Money Mule Arms Race 2000

Note: I'm off to a slow start on this. Since it's my 2000th post, all of a sudden I'm worried about quality. How to begin? Just begin, stupid...

The last few days I've been worrying myself sick about money mules. It's a big deal because, frankly, I've been putting a lot of money into them. The idea's basically sound: Send money mules (people) out with money, stay at home myself, then let them bring back their earnings. I'd share with them some pittance and keep the rest myself.

The big problem -- it's a poison pill -- is none of them returns. They apparently think, "I've got $100,000 in my hot little hands, I'm footloose and fancy free, why should I return?" Which, I guess, I might also think were I in their position. The bastards!

Now, of course I'm not focused on any of this in a vacuum. There's plenty of others out there, now alerted to the money-making possibilities (and the development rights), jumping into the fray. And as far as I know, coming up with better techniques, ones that actually work.

That being the case, it leaves me more or less high and dry. Except for what a small-time local operator might make at the edges, two-bit stuff, while flying under the radar and keeping his activities lowkey. Similar to small taco places, that once surpassed in quality by the likes of Taco Bell, et. al., just can't compete. We spit out their crap food in a second and flock to the corporate counterpart.

Still, shouldn't a little guy, say, in the money mule business, flourish? It hasn't been proven that he shouldn't. But in any arms race there's going to be winners and losers. Those with the greatest resources have the upper hand.

The time to get busy, then, is now. Find a way to make money mules more trustworthy! There's no time to waste! Time is of the essence, ready or not! To delay is to lose! He who puts his hand to the plow ... something something something.

At this point I'm thinking my go-to strategy has to be to convey to the mules the sense that I like them, appreciate them, and trust them. Do what my mom did to me, with moderate success on her part. If I only can ... But you lose a million or so, as I have, and it does something to your confidence.

One other good tactic might be something like this, give and demand back:

I have five money mules before me. I give each one $100,000, then immediately demand back $50,000. Then half of the remainder, then another half, etc., until they have almost nothing. Then repeat, and repeat time and time again. By evening they're exhausted but hopefully have learned a message.

The arms race is heating up. This much I know for a fact, the big guys have the best psychological teams at their disposal. Just like the Nazis. You have your hands around the throat of an entire nation, of course you can command resources. And what have I got? I'm one guy, no country, no Gestapo, no conglomerate, no company. I'm like the little taco guy, doing my best with diminishing resources. Peddling a little bike and throwing tacos out of the basket and hoping people pay, so to speak.

And yet I need it to work! I have no other option. The money I get from money mules today might very well fund my retirement tomorrow. Depending on how much I lose to them between now and then.... I'll either retire or keep working the system till I die.

2000: OK, that ought to hold everyone, while I express my thanks to myself for 2000 posts since this blog started. In addition to thanks, I'd like to recognize a deep inner beauty in myself that made this moment possible. Everyday, lately, I've sat in silence at the beginning of each morning, and have looked within. I've liked what I've seen, making, almost, two of me. Get that split? I should be up to 4000 by now!

Anyway, it's a measly 2000. I remember 1000 in 2010, and now 2000 in 2015. If it takes me 5 years to do 1000, that means I'll be writing my next self-congratulatory message in 2020. At which point I'll be 67. Is it normal for 62-67 year olds to write blogs like this? Seems a bit abnormal. I know my old friends -- people I know on Facebook -- are busy grilling and taking pictures of their food. Which is also a labor of love. The question is, Do they grill 2000 cuts of meat and stop to congratulate themselves? 

My Ten Year Baby Aspirin Cotton Collection

It's been 10 years, 10 long years, and I've been looking forward to sharing it with you, but I had to wait for the exact anniversary ... today!
 
I remember it like it was yesterday, even though it has been 10 long years, how my doctor told me I was a candidate for an immediate heart attack. He said something like this, "You get yourself on an aspirin regimen, sir, or you'll be dead in no time!" Words to that effect.

Of course I clutched my heart all the way to the store, where I made a scene about a lady having 12 items in the "10 Items or Less" line, because I was in such a terrific hurry. "You've got a dying man here!" I hissed, also picking up breath mints and a Twix.

