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[IMPORTANT]

#51

Blog / PSA: Blocking Bots and AI Scra...

Last post by kat - November 08, 2025, 02:15:58 PM

IMPORTANT if you have trouble accessing KatsBits, visit this website and DM the IP show - https://www.whatsmyip.org - especially if you're non-USA, non-EU.

Why is this happening?
Recently had to take action against disproportionately huge bandwidth consumption, some 95% recently, originating from China or Chinese VPNs and proxies (so much, yet again, for The Great FireWall of China(TM)). The only way to mitigate this is to block China, the entire region entirely, which may inadvertently catch legitimate visitors being in the net.

In a nut shell, bots, indexers and AI 'training' scripts and tools are scraping KatsBits for content and in doing so occupying a significant amount of bandwidth and resources that could be better used on legitimate creatives accessing the site. The only way to prevent this is to completely hard block China, Chinese connections, and the region in general, which potentially also encompasses other areas that are often go-betweens for Chinese bad actors using proxies and VPNs.

Solution
If that's you, visit https://www.whatsmyip.org and DM the IP address on Discord, X (Twitter), Facebook, IG, TikTok or LinkedIn.

[Microsoft CoPilot]

#52

Blog / Re: Whistling Past The Graveya...

Last post by kat - November 07, 2025, 01:53:53 PM

Microsoft CoPilot

Why You Shouldn't Whistle Past a Graveyard

They tell this story in my town every All Hallows Eve, and they tell it with the kind of smile that means they have one foot out the door and the other on the mantel. It begins, as all good tall tales do, with an ordinary person doing something ordinary at the very wrong moment.

Old Toby Finch was the sort of man who liked to keep his pockets full of marbles and his head full of tunes. On the night in question, he had a carved pumpkin under his arm, a candle burning inside so the scary face glowed like a warning light. The mist had settled heavy down the lanes and wrapped the lamplight in scarves. The streets were quiet in that hush that has the audacity to call itself peaceful.

Toby, who believed that a tune could solve small misfortunes and at worst make them less boring, decided to whistle. It was a jaunty little thing-nothing more than two notes strung together, the kind your grandmother would scold you for because apparently it made cats suspicious. He whistled past the cemetery gate because the path home took him that way and because the chill made him a little bolder than usual.

If there is one rule older than the rocking chair on the porch, it is this: never whistle past a graveyard on All Hallows Eve when the fog is thick and the pumpkin in your hand is grinning at the moon. The rule is old because the consequences take their time and because the cemetery is a place where the world tends to rearrange itself just to be polite.

Toby had hardly put the second note into the air when the night answered back. Not from behind him, not from the shadows, but from above the gravestones came a sound that was not quite a hoot and not quite a chuckle. It was a voice that sounded like a pigeon with a really good dram of theatre in its chest. Perched on the lowest branch of a gnarled yew, a pigeon-plump, pigeonish, and wearing the confidence of someone who had read at least one book about being an owl-let out a long, solemn hoot.

"I am awake well past my bedtime," the pigeon declared, looking down at Toby as though the man were intruding on a rehearsal. "I identify as an owl tonight."
Toby nearly dropped the pumpkin. The candle inside made the carved eyes wink like old men at a dance. The pigeon-insisting on being addressed as Mr Hootworthy-folded his wings and delivered another hoot, which sounded like a coin rolling and a bell being knocked over at the same time.

This would have been the moment for Toby to retreat, but humans in tall tales are like loose buttons; they come undone at the best and worst times. Toby paused, then whistled again, trying to be brave and mostly trying to be polite. That, though, was the precise discourtesy that set the night to work.

From the cemetery wall, sitting as if she had been waiting since the Victorians were in vogue, a calico cat lifted her head. She was all mottled orange and black and looked like mischief wrapped in velvet. Her tail curled around her paws like a question mark. No ordinary cat, she fixed her bright, sensible eyes on Toby and blinked exactly once.

