#ROW80 3RD QTR 2014 – POST 1 – STUPID COMPUTER TRICKS, NOTES FROM DA 'HOOD, COMMITMENT

I was working on a really nasty trojan infestation at the time of my last post. What I thought was going to be a quick fix, turned out to be a giant hairy mess, with cooties. On an HP laptop, dual core, Windows 7 Premium, that my neighbor had bought for 200.00. Her niece had borrowed it and done some OOvOO and Skype and the usual kid stuff, WITHOUT benefit of the new Microsoft Security Essentials package (which right off the bat, has me asking a million damn questions, such as, doesn't MS already HAVE its own Defender and Firewall for Windows? If so, then why do they need this add-on? They do, don't they, but they don't work worth a SHIT, so MS came up with an app that is like malwarebytes or AVG, or Norton, or MacAfee). A note here, I know I'm in for a laff riot, when a user hands me a laptop with all of that installed and running, or trying to run. Pick two and stick with them, preferably malwarebytes (the free version is just fine) and AVG – BUY the licensed version. MacAfee and Norton are terrible and Norton is so horrible, I used to call it back in the day when it was “Disc Doctor”, “Kevorkian Disk Doctor” it's that horrid. It was known to cause instant suicide if even placed in the proximity of hard drives. MacAfee uses a weak algorithm; stay away from it.

Now that I'm through ripping on all the hideousnesss for a minute, let me tell you what you need to know if you come up with this little gem: f5f5dc.com. Find the nearest cliff and jump off. Just kidding. If you run a pingback on that bastard, it's going to take you to a 404 error screen, along with your quickly evaporating store of patience, so GOOGLE this bastard: "f5f5dc.com" for this:

Bad juju. Anything east of the Iron Curtain is pretty much bad juju. Don't get me wrong. I do a lot of work with the Russians on SAT@home and they are my second largest readership, but for some reason, the majority of trojans and malware come from east of the ole' Iron Curtain. Anyway, this nasty little booger snuck in with our old friend JAVA, on my friend's laptop and is called an “exploit” because JAVA is designed to be “exploitable”. You can read that article here. JAVA is evil and should be killed, buried and drawn-and-quartered ASAP.

This guy helpfully supplied an ENTIRE copy of his what his O/S was trying to do and I isolated the 27 instances of the call commands to HOST or devices/servers outside of his laptop. I had more than 50 such instances on the laptop I was working on and by that time, very little space for any operations by the PC itself. Maddening.

All that aside, trying to run Restore after running malwarebytes on my friend's laptop didn't fix the problem, because the site, or non-site f5f5dc.com is set up to download a little number called tesch.b9 (a true reiterative trojan-high level threat), which causes that laptop to “call” or to try and open numerous browsers via ports, only it truncates that operation and never goes any farther than launching the svchost.dll32 file. Not once, not twice, but as many iterations as the computer will allow until the system is so bogged down, you cannot do anything. At. All. Needless to say, this threw me; I'd never seen it, and when I looked in Task Manager under “Processes” I saw 50 of these svchost.dll32 files and had not yet opened a browser although I was connected to the internet.

I rebooted into Safe Mode without the Internet and saw the various programs, which I removed via Control Program; Adobe Reader, Java, SpyWareBlaster(?), OovOO, but left Skype. I restarted and tried to start a normal session and got the same nonsense. Shit. I was left with nothing but the System Repair, as if the computer had just left the factory to fix it. I found this information from a website called “Tech Support Guy”, found here.

For John Holton, and a few others out there who asked, if you run the malware bytes and the system is behaving properly, but calling for new browser sessions, the best instructions in the world are to be found here and make tons of sense. For everyone else, if you're on a PC, and even if you have itunes, or whatever, you need to seriously reconsider whether you want to keep running JAVA. I haven't run JAVA since 2011, and I have 4 systems, and have not had to reload anything. But, it really sucks if you lose all of your data files, especially your pictures and your videos. Do yourself a huge favor and check out Dropbox and Synch; they're free for the first 5 gigs and you can safely store your LOLcats, recipes for onion dip and pictures of little Johnny dropping Gampy's dentures in the toilet.

