Blueprint: Mag-Pan


Top Secret: Mag-Pan; I need a Target Audience

The object that I have created is called Mag-Pan. Mag-Pan is a magnetic-esque device powered through precise logical inquiry, post-magnetism, and computer direction. It operates with only three components, respectively. Mag-Pan is unique in that rather than attracting metal exclusively, as magnets do, Mag-Pan attracts any, and all particular entities, organisms, and minerals, etc., that are typed into the search bar of a simple computer program. Depending on the power of the computer it runs on (mostly my Dell Optiplex 790 PC, hooked up to a *now unlimited electrical output generator), it can obtain vast quantities of material at any time, without limit; specifically, any amount of material at any time. Mag-Pan is not dissimilar to a reverse jet-engine with magnetic properties set up to detect and retrieve targeted particles, in that it is pulling instead of pushing, however, now, it is inexhaustible, indefatigable, and can track anything, anywhere. It may even be the world’s only perpetual motion machine in existence. Mag-Pan takes the most basic aspects of magnetism (in post-magnetism), computer technology, and human logic and transforms them into a usefully controllable machine.

Mag-Pan was discovered out of curiosity. Magnets had been used prevalently within the transportation community, in engineering, and for trivial things, such as holding bags closed, and postcards on my refrigerator. Humans had not used magnets to their full potential, though I was about to.

How I discovered Mag-Pan was through many hours of research, close reading, and experimentation. By crushing a magnet down to dust and recharging its particles with obscure electrons, one could create a magnet ten times stronger than the magnet one started with. This proved somewhat helpful, but it was mostly useless. I needed a way to control the magnet, to make it track things of importance, things of necessity, things I didn’t have. This last bit is not unlike the mindset of Bedford while he is on the moon, except I am on earth, in a shitty apartment. He wants the moon gold; he doesn’t care about getting to know the Selenites. We present similar theories. I’ll cite that there are millions of tons of precious metals, gems, and resources located within the earth’s crust, yet the human race could only dig so deep. I know the former now, the minerals and resources bit. We had barely scraped the surface. So, to solve the problem, I decided to bring the materials to me; right where I sit.

How I made a magnet, or magnet-esque machine, so powerful was through repurposing the magnetic properties with electrons, a process which creates post-magnetism. Through this I noted the power of the magnet had increased, however, by adding and displacing certain varieties of electrons manually, I found that the magnets attracted new and diverse targets, not just metal. It was unbelievable, at first I thought it was a flaw in my logic—or my eyes had gone bad, but when things started to move and shake, I could see this was no fluke.

After repurposing the magnets, and then putting them in the meta-transference room (in order to avoid the arduous task of manually placing the obscured electrons, which signal the track target of Mag-Pan), a curious and unfortunate event befell my progress. The magnet, or then Mag-Pan would not attract anything at all. No matter what I did, the particles attracted nothing.

This was a low point in the process; realizing that I would have to manually assemble the electrons in order for Mag-Pan to function properly, or at all, I sat and thought…

From being fully charged with electrons, moving some few particulars (not metal), and after being put through the meta-transference room, Mag-Pan became impotent. AH! NO! I was stumped… My creation went from super-magnet, with potential, possibly attracting foreign objects never before attracted, to attracting nothing at all. It was unable to attract metal, which it should attract anyway, always.

I thought for hours and hours, and like anything else that exists in the world, I came to a conclusion: these magnets (this post-magnetic structure) lacked one thing: a purpose.
Next off, I built a computer program that could shape these magnetic particles, a program that could place the electrons through the use of the meta-transference room, one that could give them guidance, meaning; a purpose.

I put my head to the computer screen and started typing away. I did not leave my lab for some days. And just as The Oregon Trail PC video game which entertained us all in elementary school became a thing, I had created a classic, Mag-Pan. Mag-Pan was officially ready to be driven off of the lot.

The first thing I had Mag-Pan target was a keg of beer, naturally… I plugged in the code on my computer and flipped a switch, and next thing I knew I had an ice cold keg of Hacker-Pschorr beer sitting in my lab, ready to drink, mostly. Now I could change the world. Obviously, I was astounded, but not astounded enough to stop at just a keg of beer. I needed one more thing. So, I plugged in the code and waited, and: BOOM—there it lay on the floor! Glistening under the lights of the room, I said it to myself out-loud, cocksure proud, “Folks, we have a tapper… Let the party begin.”

