St. Patty's Day, a Celebration of Drunks

I'm a few days late on this, but I have been meaning to ponder the allure of St. Patty's Day and the hilarity that the one day of the year we associate with Ireland is a day everyone uses as an excuse to drink. As a friend of mine once remarked, showing wisdom far beyond his years, "there are two things that always live up to expectations: sake bombing, and St. Patty's Day."

I can't think of another country that is so closely associated with a substance abuse problem. Certainly other countries have issues with narcotics. Alcoholics abound in every country and civilization across the globe and throughout time. Mongols used to ferment horse milk to chase a buzz. Can you imagine fiending for a hit of fermented horse milk? Today it's hard to think of a country like Colombia without thinking of cocaine, or Afghanistan and heroine for that matter. However, if I were introduced to a Colombian I wouldn't jump to the conclusion that they were a coke head. I would probably assume that they're an ultra violent drug dealer, but never an actual drug user. Same with Afghans.

Now I am not one to stereotype.* However, I will say that I have yet to meet an Irish person who failed to live up to the popular stereotype of the Irish. I lived with one for six months and she drank like a fish. The sound of her retching in my bathroom late at night woke me up on more than one occasion. On a weeknight we watched a two and a half hour movie together while she steadily plowed through several bottles of wine. She did not remember a wink of it the next day. And I don't mean the details of the movie, but being there at all. She actually asked me what I did that night. I'd often come down the steps in the morning to find Irishmen sprawled about the living room, face down, fully clothed, and completely unconscious. It didn't matter if it was a Saturday, Tuesday, or a Thursday. I was regularly treated to a ghastly display of liver warfare by her and her Irish friends who were all just as hellbent on achieving perpetual drunkenness. Of the six months I lived with her I can't think of one night that she was sober. I addressed this once with a coworker of mine who was also Irish who assured me it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Now, other countries certainly have their own stereotypes that we celebrate. The English have bad teeth, the French hate freedom, Canadians wish they were us, and the Russians lost the Cold War. Although that last one is more of a fact than a stereotype, it is still worth celebrating. But no country is so closely tied with a love for alcohol as is Ireland. Given the fact that all people everywhere like to drink, I think that is something to be proud of.

Well done Ireland, well done indeed.


*Complete lie. I use stereotypes, prejudices, and racial profiling in almost all aspects of my day-to-day. It serves as a good security measure at airports and also makes me feel good about myself.

FU Suffers Existential Crisis, Drinks with Old People

This past week has been an existential cyclone for FU. Coming to Florida in March one is hit with two modes of life that are polar opposites: spring breakers going wild, and the walking dead. The former are enjoying youth in all its carefree vibrancy, the latter are driving Cadillacs at 20 miles per hour whether they're in a parking lot or on a highway. And then there is FU, travelling the lonesome highway in between.

I am sorry if that sounded incredibly melodramatic. I'm trying to post while watching the tournament games and I am finding it incredibly difficult to stay focused. After only 8 games I think I am in last place in both pools I've entered without a hope of coming back, so I am finding myself questioning life. This shouldn't surprise people as I have had similarly bizarre tangents spurred by nothing more than chicken salad.

But Florida is somewhat of an alternate universe to an outsider. I was in the grocery store with my dad the other day and I was a full head taller than everyone else in the store. That afforded me an excellent view of the parking lot of grocery carts that consumed every aisle. Nobody moved with any semblance of having to be anywhere else. I think some people actually stopped and took naps standing up while shopping for peas.

When we finally got back to the house we were graced with a visit by my parents' neighbor who, at 2:00 in the afternoon on a Monday, was sloshed. And not the convivial sort of drunk, but rather the totally incoherent, you-really-shouldn't-drink-when-on-meds kind of drunk. I listened to him ramble for 20 minutes before he had to stumble back to top up his cocktail. I am not lying when I say that the only I thing I understood him utter in that entire 20 minutes was that someone got a paint job for a Bronco. And I couldn't even frame that nugget of information with any sort of story. I think a jet way and a ticketing agent were involved somehow, but trying to connect the dots taxes my brain more than I care to.

Somewhat taken back by this land of short, intoxicated seniors I decided to spend some time reading and not thinking about what was going on in the world around me. Unfortunately, the blender being used for the margarita mix made it difficult to focus on my book. My parents, seeing their neighbor as an inspirational figure, decided it was time for a potion. That was Monday and it hasn't stopped. In fact, there hasn't even been a slow-down since then. All week happy hour has started early and doesn't stop until bed time. I am astounded by how much older people drink, especially given the fact that nobody ever seems to get hungover. It's almost like I am witnessing a spring break for seniors....which makes the road ahead not quite so bad.

Then again, I am looking at a very long retirement...

FU

A "Maintenance Day" for FU

A belated St. Patty's day post. The reason for my tardiness is the same reason why right now most of America is walking in an hour late to work and cursing the last four beers they had last night. During my long and illustrious career, I would tell my boss that I had a lot of "maintenance" to do on days like this. I never really understood what exactly "maintenance" meant, but other people in the office used it all the time and so I just followed their lead. Think of Ron Burgundy saying "when in Rome" throughout Anchor Man. That was me, but instead I would try to look really stressed and then complain about being "up to my eyeballs in maintenance." I think it was supposed to mean catching up on emails, documentation, compliance, and general tasks that clients required that didn't result directly in the company earning money. Whatever it meant, it allowed you to retire to your office for the rest of the day and gave you an excuse for not coming out until 5:00. For me, a maintenance day was usually spent playing a Tetris game that was embedded in an Excel spreadsheet and catching up on ESPN articles that I hadn't had a chance to get around to that week.

