Felina. By Me. Part Two.

Walt has just greeted a petrified neighbor Carol, gotten into his car, and pulled away after retrieving a small vial from his abandoned house.

Walt’s face shows his wheels are turning. He is concerned. He knows that Jesse is alive, or at least that Uncle Jack and his crew didn’t follow his instructions exactly.

And he knows Jesse has been to his house recently.

A teacher recognizes his student’s handwriting. “HEiSENBERG.” I’m thinking maybe Jesse used to be fond to some kind of odd CamelCase, signing his papers as “PiNKMAN.” Maybe a self-esteem issue, with the lower-cased “i.” But Walt knows who conducted this bit of vandalism. He just has no idea why.

(But we do. Territorial pissings.)

Next we see him knocking on a door. He is at Andrea Cantillo’s house. Her Abuela answers.

He asks after Andrea and the grandmother breaks down and tells him what happened; says that she takes care of Brock now and works the rest of the time to sort through the home’s items. It is clear she is managing. But just barely.

Walt asks about Jesse but is told he has not been heard from. He thanks her for her time. He offers her a $100 bill. She tries to decline, but he insists. He leaves.

As soon as she sees him leave, she opens a clam-style cell phone and places a call.

“Hey,” she says. “It’s me.”


In the meantime, Skyler White has become obsessed with one Lydia Rodarte-Quayle.

Her encounters with and regarding Lydia have been brief but poignant. The only time she lays eyes on Lydia, she represents a force trying to drag Walt back in. The next time the name comes up, she and her fam are being threatened by a masked goon squad, in her own home, no less.

We find her in her study, presumably in some sort halfway home, building a file on Lydia, compiling information about Madrigal Electromotive GmbH, which she’s discovered is Lydia’s employer.

She comes across a story on the Internet about a train robbery. She pauses, her eyes look leftward, she scrunches up her nose. “Nah,” she says audibly.

She comes across another story she’s more interested in. “Madrigal Partners With Smaller Firm for Drug Abuse Outreach.” The smaller firm being a little pharmaceutical firm based in Santa Fe known as Gray Matter.

Flynn enters. Of course he’s full-time calling himself Flynn now. Hey, Mom, he says. When’s breakfast?


Walt’s next stab at finding Jesse leads him to a place he never thought he’d venture again: The Crossroads Motel.

He drives up to the little dump in his big brown dump of a car and, as if she’d never left, there’s Wendy S. with her big beautiful smile, making her way to his passenger window.

“Hi, honey. What can I do for you,” she says, recognizing neither the car nor the driver.

“Jesse Pinkman,” he says. “Where is he?”


“Jesse Pinkman.”

Wendy wrinkles her nose at Walt.

“You mean Heisenberg?”

Understandably, Walt reacts with a double take.


“Yeah, Heisenberg. Jesse is called ‘Heisenberg’ now.”

Walt laughs hysterically for about a minute. He very nearly requires an inhaler.

“Seriously?” he asks.

Wendy nods. Walter White pulls a big roll of bills out of his jacket pocket.

“Get in the car.”


Cut to the desert.

Three gentlemen with guitars dressed in cowboy hats are seen as performing yet another song in the narcocorrido style. They are identified via MTV-type chyron as Los Cuates de Sinaloa. The music might be the same or different as in S2E7, but the lyrics are updated to reflect the current story, but the refrain does not change:

“But that homie’s dead; he just doesn’t know it yet.”


Lydia falls to the floor unconscious. Her small daughter screams, mommy, mommy. The nanny rushes in, picks up the telephone, and calls for help.


Walt returns to the motel with Wendy. He thanks her for the information; she’s apparently been helpful. She exits the car. Then from nearly nowhere comes Jesse “Heisenberg” Pinkman. He is carrying a large, heavy gun. He is shoving Wendy into the back seat and helping himself to the shotgun spot. He is directing Walt to drive, then in a few hundred yards, he is directing Walt to stop.

Todd gets in the back seat.

Again at Jesse’s direction, Walt drives off.


(I don’t know if this gets finished or not. But it’s fun to think about and keeps me from going crazy until I can see the finale.)

Felina. By Me. Part One.

What follows is my version of the final episode of “Breaking Bad.” It’s likely not a great predictor, and it is likely not nearly as good as Mr. Gilligan has done. Normal obligatory spoiler warning goes here: Read no further if you’re not caught up.

Here we go.


