#IWSG APRIL 2020 CHECK IN – LOST IN TRANSLATION

Several years ago, when I was homeless in Tampa, I mentioned in a post that things got lost in translation. Sadly, I cannot find that post and it was probably horrible. My brain has not unscrambled itself one whit and I still occasionally get things wrong. Hell, more than occasionally; more like three or four times a day. It's been this way since I was young, from an ER nurse asking me if I had a “religious preference” and me hearing, did I have a “relative present” and pointing to my then-husband. They both looked confused.

This current story isn't really about that, but more about how we can just turn a sentence into a form of Mad Libs when one person, probably out of frustration, or just to add to the pile of nonsense comes up with something truly silly. This happened recently in an MMORPG that I've been playing for the last fourteen years. This in and of itself is a tale, since most MMORPGs don't last this long, with the exception of Maple Story, WOW and a few others. We also have a clan that is fifteen years old, with the SAME people in it that founded the thing, for the most part. That in itself is a tale. At fourteen years in, I'm a johnny-come-lately. But, I digress.

These are one of the Elite Dungeons where I practice my craft. I earn lots of money doing this. Like most MMORPGs, Runescape3 is grindy, but the community is awesome. My co-Leader, SpZ Wolf, started in the Clan, the same day I did and we're partners in crime. 

For those readers who haven't put up with my ravings, I should explain that at best, I feel like I have a tenuous grasp of reality at the best of times. I'm perpetually in a state of out-of-itness and even when I think I just get a hold of whatever the current train of the state of affairs may be, it slips away from me. It's been like this all of my life and I'm not sure if it's due to what they used to call Asperger and now call something else, but was called “doesn't play well with others” when I was growing up and is truly apt in my case, or if I'm just dim. That being said, I've soldiered on, having some fairly successful careers in both music and in computers, so there's that. I still can't tell with all the lying going on in the media and up and down the political spectrum these days. Again, I digress, and I want to keep this light.

This is another dungeon, of Ascension Members. They are taken down with crossbows, which I double-wield. Every foe has a different strength and handicap. The depth and breadth of the game has grown over the years. We just added a new skill, Archaeology, so we're all starting from scratch on that and it's fun. 

At any rate, the MMORPG that I have played for what seems like eons is called “Runescape” and many of my clan mates have played as long as I have or longer. We've all been together for the fourteen to fifteen year range and have a solid cadre of about fifty people, although our site lists us with 163 members. The game itself lists over 250,000,000 accounts and I am ranked in the top 100,000, with my Slaying skill being at number 8,281 out of that 250,000,000, as I'm trying to get 200 million xp total. The skill is fun. The game itself is about 80% combat, with about 20% for skilling and questing. The skills are also tied into combat; you need to be able to mine and smith the best of ores to make combat armor that is durable enough for you to fight high-level bosses.

It's pretty much like any other grind-and-reward game. What makes it are the people and the community involvement and they're a hoot. People from around the world play the game, and we have them in my clan. We also have perma-guests in our clan chat.

One of them is a published author, from Barbados, unlike me, who just seems to dabble in writing and never finishes editing anything, although I have scads of ideas that sound great and then I see a shiny, or a symphony starts a season and I MUST go play. LintsJenesis is his game name and we were in our usual pattern of throwing badinage, banter and jesting back and forth, while skilling after a ddos had hit our login servers last week, and had kept us off of the game. For those who haven't experienced a “ddos” or a dedicated-denial-of-service attack on a login server, it's basically two asshats on two PCs who use scripted commands or macros to continually request logins directed at certain targets. Jagex and their servers have been targeted for ages and they are usually the precursor to attacks that then cascade west-ward, as the traffic backs up (Jagex servers are in the U.K. For the most part). The most spectacular of these brought down a good portion of the eastern U. S. banking; ATM's and gas stations were particularly hard-hit back in 2016 or so.

The rise of the pandemic has also seen the rise of the ddos-bots, and the bad old days are here once again. As usual, I digress.

As Lints and I were bantering about this, I mentioned that I got some laundry done and mopped some floors, because, “the floors wouldn't mop themselves” and the “clothes wouldn't launder themselves”. I must've been babbling, as per usual, and after several iterations of different ways the floors and clothing would get clean, Lints comes back with this gem:

I'm sure Lints had heard enough of my yammering when he came up with this gem.

I died laughing. Said I was going to use this and would give him credit. I also plan on featuring his books on my blog and doing a tour for him. He's an outstanding person and a good friend. I meet some of the best people online! Hope your #IWSG is fantastic! I also hope you all are enjoying #a-to-z-challenge! See you there soon!

#IWSG FEBRUARY 2017 CHECK IN - NEW RULES FOR WRITING? WHAT HAVE I MISSED?

Upon returning from Japan, I find myself coming in on the middle of a really good movie and having no earthly clue as to what the plot is about. To say that crossing the International Date Line and living on an island Nation, touring, seeing practically the entire country from a bus, train, or airplane and rehearsing with four different singers and playing five different programs, all while schlepping "Wolf" (my viola), 50 pounds of luggage, a growing collection of plastic bags, souvenirs and cloth bags, losing mittens, gloves and slipping and falling on ice and dance floors, not to mention down stairs and escalators - a sad trail of bags, luggage, upside-down Wolf (in his case), flowing majestically down the escalator, as I did my best "Mr. Bean" impression to keep from connecting my noggin with the well-placed metal object, that was suitably just-my-height, left me more than a bit tuckered out upon returning to the United States, but resulted in a nice, days'-long nap. 

