#ROW80 1ST QTR 2014 – POST 5 – SUNDAY CHECK IN – A REALLY EARLY CHECK IN

I thought I'd just scribble down a few words here before I go to bed for my Sunday check in. You see, it's 5:00 a.m. on the east coast of the United States, and here I am, the infernal bat, unable to sleep. I haven't written much about my Parkinsonism, or my e.t. or essential tremor or “Parkinson's Lite” as I call it, because the disease doesn't have me, I have it, and by the throat if you will. It does not define me. It does however, have its moments of just pure meanness. It won't kill me, although before Primodone, there were times when I wished it would and in haste.

What it doesn't do is let me sleep well. I have never been a restful sleeper and I have never been a cheerful morning day-type person. My mother was. 5:30 in the goddamned A of M, she'd be up, perking coffee and singing with the birds and I wanted to go out and practice my non-existent skill of skeet-shooting on her and her little feathered friends. So, we differed in that particular behavior.

I've always been a night owl and as I grew to adulthood, music, besides being the love of my life, was a great career, seeing as how the industry, such as it is, had the decency to never start a rehearsal before 10 a.m. Concerts were always in the evenings, or afternoons in the Opera, and when I worked in IT, I usually worked late afternoon shifts. It's been decades since I've had to live by an alarm clock, and thank the Christ, the few times I've actually had to get up for something, it was usually an operation or some medical test, that was going to render me comatose, so I wouldn't care how miserable I felt until 3:00 p.m.

I like to tell people, “Yeah, I get up at the crack o' noon,” but sometimes, it's as late as 3:00 or 4:00. When I first started taking Primodone for my Parkinsonism, I was sleeping almost around the clock. I thought, “Gee, this is terrific! No more tremors, but then how would I know? I'm not awake enough to figure out if they're there or not.”

As my body adjusted to the drug, I began to sleep more like a normal person, or at least I was hibernating less. I'm not sure what it was. But, I found that as I did more and more, I still needed that 8 to 10 hours of sleep; that helps tremendously in keeping the tremors at bay. The “inner core” tremor is the most horrible feeling in the world, and when I'm tired or anxious, it comes back. Sleeping, and eating, walking and exercising help all of that. I still have no sense of smell, which on Nebraska Avenue, may be a good thing, when we have one of our ferocious rains and the sewers back up. I really didn't miss that lovely aroma over the summer.

As I walk and continue to get stronger, I amaze myself. I am not supposed to be able to walk briskly for three blocks carrying 19 pounds of crap from the Dollar Store, but I did just that very thing today. Because I have COPD, and have had the lung function tests and was told that I had a lung capacity of 43%, I thought, well, shit, some day I am going to be on oxygen, but now, I wonder.

I stopped smoking over 3 years ago, and I take Spiriva religiously. Because of our stupid health care system in Florida and the United States, even though the State of Florida and Hillsborough County spent upwards of 500,000.00 dollars getting me back on my feet and walking in 2010, when I was awarded my SSDI, I had to wait 2 years to get anything resembling health care coverage, and I was unable to have anything done about my COPD, so left untreated, it worsened. Thank you, Rick Scott, you prick.

Well, now, I find, that after nearly a year of treatment for my COPD, my lung capacity has increased to the point where I run out of my Spiriva inhalant before I run out of lung capacity, which means my lung capacity has INCREASED, which I do not think is supposed to happen. But, there are lots of things that have happened to me, that were not supposed to have happened; per my physical therapist at TGH, it was unlikely that I would walk again. I'm all over the place now and stronger than I have been in decades. I think it's reverse psychology. DON'T tell me I cannot do something, because I will prove you wrong every goddamned time. I'm not a quitter; I have the capacity to think strategically and think about things and stick with something for the long haul. It's the persistence of persevering over time.

I find it to be the same thing with writing. Crappy passage? Go back to it later. If something is not working, I think for me, I need to leave it alone and go to another well for inspiration and come back to whatever my particular roadblock is later. If I continue to frustrate myself, it just gets worse and I lose my voice. With that in mind, I've found that it makes the editing process a little easier, but messier, as I am not the most organized person in the world.

So, that's my check in. It wasn't the best week, but I got something done. I hope everyone had a good week. It was freezing cold here in Tampa, and astonishingly enough, it made me yearn for the frozen tundra of Michigan and Lake Superior with my Daddy. Ah, he was something else.

#ROW80 WEDNESDAY CHECK IN – UNLIKELY CHAMPIONS AND GOALS

Muhammad Ali pretty much summed up his allegiance with Everyman in his stunning statement in 1967 when he refused the draft and the U.S. Government’s edict that he go to Viet Nam and fight in a mis-begotten war. “Man, I ain’t got no quarrel with them Viet Cong.” I remember this because my parents, particularly my father was caught up in the nuances of this war, as he had flown B-29s in Korea and been in the infantry in World War II – at the tender age of 16 (I thought 17, but I erred); Grandmum had signed for him – and he was deeply concerned that the country was being led down the wrong path, as regards the government’s involvement in all sorts of nefarious things, such as the Tonkin Gulf Incident and was it real or just a figment of Robert MacNamara’s imagination, or another of his lies.

Of course, I had a zillion questions about all of this; my father was the most patient man I knew. And hella smart.

So, Daddy in what was a normal display of the profane mixed with the literary alliteration I was becoming accustomed to, said, “That’s it, kick ‘em in the nuts, Ali. Let Turner (Stansfield) go to the Ninth Circle of Hell and take his gibbering minion, Robert MacNamara, Prince of Lies with him!” All this of a morning, as he readied for work and I watched him shave. Or, my father would just call MacNamara a "traitorous Son of a Bitch," and then cut himself. Well, Ali from the start was a bit of a maverick and a damned fine boxer. Being a family of pugilists (See: Sir William Wallace, and skip Braveheart) we have in the main, been more than able to stand up for ourselves, save but for my own stupidity, but I’m all better now.