The camera pans through the desert, the usual establishment shots over the beautiful New Mexico desert. We pan to the backs of two gentlemen, and in the foreground is a rough looking fellow and his crew. His arms are crossed; his face is incredulous. One of the men we see from the back is dressed in all black, and he’s wearing a hat. The other guy is Todd. He’s dressed lighter.

Todd is conducting a business negotiation that seems impossible. The content therein is not important. What’s important is that the scene strikes the viewer as being rather familiar.

Discussion between goon and Todd breaks down. It falls to the fellow in the porkpie. The camera pans up the fellow’s front slowly.

It’s Jesse.

I’m not writing the dialogue here because it’s not relevant. So long as it winds around to Jesse saying the following:

“You know who I am. Say my name. Say my name. Bitch.”


“You’re god-damned right.”

Dramatic music punctuates the point.

Jesse is now Heisenberg.


Credits. Baw baw baaaaaaaaaw…baw.


Backstory: It’s 2,207 miles from New Hampshire to Albuquerque. That’s about a full day and change if you’re driving it straight.

If you don’t have to first steal a Volvo (or buy it on the down-low).

If you’re not trying to elude police.

If you’re not intent on purchasing firearms.

It’s still snowy in New Hampshire when Walt leaves. So he’s still there in like February or March. The latest there’s snow there might be in April.

When we first meet Mr. Lambert, it’s Walt’s birthday. The show Wiki says that’s Sept. 7.

I figure Walt’s on the road for at least six months. I mean first he has to lose the Barney Fifes he’s just called on himself. That might take a week on its own. Heck, maybe longer before he is even able to leave the township. Then he has to find a ride, and I’m thinking his preferred method of procurement would be a purchase under the table. Carjacking is not Walt’s bag I think, and he’s under enough scrutiny as is. I’m thinking a shifty car purchase could take a while, especially since he knows nobody in New Hampshire. Then there’s the fact that he has no idea where he is, and he sure isn’t rockin’ a smart phone these days I”m guessing.

So then he’s got to drive to New Mexico. Dodging a nationwide dragnet. While arranging to purchase a giant scary gun and bullets. I’m thinking he’s feeling like Ulysses by the time he wastes that moons over whatever the hell breakfast that was. Gosh it looked yummy.

Granted, when the waitress asks him how long a trip it is, he says it’s 30 hours if you only stop for gas. This doesn’t necessarily mean he made the drive in that time. Walt has been at this long enough to know that you only answer what you’re asked. Saul may have actually coached him on this, or he just does it instinctively. His answer does not have to reflect what actually occurred. Just because he said 30 hours doesn’t mean he did it in 30 hours.

So yeah. I think Walt’s on the road for at least six months.

And that’s plenty of time for what happens to Jesse.


Still backstory: In a word, Jesse goes native.

He’s obliterated by Andrea’s death. Just rotten. A shell. Nothing. Nowhere to be found. He doesn’t eat. Soon, Uncle Jack’s goons don’t even bother locking him up. They entertain the notion of killing him since he can’t cook. Todd holds them off. And he works very hard.

And we know how convincing Todd can be. He uses stick and he uses carrot, and also, sometimes, pliers. He puts his bizarrely blunted affect to work on the broken Jesse. And he manages to do what Walt never could have done in his wildest dreams even with his best efforts.

He obtains complete control of the Jesse brain. Todd no longer needs to utilize the cattle run and no longer needs to lock Jesse in the floor. They begin turning out meth, each batch purer than the last. And Jesse couldn’t be more excited to do it. I’m saying. Jesse goes native. There may even be a conversation with Uncle Jack where Jack pontificates about the inferiority of these or those folks, and Jesse’s like yeah, that’s really cool Uncle Jack. Starts calling him Uncle Jack, by the way. Starts really admiring those tattoos.

As we’ve seen, cooking is a rough but bonding experience. Todd becomes a dutiful and reliable lab assistant as was ostensibly his greatest ambition. Jesse, in charge and unfettered by Walt’s fussiness, becomes a chef. The two become close and find a certain synergy. They learn from one another, with Jesse especially interested in Todd’s sociopathic tendencies. They push one another to new levels of depravity. They fluff their chests about the compound.

Uncle Jack notices and is not pleased. There is a power struggle, probably about money. Uncle Jack does not prevail. He dies slowly.

EDIT: No, it’s not about money. It’s about Drew Sharp. One night, they’re again recounting the train robbery story to the little, what do you call it, a coven? A coven of nazis? Anyway, so they’re telling the story again and Jesse lets slip a little detail that Todd had previously neglected, that he murdered a kid. A white kid. This makes Uncle Jack unhappy. There is a power struggle. Uncle Jack does not prevail. He dies slowly.

