Love Box

The evil spammers that plague my online life are getting remarkably devious. I got the following email (from “”) in my inbox yesterday under the subject line of “Someone is in Love with you!”


A person who knows you has asked us to send you this message.

The person is madly in love and crazy about you, and has said that:

– You are Charming
– You are Attractive
– You look Sweet
– You seem Intelligent
– You Excite

Now up to that point I was at least intrigued. Sure, anyone who thinks that I look sweetand “excite” is bound to be suffering from some kind of well categorised mental disorder,but even I respond to flattery, at least somewhat. So I read on…

If u want to know who this person is, then you must call the following number now:

0011 239 444 9030

The call is totally anonymous for you.

All the best,

Ah-ha! Suddenly all becomes clear! They’ve set up a info phone line (charging about $5.00per thirty seconds) then sent this email out to tens of thousands of addresses. At leastsome pathetic souls will be so taken in that they’ll call, and no doubt be put on hold tolisten to two or three minutes of romantic music before being told that all the operatorsare currently busy, but if they call back later their personalised message of love will bewaiting. The really sad thing is that the some of them will call back. Repeatedly.

Now I object to spam generally, but at least most of it actually offers you something (evenif it’s just some unlikely surgery free method to enlarge one’s genitals). This kind of toyingwith people’s emotions to turn a quick buck however is just completely morallyreprehensible. If there’s any justice in the world, lightning will strike the lovebox.comserver, hopefully while the operators of this scam are poking around inside with ascrewdriver.

The whole murky world of online scams, ripoffs and threats seems to have jumped up afew IQ points recently. Not only do we have the above example, but an insanely deviousversion of the Klez virus has started to appear in my inbox. This claims to be a fixfor the Klez virus, which will immunise your computer against it for all time. All you haveto do is run the file, ignoring any alerts from your virus detection software (in order tofool the virus the “fix” apparently has to masquerade as a “fake” virus, and may thus setoff your anti-virus program).

This kind of recursive trojaning (is that even a word?) is simply brilliant. It gives people aperfect reason to infect themselves, and even reassures them that it’s safe, regardless ofwhat their security software may say. I’m simply in awe of the mind that came up with it.If people like this would turn their intellect to solving major problems such as worldhunger and environmental degradation, instead of messing up people’s hard drives, theworld would be a much better place.

But that’s not likely to happen any time soon is it?

Death, death Oh welcome death!

I am dead. Completely wasted. Totally out of it. The only thing keeping me awake and typing is sheer bloody minded willpower. This is due to a conspiracy of factors including a lack of antihistimines, a late night of TV watching on Friday, and a quiz night at Fabian’s parent’s Darts Club last night.

Each year the club holds a quiz night as a fund raiser, and being the pathetic trivia puppy I am, I’m always asked along to help shore up Fabian’s table (being the pathetic trvia puppy I am of course I always jump at the opportunity). Last year we were cheated out of equal first place by the inept judges (who despite all evidence to the contrary – such as over 100 years of it sitting in plain view on Liberty Island – claimed that the Statue of Liberty is on Ellis Island) and out of equal second place by the inept counters who failed to carry a one when adding up our scores. This year we vowed to do better.

We actually did do better, coming in equal second with three other tables. Unfortunately being vicious cheapskates the organisers had only put on a prize for first place, meaning we again went home empty handed. I did manage to win a round of heads and tails however, scoring a free pitcher of beer for our table. This would have made the evening a bit more worthwhile, except for the fact that I don’t drink. Everyone else seemed to enjoy it though.

(To be perfectly fair I also scored a pair of sunglasses and a digital watch for my win, but I already have far superior glasses and far better watch, so it’s not like it was a major reward or anything).

My current delitorious state however derives from the vast quantities of junk food I wolfed down (I just can’t resist cheezles, pathetic I know), and the ever increasing clouds of tobacco smoke that drifted around the venue as the night progressed. I’m alergic to cigarette smoke, and had used my last antihistime tablet on Friday morning, so the foul miasma really started to lay into me a few hours in.

The night was aparently supposed to be smoke free, however this ruling was blatently ignored by many attendees, aparently on the basis that they were members of the darts club, and no one would have the guts to walk up and tell them to butt out. Sad to say they were completely right, and the organisers folded faster than an origami master on meth-amphetamines. So they continued smoking like eastern European factories and my histimine enhanced eyes and respitory system really started having some fun.

By the time we got back to my place, I was coughing rather heartily, and hanging around until about 12:15 laughing ourselves stupid at the rulebook for Hol (the insanely violent role playing game set on the planetary prison/garbage dump for a galactic empire/church/fast-food corporation) did my rapidly failing respitary system no good at all. By the time Fabian and Ryan left, I was coughing as if I had consumption, and my nose was running like a faucet. I eventually stumbled into bed about half past twelve, and had a fairly disturbed night, waking up wheezing and snorting like an ill water buffalo every half hour or so until I finally gave up and got out of bed at eight.

So, I’m not at my best today.

I must apologise for not making any entries in the Wyrmlog for several weeks, but as I said, seriously bad stuff has been going down. I’m not going to detail it here, it’s just too depressing, unfair and f****d up. Those who need to know, know, and those who don’t don’t, and that’s where I’ll leave it. It’s not anything I want to talk about.

