Too good to be true? Too strange to believe? Hoax, prank or urban myth? If you need to know about "public domain Time Travel technology" as advocated by Tmxxine (quite possibly a hoax), and Snake Wine (real enough in the sense that instead of a worm in tequila you get a snake in rice wine) or if you need to know the truth about Titanic senior wireless operator, Jack Phillips, being the first to radio for help using the new international distress call of SOS (ooops ... it's an urban myth) ... you do, don't you ... then two sites very much worthy of your attention are the Museum of Hoaxes by Alex Boese (apparently pronounced 'Burr-za') and the Urban Legends Reference Pages by Barbara and David P. Mikkelson. Caution friends, these are both serious time sinks and your new boss could be watching.

I’ve done some slight site mechanics work with the addition of an "email this item" capability from Blogger itself which shows as that small envelope at the bottom of each post and the addition of a Search Selected @ link for 177 like this one here to the menu ... a link which unlike the other Search Selected @ links on the menu is actually a bookmarklet that can be dragged to your browser tool bar.

Muffled mowers and muzzled blowers ... these are ideas for which the time has come ... Snapper, John Deere and town councils everywhere need to take note ... and to take action. Evan had just missed a call from Mina because the ring of his cell that sat next to his wine on the arm of his porch chair was drowned in the roar from the nearby yard crew hardware which was as loud as that of a small plane ... as loud, in fact, as that of a Twin Otter circling an iceflow looking for a refrozen lead in a blow.

Evan put down the copy of A Season for the Dead by David Hewson which he had just begun reading, took a drink of Sutter Home Merlot, one of Mina’s favorites, and thought about that trip to the Arctic almost 20 years ago, thought about when he had first met Mina, and thought about Dr. Allen Garrison’s still completely unbelievable story.

When the black icy water soaked through the wool of his trousers at his crotch Allen nearly forgot about the princess. This whole thing hadn't been a lot of fun to begin with and it was suddenly a great deal less pleasant. The cold squeezed at him with its cruel sharp talons. Squeezed him hard. He stumbled, nearly pitching over face first then saved himself. He slowly sucked in a painfully harsh gasp of the dank cold miasma that swirled just above the water surface. Losing his balance and falling in would be fatal and if he fell the princess would fall too. Allen pushed off against a nearby gray block of knife sharp ice to keep himself upright. He ignored the dull pain in the dead flesh that was his wrist, ignored the blood that smeared so easily on the dirty ice where it had cut his naked hand and keeping his head low moved on. It was only twenty yards to where he might be able to pull himself and the princess up out of the water onto the floe and find shelter behind a small ice ridge.

Shelter. What he desperately needed right now was a place where the two of them could be out of sight. If he had almost forgotten the princess even as he dragged her along he wasn't likely to forget the bullets. As this thought floated in his cold-fogged mind there was a sharp spitting sound in the water three feet to his left. A second slug sung by his right ear so close that he heard it's hot whine even through the heavy cloth of his parka. Maybe the Mosin Nagent that the filthy Bolsheviks were using wasn't such a great rifle. Maybe they were all just bad shots or drunk. Maybe if he was lucky he would make it. Just maybe.

He didn't let the cry that suddenly rang out distract him from his efforts. Somebody else hadn’t been so lucky.

The water was already waist deep, his legs were numb and there were still ten more yards to go. Allen shook his head and, forcing himself to ignore the possibility that he would be hit next, concentrated on picking his way across the uneven bottom to where he hoped safety lay. One misstep and they would be down. If he fell and the parka he wore were soaked Allen knew he'd be finished. It would be hard enough to get up onto the ice even now.

He wondered how the princess was doing. He was weak and nearly exhausted from the long chase. She had to be exhausted as well. A quick glance at her face told him she was tough enough to make it if he could. He staggered as his foot hit an unexpected large rock but righted himself once more and plunged on. Somehow he reached the ice edge without falling and without getting shot but with his last steps the rock strewn bottom beneath had dropped off leaving him almost chest deep in the grip of the cold dark water. So much for keeping his parka dry. Convinced that he was a sufficiently small target, that he couldn't get much wetter and that he needed a moment to gather his strength Allen risked a peek back at the beach. Three soldiers stood boldly on the sand just this side of a dirty bluff. They were firing wildly out onto the ice floe and at least for the moment seemed to have lost interest in him. Looking to his right and then left Allen could see none of his own companions among the blocks of ice at the edge of the floe. Though he could already feel the numbing grip of the cold in his chest Allen knew he would have to risk a few more moments in the water. After three deep steady breaths Allen let go of the princess's hand, pulled his rifle carefully to his shoulder and sighted back across to the enemy on the bleak beach. He leaned back against the floe and squeezed the trigger with the careful control of a trained killer. Clenching his teeth, he nodded in satisfaction when the nearest of the uniformed figures on the squalid sand crumbled in a rough heap.

