I was in an office. My office. My new office. Boxes to be unpacked still. Office across from the men's room.Then I woke up because I had compressed a nerve so severely that my arm was dead from shoulder down. It seems everything's dying in July.
I remember using the urinal at some point (always dangerous when dreaming). Some underling asking of he can work late or something. I saw my reflection and I wore a suit. I halso had some lightweight body armor -- you know in case I get shot at.
On one hand I remember being a little out of sorts while still feeling my way around the New Situation of office life. On the other, I recall mourning the death of my arts career.
At some point I was in my office when my client Meg White (of the White Stripes) visited. Everything was normal I suppose until I realized that I was trying to impress Meg White. You know, "Uh, I play drums too, you know?" And all hoping she'd ask me more about my music and such.
Meg White, WTF?
But dang if you're Bill Walsh, Ingmar Bergman, Tom Snyder, Marvin Zindler, or Michel Serrault. Because you're dead. J.K. even killed off Harry Potter's sorry ass. But, dead happens and all. What can you do, right?
We feel bad for Robin Roberts. But, hell if you're Michael Vick. Or, damn bloody hell if you're Tony "snitches-get-stitches" Taylor. Oh, shit, what if you were Johnny Boy Roberts? Zing! Or, Tad "Big Porkin'" Stevens. Ha! Or, even two-bit celebs like Lindsay or Britney or Nicole (three of the melt-down quadruplets). And, there's Tim Donaghy. July...damn you!
Well, if you were W, you would have had a public colonoscopy this month (only to find your administration drooping around your ankles when you stood back up). If you were Big Uncle Dick Cheney, you'd have had your rrrrrobot batteries changed and would have had to turn over the Real Presidency over to your retarded step-nephew, Georgie, for two hours. Or, if you were Al(ibi) Gonzales, you would have been called a liar (well, you are, right?).
[I see Alberto G. as one anchor on the indictment scale to come and Uncle D as the other].
If you were Hillary everyone would have looked at your tits. Everybody all mock shock and jimmied-up outrage. Hey people, take a look, Barack Obama is black too!
If you were to be anyone this July, it would have been either Rupert Murdoch or Kevin Federline. Both will begin August in a better place than they were in July.
The Boston Celtics did OK too.
Here comes August!
There were photos of my grandmother's parents and her deceased siblings; growing up in Gonzalez, Texas (east of San Antonio, basically) in the 1930s and '40s. Miserable looking rural conditions that were understandably escapable. Frailties. Poverty. Blackness. The South. But there were the good times too: trip to Tijuana. Nights on the town, dressed and posed. Friends.
There were photos of my more immediate family too. My mother by a pool. My dad in a pretty hip suit. This was 1950s and '60s-era Los Angeles. My nutty aunt and my incredible uncle. My uncle's alcoholic father. My dead grandfather. [My bi-racial parents in 60s. I guess I never admired their bravery, if you can all it that] History and context. Moments. Spaces.
I guess my birth is kind of the zero-point here. I was as fascinated by the before birth images as I definitely was of the post birth pictures.
You know the stuff:
Forth grade class photos (1974-1975 school year, Mrs Ahlstrom). I can remember a handful of kids names. Tim Hatch. Tim Seal. Jeffery Pollack. Stephanie (one of the twins). Manny. Denise.From time-to-time I would borrow (steal) a picture or two from my grandmother's picture box. I'm pretty glad I did, too, because after my grandmother died, I have no idea where those pictures went. "Where is 'picture box?'" I might have said as a child. I still have some of those borrowed pictures. I have two photo albums where I've stored these images along with others collected through my mid-20s.
1976 Claremont National Little League Bears (same year as the film The Bad News Bears and, yep, we had a girl pitcher - Lorna Christen - and an alcoholic manager). Lorna's about the only name I remember from that losing enterprise.
There's me on a horse with a set of twin boys. For some reason, I'm making the thumb/forefinger pistol gesture. I guess someone had asked me to do that. Looks like I'm fiver or six so that would be 1970/'71-ish. I have absolutely no idea who these boys are. I wonder if they are alive.
There's a picture of me with a Very Bad Santa circa 1970.
Random SCV shots. 1985-1987.
Pictures of me with friends: Nancy, Lisa, Tim, Big Dave Wave, Mark, Rene, McKenzie. A shot or two with my father, my grandmother, and step siblings whom I hardly know. College and graduate school.
