Shit.
I lost much of an entry, trying to be too short-cut clever on a slow, migrained mind.
But, as I say at work when a mere news bulletin gets lost, it might be better second time round.
Rainer will lose me my job if I pinch and practice one of his great e-mail "sigs": "Originality is the art of concealing your sources."
OK. Results. Not the blow-by-blow Karin got on the phone, before - "auf wiederhören" when I dare listen further - producing delightful tidbits about a bodily part beginning with "p".
I arrived chez Luc "Sherlock" Yang breathless, hot from the lab with the just-finished last test to date. No amoeba, no African thingie, certainly not KwaZulu Natal cholera as the wildcat had suggested, scraping barrels. In any event, the latter kills you quickly, not more than a year later.
In short, sweet eff eh!. Tomorrow morning, a thorough blood test. And more enforced "rest", until the specialist's had his say Tuesday. Suspicions now focus not on the "p" nastier minds might have imagined, but the pancreas.
Warning: though I was more steady tippler than massive boozer and kidneys and liver are fully restored, Yang explained to me how the pancreas can start showing signs of a hit even six years after you go completely dry...
What Karin found, which I need know no more, is that unregulated bile production and occasional difficulty swallowing would fit neatly into the latest hypothesis.
If one of my readers doesn't like this medical rundown, there are blogs where brave people daily contend with far worse.
And if I'd gleaned less about medicine and science than I have, I'd be surprised that the still steaming sample deposited at the lab had remained of any use four days later.
I wasn't going to tell Tony's story, but I will:
"Catching up on missed correspondence is the usual mix of pleasure & pain tho' taking more time than ever becos I type more slowly than ever [what does he know about my own typing speed, plus the number of mistakes, this week?]. I admired the layout on yours [ta, mate], but please don't criticise the NUJ's unmemorably named [xxxx] Thingy in my presence; I treasure comforting evidence that somebody is more computer-illiterate than I am.[Did I do that? Who was Thingy?].
"Yr blow by blow (squirt by squirt?) account of yr problems roused sympathy [thanks] & memories of Bangalore in '46, Carruthers. I biked a late specimen across Cambridge in a twopenny tub I'd put in the handlebar basket; this gave ample opportunity to display my wit when curious friends asked what it was."
Old chum, you leave out what you've told me unpurged. Am I not to recall that bounce-biking your sample over cobblestones amid gleaming spires was in those days not as easy as stuffing a little plastic bottle into one's pocket? And that at least one of the "curious" was far fairer than even you were, if prim as the turn of the 1940s, and took most uncharitably to being shown the job?
zzz
'MamaMoose' has been deep in it on Safari. As with African affairs and any assistance I can give lost colleagues over the 'phone till I'm back, putting in my euro on that TS issue was the least I could do
But short of a Safari reinstall with the latest (security-fix) beta via the software update panel, the well-informed 'tacit' nailed my own brief glitch with it right on the head.
A side-effect of "taking out", as Americans will put it, that ~user/library/preferences "com.apple.safari.plist" was the loss not of settings for "helper applications". I needed to reset Gordon Byrnes's excellent Enhancer (download place) to recover the hidden stuff and flush out the cache. The same went for Reinhold's wonderful Safaricon (ditto). I thought this needed an upgrade too, before I realised that Safari's own "View" menu required a few moments' re-fixing.
I regret to say that, apart from the public convenience 'e dot's' Safari Menu provides, I have no special needs and thus find the rest of all the hard work by other developers either overlap "add-ons" or are redundant. But Pith was cool.
Anyway, Camino still tops my list.
 Stuff hit the fan in this morning's mail, but not in the offer to "fukahorse" or the suggestion from a self-described 'Bozo' that I Lose Weight Now with Phentermine, Adipex, Bontril, Prescribed Online, shipped to Your Door.' Enough already, I'm not allowed "fats".
If I knew Some Bozo's home address, he and his charming junkie friend (I do hope not!) would be getting by snail mail whatever part of my own sample the lab left over.