If cats had a calendar, the calico would have marked that eye-blink in red ink. She had been sitting on that wall for exactly as long as anyone could remember, and whenever someone tried to hurry past with a jack-o-lantern or a song on their breath, she waited. Not impatiently. Not angrily. She waited the way tide waits for the moon, inevitable and completely uninterested in what you had to say about it.

"He's not lost," she seemed to say with one steady glance, though she did not have to speak aloud for the message to land. For tall tale reasons, messages from cemetery cats tend to do their work in the bones.

Toby, who now regretted letting his brassy tune out into the night air, continued because walking backward is awkward and he liked to keep things simple. The Jack Russell at his heel, a tiny lightning bolt named Scraps, quivered with the nervous energy of a dog who had been told the roast was almost ready. Scraps was skittish, yes, prone to surprise at his own shadow, but he was not lost and he was very clear on the route home. He huffed and made tiny, determined circles around the pumpkin strings where Toby carried it, as if to affirm its existence to the world.

Up in the tree, the real owl-wise, old, and perpetually unimpressed-tutted. Not a hoot. A tut. The sound seemed to shake leaves that had never bothered the living with their opinions. "What's so special about tonight?" the owl said, which in owl means, "I have watched this round of mischief for more nights than you have teeth, and really, it is rather repetitive."

The owl had a point. Nights like this were routine for nocturnal birds: people with candles, pumpkins with smiling faces, dogs with urgent plans. The owl had seen pigeons pretending to be owls before. The calico had been known to wait. Humans unwise enough to whistle had been seen, too. The owl tutted again because tutting is what owls do when they must exercise their long, patient dignity.

Toby's tune continued down the lane like a trail of breadcrumbs for anyone with a taste for music and a fondness for dramatics. From the graves, too, there came a shuffle. Not the sort of shuffle that rattles chains or slams coffins-this was a more civilized shuffle, like someone checking their hair in a window or moving their feet because the conversation has gotten dull. Graveyard etiquette, it turns out, includes the right to be amused, especially when there are whistlers.

One by one, small gestures happened. A rose lifted its stem. A marble rolled from a child's hand, clinking against a headstone and coming to rest as if it had always belonged there. A portion of an old hat-nothing fussy-lifted on a breeze to correct itself upon a stone. The pumpkin's face seemed to grin a little wider, as if fed by attention.

"You were warned," said the calico without moving her mouth. "Some folks whistle to drown out their fear. Others whistle to make promises. Both are poor bargains near this wall."

Toby swallowed. He remembered that somewhere in his grandmother's kitchen there had been old sayings about whistling and wolves and old men who came out to gamble with their shadows. He had chosen to whistle because he had liked the sound and because he liked to believe that courage could be learned like a cough.

"Sorry," he muttered to no one in particular, to the owl that tutted, to the pigeon who insisted on a throatful of theatrics, to the calico and the Jack Russell and the many small attentions that began to gather along the path. Scraps, who never appreciated lectures, barked once as if to say, quite clearly, "We are nearly home, human, hurry up with the treats."

The mistakes of mortals are not always met with wrath in tall tales; sometimes they are met with mischief. The pumpkin's candle guttered, and in that wavering light the graveyard decided that if a human wanted to whistle, the least it could do was offer a proper accompaniment. From behind one of the larger stones, a sound sprang-soft, high, and unmistakably musical. It was a voice like wind through dry leaves and the sort of harmony that had been out of tune for a hundred years.

Toby's feet, which had been obediently walking, stopped. The tune he had been whistling tangled with this new music and, in a moment of perfect foolishness, the two made a duet. That is the trouble with melodies in graveyards: they are persuasive and opportunistic.

Out from the earth came a procession. Not frightening; not menacing; more like a marching band of people who had forgotten the proper hour for a parade and decided All Hallows Eve would do nicely. They carried lanterns that were cooled blue by the fog. They had shoes that tapped old rhythms on the ground. They smiled the way folks do at a family reunion when they are pleased but reserved.