Eras and places: Three Mile Island, Vegas, etc. It's all et cetera.
Most of this stuff is horrible photography too. But, it serves its purpose. But, I've always loved good photography too. As a middle-school kid I'd go to the public library and check out (and check out) the large-format fine art photography books. Plus, there was nudity in those books and no one cared if a kid was looking at it. It was art, dammit!
I've always liked to look at photographs and that whole "...worth a thousand words" crap actually makes a lot of sense; then and now. Because...in those old photos from my grandmother's picture box and in my back history photo album set and in the blurry memories of large-format fine art photography books, I've always noticed -- aside from the ostensible subjects -- an enormous and fascination world of Other Shit. Middlespaces.
I always wondered who else was present at shoots, but not pictured. I wondered who was taking/making the image. There were always background information - cars, celebrations, litter, strangers, relatives, and buildings that no longer exist. Riveting shit. The unanswered questions.
And I've always had this interest in the stillness (or not) of still images. I can see the same scene in video and have no interest. Video serves a specific purpose, but stop all molecules and I can gain a perspective on contexts, a keener perspective. So, for as long as I can remember I have taken a shit load of pictures. I am not a photographer. I just like to take pictures. Occasionally I will present imagery in some form (framed, uploaded, or arranged in some context and on rare occasion, with some explanation).
I am neither perfect nor technical. But, I know what I'm doing.
The idea that adults should be playing with their kids is a modern invention -- and not necessarily a good one
By Christopher Shea | July 15, 2007 | Boston Globe
WHAT COULD BE more natural than a mother down on the rec-room floor, playing with her 3-year-old amid puzzles, finger-puppets, and Thomas the Tank Engine trains? Look -- now she's conducting a conversation between a stuffed shark and Nemo, the
A "natural" scene? Actually, parent-child play of this sort has been virtually unheard of throughout human history, according to the anthropologist David Lancy. And three-fourths of the world's current population would still find that mother's behavior kind of dotty.
Mica Pollock, an associate professor at Harvard's Graduate School of Education, says it's one thing to encourage low-income parents to read to their kids or tell them stories. But "it's a huge and dangerous overstatement to say that low-income parents don't stimulate their children." In fact, some research, she says, suggests that the approach used by some low-income parents teaches virtues such as patience and adaptability better than more freewheeling parenting styles.
And let's not idealize middle-class kids: "Some of those children are being raised to be spoiled, demanding, requiring constant adult attention, and inclined to argue with their parents," Pollock says.
But, how they were friends was what was baffling to me. I’ve heard about bus friends being exclusive of home friends. Even the girl has school friends that are exclusive of home friends. I guess we have our work friends that are mutual of our private life friends. I paused my music but left my headphones on so I could hear them.
But here they were, four boys, median age 15 perhaps. They were (I’m giving them these names, OK?):
David (not “Dave) and Daniel (never “Danny”): Unrelated, yet two boys so cookie-cutter identical teenage PacSun meets American Eagle, short hair, republican family, sheltered, mainstream America. These two will do just enough to make good grades to get into a “good state school” and a lucky legacy at a top-tier. University of Maryland and Duke. They will become archrivals because of basketball. These are our future frat-rats, doctors, and investment analysts. One may become a deputy director at the U.S. Department of Commerce. They will drink plenty of alcohol and try cocaine. They will never know how to please women but will marry and have lots of kids and live on half-acre lots. They will have affairs and repress homosexual thoughts. They will always have ideas about how the world could work better yet will never act upon any notion that could challenge the status quo. They claim to like football. One or both may be on the JV squad right now. Will definitely play intramurals in college. Forever insecure but moneyed. Periods of mopish behavior. Prized possessions of the future: BMW. Rolex (“it’s not a watch, it’s a time-piece”).Rowin was different. Karbutt was typical throwaway third child of an unhappy couple (or two). David and Daniel were CNN, the standardization and sanitization of America. Where David and Daniel wore clothing that appeared to be the offspring of American Eagle and Pacific Sun in a mid-air collision over the Westfield Shoppingtown (tm) headquarters in L.A. Karbutt wore something generic, forgettable, old, and wrinkled. Clean enough though. Rowin wore a t-shirt emblazoned with “REHAB is for quitters.”
