours."

Today, [insert company name] is pleased to announce the roll-out of our new product, [insert silly pun for product name]. Unlike our previous products, this one can [insert either absurdly unachievable or just plain absurd product description here].

Insomnia has resulted in me having the time to tailor my Ubuntu desktop in great detail. Except...It's not quite right.

Sick and tired of FAKES!
Is anyone else getting REALLY fed up with these TV "psychics"?

I mean, come on, how do people fall for this crud?

Derek Acorah, you are a FAKE!
John Edward, you are also a FAKE!
Uri Geller, you have been exposed as a FAKE three times in your career, and you keep coming back. Why?

I challenge you all to prove otherwise. Take James Randi's Million Dollar Challenge.
Go on, I dare you!

In addition, I would just like to say this: Derren Brown is a GOD! Why? Because he's TOTALLY HONEST about what he does! I reckon he could get the aforementioned phonies to own up without them even realising it!
original post

Hehe, quite an aggressive little rant, wasn't it? See, I used to believe in the possibility of supernatural powers, just as I would never previously have discounted the possibility of extraterrestrial visitations. I'm not saying I believed that any of that wierdness was actually going on, but I remained open-minded for much of my life, until a few years ago.

"What happened to change your mind?" I hear you ask. What's that? You didn't ask? Well, you're still reading, so you obviously want to know. Well, without going into all the boring detail, I was suffering from intense anxiety and panic attacks. For a time, that was coupled with night terrors andsleep paralysis. Night after night, I woke up in the darkness, drenched in sweat, terrified and completely paralysed. Each time, I awoke convinced that some nameless threat was in the room with me, just waiting for the right moment to destroy me. Now, I've had a similar thing on one occasion before, years and years ago. I awoke in the middle of the night, unable to move, convinced there was a ghost in the room. Now the same thing was happening again, and it didn't take much research to discover that I was not being haunted, nor abducted by aliens, nor any other mystical thing. I was quite simply suffering with my own inability to deal with the stresses I was under at the time. The anxiety and panic were just manifesting themselves while I was asleep.

When I realised how similar the sensations I had felt were to those reported by supposed alien abductees, and heard psychologists describing the same symptoms, I came to the conclusion that this fact was overwhelming evidence against the case for alien abduction.

Since then, I have always tried to understand and seek explanation for the things that people claim as supernatural or extraterrestrial, and so far I have yet to encounter anything truly unexplained or unexplainable. I surmise that there are three categories of supernatural or extraterrestrial event, and they are as follows:

Manufactured : The claimant or another party has concocted a story or sequence of events. Normally, the claimant does this deliberately for the purpose of extracting a fee for his story, gaining attention or some other motive. Occasionally it is manufactured by other parties to embarrass the claimant or to have some other deleterious effect on his mental health or social standing. Most "UFO" photographs seem to fall into this category.

Misinterpreted : Normally, the claimant in these cases is suffering the effects of an intoxicating substance, but may misinterpret the events before them for any of a number of other reasons. I count the alien abduction scenario in this category. In misinterpreted cases, either no event has taken place outside of the claimant's own mind, or a perfectly normal sequence of events has been misinterpreted.

Unfounded : In the case of non-manufactured claims of psychic ability or other supernatural endowment, the claimant could be argued to be suffering from delusion as no irrefutable evidence for any such thing exists, as far as I know. All such claims are unfounded.

Now, I'm going to be honest with you here . . . I've fallen into all three categories in the past, but then, who hasn't fallen into at least one? As a young, almost-teenage boy, I boasted about having seen a ghost or a UFO purely because everyone else seemed to have seen one or the other. As previously stated, I misinterpreted sleep paralysis and night terrors as the presence of a ghost. And finally, I have twice fallen under the spell of people who, as charismatic as they were deluded, convinced me that a) they had a supernatural ability and b) that I was falling afoul of some supernatural ailment. I became deluded that this was the case for a short time.

