Friday, October 25, 2013




“We all need to play the music that we hear inside. To do that, some of us have greater mountains to

climb than others. For the Landfill Harmonic, it’s a mountain of trash.” 

Landfill Armonic - Orquesta Reciclaje via NPR

Having known from a very, very young age, that music would be a part of my life, I am always gleeful when I run across things like this. I think that without music, as Beethoven would say, "life would be a mistake." I've tried to act upon this in every way possible, I mean, look at me, I ended up a viola player. The butt of jokes in symphony orchestras the world over.

A funny thing happened during this journey, apart from the getting sick, homeless, having a complete bastard of an ex-husband, Bill Nunnally (you really didn't think you were going to skip mention in this post did ya, ya tar-hearted meany-pants philanderer and liar extraordinaire? You're in for the long haul and you know you deserve it, Lithia, but enough about you. This took a whole 2 seconds of typing.)

The music never died. It just won't quit. In case I think it's gone, I have these friends? Angels? People who have come to know me, yet have never clapped eyes on me and yet understand that ours is a shared passion. The passion to make music. To that end, we have the Recycled Philharmonic. How awesome is this? After all, before Pablo Casals learned to play cello on his gourd that his dad crafted for him in Puerto Rico, when little Pablo was, like 3 years old, way back in antiquity, people were beating on hollow logs with sticks and then jamming said sticks into hollow gourds.

This was actually in the Weekly World News. Y'know the rag that used to feature Bat Boy, so there may be some veracity issues. . .

A Short History of Music, You Won't Find in Any Book:

Oog, or Ogg got the bright idea of tying a few pieces of yak hair to the top of the stick and affixing it to the bottom of the gourd. Voilá! He had him the first proto-type plucked instrument. A bent stick with eohippus tail hair became a bow and pretty soon, the whole cave was stringing away.

I am not sure how long it took Oog and Ogg and crew to discover that by shortening the string length of their now-bowed instruments would change pitch, but I'm guessing it didn't take long. As far as organized groups of like sounds and all that, I didn't take music anthropology in college, I was too busy studying the viola and playing things like Bach's "Unaccompanied Cello Suites" transcribed for viola. The piece Bebi is playing "Unaccompanied Suite #1 in G Major, Prelude" is the first juried piece I played in university. It is absolutely thrilling to hear it played again and so well. His interpretation is well-nigh flawless. 

Music and the arts are the things that differentiate us from the animals; although, I wonder sometimes. We have cats and elephants painting and I believe I saw dogs doing interpretive dance, although I would argue against that as an art form. It's more like the Emperor's New Clothes school of Arts, like the Concerto for Vacuum Cleaner and Symphony Orchestra I once was forced to sit through as a student, because our music professors were working out their hostility issues, or something.

Anyway, this is a love letter to all of those musical people; the musicians with notes in their hearts and beats in their souls, and it's not from me. I'm just a conduit. I was inspired by something ancient and something from so long ago it is an atavistic feeling, but most shared things such as this usually are. Thank Colin Falconer for this lovely find. I must go now; I have a viola that is yearning for some Bach, Sibelius, but absolutely no Mozart!

You can find the Landfill Philharmonic on Facebook:

There is also a Kickstarter for funding here:

Wednesday, October 23, 2013


I'm probably committing some kind of mortal sin by using a contraction in a title, but I'm feeling a bit reckless and devil-may-care these days. I just got ANOTHER call from the doctor's office. All of my studying for my latest round of blood work, got me an S-Minus (for Unsatisfactory, per Sundae Rye; a term I never knew existed, but I love it.) Anyway, my hemoglobin is a bit less than 10, which is after taking iron and B-12 shots and all the other hooey. Well, shit.

So, now, the dreaded colonoscopy. The test is fine; it's the drinking and "cleansing" I can do without, and I know what they're gonna find. Bupkus. So, enough of that. As to goals? I feel good, I know after a screaming run to the ER, that I'm NOT going blind; no glaucoma, no macular degeneration,  just the usual lack of depth perception and inability to make my eyes track. 

I tried explaining to the 3rd doctor, I saw on Saturday night, how my brain perceives images. I said, "does that make sense?" He said, "No." As long as I don't have glaucoma or macular degeneration, or diabetic neuropathy, I guess it's between me, my eyes and my brain. I still don't know what in hell's going on. 