Somehow, though, I survived long enough to get the first pill in me. Then, as it turned out, I did not die, thanks to this quick intervention, even though I had waited till the very nick of time. But I didn't know. I wouldn't take aspirin before because I heard every aspirin makes your stomach bleed a teaspoon of blood. Presumably, though, a baby one would only be a drop or two.

As days went on, then years, I more or less forgot about the death sentence, because the baby aspirin regimen was a complete success. Just think of the time speeding by -- as I said above, 10 years seemed like yesterday -- I got healthier and healthier in my heart, so much so that I'm easily able, say, just as an example, to shovel snow for probably 10 minutes straight without an ambulance on site.

Early on, sometime in the first couple years, I decided to keep the little wad of cotton from the aspirin bottles. The bottles themselves I threw away. Once when I had a couple of buttons fall off shirts, I thought I'd keep them in the bottles, but I didn't lose near enough buttons to make it pay. The cotton, though, I thought might come in handy for something. Like muttonchops at Halloween, a fake mustache if I needed a disguise, or to help the Scouts if they still did cotton drives.

I've been real faithful on taking the aspirin. I take one each night before going to bed. And honestly, I haven't overdosed even one time. A few times I haven't remembered taking one, then I try to remember and usually do.

There's been a little bit of friction in the whole process in this regard. Sometimes I feel a little guilty about taking them. The biggest thing, since they are baby aspirin, I'm hoping I haven't deprived any children of their ability to get the meds they need. Then there's lesser concerns, such as whether crafters might be deprived of cotton if there happened to be a shortage, and whether the slaves who pick the darned stuff are being treated right.

For the most part, though, in fact entirely, I've been able to put those concerns out of my mind and simply take the pills. The way I look at it, What's one piece of cotton every month or so? Especially when I was literally pronounced dead by my doctor. He had the coroner in the hall, the whole bit, but I got myself on the pill, and I haven't quit.

The mortician's going to have to pry the bottle out of my cold dead fingers. And if anyone wants my cotton collection, whether as a memento of my distinguished life or for some more practical reason, they'll have to get in line ... and they'll probably have to fight for it.

Curious About The Titanic?

The 100th year anniversary of the Titanic sinking is at hand. 100 years ... a century ... 10 decades ... quite a while in human terms, even if in cosmic time it's a mere blip. We are totally amazed. It happened in 1912, and now it's 2012. So in terms of time, it's monstrous. Because 100 years, wow!

But seriously, let's think about it another way. The passage of time has taken away some of the rawness of the event. Really, there's barely anyone left who has a personal and immediate sense of grief over it, probably none. So we can't pretend like we're broken up about it. And yet, we can imagine, were it our loved ones, assuming we wouldn't ourselves have been aboard the ill-fated ship had we been alive in 1912, that the grief would have been horrendous. But as it is, had they not died on the Titanic, they would have been dead by now from something else.

I have an old, old story, but it's true. When I was a young man, and this was in 1964, so I was 11, there happened to be an old woman visiting our town who was a survivor of the Titanic. We all went to see her, me and the rest of the town. I stood in line around an hour, then it was my turn. But wouldn't you know it, she didn't speak English. So I had to talk to a translator who conveyed my message to her. Remember, I'm just 11, so I hadn't yet reached my present level of maturity; that would come two years later. I said, all quite innocently, "Tell her I have heard of the Titanic." The old lady, bless her soul, nodded and chuckled, then reached over and patted my head. I haven't washed my hair since!

Well, let's get to what you came for, a few questions you've sent in that I've researched and answered.

What did the Titanic hit? -- Good question, because it could've been anything. It was in fact an iceberg. It was with the Titanic's accident that everyone suddenly realized an iceberg was a dangerous thing, especially if run into. Because it's not just a soft snowball, it's a chunk of ice packed extremely tight, with most of it lurking under water. If you're ever the captain of a boat or anything, avoid icebergs.

Did the Titanic go down immediately? -- No, it was able to stay afloat till it sank, long enough to get off most of the passengers, although there weren't lifeboats for everyone. For those who didn't get a lifeboat, of course it was big trouble. But the good news is those who didn't die survived.