The trouble came from somebody who found yesterday's sexual revelations "beyond the pale". Well, I didn't ask him to read them and so his objection is in the trash, costing me 33 percent of my readership in one fell swoop.
Had he commented here, I'd have fetched a rarely needed reply:
Or sent him to tacit's journal and his ladyfriends there for sorting out.
Brickbats are welcome if hurled with sense. Even "You're full of crap" would have sufficed. Simple "furious" doesn't do it for me.
Reader number two said "hey, great posts today and yesterday". Why, thanks! And there was me wondering if a little too much had hung out.
Worse still, I bothered to take a look at my so-called "referers" and guess what I found. First, references to one Hotmail and one Yahoo account I was, of course, unable to hack. So whoever's saying what about me are safe with their own little secrets.
Secondly, there was these surprising bits of nicking or goggling (bottom of each page). This proves that you show a little flesh and you're infamous for at least four seconds.
Some people do it all the time, like the 'Madman', "the one your mother warned you about" whose "vital statistics" include:
"•legal status: on parole for crimes against nature and the internet (don't ask) [Oh, but I shall... I am!]
•skills: hacking, phreaking, reverse engineering, UNIX system administration
•hobbies: fly wing collecting, acts of random violence, electrifying common objects, burning stuff, embalming (stuff)."
You may explore the rest and his passing obsession with boobage for yourselves.
Hence a test, if rather "ado"...
 Susannah York gave me all I ever lusted for as brief exposure during a tough part in Altman's bold 'The Killing of Sister George'. Bold indeed for 1968...
A memory of another fine display lingers from an Aussie-directed film which was not one of Nicolas Roeg's, but if I can't spot it on the IMDB, maybe it was just an unforgettably wet dream.
She was just as stunning in uniform (yes, with her it was a turn-on) or behind a sheet in the best film about the 'Battle of Britain', before something horrible happened to her hubby, Christopher Plummer.
That movie joined my top 10 for the long movement where a noisy soundtrack vanishes, apart from the score for the deadly ballet in the skies on the crucial, sunny September day when an exhausted, depleted RAF turned the tide.
The next day, the night visitors packed it in.
Some of Walton's best efforts never made it to the screen, perhaps because director Guy Hamilton's backers spent every last penny on getting hold of all the aircraft. No computerised models back then.
If there's even one left going spare, I want a Spitfire.
That's probably what my other reader (number three) will do over this post.
Heart-thief, spit as much as you want. There's no way your own beauty is going up here. You're already planning to strangle me three times over, so scratching my eyes out can come when I'm already dead.
Jealousy is a sin only allowed to me. Don't forget Portia, whose gets a page at ChipRouse, though I'm not inviting the class.
Did you know "P" stands for "passionate" ... and "o" for "obedient", "a" for "acceptant"? No, well you're right, such qualities are mercifully strained in my favourite women.
Marianne will also murder me for this (her arrival postponed till tomorrow, ouch).
But I can't help that.
You see, Sondra once volunteered this supplementary detail, still spread all over the bed Net. But I hope she made a packet out of Hugh Hefner - who I'd not care to be, though one could do with even a small percentage of his spare cash - to do whatever came next.
Not to post this now would be like the Reverend Raincoat, whose real name was Macintosh, but was more stupid as a religious affairs teacher than my computer. One day he ordered: "Now you boys will read Isaiah, Chapter 36, but you are forbidden from reading verse 12."
Evidently, that's one of the few Biblical texts I can still reference in a nanosecond.
Curiosity may have killed a cat. Some of them are sillier than Marianne's fictional favourite, Garfield.
But the old wolf in me just has to know what Feedster will prowl for. If anything.
Okay, Sondra dear, end of Xperiment. We wouldn't want to arouse further eruptions, so you can put it away now. Over in his 'Pop Culture Gadabout', Bill Sherman's already getting exercised by the 'New Pornographers'. Thank you for coming (via Blogcritics, long blogrolled).
8:20:35 PM link 
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