Writing? Meh. A little here, and a little there. Trying to get my stuff together and gather resources for NaNoWriMo, which is coming up, and trying to hang with Alex J. Cavanaugh's IWSG group, since I got a huge case of stage fright when I got just a RETURN email from the Florida Writer's Association and told them basically, "Oh. Hell. No." This from someone who can make a total ham of herself on a stage either talking, or playing the viola. WTF?

So, in keeping with that, I thought you'd enjoy what passes for random or what used to be called whimsy, which this is actually neither of those two, because I worked hard on this; I really did. I wrote it a while back and it's the closest thing I have in my writer's "repertoire," that comes to spooky, although, I think the operative word here is "spook" as you'll see in the post. So much for goals. One thing, though. I typed this in a record 10 minutes. Last year, this would have taken an hour! Let's hear it for better living through chemistry? Now I'm off to noodle around on Wolf; that's a definite reward!


Sunday, October 20, 2013


Happy Birthday, Ma! You'd be 83 years old today, if you were here. Dammit, as much as we had our bitter messes and fights, we made it right, so I'm writing you this letter. I miss you, so very much. Ma, it's been a long time since you and I have spoken. In fact, it's been over 13 years, and I have a lot to say. We had a lot to say to one another over the years, most of it bitter and unkind. There were reasons for that and as these things go, not all of them are your fault, and not all of them are mine. Being life, it's just one of those things.

You used to scare the Bejesus out of us every time you crabbed down a runway...

It has taken me many, many years to arrive here and develop the clarity and serenity that I have wanted all of my life. Not judging here, but it didn't start well. Being whip-smart as a kid and having an alcoholic father (although, blessedly, one who was kind to me and always told me the TRUTH) and a mother, who wanted the best for me, but was also jealous of me and manipulative in her own right.

Yes, jealous. I wasn't planned; I know it. Daddy told me and would laugh, but you never did. He said I wasn't really planned, but once I “got here, you sure are a hell of a lot of fun!” Silence from you. See, that's how I know. There was always that issue. Then, when you tried to take your own life, when I was 7 and y'all tried to hide it from me, well, that was just confusing, because you see. . .

Wallace Family Christmas, 1956. Complete with Ceremonial Baby Talc

Kids know. You can't lie to kids. They just know this stuff and I knew you weren't shopping at Sears, or whatever. Unfortunately, I still have a hell of a memory. Still, even after all the years of abuse I've heaped on myself. I also knew from that day on, that things between Daddy and you changed and would never, ever be the same. I tried to always pretend they were perfect, but all the hollering and screaming at night (mostly by you) just are really scary to a little kid, and I would be so very anxious, and lay awake all night. I just never felt any security.

And, I could never be what you wanted me to be. Always yelling, or it seemed like it; telling me I was ugly and stupid. Hitting me; then you'd feel sorry and try to make it up. These things are confusing. I was just a bad little kid. No wonder I didn't have any brothers and sisters. I would have liked some, just to take the focus off me, once in a while.

It did and it didn't get better as I grew up. The whole competition thing and I really don't want to get into who you thought I should have married. Plain and simple, you pretty much helped me sabotage my first marriage, but prior to that, I was already battling depression and I didn't know that until just recently.

Lives are just giant puzzles and I find them endlessly fascinating. It's like a whole bunch of strands weaving in and out; some come together and make beautiful tapestries, with subtle colors and shining hues. Some become tangled and snarled and corrode. What a metaphor, I think. Anyway, I have a neurological condition and it is caused by depression; an existential depression that began at the age of 16. I recently found this out from my neurologist, who is probably one of the finest in the country. We dug into my past and in talking, figured out some stuff.

The depression goes hand in hand with what is called familiar tremor or essential tremor, which I observed in you, when things were tense. It is inherited. Nothing you can do about that. You and I worked through a lot of shit together. We had some rocky times; very rocky. I understand more now why you were the way you were and I've long since forgiven and most of all, pretty much forgotten anything we did to one another that was truly horrendous.

I know you loved me beyond reason, as I do you still. That will never change. I still love Daddy, too. He was funny as hell. From him and from you, I received the best of you both. I can think of no finer things than that. We don't get to choose our parents. We can choose how we shape our lives.

You used to holler at me when my socks were run down at the heels; now I know why. Ma, in 1944. 