Was Leonardo DiCaprio really on the Titanic? -- No, he was in a popular movie about the famed maritime disaster [copied from Wikipedia.] The "Titanic" he was on was a smaller version of the ship made for the movie. Although it "sank" during the filming of the movie, ironically it would have been small enough to avoid the iceberg.

Are there any philosophical lessons to be learned from the Titanic? -- You mean like "Watch where you're going in life"? That's a philosophical lesson we already know. So if we take away something like that from the Titanic disaster, it's not really the Titanic teaching us, but our mere calling to mind prior knowledge. I seem to remember something like that when I learned about Plato, things we already know. To actually learn a lesson from the Titanic, it'd have to be something you weren't previously aware of. I can think of one very practical lesson: That every ship ought to be pulling a spare ship, just in case.

Well, we've now marked the 100th anniversary, with solemnity and dignity. And if you didn't see your question answered, these are the only ones we had space for. We'll hang on to them and hopefully get to them on the 200th anniversary. So keep checking, particularly as the 200th anniversary (2112) gets closer.

The Pink Professor -- The Importance Of Shaking Hands

Things at the Roadhog Roadhouse have been going as usual. Guys show up, guys drink, guys get in fights. It can be so bad, I hate to think of it, what ruffians do.

I just hear of it, since I don't go out there much, and I shake my head and inwardly wonder: Why is the heart of man so against his fellow man, especially when he's got a belly full of beer?

But I have to smile, since I know I have a man on the scene to handle these matters, the eruptions of one man against another. Of course that's the Pink Professor, who can't be there all the time, but when he is, things get straightened out real fast. He doesn't take any crap from any of them.

Gotta love him! And of course I do! Our relationship, you will recall, goes back now more than a year! And what a year! We met a year ago in September. And now September has come and gone again, October, too, and we're already into November. We've quit celebrating monthly anniversaries, which is usually the way it goes. Of course we weren't an item right away, but still once we became one we started looking back on those months as counting. Certainly they counted for the one year anniversary, because it wouldn't make a bit of sense to postdate something other than our first get-together of any kind.

Anyway, the P.P. is still on the job at the Roadhouse, bringing a softening influence to the otherwise coarse atmosphere of the place. Coarse is really the word I'd use, which is why most bikers' bars in recent years have taken the positive step of bringing a Pink Professor figure on board. Sometimes they're paid, sometimes they're just goodhearted volunteers, like my guy is. He likes to make a difference, that's one thing. And another, it makes his life more interesting than just teaching classes and grading essays all night.

He was telling me of the most recent craziness out there. Remember the 14-piece pool cue the one guy had? Well, now everyone has one. Which has an interesting benefit on the side: If someone gets in a fight before getting the damned thing assembled, it delays things enough so no real damage is done. Cross your fingers!

That happened the other night. Two guys got into it over something, something to do with one of the waitresses winking at them. They were at loggerheads, staring at each other with evil looks as they hastily assembled their cues. Then one hit on a brainchild, to take a whack at the other guy with his only half assembled, seven easy pieces. He took a swat, knocking a glass of beer across the room, and the other guy backed up.

They both saw the futility of fighting with just half a cue, so back they went, feverishly assembling them, but having a harder time, because the narrowest part of the cue is the trickiest to assemble, with the smaller threads. Now the other guy got ¾ the way done and came up swinging. The other guy dodged, because one of the pieces, not screwed in fully, flew across the room and broke a mirror, meaning seven years bad luck for someone.

He went running for it, slipped on the beer that had spilled, and fell on his butt. To make a long story short, he feigned injury while unscrewing a chair leg. He came up like a pack of bears spilling out of their den, with the biggest gaping maw anyone remembered seeing, chair leg in hand, right when the Pink Professor entered the room. Then both men stood there ... silent ... ashamed ... immediately convicted of the error of their ways.

This is the power of one great man! The guy with the chair leg tried to hand it to the Pink Professor, who just shook his head. "I don't need to take it from you. You know where it goes," was all he had to say, and the guy picked up the chair and reattached it. The other guy had stopped in mid-assembly of his cue. The Pink Professor, instead of disarming him, went over and helped him get it together. "You have to baby the last few pieces," he said cheerfully. He knew they guy wouldn't fight now. And that's what happened.