The particulars of Mag-Pan worked as such; I had to be discreet with wording my search, still do. [Some things I targeted didn’t work out; Marilyn Monroe… came back as a dried-up corpse, unfortunately. I had some other instances of outliers which are too difficult to explain, but I will tell you to never target: a rhino, Putin, or Honeybees. The ride with Mag-Pan appears to be a bumpy one, though I don’t speak Russian] I found that if I wanted a party it had to come in parts, discreet parts; the third thing I targeted with Mag-Pan was a bunch of cups, cheers.

The importance of the Mag-Pan cannot be over-stated. Although it is fun to mess around with such a machine, it is highly important for the survival of the human race.

Take for instance in the spring of 2021 when the water on earth had turned undrinkable, depleted, and full of salt via the rise of the oceans due to global warming. The one thing human beings desired most was something they had treated poorly in the past. They had taken it entirely for granted, water. I took it upon myself to create a tank for Mag-Pan, which held pure water. I used Mag-Pan to target and attract water (sans salt, imperfections etc.) into the tank, and by doing so solved the world’s water problem. After that, eventually things went back to normal.

Even before The Water Solution, I was rich beyond my wildest dreams. I had targeted gold, I had targeted oil, and I had targeted gemstones. Why did I do this, because I was greedy? NO! I knew that if people had nothing to possess then they would have nothing to defend, guard, or kill for. Mag-Pan would end all violence around the world. There would be no wars over nothing. If we all had everything we wanted, or we (others) could not obtain it… but I could, I could take it all away… so that no one would want or need it. This action eventually led to inevitable world peace due to the lack of things to fight for.

Throughout history the world needed something to own, to obtain, property, to claim. I had the sole machine that could get me anything I wanted, and everything everyone else wanted, too. There was no need or want, there was only have… I took it all and gave them everything, the whole world. The water, the oil, the gem-stones… They went through me and I didn’t charge anything because I had it all. The water crisis was solved even before it happened, after some deep thought.

Mag-Pan and its components (most of which I won’t share, for fear of others attempting to build such a machine), are made of everyday parts. You see them daily, you just haven’t thought of putting them together. They were merely collaborated in a different way, from a different angle. Thinking different affords many advantages. We have all of the answers at our finger tips, staring us in the face. The same keyboard I am typing this paper on, I found the most glorious treasures in the world with, and the necessities of life, a way to save the world and her inhabitants. I found that all by asking questions, making something different the wrong way.

Mag-Pan is now locked away in a very safe location, one targeted and located by Mag-Pan proper. Mag-Pan is safer out of the limelight, behind a wall where no one can find her, save for me, when a crisis arises.

And they’ll never find me anyway. I know this for certain. Taking extra precaution… The last thing I typed in Mag-Pan for a target was: Memory.

*You will understand the now after reading, and now…

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Forgotten Logic


One wonders,
Have I missed a step?
Am I still asleep?
Has the logic left?

I look up at that dull computer screen while that thought flashes through my mind… Why buy these things? Who even reads the book? Has mysticism taken over? Can this be real? Now my mind and my eyes hurt, acutely. I can’t believe it: a camp, a cult, this ideology shifted on “believing”, everything in the present tense labeled as “forgettable”. This religion has taken over. If you explain it different you are singled out a pariah, if you agree you are one of the sheep. I spoke of words/actions, they told me in blatant words: “we do”, “we have”, and “we are” “…ha, ha” (with an ironic laugh), but I don’t see. I wonder if they do, though…

The screen barks, it beckons, this call to click, scroll, hit. I sit and stare. This chair is stiff, old, and it smells. I wonder who has sat here before. I wonder what they thought. If a friend had been going through an existential crisis, depression, (other problems by other names), if that crisis was not your friend’s, but yours… what would you do? I wonder more, there is no answer, as in Moby-Dick, just catalogues of categories; out of place and misshapen, to sound beautiful, to beg meanings, and those that don’t get it just don’t. There is nothing more, class dismissed. It is singularly their problem. And they spoke in millions of meditation, and vice versa. I spoke in drunken logic to fools who could relate, whisky to breath, in a way that seemed aggressive only to those with esoteric ambivalence (crutch), and those who play naïve. Don’t tell them that though.