If nothing else, I got into terrific physical and playing shape! We had a terrific time and I made new friends, as well, as catching up with old ones. Being out of the circuit for a while has been weird, and it feels good to be back. I will have much, much more to write about in the days to come. I really didn't have time to do any serious writing at all on this tour; there just wasn't time, but I did jot down some ideas for later work. I leave you with this iconic picture of Mt. Fuji, taken from early on in the tour. Such a beauty and a harbinger of what was to come; Sapporo and 305 miles as the crow flies from Siberia and we felt every negative degree of it! It was exhilarating and fun and I don't want to do it again for another 2 years! Happy #IWSG'ing!

#A-TO-Z CHALLENGE – LETTER “D” - DAWGS

Letter “D” is for the dawgs or dogs of the 'hood and just about everyone has one. Except for me. I have a cat and she is probably the mother cat of all the other cats around here, because she has very distinctive markings and all of the cats around here look like her. The cats live the life of Riley, lolling about in the streets and just daring someone to hit them. No one ever does; the cars slow to a stop, and beep politely and the cats languidly get up, stretch and saunter off to their yards.

My cat is pretty old and has the “little old cat” thing going on. When you pet her, it's like petting a picked-over turkey carcass with fur, but she's in good health and she spends her days glued squarely on some part of my body. She teases the little pit-bull puppy next door, and I scold her for it, which affects her not one whit.

Oso ("Oso" means "Bear" in Spanish) wishing I'd make Mama play with him... yeah, that's happening.

Most of the “dawgs” around here are pit-bulls and every one of them that I have ever dealt with has been a wonderful dog. I had one pop up out of nowhere and crawl into my lap, when I lived in the homeless shelter. He just wanted petting and love. He sat with me for several hours, until his frantic owner found him.

No dog-fighting is going on around here. People's animals are treated like their children. The funny thing is, if someone doesn't have a pit-bull, they have little, yappy dogs and there are several on this block. They also try to play with Mama, and she gives them a cat “F you” as well. As sweet as she is with me, she will sit just out of a dog's reach and just lay there, like she's the Queen Bee. I'm always apologizing for her. Oso, the pit-bull puppy next door, is really a good dog. Smart as a whip, and for a puppy, he's not hyper. He is intent however, on digging up the front yard, but he doesn't chew up shoes, or people, so, that's a plus.

Mama, thinking, "Goldurnit! These naps take a lot out of me! Quit waking me up!

Of course, an upside to having these loyal animals is they are good watch-dogs. Mama didn't exactly warn me when the two guys got in my house. When she first adopted me, she was extremely skittish of any type of noise. Now, that she's more secure, she just takes it all in stride. Plus, I think she darted out of her special kitty-door that she made, when these two guys got in the house. I'm not exactly equipped to keep a dog, nor can I really afford one, although I'd love to have one and keep up with the Joneses. Anyway, this is just a quick post. I'm also co-hosting #IWSG for Alex Cavanaugh this month! Happy *#IWSG'ing and #A-to-Z'ing!

*There is a separate page for the #IWSG post HERE: #IWSG CHECK-IN FOR APRIL 2016

#ROW80 2ND QTR POST – RUMINATIONS ON EDITING, A WILD TRIP TO THE FAMILY DOLLAR STORE, BOXING MANIA, AND COMPUTER VIRUSES FROM HELL

Being the lazy thing that I've become, I find it easier to just mash everything into a giant, 40-page post, to test the patience of my readership, heh. Just kidding. I got caught up in a clinical research study, now that my health is good enough to allow such a thing and my doctor is not the sort to have kittens over any participation. “Go forth and teach” is her motto and this will be fun, if any of these things can be said to be “fun”. It's for COPD and mine has improved on the one drug they are testing; adding a second, sort of as a “bumper” so I have a new batch of doctors to drive crazy. All those years spent working in a teaching hospital may not have made me a doctor, but it sure as hell didn't make me a better patient, in any regard. The doctors I have now have survived the cut; the rest lay bleeding by some proverbial clinical roadside, licking their wounds and vowing to choose their words more carefully, the next time they run into someone who sports an I. Q. over 75.

 

The atmosphere in the teaching hospital I worked in tended to be much like the one portrayed in the show "Scrubs" but with many, many more people, and many, many more personality disorders, including my own. Still, it was a fun place to work, or spend some time, pretending to work, while I asked endless questions of the teaching doctors, who were all too happy to answer. The term "docere" is Latin for "doctor" and means "to teach". An apt expression, indeed.

This may look like  a prison, but it is the old University of Michigan Teaching Hospital where I pretended to work for several years. The thing was built piece-meal, and when you went in the front entrance and through the little gerbil-tube (because, Michigan) you entered on the 4th floor of the main hospital. Down on the 2nd floor and around the back, were the morgue and the rooms where the 1st-year students learned the fine art of dissection, by one section of Medical Records; Archives. I worked on the 4th floor, next to the E.R. and Head Trauma Units, in the current Medical Records Unit. I saw some hair-raising stuff in my days there, but I've never been bothered by blood and guts, What gives me the heebie-jeebies is cleaning out the fridge.

So, I missed last week's #IWSG check in, for the umpteenth time; pasting it on my forehead doesn't work; I don't look in the mirror that much. Telling JC to remind me is fine, but then he forgets, or he tells Alex, who forgets to tell him, to tell me and so it goes. I also missed #ROW80, due to the aforementioned Clinical Trial, but now that that is up and running, there's no excuse. Have I mentioned how much I really, really hate editing? Should Skip Bombardier have a mad crush on the heroine? Should she be completely oblivious? Should the kid-alien-musical prodigy be loveable or a true pain in the ass, like prodigies can be? Or just a regular kid? And, shouldn't they all have loveable pets? Like cats? Or should I throw some hedgehogs in there just to mix it up, and because they're the "happenin' thing" now in the U. S.? I'm not really trying to build a world, just a few locations that feel lived in. In some cases it works, in others, not at all. But, I keep plugging away. Of course the best, most lived in, most real scenes are the ones that take place within the musical world, both on stage, and off, and in the computer world, because I know those worlds. So, best to stay away from say, bullfighting, no? As my Ma would say, “Quitcher bitchin' and get to work!” Good idea!