Ali went on to regain his license and win several championships. He paid a dear, dear price for it in the form of Parkinson’s Disease, which he has borne with his typical grace and aplomb. In 2000, Stansfield Turner, the former director of the CIA, came out in print and admitted that he committed an egregious error in suspending Ali’s license and was heartily sorry for it. He also admitted that the Tonkin Gulf Incident never happened. MacNamara went to his grave, without ever admitting he was wrong about anything. I sincerely hope that man is paying for it dearly in the afterlife; he caused so many, many wrongful deaths, as has G. W. Bush, Dick Cheney, John Ashcroft and Paul Wolfowitz.

Ali, in his customary manner, bore no ill will towards Turner. It was what it was. But it made a difference and it made people really question why we were in what amounted to wars of Imperialism, ala the 19^th century. For a while, there was a slim hope that the country might grow a conscience. No worries there.

Eight years of George Bush and the Patriot Act after September 11, 2001 has put to rest any idea of anyone standing up and saying “What we need here is less spying and more trust”! Nope, spies are once more, back under the bed, Joseph P. McCarthy has once more been invoked, lists of the electronic kind are waved around, and the I, III, IV, XIII (Thanks, Detective Tony, for reminding me), IX, and XIV Amendments are routinely breached, Constitutional Law be damned. Again, I am willing to wager that Writ of Habeas Corpus has flown the coop as well. (At the time this was written, there were no examples that this was indeed so, but sadly, it has come to pass.) "Habeas Corpus" when in play, is a safeguard for a person in custody; no law enforcement officer is allowed to just let someone go free, without a paper trail, or just "disappear" them. Since I first wrote this, the former has happened in my 'hood and something like the latter has made the National News. This truly puts us squarely in the realm of a totalitarian state, either left- or right-wing, it makes no difference. Habeas Corpus is our most sacred right. It is what makes us truly different than Nazi Germany and Stalin’s USSR. D’you remember them?

About the only difference between this country and Nazi Germany are the snappy outfits.

Habeas Corpus, in case you were out getting Twizzlers during the show,is latin “to produce the body” not just a bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo when you apply “Writ” in front of it. Then it becomes a court order (writ) that requires a (presumably live) body be brought before the court. This is to prevent a legal agency from seizing a person without probable cause and holding it for an indefinite length of time, or driving said person around, threatening them, and turning them loose, after they've been in police custody. Nor can they be held indefinitely with no charges brought.. During the terrors of the Inquisition, the French Revolution, Nazi Germany, Apartheid in South Africa, Pol Pot’s regime and all throughout Russia’s tragic history, and many, many other dictatorships, the employment of “Nacht und Nabel” or “Night and Fog” as the Germans called it, saw the disappearance of people, never to be heard from again.

These things do not happen in a vacuum, ladies and gents. They happen because a citizenry allows them to happen. People like Nelson Mandela understood this, because he lived it. When he was imprisoned, there was every expectation that he would die in that cell, but a funny thing happened. People began to see that Apartheid in South Africa was hurting the country. Much of this had to do with the fact that almost every other country had trade embargoes against South Africa, but the best and brightest were leaving in droves, to practice their art, medicine, science, literary careers in other countries. I can think of no other firmly entrenched biased class system that lasted as long as Apartheid and when it ended, South Africa benefited immediately.

Mr. Mandela also struck me as someone who understood and took a lot of joy from life and in simple pleasures, much like the Dalai Lama. How many of us can say that?

Nelson Mandela’s passing was sad, but he had lived a full life. I have heard people saying he was a terrorist, but really? This is coming from people who are scared of giving up the status quo; afraid of losing the already too much that they possess. He was fighting for an oppressed people. We are not talking about jihadists who are, by sane moderate Muslim standards, terrorists. Ghandi himself spent time in incarceration. Mandela was an anti-apartheid revolutionist, politician and philanthropist, who served as PRESIDENT of South Africa. That says something when a black man rises from a prison cell to be duly elected to the Presidency of the state that once put him behind bars, primarily for being black.

The work he did, as does Ali to help and succor those in need around the globe is inestimable; as humanitarians, and spokespersons, they’ve made a huge difference. Ali is also a spokesman, alongside Michael J. Fox for Parkinson’s Disease and movement disorders, of which I suffer, and he has been a part of my life since he was Cassius Marcellus Clay.

Dr. Vitali Klitschko is currently the reigning Heavyweight Champion of the world. Oh, and he does have a reason to be minus a shirt, here.

Which brings me to another unlikely champion, Vitaly Klitcshko. This man is a twin. He and his brother, Vladimir are boxers and they hail from Ukraine. They have both held Heavy Weight titles and are world-renown. They both have made their homes in Germany and they both hold PhDs in Sports Medicine. Right now, Vitaly is in the fight he never dreamed he would fight, I am sure. The government in Kiev has decided to forego alliance with the EU and wants to throw in Ukraine’s lot with Russia, i.e. Vladimir Putin. An odd factoid, in researching this, Vitali joined the Ukrainian Parliament on December 15, 2012, my birthday and in some circles, considered the same day as Beethoven's birthday, who was another champion for the poor and downtrodden. He famously scratched out his dedication of his 3rd symphony, to Napoleon and called it the "Eroica" for "Heroic" instead. Dit-dit-dit-dah and Vee for victory during World War II. For true mankind united music, listen to the 4th movement of his 9th symphony, and the "Ode to Joy".

Vlad is 60 years old and girls, he's single. Why in the hell is every despot out of their ever-lovin' minds? And what is this thing with the bears? Is he re-enacting Nic Cage's not-to-be-missed "Wicker Man" scene in the Bear Suit? I have no words, except that this is one dangerous Mo-fo. I had a Russian Language professor once who thought Kruschev was too liberal. I just wonder what he would make of this? сукин сын!

