One night in cyber hell

I spent last night until 7:30 this morning in cyber hell. The Rose & Thorn site had to be reset and then uploaded again, except FrontPage would not play at all with the server. Uninstalled and re-installed the extensions twice, but still no soap. Now, before all the computer geeks get on me about using FP, sit down and forget it. It was the only program available on this computer and I was sort of thrust into the position of webmaster. You go with what works. I've used Page Maker and I like that, but FP is easy for anyone to learn and it streamlines a lot -- if you don't mind funny symbols in place of normal things like ampersands, carets, and quotes. It all comes out in the wash.

Anyway, I have an FTP program I got with a PDF converter to convert the 2004 Staff Issue to PDF from MS Word and decided to give it a go, especially since the FREE program I downloaded wouldn't send me the key code to unlock it. And into the Mines of Moria I went without a clue it was overrun with orcs, trolls and a Balrog. I couldn't seem to get it to work and went searching for info on how and what and where to do what I needed to do. I also figured out the problem with our Poetry and Prose Boards and the cpanel telling me there were boards still listed under names that were deleted...they were still there, nonfunctional, but there all the same. I have to call the Host again and I'm getting really tired of dealing with them. They should have gotten the problem fixed the first time I called instead of making me go thru this whole thing again.

Got the site uploaded, minus a few little things like hover buttons that appear and work with their links intact (and I just can't wait to hear from the EIC and her pet troll about that), and shut down the site and my functions as I stumbled into the bedroom, scraped off my clothes, and fell into bed only to be awakened by two phone calls, both of which I refused to get out of bed to answer. They were still waiting for me when I woke on my own at 11:30. One was a call from QWest, probably about buying some new service or product I neither need nor want, and the other was an 800 number I do not recognize. If they really want me, they can call back so I can properly ignore them while I'm awake.

I also had a lovely surprise in the wee hours of my trudge thru the bogs of cyber hell. Mike actually found a way to steal the rmoatv.com website and lock me out. I own the site and Christian of my stuff, and put one page of his lying crap up there. Talk about Christian morals, virtues, and honesty. He won't pay me what he owes for my work or the website, for which I paid two years of freight and domain name, but he'll undercut me, steal my site, and have one of his Christian buddies put up his crap. Now if that isn't an advertisement for conversion to Christianity I don't know what is. And he had the nerve to tell me that as a Christian I was bound by God not to talk about him behind his back or speak of all the things he did to me, like lying about being married, like taking every last cent of my money (always promising to pay me back) and then shoving me out the door of a train at 100 mph with a smile and a reminder about the goodness and decency and honor of Christians, like being a thieving, conniving, money hungry, materialistic, son of a biscuit eater while spouting Bible verses and chastising everyone about their lack of Christianity. Give me a big fat break.

As if the last 20 hours of my life hasn't been grueling enough, someone sends me a message about Pat Boone and his letter to Christopher Ruddy, news editor at NewsMax about CBS and then I find out the head of Alfred A. Knopf publishing is giving Slick Willy in excess of $8M to write his memoirs of his time in the White House because it's a part of history. While I was battling the Balrog in cyber hell, the world disintegrated and I've ended up in the Twilight Zone of Twighlight Zones that neither Rod Serling nor Philip K. Dick could have envisioned in their wildest manic fantasies. Hillary's piece of garbage didn't earn a tenth of the advance her publishers gave her and they knew that going in. Now her sleazy, woman chasing, lying, ignorant son of a whorehouse maven gets even more money Knopf knows his book won't make back and good writers are forced to scrape up, beg, borrow, and steal enough money to get their own books published. Yep, the world has spun off its axis and the worst lunatics are in charge of the asylum. Somebody drop an atomic bomb on the whole lot of these prevaricating, vermicious knids and let me live in a kinder, simpler, more peaceful world.

That is all!

Disperse!