#A-TO-Z CHALLENGE 2016 LETTER "A"

“A” is for Avenue and not the Madison kind. That kind denotes swankiness, and at the very least, some kind of thought or regard, or tip-of-the-hat to say, “John Madison” and this is not the same at all. This is regarding Nebraska Avenue, running right spang along the eastern side I-275 and parallel to Florida Avenue, which is on the western side of I-275, which runs north-south, in Tampa Florida, of all places. The only tip-of-the-hat to ANYTHING is the name of 21^st Avenue, which beyond all reason is named “Floribraska” Avenue. Why? 'Cause Nebraska Avenue. That's the ONLY answer that makes any sense around here.

courtesy:www.tampa-rv-camp-nebraska.com

Camp Nebraska is still open for business and is a local place for people to camp and visit nearby attractions, like Busch Gardens, our beautiful beaches and Disney World. I couldn't find any information on the history, but it's still open and running. It's probably one of the oldest businesses along Nebraska Avenue. 

Well, not really. Some settlers in the 1870s from Nebraska settled along this route, which has historically been the way most people have traveled to get from the frozen tundra of the north to, well here. I, myself traveled I-75 from Michigan to Florida, which becomes I-275 and runs concurrent with business 41, which is, you guessed it, Nebraska Avenue. Further south, it becomes the Tamiami Trail, which wends its way along the byways of Sarasota, Venice and Ft. Myers, Florida. From there, you have the option of taking Alligator Alley due east across the state to West Palm Beach, or just continuing south-southeast past Naples, all the way across the bottom of the state to Coral Gables.

courtesty:www.tampabay.com

A murder investigation on Nebraska Avenue. These are actually atypical. Most crime involves burglar, petit theft and assault and battery. I have had friends shot though, mainly because they were in places they had no business being. There is a "small town" quality to Nebraska Ave. and several networks of communication between various groups, so that we know where we should or shouldn't be. Of course, there are those, who are out looking to make a buck, either with selling drugs, or themselves. They're a surprisingly wily and healthy lot.

But, Nebraska Avenue is different because it has had the reputation as a hard-living area. The merchants who did settle here, named their businesses after their old home state, and attempts to change the name of the Avenue have been met with stiff opposition, my voice among them. “Nebraska Tires” would seem odd on “Pedro Menéndez de Avilés Avenue”. The idea of a name-change created a firestorm for other reasons as well. Ole Pedro was a 16^th century governor in St. Augustine, Florida. Pedro was responsible for the genocide of French Protestants, so, even though the words “Nebraska Avenue” may connote drug use and 'hos, we aren't quite up to practicing genocide here. Yet.

Not to mention the fact that it would cost thousands of dollars to change ALL of the street signs from “Nebraska Ave.” to “Pedro Menéndez de Avilés Ave.”, so nothing has been heard about this little name change since 2013. On top of that, we'd have to change the conundrum of “Floribraska Ave.” to “Floridro Menéndez de Avilés Ave.”? Not that “Floribraska Ave.” is any prize and I'm really perplexed at the decision to name what is really 21^st Avenue to “Floribraska Ave.” just because it intersects “Florida Ave.” on one side of I-275 and “Nebraska Ave.” on this, the eastern side of I-275.

courtesly:www.google.maps

The first time I saw "Floribraska Ave." on the street sign, I thought it was some kind of mistake. Why on earth anyone thought 21st Ave. needed to be named "Floribraska Ave." just because it was connected to both "Florida" and "Nebraska" Aves. is really beyond any logical comprehension or conclusion I can reach. There are no other streets in Tampa named thusly. Someone in Civil Engineering must have gone on a drunken tear one Friday afternoon, before the naming of street names became something the City Council got it's weasel claws into. 

Just think if settlers from other states had claimed the rights to “Nebraska Ave.”, like say Kansas. “Florisas Ave.” sounds like Sasparilla, or Sarsparilla; something you might sip on of a lazy afternoon, when the bullets have died down. But, I think everyone around here drinks brake fluid, so that's just a southern conceit of mine. Or, say, Texas. “Florixas Ave.” would most likely have people thinking it's Christmas all the time. The combinations are endless and like the “Blips” would undoubtedly sprout its own unique culture, that is already somewhat slightly worse than Cass Corridor in Detroit, but not as deadly as south Bawlmer as depicted in “The Wire”.

courtesy:cltampa.com

This picture was the lead-in to an article "How to Confuse a Hooker" and it was regarding the name change of "Nebraska Ave." to “Pedro Menéndez de Avilés Avenue”. I highly doubt this would work. What mostly happens, is the police chase all the hookers north for a while, and prostitution dies down for a while on South Nebraska. Then, some irate businesses get on the police up on north Nebraska, and the cops go harass the hookers up there for a while. Then, the hookers all run down here, to the southern part of Nebraska. This has been going on for years.