For those of you who were out getting a giant 64-oz. Coca Cola, during the Russian History part, Putin was once head of the KGB and his management style, as President, or Monarch, or Grand Poobah, reflects that. Actually, he may be Stalin (translation: Man of Steel, or Steel) with a bit more subtlety and a lot less shirt-wearing. See, the dude-in-power, Viktor Yanukovych, in Kiev is some jackleg that Putin pretty much installed, with one of those fakey-fake elections. 

There were riots the first time general elections were held, back in 2003, over this same dude, now in power. Now, it’s looking much more serious. The leader in Parliament, Arseniy Yatsenyuk, has apparently had enough of Viktor's bff and has organized and been coordinating the opposition. With mass demonstrations of 300,000 people and more in the streets, the country’s militia are having a hard time holding things together. This isn't a Flash Mob, but a Mob that has brought its lunch, dinner and breakfast, plus some hardware and tents. They aim to stay awhile and call the neighbors. They've also brought a lot of Likes to Fight Guys, too.

So, Klitcshko is on the side of the opposition. If Ukraine is beholden solely to Russia, this keeps Ukraine within the Motherland’s sphere of influence and this is not good for Ukraine. Russia can then pay whatever she damn well pleases and there is no open market opportunity for the Ukrainians. 

You can see that without Ukraine, Russia has few warm water ports. After Edvard Shverdnadze became President of Georgia, having served as part of the USSR's apparatus, he cooled relations during the Yeltsin years. Putin does not want a repeat of that.

Ukraine, unlike Russia, is a rich country and has always been so. Stalin starved the kulaks in 1934 and their “wheat bowl” a geographically perfect arrangement of mountains between Ukraine and Russia allows for fertile fields and rich yields. Kiev is home to the oldest center of Christianity on that continent over 1000 years old. The language and culture is much different, and it lies on the Black Sea, one of the warm water ports that Russia has access to.

Klitcshko naturally wants his country to thrive and not be subject to the Russian boot. Putin is hell-bent on retaining all of the SSRs that were part of the USSR and I see this as a re-unification attempt on his part. However, the genie is out of this bottle. Vitaly Klitschko, a boxer of world renown is telling everyone in the world about the unfairness and about what it was like when he lived under the Communist boot.

An interesting update on the Ukrainian situation. They recently held a Presidential Election and the winner by a landslide is a  40-year old comedian, who plays a bumbling president. The guy won by a landslide. He's gotta be better than the pro Rrussian is on tjere/ O
, I <3 you so so so much

Sir William died with no issue. The family line is carried through one of the two brothers and I forget which one. I just know that I belong to this family, since I heard it at my daddy's knee from about 9 months on and wore a coat that me Grandmum made for me from an old Wallace kilt. The argyle wool was a few hundred years old then, and would be great for fighting and ambush, were you in a forest fire. We also possess the standards and heralds that have been passed down from generation to generation. We weren't always the brightest bulbs on the tree. Daddy pissed off the Brits at Heathrow in 1985 and got himself locked up for 48 hours for hollering "Death to the Queen" or some such nonsense. He treated it as a grand lark. Typical Wallace.

Let me be clear. I love the Russians, their culture, their ways. I love Ukraine for the same reasons. I have reason to believe that the Wallaces did not in fact originate from Scotland. Our name in Old Welsh was "Uallace" and means “Stranger” and that we are; we are the only Clan with no affiliation or septs with other clans. We most likely are of Scythian blood and were part and parcel of the Scythian guards of Hadrian’s wall, but we always lived apart from the Scots, after the betrayal by the Bruce family. So, I suspect I’m a bit more drawn to that part of the world, because the blood calls me. But, I hate all States; the concept of freedom for all, and the human dignity that is accorded to each of us is sacred, it is not just for the entrenched powers that be. The idea of the State must survive, because the only reason the State exists, is to ensure the existence of the State, is beyond corrupt, it is evil, because it forces people to do evil things to each other to get ahead, or remain entrenched. Think about it. In the meantime, Go, Vitaly, Go!

GOALS: I did nothing; I have the flu. *hack hack* Actually, I want to tear apart "Music of the Spheres" and start REALLY plotting it out. To that end, I got myself some story boards that are erasable, flash cards to set out sections and characters and make it a teensy bit more coherent. I also have my auto-bio in the works, which is really more a batch of essays of my early life, school, music, computer work and being homeless. Most of it is hilarious. No, seriously hilarious. As Carlin says, even cancer is funny. Trust me, homeless was a laff-a-minute!
 

#ROW80 – 4TH QTR 2013 – SUNDAY CHECK IN

Sometimes I wonder about this whole writing thing. I'm participating in NaNoWriMo this year and unlike last year, I'm doing well. I have over 30,000 words or 30k as we used to say in the computer biz. I'm enjoying it and I believe that I have a pretty intriguing story to tell and that I will be able to find a publisher, or, what is more likely, with more hard work and or, doing possibly my least favorite thing in the whole world, “social networking,” (gah!) will be able to do it on the cheap. I will have done something many people will have not been able to do, but wish they could do. So, that being the case, why am I so just, I even hate to say it, but not excited, yet? Will that happen?

Or, is it because, I still have my heart in a sheet of music or in an orchestra some where, playing and singing along with all of the great harmonies that God intended us to give voice to, sounds that are at once angelic and in the next instance brutally harsh and cold? Were I still able to drive and not reliant on someone else for transportation, I believe I would be playing in just about any orchestra that would have me, especially now, that I have my tremors under control. Pig-headed and stubborn to a fault I am; I should be grateful as I had two very successful careers and both were doing things that I loved. Not everyone can say that.

This apparently ended up in a garage sale or jumble sale, or garbage heap. I couldn't tell. I had my hacker vision on.

