The Blog

Quite different kettle of fish, in toto, with this here Internet where everyone may have an opportunity to individually (yet still en masse) get out of the state where you belong as a taxpayer (what? you haven’t even suspected? yes, sir, they’ll tax you and get you and fuck you without you ever noticing when and how, the state will, which you own quite a few sacred debts—if you Old Ones don’t settle the issue with a doctor on the draft medical commission, and where you’ll be used for other needs too, thanks to your citizenship).

And all of a sudden – yay! The independence breeze stirred up! The sweet word “freedom!” echoed from afar.

Yeah, o, yeah… NetScape, AltaVista – the legendary, glorious, long since forgotten names of genus-starters in the line of search engines… It’s them who paved my way to virtually visit the USA Congress Library full of the matter of fact information instead of filtered staple oatmeal broadcast by the TV news program Vremya or Mayak, the All-Union Radio Station, the bigger half of my life.

Thus flopped the mission of the “screaming” silencers in the range of short radio waves. Those crafty contraptions meant to kept the USSR citizens corralled off and hedged against the subversive influence of the outside world by the deafening crackle of the static, while the i

That’s why all the salesmen disseminating nostalgia for the golden days of Soviet era are viewed by me as low-grade promoters of the fucking Restoration. It’s only that I don’t stroll around with a Mauser pistol because of the built-in pacifism in the firmware of both the motherboard and other vital parts of my personality…

Presently, text hunting is looked upon as an oddball twist to your mindset, some fu

And that is just fine! Because while they keep jerking or shooting, the Internet roots into inextricable depths which keeps up my optimistic hope for getting free pdf files and a “thank you!” in the bargain.

Me personally, the Internet had sure liberated from book-buy expenses. What’s the point in outlay while in the Net, ru

Arise, brother, and catch on, firstly, that the up front page of search results Google fills with the addresses of the customers paying Google for their ads, and those now want to harvest, in their turn, the gravy off you, while the rest 1,630,000,000 results in 0.62 sec are presented downstream where you not at once guess to check (well, no, I don’t dig deeper than the fourth in the resulting pages) and where there surely sits the book in question, PDF formatted, but you do have what to open a pdf file with, right? And it’s no problem if you don’t because in the Net there is any opener whatsoever and free of charge too, just look for it deeper than the first page served up by Google.

At times the search takes up to a couple of days because of piggy mercantile schemers. Know what I mean? Yeah, sure, those sites mutely hollering “Hey! Hi! Here! ANY PDF FOR FREE!”

You, naturally, rush there to run into a smaller-font notification “for registered users”, and the registration is certainly nothing else but free. Yet, after a click or two, there pops up the form for entering the number of your credit card. Some fine howdy-do.

No-no-no! They won’t take a pe

True, a couple of times I tried bilking and entered a fictitious number from my imaginative ass. But no-go, Mr. Pariah Outcast.

Since then wherever registration includes the form inquiring of my card number I sucker punch the “X” in upper right corner of their site page – look for some other twerp, sir Hooker! Go an’ fuck yourself, corrupt crook, you!

But your search target waits for you at archive.org or Gutenberg project if not at z-library. And that is right because the best things in life are free – the air, when not polluted, and love which is not a part to Goods-Money-Goods shebang…

The first computer machine I happened to meet at 40, when “Internet” word was yet unheard-of.

I recollect there was a lunch break at some office, but which namely I ca

On leaving the office or, to be more precise, at the first crossing after leaving it, I met Sam, the most advanced cat in town on such matters, and asked him how that frigging file could, by the bye, be opened with the mouse.

Well, he looked at me the way as if I asked about how to put your right foot before the left when walking, however, patiently enough explained that, before to click the button, the file you wa

O yeah! Windows 95 was a mighty cool operational system the present Windows 10 sucks at every point when compared to that…

So, on the grounds of the current status quo allowing for texts availability, there crops up an uneasy suspicion: what if books—following the example of the vinyl disks by the band Flow, Song, Flow!—will also disappear in the bottomless bin of Past to the common heap atop the mentioned garbage because of the rise of laser disks and pirate sites all over the globe, where you are welcome to download any hit, be it the Lemeshev’s aria Will arrow hit me, and pierce to take my life?. and up to Hit me, Baby, one more time performed by Britney Spears?