So, this past Saturday was one of those "special" Saturdays that get celebrated in their "special" way here on Nebraska Avenue, 33602, or 33605. Why is it special? Because, it's the first Saturday after “payday” for the folks who rely on Social Security. I'm one of them, but I paid my bills and rent and all of that, bought some food and then remembered I had to go to the Family Dollar Store, not 2 blocks from me. Now, lots o' folks around here act like it's the weekend every damned day, but Saturday after “payday” is especially wild and crazy. When I lived at the homeless shelter, we could look forward to one or four good fist-fights and a stabbing. I always enjoyed the knife-fights; scheduled and non-scheduled. There's so much more at stake. So, having lived in this environment pretty much sharpens up your senses for, if not danger, at least a good hissy fit, and this is what I thought was about to happen on Saturday evening, as I stood in line to pay for my cat food and some diet soda for JC, who is getting better, but isn't ready to go skipping down to the corner, just yet.

The thing that makes me sad about this is that we worked hard to get this store put in, in this area. In less than six months, the miasma of apathy has set in; there are not enough clerks to keep the shelves stocked and tidy; merchandise is scattered all over and bags of chips and candy are ripped open and half-eaten. This store cannot keep enough clerks working because of the area it's in, and the one "District Manager" didn't know what she was doing, so the problem remained unfixed. Unlike most of the stores, the carts are not "locked" to the premises, so they're already all over the neighborhood, serving as some bag-lady's or bag-man's cart to keep her/his crap in. What will make it really untenable is if one of the clerks is hurt or killed on the job; there's no job worth that and they already take enough abuse as it is. This is the "recovery" our stupid Governor talks about; we don't have 700,000 jobs that have been created in Florida. We have 700,000 new wage-slaves. 

As I'm trying to put my stuff up on the check out counter, this guy, in dirty bermuda shorts, a crummy-looking striped shirt, unshaven, 3 teeth in front and smelling like a distillery, is trying to give the clerk who is waiting on me, a bag with. . . something in it. I can't tell, but the guy is already pissing me off; he's rude and obnoxious. The clerk tells him to hang on, while she gets the Manager, a young black fellow named James. She calls him and he says he'll be right there. Drunk guy swings her bag carousel around, and she asks him to politely not do that, as it messes up her setup. James arrives just as he does it a second time, and takes the guy aside.

I'm trying to pay for my stuff and keep one “eye” on this dude, in the sense of being hyper-aware of him. The clerk and James are the only two people working this store and this guy outweighs both of them. Just because I have a cane and limited vision, does not mean I will not step in if necessary. Six weeks ago, I stood off two muggers at the same time; when they realized I would fight and fight hard, they backed off and left; I wasn't worth the two bucks or whatever. Never, never be an easy mark. Always stare 'em down; even if you can't see 'em. I also have that “rep”, y'know? The crazy one, that makes people wonder just how far I will go in a situation. Word is, I'll go far enough to ruin your day, if not your week, month and year. So, anyway, the conversation between James and the drunk becomes heated. I had paid for my stuff and put it in my backpack.

Another black guy stepped in, but James told him to back off, and sure enough, the drunk guy then started hollering about “black on white” crime. I pulled out my phone and called 911 and reported “drunk and disorderly” at the Family Dollar, blah blah. The clerk still had customers and there was another drunk lady in the store; not of and by itself a problem, but she's egging her drunk boyfriend(?) on. The drunk guy grabbed the bag out of James' hand and takes off out of the store, with James hot after him. I left the store, in time to see the drunk charge at James, in the parking lot and take the bag back (it could have been Tootsie Rolls for all I know), so James chased him down again, and grabbed the bag. 

This time the guy ran at James and tried to hit him and I ran at him, yelling “Leave him alone! I've called the police!” He called me a whore, which, Big Whoop; if you're a woman walking on Nebraska, chances are good you're a lady of the evening, or at least will be called one. I had my stick up and ready to hit him if he struck first, but he backed off from me and went after James again. It became this weird, hellish 3-way tag, as I hit redial and told the TPD dispatch that their “drunk and disorderly” had just become an attempted robbery and attempted assault. James and I darted back and forth to keep this guy from hitting either of us, and he finally lost his adrenaline burst or his nerve and left the area. What a way to have to earn your living!

James and I made sure we were both okay and I went on my way. Drunk dude went off up another street; I'm sure he got himself into some trouble before the night was over. After I left there, I had to go another store close by to buy milk. It was Saturday night alright. Some other, happy drunk said, “Hey, miss, two dollars to be your seeing-eye thingy! Hell, you're so purty, I'll walk ya for free!” I just laughed and said, “I got it, but thanks for the kind offer!” This neighborhood is like no other. I know everyone who lives around me and we watch out for one another. Probably one-third of us on my street were in the homeless shelter, so there's a real bond there. It's a fraternity like no other.

So, after I got home and ate, we found some boxing to look at. I love me some goddamned boxing! Love, love, love, love it! JC is just as crazy over it. We happened to pick up a couple of matches that aired on ShoTime a while back, but we hadn't seen them. Just for grins, I took notes, instead of trying to Tweet, because it wasn't live and frankly, when I Tweet live matches, all the igmos crawl out of the woodwork and they infuriate me. So, these here are my notes:

courtesy: Notifight.com

This was the best picture I could find of the two; Perez on the right is "soft" looking; his muscles are not as clearly defined as Sosa's, nor is his overall condition as sharp. Where you can see Sosa's clearly defined abs, you cannot on Perez. I may be over-reaching here, but Perez also does not look confident about his up-coming match.