I do love to create and writing is another way of creating. I do not denigrate the art of writing, because it is so exceedingly difficult to write beautiful prose and to write it meaningfully. It is hard to write stories for entertainment and in different genres, as I am finding out. I am such a newbie, or n00b, as my gamer pals call me at this, although I did win awards for writing in university, but that is so very different than this. This is about writing something that people actually want to read and are willing to pay for, I guess. Although, people do buy and read some execrable crap, witness the publication of Paris Hilton's biography, “Paris Hilton: A Biography,” by someone I never heard of, for 35.00 19.25. I know people must buy it and read it, but who? Maybe the deeper question is, why? Why would anyone care about this no-talent mediocrity? Because she's rich? Or is it because her sex tape ended up on the Internet? How salacious are we as a society that we pander to this?

Maybe that's one reason I write. I enjoy holding a mirror up, so we can see ourselves as we are, not as we think we are. Because there is so much self-righteousness in this world and so much wrong done, in the name of right. I really like to write for fun and just write silly articles about my life. But I, as so many others around me here, have had to deal with judgments against them that were perceptions based on personal agendas, preconceived notions of how we all should behave and just plain meanness against the weak and poor. If there is no one to stand up for these souls, they are lost. Once they are lost, then, as the German Protestant Reverend Martin Niemöller, who eventually emerged as a public spokesman against Adolf Hitler and spent the last seven years lf the Third Reich in concentration camps, said so famously, after his release:

 “First the came for the Socialists, but I did not speak out—because I was not a Socialist.

“Then, they came for the Trade Unionists and I did not speak out—because I was not a Trade Unionist.

“Then, they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.

“Then, they came for me, and there was no one left to speak for me.

 Martin Niemöller, postwar

The thing about being in among the "writing crowd” if you will, is I get to have a seat at the table here and rub elbows with all of you. I may never sell or publish a book or an article, but I'm having a wonderful time and I have all of you to thank for this, my "seat" at the table. For the #ROW80 crew and all of the other people I've been led to and met, I want to thank you all. Because of you, I will finish NaNoWriMo this year. Maybe, next year, I'll be able to say I've published a book! If not, I'll still have had a ball at #ROW80! 

#ROW80 SUNDAY CHECK IN – SATURDAY NIGHT ON NEBRASKA AVENUE, 33605, 33602, 33604

I've been so busy lately, what with #NaNoWriMo and once again, doctors, that it seems ages since I've written a new post for #ROW80. Oh, I've had an inspiration here or there, but writing prompts have been overlooked. Until tonight, and I cannot for the life of my understand why I haven't written about this before. Before I get into all that, I want to talk about my “goals.” I've written 18,811 words for #NaNoWriMo as of Saturday, November 9. So, yay about that. My outline and 3 events and 30 whatsis have been a tremendous help. Anyway, back to Sa-tur-day nights on the Avenue of Nebraska!

It's sort of like this, only without the slide, order and apparent polite behavior seen here. Other than that, Cross of Mercy, neon lights, huddled confusion. Yeah, it looks like one of Nebraska Avenue's more celebrated Saturday evenings.

Maybe, it's because in a way, it's always Saturday night on Nebraska Avenue, even on Sunday morning. Jimmy Buffet's line about “it's a thin line between Saturday night and Sunday morning” doesn't apply here. There are no lines. Nope, no sir, no sirree bob, no how and no way.

As my good, good pal Andi-Roo, over at The World 4 Realz says about Twitter, mostly I think, but mentions Facebook, so none of those babies get their widdle feewings hurt, in one of my favorite posts, Cotton Swab Causes Emergency Room Visit and the Fourth of July, “We turned to Twitter and Facebook, that ever-present crowd of parties and advice.” With Nebraska Avenue and “ever-present” and “parties” (loosely defined – a party of one or two is quite common behind the dumpsters and bushes, here) and “advice” – questionable, as I had a roommate in the homeless shelter, who upon discovering that I had not one, but two computers stashed under my bunk, wanted to know why I wasn't on the internet. 

The "Make-Believe" help desk. I think I worked for this dolt at IBM. I jumped ship and went to Verizon, just before the mutiny.

I explained that I had no external antenna, so that I could “steal” someone else's internet (a popular pastime around here, and not just bandwidth.) Said roommate told me she was a computer “expert” and I could just download the wifi device. I kept a straight face and ran to tell my friends who had more than 2 working brain cells about my latest conversation with the newest representative from the Planet Mongo. My good friend Matt, another homie from Choate and Boston University (how the hell do people with such stunning backgrounds become homeless?) said to me, “Great, let's download dinner and save time!” So, the term “expert” around here is used with much abandon and means whatever the hell the “expert” wants it to mean.

. . . Is A Glorious Waste of Time

It's like those idiots who play video games (Runescape) for 5 minutes, decide they now know everything there is to know about the game (Runescape) and can level up to 99 in 15 minutes. They then proceed to write the most meaningless guide to _________ (fish to 99, cook to 99, mine to 99, etc. It's like a job, only with better benefits, and lots more color, too.) Here, from mithos23132, is his guide, called, fittingly, "How to Write Very Bad Guides," from the Tip.it forums and it is hilarious. He so hits the nail on the head. The irony here is, as I was hunting up this guide, I ran across one of the the last posters, who doesn't get it. He's just furious about this horrible guide. 

Lulz. "Way to miss the point." Pwn3d

So, what does this have to do with Saturday night? Why, not a damned thing! It just amused me and I had started out with all the fun we have here on Nebraska Avenue, 33605, 33602, 33604 and I'm always kind of random like that and digress anyway. Andi's ever-present party is a happening thing, but on Saturday nights, it takes on that extra-special meaning. If the Saturday also happens to fall on the day after SSI checks are distributed, well, good times, good times! It's a combination party-riot-search-and-rescue kinda night.

