Windows 10 WIFI Connection Issue…SOLVED At Last?


I hesitate to write this so soon. But it’s been three days since I’ve taken the steps shown below, and my laptop’s WIFI connection has yet to tremor. If that doesn’t sound like a big deal to you, let me point out that since upgrading from Windows 8 to Windows 10 in the fall of 2015, I’ve had nothing but connection issues on this bastard. I’ve had to sit in the same room as the router, and even then, my surfing was intermittent. I just couldn’t stay online.

Until now.

Before we get on to the fix, let me give you some more background on the issue.

In late July of 2015, Microsoft released Windows 10 onto the unwitting public. The upgrade was free, so a lot of us (including me) went right with it. It took about 8 hours to do on my humble little ASUS X451M machine, which carries a 2.2 Intel processor with 2G of RAM.

The morning after that, problems began. I couldn’t stay connected to our router. It kept dropping over and over. Resetting the Broadcom network adapter didn’t help; reinstalling the Broadcom network adapter didn’t help. I tried upgrading it as well. Nothing doing. Windows 10 did not like my network adapter. Period. End of story. Surfing the internet had become, over the course of 12 hours, a minefield one could not hope to cross. I was fucked.

Even Microsoft agreed. Well, at first anyway. Tech support claimed that Windows 8.1 came packaged with VPN software that was incompatible with Windows 10. Thus, the later version of their OS would drop WIFI connections, or worse, not show any connections available at all. The initial fix they recommended was unreasonable: roll back to Windows 8, uninstall VPN, THEN reinstall Windows 10.

Yyyyeah. No.

Thankfully, a newer, much more simple solution surfaced. And hey, it works. I’ve been fine ever since—a stable connection in every room of the house.

The following command lines I found at this website. I am hugely grateful for the fix. Microsoft has also updated their page with the same fix. Check it out if you’re having trouble. Or, just do what I’ve copied and pasted below:

Step 1 – First things first, Right-Click the newly-reinstated Start Menu and select Command Prompt (Admin) from the drop-down menu.

Step 2 – Type out the following command, then hit the Enter key

reg delete HKCRCLSID{988248f3-a1ad-49bf-9170-676cbbc36ba3} /va /f

Step 3  Enter the below command into the Command Prompt and then triumphantly hit the Enter key

netcfg -v -u dni_dne

Step 4 – Restart the PC and then double-check your wifi settings. You should now see a revived list of all of the available networks within range.

Note that your system may give you an error in response these lines—something to the effect of this line cannot be deleted from the registry because it does not exist. My ASUS told me that. BUT…after I rebooted the system, my WIFI was steady as a rock.

I hope this works for you too. For me, it’s killed a problem that’s hindered web surfing for almost two years.

Okay you guys, keep reading these blogs, eh? I appreciate the time you spend here.

Stay real, stay cool, stay loose.


Creepy Pasta!


I thought we’d give Titanic a break and have a look at some creepy shit I found online. Pictures, that is. As a boy I was very interested in the supernatural. I would go to the library and check out books like Ghostly Animals by Daniel Cohen. Cross Your Fingers, Spit In Your Hat, by Alvin Schwartz. In fact pretty much anything by Alvin Schwartz was fine and dandy by me. In A Dark, Dark Room is still a favorite.

Anyway, here we go at picture number one, The Girl In The Painting:


The Girl In The Painting

I hope you guys can read the text, since for some reason WordPress doesn’t want to let us click to enlarge. Here’s a segment: When gazing upon it, people have frequently reported feeling uneasy as a nagging feeling tells them that someone is standing behind them, watching, and that the girl in the painting is actually looking towards this unseen presence.

Can you feel it? Ooooh. Sit in a dark, dark room, all alone, and think about it. Go on. Dare ya.

Picture number two: Real Zombie


Real Zombie

Her boyfriend jumped on the window for this shot. Boo! Still, it looks significantly scary. If you’re anally incontinent you may want to skip this one.

Oh drat! Too late! Be right back.

Picture number three: Fright Night


Fright Night

This one is as far from real as you can get. It’s from a 1985 movie called Fright Night. The girl you’re looking at is either actress Amanda Bearse or a stunt double. Whichever, the shark-toothed makeup scared the hell out of me when I was a kid. As I understand it today, the artist was very unhappy with the results. For him, it looked too cheap and fake. That’s bullshit. If anything it’s too goddamned real. ARRRGHHH!

Picture number four: Ghost In The Philippines


Ghost in the Philippines

I saw this one years ago, when I still lived in Ohio. I didn’t believe it then and still don’t. It’s cool anyway, though. And hey, maybe it is real. I was riding a cab through QC one morning at 4AM. Scout Chuatoco Avenue. And suddenly on the side of the road comes this white, blurry figure, trying to flag us down. An instant later the figure disappeared. The cabbie turned to me and said: Did you see that ghost? I told him I sure saw something all right. What it was I really can’t say for certain.