The first fight was in the Welterweight division, Sosa v. Perez and I can't remember their first names, nor did I write them down. These two have actually fought one another as amateurs. Color me shocked! Perez looked really soft, as if he hadn't trained. It was his first professional fight, but still, I did not see one meaningful punch thrown in the entire bout. I've never witnessed so much butt-clinching either, by Perez (or any other fighter, I honestly didn't know that was a defensive move) and it was pissing Sosa off by the end of the bout. The thing I didn't understand about that fight, was the fact that the judges actually gave some of the rounds to Perez, leading me to wonder what fight they were watching, or maybe I was listening to one fight and seeing another, but I doubt it, since they kept yapping about Perez and Sosa, and those were the names on the fighters' trunks. Awful fight.

courtesy: pound4pound.com

McJoe is a terrific counter-puncher and here we see him beat Quihano to the punch. McJoe had been working the body pretty much through the whole match which slowed Quihano down some; a must when you're fighting in a division based more on speed, than on power! A fun fight to watch, even if Dabo's trunks ended up sideways on his ass; at least I didn't have to watch 8 rounds of butt-hugging!

The next fight was in the flyweight division and it has been ages since I saw flyweights fight. The most important thing to remember about them is that everything is sped up; it's like watching two gnats or two hummingbirds throw tiny fists at one another for a few rounds. Eventually, you get used to the rhythm, but not having seen them fight for awhile, it was a bit of a shock to remember how truly fast these guys are. Another thing, there aren't a lot of knockouts in the flyweight division; they typically go the distance because they aren't known for their power so much as their speed. There are exceptions to every rule, however, and boxing LOVES, LOVES, LOVES to break those kinds of rules.

courtesy: pound4pound.com

Here, Arroyo catches Quihano with his guard down. Many boxing matches are a lesson in watching boxers practice patience, as they look for that one split-second chance to get to through their opponent's defenses. It can make for some really boring boxing, and becomes more of a chess match. Of course, everyone is hoping that the two combatants will engage in all-out war, but it doesn't always work out that way. I'd wager it takes patience, fortitude, stamina and hella smarts to become a decent boxing fan.

This fight featured David Quihano v. McJoe Arroyo; Quihano has had seven knockouts, which surprised me; this was supposed to be a kind of come-back fight for him, but the only really noteworthy thing I got of this entire fight was his trunks being on kind of sideways, so that his knick-name “DABO” was somewhere to the left of his ass-crack, or was it the right? I don't remember. I guess this is why I won't be replacing Bert Sugar anytime soon as a great boxing writer, although it is fun to write about it in this capacity. I did have to remind JC to watch the fighter's feet. Quihano was becoming flat-footed and losing energy; I knew he was tiring, long before JC did. But JC can always tell the closer bouts than I can. Anyway, Arroyo won the fight, and Quihano will have to try again.

courtesy: bbc.co.uk

Prince Naseem on an honest-to-God flying carpet, making his "ring walk" prior to his bout with Marco Antonio Barrera, Certified Public Accountant, and oh, yeah, boxer.

After the fights, I regaled JC with the story of Marco Antonio Barrerra's and Prince Naseem Hamed's fight and how hilarious the Prince was, coming into the ring on a flying carpet, all pimped out and shit. Marco Antonio Barrerra is a CPA in his day job in Mexico City and acted like one on his ring walks, as well. No high-falutin' shenanigans for him. I just remember the look on Marco Antonio's face when the Prince drifted by on his flying carpet; it was a “I can't believe this shit; and I'm in BOXING for fuck's sake!” look, and then he went on to tear the Prince apart in a fight that went to the scorecards. As a contrast and comparison of just plain hard work and non-stupid entrances, versus one of the hammiest and self-aggrandizing displays of all time, that showed us nothing, this one was a doozy. It is also a metaphor for the entire sport itself and why boxing has so endeared itself to me. 

courtesy: eastsideboxing.com

This is as fancy as it ever got with Barrera. Retired now, and probably still running the family accounting business in Mexico City. Although he's got his game face on here, he's of a sunny disposition and "just a guy". But, not really; he's a boxer.

I've been fixing computers around the neighborhood for some of my pals, and I was going to tell you about the tesch.b virus and f5f5dc.com exploit, but that got so complex, it will wait for my next post. I will just say this; if you are running Windows, Adobe Reader (any flavor) and have JAVA you are at risk, and this time, the host server is in St. Petersburg, Russia, and the virus causes your browser to inquire for open sessions repeatedly. You end up with svchost.dll32 files coming out of your ass and your computer will be unusable, because it will be so slow. It's a horrible exploit, but I'll run ya through the fix next time!

THE GREAT THEME REVEAL FOR THE A-TO-Z BLOG CHALLENGE 2014

I had to think about this whole theme thing, long and hard. You see, last year, I jumped into this challenge at the last minute, kind of like the way I jumped into NaNoWriMo in 2012. A-to-Z, 2013 turned out spectacularly for me, in that I actually finished the damned thing! I did not finish NaNoWriMo in 2012, but quit a mere 1637 words into it, because at the time I was trying to cope with severe and untreated symptoms of Parkinsonism, or essential tremor, – another movement disorder that is closely related to Parkinson's Disease – which was making my life an unmitigated hell. I was still sans treatment at the time of the A-to-Z challenge, but was undergoing testing, after finding this neat-o neurologist at the Parkinson's Center of Excellence on the campus of USF. It's been an arduous journey and is not yet done, but I'm digressing, and I want to remain on point. Suffice it to say, I am being treated and it helps; it's not a cure, but I'm feeling much better and the tremors and pain and all the other assorted psychological aspects of the disease have abated. I'm still crazier than hell, but I know what to do about it.