When I lived in the homeless shelter, I spent several evenings being highly entertained by the TPD, as they ran a “sting” near our shelter. We were all sitting on the front porch, the best place to view all the action that goes on at night, right there on the Avenue. At first, we could not figure out, why these two dewds in a huge, lemon of a black Lincoln Continental were backing into our driveway and then pulling out. They did this several times. Me, being about the least street-savvy person (or giving the best impression of one) was yukking it up about what a couple of dim-bulbs these two idiots were. Were they lost?

courtesly:www.google.maps

I lived in the green house next to the white house, when I was homeless. The white house was a notorious whore house way back in the days of Teddy Roosevelt and up into the 30s and 40s, I believe. It is a historical monument, and is part of V. M. Ybor, which is part of Ybor City, famous for its hand-rolled cigars. Now, the white house is respectable, and I can see it from where I live; my "pretend-adopted son" Alex lives there. We're each other's family.

When I lived in the homeless shelter, I spent several evenings being highly entertained by the TPD, as they ran a “sting” near our shelter. We were all sitting on the front porch, the best place to view all the action that goes on at night, right there on the Avenue. At first, we could not figure out, why these two dewds in a huge, lemon of a black Lincoln Continental were backing into our driveway and then pulling out. They did this several times. Me, being about the least street-savvy person (or giving the best impression of one) was yukking it up about what a couple of dim-bulbs these two idiots were. Were they lost?

Across the street, this woman, dressed as if she were about to head into the office and take a meeting was strolling back and forth between the “La Ideal Market” and the Laundromat. No one stopped to talk to her. She strolled back and forth; back and forth, while the dewds backed into our driveway, pulled out, went around the block and repeated the backing into the driveway and, so forth. What we were seeing was the world's most incompetent sting, I believe. I think they picked up one guy, and then they all left. But seriously, TPD, if you're gonna run a hooker “sting”, you need to make your bait look like a hooker, not a CEO. So, that was a fun two hours.

A little while later, 4 guys came up to us, carrying a 40-foot ladder, that they had probably just stolen. They wanted to know if we wanted to buy the ladder for 40 dollars. We all looked at one another. Did we look like we needed a ladder at 11 p.m.? I didn't think so. We sent them on their way. This is as bad as the time my shelter friend Holly's boyfriend asked her if she had a hacksaw in her purse. His name was Ray-Ray; a miscreant's name if ever. More about them, later. Nebraska Avenue is where reality has gone completely out the window and you never know what's around the corner.

courtesy:www.tbo.com

Nebraska Avenue today. This is a mixed-zoning area, which makes it impossible to try and police. Businesses sit cheek-by-jowl with residences and empty lots. The opportunity is here to make lots and lots of money; both legally and illegally. Because it is a "main drag" police have nabbed such luminaries here as Daryl Strawberry, the baseball player and many politicians and other athletes, looking to score drugs and/or hookers. I'm pretty sure you can get anything here, including heavy and illegal military weaponry. 

I'll talk a bit more about that and our own “opportunity zones”, regarding the hookers, that were also a part of that show, later on in the Challenge, But, for now, just revel in the naming of streets and how they do or do not come about, here. 'Cause Nebraska Avenue!

#ROW80 3RDTQR - POST4 – A LIFE OF MYSTERY...

(I don't usually as this, but there is a neat payoff at the end; John Williams' Suite to CE3K. No skipping allowed.) Well, it being Tuesday, which is a really prosaic day, here I am with my usual bag of what ifs, what the hells, confuse-a-whats and general mysteries. I saw my neurologists yesterday, and no, I repeat, NO Parkinson's Disease! Yay! Between my awesome Doctor and I, we think we have what is a diagnosis, but we really aren't even too sure about what, just no PD. How many times has anyone with a neurological whatsis heard this story. Raise hands. 1...2...3...4,5...175...283... You get the drift.

