Los capítulos pilotos de las series nuevas y especialmente los “season premiers” me suelen parecer, en general, bastante sosos en comparación con el resto, pues suelen servir para presentar nuevos personajes, plantear la que será la trama sobre la que girará la temporada y poco más.

En ese sentido, los 4×01 y 4×02 de Prison Break han cumplido la mecánica de lo que suelen ser este tipo de episodios. Sorpresas pocas, por no decir ninguna, pues la muerte de Whistler era algo que algunos ya esperábamos.

Por lo demás, como capítulo de presentación me ha gustado. Reconozco que desde que supe que Michael se reencontraría con Sara, tenía cierto miedo de que la serie se acabase convirtiendo en un cutre-culebrón sentimentaloide centrado en la relación entre estos personajes, pero una vez visto los capítulos, me quedo más tranquilo.

De las pocas cosas que me han decepcionado de este, en mi opinión más que aceptable inicio de temporada, han sido las caras nuevas. Don, el agente del FBI me ha parecido el mejor de los tres, el que creo que más puede aportar a la serie. Por contra Roland Glenn, el hacker informático me ha resulatado un personaje insulso, sin mucho que contar, mientras que Wyatt, el agente de la Compañía que persigue a los hermanos, no es más que un nuevo Kellerman con algunas horas más de bronceado.

Otros de los detalles que han empañado un poco el estreno de temporada son, la lamentable explicación para que Sucre y Bellick estén fuera de Sona y la ausencia de un verdadero cliffhanger al final de “Breaking and entering” que nos dejase a todos contando los segundos hasta el capítulo del próximo Lunes. Por lo demás, nada que objetar.

¿Y a ti, qué sensaciones te ha dejado el estreno de temporada de Prison Break? Esperamos tus comentarios.

Prison Break 4×01 VOSE [HDTV]

Prison Break 4×02 VOSE [HDTV]

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• Prime Cut
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• Gabriel Iglesias: Hot and Fluffy - Live From Bakersfield
• Jeff Dunham: Spark of Insanity

Thanks for the concern, guys. I thought you might like an update on the whole oh-my-god-someone-tried-to-break-into-my-house thing.

I know what I did was insanely stupid. I could have been killed. Or I could have killed the burglar, for that matter, swinging the bat around like a lunatic, and then I don’t know what I’d have done. But I wasn’t thinking, I was absolutely terrified, and I just did what made sense to me at the time.

We got the window completely fixed on the day, so if anyone was planning their own break in, you missed the opportunity. Not that you’d have much luck, anyway, since it isn’t a very big window, and it’s on the second floor. Which of course, makes the whole thing all the more baffling. You’d think they’d go for the larger window; that way they’d have more chance of squeezing through it.

Anyway, I guess we may never know what they were after. Point is, it’s over now. Thank goodness.

Last night, we were burgled. Well, someone attempted to burgle our house, but “Attempted Burglary!” wouldn’t have made for such a snappy title.

I woke up in the night, and there was this shadowy hand, reaching in through my bedroom window. For a moment I thought I must be dreaming or imagining it, but then I realised what must be happening and I was absolutely terrified.

The hand reached for something on the windowsill and I said, “Oi!”, and was answered by this weird sound, more like a hiss than anything else. Then the hand snatched up a paperweight off the desk and threw it at me. I just barely caught it, then I picked up my baseball bat and hit the hand with it as hard as I could. The hand withdrew. I looked out the window, but there was nobody there, just an empty street. As you can imagine, I was pretty freaked out. I checked the window, and the frame around the lock was all warped, like someone had tried to melt through it. Weird thing is, it wasn’t wide enough for a person to fit through, so I think they must have been trying to take something off the windowsill.

Anyway, I told the police the whole story. We’re having a new lock fixed on the window even as I type this. I’ve also moved everything off the windowsill and put it somewhere safer.

But as you can imagine, I’m still a bit freaked out, and really, really tired.

I could not help but learn some horrible tricks used by some of the people among the fake work crew.  This blog explains how they bypass padlocks. 

To begin with, stop trusting everyone.  Especially when opening a padlock.

Most of us, when we remove a padlock, simply set it aside until it is returned and locked again.  Keep in mind that re-locking does not require a key; it simply snaps locked.  It is when we set the lock aside, that it can easily be switched with a look-alike padlock.  The owner has no idea they just locked their belongings up with someone else's padlock.  After the owner leaves or goes to bed, the lock is opened.  Items can then be replaced with broken look-alikes or photographs / videos can be taken for later burglary.  Hidden cameras can even be installed.  The list is endless.  Before leaving, the owner's padlock is replaced.

On occasion we put the padlock in our pockets.  We suddenly remember we forgot to put it back on - this is when our "friends" sometime offer to replace the padlock for us - "as a favor." Preying on the elderly makes this very successful. 

Combination locks are not always the answer.  Think that changing the combination on a regular basis keeps things safer?  They already know what your lock looks like so they have one just like it.  Yours can easily be cut off - the combination can then be read and applied to the new lock. 

One of the people in the group claims to be a non-professional locksmith, offering to help his "friends" at little or no cost in changing locks to homes/businesses.  Naturally, he keeps a key for himself so when using the services of someone like this, prepare in advance by providing the key you want the lock to fit rather than the other way around.

This information is not to teach others how to get by with something like this.  The problem is that there is no help in stopping it.  Therefore, we need to be aware of what is taking place.