I finished last year, by dint of keeping my posts short and snappy and just having fun with reading others' posts and commenting. When the most awesome Damyanti announced that she was co-hosting again this year and looking for assistants, I jumped on board. Damyanti has been a magnificent presence at the A-to-Z challenge that was started by our own Arlee Bird, several years ago. As I have become a larger presence in the blogging world, I find myself becoming part of a larger community that spans the globe and that, all by itself, is pretty terrific!

It also didn't hurt that I actually finished NaNoWriMo 2013 this year and have a manuscript, albeit, an unpolished one to show for my efforts. But that's a story for another day. This is not about the other blogging communities (shout out to IWSG, ROW80 and Blog Blitz!) but our A-to-Z Challenge; 26 letters of the alphabet in 26 days! A post for each letter, every day, with the exceptions of Sundays, during the month of April.

So, without further ado, and since I am on the team that is responsible for the assistance and creation of “themes” for people who are having issues with letters (“Q”, “X”, and “Z” are the usual culprits) I will reveal my theme: HUMOR AND HUMORISTS.

Yep, it came to me yesterday, while I was sitting in the ER waiting room for about the eleventy-billionth time – please name your next wing after me, TGH – with another stupid eye problem, that HUMOR AND HUMORISTS is the perfect theme for me!

I've got to be the only person in the world (well, maybe not the only one) that is legally blind, and has Parkinsonism so severe, that at times, when I make a taco salad, it looks like a piñata exploded in the kitchen. I have no depth perception, so everything is the same size. A mouse the size of a canoe ran through my bedroom, recently, where my computers are, and I almost jumped into the closet. When JC wanted to know what in Sam Hill was going on, I told him I was practicing the dance steps for “What Does the Fox Say?” So he bought me a Leopard Hat and Shirt at the Dollar Store and now I'm gonna have to learn the damned thing. “Ring-ding-ding-ding-a-ding-ding-ding!”

But at least I'm not the only person in this house that does stupid stuff. During the Olympics, we were looking at the news, and the sports announcer in Sochi, Russia for no discernible reason, helpfully mentioned that there was snow in every state of the United States, except Florida. We were watching some Olympics; ice-skating, where every routine was skated to Tchaikovsky, blaringly and hollowly, with echoes that lasted for eons, so that the music became just a huge A-minor smear. The only way I knew the piece was over, was when the people on the ice were no longer twirling, or falling down.

Then, we watched some more Olympics. Curling, with the Norwegians and their pants; all looking like someone was on one hell of a bad acid trip during the designing, or else the athletes raided their grandmothers' quilting bins and did a one-off. They were sporting colors that don't exist in nature, or at least on this planet. Ten minutes of this and I'm thinking that cleaning the house isn't such a bad idea.

Cut to the local news. The sports comes on; thank God the Norwegians and their Dayglo pants aren't part of this broadcast. JC pipes up, “I hear that there's snow in every state except Florida.” I look over at Alex, and we both just lose it. JC listens to us howl and yawp like hyenas for a few minutes and then asks what is so funny. We tell him, “We were here when the guy said there is snow in every state except Florida!” And off we went again. JC makes it worse when he says, “I didn't hear that!” Oh. Jesus. Stop. Now. Now. Because, I'm in the Red Zone of Laughter; the kind of laughing where you may have apoplexy and get a hernia. JC is hard of hearing and he finally catches on and gets into the moment and he has that sort of hearty laughter that makes you laugh, even if you don't know what in the hell is going on.

Laughing is good for the soul and is certainly good for the body; it helps to release endorphins and they are good for nerve endings. I make it a rule to laugh as much as possible, but kindly. Never cruelly, or at the expense of someone else. God has given us the capacity to do many things and there is no injunction against humor and laughter in any religion or faith, culture or nationality that I know of.

Some of my posts will be on funny topics; some will be on funny writers, present and past. Last year, I started out this challenge with an honest-to-God spreadsheet with all of the letters A, B, C, and so on, with the topics listed. I think I had this half-assed notion that I was going to fill it out and hand it in to Arlee Bird for a grade at the end of the challenge, or something. I had a topic picked for each letter, but that went out the window the second day of the challenge, when I wrote about Beethoven and his 3^rd Symphony, instead of Bravery. I'm glad I did so. I may have a theme picked out, but I have no earthly clue what I'm going to do for the letter “A”, but I've got a few days to think about it. It'll come to me.

#ROW80, #IWSG THURSDAY, BECAUSE I SLEPT THROUGH WEDNESDAY. . .

Poor #ROW80; they probably wonder if I'm still alive. #IWSG is more than likely under the assumption that I'm some mass hallucination. I wonder myself. At least Damyanti of #teamDamyanti is aware that I am a real person; sort of. . .

I honestly meant to be on-the-ball this month; really. But once again, life happened, and as is my wont I tend to be secretive, when I most likely shouldn't be. Blame it on Asperger syndrome, being an only child, hating most of the human race, being shy, having low self-esteem, high self-esteen or knowing that interaction with most of the hoi-polloi ends in tears, regret, shattered dreams and on occasion, spilt blood; not mine, but theirs and one begins to understand why I am rather comfortable with my own company and ill at ease with people I do not know. 

Thanks to Mr. Jesse Libecap and theworld4realz.com and the entire Roo family for my wake-up call today!

So, what does this have to do with missing my #IWSG check in? JC had to be put into the hospital again, and this time it was for his heart. What should have been done months ago, and was ignored by his primary care physician, finally caught up to him. It was discovered by his Gastroenterologist, who flat-out told him that he would not perform and endoscopy on him until his heart issue had cleared up. My railing at JC over the phone whilst in the G.E. doctor's office did nothing, because he is a stubborn man. Alex's hollering did nothing. So, we let him come home. This was February 24, 2014.