I'm still batting .1000 for fixes, but the trojans get nastier and meaner and I can only do so much after the fact. Someone needs to bring me a nice relational database problem, or something; this living on the edge has got to stop!

Speaking of living on the edge, Alex and I rode the bus recently; actually we ride it all the time, but every so often, you get lucky and something, or somebody note-worthy happens along. It was a Friday morning and already in the 90s and muggy. We were sitting in the bus shelter, on Nebraska Ave., 33605, waiting to ride uptown to some of the stores, when this gentleman appeared, and I use that term the way in which it was intended. This was a gentle soul. He had on sandals, nondescript pants and shirt and a cane. His long, flowing hair was blond and his eyes were blue. He had a long, long, well-kept beard; it was a patriarchal beard. His gaze appeared fixed on some other world. Alex was sitting across from me, and this gentlemen stood between us and a bit to the rear of the bus shelter, so that I could see Alex's eyes. He caught mine, and quickly looked at our gentle soul and said “Hallelujah!” just about the time I noticed that our gentleman was carrying, besides his cane, some kind of wooden stake with a point on the end.

Buddy Jesus wasn't riding the bus that day. I can just hear my  Ma; "You are SO going to Hell, Mary Louise!" and I can hear my Daddy laughing; I was the one who told the Episcopal Priest, who had been invited to Sunday Dinner in a fit of ecumenicism by my mother, "Hmmm, Catholic Lite, All the Ritual, Only Half the Guilt." That's not even my line, but I'd heard it somewhere; my mother spent that lunch with a hideous fixed grin on her face, but it didn't stop her from inviting starving protestant Pastors, Rabbis and various leaders of other faiths over for Sunday dinner. We probably had a snake-charmer or a Warlock, in the crowd somewhere.

I turned my head away from our gentle soul and hissed “I am so going to beat the shit out of you, Alex!” and spent the next seven minutes until the bus arrived trying not to look at anyone or anything. When the bus finally DID arrive, forty-three eternities later, Alex and I kindly let the gentle soul get on first. I burst out, “What is wrong with you? You were making fun of “Jesus, the Vampire Killer! I can't take you anywhere!” The last part of this was drowned out by the 'hood, which decided to drive by and share its music with us, at that precise moment. Yo! BOOM BOOM! Cracklezzz! Yo! BOOM BOOM! Cracklezzz! Yo! BOOM BOOM! Cracklezzz! Yo! BOOM BOOM! Cracklezzz! (The cracklezzz being the part of the sub-woofers that ripped itself in two and died a few years ago, I guess, back when our 'banger was livin' large.) All of this happenin' sound is crammed into a crappy little Toyota Corolla, the car of choice for 'bangers on the go, complete with doors and hood in different colors than the body. The rear sags on one end and the car is belching some ferocious smoke. The driver is either so short, all you can see is the top of his head, or the springs all broke in his driver's seat, OR, he's got the bitch leaned back in a nearly-prone position; he is the personification of phat. The traveling rap show leaves us, just as we get on the bus. Well, my day has just been made.

Everything else around here has been the ole' same-o same-o, minus the knife fights. We still have to pick Señor Cerveza up out of the street now and then, but he's a fixture; at least we know where he is. There's a new restaurant opening up, just to the west of us. At least I assume it's a restaurant; they're moving in tables for four and chairs to match. I can't tell from the décor what the cuisine will be; just so long as they're not serving cat. Just kidding.

Mama, doing the second-best thing that cats do. The first thing is eating.

This is enough of a “debut” for me on what is the eve of #ROW80 3RD QTR 2014. I am committing myself to posting EVERY DAY as I once did when I started #ROW80. I do love to write and getting back into the harness, I know, will make me a better writer and I hope, better equipped to dealing with editing “Music of the Spheres”. I've been trying this whole editing thing, and as one who has always slapped words down onto a page and STET, I don't have this whole patience thing down, nor do I have much of a filter; too much second-guessing.