In a stunning announcement, the US Government has seized control of all of Burger King's assets including their filthy restaurants and stale french fries. All chicken nuggets will now be pressed into the shape of the US flag. Burger King has seen significant financial hardship and floundering revenue; the recent idictment of the KING was the final nail in the coffin. President Bush made the announcement from his Crawford Texas ranch (while playing Madden 2009 on his xbox 360): "The US Government will do everything in it's power to protect the fast food industry to make sure that every citizen's right to fast food is retained...including seizing private companies and menu changes. Burger King will start serving pretzels and beer as an effective means of population control and...what the fuck Doomy29 that was holding you motherfucker; that's a penalty, goddamn it!" The King had no comment on this latest chapter in his life.

4.02 - Breaking and Entering

I'm going to review these two episodes together because they aired on the same night.  The new TV season has started so this is will be my first review, remember I will also be reviewing new episodes of The Shield and Heroes.

Michael finds that Sara didn't loose her head.  Plus the gang are forced to team up to take down the company once and for all.

Remember this will be a SPOILER review.  Click read more for the review.

Season 4 started well, right from the off we were stuck right in and it never let up throughout the first hour.  I enjoyed these two episodes more than I did throughout the whole of the third season.  This felt like season 2, which was great, the pace never let up.  Season 3 never had anything, it never felt right and it always felt slow and tiresome.

These two episodes had more energy to them and were full of shocks and twists which we can expect from the show.  Prison Break has always been a show to have a willing suspension of disbelief, I've always accepted that and went along with that idea.  If you have that disbelief then you're going to love these two episodes, because frankly a lot of it is very silly.

The most shocking things to come out of the episodes were the deaths of Whistler and Mahone's wife and child.  I never expected Whistler to be killed because I thought he was the key to getting at the company, the shot to the head was shocking but really well done.  The murders of Mahone's family was heartbreaking, this shocked me more, I felt so sorry for Mahone, his path will sure be interesting this season.  All he had left was them, his revenge will be awesome.

The guy who executed these killings was new character Wyatt, the companies Terminator style hitman, who has been sent to kill of Scofield and crew.  Another new character to the mix is Donald Self, who has formed this group together to take on the company.  Played by Michael Rapaport, he seems like an interesting character so we'll see what he's like in future episodes.

Prison Break is back and with a full season, these two episodes are a huge improvement over season 3 which while I enjoyed at the start, it slowly became dull and tiresome.  It's as ludicrous as ever but that's Prison Break, it's mindless, enjoyable entertainment.  I'm looking forward to the twists and turns this season will have to offer.

Quote of the episode: "You eat some bad Mexican?"

Favourite Scene: Whistler getting a bullet in the head.

ἀλλὰ μάλα Σκύλλης σκοπέλῳ πεπλημένος ὦκα
νῆα παρὲξ ἐλάαν, ἐπεὶ ἦ πολὺ φέρτερόν ἐστιν
ἓξ ἑτάρους ἐν νηὶ ποθήμεναι ἢ ἅμα πάντας

Νιώθω μια παιδική υπερηφάνεια όταν αναφέρεται οτιδήποτε ελληνικό σε ξένες σειρές ή ταινίες. Πόσο μάλλον όταν πρόκειται για την Οδύσσεια.

Σε πρώτη φάση τα παιδιά πρέπει να πάρουν τα δεδομένα από τη Σκύλλα, την ηλεκτρονική μαύρη βίβλο της Εταιρίας, που φυλάσσεται πολύ καλά. Ο nerd της ομάδας, ωσάν άλλος Q, έχει φτιάξει ένα γκατζετάκι που κλέβει τα δεδομένα από οποιαδήποτε συσκευή σε μια ορισμένη ακτίνα δράσης. Μετά πρέπει να μπουν στο κτήριο της Εταιρίας για να αποκρυπτογραφήσουν τα δεδομένα. Στοιχεία για την τοποθεσία τους υπάρχουν στο βιβλιαράκι με τα πουλιά, εκείνο του Γουίσλερ που τώρα το έχει ο T-Bag. Τελοσπάντων, η υπόθεση δεν έχει μεγάλη σημασία. Είναι καλό επεισόδιο! Τα αγόρια και η κοπελιά καταστρώνουν σχέδια, τα εκτελούν, πετυχαίνουν, αποτυγχάνουν, λύνουν γρίφους, fun, fun fun. Ο μυστοκοφόρος Τ-Bag τσιμπολογάει ανθρώπινη σάρκα, και δυσκολεύεται να χωνέψει. '-You eat some bad Mexican? -Something like that.' Ό,τι νάναι.

Ο Μάικλ έχει κάτι μυστήριους πονοκεφάλους και ρηνική αιμορραγία που όλο και κάτι κακό θα σημαίνουν. Είναι παληκάρι όμως. Άντεξε τον πόνο και αφαίρεσε ολόκληρο το τατουάζ του. Να περιμένουμε γυμνές σκηνές τώρα δηλαδή; Μέχρι και απόπειρα κωμωδίας υπήρχε. Εντάξει, απόπειρα είπαμε. Η παραπάνω φωτογραφία δεν είναι επεξεργασμένη, στα αλήθεια γελάνε.

6 κεφάλια είχε η σκύλα. Έχουμε δρόμο ακόμα.

Allora che ve ne pare di questa quarta stagione?

Ricordiamo che il terzo episodio intitolato “Shut Down" andrà in onda lunedì 8 settembre.

