April 22, 2006

• GROAN

  It is sinking in on me just how much work I have ahead of me to make my
  “objectionable” posts protected.  I wonder how long it will take
  Xanga to get the flag program for systematic snitching up and
  running.  A few people seem to think that the Xanga gods can be
  talked out of it, but a quick look at the comments on John’s site will
  reveal that public sentiment is overwhelmingly in favor of it.  Go
  figure.  I see it as symptomatic of the rampant fearfulness that
  makes so many people willing to give up their liberties and
  constitutional rights in exchange for the illusion of security.

  I had to explain to Doug today why I am willing to bother shifting my
  offensive memoirs to protected status.  I pointed out how much
  effort and resources I have invested in Xanga, and that any web host I
  might move to would have similar boilerplate in their TOS.  Some
  less-than-all-there commenter suggested I could “pay to host [my] own
  blog,” for $5.00 a month, which doesn’t make a bit of sense.  I
  could either pay some host site to host it for me, or I could get a
  dedicated internet connection and a server and host it myself. 
  The connection alone would cost a minimum of $60 a month here, which I
  don’t have.

  What I have here is Lifetime Xanga Premium on three accounts, a sweet
  bunch of friends and other folks, and almost four years worth of
  work.  I consider that worth the effort to adjust to the changes,
  because I’m not even close to being ready to stop blogging. 
  Tonight, I’m not ready to start tracking down offensive stuff and
  hiding it, either.

  We did a water run today.  It was strenuous, physically
  demanding.  As Doug was preparing to head for bed a while ago, I
  was gimping and limping and whimpering across the kitchen.  After
  moaning and talking about what was hurting, a thought struck me. 
  “How are you feeling?” I asked.  “You were the one who did most of
  the work out there.”

  He looked thoughtful and reflective for a moment, then made a face and
  answered, “horrible,” before limping off toward his bedroom.

  Even though the physical exertion of filling, carrying and loading
  sixty or seventy gallons of water is pretty much the same any time, at
  least the weather aspect of the job is easier now than it has
  been.  All the ice and snow are gone from around the spring, and
  the temp out there was in the high forties.  We could work
  barehanded, and without the thick coating of ice on the platform where
  I kneel to fill the jugs, I didn’t have to lift them so far up out of
  the hole.

  With the snow cover gone, the winter’s accumulation of litter was
  evident.  As I filled the first few jugs, Doug got a garbage bag
  out of the car and picked up a lot of litter.  Then while he
  carried jugs to the car and did some more filling, I picked up more
  trash.  We filled a whole garbage bag.  The most bulk
  consisted of several damaged water containers left behind:  gallon
  milk jugs and one rubbermaid 2-gallon jug that got flattened to fit in
  the bag.  The largest number of items were alcohol-related: 
  cans, bottles, swizzle sticks.  The waterhole is only about a
  quarter mile from a bar, and is often the last stop the lodge rats make
  on their way home at night.  Even if they never touch the stuff,
  but only drink beer, they gotta have the water for the marijuana plants.

  G’nite.  CallWave just caught Greyfox’s nightly nine PM call,
  right after the cell phone minutes get cheaper.  I’m going to call
  him back for about half an hour of what passes for a relationship in
  this marriage, then I’m going to bed to finish the suspenseful book I’m
  reading.  When I put it down this morning to go to the spring, I
  was in the dramatic climax and that’s where I’ve been all day.

  

  • 1:10 am
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