I took a bit of time off from any social media, which I hope has not hurt me too much. It can be overwhelming, and dealing with home stuff has taken priority; JC's heart attack was a huge wake-up call for him and everything was thrown off-kilter. His health has been much better of late, but I am also a “lone-wolf” in the sense that I get burnt out on people; even online. Blame my Asperger and bipolar, but I always feel I get lost in the shuffle and that is more habitual thinking on my part, and I've been practicing self-affirmation, and asserting oneself. I did a lot of that when I was in the homeless shelter, but that's a whole other skill set, one in which you NEVER back down, even if, as von Clausewitz stated, “war is (or becomes) the continuation of politics”. Obviously, this is much different and besides, I have always been comfortable being alone. But, too much of it is not healthy; I don't want to end up like the weirdo cat-lady.

At any rate, I feel renewed and ready to join in the fun, conversation and camaraderie with other writers, and especially my pals at #ROW80. There's also #NaNoWriMo looming, and I have to figure out what in the hell I'm going to write for this; I hope I'm not a one-trick pony.

#ROW80 SUNDAY CHECK IN – POST 14 – ONLY ON NEBRASKA AVE., 33602, 33605, 33604, ETC.

I believe I've mentioned that everything that can possibly happen has happened here on Nebraska Avenue, whatever the zip code. As I roam around pretty much within these 3 zips, it's safe to say, I've seen just about every kind of human failure, vice, venal and cardinal sin committed, along with just about every sort of human kindness, sacrifice and altruism given in aid as well, not as part of someone's job, but because someone cared and ached for a fellow being.

That being said, lots and lots of weird things happen and just plain, WTF? of the unfathomable variety. Laziness? Because you could? What part of no did you not get? Case in point being the famous hole in the counter between the registers in the Sweetbay Pharmacy. The hole is 2” across; not very big. People kept throwing garbage in it and it was a real pain in the ass for the pharmacists' assistants to get the little wadded-up pieces of paper and gum and lint and what have you out of the hole.

Look how happy he is! He's just waiting for you to throw your linty mint, chewed-up pencils and broken hair barettes in here. (Frankly, when inanimate objects start doing this, I'm outta here!)

The easy solution? They started out by writing “DO NOT USE THIS FOR GARBAGE.” Less than 20 feet away is a perfectly good garbage can for, ohbestillmybeatingheart: garbage. I know; right? Garbage kept magically appearing and the pharmacists' assistants kept having to dig the little wadded-up pieces of paper and gum and lint and what have you out of the whole.

The thing escalated. Next, one of the assistants put a medicine bottle that just fit in the hole. You could still see the “DO NOT USE THIS FOR GARBAGE.” This did not deter are garbage squirrelers or throwers, or lazy assholes, or whatever. They removed the bottle, and dumped their little pieces of wadded paper, gum, lint and what have you, so the pharmacists' assistants would now have to remove the bottle and dig out all of the day's debris.

Someone finally got pissed enough, after 2 years of this shit and put about 6 pieces of duct tape over the bottle, so that if some garbage scofflaw wants to get rid of his or her pocket trash, they will either have to peel off 40 minutes worth of duct tape, which will get them beaten to death by an angry Pharmacy department, or walk the 20 feet to the real garbage can. When I heard all of this, I just shook my head and said, “Only on Nebraska Avenue.” Two of the assistants live near me and they howled. They knew what I was talking about.

This is pretty much how we roll here. From shoe-guy on the bus, to slum landlords who think bedbug control is using a 1200 degree heat gun on your mattress, completely missing the "oops, my mattress caught fire" factor, taking bets on how long it will be before someone violates parole and ends up back in the slammer and the ever-popular bus stand game, "Can I have a dollar?" No. "Can  I have fifty cents?" No. "Can I have a bus pass?" Shut up. "Can I have a dollar? ...