When no fire was returned by any of the other Reds as they scattered, Allen turned back to the ice. He tossed his rifle up onto the floe, peeled off his parka, tossed that onto the ice with a heavy wet flop, pushed the princess onto the floe and leaning on the nearby edge with his elbows, kicked violently upward. With his muscles straining against the dead weight of his waterlogged clothing Allen pulled himself forward. With each passing second he waited for the slam of a bullet in his back. None came and suddenly he was on the ice. Grappling for his rifle he crawled quickly to the safety of a ridge. The wool of his pant legs and shirt began to stiffen as they froze in the Arctic chill. Allen crawled on. As he tucked himself into the shelter of this dubious haven, pulled the princess in with him and then dragged his parka back over his head Allen felt a sharp tug at his left leg. Peering down he saw that a slug had ripped the heel from his boot. Close, but not a real problem. Not anywhere near the problem his frozen clothing was going to be. Shaking his head at this near miss Allen began a methodical survey of the situation.

The Bolsheviks were once more ranging recklessly along the length of the shore. Now there were seven of them in sight and Allen was determined that he would take down another before he moved on to a rendezvous. He squeezed off two quick shots, grinned savagely when he saw one of the Reds fall and the others once more ran back behind the bluff. He waited. This time the soldiers seemed less eager to risk exposure. Allen anxiously turned his attention to a quick survey of the nearby ice floe. His eyes tightened grimly. From where he lay he could see Peter and Lars behind another small ridge just a few hundred yards away. He studied the two huddled figures. When he was satisfied that they seemed to be in no worse shape then he, Allen swung his gaze back towards the beach and pulled his big rifle back to his shoulder. This wasn't going to be easy.

Evan smiled and took another drink. Maybe there would be time some day to write the whole story down. And maybe not.

Cyndi Lauper at the Melody Tent in Hyannis, even sitting behind the tallest manly couple on the Cape that night who thankfully spent most of the concert slouched in their beers and not each other so the view to the stage was clear, was some fun. Mina and Evan, asking each other "who are those guys", and wearing too many rainbow chainlink bracelets given to them by the loud boys in the back row ... enjoying their time ... flowing there in the serious arc of Cyndi’s vocals, seemingly not hampered by her cold, alternately powering and sliding everywhere conceivable, from arty teasing duets with guitar harmonics in "Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood" to the pure mean banging rock of "Money Changes Everything" ... that’s what I said . Mina and Evan wondering what would happen the next time they saw the sky ... and never once imagining that too bright cerulean would be hung over Carnival 2004 in somebody else’s dream of Provincetown the next day among the plastic beaded fishnet boa throngs that were "FantaSea" after they took a wrong turn trying to get back on the mid-cape highway in a too dark night once Cyndi was done.

Need to know more about something you see here at 177 ? Sure you do ... especially if you somehow got here by searching on Vital Copper Therapy or maybe Paris Hilton, Ashlee Simpson, video game cheats, NFL, Lindsay Lohan, Lori Hacking and Iraq which I just lifted from Most Popular Searches at Yahoo ... and now you actually can know more by searching at Yahoo, Amazon, Ebay, and Google for additional information simply by selecting text in this blog and then clicking on the appropriate link on the menu at the right in the Search Selected @ list right there under the Previous Posts.

Or maybe you are here learning that The Poison Pool by Patricia Hall happens to be what I'm reading right now. I'm liking it a whole lot and will be looking to get other titles in this and other series by Hall through the Cooperating Libraries Automated Network (CLAN) but, I could (and so can you), select either Poison Pool or Patricia Hall and use Search Select @ link for Amazon or Ebay to look for books to buy or bid on as well. Do Alex Sinclair and Kate Weston, and for that matter Michael Thackeray and Laura Ackroyd seem a lot like Diane Fry and Ben Cooper. Has anyone ever seen Patricia Hall and Stephen Booth in the same room at the same time? No matter, Hall's writing will certainly keep me entertained until I get a copy of One Last Breath by Booth.

So have you tried Search Selected @ yet? Or maybe you can't find anything here you wanted to know more about? Ok ...try these ... Kobe Bryant, Nomar Garciaparra, Scott Peterson, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Beatles, Hepplewhite, Yankees, Red Sox, Shelby Cobra ... or be brave and just select any word(s) you find anywhere in the blog just to see what happens ... oh yeah, it works in IE only but that shouldn't be too much of a problem since IE is the browser used by the overwhelming majority of vistors at 177.