People walk past me and stare. I’d hardly taken notice when I put the hot coffee to my lips. Ouch, but I realize that this is the hottest this coffee will ever be; its heat expires over time, such is life. The burn awoke my senses. I am here, I am bundled, my feet are on the floor, my fingers are clicking, there is much to do, but I ponder on a drunken bar scene. I think. I wonder. This… Does he do what he says he does? Is it for show, for make believe, for the audience? Does it matter? This ever personal, monomaniacal question of: Does. And it. And Matter. And I find nothing. There is no answer, no relief, even if there were pressure, pain, bother. It just comes and goes, like everything else; as trends are cool in Uptown, and Downtown, Minneapolis and La Crosse; as the ebb and flow of rivers and seas; the rise of the tide, and the bodies within it. There is a new crest on the horizon. My mind rides that wave, as they wave goodbye. And I wish there was an onomatopoeia for that.

The sun peaks through the shades as I scroll the page. I sort of do the same as the first paragraph, sort of. Nothing new, though I can’t believe what I read- I shouldn’t say I can’t believe, because I can. And most people do. -Unbelievable! Believing and objectively viewing something are not mutually exclusive; sometimes they happen apart from one another, at different times. In this case they happen exclusively. Again I must sip my coffee and think. I wonder. I go into the work that needs to be done, the Hausaufgaben (-e, pl), the reading, the text, the papers, the pages, and I think of the cold outside, the snow, the sun (which lies), and the people around me. I wonder. Then I must stop this procrastinating. And I think it is over.


If a man is determined to jump off of a bridge to prove his point, he will. And if he doesn’t jump he wasn’t passionate enough. And if he does jump he is crazy. But at least if he does jump it is proven fact that he believed without a doubt, -and possibly without logic… And in that sense, I believe in him.

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Standing on Ice while Floating down the Mississippi River

10384518_10205352588482474_6079525624499956765_nThe fact of the matter was we were floating on a sheet of ice just below the Cass Street Bridge, in the middle of the Mississippi. It was a new year in the 199?s, it was cold. We stood there next to jet skis in dry-suits, which are the cousin of wet-suits, minus the wet part. The machines lay tilted on the white speckled surface. The water was frigid, only our ankles, neck, and heads were exposed to the elements. The daytime wasn’t so bad, though under grey skies one could wish for sunlight. Seagulls flew, diving for fish, here and there; making way at whatever their talons could sink into. They screeched calls and flew.

We stood for a while after we bumped onto the slab, and throttled up to rest easy. The piece was floating relatively slow in a pack of its likeness, adrift, akin in shape to a chip. When we were on top it felt stable, though precarious. That flat sheet, brittle, 50 feet by maybe 40, these are later life guesses on angles which will nevermore be, or matter; anti-matter. As a child you don’t think in numbers, in exacts, rather just in activity; I did this, with this person –it was fun, I remember. This pastime was also dangerous, extremely. My dad and Dave and me, we stood watching the world go by as we floated on this –what I thought was an “iceberg”, down river.

Below the blue bridge, it loomed tall as we moved south with the current. We launched at Wild Cat Landing, we made it north in good time, dodging that which bobbed. Again measurements were flawed… A lot seemed to be coming down that day. Ice had broken off from lock and dam No. 7, on an early season thaw. We went in a line right with them, what remained sedentary came at and past us.

On the river one must contend with many objects. These objects can come in from in front, behind, above, and below. There is no real safe place on the river, river rats know. One thing to look out for while navigating the Mississippi is buoys. Buoys are cylindrical floating metal markers, color coordinated to designate specific throughways along the river; they come in a variety of (shapes and) colors, but most prevalently red and green. Buoys also help to show captains and pilots where not to go, in hopes they don’t run aground on wing-dams, or sandbars.

Now that we know what a buoy is, imagine floating directly at one while standing on a sheet of ice.

It came up fast. It was green, old, dark, and dented, near sections of a docked barge. If a fixed object helps to determine speed, this buoy would suggest we were going fast. We saw it just before hearing a hollow sound, kerplunk. Water, splashing, and then just as fast as it had appeared it was gone, somewhere underneath where we stood. My dad and Dave screamed to get to the machines –quick pointing with gloved finger. I jumped on before the jet skis were even started, when at that very moment the buoy came through the ice. It shot up like a hammer through glass; a champion boxers glove to his adversaries face. The sheet of ice shattered to pieces, shards floating in the freezing brown water. We fell through the air for a moment, and dropping down into the river water sprayed us cold. We rocked back and forth for some time, and he hit the ignition.

