Achilles Tang

Barracuda... show us your plans for the aluminium hood.... I was actually thinking of an DIY aluminium one too! Thanks!

Actually, my friend and I never expected to be hit so badly... it was a comfortable high... but the last jug of Long Island Tea was extra potent. Anyway... my father-in-law sold me his nokia 8850 for $100. THanks all... *hic*

Nice pix! Can I take photography lessons from you?

ARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!!! I lost my handphone last nite!!!!!!! I GOT BLOODY PISSED DRUNK! AND I DIDN'T SEE IT COMING!!! Let me see... 2 glasses of 20 year old Port, 1 whisky dry, shared 3 jugs of Long Island Tea.... My first clubbing outing of the year and I am had to lose my handphone. Anyone got a extra handphone to sell me? Nokia prefered so I can use back my old accessories. Excuse my rant.... I am so mad at myself.

Morgan, Can you PM me your hp? I lost my phone last nite.

Got this off the Net... interesting story. Would it ever happen here? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Coffee, Tea, or Should We Feel Your Pregnant Wife’s Breasts Before Throwing You in a Cell at the Airport and Then Lying About Why We Put You There? by Nicholas Monahan This morning I’ll be escorting my wife to the hospital, where the doctors will perform a caesarean section to remove our first child. She didn’t want to do it this way – neither of us did – but sometimes the Fates decide otherwise. The Fates or, in our case, government employees. On the morning of October 26th Mary and I entered Portland International Airport, en route to the Las Vegas wedding of one of my best friends. Although we live in Los Angeles, we’d been in Oregon working on a film, and up to that point had had nothing but praise to shower on the city of Portland, a refreshing change of pace from our own suffocating metropolis. At the security checkpoint I was led aside for the "inspection" that’s all the rage at airports these days. My shoes were removed. I was told to take off my sweater, then to fold over the waistband of my pants. My baseball hat, hastily jammed on my head at 5 AM, was removed and assiduously examined ("Anything could be in here, sir," I was told, after I asked what I could hide in a baseball hat. Yeah. Anything.) Soon I was standing on one foot, my arms stretched out, the other leg sticking out in front of me àla a DUI test. I began to get pissed off, as most normal people would. My anger increased when I realized that the newly knighted federal employees weren’t just examining me, but my 7½ months pregnant wife as well. I’d originally thought that I’d simply been randomly selected for the more excessive than normal search. You know, Number 50 or whatever. Apparently not though – it was both of us. These are your new threats, America: pregnant accountants and their sleepy husbands flying to weddings. After some more grumbling on my part they eventually finished with me and I went to retrieve our luggage from the x-ray machine. Upon returning I found my wife sitting in a chair, crying. Mary rarely cries, and certainly not in public. When I asked her what was the matter, she tried to quell her tears and sobbed, "I’m sorry...it’s...they touched my breasts...and..." That’s all I heard. I marched up to the woman who’d been examining her and shouted, "What did you do to her?" Later I found out that in addition to touching her swollen breasts – to protect the American citizenry – the employee had asked that she lift up her shirt. Not behind a screen, not off to the side – no, right there, directly in front of the hundred or so passengers standing in line. And for you women who’ve been pregnant and worn maternity pants, you know how ridiculous those things look. "I felt like a clown," my wife told me later. "On display for all these people, with the cotton panel on my pants and my stomach sticking out. When I sat down I just lost my composure and began to cry. That’s when you walked up." Of course when I say she "told me later," it’s because she wasn’t able to tell me at the time, because as soon as I demanded to know what the federal employee had done to make her cry, I was swarmed by Portland police officers. Instantly. Three of them, cinching my arms, locking me in handcuffs, and telling me I was under arrest. Now my wife really began to cry. As they led me away and she ran alongside, I implored her to calm down, to think of the baby, promising her that everything would turn out all right. She faded into the distance and I was shoved into an elevator, a cop holding each arm. After making me face the corner, the head honcho told that I was under arrest and that I wouldn’t be flying that day – that I was in fact a "menace." It took me a while to regain my composure. I felt like I was one of those guys in The Gulag Archipelago who, because the proceedings all seem so unreal, doesn’t fully realize that he is in fact being arrested in a public place in front of crowds of people for...for what? I didn’t know what the crime was. Didn’t matter. Once upstairs, the officers made me remove my shoes and my hat and tossed me into a cell. Yes, your airports have prison cells, just like your amusement parks, train stations, universities, and national forests. Let freedom reign. After a short time I received a visit from the arresting officer. "Mr. Monahan," he started, "Are you on drugs?" Was this even real? "No, I’m not on drugs." "Should you be?" "What do you mean?" "Should you be on any type of medication?" "No." "Then why’d you react that way back there?" You see the thinking? You see what passes for reasoning among your domestic shock troops these days? Only "whackos" get angry over seeing the woman they’ve been with for ten years in tears because someone has touched her breasts. That kind of reaction – love, protection – it’s mind-boggling! "Mr. Monahan, are you on drugs?" His snide words rang inside my head. This is my wife, finally pregnant with our first child after months of failed attempts, after the depressing shock of the miscarriage last year, my wife who’d been walking on a cloud over having the opportunity to be a mother...and my anger is simply unfathomable