We finally got him to the hospital on February 26, 2014, when I refused to speak to him for 2 days. I turned my back. Every other gambit had failed, but this. JC has had little love or interaction in his life, but I knew this was one thing he could not bear. I stopped interacting with him at all. He would walk into a room; I would walk out. It tore me up inside, and yes, it was cruel, but it worked. He gave in and went to the hospital. Alex and I visited him and made him laugh; JC and I are never angry with one another for long; there is too much love and we have cared for one another through so much, but I am not ready to let him go. As I told him, "I'm not through making you miserable in my attempts to make you experience happiness!"

The amazing thing is, the human body is hard to kill. The heart catheterization did not have the desired results, so for now, the doctors are using a combination of medicines to break up the calcified stent and the surrounding plaque. If this does not work, then, they will be forced to do a surgical bypass. Good thing I remembered all of that crap from the good doctors at the University of Michigan hospital, almost 40 years ago. 

JC seems to have weathered it well, better than his princess of a cat, Mama, and myself. Mama, of course looked for him constantly, and with him gone, she was forced by me to remain inside the entire time. No half-ajar doors, where she has the run of in-and-out; it is far too dangerous a neighborhood, with me here by myself to leave any door open. So, for about five days, I chased her around, with a spray bottle and picked up the stuff she knocked down. I didn't sleep well, and wouldn't have anyway, with JC gone. My Parkinsonism, requires lots and lots of sleep, and when I don't get it, I find that the Primodone, while helpful, still leaves me fatigued. The muscles on the right side of my body seem to have been weakened and my right eye-lid starts to droop. A lovely sight, I'm sure. 

Before my 2nd eye surgery, I could sorta do this. If this came in blue, I'd totally own it.

So, after JC was home, and we had settled in, I took off up to our favorite Sweetbay/WinnDixie to get his medicines. In spite of what I said, I am amazingly strong and a good 2-mile walk was what I needed to blow out some of the tension and anxiety. The muggers have learned to leave me alone after their last botched attempt, so I am safe. I grabbed the meds and a few items and stuffed them into my backpack in the front of the store.

Whilst doing so, I knocked over this poor gent's bike with my cane. I felt terrible and hoped I hadn't hurt it. I was trying to pick it up and I heard "Hey! That's my bike! Don't be takin' my stuff!" I whirled around and said, "I'm so sorry mister! I knocked it down! I hope I didn't hurt it!" He saw my cane and pack and bags, and asked "Could you wait here while I get my stuff?" I said "Sure! I'd be happy to!" He went back inside and got his things and came back, saying "Lawdy, lawdy, they put the grapes on the bottom, then the eggs and the canned goods on top!" He got it all arranged, as I was arranging my stuff.

Where I live, the bicycle is the primo method of transportation, unless you're a drug dealer or a pimp. The gent's bike didn't have quite this much stuff, but he had several 6-packs of water, a dozen eggs, grapes and canned goods on his handlebars. I've seen some contraptions in my time, running up and down Nebraska Ave., 33602, 33605, and some really, really fine looking rolling iron that is not owned by the upstanding citizens or V. M. Ybor.

Then he looked at me and said, "Can I help you to your car?" Then, he looked again, at my cane and glasses, and said, "Oh." This isn't the first time I've been asked this. "Nah, I'm taking the bus," I said. "Okay, well have a great day, and thanks!" He started to peddle away, and stopped and started laughing. "I forgot to unlock my bike!" I looked at him. "I have that effect on people. I sow confusion, wherever I go. It's my confuse-a-what™ and I'm really good at it." He said, "I can see that. Goodbye" Off he went.

I just made it to my bus and got home. I showed JC all of the items that he could make for himself that were easily fixed and heart-healthy. I gave him his meds and realized that I was so tired I could hardly move. Alex and I had made egg salad with 35 eggs that the church had provided on Sunday, so I had a sandwich and laid down for a nap at 3:30 pm on Wednesday, March 5, 2014. I woke up, today, at 2:10 pm. Yep, I was tired and that was some nap. JC is comfortable and seems willing to do what the doctors are asking of him; I hope he complies. Only he can do that; I am the most compliant patient on earth. I am non-compliant in every other aspect of my life; and oh yes, I do challenge my doctors. But, being compliant and going along and trusting everyone, got me to this point where I have nothing to retire on; after helping husbands get degrees and all. You hear me, Lithia? I will outlive JC; my health is much better now than it was 25 years ago, but my attitude is much, much worse in regards to "letting things go". I will fight for JC and I will fight for myself, as well.

A reminder! Theme Reveal for the A-to-Z Blogging Challenge is March 21, 2014. The Sign up is here. I am part of #teamDamyanti and our goal is to assist you in choosing a "theme" for your A-to-Z Challenge, 2014!

#ROW80 1ST QTR 2014 - SUNDAY CHECK IN - ONCE AGAIN, IT'S THE STUPOR BOWL!!!

It's that time of year again, when we bid adieu to the American Football Season with the annual Super Bowl. This year, we have the Seattle Seahawks vs. the Denver Broncos. I'm still kinda hoping that that San Francisco 49'ers will show up, but that would just be bad sportsmanship, which the NFL will not tolerate, unless they will; everybody clear on that? It just depends on who's being unsportsman-like. Apparently, Richard Sherman doing his impression of a mad dog foaming at the mouth, and screaming, practically incoherently at Erin Andrews, who appeared to fear for her life, wasn't it. 

At least, Sapp isn't the one flappin' his jaw, here.