“Karbutt” (it’s a nickname, a conjunction for Carl has a big butt): The teetering borderline outcast. Scruffy, church-on-Easter, problems-at-home, confused to the ways of the world, inexperienced, positive even his brightest thoughts are incorrect, suburban mid-cast (not entirely an outcast, never entirely in the ingroup). Destined for lower middle-class existence (poverty disguised as credit card debt) and loneliness. May father children but never marry. Karbutt will be just fine at reading meters for the gas company or painting. He will develop a lifelong smoking addiction and may spend some time on antidepressants. Gets dangerous with marijuana use is prone to creepiness with the ladies. Karbutt will forever be Karbutt. He will spend some time in jail for violating probation on a misdemeanor rap. He will occasionally tell people he went to college but will say things like, “Where? Uh, Cal State Berkeley.” Forever insecure but poor. Mope. Prized possession of the future: Used Harley with a bad something-or-other.
Rowin: And, most curiously, I think of this fella as “the Canadian.” I seriously doubt he is a national of our fine neighbor to the north. But, he just felt like a snowback. What can I say, Rowin will someday discover his supernatural powers. Quietly confident. He will remain a happy virgin throughout high school but will just as happily bed down all the women in his mid-sized mid-prestige university out west (Grinnell?). Rowin will be expert at cunnilingus (“it’s the nose, I guess” he’ll say) simply through trial and error. Rowin will be voted “funniest classman” three years running. Rowin will have killer jokes about his huge nose. Rowin MUST have a guitar playing older brother and an art school older sister. He adores his mother and father, cooking with one and, interchangeably, building shit with the other. His grades are solid and he thinks most institutions are bogus. He will either own his own business (working from he’ll call with tremendous irony, “the crib”) or cash out of the “tech industry” at 30 and open a chain of childcare centers. He will forever be smarter than everyone else but won’t bother to take the SAT. Rowin will graduate from college in six years because that’s what worked best. He will love long and intensely. Rowin will cry. He will have two kids and “raise ‘em like my parents raised me.” He may become active on the city council of Madison, Wisconsin or Santa Cruz, California. Rowin will discover bicycling at the age of 40. Prized possession for the future: An old t-shirt that says: “REHAB is for quitters”.
Rowin’s hair was kind of Steve Nash ’04. Floppy, bowl-ish, fine, unaffected. His ears were covered as if he were wearing a knitted cap. Karbutt was probably due for a shampoo and hasn’t ever had a proper cut. D&D? Short hair, cut over the ears, tapered and razor finished. Carson Daly? Was that his name?
Karbutt agreed with everything offered in the conversation. Daniel and David discussed some football. They discussed the AT&T Congressional golf tournament (“You know, Tiger’s tournament?”). One of them offered some Red Sox information. Oh, and one suggested mentioned Harry Potter. Karbutt indicated that even though he has yet to complete one Harry Potter book, he’s seen three of the movies. Rowin independently offered that the guys should read Fight Club even if they’ve seen the movie because, “it’s so much better.” Speaing of Fight Club, “Brad Pitt was hot in that” he supremely offered. “Eeewww!!” came from the other boys. Rowin had just expressed an opinion on the physical attributes of a man. For shame! Rowin didn’t care and may have said it for shock value. It was hard to tell.
Karbutt said that he had never been to a concert. David and/or Daniel offered that thay had been to something that I’m forgetting about maybe at Nissan Center or somewhere. “Oh!” said Rowin, “I’ve been to like 30 Hootie and the Blowfish shows.” Even I was like, WTF? with that. Daniel and/or David inquired if that band was still together. Rowin assured them that they were touring right now. “How do you know?” someone asked. “My uncle’s the bass player. I don’t really like their music, but it’s fun to tour. I don’t even know if they like the music anymore.” [Note: Rowin’s uncle is apparently Dan Felber of Bethesda, Maryland; Seneca Valley High School in Germantown, Maryland; and, University of South Carolina.]
D&D joked about “rolling papers” and European travel. Karbutt’s never been anywhere and probably didn’t get the reference to “rolling papers.” Rowin laughed along but the look in his eyes was more past that situation. He knows he doesn’t have to front.
When Rowin went to the bathroom, he stopped, picked up something and asked me – an adult for god's sake! – if these were my sunglasses. God bless his incredible existence.
Hopefully things will shift so that someday Rowin can be our president – of the planet! Neither democrat nor republican. Neither USA or EU. Rowin's world.