• Foto Promozionali di "Shut Down"

Invito quindi tutti gli utenti che non vogliono spoilerarsi a evitare di guardare il video sopracitato e anche di non leggere i vari commenti relativi a questo post. ;)

Trying to "spread the joy", i've taken a selected few up on offers to help - trying to match their skills and interests with things i need done (or things i completely suck at...)

For instance, the garage sale?  Artfully executed by my friend KMD and her delightful Helper Monkeys.  Upon discovering that the moving crew would not transport alcohol, i accepted an offer of help from another friend, RJAK and put her to work packing and moving the wine and liquor collection... and we celebrated with a giant vat of cosmos consumed on my back deck.

ETS has been a friend of mine for 27 years.  We were both engineering co-op students working in the lab, and she was my first coach and mentor on the job.  Almost three decades of mutual support* and adventure**, we're pretty good at knowing strengths and weaknesses.  So when she offered to help, i suggested the job of unpacking and organizing the kitchen.

When she arrived, there were perhaps a dozen large boxes still untouched in my living room - marked "Kitchen", "Food", "Spices" and "Kitchen - Misc".  We started with a strategy session - recommendations on what to put where, questions about how i cook*** and use the kitchen, and a general 'game plan' evolved as we got started.

Ruthlessly throwing things into the trash bin****, or the Goodwill boxes, within three hours (and only one bottle of wine) it was done - and well organized.  Finishing the wine on the deck*****, she was headed home around 10 PM.

Although i didn't pay attention at the time, ETS must have locked the doorknob on my front door as she unlocked the deadbolt.  After waving goodbye from the end of my walkway, i discovered that i was locked out as she backed out of the driveway!

Barefoot, and in my pajamas, i raced back to her truck - having to smack the right rear quarter panel to get her attention before she drove off!  Back in the driveway, we did a quick triage on options: any windows unlocked?  no.  garage access?  break a window perhaps.  lower door unlocked?  no.  hidden keys?  nope.  maintenance office/emergency line?  i have no idea!  back deck, top floor?  yes.  but no ladder... it's in the garage.

Quick walk into the dark, wooded area around back - although i wouldn't walk through one set of shrubbery because i saw a giant spiderweb - we were able to gauge that her 7' stepladder would likely be just enough to get me up to the railing...

Hopping into her truck, we went 5 min down the road to her house for the ladder, had it in her SUV and were back at my place 10 min after that...  carrying the ladder around back, i was up over the deck railing in a flash, back in the condo, and scooting back down for her to haul the ladder back to her car.  My days as a tree-climbing kid, not to mention marginally skilled juvenile delinquent, came in handy here...

Entire "oh shit i'm locked outta my house" adventure:  under 20 minutes, with 10 minutes of that spent driving. 

it's cool to have functional friends... but i better get a key stashed out there somewhere so it doesn't happen again...
__________

* ETS is high a high functioning, independent woman.  i'll never forget the call i got almost 20 years ago when a water line in the wall of her condo burst, spraying water all over her new furniture.  She was crying, freaked out and had no idea what to do... Showing up shortly thereafter, with two bottles of wine, a tool box and a shop vac, we beat our way through some serious water damage...

** And last year, we did a fairly impulsive jaunt to Iceland for a five day weekend!  She's the mastermind behind my upcoming trip to South America in October as well!

*** i do cook.  just not often, and mostly when entertaining.  more often?  i distill... given the widespread knowledge of "daisyfae and the jello shot buffet", i usually am simply asked to bring jello shots to parties... (sigh)

**** ETS:  "Daisyfae - why do you have three open cannisters of oatmeal, 6 bottles of vanilla extract and four cans of baking powder, one of which expired in 1994"

***** Is there a pattern emerging here?  i need to get unpacked soon or i'm going to turn into a fucking drunk...

While driving to work I noticed instantly that my truck was making this bad, consistent knocking noise as we drove on the way to work. This pinging noise was very loud and very annoying. My initial though was that my shocks have finally busted and the internal metal was griding on every bump. This reasoning was due to the fact that my ex-mechanic told me the original noise was coming from my shocks and we were good for probably another 6 months if needed.

While making it to work, I told the fiancée that I would call and schedule an appointment that day for a repair of the truck's shocks. As I was walking into work I realized I still had her cell in my pocket from this A.M. Now freaking out a little bit because knowing the condition of the truck and her not having a phone I begun to get paranoid. Started calling her office at 8:15, no answer, 8:23, no answer, then again at 8:30 no answer. Finally entering freak out mode I called one last time at 8:35 and she just walked in the door. Relieved I asked if the truck made it ok, she said yes but it was smoking. NOT GOOD.

Scheduling an appointment I found out the shocks were only gonna run me under 400 total for the repair. Thank god I can afford that. well I received this phone call at 12:15 from the auto shop with not so good news. They knew for sure it was not my shocks being my front tire was leaning 30 degrees out. FUCK. Right away I knew the bill would increase by at least double. Sitting and freaking out for 2 hours I reciever another call and this time they had the finial estimate and the problem.

When ever you mechanic calls and ask if your sitting down, you know thats not a good sign. I simply replied to him, "Nope, smoking a cig, shoot" . Well the real damage came out, and the cost for repair did too. I only wish it was double. instead it was gonna run me almost $1300 just to make the vehicle drivable again. This does not include the front and back breaks that need to be done as well, but I can do those a whole lot cheaper. Now in official panic mode, as we now have no working car, I live 10 miles from work, and shes 15 miles, no public transportation out my way and no money to pay this repair bill.

Thank goodness we arrived alive from our trip, being how bad the condition of the truck. Thank god for good friends in life who will help you out in a time of need. Without these people I would be up shits creak with no paddle.