To that end, though, I have to say this, I did deny you at a time when you needed it most and I paid for it dearly, and you will understand this. I truly believe you hear me when I say these things; here, or in my heart. You were scared, but we had been fighting and I was impatient. I didn't want to hear any more of your shit. I was about 38, and had just moved to Florida. You had taken the time to show me around, but you were starting to push my buttons and we were fighting already.

Funny how our relationship was always so much better long-distance, than up close; anyway, you said, “Mary, I'm scared. I'm sick, and I don't know what's going to happen.” I just ignored you. I really was nonplussed and had no words. You had never, ever opened up to me like that. It's just one of those moments in time. I should have said, “Wait a minute.” I needed to rethink this, or I need to stop seeing whoever I was seeing at the time, but I didn't want to fool with it.

I am so sorry for that, and I know you forgive me for it, but I still cry over it. Because I know how it is to be so very sick and ignored or worse, yet, screamed at and belittled. Bill Nunnally, my 3rd husband, did a similar thing. I remember telling you my doubts about him while you were still alive, and we were living in Charlotte and you were oh, so sick, and you said, “I'm sorry. He seemed nice,” when we visited you in October, 1999 during our 1st Wedding Anniversary. He was anything but, and committed emotional and psychological spousal abuse, when I was sick. So, what goes around, comes around. Jesus, what a tired old adage.

I leave you with this. I have become the person I was meant to be. I am proud of who I am. I live authentically, and I call bullshit, even on myself. I love you and I miss you and Daddy. I'm not really alone. I have friends; great friends who love me and I love back, unreservedly. I live in da 'hood, after being homeless; it wasn't in the game plan, but, it has it's moments. I've gotten a broader education here, but I've also found out I don't need a whole lot to be happy.


Your loving daughter, Mary  

aka ViolaFury

October 20, 2013

Lithia, see here for Verbal Evisceration and for anyone else who is interested in aberrant, deviant behavior and what not to do, to gracefully rid yourself of an encumbrance, please feel free to follow the links.

Extra, Extra Content -- DELIBERATE BETRAYAL

"It was easier for you to do all the things you did, because you never really trusted me in the first place. However I felt the blow after blow of betrayal to my psyche, injuries that only you could inflict, because I continued to trust you." – Anon

Bill – and this will be the last time I ever address you by name, and hopefully, address you period, as with this, the boil is lanced, but, I dislike you, no, loathe, hate, despise you, that much – the above quote pretty much sums up our marriage. I may have been a stupid fool, but I believed in you and expected the same in return. We tend to look at the world through our own prism; if we're kind-hearted and loving, we expect the same in return, regardless of the circumstances.

Anyway, I wanted to wish you a very, very happy ex-Anniversary, on this, October Ninth, year of our Lord, 2013. Enjoy it, you philandering, lying hypocrite. D'you remember your very last words that you ever spoke to me, after you asked me for your cell phone bill in late October-ish, November, of 2004, when I said I didn't have it? “You're a liar.” I, of course admit now, that I had it, and had called Andrea Tapiocahead in Maryland and informed her that I was your then wife, because you, not being omniscient, could never have known otherwise, no? I also told her that if you treated me this way, you would eventually treat her the same way! Ain't that great?

What I should have answered, but was oh, so very, very sick with Congestive Heart Failure, blind in one eye that was caused, not by my drinking, as you so sanctimoniously loved to tell me was bad, which yes, it was; that's what alcoholics do, when they're offered a beer by their then-boyfriends, whom they have trusted for a year or so, but by anemia, failure to thrive (childhood – I found out by getting into my old hospital's system, but I don't leave tracks; it's depressing to find out that the deck is that stacked, BUT, (deep breath) by stress and the fact that I had had ulcer surgery, and really, really neglecting my B-12 shots. I SHOULD have said to you, after you said, “You're a liar,” “Well, at least I'm not a philanderer.” So laughably ironic and sad; or as the late, great cellist Spencer Mcgee said, “Sad and an asshole.”

Where did things go wrong? That week I spent in Tampa right after we moved to Charlotte and I had contractual obligations to fulfill, in December, 1999? You were perfectly content to let me stay alone in that house on Annie Street all by myself, with no phone, no protection, and when I asked Herb if I could sleep on his couch, he said “yes.” Yet, your were so pissed by that. In what realm of what universe does that make sense? How fucking safe is that? Then, you swelled up like a horned toad and acted like the typical shithead you are until I pried it out of you in April, 2000.