My dad was in shock, but mostly laughing –his big toothed smile. I held him tight and we jetted away, in the cold wind, in the mist. I saw down below by my ankles, the duct-tape which held my water-shoes to the dry-suit had come loosed as it was saturated. Those seagulls flew away. You could hear the jet skis whining from far off in early springtime that year. And we were still moving down but faster, the same as the water and ice had been.

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Taking the Bus through Downtown (MPLS)

We stood and waited. The bus stop was cooled by the New Year’s wind. January in the Midwest, in Minnesota, in Minneapolis, is somewhat of a farce. This comes off as a big joke on the locals. The words “New” and “Year”, together, give hope of something new, but the weather does not change. This cold remains. The sun hangs bright and attentive in the sky, though ice and snow cling below to the ground. Grooves formed from cars and bikes catch and turn those along the path, spinning round. These exist now, but sometime after June they slip away in the drainage holes just below the curbs. These bus stops are not heated…

The bus stop was cold, and the bus was running late –typical, usual, I hate. These occurrences are not mutually exclusive; accordingly, they are a tragedy when taking place at the same time. Looking at feet one notices where one has moved; not very far from where one stopped. Life was like this, now. It was a bit of slush, a bit of cold, and a bit of snow, all to go. We try at making it home. The glass fogged up in the bus shelter. Paper schedules held the time, held the wall, whether in the sticky summer heat or the frozen winter cold. Footprints formed below.

At this time my tooth was in the process of falling out. We stood in South. I required a root canal, which no boat could float through, and I lacked the insurance. A thousand things were going through my mind (cliché). Aroma from Bob’s Java Hut came along the sidewalk, and across the street, behind the stop sign and into open nostrils. What the cold did was sting the insides, what the coffee smell did was cause a nostalgic feeling in the same locale, both of these happenings carried consequence. We stood and watched for the lights of the bus. That dim orange-yellow made butterflies flutter.

When the bus came to our stop we were standing on snow mounds. These hard hills were formed from snowmelt and ice and dirt and chemicals. They held in -10 degree weather as pillars of old which erected government buildings. No remedy could transpire in such drastically low degrees. Though, these structures need to stand the test of time. The mounds were slick, pitted, and asymmetrical, shaded dark for the fodder. It was even with the threshold of the bus door. One could step off the cold onto the wet black rubber floors of the vehicle’s innards. It was easy, it was necessary, and being such a small delight it warmed in many ways.

The seats on the bus would be above freezing, this seemed a benefit. I was only aware of how vile bus seats were after my (very close individual), who drives buses, told me about his experience with the bus seat. I asked him something like, “What is the craziest thing you have seen on a bus?” He answered with something like, “What haven’t I seen… Ha! I’ve seen everything…” I mean the list was unending; he had seen people shit their pants, piss their pants, throw up, drop food, spill drinks, throw both of the latter etc. I mean after the first three I was concerned about riding the bus from that day on. Now before I sit down I always pat the seat with my hand. One can never be too safe. Sure, think that wetness on the seat was someone’s wet boot, or shoe, but the likelihood of it being feces or urine is just as good. Keep your ass warm, and your thoughts on positive. Love that seat heat.

The inside of the bus gave us momentary reprieve from the elements. We passed lights and buildings and bars. The city was lit up. These giants became bigger as we came near downtown. It was a parade sorts’ night, as Nicollet Mall typically is come wintertime. This show of façade seemed glowing, welcoming, and friendly. As one gets within it they realize that everyone around is drunk, cold, looking to leave, superficially excited, or set on something else. It can be strange. When in downtown in the winter months, Minneapolis can appear abandoned. There are no regulars just people completely covered walking fast to get out of the cold. They walk shrouded in bundles, through establishment doors. The barren tundra, the looming skyscrapers, and the wind that blows between them are the only members playing a residency in Downtown… There are even fewer pigeons.

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Every Friday


If one were to work on the slowest computer in the world, it would be this one. I am certain of it. I have never spent so much of my time spending so much of my time. It has happened today, and last week on the same day. So, I guess I have before, which negates the never.

My Friday is like this almost every week. I wake up, I commute to work, and then I deal with this slow fucking computer. There is no sense in it really. I can’t type a single sentence without a pause… bleep… bleep… fade… pause. This piece took me three hours (years) to complete.

I start to talk to it, through the monitor, to ask it questions. It never answers me back. I say in a low voice, “Do you have to do this to me right now?” and “Really, why the fuck are you doing this to me right now?” The cursor is just as confused as I am. It thinks, is this my job, to sit and wait all day? Now I do nothing! It sits and it waits, while I sit and I wait. I wonder, was dial up a faster option? I wish I was back in 1999. I could then party like it. And at least more of my family members would be alive.