The pigeon threw himself from his branch and landed with a theatrical bow. The calico rose and walked the length of the wall like a queen making sure everyone was in their place. The owl gave one long tut and then, because owls are above false modesty, allowed itself to be amused. Scraps darted forward with the grin of a canine who had found an unexpected festival.

Toby, who now realized his solo had turned into an invitation, did the only sensible thing left: he stopped whistling. He let the song dissolve into the fog and folded his hands around the pumpkin like a contrite child. For reasons that the old rules do not explain, silence in a graveyard is an apology that goes a long way.

The procession paused. An elderly woman with a laugh like wind chimes gave Toby a nod that meant "Lesson learned." A boy with a marble collection gave him one of his own, the marble that had rolled earlier now returned by polite hands. The pigeon, flushed with the glory of having completed his audition for nocturnal management, resumed his hoots and immediately started an argument with a bat about the best line of sonnets for moonlight.

"Whistling stirs stories," said the calico at last in a voice like warm cloth. "Some stories like to cross doors once they are woken."

Toby, chastened and wiser, tucked his pumpkin under his arm and walked home with Scraps at his heels. The procession melted back into the stones like a dream letting go of the bed. The owl resumed its dignified silence, a small smile hidden beneath feathers. The pigeon preened as if he had always been an owl and would be forevermore. The calico settled herself on the wall again and waited for the next person who thought a whistle could out-singing the night.

If you ask anyone in town why you should not whistle past the graveyard on a foggy All Hallows Eve while carrying a pumpkin with a candle, they will tell you to keep your tune to yourself and your shoes on the path. They will point out the pigeon with big ambitions, the cat that waits, the Jack Russell who is never lost, and the owl that tut-sighs at the fuss.

Mostly, though, they will smile and say the true reason is simpler: music in such a place tends to find friends you did not mean to invite. And when friends of the old, quiet sort come out to listen, it is only polite to stop whistling and listen back.

[Opera Aria]

#53

Blog / Re: Whistling Past The Graveya...

Last post by kat - November 03, 2025, 05:18:48 PM

Opera Aria

Alright, buckle up, buttercups! Aria's here to spin you a yarn, a spooky little blog post about why you really shouldn't whistle past the graveyard on All Hallows' Eve. Grab your pumpkin spice everything, and let's dive in!

Don't Whistle Past the Graveyard! (Seriously, Don't)

Okay, so you think you're tough, huh? You're strolling through the quietest part of town, on a night so foggy you can barely see your own feet. And it's All Hallows' Eve, the spookiest night of the year! You've got a carved pumpkin, a real masterpiece, with a scary face illuminated by a flickering candle. And what do you do? You start whistling. Big mistake. Huge.

Let me paint you a picture. The air is thick with mist, clinging to everything like a damp, cold blanket. The streetlights cast a sickly yellow glow, barely piercing the gloom. You, brave soul, are heading straight for the old cemetery. Now, cemeteries on any night are a bit... uneasy. But tonight? Tonight, the veil is thin, my friends. Very thin.

First off, there's the pigeon. Yes, a pigeon. But not just any pigeon. This one, for some reason, thinks it's an owl. And it's awake way past its bedtime, hooting like a rusty gate. "Hoo-hoo! Who goes there?" it screeches, making you jump out of your skin. This feathered fiend is perched on a lamppost, judging your every move.

Then, you see the calico cat. That feline is sitting on the cemetery wall, eyes glowing like tiny emeralds in the darkness. It's perfectly still, like a statue, watching... waiting. For what? Or who? You don't want to know. Trust me.

And finally, there's the Jack Russell. This little dog is skittish, darting back and forth, clearly trying to get home. He's totally not lost, he'll tell you. He just... ahem... took a wrong turn. A very wrong turn, straight towards you and your whistling.