It's about this disco-y and bright, with the neighbors and their disco ball in the living room. Is this a new thing? Am I missing out here? 

Throw in some apocalyptic meltdown music, kind of a Bulgarian hip-hop rap-off, a little hostage situation bull-horn shouting and drive by broken woofers. Probably hooked up to 18 12-volt batteries. Why the hell not 20 or 22 batteries? Can't they hear ya already in Moscow? I happened to look outside one night, and saw in the upstairs apartment to my right, a disco inferno happening complete with disco ball and fire, it looks like inside the apartment. Dude in doorway has tin foil wrapped up in his hair like yo' momma used to do spit curls. He's a-boppin' to the sound and movin' to the beat. Tha's just a lightnin' waitin' to happen! Won't have to pay no electric this month. And it's just nothin' but a thang, chicken wang. On the Avenue, Nebraska Avenue, 33602, 33605, 33604. 

This was supposed to be my Sunday Check in, but I figured I'd try to do a little soft-shoe and put some seltzer down my pants for y'all! Happy Nano-ing and #ROW80ing!

HOMELESS CHRONICLES IN TAMPA - FUN WITH SETI@HOME, SUNDAY CHECK IN #ROW80 #NANOWRIMO 2 DAYS IN




SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence) is a scientific area whose goal is to detect intelligent life outside Earth. One approach, known as radio SETI, uses radio telescopes to listen for narrow-bandwidth radio signals from space. Such signals are not known to occur naturally, so a detection would provide evidence of extraterrestrial technology.

Radio telescope signals consist primarily of noise (from celestial sources and the receiver's electronics) and man-made signals such as TV stations, radar, and satellites. Modern radio SETI projects analyze the data digitally. More computing power enables searches to cover greater frequency ranges with more sensitivity. Radio SETI, therefore, has an insatiable appetite for computing power.

Previous radio SETI projects have used special-purpose supercomputers, located at the telescope, to do the bulk of the data analysis. In 1995, David Gedye proposed doing radio SETI using a virtual supercomputer composed of large numbers of Internet-connected computers, and he organized the SETI@home project to explore this idea. SETI@home was originally launched in May 1999.

FUN WITH SETI

I've been keeping abreast with my writing for NaNoWriMo. Which reminds me: Q: What is this? (besides a really bad joke, and an even worse drawing):

A: 2 Men Walking A Breast. I could riff on this, with "2 Men Walking a Brest," although how you'd walk a whole European city is beyond me, or "2 Men Walking a Beast," but living where I do I see this every day. "2 Men Walking a Beast," either of the 4-legged or the 2-legged variety a-lenty, so this is not a novel enough thing to disregard around here. This is Nebraska Ave., 33605, 33602, after all. So too are "2 Men Walking a Beat;" the law enforcement kind, or the hip-hop kind to be found here pretty regularly.

THIS IS THE CHECK IN PART. I WROTE ACTUAL WORDS AND SENTENCES, COHERENTLY, AND FORMED PARAGRAPHS, TOO! Anyway, I am 4,432 words into this year's NaNoWrimo for 2013, as of day 2 and today looms, No biggie. I have my outline, beat sheet, the next segment plotted in my head (sort of) and all of that happy-crappy. Once again, poor #ROW80 has taken a hit, once AGAIN (remember the A-to-Z blogging challenge last spring?) and I owe her so much. Without #ROW80, none of this would be happening. I'm going to be checking in for Alex J. Cavanaugh's #IWSG this Wednesday (why do we not pronounce that Wed-nes-day? Just askin') In spite of the fact that I have spent the week feeling great, I have the WORST ABSCESSED TOOTH EVER. My left front central incisor is so badly inflamed, the infection had pushed up into my nasal cavity and has warped the roof of my mouth. Penicillin has stopped that pain. No pain pills, 'cause I'm on so many other things, I'd probably go on some weird acid trip, and I have an exceedingly high threshold to pain. Now the pain is gone, so it won't ruin the fun of my eating everything in site, whilst I write. Yay! Thank you, rotten oranges or whatever you are, dear penicillin!

I go through all of my SETI stats about twice a year; once in late spring and once in the autumn. Usually, I just print out my certifications to see how I'm doing. I stay off of the forums, because there is an über-bitch, who in the disguise of a helpful admin, delivers scathing lectures to the innocent lambs who want to know why their uploads failed. I'm a fairly adept practitioner of the Dark Arts, so I don't need any help, but I sure feel sorry for the poor unweaned, who start their posts with, "I just received a message that said Upload Failed..." The few times I read these threads, UB blasted back with something related to the user's fallibility as a computer user, insulted the user's children and also mentioned that the user's pets were ugly. Yikes! No help to be had there.

Anyway, after I printed my stats, which show I've process astronomical amounts of data received from the Arecebo Telescope in an attempt to find E. T.s. . . wait, what? Never mind. Which would make sense in the astronomical department, because it is after all, the universe we're scoping out. What a hash of sentences there. So, I printed my stats and then for grins, I went to the website that shows where my team fits in with all of the other teams. 

This is my team, highlighted in green. There are 64 members of my team, but only 10 of us are active. I guess the rest are out on missions. The standing joke is that everyone was once CIA, or DOD; some kind of spook for some alphabet agency or another. They're probably doing piece-work for the NSA. NASA is only 5 slots ahead of us. I love the randomness of "Get off my lawn!" This whole project is full of stuff like this. 

Even with all of their brain power, we're still ahead of UC Berkely, UC Davis and BooYah! This Man's USMC! Our team consists of people with cats who puke on keyboards, but can do some mean hacking and cyber-spying, so I was a natural fit.

Number 69 is Marquette University, one of my mom's alma maters and I like that University of Florida is number 52. Keep it up! Go Florida. Maybe we'll win the Inter-species Regionals this year!