Okay, I said "hands." Not "wings".... or "fangs" And if this is some side-effect of a drug that includes sightings of the dead and cloven hooves, I ain't takin' that either.

I think what I've gotten out of this is that I have something that acts every bit as douchey as Parkinson's Disease, but as I started reading up on my list of medications, I quickly realized that those damned meds PD would kill me a hell of a lot quicker if I don't have PD, so, the beans in my bean say “no” for now “Eeny Meeny, Jelly Beanie, the spirits are about to speak...” says Bullwinkle the Moose. For now, I want them to remain friendly. As the ETs trample through my bedroom twice a week, it's best to remain on their good side. Actually, they stand and stare at me in awe, as I slumber. The little ones get impatient and wake me up. This is a no-shit story and has been going on for months. Now, they're bringing friends, but only when SETI@home isn't running. SAT (practically important!) and Cambridge Cosmology can be running, but not SETI@home. Odd that.

This is the "family." They've been bringing friends. They luminesce and actually give the room a soft glow. They don't huddle up as they used to. One sat in my blogging chair during the last visit. I know I sound like a complete loon. Hey, I'm just the messenger. Or am I? I left out a plate of tangerine pieces in a perfect circle. They went undisturbed for a few nights. One morning, I awoke and the pieces were all disarranged.

Anyway, a little more batshit uncertainty won't make a bit of difference in this house. Reading up on ET vs. PD, we find these differences:

I put red checks beside the symptoms that mimic PD as well as ET, My left side being my stronger side, for some reason has tremors worse on that side, so go figure. I quit drinking, and am on psych meds, so will not be drinking anytime soon. We shall see if the Primidone helps. I have heard that in some cases, levodopa can do more harm to a person who DOES not have PD. I also have almost no symptoms in my legs at all. And I'm as strong as an ox, even with tremors. 

This list shows primary symptoms, and of course, I have had secondary symptoms for years. Working with the brain and the emotional fallout from anything that upsets the brain and physical equilibrium is very much like “Maxwell's Demon.” Impossible to find a tipping point and impossible to find that one blessedly simple thing that will calm, or at least lessen the symptoms.

So, we are trying popanalol, which is a sedative, but we're trying it in an interesting way; ¼ tab a week, at bedtime, then ½ a tab at week, at bedtime, ¾ tab for a week, 1 a week, 1 and ½ for a week, to the full dose of 2 tabs at bedtime. I have been told this will slow me down (ick) and may not work at all, as the Topamax I am currently taking should lessen my tremors if it were truly ET, but it makes them worse, so now we're playing “Wizards 101” here.

However, in all fairness, this is the best combination. All other solutions include beta blockers, which I dare not take, as I have CHF and asthma; this will also slow my heart rate. I quit smoking 3 years ago. My health is generally very good, so I am not concerned. I just get to be a petrie dish for a while. Yay me!

So, on the what-passes-for-normal front here on Nebraska, 33602, the new laundromat is open, so we no longer have to pool our resources and cab our laundry with 3 or 4 people to the other laundry. That was getting old and stupid. Besides, now I don't have to see those people who witnessed me getting my head stuck between the dryer door and the wall. I know I looked like el retardo, but hey, I was fittin' in, big time! Now that Ray is on a year's probation and has a restraining order from this part of the 'hood, well, we did our jobs. He won't last a year; he's too hooked on crack and meth to keep himself straight. One surprise piss test and he has to serve his full sentence. He's an habitual criminal anyway; whatever the FBI thought they were going to get from him, they were wrong, he's a horrible CI (Crime Informant) and it didn't take them long to figure that out and put all of his criminal charges back on the table. That's when we went to work and helped Mr. Wallace (no relation) so he could testify in court.

Ray Martineau

In a 'hood known for douchebags, here is the king of them all. He got mad at 6 of us one night because we couldn't cobble up 40 cents between us. Well it was OUR 40 cents to choose to use as we saw fit and I wasn't giving Ray a dime. No one else was, either. 

Ray knows what I did, with the Indigogo project but I let it be known that if I or any of my loved ones or friends, or our pets got hit by lightning, hangnails, or were hit by cars, the cops would be at Ray's door. It's the “Godfather” defense; and works well.

The second one is so much better, you see her face and she has such a beautiful face!

Unfortunately, you hear more of my caterwauling. 