NOTHING HAPPENED! Nothing was going to happen. But, no woman is going to stay by herself in that neighborhood. Your sense of self-righteous indignation are just breath-taking. Then, the following month, when you went to Tampa for Katie's Graduation, and stayed a few extra days, you came home and looked like you'd had about 8 8-balls shoved up your nose. The look on your face was pure guilt; I'm sure you climbed into somebody's pants in Tampa. I'm lucky I never got a disease from you. I was completely faithful throughout our marriage.

You just never had the stones to deal with anything or anyone that had REAL trouble. I was the one who carried Rusty outside and down the stairs after he had his stroke, so he could go potty; you couldn't even look at him. You MADE me help you drag Eric out into the back 40 when he had dug into his hole under our porch, so you didn't have to hear his screams, when he was dying.

When Eric had all those fistulas, I was the one who took care of him; wiped his bottom and broke up those capsules so he would heal. I cooked, cleaned, ironed, split the bills. I even agreed to split the bills 50-50, although it was a hardship, when you UNILATERALLY decided to quit your job at CGS and go back to school so you could save the world and make a difference.

In doing so, I helped there, not just with the bills, but with your job and the making those poor girls brownies. The one who lived over on the East Coast of Florida, as soon as she got out and was calling us, as you had bonded with her, you had me dealing with her, because it was too much trouble for you to deal with her. Just dump it on me.

Then, there's Herb. Herb's okay, but forgetful. You came at me over the finches dying after I had been away on a gig for a week or so. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Feed and water them by ESP? I TOLD him to take care of them and you have the temerity and the goddamned nerve to say to me, “What a shitty way to die!” I wasn't going to tell you he forgot. I was protecting him, because he was my friend (I thought) and because you were acting like some kind of fucking schizophrenic asshole, instead of just being your regular asshole self.

You were so far deep into your self-righteous “I am the all-knowing one with the job, while my lazy asshole wife lays around, does God knows what drugs, drinks, runs around. . .”

You were seeing me through YOUR eyes. You were the one who told the girls time after time, “I've quit smoking!” and then hide it from them; while Katie was snowboarding in Charlotte, in 1999, to Kyle, over and over and over. And you wondered why Kyle was pregnant BEFORE she left high school? Do you REALLY believe Fran didn't know? I knew, but I wasn't going to say a fucking word. Just reading this paragraph presents a whole basket of “STAY THE FUCK AWAY – LIARS AHEAD!!”

I think Katie has a pretty good moral compass, or at least she did, if she gets a chance to read this, understand, I meant you no harm, nor Kyle, ever. I loved you both, but you, especially. It really hurt me, when your father isolated me from the birth of Alex, and he did that with deliberation. I couldn't have driven to see her, I had one good eye and as it was, driving short distances were, understandably terrifying. Try covering your left eye and just walk around. No depth perception and no peripheral vision. Now add to that, labored breathing and a bad heart and a cheating husband and no one to turn to. For about 6 weeks. Then one day, your heart says, “no more, if you go back, you'll die.” Two grocery bags of clothes, my viola and violin and I was gone to live on a friend's couch.

The same thing with Dwayne. He was sick the day I got home from Brandon Regional Medical Center, where I had been for 2 weeks, with CHF. I had to have 6 pints of blood transfused because I only had 2% hemoglobin in my body. The day after I got home, Dwayne was in a corner. You were clearly doing your own thing, which wasn't feeding the cats, or whatever the fuck it was, just waiting to make my life more miserable. He could hardly breathe. I had to take him to the vet. I had no money, after having losing my job with Chase Manhattan because of my blindness. I had to call around to find a vet who would see me and him, because I had not money. The vet was straight up with me. We looked him over and he was in bad shape. His breath smelled bad; when he could draw breath, it rattled and he wheezed. He sounded like his parts were broken. After much discussion, I called Herb, who was now living with us (how did I know that was going to happen?) and he at least was sympathetic and had a grave dug, by the time I got home.

I was going to tell you, but Herb beat me to it, and you whirled around and said, to me, you said, you miserable cock-sucking bastard, “You murdered Dwayne!” I put him out of his damned misery, which you were too blind with lust, for the afore-mentioned Andrea? Self-righteousness over how very wrong I was, and how very right you were? Whatevs.