The number one spot is held by Team USA *yawns* but I was thrilled to see that the U. S. Air Force is number three, behind the U. S. Navy (boo.) GAY USA is number 5, which is great, because the universe is not only about radio frequencies, it is about transmitting in the Ultraviolet all the way to the Infrared. So, we've got rainbows covered. SQUEE!

An explanation of how radio frequencies and the color spectrum fit can be found here.

Team number 4's team name is some kind of random code. Way to go. My next team name is going to be "dice = std::bind ( dist]" and then everyone will think I'm some kind of either great genius, or crackpot. Except for "Get off my lawn." That team will totally get it. O How I Hate Ohio State is at the 21 spot. I don't really hate 'em. it's just what Michiganders say. It's a knee-jerk reaction. Oh, and "The Pirate Float" at number 16, is going great guns. I bet they say, "Aargh! I'm a pirate!" a lot at String Theory and GUT (Grand Unified Theory) conferences. 

Rounding out the top 100, of over 500 teams, are University of Michigan and Michigan State (not shown,) and EMU in Ypsilanti, Michigan. I love the "Master Strategy Group." This is vague and sinister, yet kinda creepy. More spooks? To be a good spook, you have to have a great cover, like the Villages. The crazy cat people get overlooked every damned time, but you never know what we're gonna do. Number 94 are the University of Florida GATORS. I can damn-guarantee you that if they were number 94 in FOOTBALL, they would be rioting up in Gainesville. At number 95, we have "ShallowThought." What a great name for a team. 

#ROW 80 4TH QUARTER 2013 SUNDAY CHECK IN – BACK IN THE DAY & DELIBERATE GOALS

JC, Alex and I were eating Taco Salad this afternoon and watching football; a pleasant enough occupation, when JC got a brainstorm. These are always terrific fun; today it was “honey, let's check into one of those Swifter-Bristle Steamboat things.” One of the reasons I really love him, is he is one the best word and name-manglers I know. It only makes the confusion richer in my life. James Thurber (in a short New Yorker article, published under the name “What Do You Mean it Was Brillig?”) once had a maid who was like that, and he used to regularly joust with her, along with his dictionary.

courtesy: www.donmarquis.org                       

Today, this would pass for random; back then, it was called "whimsy." Whatever it is, I still cackle like a hyena every time I read any of James Thurber's writings or see his cartoons.

While the three of us are not nearly so entertaining as James and Della in the story, we did manage to work up a good laugh about shared and non-shared things and went right off the tracks, tangential-wise. A phrase my father and Edwin Newman would cringe over; but the fact remains the Swifter-Bristle thingy is just another white elephant that will sit around here and collect dust and we already have plenty of that. I guess that's what the Swifter-Bristle takes care of, but cri-ma-nently! JC had purchased and was going to work on: 4 bicycles, 4 or 5 separate bicycle tires, several tubes that “fixed” themselves (then why did he need to fix them?) and, a bunch of rusty tools JC bought for a buck or 2, here and there, from “Angel,” one of the neighborhood “entrepreneurs,” who kind of spoke English, but apparently had the super power of magnetic fingers. He's disappeared and is either been deported or is in the Orient Road Jail; it depends on which branch of the Nebraska Avenue Grape Vine you want to believe.

So, as we ate and jabbered away (with moi doing most of the talking and the guys eating,) I started in on, why we needed this Swifter-Bristle thing and reminded JC of the bike pump. Not to mention the 3, not 1, but 3 bug sprayers with pumps that lay unused while the roaches have parties and conga lines in the kitchen after-hours. Plus, I just found another mini-pump under the kitchen sink. This I can understand; apparently, we're still not over the trauma of “Bedbug Apocalypse.”

After the bicycles sat in the back of the apartment, taking up very valuable real estate, he finally conceded, that no, he was not the next Orville, nor Wilbur Wright and sold the whole kit-and-kaboodle for I-can't-even-remember-how much money. He may have paid someone to get them gone. Hell, I may have paid someone to get them gone. It was clutter at it's finest and it was threatening to overtake the house, much like kudzu vine does, in the deep south, in the hot muggy summers of the United States. If you stand still long enough; it will overtake you and you're history. Your corpse will only appear as so much dry deadness in the shape of a screaming person, in mid-screech, the following winter. But I digress.

This isn't the worst I've ever seen, but it grows at some phenomenal rate, like 60 feet per season, or in 3 months. Kudzu vine is EVERYWHERE in Florida and is a non-native species. It has also been found in Canada, eh?

After we got through laughing about the bicycle pump, because it survived the Great Bicycle Pogrom of 2012, we started laughing about leaving things around and getting them stolen, because that happens around here, a lot. It's not just Nebraska Avenue, it's the fact that this is a poor area and lots of people are inherently dishonest. But, for every dishonest person, there are just as many giving and caring people.

I truly believe that; last week as I was sitting in the Bus Transfer Station waiting to go to my Neurologist appointment, a young man, almost a kid, who had just been released from prison, or jail was sitting on a bench, holding his belongings. He didn't have much and looked miserable and lost; he had just a bag with a few items and I knew he'd been incarcerated because he had on the shoes all prisoners in Florida wear upon release; blue canvas, with white rubber rims. An older homeless man, a type of “Veteran” who knows the ropes and there are lots of them in Tampa and I'm sure every where, walked up to the kid. The older man was holding a big, fluffy blanket. He held it out to the kid and said something. I couldn't hear, but it was probably something like, “Here, kid, you look like you could use this blanket.” The kid's eyes lit up. The two spoke for a few minutes and the older man got on my bus and off we went. I guess there are angels every where. That guy is one of Tampa's. There are a few of them here.

Anyway, when we lived at FSJ, you had to put your name on EVERYTHING edible that went into the fridge, even in your room. People didn't just put their names on stuff, they put warnings on their items. “THIS IS BUBBA'S DO NOT EAT! ILL KILL YOO!!!! Or, "This is Shanequa's YoGurt + Will Poisen U B 4 U finish!!!!" Of course, the challenge being too great, the whatever it was disappeared and was consumed. 