Oh and to top off my "great" day, when I arrived home Tuesday night, I arrived with the surprise of being locked out. Since I needed to be inside my house no later then 6pm, I resorted to breaking my back window to enter they house. Lucky enough I have, well now had, extra replacement windows to replace those that I broke.

All in all, never again do I want to hear the phrase

"When it Rains, It Pours"

When I first moved to California, nearly three years ago, I was really bothered by all the crime that was going on in the Bay Area. Every night I watched the news there were more and more reports of homicides, double homicides, assaults, car-jackings, etc. I took solace in the fact that they were not happening near me. I could localize the violence and avoid those area. I reasoned it away: overpopulation, drugs, poverty, mental illness, some ships need a larger berth. Problem solved, right? Well, mostly.

Don't get me wrong, there was still crime around where I lived but it seemed to be crimes of opportunity. Crime is crime, but with this type you could prevent the possibility of becoming prey. Lock your doors, lock your windows, put your things in the trunk of your car, don't leave your laptop unattended in a cafe, keep your bag closed and close to your body. Pretty basic stuff here. Even growing up in a town of less than 5000 people, I knew these and it is amazing to me that this is not standard operating procedures for others.

This gets me back to what I started this entry about. Recently, I went back to the great Commonwealth, with a sally into the former Catholic colony. Great welcomings all around. I am always happy to see my friends and family. Especially now, since I went through a time of estrangement with both camps, nearly equal in amount. But this is a subject for another dispatch. Whirlwind as it was, it was tremendously fun and a fulfilling time. But the time came for me to manifest my destiny and return westward.

The trip back was uneventful, at most. I caught the planes, they took me where I needed to go. I got back to my apartment and everything was as it should have been. No break-ins, no damage, no cause for concern. Not that I had a reason to believe this would happen. Its just that sort of creeping anxiety that you get when you are away and you don't have someone to "watch over" your place for you.

I spent the next day busying myself with getting groceries, cleaning, laundry, getting used Promised Land living again. I went to bed kind of early, I had to work the next day. Sleeping soundly, I was awoken to a knocking at my door, somewhere near quarter to 5 am. In my bleary, dream-soaked mind, I didn't respond, hoping that it was just a passing car or a neighbor dropping something against our shared wall, or the vestiges of a forgotten dream. These thin inclinations began to be wane once I realized there was flashing lights sifting through my blinds and curtains, and they were formally dashed with the doorbell. "Hello?" I gruffly asked through the door. "Berkeley police," a voice responded. " Open up please, I would like to ask you some questions."

The police officer asked exactly three questions: "Have you heard anything having to do with an attempted crime that happened in the past 30 to 40 minutes?" (no.) "What's your name?" "What's the address to this residence?" I answered each one of them with my recently risen, phlegm-coated voice and he apologized for "waking you up, buddy." and moved onto another apartment.

Once I closed the door, my mind sparked awake and I was full of questions and I went from window to window to try to get some answers from what I saw. Nobody in the back of any of the five (!) police cars on the street. No caution tape or flash lighted searches in the park across the street. No screaming, yelling, or hurried movement. Just police officers milling about the sidewalk and their cars. No real information to be taken in without going outside and asking, but if this was an investigation, they were not going to tell me anything. Besides, it was five o'clock in the morning. I was tired. I had to go to work at eight. It probably was just a couple of homeless guys fighting each other. There is always homeless people milling about the park. Berkeley is full of them.

Feeling a bit vulnerable, I went back to bed and pulled the covers up a bit higher. After a while I fell back to sleep and had uneasy dreams. With the alarm clock, I got up and started to get ready for work and was greeted by the doorbell again. This time it was a concerned neighbor. She asked me if I knew what was going on. I told her about my early morning visit from the Badge. She said that there were some people gathered around one of the other apartments and asked if I wanted to go see if they knew anything. Which we did. Unhappily, we found out that one of our neighbors was treated to a break in and an attempted rape. GOD DAMN, FUCKING SHIT! I'm not going to go into the details but you can look at this news video for them.

Welcome home, Rev. Don't get me wrong, I'm not victimizing myself, but DAMMIT! Why does it have to happen here? Why does it have to happen anywhere? I don't know much about my neighbor but I'm pretty sure that she didn't deserve this. No one does. Also, the scary shit is that it seems that this motherfucker had planned it out. He had watched the place. He knew where and when to strike. Her apartment was way in the back of the property. It happened after the security lights went out. He planned it out and he acted. This is beyond the "opportunity crimes" that I had previously mentioned. I am pissed. I'm angry that this thing happens. Why do some men feel they can do this and think that it is okay? I'm embarrassed to even share my chromosomes with these assholes. I won't say that the answer is castration of these fuckers, but it is starting to sound better and better. Worst part is that, as of this printing, they have not caught him, and there was another break in and attempted rape this past Sunday at a nearby location and the description of the perp is the same. Even worse, they think this is the same guy that raped two other women in two other similar break ins that are within a mile radius of each other!

So, here's the silver-lining, Pollyanna. I now can say that I know most of my neighbors. We have gotten together a couple of times and shared feelings, anecdotes, glasses of wine, and smiles. Now we actually stop and say "hello." In fact, I've become fairly good friends with one of them and I check in on her often. Actually, I try to check in on a lot of my neighbors, since most of them are single women. Not that I'm trying to be some sort of big protector, daddy figure, but I just want them to know that I'm there for them. I want to express to them that some guys, say me, actually care and want to help.