Usually Fridays are fun. Usually. Today it was sort of like that except for the money I was investing into a truck I had recently purchased. You could say it is a money pit, or I am shoveling money into it, and you wouldn’t be lying -maybe. I like my truck though, appropriately dubbed “The THUNDERCLAP”. It gets me around. From place to place I travel now, not just on my bike, but in my truck. How fun is that!? I know… very exciting.


Cajoled is my new favorite word. It means something like fucked around with, or played, or tricked. I think, one of those three definitions works, perhaps. It is a real word. –Though I don’t know what a fake word is… It makes me think of westerns (old movies or books) and cowboys and country and Mexicans… It never makes me think of Native Americans, Indigenous People, though, but it should. I’m pretty sure colonists screwed them over the worst, -cajoled them, really. But no one mentions it anymore. The idea is in a name, in a place, rooted in history written by the same people that it glorifies. Those pages, only to be forgotten under dust and years of sunsets, effectively ineffective. That is what I think about the word cajoled.


Lost and forgotten, it had many years sat. She said my prose didn’t work on the research paper. That would explain the 65% grade. My poetry did not explain the science. It clouded my ideas. I needed to attend to subject and verb, etc. And whatever else remains of English grammar. She can have it, all those proper things. Not since high school had I stooped so low on the grading scale. I know why though, it’s because things aren’t as clear as they seem. I would rather read Burroughs’ prose than a scientific journal, though that may be where the money is. You think? Sometimes I think too much empirical observation can fog the mind. Too many rules can just add to the boxy structure. So rigid, so orthodox, so formal, and it’s just ink on pulped trees. Black stains on dead plants. It’s what fills our pockets and proves our intelligence; money, degrees. How perfect do you have to be?

That is just how life is sometimes.

… I really don’t know.

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The Selfie Artist


For many of you this tragedy will hit very close to home… It took place the other day, in the back parking lot of my apartment complex. It was a morning, not substantially different from others, save for one thing. I noticed it outside. It was prolonged activity within a car (that was kind of near my truck, The Thunderclap). These theatrics were taking place in the setting of a red Honda Civic, my interest was piqued. Peering out our living room window, as I do, frequent to examine inconsistencies near, I noticed something strange. I parted the blinds carefully, and behold! There was a girl in her car staring into her phone…

A Side Note: Living in SE (Minneapolis) affords these luxuries. It is mostly quiet, save for some oddities. We have Turtle Car Guy, who drives a car designed to look like a turtle.  I want to design a Rabbit Truck to be its adversary.  When I asked him what had inspired him to do such a thing (create the Turtle Car), he told me he was unemployed and had nothing else to do, so he bought some spray-paint and went at it, logically. It sits in front of his parent’s house next door.  I would also like to point out our former neighbors across the street who would frequently be domestically assaulting one another in the middle of the street, in the middle of the day, on my fucking birthday (once). Sadly they moved away. Fuck, if I don’t get TV I’ll get something from the community, right? One would ogle out the window often with this kind of tasty activity.

While reading American Lit., something like Frederick Douglass (Bailey), whatever name he went by, in between coffee and words, and eggs and toast, I caught a glimpse of this act. Our neighbor, in all her good graces, and intent, was literally in her car, door open, taking selfies. She had all the different shots, canted and shit, probably no filter. -See, this event isn’t all that amazing, what is amazing is the amount of time allotted for such a production. I kept reading and she kept snapping.

I waited for some time, from 10:15 am to about 10:45 am to look outside again, and there she sat, phone in hand, extended. Wow, I mean, wow. She had her phone out, getting the best angles, she was smiling, tilting her head, flipping her hair. This scene was like something directly out of Facebook, or Gilda. It was almost hard to believe the conviction of this self-portrait-ist, selfie master. She was on point, and Pinterest, and tumblr, and instagram…   Probably.  This artist had taken it to another level. I stood there, sipped my coffee, and shut the blinds.

Now it was time to leave, I had just about forgotten this whole situation in the back lot, between the Narrative of the Life of a Slave and The Current’s morning banter, what all. I took a piss, put my coat on, slung my bag, checked everything 50 times because I am OCD, and locked the door (another 50 checks). I was heading out the front because I had brought my bike in the house the night before. I was ready to go; tight bundled. I walked through the security door, fancy, and prepared myself to kick the front door open and in one foul swoop carry myself and my bike to the sidewalk where I depart.