So, I am now well and truly ensconced in Rebecca’s flat in Mt Lawley. Most of my stuff have been shifted over, and I’m starting to figure out how to balance the need for shopping, cooking and cleaning with my need for sleep, work, and several hours of life-sustaining TV every night. It’s just as well my social life is virtually non-existant or I’d be well and truly stuffed trying to fit everything in.

Hmmm, well I do have a lot more to actually write about, but as I just spent a good two minutes staring blankly at the screen with my jaw hanging loose and my brain essentially going “budubudubudubudubud” I think it might be time to get up and do something physical like the washing up to stop me from falling asleep where I sit. Either that or collapse into bed and dream about Alisen Down until about 3:00 tomorrow afternoon.

Yes, that sounds like a very good idea.

Redneck Neighbours

Just thought I’d direct everyone to this site. It’s hilarious! Strange and vindictive, yet hilarious. With neighbours like that I think I’d make a webpage too.

I bought a copy of Whoa Nelly! the other day, pretty much on the basis that I’m Like a Bird was OK, and I really liked Turn Out the Light. It’s pretty good actually, a lot better than I was expecting. Much more like an album full of Turn Out the Lights than I’m Like a Birds, which is what I was dreading. So a good investment all told.

Oh, and Ali, I feel terribly guilty that I again haven’t written in ages. I shall endeavor to do so today, in between packing boxes. Sorry πŸ™

Pondering Pandora

A new gift store has just opened on Rokeby Road near Subiaco railway station. I go past it twice a day on the bus, and over the last week it’s been starting to worry me. There are big signs up announcing the grand opening, and bunches of balloons, and other assorted promotional stuff, but that’s not what concerns me. It’s the name. Pandora’s Box Gifts.

Now, as all should be aware Pandora’s box is a reference to Greek mythology, in which it was a box filled with all the evils and horrors of the world. This was given (in a fit of abstraction so typical of the Greek gods) to Pandora, who was told never to open it. Predictably (being a woman in one of those “let’s blame women for everything” myths so beloved by patriachal societies) she does in short order, releasing all the evils that plague the world to this day. In a sudden bit of unwomanly clear thinking however, Pandora did manage to snap it shut at the last minute, preventing the escape of Hope, which now keeps us going in the face of all the aforementioned evils.

(What hope was doing in a box full of horrors and evils is never really explained, unless the author took the Norse mythological view of hope as the drool that drips from the mouth of the Fenris wolf. Great at parties those Norsemen.)

So, the name is completely inappropriate for a store purporting to sell gifts. It’s like St Vivisectionist’s Hospital for Children, or Buddy Holly Airlines. I don’t know what the proprietors were thinking.

In other news (a phrase I think I’m using far too much lately) my attempts to transfer data from my old computer to my new one are back on track after Clare kindly donated the carcase of her old machine (sans hard drive). I’ve salvaged the floppy drive, and my old machine is happily purring away without making horrible choking noises and dying when I try to read a disc. So thank you very much Clare πŸ™‚ I’ll see if I can’t get a new Tale up soon in payment.

That’s it. I’m done for now. Got to go pack boxes.

General Ranting

Well, after the wettest April day on record, we just had the hottest May day on record. 34 point something, with heavy overcast and a bit of weak drizzle. Today isn’t going to be much better. It’s like living in Singapore for crying out loud!

Also rather depressing is the fact that the archetypal Australian soap opera Neighbours celebrates 4000 episodes this week. 4000?! What the heck is this? Are we so creatively vapid as a nation that we’ll keep something with the approximate cultural value of a crippled banana slug going for 4000 episodes? Apparently so.

On the subject of Neighbours it has been bought to my attention (by Stephanie) that Americans (and Canadians) don’t appear to have any soaps that deal with the lives of ordinary (although rather annoying) people going about their fairly ordinary lives, like Neighbours and it’s Network 7 rival Home and Away. Over there it’s all fashion designers or captains of industry, generally rich bastards who look down on the poplace at large. The fact that here in Australia our top rating soaps are about ordinary, everyday people (ordinary everyday people having love affairs, getting in car accidents, losing or making money in stupidly risky ventures and generally having much more exciting lives than they justifiably should, but still) probably says a lot about the difference between the American and Australian dreams. Americans aspire after great wealth and properity, rising above the masses. Aussies just want a quarter acre block in the suburbs and a sleep in on the weekends.

Or something. Thesis comparing Australian and American culture through their soaps anyone?

Ah, Helen thinks I’m capable of finishing Douglas Adams’ final novel. This is extremely flattering, thank you πŸ™‚ Actually I did start work on a Dirk Gently novella as a tribute soon after DNA’s tragic passing, if it ever gets into any kind of publishable shape (rather doubtful) I might post bits of it here. In the meantime I’ll plagerise completely and post a bit of the real thing that Helen posted on her blog, mainly because it makes me laugh (the quote that is, not the blog πŸ™‚

“The phone was ringing. Dirk answered it. He sighed. It was Thor, the ancient Norse God of Thunder. Dirk knew immediately it was him from long, portentous silence and the low grumblings of irritation followed by strange, distant bawling noises. Thor did not understand phones very well. He would usually stand ten feet away and shout godlike commands at them. This worked surprisingly well as far as making the connection was concerned, but made actual conversation well-nigh impossible.”

Ah, good old confused, irritable, modern-age challenged Thor! If only I could write that well.

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