"Get Back, Jo Jo..."

Famous last words and all that, I know, but I'm almost ready for a full return.

When I started this page it was to report on the progress of my home theatre as it was constructed, then to rant on endlessly about the movies (and TV shows) I would experience in my new underground palace. Unfortunately, progress stalled with the room, and the page stalled with it.

But a few weeks ago I brought in an outside contractor to finish the work, with the exception of carpeting and painting. I have another fellow coming in this week to do the carpet and I've been painting myself (literally -- you should see some of my new t-shirt designs along with my new line of semi-gloss skin creams).

So yes, finally, the room is just about complete. And I am just about ready to get back to what I had intended for this outlet of personal expression.

That is, assuming there's anyone still around to read it.

"Hello, Newman..."

So, it's like this.

I've sat down to write something for this blasted page so many times in the last few months and I just haven't had the energy to see anything through. Weird, when one considers that I'm a person who's never short on opinions. And it's not like there's nothing to write about (translation: lots of easy targets).

The saga that was Britney could have generated some consonants, but what could I possibly write that would be more interesting than the whackjob herself? Nothing much, really. Although, for the good of public safety somebody should really consider hiding her car keys.

I could have given my all on the state of the great game of baseball, which has expanded its horizons -- it's now all about pitching, catching, hitting and testing. But that Mitchell thingy has pretty much said it all, unless your name is Roger.

Also, there's always plenty of television fodder to discuss, especially with the network upfronts this week -- pretty much all my faves are coming back, none more notable than Reaper, which the CW squeaked through to a second season despite so-so ratings. Perhaps the Devil made them do it.

And I've sworn not to discuss anything to do with movies until after I get to see Harrison Ford crack that whip one more time.

So, you see, this piece is really about nothing -- which is only fitting since I can't get the Seinfeld theme out of my head. I'd send my cranium across the room if I only had the equipment -- unfortunately, there just isn't much stopping power in a water pistol.

Oh, well. Whaddaya gonna do?

Until next time...