Nice. Yahoo Business Web Hosting just got pumped up to where it should have been 2 years ago. Yahoo now provides 4GB disk space which means I can be completely undisciplined about posting pictures from the A80, 75GB data transfer per month which means you can view my pictures and the other nonsense here and at my other sites relentlessly, and, oh yeah, 2GB storage per Email account of which you can have 50 which means ... well it means I’ll probably stop using my Gmail account and I’ll never be able to give the last of those Gmail accounts away. Did I mention 200 subdomains? I wonder if www.thanksyahooitwasabouttime.com is available? More than nice ... very nice. What’s next? Blogging of course ... it really is time to move beyond PageWizards and PageBuilder. Seems Yahoo has had a blog host site running in Korea for about a year ... I’m wondering when or if they will introduce what they have running over there here ... where ever here is... and if I will be able to painlessly roll my current sites into it? Or if I will even bother? Or maybe they will just buy Blogger from Google? Or maybe ... maybe it's time for Nonni's Biscotti Paradiso and something wet.

During the seafood platter meal at a small friendly pub in Sneem, served by an elderly waiter who claimed during his discussion of the choices on the menu to be an Austrian prince, April, picking a piece of prawn shell from her teeth and remembering the tattered garden she had seen as they had walked from where they had parked the car thought idly that a great name for a pub like this at a time like this would be The Dying Zinnia, showed Johnny the gold key she had found at Blarney Castle. He studied the letters on the stem, then draining his pint of Smithwicks and leaning forward over the remnants of crab and cockles that lay between them, he said:

"Ilnacullin ...it’s a bit of a garden island ...just in Bantry Bay ... I’ll take you there tomorrow ... it’s only a half-stitch from home."

By home he meant, of course the Kenmare Bay Hotel where he was a bartender in the upstairs Peacock Bar and where April had a room off a corridor that looked almost too much like one at The Outlook ... this was creepy enough but especially so after she heard that Scott Peterson’s favorite movie was The Shining ... and then there was the large bar where the bicycle riders had met last night which reminded her of the Ballroom ... April shuddered and wondered about Ilnacullin. She was perfectly willing to go wherever Johnny suggested ... she was mildly curious what they might find out about the key and she enjoyed Johnny’s company ... though she did want to get back to Kenmare early enough to look at some more needlepoint lace.

Daphne sat quietly on the wind worn veranda that spilled out around the sprawling cottage where she had spent the last few days. She sipped slowly at the hot cup of rose petal tea that Ted had carried out for her. He had been very kind while they had been alone here ... so moose. He had left her pretty much to herself except for meals which he prepared noisily, and mostly with knives, in the large, apparently well provisioned kitchen, and served in a dining room that looked as if it had been just furnished directly from Pier 1 ... meals where Ted amused her with an endlessly soothing stream of pretty much unbelievable stories that she imagined he was making up on the moment to keep her entertained and happy ... it had worked ... or maybe it was the Estancia Pinot Grigio that had been the zing. Apparently this place on Sconticut Neck, where ever that was, functioned as a retreat of sorts that Ted visited when he felt the need. Daphne wasn’t so sure that this time the need hadn’t been more on her behalf then something of his. She was grateful for all he had done. Though Daphne had given Ted her real name when he had brought her here after the fire, she had told him nothing more about herself, about what happened at the club or anything before or since that time. Here and now was all that seemed to matter ... here and now, under Ted’s care, she was beginning to get used to the idea of having disappeared. She wondered what it would be like when Ted left for Maine tomorrow, and when the others returned ... Ted had said he expected them soon, as Nandra, and whoever else might be with him were never away for long.

Mina didn’t give a fungo about how the Bozox stacked up for the wild card in any strength of schedule analysis that some sports talk show clone on WEEI or 790 The Score might be doing ... she didn’t much care one way or the other about anything baseball other than what new patterns were being cut in the fields and maybe what Rich Thompson was doing. What she did care about was gearing up for the next NBA season and the fantasy league competition she intended to win. As warmup she was studying Celtics Rant, as well as HoopsHype Rumors, and of course on top of this she was continuing to track Kobe’s situation.

At Sachuest Point these last few days the overly eager agents and super humming crew have activated the park attack machines to do a maintenance hack of the meadows. I’m sure this is a well planned and ecologically important project but it’s noisy and ugly ... though the same could be said for the many joggers that have been crowding the trails recently.