He brought the two combatants together and had them shake hands, which is always an important gesture in putting past grievances behind us. Once you've shaken hands with a man, you can't bear a grudge. It's a physical and mental impossibility. You're immediately one in heart and mind. Their hands joined, the P.P. put both his hands on top, as if to bless their sacred union, then withdrew. Each man looked eye to eye at the other, their big grins confessing they should've been friends all along. Then with gentleness they broke their grip, and went on to grip, each one, another beer, each treating the other and splitting the cost of the Pink Professor's next drink.

To me, that's beautiful. That they would treat each other to a beer and split the cost of the Pink Professor's next drink.

400 Posts!

Tooting a party horn and throwing broken glass as confetti ... they said it couldn't be done ... someone must've said that.

But here I am ... proudly thrusting a fist toward one of my broken down doors ... four centuries ... if posts were years, I'd be older than the King James Bible, just by a hair.

So what's that put me at, something like the time of Shakespeare? And Shakespeare, for all this great qualities, never wrote 400 books! In fact, I've got everything he ever wrote and it's only one book.

The last 400 years have been all mine. To make the most of. To party hardy!

I've still got a freezer. They didn't take that away from me. And it could've happened. 400 posts in cold storage, each one dated and time stamped by the Blogger people. And I did it without anyone's help. I've only quoted people a few times and always with attribution.

This is my day! It's like fulfilled prophecy, or something. The sun came up for me today ... being very happy ... it arose on all four horizons ... a most wonderful day!

More About 9/11

I was rereading my post about 9/11, some of the interesting things I had to say about birds and dogs, and it put me in a nostalgic frame of mind, making me test my knowledge of my own past, specifically what dogs and birds I've owned, or have been in the family.

I had my first dog when I was around 5 years old, and his name was Eggard. Other dogs in my family included Poohie (collie), Peanuts (beagle), Spoochie (collie), Bozo (beagle), Cinnamon (like a terrier), Frankie (collie), Fritz (sort of like a German shepherd), Zoi (Pomeranian mix). I'm probably leaving out a dog or two. Fritz only lived a week after we got him. We got him at a dog pound, then it turned out he had worms, and he crawled under the stairs outside and died. I cried like a baby carrying his big old body over to his grave.

I remember when Eggard died, too, and basically where we buried him, down by the fence, actually less than a quarter mile from the Slump residence here. (There was another family dog at that same time, my brother's, named Rats, and he ran away.) There were several dogs, then, that Grandpa and Grandma had, but they were mostly around when I was just a small kid, and I don't remember them ever having a dog after I was over 5 or 6. So I don't know their names.

As for birds, well, there were several birds that Grandma had, always parakeets, with names I can't recall. Kind of like "Perty Boy" kinds of names. I had a few birds over the years, a parakeet that was named Morgan Featherchild (ha ha). Then there was a finch family, a couple named Man and Woman, who hatched out two babies, Cakes and Wilson. Man, Woman, and Cakes all perished in the course of things, then Wilson lived for quite a while longer. He must have lived three or four years, because I know he was hatched out in 1988 or 1989, and he died on the 30th anniversary of John F. Kennedy's death, November 22, 1993.

Wilson was a fairly smart bird. I could take the lid of his cage across the room, stand up on the couch, hold the lid near the ceiling and call to him and he'd fly over and land on it. I don't know German, but we sometimes called him Der Vilsonfleiger, and one of the calls to him to come to the lid was, "Vilshy Mission!" He was friendly, would land on your shoulder, would play with a wooden egg I had, fight with pencil erasers being poked at him, bite at a piece of floss, try to stand on the floss, and that's about it. I said he died in 1993, and I still have (2008) some of his poop. I had a cassette shelf that was hooked on the wall, and he'd land up there. One day I was looking at it and there his poop still was, just spots of it! So I covered it with some paper so it wouldn't get wiped away, and there it is still to this day.

It's amazing how important national and international anniversaries (9/11) make you remember lots of other interesting things, too!