As I kicked open the door and ran down the steps, bike clunking below, I noticed something, there was a girl standing there. Not just any girl though, this girl was familiar -perhaps I had seen her the night before, perhaps not. I stopped, she looked nice, and I figured she was my neighbor, matter of fact she was. Now I understood. She was the neighbor in the car taking selfies, the artist. She must have finished and come to the front of the apartment complex to… I don’t know, wait… Ponder her next artistic creation…


Between writing my magnum opus, today, now, I am interrupted to be told that my shoes scuff the floors and I am to not wear them again. I look at the mess I have made… I say, at least you know where I’ve been. My manager does not laugh. Something trivial, again, makes me smile.


I am standing there, bike in hand, in front of my apartment building. I must talk to this person. I must know this progressive free-thinking artist. I must! It starts:

Hey, don’t I know you…?

Yeah, I saw you inside last night… I live in apartment number (doesn’t matter)…

Oh yeah, we chatted for a bit when I walked out last night.

Yeap, we did… I’m Mike-

I’m Lana*, I live in apartment (doesn’t matter)…

Cool, so… (Here we talk about where she is from (South), what she does (Student), if she can handle the Minnesota winters (Maybe), life, and finally the best part)…

What are you doing outside?

Well… I locked my keys in my car…

At this moment I knew I needed to leave. I could hardly contain my laughter. I was convulsing, it was visible; this dry heaves kind of laugh stuck in me, but almost bubbling out. I could not help it. I thought to myself, this girl is standing here because she was in her car for a half an hour taking selfies and when she exited, and shut and locked her door, after taking the best shots of course, she left her keys inside of her car, locking herself out of her apartment, only to have the one person in the world who would know of said occurrences come out and meet her face to face while she stands waiting for our landlord to arrive with spare keys. Yes, with a capital Y. It was all too much, I had to shut my phone off.

I coast away, she waits for someone to help her out of this FIRST WORLD PLIGHT SITUATION. I thought of the bigger picture; did I just shit my pants? I wonder how much I let social media control my life- moreover- vanity control my life. There is nothing like a crisp bike ride to school, headphones out, helmet on, autumn leaves on the ground, wind blowing in my face, and thoughts of people taking selfies pre locking themselves out of their lives for the time being.

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How to Save One Hundred Dollars, and Your Dignity.

Waking up the stiff rusted scarecrow proper. I need oil like the world needs space. Stop touching me it says, take your pipes and machines from out of me. As fall has come in it brought with it achy bones and sore muscles and nose colds, head torn amiss. This severed clever no better.

Rain hits coats (partial waterproof material) and beads, avoiding entry by not seeping through. A constant rise and fall; sound of the alarm clock, hand above falling down, back and neck from bed pulling head falls- sucking down water until we drown. That falls to stomach; cur-plunk!

And they said it was going to be hard, these things which are so easy. Believing and doing concurrently is equal to pressure releasing immediately; one can solve problems independent of organizations, associations, merely with self-motivation and creation. Thinking is the help. Thinking is the help. Bring only good questions out. Solve with resolve. Reliant on you. Positive thoughts overpower doubt.

He said sixty bucks, a while back. I called and it was different, something like $200. Stop by… Whenever. No, no, no, that seems wrong he said. I wouldn’t do it. What do you think it is? They are overcharging you! Really?! Yes… You can do this on your own, at home. I don’t know. You replaced the ignition in your Camaro; you took apart an engine in mid-winter and put it back together so you could make it to work the next day- you are no beginner. I did that with a six-pack next to me (gone when done) in negative ten degree weather. How soon we forget our triumphs.

He was at a restaurant after a christening of my kin, he took my call. Staring blankly in the mirror watching candles flicker, I agreed. Yeah… Plants caught the sun, as it was Sunday. I thought God, I can’t wait. Just one light, one bleep, one thought, and now this. The voice on the phone was invaluable, I needed nothing more. Just give people good advice. Modern progress of sorts.

All you have to do is Google search the video. You can find it. There is an exact video for the exact problem you are now facing. You just have to look.

Have we in America always been drawn to the easy way out, or is that just a new occurrence? I want to get my hands dirty. I want to rely on me.

Think, search, find; problems solved.

That is how you save one hundred dollars, and your dignity.

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