There were so many little petty mean things you said and did that I cannot possibly enumerate them all. I truly believe that your soul will be cast out into the darkness and you will be anathema. You will be denied grace and forgiveness; you will be denied any succor or understanding, because, you, you bastard have denied it, when it was so desperately needed. Cast into the stygian blackness, you are commanded to the Elders of Cthulhu, in the Time and Color before space. It exists.

That is partly the Catholic rite of excommunication and partly H. P. Lovecraft, and all mine. Curses are powerful things. You are damned and cursed and I am sure that at some point, if not by me or any agent that I choose to put into play, retribution will be made. I realize that I am damned lucky to be alive; I am also much stronger than I was.

Oh, and hey? Before my eye surgery? Thanks for yelling at me about not doing anything; that was great. You: “You just sit there and look at that goddamned book!!” Me (thinking) “Hmm, no job, totally blind, and he's yelling at me. I cannot believe this; what the fuck am I supposed to do? Grow new lenses?” I actually was thinking nothing; I was too terrified, humiliated and scared and you fucking knew it and made it worse. Rot in hell, you bastard. Herb stood by and watched all of this. Take him with you.

Anyway, the reason I posted the post on my blog, “Homeless Chronicles in Tampa” on May, 22, 2013, is because I found out that you were working at Gulf Coast Jewish Services, which I take as a HUGE insult, slap in the face, whatever. My mom worked there, and although, we had our years and years of problems, she and I made it right. The only thing I agree with you about is this: “she has wisdom.” Ma would say being really sick teaches a lot about compassion, but it also teaches you tons about true unconditional love and acceptance and accountability. It also teaches you about looking at the mote in your own eye.

If she were alive now, she would not only loathe you, but Herb, and most of your family. She would encourage me to probably go farther than I am, I think. Not a goddamned one of you did a thing. I was sick and dispirited for a long time after her death, but that was nothing compared to what has happened after I left 4406 Spring Road, Valrico, Florida, 33596. Let's just say, I've had more interesting times and I'm much better off for it. I heard you left there; somehow I am not surprised. You like to “re-invent” yourself every few years. Maybe one of these years, you'll find a re-invention that's human and not cyborg or an asshole2(That means “squared” and not a footnote, igmo.)

I still practice my arts; not that you care. Because, I have lifelong loves, and unlike you, I am a real musician. I've kept up my computer skills and can fix anything and do pretty much anything, from home. Although I am legally blind, there isn't a place in this world I can't travel.

But, I really only left, because I was starting to fear for my life. My heart was growing weaker and I was supposed to avoid stress. I know Herb was telling you everything, but I truly believe that if I had had a heart attack and fallen to the floor, you would have stood there and watched me die. You were hoping I would die and then everything would be yours and you wouldn't have to fool with me anymore. I didn't want to leave. I don't like leaving, but you knew what buttons to push.

Now, that I've seen the elephant, I'm not afraid of anything. Not you, not anybody. I wish I had the guts then that I have now, but this is life and we don't get what we wish for.

However, we did discuss at one time, my 5,000.00 401k that you “borrowed” in Charlotte, NC and you were going to pay me back. That never happened. That wasn't in the divorce settlement. Also, 200.00 for Jake, 200.00 for that violin (that you played so badly) and 200.00 for the Celestron Telescope, that was supposed to be “our” Christmas Present to one another, one year. By, the way, the divorce settlement, exactly covered the amount of money I paid for all the bills and food JUST while I was in the Valrico house. Never mind the stupid Atkins Diet that I "shared" 300.00 a week for food on, when we were in Charlotte, NC.

You also have a heavy iron skillet that is like glass, that belonged to my grandmother, and I want that back. I also want my mother's Garden Fairy. You kept a bunch of my heavy rods and reels, that were presents, INDIAN giver. Never mind. The girls gave me the Mix-Master for Mother's Day in 2002, but it's too ironic. You keep it. The sign that reads “Stinkbug Creek” that I bought and paid for, if you haven't already gotten rid of it, please take it down and burn it; I'm serious.