No, that just got everyone so riled up for two weeks of non-stop jabbering and carrying on so much that Warren Sapp thought it was time to pretend he was relevant again and take on Michael Strahan, who has tons more class than Sapp. The last time I saw ole' 99 (he played in Tampa, thus I am familiar with him personally), he was mouthing off to some poor kid in a wheelchair at a boxing match I was attending. The kid had the audacity to ask Sapp for an autograph. Asshole. I love it when athletes assume an imprimatur that is entirely bogus, forgetting all the while that it is us, the common folk who actually pay THEM, to watch them play. Sapp falling on people does not make for a better defensive tackle than Michael Strahan and Sapp is a thug; yes, I said it! A thug, with his thuggish ways, thuggish mouth and thuggish attitude towards his fans. 

Still, one hell of a fine writer!

But, I didn't start out to write an article about the shortcomings of players in the NFL. This is about goals, not of the touchdown kind. This is about writing goals and other goals outside of that as well. The writing has been coming along, albeit, not as quickly as I would like it to. But really, who says, "Gee, I want to drag out this process for the next forty years! THAT'S my goal!" I was looking at a list of books that Stephen King has written over his lifetime and was astounded. The amount of prose this man has churned out is impressive and although I cannot say that I am enjoying "Under the Dome" or "Needful Things," at least I can hold another author's published work in my hands.

Sometimes, I think King stopped writing with heart after "Dead Zone" or "Different Seasons" and just went into pap-mode, because the writing now seems forced; and the humor isn't really funny. His tragedies, although still Grand Guignol-like, and horrific and sad, fail to really move me. The characters aren't real in his later books. Or, maybe I am just reading with a different eye. The funny thing is, I still enjoy Dean Koontz, who has written nearly as many books, but has deepened his approach to his characterizations, while shortening the length of his overall stories. I don't know. If I go back and read certain passages in "Dead Zone" I cry, so I know it's not me.

I wonder if I could get this in blue?

Anyway, my health has been, (fingers crossed) excellent. Today, we moved the last of my furniture out of storage where it had been after the loss of the 2nd house. I am stronger than I have been in decades and am up to 112 pounds. For me, a miracle. I walk as much as I can (2 miles a day is easy) and have had no further incidents with would-be muggers.  As a matter of fact, I think I saw one of the men in the grocery store, and he took one look at me, my glasses and cane. I went into my "Gort" mode, and "stared" at him as he backed slowly up the cereal aisle. My friend, Alex, who had been an aisle over, came up and said, "Mary, what did you do to that man? He just put his basket down and left." I told Alex, "He needs to leave... earth... permanently. I hear Neptune is lovely this time of year". And left it at that. Alex knows better than to ask.

Everything from the storage unit is sort of shoe-horned into this place, so it's probably time for a garage sale. Our landlord put a shed out back for us, so we have lots of stuff in there, but so much needs to go. It's good to be back and trying to write again. This week is also the much-awaited #IWSG. Let's hope I get up in time on Wednesday to make that one! Have a happy Super Bowl and in honor of the event, I am going to post a link to last year's observations on the AFC Championship. Happy #ROWing and see you on Wednesday! 

#ROW80 1ST QTR 2014 – POST 1 – AHEAD OF THE CURVE?

Well, for once, I may have actually gotten a jump on something. Being a violist, we are proverbially late, clueless and short of the mark. We supposedly aren’t good enough to play violin, so we switched to viola and slithered into orchestras by nefarious means. Horse feathers. Unfortunately, I can play the violin, and apparently, well enough to fool stupid people into giving me money to play it, although my preference has always been for the viola, and who wouldn’t want to play viola when you own such a viola as I do. My violins were never nearly as good as my viola. The only kinship they shared is that they were all made of wood, and there the similarities stopped. The violins I owned were mere peons; my viola is a member of the Italian aristocracy, and is eager to let everyone know at every opportunity.

At one point, when I was hired for my first violin “gig” I didn’t own a violin, and rented one. A student model, as I recall with metal strings, tuners and tape on the fingerboard for the people unfortunate enough to have been trained in the “Suzuki” method, wherein everything is by rote, and you can have an ear made of the finest tin; intonation not required. Nor is interpretation, passion, or finding your own “voice”. Thus, we have armies of automatons on the violin, playing the same way, same out-of-tuneness, same vibrato, and just. . . gah!

My god, I can almost smell the pancake makeup from here. This must be "Elvis: The Staid Years"

I played that bastard loud and proud for some kind of Elvis tour, wherein all of Elvis’ old sidemen were present and Elvis was up on a screen. I played 1^st violin and sat between the Concertmaster, an old colleague from Michigan and an old friend from the Concertgebouw who had a non-cordial hate for one another. I guess I was the de-militarized zone of the first violin section. All of the old muscle memory in place and it was as if reading in soprano clef had never left. Every time the two antagonists would seem to want to have a go at bows-at-20-paces during “Aint’ Nothin’ But a Hound Dog,” I took that as my cue to fling my hair around and emote wildly. There was a cameraman recording this whole hallucinatory event; the three of us were on-air more than Eblis was. Egad!

And then there were the “admirer-impersonators”, to be found at every stop we made; from whole families decked out in silver and gold lamé jumpsuits, with flared legs, Beatle boots, or “cockroach killer” shoes and pompadours, teased, combed and sprayed with what looked like flat black paint for outdoor metal furniture, alá Rustoleum, complete with black, eyebrow-pencil mutton-chop sideburns. They all seemed to think we were holding auditions, as we were regaled with everything from impressions of “Thaank yuu, vury mushhh…” to warbling out-of-tune a capella renditions of “Jailhouse Rock”. My personal favorite was the guy from Brazil, who came trotting up to me as I was getting into my car and leaving Sunrise, Florida for Jacksonville, for our next sold-out performance.