to the guy standing in front of me, the guy who earns a living thanks to my taxes, the guy whose family I feed through my labor. What I did wasn’t normal. No, I reacted like a drug addict would’ve. I was so disgusted I felt like vomiting. But that was just the beginning. An hour later, after I’d been gallantly assured by the officer that I wouldn’t be attending my friend’s wedding that day, I heard Mary’s voice outside my cell. The officer was speaking loudly, letting her know that he was planning on doing me a favor... which everyone knows is never a real favor. He wasn’t going to come over and help me work on my car or move some furniture. No, his "favor" was this: He’d decided not to charge me with a felony. Think about that for a second. Rapes, car-jackings, murders, arsons – those are felonies. So is yelling in an airport now, apparently. I hadn’t realized, though I should have. Luckily, I was getting a favor, though. I was merely going to be slapped with a misdemeanor. "Here’s your court date," he said as I was released from my cell. In addition, I was banned from Portland International for 90 days, and just in case I was thinking of coming over and hanging out around its perimeter, the officer gave me a map with the boundaries highlighted, sternly warning me against trespassing. Then he and a second officer escorted us off the grounds. Mary and I hurriedly drove two and a half hours in the rain to Seattle, where we eventually caught a flight to Vegas. But the officer was true to his word – we missed my friend’s wedding. The fact that he’d been in my own wedding party, the fact that a once in a lifetime event was stolen from us – well, who cares, right? Upon our return to Portland (I’d had to fly into Seattle and drive back down), we immediately began contacting attorneys. We aren’t litigious people – we wanted no money. I’m not even sure what we fully wanted. An apology? A reprimand? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter though, because we couldn’t afford a lawyer, it turned out. $4,000 was the average figure bandied about as a retaining fee. Sorry, but I’ve got a new baby on the way. So we called the ACLU, figuring they existed for just such incidents as these. And they do apparently...but only if we were minorities. That’s what they told us. In the meantime, I’d appealed my suspension from PDX. A week or so later I got a response from the Director of Aviation. After telling me how, in the aftermath of 9/11, most passengers not only accept additional airport screening but welcome it, he cut to the chase: "After a review of the police report and my discussions with police staff, as well as a review of the TSA’s report on this incident, I concur with the officer’s decision to take you into custody and to issue a citation to you for disorderly conduct. That being said, because I also understand that you were upset and acted on your emotions, I am willing to lift the Airport Exclusion Order...." Attached to this letter was the report the officer had filled out. I’d like to say I couldn’t believe it, but in a way, I could. It’s seemingly becoming the norm in America – lies and deliberate distortions on the part of those in power, no matter how much or how little power they actually wield. The gist of his report was this: From the get go I wasn’t following the screener’s directions. I was "squinting my eyes" and talking to my wife in a "low, forced voice" while "excitedly swinging my arms." Twice I began to walk away from the screener, inhaling and exhaling forcefully. When I’d completed the physical exam, I walked to the luggage screening area, where a second screener took a pair of scissors from my suitcase. At this point I yelled, "What the %*&$% is going on? This is &*#&$%!" The officer, who’d already been called over by one of the screeners, became afraid for the TSA staff and the many travelers. He required the assistance of a second officer as he "struggled" to get me into handcuffs, then for "cover" called over a third as well. It was only at this point that my wife began to cry hysterically. There was nothing poetic in my reaction to the arrest report. I didn’t crumple it in my fist and swear that justice would be served, promising to sacrifice my resources and time to see that it would. I simply stared. Clearly the officer didn’t have the guts to write down what had really happened. It might not look too good to see that stuff about the pregnant woman in tears because she’d been humiliated. Instead this was the official scenario being presented for the permanent record. It doesn’t even matter that it’s the most implausible sounding situation you can think of. "Hey, what the...godammit, they’re taking our scissors, honey!" Why didn’t he write in anything about a monkey wearing a fez? True, the TSA staff had expropriated a pair of scissors from our toiletries kit – the story wasn’t entirely made up. Except that I’d been locked in airport jail at the time. I didn’t know anything about any scissors until Mary told me on our drive up to Seattle. They’d questioned her about them while I was in the bowels of the airport sitting in my cell. So I wrote back, indignation and disgust flooding my brain. "[W]hile I’m not sure, I’d guess that the entire incident is captured on video. Memory is imperfect on everyone’s part, but the footage won’t lie. I realize it might be procedurally difficult for you to view this, but if you could, I’d appreciate it. There’s no willful disregard of screening directions. No explosion over the discovery of a pair of scissors in a suitcase. No struggle to put handcuffs on. There’s a tired man, early in the morning, unhappily going through a rigorous procedure and then reacting to the tears of his pregnant wife." Eventually we heard back from a different person, the guy in charge of the TSA airport screeners. One of his employees had made the damning statement about me exploding over her scissor discovery, and the officer had deftly incorporated that statement into his report. We asked the guy if he could find out why she’d said this – couldn’t she possibly be mistaken? "Oh, can’t do that, my hands are tied. It’s kind of like leading a