This was taken from my porch. I face east. Directly south of this house is the homeless shelter where I lived, before moving here, when I received my disability. It's a magnificent house; there's a plaque on the front explaining it's history.  This is where Teddy Roosevelt stayed at times when he was mustering the Rough Riders, a volunteer corps. After the Civil War, there were not enough soldiers to engage in the Spanish-American War. There was also a fierce debate raging in Congress regarding interference in foreign affair. Isolationists v. Imperialists, so, Teddy took his own road.

Which brings me to my next story. There is a house across the street. It is a magnificent house. Theodore Roosevelt stayed in this house, when he was mustering troops, who later became renowned as “The Rough Riders” before they left for Cuba to fight in the Spanish-American War. They arrived in Tampa in 1898. The Rough Riders are still around, and each year for several years, I played “Mass in Timeof War,” By Franz Joseph Haydn. We would play on Veteran's day and the Rough Riders would come; we donated some of the gate to their cause, for homeless children.

The Rough Riders, circa 1898. The staircase leads to the Grand Ballroom of the University of Tampa. I have played in that ballroom many, many times when I was Principal Viola with the Tampa Bay Chamber Orchestra. The acoustics are marvelous!

A little diversion here, because that's how I roll. I always sat first stand and partnered with a fellow from Curtis freaking Institute. Julliard is Curtis's bitch, if you get my drift. William is an awesome player, and of course, he makes me play like I came from Curtis (ha!) but it's axiomatic, you play better when you're with better players. Anyway, we had to have this choral conductor who was no Dr. Charlene Archibault, or Sir Colin Davis, or James Levine, and certainly no Maestro Anton Coppola. Dr. No (not his real name) did nothing but scowl at us. But, he would never tell us what made him scowl. Sometimes, he'd have less of a scowl, sometimes more. After one of our last performances, William said to me, “What's up with him? He always scowls at the violas, but never tells us what to do to make unscowlable.” I said, “Dunno, but did you notice he had plenty to say about every other section. Mebbe he's just pissed 'cause we don't suck.” William and I shrugged and went off to our next gig, “Santa Claus in Whole Notes, Cause We're Violas.” Great use of that performance major. But, I digress.

This is close to the same image now. Check out the minarets. 

Anyway, that magnificent house has quite a history. I housed a high-class madam and her “hoors” for several decades. The mayor and the Chief of Police were frequent fliers there, I hear. Also, once upon a time, this town was pretty mobbed up by the Trafficante family, who had some dealings with a character named Jack Ruby. The Trafficantes pretty denied much any association with him and some of them are still around, but they engage in honest commerce.

Back in the 70s, I believe the house was sold to the present owners who completely gutted it and restored it back to its original state. It has been named a historical sight and is one of the key key attractions of V.M.Ybor (pronounced ee-bor) which is a part of Ybor City, just to the southeast of Tampa proper. V.M. Ybor's neighborhood association is a weird combination of young professionals and hoodlums. Very eclectic. The V.M. Ybor association had to fight like hell to get it named a historical monument. One for the good guys.

I love the piano. It doesn't love me. I had to take a semester in college and I managed a little Chopin and some Beethoven. I got to Rachmaninoff and had a crisis. I'll stick to the viola on ol' Rocky. That's tuff enuf.

Anyway, the guy who now owns the house has a bunch of musical instruments and he had bought himself a new piano. Either an upright grand or baby grand. He had it tuned and then they had to move it into the house. On the second floor. Understand, I'm a bit sketchy on this, because this is lore and happened about 25 or 30 years ago. So, the owner gets himself a piano mover, who is using an... I don't know what. Forklift? Crane? Magic? Whatever he was trying to use, it didn't work and he dumped the piano right spang in the middle of Nebraska Avenue. Other than being out of tune, the only thing that broke, was the little knob on the lid one uses to open and close the thing. Only on Nebraska Avenue. Actually, I say that, but what I'm thinking is this, “they know about pianos on Nebraska Avenue?” Sometimes, the people here make me wonder if they know about fire or the wheel.