I know that in times as this, you can start to feel like you are alone. You can feel like you have to only rely on your own fortitude and always be looking over your shoulder. That can be exhausting, especially after your daily grind. You start to think of ways to get a protective advantage. You start considering to carry weapons and avoid contact with others. You pull away from everyone. But, sometimes if someone just gives you a smile, if they ask how you are doing and actually wait for a response, you can start to feel like you are part of a group, a community. You're not in it alone, there are people there for you, to offer you help, to welcome you home.

            In anticipation of going dry for a few months as not even alcohol heavy mouthwash was permitted in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, the whole of the dorms erupted into full blown parties each night that didn’t have a duty day following. John was the architect of a great many of these and the rest of us were more than happy to participate. At these events several recurring themes began to emerge that we could count on and left me surprised that no one came up with bingo cards to mark their passage and strike up an illicit gambling operation.

            As I mentioned before, Ford could always be counted on to start a vitriolic rant against Einstein and science in general until I goaded him into a complete breakdown, after which he retreated into a scowling husk of his former self. At some point around mid evening some idiot in the courtyard between the buildings would though either pure drunken sloppiness or attempted acrobatic feat, fall fully into the holly bushes that made up the hedging and have to be pried free bloody and howling. For those not familiar, holly is a very densely thicketed bush with small stiff leaves treacherous with prickers. Whoever thought of planting scores of them where young airmen were most likely to fall into them inebriated was pure genius! On Monday mornings it was not at all uncommon to run across several red eyed stumble bums walking about with heavily abraded arms and faces. It only happened to me once and as with Knaus’s stairs I report with full indignant honesty that I didn’t fall; I was pushed.

            Another unpleasant tradition, never practiced by yours truly, was the end of the night pee off the balcony; occasionally on to someone. I don’t know why this kept happening, but each and every night some different precocious fuck nut would climb up to the third floor, free the shriveled sausage of fury, and let loose golden showers while laughing like a troglodyte as his brilliant comedy. Those of us who recalled that this was all but mandatory moved either to the center of the courtyard and out of range, or into the pool parlor on the first floor. About one of three times some poor fool was caught in the full barrage which would lead to a furious charge up the stairs and attempted murder. Why no one ever fell off or was the victim of a severely deserved beat down I’m not sure as it only could have set a positive example.

            As the summer drove into high gear the weather grew progressively hotter and more humid in the Hampton Roads area. Even the evenings became somewhat unbearable driving the large weekend parties out of the courtyard and into small sub-parties in peoples rooms, which were air conditioned. I thought this was just fine as it was far more comfortable and the chances of being peed on or knocked into a briar patch were significantly reduced. Here we formed the single malt scotch club wherein the Friday after each payday (the first and fifteenth of each month), 4 of us would pool our cash and purchase a new expensive single malt to try. The Balvenie Double Wood earned the highest ranking. Huddled over glasses of expensive spirits and many empty Pabst Blue Ribbon cans, we would scheme and plot.

            One such evening on a particularly hot day, we grew to lament the fact that the base pool was only open during working hours and that a more compassionate military would open it on such hellacious evenings. We then contemplated actually swimming in the bay but discounted the notion for reasons of jellyfish infestation and the rank latrine like smell that emanated from it. It was just a shame that the pool, surrounded by chain link fence topped with razor wire, was just sitting there cool and unused. And unguarded. The idea of course came to us simultaneously and debate began.

            Cons: it was locked, topped with razor wire, it was close to a main road patrolled by base security forces, and if caught, we would be charged with breaking and entering, not to mention the much worse sin of gross safety violation.

            Pros: it was hot, the pool was cool, and we had been drinking scotch for 4 hours.

            We thought it couldn’t hurt to at least wander over there and really check out the situation. It didn’t mean we had to do anything and we decided that we almost assuredly wouldn’t. We changed into our swim trunks, grabbed towels and moseyed on over. We slunk around the back keeping to the shadows and surveyed the main entrance and surrounding fencing. It was chained closed with a heavy duty steel padlock. Knaus probably could have defeated it in seconds but never taught me his craft. We discovered the fatal flaw, or what we though was it, next to the cinderblock changing hut. It was at the rear of the pool, away from the light and the fence ran into it perpendicularly. Performing a complex set of calculations in our heads, we deduced that if John ascended first, he would have the requisite arm length to haul his gargantuan mass to the shingled roof, missing the razor wire by close to an inch if he inhaled sharply at the right moment to pull his paunch out of danger. He could then use his bulk as an anchor to help Bryan and I traverse the distance. It was brilliant and could not fail.

            They say God protects fools and drunks thus we were doubly covered that night. John and Bryan made it up, not quite injury free but not requiring stitches or reattachment of limbs. When my turn came, the luck seemed to fold. It was a few weeks before my surgery and my shoulder simply couldn’t support the climb without threatening to come loose a fourth time. Bitter with rage, I shook the fence and was surprised when it moved slightly. This particular section was only about 3 feet wide between the support pole and where it connected next to a second pole against the hut. Once again John’s ox like properties came into use for the greater good. He grabbed the end and bent it inward enough for me to enter, and simply bent it back into place. There was some regret on their part after enduring many scrapings against the razors, but all in all it worked out for the best.