witness – I could get in trouble, heh heh." Then what about the videotape? Why not watch that? That would exonerate me. "Oh, we destroy all video after three days." Sure you do. A few days later we heard from him again. He just wanted to inform us that he’d received corroboration of the officer’s report from the officer’s superior, a name we didn’t recognize. "But...he wasn’t even there," my wife said. "Yeah, well, uh, he’s corroborated it though." That’s how it works. "Oh, and we did look at the videotape. Inconclusive." But I thought it was destroyed? On and on it went. Due to the tenacity of my wife in making phone calls and speaking with relevant persons, the "crime" was eventually lowered to a mere citation. Only she could have done that. I would’ve simply accepted what was being thrown at me, trumped up charges and all, simply because I’m wholly inadequate at performing the kowtow. There’s no way I could have contacted all the people Mary did and somehow pretend to be contrite. Besides, I speak in a low, forced voice, which doesn’t elicit sympathy. Just police suspicion. Weeks later at the courthouse I listened to a young DA awkwardly read the charges against me – "Mr. Monahan...umm...shouted obscenities at the airport staff...umm... umm...oh, they took some scissors from his suitcase and he became...umm...abusive at this point." If I was reading about it in Kafka I might have found something vaguely amusing in all of it. But I wasn’t. I was there. Living it. I entered a plea of nolo contendere, explaining to the judge that if I’d been a resident of Oregon, I would have definitely pled "Not Guilty." However, when that happens, your case automatically goes to a jury trial, and since I lived a thousand miles away, and was slated to return home in seven days, with a newborn due in a matter of weeks...you get the picture. "No Contest" it was. Judgment: $250 fine. Did I feel happy? Only $250, right? No, I wasn’t happy. I don’t care if it’s twelve cents, that’s money pulled right out of my baby’s mouth and fed to a disgusting legal system that will use it to propagate more incidents like this. But at the very least it was over, right? Wrong. When we returned to Los Angeles there was an envelope waiting for me from the court. Inside wasn’t a receipt for the money we’d paid. No, it was a letter telling me that what I actually owed was $309 – state assessed court costs, you know. Wouldn’t you think your taxes pay for that – the state putting you on trial? No, taxes are used to hire more cops like the officer, because with our rising criminal population – people like me – hey, your average citizen demands more and more "security." Finally I reach the piece de resistance. The week before we’d gone to the airport my wife had had her regular pre-natal checkup. The child had settled into the proper head down position for birth, continuing the remarkable pregnancy she’d been having. We returned to Portland on Sunday. On Mary’s Monday appointment she was suddenly told, "Looks like your baby’s gone breech." When she later spoke with her midwives in Los Angeles, they wanted to know if she’d experienced any type of trauma recently, as this often makes a child flip. "As a matter of fact..." she began, recounting the story, explaining how the child inside of her was going absolutely crazy when she was crying as the police were leading me away through the crowd. My wife had been planning a natural childbirth. She’d read dozens of books, meticulously researched everything, and had finally decided that this was the way for her. No drugs, no numbing of sensations – just that ultimate combination of brute pain and sheer joy that belongs exclusively to mothers. But my wife is also a first-time mother, so she has what is called an "untested" pelvis. Essentially this means that a breech birth is too dangerous to attempt, for both mother and child. Therefore, she’s now relegated to a c-section – hospital stay, epidural, catheter, fetal monitoring, stitches – everything she didn’t want. Her natural birth has become a surgery. We’ve tried everything to turn that baby. Acupuncture, chiropractic techniques, underwater handstands, elephant walking, moxibustion, bending backwards over pillows, herbs, external manipulation – all to no avail. When I walked into the living room the other night and saw her plaintively cooing with a flashlight turned onto her stomach, yet another suggested technique, my heart almost broke. It’s breaking now as I write these words. I can never prove that my child went breech because of what happened to us at the airport. But I’ll always believe it. Wrongly or rightly, I’ll forever think of how this man, the personification of this system, has affected the lives of my family and me. When my wife is sliced open, I’ll be thinking of him. When they remove her uterus from her abdomen and lay it on her stomach, I’ll be thinking of him. When I visit her and my child in the hospital instead of having them with me here in our home, I’ll be thinking of him. When I assist her to the bathroom while the incision heals internally, I’ll be thinking of him. There are plenty of stories like this these days. I don’t know how many I’ve read where the writer describes some breach of civil liberties by employees of the state, then wraps it all up with a dire warning about what we as a nation are becoming, and how if we don’t put an end to it now, then we’re in for heaps of trouble. Well you know what? Nothing’s going to stop the inevitable. There’s no policy change that’s going to save us. There’s no election that’s going to put a halt to the onslaught of tyranny. It’s here already – this country has changed for the worse and will continue to change for the worse. There is now a division between the citizenry and the state. When that state is used as a tool against me, there is no longer any reason why I should owe any allegiance to that state. And that’s the first thing that child of ours is going to learn. December 21, 2002 Nick Monahan works in the film industry. He writes out of Los Angeles where he lives with his wife and as of December 18th, his beautiful new son. Copyright © 2002 LewRockwell.com