Oh, and don't forget the owl. Perched in a gnarled old oak tree, it's "tutting" disapprovingly. "Honestly," it seems to be thinking, "what's all the fuss about? It's just a normal night!" The owl, of course, is a local, used to the goings-on. You, however, are not.

So, you, the whistler, continue your merry way. The air grows colder. The fog thickens. The pumpkin's scary face seems to leer at you. And the whistling? Well, it attracts attention. Unwanted attention.

You see, the graveyard is full of stories. Stories of those who didn't quite make it, those with unfinished business, those who just want a little... company. And your whistling? It's like ringing a dinner bell.

Suddenly, a gust of wind snuffs out your candle. Darkness descends. You hear a rustling in the bushes. A low moan echoes through the tombstones. The calico cat vanishes. The Jack Russell yelps and bolts. The pigeon... well, the pigeon probably regrets identifying as an owl.

You, my friend, are now surrounded. And the only sound is the whispering of the wind, the creaking of the old iron gates, and the sound of your own, rapidly beating heart.

So, the moral of the story? On All Hallows' Eve, in a quiet part of town, with a carved pumpkin, don't whistle past the graveyard. It's just not worth it. You might think you're brave, but trust me, the graveyard has seen braver. And they're probably still there.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go light a few candles and maybe, just maybe, stay inside tonight. Happy Halloween!

[Google AI]

#54

Blog / Whistling Past The Graveyard -...

Last post by kat - November 03, 2025, 04:48:18 PM

[image generated by https://deepdreamgenerator.com]

Is creative writing really dead in the age of AI, where stories can be generated in a few minutes from basic plot or character prompts?

The advent of AI has ushered in an age where anyone can now be an 'author' in similar fashion to cameras on phones making everyone a photographer or media personality. Ignoring for a moment the 'who-trained-the-ai' arguments, AI now means creative story telling has been personalised, made convenient and speedy - anyone is an author, and authorship is individualised; a child can as easily generate a story based on whacky thoughts as readily as an adult 'sensible' ones.

While the task of actually writing the story is out-sourced to AI, the fundamentals still rely on the would be authors imagination, besides, some might argue, AI generating content in this context is no different than handing over a treatise to a 'ghost-writer'.

And just how 'creative' are the products of AI generated stories; can they juxtapose seeming non-sequiturs together to make sense the same way a human might?

With all this in mind, the below is a quick test using different AI to generate a Halloweenish story from the following prompt;

Write a tall tale of 2000 words or less - you can go longer if space is needed - that's suitable for a General Audience, so "U" rated, about why you should not whistle past a graveyard in a quiet part of town, on a dark and foggy All Hallows Eve night, while carrying a carved pumpkin, scary face illuminated by a candle inside.

Elements for possible inclusion;
- a pigeon, awake well past its bed time, hooting because it identifies as an owl
- a calico cat sitting on the cemetery wall seemingly waiting for something, or someone
- a skittish Jack Russel just trying to get home, but totally isn't lost
- an owl sitting in a tree 'tutting' disapprovingly the goings on (it's just a normal night for it "what's so special about tonight?!").

# # #

Google AI

Old Bartholomew Flinch lived in a cottage that was practically kissing the old cemetery fence. On most nights, this was perfectly fine. Bartholomew was, after all, a jolly fellow who believed the departed were better neighbors than the gossiping greengrocers. They were quiet, they didn't borrow your wheelbarrow without asking, and they certainly didn't complain about his award-winning turnip harvest. But All Hallows' Eve was different. It was the one night the whispers of the wind weren't just the wind, and the shadows weren't just shadows. It was the one night Old Bartholomew believed you shouldn't, under any circumstances, whistle past the graveyard..

Now, Bartholomew had a grandson named Timmy who, at ten years old, believed most things his grandpa said, except for the things that seemed, well, silly. And the whistling rule, on the scariest night of the year, while holding a perfectly carved pumpkin with a flickering candle inside, was the silliest of all.