Jesse and Todd become bookends to Leonel and Marco Salamanca. We will in fact see nearly too-obvious flourishes of this. No they will not convert to the cult of San La Muerte (though the two sharing a well-worn paperback copy of “Dianetics” is not out of the question). But they may adopt similar dress. They will certainly become more choreographed. They will develop a seemingly and creepily psychic communication. Like the Cousins, they are ruthless, calculating, sociopathic, scary.

Productivity skyrockets, but it is not possible to saturate the demand of the global conglomerate Madrigal Electromotive GmbH. Soon, the money makes the pile in the storage locker look like a postage stamp. The goons formerly known as Uncle Jack’s nazi punks are quickly conditioned to the new leadership.

And (unbeknownst to Jesse) Todd begins pursuing Lydia Rodarte-Quayle.

Life is good.

And Jesse starts insisting on being called “Heisenberg.” He buys a porkpie hat. No more beanies. He shaves his head again. He grows a vandyke.


That’s all I have so far. The open and way too much backstory. Crap. Now it gets difficult.

Ready for Some Football

I am soon to become a 45-year-old man, but I have only just recently developed a genuine affection for the sport that we Americans know as “football.”

These days on Sunday I try to flip on the Bills game as I get ready for work, and then I tune the radio to 96.5 FM in the car the rest of the way. I like the sound a football broadcast makes. It sounds like fall. And I like that I’ve thought enough about the game at this point to have formulated some opinions. To have picked some teams. And to know why.

When I was 10, I lived in Pittsburgh for a semester. Someone bought me a knit hat that was yellow and black and had the Steelers’ logo up front. Then we moved to Northeast Ohio.

Let’s just say I only wore that hat once afterwards.

I didn’t know enough from football to have the sophistication to know that wearing a Steelers hat in Browns country might cause you some mischief. I was cold and I had a hat. That’s all I knew.

There was the recess when I was surrounded by five to seven boys who proceeded to quiz me about the basics of football. Drilled me they did. I didn’t know the answers. I remember trying to keep walking away from this crew, but they persisted. They had a point to make.

So football and I never really got along.

Thing is, if you’re a fella, life’s a little easier if you’re interested in football. It’s an additional distraction to keep your brain occupied. It’s small talk with the bartender or simpatico with a neighbor. It’s a realm of current events you can use to create conversation that is irrelevant to the touchy world of politics. You can even argue about football, but the nice thing is that those disagreements don’t actually affect your lives. Not really. So I always wanted to be a fan.

Now, a little older maybe, little more patience maybe, I dunno. I find myself developing an interest.

Now. I have three teams I watch for various reasons. I keep an eye on the Green Bay Packers because they are the only sports franchise in the United States that isn’t owned by a corporation. I watch the Pittsburgh Steelers because that’s my homeland and because you know, of the big kid chasing me up a tree and stuff; and of course, I watch the Bills because I can actually watch their games.

So far this week so good. The Bills defeated Carolina in the game’s last moments while the Packers were rather heavy handed with that team from Washington, D.C. who actually play in Maryland. And those Stillers play Cincinnatah tomorrow.

Joss Stone: Watch Yer Back

Usually, I lose steam at least 3/4 into the season of any talent-show themed television program. I don’t watch many of them. I enjoy the initial auditions in The Voice, but once they’re done with all the chair-turning dramatics, I’m cooked. America’s Got Talent, though, has really managed to keep me from wandering off.

This is partly because I am a long-time Fan Of The (Howard Stern) Show. But it’s also partly because of an 11-year-old talent called Anna Christine.

The first time she appeared, she sang “House of the Rising Sun.” As I would find in subsequent performances, this little girl’s choice of material tends to be just as stunning as her performance.

I remember sitting shocked, thinking how mind-blowing it was that a 10-year-old would choose such a somber, haunting song. I was so busy being blown away by the choice that I had to rewind the Tivo to make sure I saw her actually sing the thing. It was astonishing. What could possibly be next?

Well. Apparently someone gave this kid an Animals CD when she was like two.


And the thing about this kid is that she kept getting better. Her last performance, and note again the insightful choice of song:

Sadly, Anna Christine did not go any further in the competition. However, as also with Michelle Chamuel from The Voice, I’ll be keeping an eye out. I am a fan. Big-time. America’s judge said it: Superstar.

Speaking of Michelle Chamuel…