It caught my attention because it's called: The Greatest Gadget of All Time Tournament.
Right? So, what the hell? I'll do it, there's gadgets, and there's the opportunity to opine. As a positive combination, it's like 9 out of 10.
Just to reinforce what I'm talking about, it's a bracket thing. Pairs competing head-to-head, single-elimination, winner take all. Like 64 gadgets in four divisions, a final four, etc.
But also to reinforce what I'm talking about, it's about gadgets. Sony's first Walkman (tm). The TeeVee. iPod. Etc. Oh, and Mattel's Football. I still have mine (I & II). I can still juke for the bighouse. If I remember, I'll dig it out.
But, that's not the point of the post. I just got excited. You know, gadgets and opinion.
Here's what's rad. And, sometimes you just have to trust your instincts. In fact, the road to...you can quote me here...the road to perfection is illuminated by the light of your instincts. OK, don't quote me, but get this. I'm doing my head-to-head comparisons. I'm picking the Walkman over the Mac Plus and such and I'm like in the final four. I have to pick, for example because I don't remember, the electric toothbrush vs. the remote control (which I chose as the ultimate gadget). Anyway, I end up having to pick between the Fender Telecaster and the Hitachi Magic Wand. Damn, life is perfect.
Dog vs. Cat. Man vs. Woman. Pirate vs. Priest. What could be more opposite? Anchors on scales.
But, today – and this is happening more often – I was so slow. If I were a spy, I would have been assassinated. Had I been a gangster, I’d’ve been “taken out.” Completely unawares too. Just nothing. Poof!
I had this “paperwork” I needed to drop off at an office. Easy task this since I’d been there before so there wasn’t this whole need to have the pupils open wide. But the organization where I was leaving this envelope was still closed at 8:40 a.m. I thought they opened at 8:30 else I’d’ve come at another time.
I took the elevator up to the 2nd floor. Really, if there were stairs, I probably wouldn’t have used ‘em. Too much effort. Like, what, you actually think, take stairs, recycle, or smile in strange situations? What. Ever.
So, the situation is already a bit goofy. I’m thinking that I don’t really want to bring this paperwork back. Nor do I want to mail it. Who mails? I’m here already (next I’ll be writing checks). But, I didn’t know how long to wait.
Now, there were some “workers” or “movers” working (or moving) in the suite next door to the place I was going. I had no reason to interact with them though and didn’t believe it feasible that they would know the hours of the place I’m visiting. I let them do their work or moving or whatever uninterrupted. I’m cool like that. Plus I didn’t want to be the doofus standing there and those guys knowing that it was closed for the week or something.
A mail slot! I see a basket on the other side! Hurray! I’ll. Drop. This. Paperwork. In. This. Slot. And my job is done. I can go to the grocery store. I can leave this hell. I am pardoned from the prison. See, I’m already a move ahead with the grocery store in mind. I’m cool like that.
I drop. Envelope lands right in the basket. Middle. Swish. I turn. I walk to the elevator door. It’s open. There’s some cardboard shit all over the place. Some box scribbling. The movers must be using this elevator. Whatever. It’ll come back.
I entered the elevator and one of the movers/workers says something. “Pardon me?” I say. He repeats, slowly and loudly like he’s talking to a slow, foreign child, “Can you read?” He probably could have signed this if I were a deaf, slow, foreign child.
Flummoxed! But, here’s my chance to totally burn this dude with a rad response. I’ll put him out with my witty retort. I can epically scorch this guy, this low life, this commoner; this fool who would dare cross my path. Here goes: “Can I read? That’s just…really…insulting!” See? I told him.
Well, I really didn’t get into the dynamics of information dense overload, selected information processing, or the focus mechanics of someone with a 150 IQ. “Can I read? What are you talking about?!” I’m going nowhere at this point. All I can do is look angry, perhaps disappointed.
He says something, blah blah, about what’s written in bold marker on the cardboard. “Sorry, that’s why we wrote that there” he says with a slight smile. “Can I read? That’s just insulting!” I say this for the third time as I slinked down the other elevator – the one without the shit written in marker on cardboard.
I was wicked pissed too. Probably mostly pissed at myself even though I were wishing for gang>mob>cop connections to posse up with me and go teach Jeb how to read, indeed. But, it was my own damn fault. I was off my game. Out of focus. I very well should have noticed the largely, boldly written note + smiley-face plea to leave the moving guys’ elevator put. I should totally have noticed that. My bad! By huge bad.