#ROW 80 1st QTR – POST 25 – CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

Okay, enough high art, and fiddles, which in my eyes and after my treatment usually becomes low comedy. By the way, in the world of strings, we do call them fiddles, or axes. Unbelievable, but there it is. Although treated with the reverence they deserve, they are our kith and kin. Enough.

I got my crime report for 33605 this morning via email. I’ve been receiving it for several months. I signed up for it and when I received it and had a hilarious time with it, I decided to let them keep sending it to me. This is not the 33605 I know. I know for damned sure it’s not my wee ma’s 33605, nor is it a Wallace 33605. I’ll let you all look at this ferocious crime wave. I am sure Dostoevsky would have written something like “Crime and Scones” had he lived here:

Some laddies made off with Mrs. McGuires' pig, near Pentreath Ln. BOLO

So, I went and hunted up my own 33605. I don’t really need it. We have the Nebraska grapevine and it is pretty right on. We often know who got picked up on a parole violation before the igmo gets put back in the system. Sometimes, I’m not sure if I’m in “Guys and Dolls” or in “Clockers.”

We’ve got a batch of folks (I can’t bring myself to say posse, we might be a crew, loosely inferred) who were all in the homeless shelter together and some of us are still there and some of us are out here, but close by. There are about 5 houses that shelter near one another in this area. Our neighborhood association President, knows everyone. These shelters have a mix of everyone, homeless who are part of homeless recovery, felons who are on parole, sex offenders, B and E specialists, a murderer or two, mental cases. There are habitual offenders who steal everything that isn’t nailed down. I was there because I was homeless and a “victim” in a domestic dispute. I say “victim,” in quotes, because the guy I was with, looked a hell of a lot worse than I did.

Anyway, here’s the deal. Whatever happened is in the past. You’d be amazed at how far that gets you in the good will department. Some people do get violated. There’s one guy who’s been running around and I suspect he had something to do with the death of a friend of mine over the summer. I hated him on sight, because he is so very cold and a sociopath, and when I was still kind of frail, I fell between the washer and the dryer and hurt myself, badly. A drug users and one of the sexual offenders were beside themselves. They couldn’t pick me up fast enough. One was running around, getting manager to help me. They were still connected enough to people to respond. The sociopath just stood there and looked. That kind of guy.

I have to say something about sex offenders, or s.o. as they’re called. 90% of these guys are what they call “Romeo and Juliet” people. 18 year old guys with a 15 year old girl. Daddy finds out and bam! They’re in jail. There are some truly creepy ones and when I was there, they were singled out. Everyone knew and you can tell. They’re just fucked up in the head. The others? I lived there for 11 months and never a problem. That is just my opinion, but they are all stigmatized and labeled and their lives ruined and it sucks. I hold my hand out to every one of them. Their gratitude is overwhelming. They work hard to regain some kind of legitimacy in society. As I said our Neighborhood Association Prez knows they’re here. She said no NIMBY here.

This is just part of 33605. Red ellipse shows Nebraska Ave. Of course, some of the crimes include crap like the famous calling TPD because 6'4" tall Mr. C wouldn't do his dishes, so 4'11" D swore at him. Mr. C called cops 'cause she swore. TPD took one look at the 2 of them, told Mr. C to do his dishes and D to stop swearing. Me? I'd have arrested 'em both, just for yuks.

Anyway, we all keep each other informed about what’s going on. The socio-psychopath has no peace, because we’re all on the phones to each other telling one another where he is. He’s scheduled to go back to court for a Grand Theft charge anyway. Hopefully, the judge will stick him in the pen, where he belongs. He’s the Brainiac who ran from the TPD, after he’d made a deal of some sort with the FBI. Dumbass; I heard this WHOOP! And feet running south on Nebraska and Einstein went to Prisneyland for a while.