Picture number five: The Monk


The Monk

Here we have my favorite ghost picture of all time. It was taken in 1963 by Reverend K.F. Lord, at the Church of Christ the Consoler in North Yorkshire, England. Most believers claim that an image of a 16th century monk was captured on the right side of the photograph. My apologies it’s so small, but all the others I found online have fucking watermarks on them. Anyway, badassed scary.

That’s all for now. Give me some creepy stories in the comment section if you have time. And as always, thanks for stopping by.

Stay real, stay cool, stay loose.


Titanic Survivor’s Bizarre Journal (PART THREE)


Hello lads and lassies. Back again with another Titanic segment. There’s this one plus two more, so we’re getting along. I still can’t believe these little missives fell into MY hands, after so many years. I’m honored.


April 13, 1912

It’s 5AM. Maybe a little later. Last night one of our first class passengers—a drunkard—insisted he could prove to me that time flies. Laughing in his draughty face, I challenged the edict, only to have him seize my watch and heave it overboard!

“Didn’t I tell you?” he asked, with a smug little bow.

“Go to your cabin,” I instructed.

My own quarters I share with three other men, and it is cramped, and their jordans are pesky, slapping me about the arms and shoulders as I attempt to write. Bah! A pair of hedge-sheers would do so well at this moment!

I should also point out that I have just arrived back from the offices of none other than Captain Edward Smith himself. His door I knocked with my chest puffed high, my chin protruding. I was proud. Honored. Brimming with self-importance. For I had a message to relay, by request of chief engineer Joseph Bell.

The door came open. There stood a man with a beard so white I nearly fell snow blind.

“Captain!” I expelled, trying not to shield my eyes. “I am here to inform you that boiler room six is no longer burning! Lovely, yes?”

A curt nod came back by way of response. “Lovely indeed. I’ve always wanted to cross the Atlantic in a floating ash tray. Is the bulkhead damaged?”

“I’m afraid it is, Sir. But not to worry. Barring a violent strike from something terribly large—an ice burg for example—we will make New York on schedule.”

Here the captain huffed noisily. “On schedule’s not good enough, boy! We have quick passage orders! Seventy-four or above!”

Now I confess, here on paper only, that I had no idea what the bearded man was talking about. I nodded, affecting to look sage, and was soon given my leave.

This ship grows on me. Every day I come to love her more, and the sea, and being at sea. What will I do when I reach New York? Is the city friendly? I do not know. If not, perhaps I can ride back on Titanic, then back, and back, and back again. Ah! The life of a sailor! Is that me? Is that what I’ve become?

Perhaps I have finally found my true calling.


Oh, you poor, nameless, unfortunate soul. How could you have known, penning this, how things would turn out? I think I shall leave now, and break a Subway sandwich in three, and toss all three pieces down the steepest, most damp stairwell I can find.


Titanic Survivor’s Bizarre Journal (part two)


As promised on Saturday, I bring you page two of the odd series of entries, apparently written aboard White Star Line’s Titanic during her final days at sea. Thank you readers for your patience and interest.


April 12, 1912

I had come aboard!

Aye, and from my previous vantage point upon the misty docks of Cobh, I saw nothing of just how big this ship truly is. Dressed in my stolen White Star Line sweater, I walked from bow to stern, my eyes agog, my mouth hanging open. For the second time in a day, yes, my mouth was open wide. Currency, my lads, never doubt it.

I came to the poop deck, enjoying the misty breeze of the sea upon my face (especially after the crude unpleasantness of what had sprayed it in Cobh), wearing a dreamy smile. I could not wait to actually sit and poop, as it were, on such a magnificent vessel as Titanic. Alas, there seemed to be no lavatories here. Odd. Why call it a poop deck, when all you place upon it is cargo cranes, some benches, and a flag?

“You there!” a man’s voice growled.

I whirled to find another White Star employee, wearing an identical sweater as I. A scowl twisted his already ugly face. And his nose! Good Lord, his nose! It looked like something one would evacuate upon a poop deck.

“Sir!” I replied.

“What is your duty aboard this ship?”

This question flummoxed me to my very core, for I had not anticipated corners in which to be backed. To the very best of my ability, I summoned within my mind what is perhaps the happiest word in all the English language.

“I am a coxswain,” I proclaimed.

The man with the lumpy nose did not waver in the least. “For which lifeboat?”

“Lifeboat?” my stammering voice managed. “This is Titanic! She is unsinkable!”

“Egad! You still have a job ta do, yer idiot! Now tell me which lifeboat!”

“Aye,” I continued with my ruse. “Lifeboat. Lifeboat thirteen.”

And at last, the grouchy man seemed to relax. He gave me a nod, apologized for his intrusion, and strode off. I later learned that lifeboat thirteen had been placed very near the poop deck, affording me the proper excuse for being where I was.

“Oh!” he called, as if in afterthought. “The Empress of Britain has sent a ‘burg warning. Be on the lookout.”