But, I was pissed. I kept repeating, “Can I read?” over and over for about an hour. I was mad at somebody else because I slipped. Not at all situation aware or conscious.
Maybe I can’t read.
From Rich (trademarked and copyrights to him):
"Update on million dollar ideas"
1) YouTube Live. YouTube site exclusively for live feeds. This willSo, if you decide to do it, Rich thought of it first and residuals are due (through me, I take a cut for posting). Investors contact us here at the middlespace laboratories.
suck when it's used for losers boradcasting their entire lives but
will be awesome when the next World Trade Center blows up.
Oh for shame.
"The [NBA] league is ruined."You get it, right?
"There's a pall cast over the game."
Uh, hello? Am I just plain wrong here? Is it bad that I believe this was the best thing that's happened to professional sports in my lifetime? Seriously, think of it....
How much closer will everyone watch all the games now? Every moment will be scrutinized and under suspicious. The regular season will have newfound significance. Every call? For the next four or five seasons, every call will be profoundly important.
C'mon? What could be better than a crooked ref being investigated by the FBI? What could rule more than that?
1. The mob is involved. This becomes real-life Sopranos. Reality Sports TeeVee.Rules, dude!
2. Donaghy is preparing to cooperate with federal investigators (after indictment)
3. Other refs and perhaps players may be involved
4. What about other sports? NCAA?
Not only does this make a better-than-Watergate scandal, but the current federal administration must be exhaling huge sighs of relief at the new, fresh, and juicy cover it has for the next few months. Brilliant.
And to think I had given up on the silly old NBA. Don Stearn (and Karl Rove) are secretly smiling.
Don't get me wrong, gambling and money are serious addictions and people get plenty injured over them. But, what more compelling a story line, huh?
Maybe I had been particularly primed to listen since I had just listened to one of J-Son’s 2001 piece called Track 01. I didn’t make that track – OK, I can claim co-producer since I advised and styled the recording and mix of the vocals, but whatever, that’s not important. What’s important is I heard Butterpump today.
It came on. I listened. I was in the car.
One Fine Ride came out in, what, ’99? That was ages ago; pop/commercial music-wise, it was a million years back:
RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE The Battle of Los AngelesButterpump couldn’t have made any sense in 1999. To audiences? Nope. To us? Barely.
THE ROOTS Things Fall Apart
NINE INCH NAILS The Fragile
It’s striking how much I enjoyed listening to the song. It’s quite a complex and somewhat psychologically demented journey. I recall thinking, “My god, what the hell is this?!”
Then. Then! Two tracks later, Tunneldump – from the same record – came on. If Butterpump is “demented” then Tunneldump is “insanity.” Blasted out! And, synchronized to weird maximums. That drumming? I recall thinking, “My god, what the hell is this?!”
It was almost as if I couldn’t get enough. Oh shuffle gods, thank you.
It’s called a “record” for a reason. It’s a memory stamp of a time/place/era. It’s a blurry photograph of our past. Forever it will mean something to someone. Aging can be sweet. Records or future gifts, creation is a way to mark territory; like urine on a fire hydrant.
I guess the lesson I’m trying to express is: Even if it makes little sense, even if your project seems a bit silly, do it. It may make some sense – someday.
"Want to make millions of dollars?"
So, if you decide to do it, Rich thought of it first and residuals are due (through me, I take a cut for posting).Televised Celebrity Strip Poker.Millions of dollars.I give it 5 years before someone else figures it out and does it.
The oddest thing is when the ex-husband visits - to pick up or drop off one or more of the boys - he parks in the driveway in a manner which blocks the sidewalk. Well, that's irksome because: 1) there are plenty of places to park; 2) people actually use interpretation of New Urbanism. [But, remember, Ty.the sidewalks here. Strollers, kids on little bikes, scooters, the elderly out for a stroll, etc. all have to go around the car and into the street to walk. It's a thing with me. A little thing, but irky since it violates my "Urbanism" probably refers to there being cars somewhere, jerk. Noted.] But, and you agree, it's just clueless and a bit rude to send an old lady in a wheelchair into the street when your Lexus is parked over the sidewalk.
