I have so many, many, many fucking things to do. But, this fucking page was crashing.

Why?

Near as I can tell, fucking spammers.

One thwarting program I’ve been using has been recently acting up, and I’m getting spit out code and error messages instead of a working script. On top of that, some kind of feeler-type, scouting ‘bot is putting a ton of meaningless and harmless comments that go undetected.

Sadly, they are some of the nicest comments I have ever received.

I couldn’t get a couple of fancy plug-ins with security images where you had to type in the letters from a picture to work at all. Part my sophistication (read “not much”) and part unclear scripts and even unclearer instructions.

Right now, I’m trying low tech, thanks to this guy’s idea and code advice. I thought about keeping the needed entry to his name, like a tribute. But, instead I’m going with “Ben,” our trusty Irish setter from my youth.

Maybe using Ben is a subconscious nod from “the other side,” since I’ve been thinking about Pat.

When I was in college (actually when anyone in my family was in college), Pat’s legendary economy of words and sense of humor would arrive in cards and letters. Sometimes there would not actually be any “letter,” just a scrap of paper torn from an envelope or bag and a succinct note, like “phone bill,” accompanying a check.

One of my faves was from when I studied in London. I had asked for her to send my Walkman and some cassette tapes. (How the fuck did I live without an iPod (or two)?) A short time later, I received a parcel consisting of a shoebox jammed with tapes and the cassette player. The small area remaining in the box was packed with Lipton teabags.

No identifying info (beyond the return address) or correspondence was included. Just a ragged note in familiar script: “Coals to Newcastle.” Her private chuckle was sending American-bought tea to the Brits.

Anyway, while living away from home, I also got a few cards for regular card reasons, like my birthday. More than one was signed only “Ben.”