This is a stereo picture of Wilson in 1989. If you look at Wilson kind of crosseyed, and let the pictures drift together you can see a fuzzy 3D view of him.

Local Man Thinks of 9/11

It's something to think about, when anniversaries roll around, whatever the anniversary is of. Like if you got married, that is your wedding anniversary -- whether it's your silver or golden anniversary or one of the others in between those or one below. Our birthday is called our birthday, but that's just a fancy way of saying it's the anniversary of your birth. If you're one year old in our country, you have been alive for a year, although in some countries, I've heard, they consider you one when you're born.

Scholars tell us that anniversaries are arbitrary, in the sense that to commemorate a particular date is only the result of a convention, i.e., our contrived way of marking time. On some other planet, or country, depending on the conditions there, were we to be there, we might choose to mark time in some other way. Then our equivalent of one year here might be a hundred years there. This is what scholars say. Scholars of course have many opinions, some quite treasured, some not worth the paper they're written on. One thing seems certain. The way we do it is the way it's done and likely will continue to be the way it's done, no matter how the intellectual class may buck and belittle the idea.

There are other ways of looking at time -- one of which engages my thought processes on certain occasions, such as when I'm out in the wild, studying nature, which is the effects of the passage of time on other creatures. From childhood we've known a curious fact of life for the canine (dog) family, which is that for them one year is equivalent to seven of our years. To break this down even further, a day for them is like a week for us. The key to this understanding is that everything is a multiple of seven, a fact not contradicted by the equally curious fact that they eat in a day more or less the equivalent of what we would eat in a day. This leads me to muse that a week's worth of time, if it only requires a day's worth of food, means the dog is eating relatively little food. We have the phrase, "to eat like a bird," meaning a small amount, but pound for pound, the dog may be eating much less, simply because of the passage of time as it relates to them and their size compared to birds.

I have had dogs and I have had birds. It does seem like dogs eat quite a bit more, until you factor in their size, as I said, compared to the typical housebird. Dogs are typically in the 10-30 pound range, so they eat 12 ounces to a pound of food on a typical day. Birds weigh around three or four ounces, sticking for the sake of argument with the finch or budgie (parakeet), and they essentially peck at their food and consume very little of it. I've seen enough seeds on the bottom of a cage, and scattered around the floor -- unless there's a very good cage skirt -- to tell me that they're wasting more than they're eating. If it's scattered on the floor, it's hard to separate and reuse. I feel it's best to just let it lay and they'll find it if they get hungry. After all, in nature, observation will attest, they do a lot of pecking at the ground. The housebird hasn't lost that instinct, it's only somewhat stunted because we favor them (spoil them) by too much unnecessary assistance. I was raised on this idea: An animal will eat if it gets hungry.

Really, in addition to birds, and getting back to dogs, I think people pamper their dogs too much. I really do. Things have changed, and we can attribute a lot of it to television advertisements, a transference or attribution of human desires to animals, and the babying that comes from too much attachment or sentimentality in our relations with animals in the home. I could go on. Whether it's allowing them in our beds, on our other furniture, feeding them from the table, or tolerating their many messes, you can plainly go overboard, and people do! This is not necessarily doing them any favors.

When I was growing up it was quite a bit different. The dog was a dumb brute animal in those days. Maybe it knew how to hunt but that was it. The rest of the time it was tied to a tree, and might just as well choke itself to death by being tangled up in a chain. Nobody paid much attention to it, even though it'd be yipping and begging for a minute of your time. We used the dog like a garbage disposal, taking our table scraps out, all mixed together in a kind of soppy bread slop and just dumped it in an old dirty dish. The thing is we got very few complaints because the average brute dog in those days would wolf it down practically in mid air.

I saw enough sickening dog antics to turn me off forever, but I've softened up quite a bit in later years and now have a great deal of compassion for dogs. This is something I've come to, dogs are intelligent, sensitive creatures -- I could almost say beings. They know how to love and they truly are man's best friend, no question about it.

Today is the seventh anniversary of the terrible attacks of September 11, 2001. Our nation observes the anniversary. We will not forget, but also we must not dwell on it.