I need a torx screwdriver for to dismantle a pile of crapped out hard drives. There virtually no possibility of this happening but it would be weird if someone with forensic analyst skills scooped up those old drives and recovered whatever data might still be left in between the mount points, or whatever those pinions of storage are called. I want those old drive dismantled and their data made impossible.

…..

Dreams lately revolve around losing luggage and carryall bags. I was in Chicago (I think, or maybe Detroit) when the green L.L. Bean travel bag that I carried with me when I moved to New York in 1990 went missing. I was in a field, or a large park, where people sitting on the grass were watching or waiting for a concert to start. I quickly deduced that a woman nearby had stolen my bag and attempted to disguise it by burning away the green color with some acid. I asked the owman if I could have my bag back.without admitting that she had stolen it she let me have it back, then watched as I examined the bag and surveyed the damage she had done to it. Hillary Clinton was sitting nearby and she qas quick to confirm my suspicions about the woman stealing the bag. Clinton indicated she would help me persue charges against the woman who stole the bag.

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Listening in on myself these past couple of year, the calls I made to the .MOBI before I started making then public. A shit ton of stuff, some of it pretty interesting on its aural basis, some of it possibly interesting for its content.  I have to arrive at a more professional format for presentation. I was going to enlist freeware Flash-based jukeboxes — and I did a fair amount of work toward that end — but i think i need something that is technically less transparent and visually more graphical. Flash is probably the answer but I wish .SMIL hadn’t made itself obsolete. I liked that markup language. Is it time for HTML5? I cannot spend too much time on this decision.

…..

Isn’t she remarkable? A dandy chip of softened glass stroked obliquely by charming spiders and impolitic snakes. You met her at the park, lying among insects and toreadors evading park rangers’ shovels and hoes threatening to hitchhike their ways to wildness. Misquoted hippy song lyrics and puzzling sexual innuendos punctuated the uncomfortable conversation of gawky post-adolescence, asshole bicyclists intruding on the serenity with needless spew of obscenities and screaming babies doing the same with propulsive projectile vomit of a previous hour’s scrambled eggs. “I am working off a hangover,” she mumbled through groaning tones of saxophone music lilting in from armies of sunken ships. “I am working as little as possible,” was your wittiest remonstrance of the hour, making her laugh a suitably mediocre chuckle. From there conversations sprinkled and snorted, rising from dysfunctional recesses of the brain. “I’ve got to get to Denver” you announce to no

response, comforting your deadened wit with self-serving assumptions that the sun will come out tomorrow and that it is raining like God’s fire hydrant on impoverished nations of the mountain. “I expect snow at the vineyard” she counters, demanding bafflement but earning none, the both of you equally unimpressible for all but impossible conversations:

She: “Does a calendar have condoms in its pockets?”
You: “Contraceptive stores are evenly distributed across nervous laughter.”
She: “Someone told me crayons melt in the hands of unwanted children.”
You: “Have you seen the changing patterns of youthful neediness?”
She: “I have seen obscure beers and wines rise from deserved obscurity.”
You: “I have seen bottomless nations run from naked performance artists.”
She: “I see holy masturbation filling unwatched frames of 1970s pornography.”
You: “I smoke holy hubris from the breath of poverty’s latecomers.”
She: “You must sound different in quadrophonic stereo.”
You: “Loneliness sounds different when your bartender leaves the tomb.”
…..