To which with all befitting soberness I declare – fuck, no!

Were they even to convert each and every printed volume into an audio book or turn it into a movie, like they did to Harry Potter, and The Steel Hardened That Way, or steep it in all kinds of widgets both to reproduce the aroma of the prairie in bloom and the stench off your dorm buddy drunk blind (following the plot), and make it able to imitate the tactile impressions in line with the sex orgies served by the whores at the Red Mill (as depicted by the seasoned author), or even let you feel, virtually, taste of any delicacy, up to Zhigulevsky beer snacked with a briquette of molten cheese for 13 kopecks a piece, still and yet – fuck, no!

Because there is some (what would I call it?) magic (yes!) in books which is beyond imitation by any 3D (or be it 696D if they choose it)!

Got it what I’m about? Quite so! The words! Those black ant-like-critter-signs in the white field without smell-taste-color, like the distilled water, but making you tighter than all them sweet wines…

But then again, only if you know the trick of getting the adequate intoxication from them those ants, sure thing.

Good news, that skills could be developed when needed, which lately brought about my getting high from classical music, at least some of its pieces. Take The Hairless Heights by Mussorgsky, if you please, where witches fly to to land under the soundtrack cooler than the chopper’s Ride of the Valkyries over Nam.

Yet, Alfred Schnitke still remains as remorseless guts ripper as he always was…

No doubt, freedom captivates anyone but since that villain Hegel had shackled the world with his unbreakable chain of unity-of-opposites it (freedom) got turned into prison as well.

Handcuffed by the edging smartphones, teeter poor Juliets never spotting Romeos around who—their brows vindictively downcast—keep flicking the beans of Steve Job’s HER’s or someone else’s Samsungs.

Each medal has its backside. The Dark Side of the Moon in action.

However, let’s drop the subject for some other guy to blow up the Net with, because this morning, by the try and error check, it was detected that you can stuff no more than five A4 sheets into a bottle.

Which is not a cinch, by the bye. And do not forget leaving some room for them (A4s) to piggyback because of oceanic dampness. Some booked, so to say, volume.

As for bottles it’s not a crunch on Island since that maverick wreck of galleon got stranded by the storm last week. No crew, no nothing but the screwed-up vessel driven into the bay by the northern cape of Island, however, the chest in the Captain’s cabin stayed intact with all the stuff inside. Jamaican gin, bottled, follow me?

Well, one of those had to be emptied for the experimentation tries’ sake to see the bottle’s capacity, when you start stuffing it with A4 rolls. No more than five, as it was mentioned. Exactly where I plan to shove this here part of my blog up.

The uninhabited environs have since long streamlined me into a thoughtful expert in practicality because not every day a fried dove flies to you, assisted by the favorable breeze as an addition to a freebie galleon, you know what I mean, huh?

* * *

Bottle #3: ~ Prince Kurbsky Too Was Not Ashamed Of Taking To The Hills ~

What was it all kicked off with? No way to find out. As in anything at all.

When thinking deep enough, you do behold that any point in your grab will readily become the start.

How about the point, when the gray-covered notebook was handed in for the City Psychiatrist to check the sanity percentage in the person and/or how dangerous would the doodler of such stuff be for i

Or take that pivotal moment, marked by the ample pocketbook with perceptible sepia tinge in the pages seen through the press in 1968, which my Teacher’s hands offered (no pathetic blah-blah attached) for mine, all full of awe and greedy gratitude? Does it draw a shorter straw to be the start?

The invitation for the thick gray notebook to pop up was provided by the weighty parcel in the coarse mustard-hued paper for postal deliveries, corded about and sealed up with chocolate-like blobs of stamped wax which I hadn’t broken. Ever.