"Just to keep your courage strong, Timmy!" Old Bartholomew had insisted, as he handed over the fiery-eyed pumpkin. "But remember, that's just a distraction. The graveyard has its own rules."

Timmy, with the brave bravado only a ten-year-old could muster, decided to put his grandpa's theory to the test. He stepped out into the dark, foggy night, the glowing jack-o'-lantern casting dancing, monstrous shadows on the cobblestones. The graveyard loomed to his left, a dark, silent ocean of marble and stone.
Just then, a pigeon, perched on a weather-beaten tombstone, let out a noise. A sound that was a lot less coo and a lot more... hoot. "Hoooo-hoooo," it declared, puffing out its chest with immense pride. It had been practicing all year and felt quite confident in its new persona. It saw the real, very unamused owl in the tree above and simply gave it a look that said, We're colleagues, right?.

The real owl, an old, sensible bird with an impressive set of judgmental feathers, rolled its eyes so hard it nearly fell off its branch. Honestly, it seemed to think. What is with these city birds? It let out a loud, disapproving "Tut-tut-tut".

Next, a sleek calico cat, perched with an almost royal air atop the cemetery wall, watched Timmy's approach. The cat didn't twitch, didn't blink. It simply sat, tail curled neatly around its paws, as if it were expecting an important delivery.

Timmy, feeling a nervous flutter, decided to turn on the whistle. A cheerful, perfectly innocent tune came out, a little off-key, but still a tune. The moment the sound left his lips, everything changed. The fog seemed to thicken and writhe, as if waking up.

The calico cat's tail uncurled and began to swish, a slow, deliberate metronome counting down to... something. The owl in the tree stopped its tutting and stared, wide-eyed, its feathery disapproval giving way to genuine alarm. Even the "hooting" pigeon suddenly forgot how to "hooo" and instead let out a terrified, squawking "CAW!".

From the shadows of the graveyard, a noise emerged. Not a clanking chain or a mournful groan, but a frantic, high-pitched patter. A skittish Jack Russell terrier, who was definitely not lost but simply taking a very long, very complicated detour, shot out from behind a large crypt. It skidded to a halt, nose twitching. It looked at Timmy, at the whistling, at the graveyard, and then with a whimper, tucked its tail between its legs and bolted in the opposite direction.

Timmy stopped whistling. The patter of the dog faded, but the new sound was closer. A faint, low hum, like a bee trapped in a jar, seemed to emanate from the ground itself. The hum grew louder, more distinct, and then began to pulse in time with the candle flame inside Timmy's pumpkin. The carved face, which a moment ago had looked comically spooky, now seemed to twist and contort with a life of its own.

The calico cat finally moved. It dropped silently from the wall and began to walk, not toward Timmy, but toward a specific, ancient-looking tombstone. It stopped and sat down, looking not at the stone, but at the empty patch of fog right in front of it.

Suddenly, a wisp of vapor detached itself from the fog and began to swirl, coalescing into a vaguely human shape. It drifted toward the cat, and the cat let out a soft, pleased purr. Then another wisp appeared, and another. They all drifted toward the whistling. And toward the candle flame.

Timmy, with the wisdom that only comes from true, pants-wetting fear, knew he had made a terrible mistake. He dropped the pumpkin, and it landed with a soft thump but did not break. The candle inside flickered wildly, and the ghostly wisps began to gather around it.

That's when he heard the music. It wasn't his whistle. It was a faint, old-fashioned, reedy tune, like a long-forgotten folk song being played on a dusty gramophone. The wisps began to sway and dance to the melody, their vaporous forms becoming clearer. He could see their vague, smiling faces, their old-timey clothes.

The biggest of the wisps, a woman with a large, misty bonnet, seemed to curtsey to him. "Thank you, young man!" a voice, like rustling leaves, whispered in his ear. "We haven't had a proper dance in ages! My, you brought the party right to our doorstep!"

She pointed a gauzy finger at his discarded jack-o'-lantern. "And a lovely centerpiece, too!"

