Techie Question

I can't answer your question, but I can tell you that when I was a wee lad of eight years and stunted for my age I used to change the bobbins down at the linen mill. Watching the shuttle as it passed back and forth on the loom at lightning speed I often used to fall down frothing at the mouth and regress into past lives. It turns out I was once a sort of Assyrian podiatrist. At least I used to muck about with other people's feet more than could be expected of any normal Assyrian. You wouldn't believe the scars a toenail can leave on your face.

Does that help at all?

What the hell's a "refresh rate"? How often you need another drink? Hell! Who can count that!

Anyway, now that Aimless ignored your smarty, smarty jargon and cut to the chase...

I, Zen Clown, was once an Indian. I was a part of the world and not opposed to it. I lived a simple life. Then came the White Man.

I HATE WHITE MEN!! Dirty, no-good, lying, cheating, stealing, murdering, lowlife sons of bitches.

(note to self: refill meds. 'Suppressarant', 800mg)

Let us not chew on wrens, Mr. Clown. Perhaps Mr. Lynskey had something worthwhile in mind.

For example, I was down the pub two evenings ago and this eejit called himself Crispian was standing rounds. Now anyone with half a brain knows that Crispian is a name for a flowerpot, not a man, but I was in need of refreshment, I leeched on with both hands, both legs and both lips and I was glad in my heart. But, as this fellow was a good three sheets to the wind, verging on the blind staggers, he was easily persuaded to buy rounds at increasingly short intervals, him not being able to recall anything of his actions for more than two consecutive seconds.

I'd guess that me and the lads were able to get our refreshment rate up to one round every three minutes or less. I vaguely recall having a feeling that might have been the onset of occult knowledge, or it might just have been a return of the recurrent numbness in my medulla oblongata.

Anyway, this might have been what Lynskey was driving at. Or he may just have lost his keys again. Or his pants. Frankly, I don't know what he's on about. Do you?

For many years now Lynskey has been plagued by the fear that he doesn't have any deep-rooted memories. Despite having sought the advice of numerous eminent and less eminent through to the downright fraudelent psychologists, psychiatrists, gynaecologists, paediatricians, obstetricians, electricians, quacks, hoots and the entire forward line of Wakefield Trinity RLFC he has been unable to unearth the memories which he feels sure are buried deep, deep within. Lynskey is a uniquely untroubled man, and this troubles him, until he can unearth the dark past and the grasping Uncle's fingers which he feels sure are his by birthright then the clammy beckon of the accountant's abacus is surely his. He can hear the click of the metal heels on the office laminate getting closer and it chills him to his marrow.
So please, if you have any memories of race-hate or ritual abuse you'd like to donate Lynskey to stop him from being the most normal man on earth, please, please do.
If you don't, then demand that the lazy bastard has your account returns filled out in triplicate by Tuesday, either way's fine by me.

I, while Aimless is drinking with flowerpots, with Matt's most welcome assistance, will return to what I consider to be, and I'm sure history will bear me out, a very important thread. As I previously stated, I was once an Indian.............

We were sitting around, one lovely afternoon, our small encampment of six families, 22 in all, when these seven white men came riding in, shooting their guns, raising dust and generally acting like fools. They made everyone come out into the open and then they made us take our clothes off. They thought we would be embarassed. Damn fools. Then they took what they thought were the prettiest women off behind the dwellings and had their way with them. Damn fools. Well, we tracked them to their camp, waited until we were sure they were all asleep, snuck in and cut their throats. Damn fools.

Linkey, if you can use this memory, you can have it. Imagine: stuck in traffic, in Ormskirk perhaps, nothing on the radio...You could have the memory of the smell of 7 men's genitals roasting on an open fire. Indian incense.

That one's free. For a pint I'll give you one from 'way back. There was this nude beach on Mars and...

Sorry. My glass is empty.

Yeah, I remember that. Good times.

85hz only.

the brain is a funny thing to have stuck up inside your head. most people are under the impression that it *grows* inside the skull. nothing, in my experience, could be further from the real deal truth. the brain is like a hunk of wax; things get stuck to it when you leave it lying around, especially lint, coins, twigs, pasteboards, and those small bits of felt that seem to be everywhere post-war.

this is pretty much what the brain spends most of its time doing. scientists call this, often. that's their job.

what you, sir, are experiencing as race memories are really just brain-talk for the accretion of detritus encasing most active, sticky brains.

as for whether certain refresh rates can intensify this experience, i would quickly and confidently say yes, yes to you. in the same way as refresh rates are known to affect slow-bowlers by causing goiters to pulse angrily, rhythmically, so can RRs also give the brain funny ideas about where it's been. this is called, also.

these ersatz memories are actually better and more valuable, brain-wise, than the brain-records of things actually done by *you* personally. in the first place they stick better. in the second, if they do fall off, they are more easily reattached.

if you find the experience unpleasant, a heavy waxed canvas tarp makes a fine, insulative brain-tarpulin. national health, however, supplies only delrin brain cups which, while effective, make perfect soup mugs, and are frequently stolen for that purpose.

i think i covered everything. if not, direct inject 20cc from the amber bottled marked "answers." remove sharps in the event of seizure.

Yes, yes. Everyone knows all about that.

What about those things under the bed?

don't bother them, they won't bother you.

maybe not, but the chill of their malevolence usually creeps slowly through the mattress. If that cold can get in to your bones, it might as well be the physical touch of those bony fingers

*sigh*

Is there anyone who doesn't know my ex-wife?

isn't it sufficient that she doesn't know herself???