So, in summary, I have no respect for practitioners of the first category, and nothing but sympathy and understanding for those that fall into the latter two. If they could but open their minds just a little, and see past the instinctive reactions to unfathomed stimuli, they might be able to work through their issues and get on with living in the real world. After all, this is the only life we have. Shame to waste it on spooks and psychics, eh?

We Already Live in a Surveillance Society

And not in the way you think.

You know me, I'm not exactly a rebel, but I have opinions about a lot of the stuff that's going on in the world, and I've been quite vocal in putting down the "surveillance society" we seem to be slipping into.

Then something hit me. A realisation. An epiphany, I suppose.

The developed world already exists in a MUTUAL surveillance society, so what do we have to worry about?

You see, any time trouble is brewing anywhere in the "first" world (and in most of the rest of the world, if we're honest) someone is there with a camera phone. Whether it's a school security guard in a racist attack on a student, or worldwide awareness of the current situation in Burma, pretty much everything is caught and digitised by somebody. Hell, the Police are even using digitised images and video from the web to catch all kinds of criminals.

I know, people against the CCTV society often use the argument "who watches the watchers" and most (myself included) have been pretentious enough to use the Latin, but I have an answer to that. We do. We're watching the watchers, we're watching each other. We're not spying on each other, we're looking out for our neighbours. That's a good thing.

The only place that the power of YouTube doesn't reach is down the dark alleyways when you're walking home alone, late at night. At those times, doesn't it make you feel more secure to see that little red light atop a streetlight a few dozen feet away? After all, it's that same little red light that tells that creepy looking guy hiding in the shadows up ahead, "We're watching you."

...and not on the Interpipes?

When I get bored, I balance random stuff I find around my home. No glue or other trickery involved, it's pure balancey goodness...

You know it's the next big thing, don't you?

I'm a huge fan of blogs like mental_floss, and you'll occasionally spot my name amongst the hundreds of comments posted in response to the amusing, wierd and just downright hilarious articles on the site, and this post is no exception. It's essentially a post about "embarrassing but innocent" shopping lists, where the author, Chris Higgins, has invited readers to post their own embarrassing/suspicious-looking shopping basket contents. It's no surprise that the more embarrassing ones contain condoms or KY Jelly in combination with some other innocuous household items.

...A friend of mine had gone to Wal-Mart near midnight on a Friday to purchase:

Smashing Pumpkins tape
Single white tee shirt
Box of shotgun shells

Wait a minute, back up there....SHOTGUN SHELLS? I had to ask...

Slippy Lane Says: 
December 28th, 2007 at 10:04 pm

I don’t have an embarrassing shopping list, but I just had to comment. You will no doubt be amused at my Englishness, but seriously? Live ammunition at Wal-Mart?

Tell me this, though, do you get many shootings in Wal-Mart parking lots?

;-)

Higgins Says: 
December 28th, 2007 at 11:30 pm

Hey Slippy,

Indeed — you can even browse their stock of ammo *and guns* online:

www.walmart.com/catalog/catalog.gsp?cat=170080

And shootings in Wal-Mart parking lots are fairly routine:

www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en-us&q=shooting+in+wal-mart+parking+lot&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8

Happy new year!! :)

Momentous Morning and Parabolic Weasel

Much as I've enjoyed a few days on retainer, that phase always comes to an end. Sometimes, the company gets it together (although not often that quickly, not with the behemoth running interference for me), sometimes something else comes along...