That's about all I have to say. I am posting this on October 9, 2013, which would have been our whatever year anniversary. Big fucking deal. I am also thinking mailing you, Herb, Katie, and whoever else I can think of a copy, of this here fine post. Don't get your panties in a wad and think about filing harassment or stalking (as if!) charges, because I will stall and file continuances and we'll end up in a jury trial, and talk about some more of your rotten behavior and I'm not doing anything illegal. I'm disabled, legally blind, and on SSDI. Mostly, I just wanted to tell you what a cock-sucking, son-of-a-whore you are, and I doubt you have the stones to refute or explain ANY of this. I would ask Herb about that note, however. 

One thing I am curious about; just what did you tell Katie, John, Kyle and her husband, your sister Cathy Bush and her husband Dan Hill in Oklahoma City, Fran or anyone else, in the Blanton family, about why I was no longer in your life? What kind of opprobrium did you heap upon my reputation, so that you could look like the good guy? You are a churl, coward and bully, and I dare say, you told them all I was cheating on you and running around, or crazy. You most certainly said nothing to Cathy and Dan until after the fact, because they strike me as kind people, people who would be concerned that a woman with no other family, was being systematically shunned by her so-called "family-by-marriage." Think back on your own father's behavior towards your own mother Irene Stone. If she left you behind, she had damned good reason to and I'm sure it was with regret, but she also felt her life threatened. Think about that, long and hard. 

5,000.00 loan for cashed in 401k (no interest) you said on the back porch you would pay me back. It was a loan up in Charlotte.
200.00 for Jake
200.00 for violin, which you didn't need
200.00 for my part of the telescope; Herb sent me the manual -- fat lot of good that will do.

$5600.00 TOTAL

my mother's cast iron skillet, which had been her mother's

garden fairy -- which had been my mother's

heavy fishing rigs, which were mine as a gift from you, Bill. I may not be able to see well enough to drive, but I can still fish.

Take down and burn "Stinkbug Creek" sign, as it was my idea. 

You're such a bastard you probably dug up poor Trotsky, Dwayne and Sage (you pitched a fit about my having to work after her death, but saw no hypocrisy about dragging Eric away to the back 40 to die miserably alone, you immoral jackal.)

John, I bear you nor Katie any ill-will, but please stop having her look for me. Her father should have the stones to do that, or confront me in my blog. He robbed me of my health, dignity and my future. It's taken many years to get to the point where I have a good life again. I lost not only the Valrico house, in the divorce, but a house I was trying to buy in the economic crisis, with the measly settlement, I stupidly agreed to in the divorce. I want nothing from him, but what I enumerated above. He knows the truth, but will never tell you so; I'd wager it.

Katie is not his stalking-horse. He is a coward and a bully and your wife is a fine woman. But I know she's been trying to find me; let Bill do his own dirty work. You and Katie raise your family; the less you have to do with him and his taint, the better. 

I do not really expect to see the money, because he is not honorable, but I do want my things, especially the iron skillet and the garden fairy. If ANYONE cares to respond, I will pay for shipping. Someone in that whole bunch needs to grow a spine and start showing some damn principles. It's called virtue. Look it up and live it. It's what I've learned to do every day. It isn't easy and I should be thankful; in a way I am. I'm in a place I need to be, among the poor and homeless, doing real good, not some jumped-up half-assed teaching per Dr. Phil. Katie understands me better than anyone, I guess. So, just think about what I said. Take care and a very, Merry Christmas to you and your wife, and family. Mary

Wednesday, October 16, 2013


Who knew I had so many readers or followers? I certainly didn't until today, when I happened across my SPAM comments folder or doohickey or whatever it's called out there in cyberland, where all of these fabulous bits and bytes occupy space, if not time. It's up to me to occupy time and try and persevere over it, but we'll get to that in a moment.

Needless to say, I was just gosh-a-mighty pleased to find that so many swell folks had bothered to comment on my blog, until I started to notice a few things. One of them is this, all of the comments are coming from “Anonymous” and I'm pretty sure it's not this guy:

Anonymous' corporate logo of choice. As a protest group, or a focal point for protest, their Mission Statement may seem apt for our times, but there is always the possibility of becoming vigilantes merely to make a point, rather than justice.

Number two; depending on the subject, the spam is sorta related to whatever topic I was blogging about that day. I am hoping and praying that this has more to do with the search-and-spam algorithms, or else we are up to our eyeballs in a universe of deranged madness. The It's not just the pornoQueen sites, it's the sort of puckish, yet demented cross of one of those translator robots and AutoText Correct.