Saw a first Monarch the last week of July and though I’ve seen several Eastern Tiger Swallowtails at the north end of the island, I’ve seen none at the Point where now in early August the green, where it hasn't been hewn, is markedly aged and decayed. The spiny Thistle, now everywhere in dozens of soft explosive finales of seed in these surprisingly cool and not so dog days, has made the best transition and puts me in the mood for raw honey.

Lorraine, a serious Yankee fan forever, was sitting at her desk, sipping a diet Pepsi Vanilla and trawling the web for stories to send Bozox fans in the office when she accidentally discovered the Doe Network. The Network was "a volunteer organization devoted to assisting Law Enforcement in solving cold cases concerning unexplained disappearances and unidentified victims from North America, Australia and Europe". Lorraine thought about Daphne having gone missing, wondered what had happened then decided she couldn’t deal with it and went back to looking for stories about Nomar.

Evan licked the last of his chocolate croissant from his fingers, put down his coffee, and walked down the steps to sit next to his Ambridge Rose. Mina would like this flower. He studied this morning's new apricot colored bloom then looked up as he saw Paul walking out to leave for work.

"Good morning."

"So far ... but that might change ... I've got 52 of the most convoluted and unreadable Powerpoint slides to present this morning ... addressing such critically important things as our apparent 'low level of understanding of the lab's alignment goals' and of course pointing out 'what we need to improve'. Oh yes, I'm real excited about this."

"Sounds fun."

Paul smiled and shook his head as he jumped into his car. After Paul had driven away, Evan leaned over to smell the small rose's rich fragrance in the still morning air.

April thought the fireworks she could see through the haze over the harbor towards downtown as the midnight bus left Logan for Braintree might have been just for her ... might have been a private welcome back from Ireland ... well probably not ... she would consider herself lucky if Mina and Evan had actually driven up to get her. April had completely forgotten that Boston was hosting the Democratic National Convention ... had completely forgotten John Kerry, John Edwards ... and George Bush. She had also completely forgotten about Paul and, surprisingly, even Jasmine. April had forgotten just about everything and everyone back here while lost for the last two weeks in a fey Irish timelessness among the narrow winding every which way looking-glass roads rolling in a seemingly most meaningful way past beckoning historic ruins and around irresponsibly crazy curves of green in so many more shades than she had ever imagined towards something that was always just beyond her grasp. A pre-dawn landing at Shannon and a numb but straight forward, too tired from the flight, and to dark in the drizzle ride, to the Bansha House just 5 kilometers east of Tipperary where Laurie, her travel agent (yes, April's mother, who hated computers, had used a living breathing travel agent and not Yahoo Travel, Travelocity or especially Priceline ... because she thought Star Trek was dumb ... for setting up this trip) had booked her a room for at least the first two nights after which April had lodging coupons and a list of possibilities in the southwest. April had slept the rest of that first day until waking for an excellent but edgy meal in the awkward company of the other guests in the house, one of whom invited April to join them for a piano recital in the parlor after the wicked apple cobbler ... April declined and returned to her room for a night of strange dreams.

Early the next day while crossing the pastures at Hore Abbey, avoiding the cows and just as importantly, the cow droppings, on the short hike she had decided on as the right way to set an Irish and medieval mood before visiting the Rock of Cashel, April heard the first voices ... voices that she couldn’t understand but that were still somehow enchantingly comforting ... a sort of Enya with less syrup ... with someone like Jim Morrison muttering in the background. During the next hour within the ruined stronghold at Cashel April tried to summon the voices again but heard nothing, except maybe Jim Morrison momentarily while downstairs in the museum when she was looking at the original cross carved to commemorate a visit by St. Patrick to Cashel. That evening April did join the others for the piano recital and after returning to her room, and pushing a chair in front of her door because she hadn’t like the way the young German web designer who had been showing off her piano skills had been looking at her, April almost instantly fell into another deep dreamy sleep.

In the morning she packed, without seeing the web designer, and drove west through the Glen of Aherlow headed for Blarney where just outside the small cave under the castle, only moments after finding a small golden key-like cross in the furiously green grass that she slipped into her jeans for a closer look later, she bumped into a smiling young man coming out of the dark hole in the rock brushing his hair back out of eyes the same mad green color who, after apologizing, told her that his name was Johnny Utah ... really ... it was ... or at least he wanted April to believe that ... he certainly looked nothing like Keanu Reeves ... which was OK with April ... she might have had a weakness for good looking girls that she had been considering exploring before this trip but she certainly didn't much like pretty boys.