            Aware of the danger, we kept very quiet, slipping from the shadows to the pool only when no headlights showed on the road about 30 yards distant. The water was cool and far more refreshing than the AC, especially when 5 of us were sitting in a tiny closed door room chain smoking. After a while of simply sitting in the shallow end, we grew slightly bolder and drew straws to send someone back to get our beer and cigs. I drew short and John let me out and back in again. When I got back we spent a good 3 hours silently floating about, drinking beer, talking and smoking in hushed whispers as we flicked our ashes into the crystal waters. At one point someone dropped their beer where it filled with water and sunk to the bottom of the deep end prompting a worrisome effort to retrieve it lest evidence of our presence be detected. When done, we removed all traces that we had ever been there stopping just short of wiping the place down to obscure tell-tale prints.

            For the next few weeks before my operation and their departure for Saudi, the pool break in became a grand weekend tradition. Not trusting the other goons about the dorms, we elected to keep our doings a closely guarded secret. To avoid suspicion we would decline stating off at the same parties and then wander off from them at an agreed upon time and meet up behind the pool. Our fears once we got in, however, reduced to an almost ludicrous level. Where we originally moved like silent ninjas in the night, we graduated to whooping down the slides and even using the diving boards. Several reconnaissance missions had revealed: that in the dark, the interior of the pool area was all but invisible from the road; that security forces always drove with windows closed in hot weather; no foot patrol existed; and there was nothing nearby to generate any other foot traffic but for an occasional lovers stroll. Happy to say, we never got caught although a week or so after our final immersion an article appeared in the base paper about the sanctity of closed areas, especially the pools. We had left our empties on the last day.

            This period also had the distinction of a visit from the esteemed Knaus; the only one of my college friends to bother making their way down to visit. Most of the trip was no stranger to him as back at Comstock he suddenly declared one day that he was driving down to DC and no one was going to stop him. No one even tried and he made good on his threat over a long weekend during which one or two individuals haphazardly wondered where he might be. He returned with plenty of pictures and probably now shows up on a whole host of government threat lists. In any case, he came, and I managed to extend his journey by a few hours.

            In the pre-9/11 days, all one had to do to get access to the base was to call someone on it from the gate, have them call the security gate and give the visitors name, and they were allowed unrestricted access. My phone at the time had a condition by which it didn’t necessarily hang up when hung up and had to be checked each time, which was something I habitually forgot. Poor Knaus actually arrived at the gate on time only to call and find my line busy. As he tried again and again over an hour, the guard became suspicious of the shady character and finally shooed him away all together. In my room and unaware of the situation, I was getting progressively more annoyed with his tardiness as he always refused to bow to the absolute mastery of the clock like I did. Fed up and wanting to go to dinner, I called the gate just to check if he had been by and received tale of the mysterious stranger with stylized hair frantically calling under incredulous gaze. I contemplated fleeing all together, not knowing if his capacity for revenge had grown and wondered if allowing him on a base full of fearsome war machines was really such a good idea. Cautiously, I granted access when he finally called back.

            His visit was a good time and included a visit to the one place none of my other friends would dare venture for fear of the name. To us, the Great Dismal Swamp just sounded too inviting to pass up. It appeared on maps of southern VA covering hundreds of square miles and avoided by most roads and beckoned all the more after being told even locals don’t go there. Finding an entrance was the hard part and was only achieved after purchasing a local map right near the swamp area. The only road in was unmarked, nameless and unpaved. Paul never hesitated as he navigated the white mini-van down it until we found a clearing in which to park.

            It was readily apparent that the place was appropriately named and not some cutesy ironic moniker as we feared. Some overgrown paths existed and we set down one with the swamp waters festering on either side. Just a few feet in a snake of very generous proportions made its presence known and slithered away. We counted ourselves lucky being deep in Cottonmouth territory and easily within striking range. In any case, we went forward anyway and hiked about considerably and amazingly without becoming lost in the treacherous gloomy mosaic of antediluvian foliage. The wildlife, however, was spectacular and Knaus got many good shots without dropping his camera in the fetid waters as he constantly did at Alleghany.

            My Air Force friends took well to Knaus, which was not much of a surprise as those who gathered themselves around me were cut from similar cloth as those from my past. I was delighted when he lectured John and Bryan on the correct use of the door and window controls and finally engaged the child lock and required them to ask permission that their window be cracked to smoke. Later on at one of the night parties, a rumor got started (possibly by me) that Knaus was an undercover agent of the Office of Special Investigation (OSI), the AF version of the FBI and Gestapo combined. I was so pleased with the reaction this got that I started the same rumor about myself not long after.
Requests from underage partiers to by them beer dropped to zero and it was wonderful to see young airmen hurriedly ditch drinks as I approached as they did with Knaus that night. The visit all together was too short and he declined to ever return.

            Soon after Knaus left and my friends boarded planes for the Mid-East, I decided to try my luck with the fairer sex once again and met Susan; a local who shared my passion for bad ‘80’s culture and local bands performing it thus validating our white bread Gen X status as campy kitsch lovers. Our first date was at the cheesily named Duck Inn and we followed up with a long moonlit walk on the beach. She seemed very in to me from the get go, which should have been a warning sign, but I was a slow learner in such areas. Two years my senior, a very recent divorcee, ex-Amway distributor, and had a deep passion for the crushingly depressing warbling of Sarah McLaughlin. My second warning sign should have been that she insisted on playing me several of Ms McLaughlin’s tunes on our very first date and broke down into tears. Twice.