Of course, once I started really trying to decipher it, it just became hilarious; well, to me, at least, because, it's confuse-a-what at it's finest. And in a weird, sort of Boolean, true-or-false, computer way, it makes sense.

Why yes, Anon, I do happen to know of plugins to protect against hackers. It's pictures of warts in ASCII code. 1001 0001 1111 0010 etc... or you can write it in Python, I understand... 

StopIteration... Wait! What?

To be sure, the comments were rich and varied but none so filled with irony and self-fulfilling prophecy or fate, or something high-flown sounding as this:

For you non-programmers in the reading audience, site () = null in JAVAscript, which is about as nihilistic as it gets. Of course, my upside-down sense of humor finds this hysterical, to the point of almost-apoplexy. There are times, when even the heaviest of psychotic medications are penetrated by the unreality of this world.

Meanwhile, over in Russia, happy is sad; sad is happy. Too much is truth, pravda and vremya and once again, тротскы, виолафурыжс феллош травелер ис чоме. It's pretty bad, when your alter ego has an alter ego, but Имагинары Тротскы and ViolaFury have traveled along for many years. So, I guess it was natural for this to show up:

My Russian being slightly less horrible than my Spanish which is awful-to-mediocre on any given day, this loosely translates as "Samsung Corgis and Vodka Being Please No Stop." Or, it's just a bunch of garble kicked off by the 2013 Bloggers' "A to Z Challenge Letter, Z for Zither."

One night I was working on a post and I got one of those annoying "Restart" messages for some doohickey or another. I try to jump on those and kill them as quickly as possible, but I wasn't quick enough this night, so of course, I received the legendary "Windows Update..." message, for what seemed like 6 years. 

Since I write most of this dreck in my head, I had plenty of time to wait, while Microsoft rooted around on my hard drive and snooped and pried and did absolutely nothing except slow things down and cause me to uninstall most of whatever it had installed in the first place. 

Of course, some search-and-spam algorithm responded with this:

Yeah, I do need some quality meds, and Vodka, if you expect me to work with your stupid operating system, thank you very much! Bring me some blinis, black bread and sour cream too, you stupid apparatchik! Balalaikas, too!


Still another response to the "Windows Updating. . ." post. Apparently, I had much to rant about, being as how it's Microsoft and it sucks and all and IBM has a much superior product in it's operating platform for PCs, called OS/2 or Merlin. IBM just didn't know how to market it, so the majority standard is Windows with Java and it ALL sucks!

I'll leave you with this; I had to look at this for the longest time to understand what was so familiar about this type of spam. Well, when I puzzled it out and. . . Shit. I was being really good about the cuss words and then. . .

This is actually kind of creepy; this particular (data-mining) response is to my post "TECHNO-STUPIDITIES," but the algorithm is from this post. So, all that Eye-in-the-Sky paranoia, is maybe not so paranoid after all. 

Which kind of leads me back to Anonymous, our "V" guy. The whole personal freedom thing here in the U. S. of A. Now, that as of today, we have once again, veered our lemming hordes away from the fiscal cliff, I guess we can breathe a sigh of relief.

This week, really did nothing towards attaining any of my Deliberate Goals, but I did get some of my blood work back and it looks okay. Next up, Eyes (in the sky?) and Bone Density scan. Enough folderol. JC has been sick and is recovering from cancer surgery, as well. But, he is a trooper and all in all is feeling pretty good. On my "Deliberate Goals" blog, I am going to re-post 2 posts I wrote about a very wonderful pet we had when I was a kid. They will be part of my life's story, should I ever publish. 

Sunday, October 13, 2013


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.


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.

Sunday, October 6, 2013


I want to thank Jade Kerrion for allowing me to participate in her book launch for the 4th book of her Award-Winning Series, "Double Helix -- Perfection Unleashed!" 

It's easy to do stuff for Jade, because she does all the heavy lifting and besides, she's gorgeous, funny, brilliant and oh, so original. So, she's always welcome here on Nebraska Ave, 33605, 33602, 33604.

Seriously, I just fumble around, do a little HTML code stuff (badly, if you haven't noticed or been blinded by the appearance of my blog) and punch some buttons, and voilà! I'm done. Not that I'm lazy. Much. 