I guess everybody's gotta have a hobby. Most of the impersonators who traipsed after us were horrid, and they usually had embarrassed families in tow. Still, they were harmless enough, and picturesque to say the least!

He asked me if I was one of the “dancers”, which was a good one, as there were no dancers,  either in the 40-foot high hologram of Elvis or on stage. I turned around to get a look at this cat, as he had caught me putting my crappy rental violin in the back seat of my Cougar, and I almost started laughing. First off, he was my height, 5' 4" and I was wearing flats. He had the whole Eblis thing going on, but he was also wearing sunglasses at 11 pm and he had on a tiny red cape, like some junior Count Dracula, or Superman. His flared legs on his silver lamé jumpsuit were too short and I could see his white socks, peeking out over the tops of his Beatle boots. The suit was also too small for him and he had this little man-cameltoe-nutsack thing going on, although I had to sneak surreptitious glances, as I didn't want this guy to think I was interested. Well, I was, but not in THAT way. 

As best I could and keeping a straight face, I pointed to a bus in the very back of the parking lot, that had brought in a batch of Q-tipped old bats from the Old Folks' Home and said that was where the “dancers” were. Off he went. This was one of my more memorable tours, playing fiddle, or  violin, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

When word got out that I had a passing acquaintance with the violin, although when I picked up and played the rental fiddle, it had been over 30 years since I had played one, more idiots decided I should earn some money playing the violin. If there were no viola spots available, as in the case of “West Side Story,” or “Cats,” I played violin and ran gibbering and capering off into the night with my ill-earned lucre, until the next gig came along.

So, what does all this blathering have to do with the first post of #ROW80, 2014. Well, for one thing, I have a, uh, “finished” manuscript of a novel that I pretty much created out of whole cloth as I went along during NaMoWriMo 2013, which I “won” by finishing, prior to the deadline of November 30^th, 2013, with some 50,967 words. I’m used to writing rhetorical things and posing arguments and swiftly cutting people off at the knees when they are being 50 Shades of Ass in written form. This was a whole different arena and it was an enlightening one, as well as a confusing one. I shall not trot out the cliché of “humbling” because I didn’t feel that. What I mostly felt was a whole lot of confusion and at one point, panic, when I thought I had cut-and-pasted over some huge passage that was working, or seemed to at the time.

I had backups stashed everywhere and I had a format laid out that I immediately abandoned, because I naïvely thought that I would adhere to a strict schedule, as I did when I blogged every day. I quickly found that this is an entirely different process, at least for me. I know that different things work for different people and cannot even begin to guess at how people like Stephen King or Colin Falconer have managed the prodigious output in the span of their lifetimes. Admittedly, I came late to the rodeo, so maybe this will all become clearer later on. I have gone back and looked at just the stuff I’ve written for my various blogs, and for the span of time I have devoted to writing, it is in the sort-of small to medium range; nowhere near to prodigious.

I had fun with the computer systems at IBM, but the people at Verizon were much more random than the computers. Go figure. I can make Boolean logic look emo.

The old adage applies, perseverance over time. Practice, practice, practice, whether it’s the viola, or my other career; IT. I held a 4.0 GPA in Mathematics which was astonishing because I totally sucked at it in high school. As some of you may know, my 2^nd husband, a violist, was very disappointed when the Zither Fairy did not appear after we were wed, although we met on a gig playing violas. I'm not sure which of us was the stupider one. Probably me, because I married the schnook. I won the gig with the Moody Blues and he did not, so he pouted. Jesus; men. So, I went back to school and picked a subject I thought radically different than music; computer science. Seeing as how I was so *meh* in math in high school, I really dug in, because studying higher maths become intense: calculus and trigonometry, differentials, matrices, and complex numbers were worked and re-worked. I used the same discipline that I used when I was in Music School. I don’t believe that I have a natural ability with numbers, but I studied 8 hours a day every day and I knew I was smart enough to “get it” if I applied myself.

Music is something I was born to do, and come hell or high water, I will again. Practicing, tremor-free, is a joy, but slow going. I expected this, but I feel better than I have felt in decades. Computers I will always have and with 4 in the house now – JC and Alex bought me a Quadcore to run alongside my Dualcore – I can build virtual machines and do more consulting work. When I worked from home for 3 years prior to losing my 2^nd house because the Rent to Buy people went bankrupt and the banks would not turn the house over to me, I was ill and tired. I had to leave my job. But recently, my old boss has gotten wind of the fact that just maybe, I might be available to do some special projects for him. That would be awesome.

For another thing, I wrote this post a DAY early, which is also been unlike me of late; I need to get my groove back, so, my goals this round are to go back to what I did when I first joined #ROW80; I plan on posting something on this blog, every day, even if it is something I am using as a writing prompt, something humorous, or something that has outraged me and I am just venting. I am going to make sure that I join in on #IWSG, the first Wednesday of every month. I am also going to continue on my editing of the “hot mess” that is “Music of the Spheres,” with Commander Skip Bombardier and the “Alien Undead Underground Railroad,” or the “Undead Alien Underground Railroad,” which has a much better ring to it, I think. Will the Commander, along with the Captains of the Air Force, Glenn Miller and Glenn Wallace be able to save the day with the Lost Boys and Gurlz of SoulZ and the confused, meandering, albeit good-hearted aid of some very clueless violists who thought they were going to Comic-Con, but ended up at the Annual NSA Spy vs Spy convention and got more than they bargained for? We shall see.

In the meantime, I have a lot of heavy lifting to do. Write what you know and research the hell out of the rest. Better yet, run it through some folks who may have actually done whatever it is you’re asking your readers to buy into. I’ll give it a shot!