Ahh yes... I extracted a statement from your attached article to support my POV. "Zooxanthellae receive a constant supply of CO2 as a result of the coral's respiration, and in turn the coral receives O2 (for respiration) from the byproduct of photosynthesis performed by zooxanthellae". So O2 (oxygen) is taken up by coral tissues and is not wasted. Nor is it expelled as bubbles.

All living things needs oxygen to survive, coral hosts included. The question was related to bubbles... so perhaps I need to elaborate whether it is expelled as oxygen bubbles from coral tissue. The zooxanthellae in coral hosts is very much like algae... photosynthesis is very much the same here too... turn light energy into usable energy eg. nutrients produced as a result of photosynthesis, which is used up by the coral tissue. Oxygen is a byproduct which is also taken up by the coral tissue. Excessive oxygen output is prevented/released, but not as bubbles.... but by cutting the source itself eg. the zooxanthellia! The zooxanthellia may be overgrown till oxygen is overproduced and that could be toxic to the coral hosts, the coral hosts ejects some zooxanthellia to prevent this from happening...

I doubt so... the zooxanthellae (symbiotic algae) in corals during photosynthesis do not release oxygen bubbles back into the water. It is taken up completely by the coral tissues. Sometimes, you will see corals spitting out long stringy brown strands of zooxanthellae, that occurs from time to time when they have an oversupply of oxygen built-up inside(which could ironically cause oxygen poisoning). Don't be alarmed by this. (on a side note... some tangs, esp. PT's are known to disturb some corals to provoke a release of zoozanthellae which they promptly eat!!! I have seen this happening in my tank!). You heard of coral bleaching... when all the zooxanthellae is expelled... the coral tissues become see-through... almost white. Corals bleach in response to prolonged temperature change, mostly in the range of 32 degrees C, and also to excessive UV exposure. Perhaps, the microalgae around your mushroom released oxygen bubbles and it got stuck on the mushroom?

In case, you guys don't know, Robe is a Filipino... our pinoy bro! It must have been terrifying to be hit by such strong winds... I remember once in Singapore, when we had a freak wind storm, if I remember correctly, was in the 80s, the wind was strong enough to slam my home windows with enough force to shatter glass and our HDB flat seem to sway. That was freaky man... Ahh... momma nature can wipe out in a instant what we take years to build.