“Of course,” came my manufactured reply of utmost professionalism.

After the man had gone, I wondered what a ‘burg was. Perhaps it meant some sort of sea monster. A whale with fangs. Or perhaps the strange meat patties I had once read about in Cobh were beginning to catch on, even for the menus of place so prestigious as Titanic.

At any rate, finding myself alone, I made my way below deck.

After all, I still very much needed to poop.


They just don’t come any stranger than this. More is on the way!


Titanic Survivor’s Bizarre Journal


Below is page one of a recently discovered journal penned by a survivor from the Titanic.


Facts are sketchy and hard to pin down, but apparently a young chimney sweep stowed away from the city of Cobh (now Queenstown) Ireland. Details on how he managed to achieve this feat are blessedly few, but you may read between the lines.

I have the entire journal in my possession. Over the coming days I shall continue to reveal more. In the meantime, read and be amazed.


April 11, 1912


I must confess I had never expected a vessel so Oceanic, so Majestic, so Olympic! She was huge, like so many of the swinging jordans I have seen in the back-alley bathhouses of Cobh. Too large indeed to come ashore. I stood upon the docks with my jaw agape. Her mighty stacks—four of them!—penetrated the sky. Her windows gleamed like so many beckoning stares, challenging me—or so it seemed—to climb aboard her decks and indulge. Take me! she seemed to say. I am yours!


My gaze went to her bow. It towered five stories over my head! Ah!

I then looked upon her stern—the best part of any woman—and began to salivate! Ah! Ah!

But how could I get on? I, a common, filthy sweep, with no currency in my pocket save for the elongated organ I sometimes let for extra change. Surely that would not be enough for the likes of Titanic. Still, had to try. It was imperative for me to try!

“Off with you!” the tending guard barked, sniffing at my attire.

“But sir!” I could only but squeak.

“I said off!

With nothing else to offer, I pointed surreptitiously towards the organ antecedently mentioned. The guard sniffed again…

And smiled!

Success! I knew, right then, that the maiden on her virgin voyage would be mine to plunder. And plunder I would. Ah!

Her destination was New York City. We would get there in five or six days. By that time, I would be a chimney sweep no more. Aye! By that time…

By that time, I would be a man.


Again, as I said, page one. There is more–much more. Stay tuned.

And of course, stay real and stay loose.


A Weird Gadget In An Old Car


Hello lads and lassies.

Bumped into an article over at today, courtesy of, which is my go-to place for gathering news. The article concerns an automobile—the 1942 DeSoto—that comes with this cute little cigarette dispenser in the steering wheel. It looks like this:



The Jalopnik author’s tone is quite bemused, and even a little offended at times. He got even more ruffled when pointing out the dispenser seems to be targeted towards women:

Men did plenty of smoking then, too—I’m not clear on why getting a cigarette from your steering wheel would be considered something more feminine. –from Cars Once Came With Built-In Cigarette Dispensers, by Jason Torchinsky

Hey Jason, my guess is that DeSoto felt cigarettes are more feminine because they’re slender and dainty and emulate a certain feline elegance. It’s what actor Tony Hendra would call a totemistic thing. Maybe DeSoto had plans for a cigar dispenser later on, to appeal to the men? Nah.

Anyway, I’m forty-six years old. I clearly remember a time when smoking wasn’t just accepted among adults, it was expected. Everyone over the age of eighteen smoked. (Most people under that age did, too, and many still do (I’m talking to you, Crystal dear)). McDonald’s and Burger Chef used to have ash trays on their lounge tables. They were made of heavy glass until people started stealing them—then they went to cheaper tin. My dad smoked cigars. My mom smoked (still smokes) cigarettes.


DeSoto’s neat little dispensers didn’t last long. They were part of that vehicle’s Fifth Avenue Ensemble, which featured other cool things like covered headlights and an electric antenna. And can you even read the print on the following picture? Does it say the fucking hood ornament lit up, too?? Shit!



Yeah, I’m sure I would drive this car if it were still around. All I can do now is go outside, light a cigar, and think about how things once were. Did the cigarettes taste better or worse? Hmmm.

They never ruined ANY of my Burger Chef fun meals, tell you that.


Stay real, stay cool, stay loose.


(thanks to Scott Michaels over at for his Burger Chef Fun Meal pic; I’ll take it down if you want me to, just say hey Willie Mays!)

NEW! Secluded Worlds



Hello lads and lassies.

I released a new book this week. This is the cover. It’s free, and you can download it at

Also, I’ve gotten rid of Old Stone’s poetry page. No one was reading it anyway. That sure as shit doesn’t bode well for Secluded Worlds, but fuck it, I haven’t done a blog post in like three weeks. No material, nothing new to say. I’d rather stay quiet than post bullshit. Johnny Senzasenso would kick my ass for that. Sorry, Johnny. You can still contribute here any time you like.

Stay real, stay cool, stay loose.