I guess Martha and familly are all on some sort of vacation of combination of vacations because Martha's house on our quiet little street has been rather active lately (now that I'm a haus frau, I notice more shit).
Teen-agers, dammit! Teen-agers!! I don't think I was such a pain in the ass during the 14-19 years. I'm sure I was though. But, man, what kind of old man have I become? The house-sitting god daughter (whatever the fuck that is) has had, uh, some friends over. Oh, and she parks blocking the sidewalk which is irksome (see above).
OK, so I didn't want to become one of those people. The self-serving, passive-aggressive asshole, old-man, HOA committee member, Mr. Pinch, motherfucker deserving a good old-fashioned TPing or ass whipping. Not in my back yard, don't walk on the grass, and hey, you can't paint your trim that color!
But, I did it. I don't know why. But, I did it. Last night, we had unseasonably mild July weather. So, the windows were open. God bless me, right? But, god daughter house sitter and retarded friends were making all kinds of racket out on the street (the public street). Boys and girls in and out, loud, stupid, maybe a little high or crunk, smoking, laughing, and just being kids. Kids and kid drama.
But they were so god awful typical. All dressed in, basically, uniforms befitting their stature and rank. A goddamn army of 18 year-old (oh yeah, the US Army is basically 18 too) fake skater/princesses. But, so typical. Maybe if they were geeks or art kids...naw, the geeks and art kids know better; they've never felt entitled like these goofs.
I tolerated the distraction to our peaceful community the best I could all weekend. I was an annoying kid once.B will be an annoying kid too. I'm still 'bout half annoying kid. But, fuck if it didn't get on my last old ass man nerve when I'm finally starting to doze off and the goddamn fucking loud ass look-at-me car stereo start up. On Sunday night even.
Two things to note:
- I also don't want to be one of those afraid-of-my shadow and teenager suburban fraidy cats that will allow these punks/pukes to dominate the paradigm whilst I hide in my air-conditioned mini-manse. Nope. That ain't gonna happen. And, I do know my neighbors, I know people saw me not only confront these varmints, but shut the whole thing down. I feel they were proud if not in awe. People gotta talk.
- Also, I don't want some paradigm changing kids to then begin to feel that they are unaccountable and unnoticed. This is not going to become their new posse crib or whatever the kids say about that sort of thing. Sorry, bitches, MY half-million dollar turf. Not yours. Shut. Up!
Oh God. I walked out the door. Walked across the street. Fired up the flashlight. I shouted, "Hey!" way too goddamn loud. It got quiet way too quickly. I pop the bright ass beam of light into the face of the god daughter. "Guys, c'mon! What are you doing? Take the noise somewhere else, like inside." I was the Hart Street RA all of a sudden.
Now, I'm simultaneously listening to myself and wonder who the fuck I was anymore? The god daughter immediately begins, "Oh, you're a neighbor. I'm so sorry. My bad!" If she would have stopped at "sorry" I probably would have just said thanks and moped back home. But, "my bad?" Speak English motherfucker. "My bad?" That's how you talk now? Stolen, abused language now. You're now Snoop Dogg. You're not even Chris Tucker.
"My bad?" I repeat. "Yeah, my bad. Sorry" is what I hear.
So, I begin: "Martha's not going to be happy; especially if someone calls the cops." What am I saying. Is it valuable lesson time? "Martha's not going to be happy." I repeated. Jesus, what was that? It was so weak, I repeated it. God daughter says, "I know. I know. My bad." Church lady lecture.
"Nice try" is all I can get out as more confused than angry or anything make my way back home. I don't even know what "nice try" even meant in that context.
Well, it got quiet, which was good. If I were a kid there, I would have totally laughed at this guy. I might have even said, "hey, why dont' you shut up, old man." But, I really killed my brand as the cool/guy dad. I guess I'm glad B didn't have to witness this embarrassment.
I feel I should apologize to god daughter and ask for a do-over.
What would I do over? Probably approach the entire situation with more measure and helpfullness. Rather than shut it down, warn of consequences (having police called, ass whipped, etc.). "Hey guys, you're gonna get in trouble...." What?! It's that pandering, entitling responsibility-sharing that makes this happen. Just shut up, kids. How's that?
Naw. Fuck them. I did what I did and I remain the goddamn sheriff. I learned 'em. Go away from me with your noise, teen-agers. Old guys rule, OK?
Note: I see there was a morning after "talking to." Ha!