I have some horrible new cat videos to share, with my horrible singing with my horrible ET voice. It only makes sense that I have ET which I dub thee, Essential Tremor, henceforth. ET, I finally figured out who those critters are that are stampeding through my bedroom at night. They're blood kin, my family. Welcome, from another ET!

#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.

THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSAID?

ROW80 DAY 5 - THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSAID?


Over the years, I have become more outspoken, particularly when it comes to voicing an opinion involving someone bullying a weaker, smaller being. I cultivated this virtue along with what some would see as the vice of just being well, outspoken. I don't seem to have developed much of a governor with the forthrightness. Some may find it offensive. Others say it's refreshing. Others say I'm deranged. I think it's amusing.


I had not even begun to develop these traits when I really hit bottom in September of 2010. Malnourished, bruised, broken bones, unable to walk and blind (well, I was already blind and this predicament is for another telling; the list grows) I was taken to TGH by DCF, where I stayed for 5 weeks. I spent another 5 weeks in a physical rehabilitation center, doing fly-bys on the cafeteria. As I was using a walker, we had slow-speed chases through the halls. The kitchen workers were half-assed in their attampts to recover the stolen goods; I weighed less than 90 pounds. But I digress.


Without saying too much more; I allowed myself to be put in that position. Through a combination of mild outlook and a vague feeling that I would always be rewarded in kind, I held my tongue and my temper. Not a good thing to do. With few exceptions, I never stood up for myself, or anyone else. I can't blame my parents; I had one who was complacent and one who was outspoken to the point of offensiveness, at times. No. What I was, was scared. The stupid thing? I've never been physically scared. I'll take anyone on and have. But verbal engagement? I'm looking for a closet to hide in.


I got over that shit after I almost died. I don't want this to be all serious, because it isn't. I go for the jugular verbally, if the situation is right. I used to do it regularly at Happy Acres. It wasn't fair there, because 1) I think I have a few more operative brain cells than my combatants and 2) I have a few more words at my fingertips.


Some of you may recall the famous, well semi-known story of Mr. C, who is 6' tall. Mr. C, to be fair to him, resembles a golem, only without the manners. He called the cops on D. She is 4'11". D, to be fair to her, resembles a garden gnome on crack, with bad skin. Mr. C called the police on D for calling him a "fucking asshole." The cops, who were well-used to "visits" to HA asked why D would call Mr. C a "swear." D said, "cause he won't do his fuckin' dishes." The cops looked at them both, incredulous. H and I were rolling around on the front porch in mirth over this shit. The cops pointed at Mr. C. "you, do your dishes." They pointed at D. "you, stop swearing." And, they left.


A few days later, H was cooking in the kitchen. Mr. C comes in and says to her, "I wish for counter space." She looks at him and says, "Bite me." He says "I do not wish to bite you, I wish for counter space." I almost fell into the sink. 


Mr. C's adventures continue. A day or so later, I was standing at the foot of the stairs in our house, talking to H and D. Mr. C comes up behind me. I know it's him. I can sense his golemness behind me. Snort. Mr. C never talked. He snorted. Snort. Impatient snort. Then, "...Move!" No "Excuse me, Pardon me, Do you mind?" I jumped and yipped. It scared me. He passed by. I said,"You could warn a person, Dumb Shit! Now, are you going to call the police, or should I call 'em myself to save time?!?"


Hilarity ensued in that hall. Mr C had a "reputation." As what, I've never quite established. He's from the Congo, or maybe it's Pluto. It's hard to tell. He golfs. I used to see him get on the Number 2 Nebraska Avenue Bus with his clubs wearing his stupid garish golf clothes and cleats, minus the hat with the puffy ball. Picture that among the 'bangers with their tats and hoes. 


He may have been trying to channel Snoop Dog, but the Dawg is way cooler. Dawg doesn't have the Mental thing going on. Besides, golf and Municipal Bus Line don't mix. The biggest gut-buster of this whole thing? The first time H and I saw him with the clubs, at different times I might add, she asked "so, are you going to club yourself about the head and shoulders with those?" and, later I asked Mr. C, "oh, off to commit mass murder today, are you?" Later, when we compared notes, I thought I was going to have to buy a truss. 


This post probably falls under number 17. A catastrophe now makes a good story later. Only this is a slow-moving one. Fo' shizzle.