            She had some quirks I found endearing such as her insistence on singing the Everything song ‘Hooch’ even after I demonstrated clearly and unequivocally that it was unquestionably about pussy. She also enjoyed watching the X-Men cartoon and we began a tradition to watching together over the phone. I worked overnights and she days, so each morning when I got home, I’d call and we’d watch together as she got ready for work and I wound down. When she heard hurricane Bonnie was scheduled to batter the Hampton Roads area in a weeks time, she hastily filled her bathtub as an emergency measure. I was forced to shame her into emptying it by asking if things ever got so bad as she was reduced to drinking bathwater, not to mention obvious hygienic issue of not bathing for a week due to an unreliable storm. On the downside, almost everything upset her to an alarming degree. Many long phone calls of consolation were spent as she went on for hours about dropping an ice cream cone and wondering if maybe it happened because she didn’t deserve it and whatnot.

            Not long after my arm operation, my sister came to visit. My arm was still in a sling tucked under my shirt, so Susan promised to drive me under the admonition not to be late. Up to that point we had never yet seen the beginning of a movie; much less the previews due to her inability to sub serve herself to grim father time. That day spelled the beginning of the end. I waited in the dorm parking lot, pacing back and forth as the time ticked on to when Laura’s flight would be touching down. I finally gave up hope and jumped in my car to drive one armed to the airport. I was pretty pissed to begin with, and riding in a Camero with malfunctioning windows and absent AC on a 100 degree day with my arm strapped to my chest was torturous. My concern was that Laura would arrive, not see me, call my mother, and I’d have to hear about it forever. Furious, I got on to the highway to face total gridlock.

            It was the most infuriating ride of my life. Gasping, sweating and swearing at the top of my lungs in the hot unmoving car as the minutes ticked forward for an hour and a half. By the time I reached the airport, my face had taken on a tomato complexion and my clothes were soaked through. My throat was closed and harsh from the constant profane screaming. I ran up the steps and there was Laura at the top, with Susan. She had arrived late as usual, not seen me, and then took a local short cut to the airport and bypassed the traffic. She recognized Laura from pictures and introduced herself, but not after calling my mother several times to complain of my absence. I returned to my room later to a machine full of angry messages and meaningless threats. Not long after Susan and I became ‘just friends’ at my suggestion.

"Breaking and Entering"

July 9th, 2008

USA Today's Robert Bianco, having seen the first two episodes of Burn Notice's sophomore season, has fairly harsh words for what he views as the show's shift in tone with the arrival of a more serialized plot development:

So what's gone wrong? Like so many series today, Burn Notice has overburdened a fragile structure with a weighty continuing story...Unfortunately, the added depth has made the show less interesting, not more. And the time spent on the continuing story means the episodes' capers are woefully underdeveloped.

However, after watching the premiere, I don't really understand where he's coming from here. He seems to argue that the tone of the series has been irrevocably changed from its previous standards, but the show was well within its comfort zone for the entire hour. Burn Notice is a show built on its clever set pieces, its charming interaction between Jeffrey Donovan and his wingpeople (Gabrielle Anwar and Bruce Campbell), and a tone that maintains humour while retaining consequence.

And if anything, the latest bump in the road for Michael Weston does all of these things - even if his trips to see his mother remain as pointless as they've ever been, Michael being held hostage by Tricia Helfer's Carla is no more or less dramatic or grave than last season's various individuals hired to kill our protagonist. For him to completely skirt the obvious danger that a burned agent as himself would be in would be much too unbelieveable.

The show has never been all about accuracy or tonal consistency, rarely proving a slave to what Bianco calls "comedy-tinged mystery." And while I won't argue the point that there are dangerous roads to be followed, I will argue that Burn Notice has not taken that exit: it's still a fun and enjoyable summer series.

I think much of Bianco's frustration could come from our opening scene: as we catch up with Michael after he drives the Buick into the back of a cargo truck, he opens the door to find a destroyed plane and two armed guards lying dead on the ground. The woman on the phone, who identifies herself as Carla, is implied to be behind the murder of at least a few people. This is a dark opening, and we haven't seen quite this level of outright murder on the show before - in this sense, I can understand the shift.

However, it's not as if Michael is asked to kill Jimmy, who is tied up on the ground. Rather, he is asked to help him retrieve data from a security company - in other words, the type of task that Michael might have done for anyone, just in this case for a woman who is at least somewhat related to the eponymous notice. The end of last season foreshadowed that Michael was making a sacrifice in terms of re-engaging with his previous life, and I will admit that I would have liked to see more of that. Weston is such a cool and relaxed character in high-pressure situations that his reaction to the death and destruction is like it's another day at the office, which I don't think is the show's intention.

And while the framework for his actions may have changed, the series itself hasn't. We still have the same "How-to" segments, we still have the same violent but sexually charged interaction between Michael and Fiona, and Bruce Campbell's Sam is as he ever was. But I don't really find the problem with this: yes, the frame is more serious and dramatic, but it actually gives weight to Michael's actions.

And he needs that weight. Bianco notes in his review that USA has trouble maintaining series, citing Monk and Psych as examples. However, I have to say that the shifts in Burn Notice's second season are sending the series in the opposite direction; while silliness did envelop those shows to the point that I lost all interest, Burn Notice is diversifying and maintaining its character's dramatic elements through long-term storylines. Monk lost my interest when it stopped paying attention to his wife's passing: it was a driving force that humanized and explained some of his neuroses, and when it disappeared it became a pure comedy series.

This is a drama series, albeit one that does involve a lot of comedy. There was some chatter during the Emmy Awards process, after Sharon Gless broke into the Top 11 for Supporting Actress - Drama, that the show had been classified in the wrong category. But my view is that the protagonist drives the classification, and Michael Weston's story is a dramatic one. Yes, the show is fun and light, but at its core is a dramatic centerpiece, a story about a man who is in search of answers.