We are a little community; one of ours died recently. I was on the phone with Jason who still lives in the shelter. He was on the phone with Dana who was at the bedside of Jeff who was dying. Mike was beside Jason. We were all there when Jeff died. It was strange, but oddly fitting. We’ve all been through this hell of being in the system, somehow and landing in the shelter. Dana came to the shelter when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She and Jeff struck up a relationship; he was there because he was homeless and an alcoholic. They cared for one another. Dana and I talked about it later, crying on the phone together. We’re family and like any family, we squabble and we’re rather more dysfunctional than other families.

I had another little epiphany recently. One of the guys, Rick, who still lives at the shelter, works at one of the convenience stores in the area. He can be a pain in the ass, but, who isn’t? I’m horrible. He was the one who cleaned my knee, elbow and head when I fell. JC had had to go to school that day and wasn’t around at the shelter. Anyway, I said something in my stupid callous way; it hurt Rick’s feelings. This big, rough and tough guy. He proceeded to haunt JC for about 3 weeks and kept asking him if he’d done anything. I had noticed that Rick had been sullen and I hadn’t spoken to him. I just assumed he was going through one of his moods. I thought for a moment, after JC mentioned this for the 3^rd or 4^th time. He never did anything like that; this was just not like Rick. Big bear of a guy; I’ve seen him throw some punches. He’s the enforcer at the shelter.

Oh my God. Rick actually looks up to me. He does respect me and cares what I think about him. I would never have expected that because this is such a rough environment. You just let it fly. I can’t ever do that to people I’ve bonded with so closely. It’s like war. We’re foxhole mates. I told JC, “I have to make this right.” I went to the store and apologized and got him some YooHoos, his favorite drink. I told him, “Don’t you ever think I don’t care. We’ve been through some shit. You’re my friend. We can talk. If I say something. Tell me, okay? Are we okay, now?” Big grin. Aw shucks smile. All was right on Nebraska, or as right as it gets.

ROW 80 4th QUARTER POST 9 – NEURON CENTRAL AND TV

Well, I had a thought, but it got lonely and left. It’s been that sort of morning. Fuzzy, unfocused. Interesting dreams. In one of them, Governor Moldemort, was on the television bellowing about how all the fine citizens of Florida needed to quit running over, killing and eating all the squirrels. JC, in his usual forthrightness, hollered at the TV, “What a dumbass!” I screeched out, “That’s telling him!” and woke up. Every limb is zinging. I look at my toes. My right batch of toes look like crushed up peanuts. My left ones look like the cat’s toes when you tickle them, all spread out. WTF??

I lay back down and RIGHT then my brain decides I need to be treated to a variety images of shoe racks for the next, oh, hour it seems like, every time I close my eyes. Of course, this comes with an interestingly frantic sound track of that horrible 50s music that we were all treated to in some class or other, when the teacher had no lesson plan, an extra projector and a spare reel of “Cavalcade of Road Graders Through The Ages.”

The giant screechy thing is exciting; the film was not. On the plus side, I think the music was written by the last of the great "Amphetamine" school of composers, who sadly died at the age of 13, after staying up for 72 months. He wrote 948 symphonies. They all sucked. His name was Benny Something-or-other. We studied him in Roger Muti's Music Boredom class 102. Next week, I transferred schools and my sanity to somewhere else.

Even as an 8-year old, I found this selection of music hysterical. Some serious voice would intone, “The road grader is a magnificent feat of the highest in mechanical technology… blah, blah, blah,” and the string sections would be playing some frantic, frenetic, pretend-happy Leroy Anderson-style scale thing, complete with xylophone and 64^th notes…beedle-beedle-beedle-beedle-beedle-beedle-beedle. Ad infinitum, ad nauseam, up and down the fingerboard, for the entire film.