I had all my “fun” food stolen. Stuff like Hot Pockets, and Geno's Pizza Rolls. I bought healthy stuff for salads; that went bye-bye. Names and warnings meant nothing. We had one girl who stuffed everybody's stuff in her back back and would eat it frozen in her room. Just crazy. One guy purchased two beautiful NY strips with his food stamps and just stuck them in the fridge in the “men's” house. He came back later to find Crazy George, pan-frying one of them and eating the other one raw. A huge brawl broke out in this tiny kitchen with iron skillets and fists flying and people hammering on one another with meat tenderizers! Ooh! It was glorious. 

Then, the TPD came and the music stopped. Well, someone was always getting into trouble there. Anyway, once I bought some American Cheese Slices for the rock-bottom price of .69 cents a pack. They were a color and texture not found on this planet; like some kind of hybrid orange-red-chartreuse-dayglo-yellow and they hurt my eyes to look at them. So, I put just the teeny, tiny, tip of my tongue to one of the slices. It still hasn't grown back yet. Just kidding. 

I think we're no more than a few degrees from Radioactive with this cheese. Actually, the cheese I put in the fridge provided it's own light.

Looking at that color told me that they probably weren't fit for human consumption, so I put them in the house fridge with a sign that said “FREE!!!” That was in December of 2010, when I first got my Food Stamps. When JC and I left FSJ, after I was awarded my SSDI in March of 2011, I believe those same “cheese slices” were still lurking around. They may still be over there across the street, because no one ever cleaned out the fridge. I shudder to think what that's like now; more than likely, the Haz-Mat people have hauled the whole mess off. There were several things not of this earth that appeared in that kitchen with “FREE!!” attached to them. Some of the inhabitants were not from this planet, either, including myself. Good times! Good times! But, I have wandered, once again, tangential-wise.

D'you remember the bicycle pump? We immediately started to scheme about how to put this to work. We'd already had our fun with why hadn't JC sold it. He says he's been trying. I give him the ol' fish eye and he says “That's because it has something to do with the fact that you haven't put it on eBay,” which this is the first time I'm learning about eBaying his white elephant, but JC says that's because “I sleep all the time.” As if, ha! So, I didn't ask if he tried to make an appointment with my secretary, because I already told him I fired her last week, because she screwed up all of his doctor's appointments. Ain't retirement a gas?

This is the latch-key car wash across Nebraska Ave., 33602 from where I live. Tis a real dive and all sorts of nefarious goings-on, do indeed, go on. But they charge .25 cents for air!

So, I come up with the bright idea of returning to the old days, when competing gas stations would have GAS WARS. Seeing as how the government is shut down, or posturing or huffing and puffing, we, as Senior Citizens (Creeping Jeebus, that is so NOT right to say, let alone write) must take a stand. I have decided that until the time comes that I can either, a) con someone into printing some of my ravings and paying actual money for them, or b) find someone who is willing to accept the incredibly high costs of personal injury insurance just to have me on a stage to play my viola, due to blindness (I am so pulling this out of my ass) that c) I am Challenging the Car Wash to an AIR WAR! 

That's right, folks! Just turn the corner and I'll fill up your tires. You can't see the meter, but this is a professional-type air pump. You can tell by my awesome advertising that I am a pro! 

            So bitches, it's on!

Deliberate Goals: This has been a week of playing catch up, I fear. As much as I want to get to my Deliberate Goals, I have been dealing with a few other problems. I did have a GREAT visit with my neurologist, Dr. Burke. She is very happy with my progress. But, as the week wore on, I realized that I am having a lot of pain in my right eye. Tomorrow morning, first thing, I am off to the ER, as my old eye doctors don't take supplemental insurance. The last time I waited, I went completely blind. Part of the reason last time, I can blame on my selfish and totally self-absorbed ex-husband, Bill Nunnally of Valrico, FL, but I will not wait, and JC will not let me wait. That's another great thing about him. He loves me. Unconditionally.

#ROW 80 – 3RD QTR – SUNDAY CHECK IN – DEPRESSION STEW WITH A SIDE DISH OF NIHILISTIC SALAD

"THIS DIDN'T COME TO STAY, IT CAME TO PASS" -- NANCY COOPER

I have been dealing with this situation for the last 6 or 7 weeks, which is already stupid, because I have better things to do than play Hot Potato with Doctor's Offices, Insurance companies, Pharmacies and Drug companies (I have used my 1 Cymbalta coupon for the year already.) I cannot get a steady supply of my Cymbalta. I take 30 Mg per day and it works well for me. Years ago, shortly after my mother died, I took Zoloft and was unable to get over that muzzy-headed, terrible limp, don't-give-a-shit feeling. I was still married, to He Who Shall Not Be Named, and he being the narcissistic asshole kept thinking I was going to bring him into the picture, with my analyst. I never planned on doing so, because I didn't trust him. At any rate, as I was paying out-of-pocket, I soon had to stop the sessions, as I could no longer afford them. Talk analysis is a bit over-rated I believe when you're pretty sure you know the causes of the pain.


At any rate, I have fumbled along with this since the age of around 16. My mother was depressed and tried to take her own life, something I will never, never do. The horrendous trauma and the complete bewilderment of my father, along with his feelings of betrayal and loss, even though she didn't die then, pretty much put the cap on what was by then, a stormy marriage. I was 7.

I was 1 year old and my father was in school. He was my primary care-giver.

