I'm glad I don't live in Miami...

I'm glad I don't live in Miami anymore. Arthur Ramsey may call it the land of "babes, beaches and babes," but after living there six years, I can tell you from experience that the burg attracts disaster like Job. I once had to cancel a date with a great girl because of a riot. My sister was caught in Hurricane Andrew. Crabs dig tunnels under patios. It's always humid. And finally, on this show an illegal indoor rave led to the spread of the alien signal. I'd chalk this up to the infectiousness of rock and roll, except for the fact that DJ Karen Reynolds was playing house music. It's just Miami's luck that Karen's mix included a third-hand copy of the alien nutsmaker that she got from her brother on the cargo ship. Instead of providing the night trippers with a good beat they could dance to, it left them convulsing in a hospital ward. It also caused Karen to throw her drunk boyfriend out of her apartment window. (How did she elude the cops? Given her volatile state and her mutant strength it was just as well they missed her.) The signal also infected ATMs, credit card microchips, MP3s, cell-phone signals and everything else you can imagine. To prevent the signal from infecting the entire world, Molly's gang had this mondo gadget that looked like something confiscated from a Bond villain. With the OK from the vice chief of staff, Molly simply shut off Miami with the flick of several switches to to paraphrase Barney Fife nip the bug in the bud. I missed what happened to the airliner. I'm guessing it didn't crash because the gang was celebrating at the end. Apparently even JT was happily guzzling brewskis. Fenway and Molly were sobered by the failure of his drug to curb the virus in Karen's DNA. Her depressing slide into Regan McNeil territory offered Brent Spiner's testy biologist an opportunity to exhibit an emotion deeper than petulance. Good. The time was ripe for a glint of vulnerability from this otherwise lovable crank. This is also no time to get down on Peter Dinklage's Ramsey, whose sex-obsessed linguist proves with each passing week that little people can be as whimsically lecherous as anyone else.