Yes, I've played in this; I've also played in it's more horrible cousin "Cascading Strings," or "Castrating Strings," as I called it; I have my standards. I am an artiste. 

So, this is not making for a restful time. The hours are ticking by. At least I know why I can’t sleep now and don’t feel so crazily out of control as I did, when this all started happening. Still, I am unable to fall into slumber. I notice something kind of cool. With my eyes closed, my brain remembers how to “track.” My eyes don’t do this when they’re open. So, I’ve figured out how to scan from right to left, with my eyes closed. Now, I can “see” a “panorama” of the shoe rack that my brain is treating me to by scanning from right to left! Now, I’m all excited. I wonder why this doesn’t work when my eyes are open; why my eyes don’t work in tandem. It’s not just that; my brain “sees” one image; it sees 2 and it has for years, even before I went blind; sadly, I have “slacker” brain.

Well, still getting the Leroy Anderson track. Brahms would be nice. I keep seeing shoe racks, then a scramble like a bunch of ions on a TV tube. Channel changing? More shoe racks. Shit. No cable here. This would be a nice time to mention that we have no television. We huddle around my computer monitor, like cavemen around a fire at the Dawn of Man. Being Old Crocks is a primeval business. While we char roasted beast or squirrel, in spite of Governor Crowbar’s abjurements, we watch the very best shows that Crackle, HuluPlus, or Amazon Prime have on tap. Lately, it’s been “Lost” Season 2, so we’re going tribal right now. We’ve been to visit Jack Bauer and Angel.

I find now that I’m writing I pay much more attention to the structure of these stories and how the characters themselves react. I find Angel to be fascinating. The idea of grace through redemption is so oddly comforting and beautiful and pure to me, after decades and years of evil. He truly understands that he has a mission to fulfill at huge cost to himself. Even Spike, though his motivations, towards the end of the series seem a bit less pure, deserves his chance at redemption. He wanted a soul. As people, as men, they are fleshed out; they bicker, fret over trivial stuff and when they have to, they step up. They try not to fail. Their characters work. Maybe because the series  itself is only 5 seasons long. Still, I wanted more of “Angel.”

Jack Bauer I also love; however, by Season 8 of “24,” his only redemption, as a character comes in what he does at the very end. I am not spoiling this for anyone, especially those people named, ahem, Andi-Roo, but up until that last, through seasons 5 through 8, though entertaining as all hell, he gets, well, predictable. As all hellz and kickass as he is, alas, it got old for me. I found myself saying, “Ah yes, the old Jack (fill in the blank) move.” As wonderful as the show and as complicated and, unfortunately, dead-on as I think some of the geo-political nightmares depicted truly are in that series are, it went on  too long. What Jack did at the end made all of the same-old, same-old okay. Chloe flat-out rocked.

We are only into the 2^nd season of “Lost,” and frankly, I already have about 47 million questions, but I’m not familiar enough with the landscape right now to ask. I like how the characters are seemingly connected prior to the plane crash. Whether or not, J. J. Abrams and David Fury can really pull it together with subtlety remains to be seen. David Fury is the one constant with the 2 prior shows and I admire his work. If his name is on a show, I want to watch it. The same for Josh Whedon and several others. As I stated earlier, I never really started paying close attention to writers, directors and show runners before my own attempts at writing and I’m learning from this; it’s amazing. I may be an infant when it comes to celluloid, but I do understand enough about thematic structure and literature to know when I am in the company of some people with pretty solid writing chops. These are a few of them, to say the least. And of course, that also includes my dear AR. She writes the hell out of her bloggy-blog.

Well, this was not where I was going with this post, but my brain wanted to go here and so here we are. SDBN, Now With Added Moms tomorrow (link) and Sunday check in here on “Homeless.” No riots or stabbings scheduled here on Nebraska Ave,33605, but you never know. There’s a BBQ later. We may have some unscheduled muggings.

OH SHIT! We're all dead now! Governor Crowbar told Florida to quit eating vermin. We'll be extinct by sunset!