This led me to vow that I would NEVER have children, and to my shame, I aborted my baby, and kept that vow. Of course, I felt horrible, worse than horrible, but the alternative of adoption was not a choice I could live with and I knew that child would have had as bad if not worse a time as my own; I would have been a horrible mother. I cannot say that with hindsight, I may have been an O-K mom, I just know that I wouldn't have been stellar mom material. Don't get me wrong, I love children. I play with them and can talk to them and teach them and relate well. It was just never, ever in the stars for me have them, so I leave my legacy another way.


Depression is a huge battle. It goes on and on and on and on. And even when you're having good days, you just enjoy the HELL out of the them, because they don't last. But then, what does? Nothing goes on forever. Maybe, depression is God's way of telling us this isn't forever and always. But, look around. If you're halfway aware in this day and age, people are dying; in Syria, now. Back in the 50s, it was the Korean “Police Action,” 60s and 70s, Viet Nam. None of this is new. I will be depressed when I die; that is a statement of fact. How I choose to deal with it, is another matter


What is new is this, the nihilistic attitudes of people who just don't give a good goddamned about their jobs, their relationships, their reputations; anything. What follows is an excerpt of what I have been dealing with for the last 6 weeks and there is absolutely no need for this. I have supplemental insurance, I have Medicare and Medicaid. I have boatloads of friends who are willing to pay for the Cymbalta prescription I already have and none of this is necessary. I just need people to do their goddamned jobs.


Like I did, like I know my readers do. I took pride in my viola playing and being able to do the things I did. I was excellent at it and I have the reputation to prove it. The same thing in IT and I have awards on the wall here in my little place that prove I was good at what I did. I still am. I am 100 for 100 in fixing and rebuilding computer laptops this last month, my colleague and I, and we take pride in that.

I'll fix it for ya, but like violins and Mozart, Unless you're an IBM Thinkpad I hate the bastards.

So, why, tell me, why do so many people not care? A case in point. A friend of mine, Nancy, has a “hoosier” cabinet at her house not very far from her that belongs to me and was given me by my mom when she died. I left my 3rd call today in as many days to Nancy, and said “I thought we were friends. At least treat me as a person of some consequence and Just return my call. Thanks, 'Bye,”


I wouldn't have been so direct with her normally, but this is what it is like trying to get things done. Being depressed and trying to get things done, doesn't help. Then, I think I went too far and will hurt her feelings. Fuck it. I've been having my feelings hurt my whole life and no one ever gave a shit. I want to turn the back part of our place into a little music place, where I can practice and get to my music, but our kitchen is small and my hoosier will give me extra counter space. Besides, IT'S MINE.


Anyway, depression, and a lifetime of dealing with it, makes our brains different than other people's brains. I'm not going to say “normal” because I don't know what the hell that means. I never did. But what it's mean for me is a lifetime of combating feeling unworthy, unloved, useless and in some cases, helpless. Being bipolar can sometimes be a plus; I get a lot more done, like right now and I have to take advantage of that. It also keeps me away from the general populace, which is a very good thing, since most are stupid and will piss me off when I'm like this in a heartbeat. This isn't my Asperger, this is just badly-repressed rage, pure and simple. Asperger is a different sort of "doesn't play well with others," for all you MDs, DOs, PhDs, and other alphabet-soup types out there reading this shit.


It can also be a huge deficit. I have a low impulse inhibition from my essential tremor (which has been remarkable stable through this turmoil, although my COPD is really, really bad) and I will go from 0 to batshitcrazyinsane in less than 2 seconds. Cymbalta kind of mellows that out and I am more liable to, oh, I don't know, think about the consequences before I punch that cholo in the face, with a right jab, who is pissed because I can't find my wallet in my backpack, because I can't see. Maybe I should have just hit him for being so fucking stupid, since I have a cane and glasses and it's apparent I have some impairment. The reason for my insta-insanity? He was clearly impatient and I apologized. So, I said, "Hey, Cholo, you got somewhere to be? I don't think so, don't be so shitty about it." At least I didn't say "Chinga tu madre." There would have been a brawl.


The nihilism is perhaps a defense for people like Becky, the receptionist at the Psych's office who, when I called for the 2nd time Friday afternoon, after talking to Juan at Simply Health and very kindly faxed doctor's authorizations to both my Psych's offices and then waited, per Juan's instructions for 1/2 hours, said, “Hi, This is Mary Walla--” she cut me off, with "hold please" and put me on hold. For 20 minutes. All I had was a simple yes or no question. All I wanted to know was did she receive the paper work that Simply had faxed to both offices. I tried to call the other office, as well. It was 4 pm on Friday, September 13, 2013. I tried and I tried and I tried. I couldn't get through to anyone at those offices. But to just put someone on hold and then turn off all the phones? That's the second time Becky has done that to me.


As most people in the medical community know, you cannot stop treatment for depression and then start, stop and start, stop and start. It's like that for lots of conditions and illnesses. Depression is one of the worst; the yo-yo effect is horrible and JC is threatening to put me in the hospital. But he can't. As long as I'm lucid he can't. I know he's worried about me, but this is not like the time I WAS Baker Acted. I had a psychotic break, then. I feel this; as the author Harlan Ellison interview I heard on NPR, “I wake up angry.”

My parents introduced me to Ellison when I was about 8. I've read his work off and on ever since. He is a keeper.

I agree with that statement. Rage against the machine. Rage against the injustice. Fury at the outer trappings of a society so corrupt it knows not when to fall. Fury at the men and women who lie, cheat and steal their way to the top. Fury at the connivers who pass meaningless, porous laws and then compel the citizens of the land to live or die or be imprisoned by them. Work up that kind of fury that is pure and hot and meant to burn away all the corruption, sybaritic don't-give-a-good-goddamned about anything, nihilistic people who have turned this world into a cauldron of rot. Then, turn that fury to good, write letters, run for office, go to law school and become a constitutional scholar. Stoke that fury. Because this rot is here to stay and it's chromatic in the sense that it runs the spectrum; top to bottom. THAT's how I'm going to deal with this situation; I hope.