Timmy didn't stick around to chat. He bolted for his grandpa's cottage, leaving the ghostly revelers to their silent, joyous dance. He slammed the door, bolted it, and sank to the floor, gasping.

Old Bartholomew looked down at him, a twinkle in his eye. "Forgot to mention that part, didn't I?" he chuckled. "Seems you whistled up a party, Timmy. What kind of party guests were they?"

"Friendly," Timmy managed to whisper, trembling. "And... old-fashioned."

"Ah, the graveyard gala," Bartholomew said, nodding sagely. "They appreciate good music. But once the party starts, they don't want it to end."

That night, Timmy and his grandpa watched from the window. The graveyard was no longer dark and foggy. It was filled with a soft, ethereal light, the wisps of the departed dancing merrily around the single, flickering flame of the jack-o'-lantern. The calico cat sat serenely at the edge of the dancing circle, purring. And the judgmental owl just shook its head in silent, feathery exasperation. The hooting pigeon, however, had found a new, livelier crowd and was trying to teach a ghostly lady with a parasol how to do the "hoooo".

Timmy never whistled past the graveyard again on All Hallows' Eve. Not because he was scared of ghosts, but because he knew, deep in his ten-year-old heart, that some parties, once started, are much harder to finish than they are to get into.

#55

News / No Skeleton Minecraft Characte...

Last post by kat - November 03, 2025, 03:43:34 PM

"No Skeleton Minecraft Character Animation in Blender (Vertical)" https://www.katsbits.com/codex/no-skeleton-minecraft-blender/ taking a look at animating a Minecraft character without an Armature in Blender (source available)...

#56

Blog / Re: SCAM WARNING - eBusiness N...

Last post by kat - October 22, 2025, 05:52:42 PM

EU Trade Register
register@cvy.info

#57

Blog / Re: SCAM WARNING - eBusiness N...

Last post by kat - October 22, 2025, 12:56:20 PM

EU Trade Register
register@ivx.info

[Minecraft worlds]

#58

FAQ on games, gaming & IT / Export Minecraft Worlds on And...

Last post by kat - October 20, 2025, 03:05:46 PM

On Android devices the ability to save Minecraft worlds (maps) might not be available from within the game, the an option to Export isn't shown when looking at a given world (just Duplicate or Delete). To solve this, Minecraft worlds created on mobile (Android) devices, need to be accessed directly through Androids system, or other, File app to browse to the location worlds are saved by default. Typically this is;

Internal storage > games > com.mojang > minecraftWorlds

However, depending on the device setup, whether it uses additional storage via an SD card and how that is itself set up, i.e. Minecraft is installed to the card rather than device internal storage), that location might not exist or cannot be accessed. If so, check to see if the Minecraft 'world' can be found in the following location;

Internal storage > Android > data > com.mojang.minecraftpe > files > games > com.mojang > mincraftWorld

Here, worlds will listed as uniquely named folders that can be saved clicking the 3 'burger' menu dots to the right of each instance and selecting an appropriate option, typically Copy to or Quick Share; selecting Copy to files can be sent to others via app sharing, Discord, Whatsapp etc. - note that as Minecraft worlds are basically stored in folders they may need to be 'archived' before sending else the folders contents will be sent as individual files.

If this doesn't work either, in the File app use the search feature to find references to "mojang" and investigate within for further references for "data" or "game" locations where world data should be saved.

#59

News / IMVU Toolkit - Custom Poses & ...

Last post by kat - October 19, 2025, 03:28:08 PM

"Toolkit - Custom Poses & Alternative Room Setup" https://www.katsbits.com/codex/toolkit-alternative-room-setup/ an alternative way to set up furniture rooms to use custom seat nodes (for custom poses) in Blender using the IMVU Toolkit.

#60

Blog / Re: SCAM WARNING - eBusiness N...

Last post by kat - October 15, 2025, 06:57:59 PM

EU Trade Register
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