My PDA started jingling at 7 o'clock this morning. Not a good start. Even worse, it's a Friday, and I hate waking up on Fridays. Worse still, it's the thirteenth. Still, on the plus side, the jingling was to let me know that the behemoth was paging me with this message:

Calendar Event Search: High-profile customer visit scheduled 0830 hours

Good old Behemoth knows to alert me to high profile customers of the companies I'm placed with. Often an opportunity to score some work for my own boys, and it takes very little work on my part. Depending on what the customer wants from the company, this one could be good for an extra few grand. I sent the return message to the Behemoth:

unlock --config stealth --security high
cd /home/behemoth/battleplan-archive/skull-and-crossbones
mkdir Candy_From_A_Baby
/bin/funtools/connectorbot -start --protocol * --service *
/bin/funtools/battleplan -new --codename Candy_From_A_Baby --inherit Blood_From_A_Stone --employ-heuristics True
/bin/funtools/setsafezone --detection rfid --tag autodetect('SimonLane') --codename Candy_From_A_Baby
sh Candy_From_A_Baby/begin_action.sh

Yes, I can directly issue Unix console commands via email. I won't bore you with the details of what that little script does, but you can probably tell it puts some kind of plan into action, which it has based on a previously executed action (codenamed Blood_From_A_Stone) and given the codename Candy_From_A_Baby. Well, I'm quite adept at stealing customers from companies now, it's not like getting blood from a stone any more.

You'll notice the "setsafezone" command. Well, workshops tend to go a bit insane while the Behemoth is running a customer-stealing action, it just means that the local positioning system (my own invention, thank you) always makes sure nothing problematic is going to hit me. Well, sort of. Flying objects, out of control tools and strange power shorts tend to have a mind of their own, so the Behemoth can't always protect me.

I got a response message from the Behemoth (I think), but it wasn't what I was expecting. I mean, I know the thing sometimes seems like it has a mind of its own, but it always follows a pretty well defined query-response set. This message was a surprise:

Behemoth Status Report
configuration: unlocked, stealthy like a fox
local security: nobody's getting in after 0900.
networks: detected: 38, connected: 27, scanning: 11
battleplan: Candy_From_A_Baby
readiness: Active, Alert, Excited.
safe zones: Dear Simon, to be detected on LPS
heuristics: Always-on, obviously.

Now, is it me, or does that message look a little too personal for a toolbox? Anyway, Sandi's stirring in bed next to me. I've got to get myself to work for about nine to enjoy the festivities, but I reckon I've got time for a little diversion. More later.

---

1:30pm
Taking advantage of a brief hiatus to keep you posted on the morning's events so far. I must admit I got a little distracted when Sandi showed me her "Yoghurt" trick, but I still managed to get in for quarter past 10. Well, I say in, I got to the company car park, where the barrier was going up and down like a saluting soldier with OCD. Everyone else had parked along the road outside the factory and, it appears, tried to get past the barrier on foot. There was blood on the barrier. I checked the behemoth's status on my PDA to find that it had isolated all radio frequencies in the area - nothing was getting in or out, no phone calls, no radio signals, nothing except the signal from my PDA. I clicked through to hold the barrier open, then attempted to restart the engine. Hmph, the behemoth seems to have developed some kind of localised engine dampening field. I clicked through to find a new option in the menu ('autodetect EDF safezone'). The car started and I pulled up in front of the building. Nobody in sight, I got out of the car and made my way round back, to the loading bay - generally the easiest route into any company workshop, be your business legitimate or otherwise. I paused momentarily when my pocket beeped, so I could check my PDA. Another notification from Big Red (one of my many pet names for the Behemoth), sent on receipt of an email from the company represented by the previously mentioned high-profile client. Why would they email me? Okay, are you sitting comfortably? Then here's the science bit:

I had previously contacted an old friend of mine (who happens to have an "in" with said company) to call in a favour. He dutifully notified his bosses that he had heard rumours of illegal electronic warfare experiments at this plant, giving them contact details for a certain individual who might help them in case of unforseen problems with their visit. All very "hush-hush", you know? No names, no pack drill, as it were.
You'd think something like that would make SMS think twice about sending their high-profile visitor - but it just so happens that my contact had already informed me of SMS's very own fledgeling electronic warfare department, so this did nothing more than make them all very excited about what information they could glean from their visit. Needless to say, minutes into the visit, they were completely unable to contact their man, or indeed anyone at the site. Somewhat anxious, they fired off an urgent email to "thefixer@behemoth.net", asking me what I could do. I quickly compiled an email as "The Fixer", offering to go onto the site and investigate at an initial consultancy cost of, well, I'll leave that to your imagination. Quite a low number actually, considering. Well, I didn't want to appear greedy.
That done, I resumed my ingress. The powered shutter door - more bloodstains, I noted, but no bodies - rolled up serenely as I reached it, and rolled back down again behind me. The warehouse lights flickered up, illuminating what seemed to be a normal, quiet warehhouse. In fact, the only thing that marked it as being any different from what the night security guy would see on his rounds was the sheen of blood on quite a few surfaces. There was that tangy, metallic smell in the air, somewhere between wet steel and fresh blood - both of which were present here. I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised. I generally don't expect bloodshed, just chaos and confusion. I normally have to shed the blood myself! As I stepped forward. and started to walk the narrow corridor between two stacks of warehouse racking, I heard the hum of a battery forklift powering up across the way.
"LAAAAAANE!!!!" came a manic scream from somewhere in the vicinity of the forklift. As the lights came to full brightness, I could see the forklift directly opposite me, about 20 yards away. My supervisor was in the driving seat and staring at me with a look of utter insanity on his face. How the hell he'd gotten the forklift to run with Big Red doing it's thing, I don't know, but there were a lot of wires sticking out, and a pallet of big, heavy truck batteries on the forks. He tried to rev it, but being electric, it just lurched forward and jerked to a stop. 3 feet closer to me.
"You did this, you bastard," he screamed. "You and that bloody monstrosity of yours! You're dead meat, Lane!" A look of calm seemed to cross the weasel's face, and I imagined for a moment that I could see his foot stamping the accelerator to the floor. That forklift didn't have much acceleration, but it was tall, and it had a lot of momentum. There were boxes stacked on the racking either side of me, so I couldn't jump to the side to escape, and I don't mind telling you, the old flight-or-fight response misfired and I kinda just stood there, like a rabbit in the headlights of a big ol' truck, as that forklift bore down on me. Still and all, I'm here writing this a few hours later, so you know I got out of it ok, huh? Yeah, well, I figure the Behemoth must have detected the forklift powering up and trundled over to investigate why it hadn't succumbed to the disruptions. It must have done, because it came crashing through the racking, five feet ahead of me, shoving the boxes before it, where it stopped as if it had hit a wall. My subjective sense of time seemed to slow to a crawl, as the events that followed took barely a second. I stood and watched, transfixed as Big Red just seemed to hunker down. There was a pop, and five puffs of smoke, and I realised that it had used it's own compressed nitrogen supply to fire three bolts into the concrete floor and one into the frame of the racking on either side. The behemoth was locked down and ready for impact. Then came an almighty thud, followed by a sound not unlike the ringing of a huge, brass bell and I watched the weasel sail over my head in a perfect parabola. I tracked his path, saw where he would land and couldn't stifle a smile of pleasure as he completed the motion, landing head first on the warehouse manager's desk spike - an archaic invention, which was kept on the desk purely out of tradition, and hidden away on the event of health and safety reviews. By the time the top of his skull reached the battered steel desktop, the dear weasel had already shuffled off this mortal coil. The rest of his body kind of crumpled onto the desk as the deceleration spoiled the parabola of his demise, and he terminated motion with his heavily bandaged foot being the only thing straying beyond the confines of the desktop, where it dangled limply from his impact-seperated ankle. A delightfully artful touch, I'm sure you'll agree.
Anyway, it looks like the hiatus is almost at an end, so I must continue with the more boring (yet still rewarding) aspects of the day's activities. Not the least of which requires getting an angle grinder to free my toolbox from it's self-imposed restraints (I'm not even gonnatry and figure out how it managed to do that!). I will, of course, reveal all to you at another time, my dear students, that you may learn how to truly expand the psychotic side of your mind within the realms of your chosen profession.