Last year, Jade told me about this little shindig called NaNoWriMo, a festival of finger cramping, where you type 50,000 words during the month of November. I guess you're supposed to have a plot and characters and things. Naturally, I was immediately taken with this concept and got very excited and signed up. I wrote exactly 1737 words in 2012's NaNoWriMo. I hope to best last year's total THIS YEAR; that's all I'm going to say. Life keeps happening. On November 3rd of 2012, my E. T. (Essential Tremor) powered up, or leveled up, for you gamers, or in normal people's jargon, got worse and it was a mess. This not having medical insurance and all back then, was just one disaster after another.

Besides being a first-rate ranter, and an imaginative cuss-word artiste, Andi-roo is one of my first blogging buddies. Truly inspirational as well as ferociously honest and loving, she is my hero! xoxoxo (Andispeak for love and shit)

Andi-roo says calamity now makes for great stories later. She's absolutely right and I have some humdingers. A quick glimpse; I celebrated "Mental Awareness Month" by being committed for most of it, and this wasn't what I had scheduled for March of 2011. Ironically, that St. Patrick's Day in 2011 is one of the few I remember, because throughout my adult life, like all good Scots, I was usually blotto. Let's not even talk about St. Andrew's day (patron saint of Scotland, November 30.) By the way, I quit drinking years and years ago and smoking, too and have the lungs of a coal miner. 

Amazingly, I look pretty good for nigh on 60 and all the self-inflicted damage. There's probably a picture in an attic by now, that is so rotted, it's just a frame. Thanks, Oscar Wilde. 


Gina writes about funny things, or rather, ordinary and sometimes not happy things and makes them. . . hysterical. Posts about trying to find alone time in the bathroom, yet dealing with questions from the "pack;" running the gamut from trivial to existential. Road trips that go on for years, replete with more endless questions from the "pack." Sheer lunacy meets happy impromptu and pointed remarks. I still can't figure out how many 2-legs and 4-legs are in that domicile. But I loved her comment on Facebook, something about it being a long day, as the dog just ran through the door with a couch cushion and jumped into a mud puddle with it. All written with grace, humor and love. Gina is a keeper. I want to thank her for her inspiration and just her presence in my life. I never have a bad day; I just go read something about one of her trips to the E. R. and feel instantly better!

Lynnette Conroy writes with an elegance and a ferocity I haven't read in many a year. And that says a fuck-ton. I am deadly serious.

If you haven't read Lynnette's post, "Open Rant to Congress," please do so immediately. I re-posted in several places, but what I really, really wanted to do was go and throw tea in some harbor, man the ramparts, or fire the "shot heard 'round the world." We need some damn inspiration around here! Where the hell is it? The 60s would have had sit-ins, lie-ins, love-ins, eat-ins, and every other kind of -in you can imagine. Where in the hell is the outrage? We should be outraged. Supposedly, Lenin said that "every society is 3 meals away from anarchy," although it has many attributions. I say, balls. But really, I say, thanks, Lynnette, for getting me fired up again. I just wish it was 1983, so I could go march around the Union in Ann Arbor for Solidarity and give my dad in Los Gatos, California an excuse to call me up and chew me out over the phone, hollering about lists and McCarthy. My mom was the Anarchist in the family.

My own goals for #ROW80 are nebulous. Tenuous, as is the state of my existence in the sense of, I never know what's going on. I can say, "Hey, I think I'm going to write a book. The Title? Fifty Shades of My Little Pony." 

Actually, I have and have had enough material to polish and publish a book about my experiences in music and in the computer industry, as well as the interesting and very broadening experience of losing a house, becoming homeless and sick and ending up here in this chair. Or, I could just end with this:

 Source: Huffington Post                                 

A Silver Lining, of a Very Dark Cloud

Maybe I'm just a one-liner, lookin' for a stage.

After further reflection, I have started a "goals page" as a way of keeping track of what I hope to accomplish during Round 4. I feel good and I am ready to take on some new things and re-establish some great old habits! 

Based on Raising Happiness, a New Theory of Elite Performance, it's actually part of a very old practice that I inculcated during my days in music school and repeated when I took 4 years of college Calculus, Trig and Computer Science in 2. I am gifted in music. I am not gifted in Maths by any means, but I had a 4.0. Unreal. I still wonder who was driving. Anyway, this is where you can read about my goals: DELIBERATE GOALS OF VIOLA FURY

Good luck everyone! It's going to be great and we shall sing the song of our peoples togethers, (sic) as they once did in old country!   

                         ♫ ♪ ♭ ♩ ♬