On that level, the premiere was a bit slow: Michael did transition a bit too quickly into this task without much consideration of the ramifications. As his various partners in crime slowly came out of the woodwork (Sam crashing at his apartment, Fiona frustrated with his nonchalant return after their emotional farewell, his Mother calling from the hotel in Ft. Lauderdale), Michael's business-like attitude was as frustrating for me as it was for Fiona.

But I felt that the task itself, securing the files and then framing the security company for the murders at the beginning of the episode, was a piece of sharp work from creator Matt Nix. If you're going to run a serial story like this, it needs to integrate with the mystery at hand: here, the guns from the earlier murder played an important role in the final ruse. This felt like the right balance, and although the guest acting was as average as ever I felt it packed in a lot of material.

Between Michael's Aussie accent, to the quick-thinking gun battle started by a piece of tin foil, to the daring heist, and to the exploding boat, it felt like just enough of an event while maintaining the usual dialect the series' action tends to take. Like any good premiere, it felt like something bigger than its usual self, and did a strong job of extending the previous season's storyline.

But where it goes from here is an important and curious question, and by Bianco's impressions the second episode is more of the same. In my view, I'd be perfectly fine with that: murders or no murders, the show's damn entertaining.

Cultural Observations

• I love Tricia Helfer on Battlestar Galactica, and I think that her voice work is a good choice in terms of the mysterious Carla. Her brief appearance at episode's end was nicely understated, so it is clear that this isn't one of her various Number Six incarnations transported into another series. We haven't yet seen much in terms of performance from her, but I'm looking forward to seeing her sink her teeth into this role once she gets a bit more dramatic potential.
• I would like to thank USA for the "Previously on..." segment at the opening of the episode - it's been a long time since that last episode, and I had completely forgotten what had happened. These summer shows have a tendency to create such forgetfulness, so I really hope that others follow suit (Mainly Damages, I think I can remember Mad Men well enough).

earlier today my studio was broken into.
the thieves were bold; they absconded in broad daylight with my last half year of work.
on a crowded street and no one saw them.

i was at work at my new job in the pike place market.
it was kind of sad to be at work while pride was happening in the streets above me,
but i saw it as an opportunity to continue strategising my further entry into the art world.

the phone rang a little after 1 and it was my old cohort, ___.

pol, j just got to the studio and  he's freaking out.
someone's broken into the space and all his art supplies are gone.

oh no. oh no. this can't be real.
i was convinced that it had to be a mistake.
but it wasn't. it isn't.
on the phone with my fellow studio dwellers i had someone survey my space for my laptop.
gone.

i didn't feel sick. i felt relieved.
i had backed up everything only days ago to an external harddrive.
i could lose one box secure in the knowledge that another would save me.

the computer is just a palette knife.
i didn't want to lose the painting.
i consoled myself thinking of how smart i was to have backed up all my new photo essays and videos, my latest writings.
i'd lost a lot of digital media in the past and i had bought the drive to specifically avoid that scenario ever again. i even kept the drive in an obscure location away from the laptop to prevent someone from grabbing them both.

i couldn't guess that my own personal thieves would be so meticulous as to destroy my rooms in their search for valuable cargo.

arriving at the space, i went straight to recover the drive.
i'd take it to a friend's to leave for safe keeping until we could further secure the place.
but i opened the door to my rooms and realized that wasn't going to happen.
the motherfuckers had tossed my things every which way.

my books were dumped on the floor. except for my noboyushi araki volumes; they were gone.
favorite sweat shirt: gone.
two laptops: gone.
new audio inbox for making digital noise: gone.

but the only thing that mattered was that the back up drive should be there.
and you can already see the arc of this tale so you know where this this is going.

today i lost something i can never replace.
two different photo essays on strange objects of everydayness from korea, japan and the states.
4 different sets of nudes i had planned to publish over the next year as a series of handmade books.
my first forays into video art. about 7 near completed pieces.
and a lot of writing. a lot of writing.

i just felt sort of null.
as if a part of me was gone forever.

i got dumped earlier this year by the person who might have been the culmination of every desire i have.
and that nauseous sensation of despair i felt that night is approximately similar to what i am feeling now.
and it makes sense: all my approaches to my own work come from my confrontations with love and sex.
so now i am impotent and heartworn.
and some one has breeched my area.

well, thank god for booze.
i am drinking the first of what might be many beers and soon i will go to a secret convocation of seattle poets to gaze through a telescope at heavenly wonders.
and apparently we will be requested to read a lot of verse of a cosmologically significant nature.

sounds good.
my whole life just dropped into the sky.
i could use a fluid tongue.

perhaps the only way that this can be viewed without risking personal destruction is as a meditation on moving on. not that that is an easy choice. i could just as happily drink myself into oblivion over it. but i think i'll have to find a more positive approach to survival.

you know, i wish i could i drop some crazy photos into this post that have next to nothing to do with the text, but the lousy creeps also took my camera cable.

ah, pathos. and i am not even angry at the thieves. just hurt. really quite hurt.

Whilst his directorial output (including The Swimmer, Tootsie, Jeremiah Johnson and Out of Africa) is enough to make any film maker jealous, his contributions as a producer and an actor in films as diverse as Eyes Wide Shut, Changing Lanes, Michael Clayton, The Fabulous Baker Boys, The Talented Mr Ripley and Breaking and Entering (to name just a few) will ensure that he will be remembered as a Hollywood great and a truly innovative individual.