Strontium, You misunderstood. What I mean is that this particular forum (intro yourselves) is meant for talking about ourselves only. You posted a question about recommending a tank setup here, when it should be in the "new to the hobby" forum! Errr.. thanks for your compliments... but this hobby, you can never stop learning, and experience comes with lots of $$ & time spent. It helps when you have passion to do the best you can. Nope... I am not a dive instructor (yet). I am still wet behind the ears... only advanced diver... and have yet to clock many many dives and in different diving conditions and locations to be considered a competent diver yet. Morgan is very much more experienced. If you are keen to learn how to dive... get in touch with him. He's part of a dive club. I enjoy being creative too... and it helps when you constantly challenged by your limitations. Anyway, welcome to SRC!!!

Tanzy, That is so not farnie. Actually, it is... !!!! I have not been exposed to so much saltwater before.... errr... wait... actually I do... let me see.... I dive, I fish, I was in the Navy, I keep a marine tank, I flooded my house a few times, I swam in my tank before... yeah... I am 'damp' experienced.... wahahahaha!! Gee... is that a way to install a spell checker in this forum? I guess it wouldn't work too well... I have seen slump when it should be sump, damp when it should be damn...etc etc... LOL! Sorry guys... it's just that I write for a living (amongst other things)... and I tend to proof-read everything. AT

Just to add that many nudibranchs (did you know that the proper pronunciation is Noo-dee-brunk?) are poisonous as a result of them ingesting some poisonous sponges, coral polyps etc? You see those spikes on their back? Some of the ingested 'stinging coral harpoons' are recycled and moved to their backs as a form of protection. So any fish that takes a bite from them will get a mouth full of poison! Some produce copious amounts of slime when handled (sea lettuce). If you get a sea lettuce slug or a nudibranch like that seen in my video... they are primarily algae eaters... could be good. Some are known to eat flatworms (sp. berghia). But in general... avoid nudibranchs.

Limpc, If this happened after you upgraded your lights or perhaps your water has become clearer (like after using ozone or uv), the increased amount of light hitting LR or even sand could trigger increased photosynthesis from microalgae on them (under them). Those are oxygen bubbles! Chris, Your mushroom just farted. coming out from where?

Interesting! Well done! Perhaps a few more shots (side, under, top) so I can see what you've done to my ex-DIY PL pendant?

Fairy wrasses are the only wrasses that remain small... and reef-safe. They do not eat cleaner shrimps, preferring small meaty foods. They have very small mouths. I love the other species of wrasses but hate their behaviour ie. eat shrimps, peck corals and clams, chase other fishes... It took me a newbie year to learn about fairy wrasses... and ever since.. I have fallen in love with them... beautiful, small, inquisitive, sometimes shy...! They get along fine with other fishes, including anthias.

Ok just took some quick pix of my flasher wrasse... apologies for the grainy pix, this little bugger was extremely quick and never stood still for a sec. Also coz my tank is kinda deep and I couldn't do quick macros... I had to enlarge the pix so it became even grainier... <_<

The conscientious marine aquarist by Fenner.

I won't show you the nipple, but here's a person who would: This thread is rather interesting because we can the opinionated americans utilizing their god-given right to shoot their mouths off at each other without regard... heh! That aside... you will learn a lot of stuff and see some comparison pix (after the initial cockfight)... here

Here's an link to an excellent article on brine shrimp. raising brine shrimp and more about them I used to have a post on my brine shrimp hatchery but it's lost now.. I will restore it soon.

Actually, the colouration of my tricolour's not very good... take a look at this pix: The marine centre Check out the fairy wrasse page and their rare fishes section.... better still... check out the prices!!! We are very lucky compared to the US (some aspects).

Thanks Robe...! Phang and I are collecting orders for the 400watt radiums... hopefully they can bring in.. if not... we will order from overseas.

Nipples should always point up I remember reading somewhere about letting the gases expanding inside bulb needing to go somewhere, and they go into the nipple. Also nipple pointing down does cast a little small shadow. Happy nippling! AT

Out of topic... so I won't answer here.

I love fairy wrasses! I have the same two flasher fairy wrasses (Paracheilinus filamentosus), I believe they are almost super-males as their colouration is brilliant. They seem to get along fine with each other. No pix yet. They won't fight with royal grammas... I have one and usually RGs are hiders. They do bicker with my two other fairy wrasse species... Flameback Fairy Wrasse, Cirrhilabrus lubbocki I also have one Tricolor Fairy Wrasse (Cirrhilabrus solorensis) I dun have a pix of it yet.