So what happened on St. Patty's Day? Most people wear a green shirt and head to a bar where they try to drink themselves numb. If it's an Irish bar--something with a name like O'Something or McAnything--the whole ritual is leant an air of authenticity. But FU is currently in "God's Waiting Room" where 70% of the local population carries an AARP card in their wallet. So last night I did what old people do--I went to a dog track...with my parents. My parents apparently know what they're doing when it comes to betting on Greyhounds and in the excitement of their hot streak were buying beers after almost every race. By the time I got home I was ready to hit the sack, but my mom insisted on a nightcap. Next thing I know it's 1:00 in the morning and I am layed out on the floor listening to my mom mock me for having "the tolerance of a high schooler."

So even though we took different routes, I found myself in the same place as the rest of America this morning; in bed, dehydrated, and questioning my decision making. I'll do my best to make it back to you this afternoon with my original St. Patty's Day thoughts.

Stay Strong America-

Forever Unemployed

Clarification to "Bones" Reference

Just a quick clarification on a sidebar from yesterday's post. I commented on a future post regarding the "palpable sexual tension between Bones and Agent Booth." This was in reference to the television show "Bones." On the surface this statement could be a little confusing to an outsider as they picture an FBI agent getting together with a skeleton. In case any of my readers are not avid watchers, Bones is not only the name of the television show, but is also the nickname of the lead female character, Dr. Temperance Brennan. Despite her dry clinical language and seemingly shallow emotional pool, we can only suspect that she is a sexual dynamo. Her sidekick is an ubermasculine FBI Agent named Seeley Booth (see below). For some reason they haven't done the dirty yet and it keeps FU coming back for more.

Temperance "Bones" Brennan.....smokin'

I'll be back later today with more thoughts that are not related to TNT crime dramas.

How to Sterilize Shark's Teeth

As usual, I apologize for the delay in getting a new post up. I have been visiting friends and now family in Florida. A few years ago my parents figured they had reached the time in their lives where it was time to have a place in Florida. Being retired myself, I understand the impulse. Unfortunately, my cash flow right now resembles Enron's so I won't be following in my parents' footsteps. Anyway, during the dreary winter months, my parents escape the gloom of the Midwest by escaping to Florida--the state they affectionately refer to as "God's Waiting Room."

My parents have picked up some interesting quirks over the last several years. For one, they have a glowing love of the television show "Bones." If you haven't seen it, it's awful. Every episode features an outlandish crime that is solved incredibly easily by the forensics team. Unfortunately, I am also hooked on this show after watching 20 episodes with my parents over six days during Christmas. Despite my dad being largely unable to use most everything invented in the last 20 years, he has figured out how to DVR every episode of "Bones" that is replayed on TNT. The result is that he and my mom have frequent "Bones" marathons. This is how my family bonds. So after a few of these marathons I actually started liking these inane plots and characters. Now I can't live without them. One of these days I will treat the palpable sexual tension between Bones and Agent Booth in greater detail. For now, back to my parents.

Another somewhat bizarre development I witnessed earlier today. My parents have become collectors of shark teeth. They walk up and down the beach looking at the sand in the off chance that they find a stray shark's tooth. The first thing you're wondering is, how many shark's teeth are there on the beach? The answer is, apparently a lot. Today's stroll yielded 27. Apparently sharks are constantly losing teeth and growing new ones in their attempt at being the most terrifying creatures ever. If my parents, having already patrolled that section of beach numerous times, still come back with 27 teeth that despite 2/3 of the world's surface, found their way to a small beach in Florida, think about how many teeth must be out there and attached to ferocious, underwater, man-eating monsters. By the time we left the beach today I had already developed the beginning stages of a crippling phobia of the open ocean.

So what happens to these teeth that my parents devote several hours a day to finding? They go into a jar in the cabinet never to be seen again. In a separate jar my mom puts a random collection of sea shells that she also picks up on her shark tooth hunting trips. However, not before they are subjected to a sterilization treatment that would put any ER in America to shame. My mom boils the shells for 15 minutes. In chloride. I don't know why she is petrified of the germs on sea shells, but my mom is adamant in her treatment. I told her that 5 minutes would probably be sufficient and she would have none of it. Using water, as opposed to an industrial cleaning agent, was simply out of the question. But who am I to judge? Maybe after 40 more years of retirement I will be patrolling the beach every day and sterilizing everything I find.

I'll be back tomorrow with more. Happy St. Patty's Day America!

FU

A Cornucopia of Thoughts

While traipsing about Cambridge Square on an unusually mild Sunday, my roommate commented on the amount of seemingly questionable business ventures that had set up shop. There was a door store. Yes, a store that specializes in doors. Eureka! To the owner's credit it had appeared from some brief window shopping that the door store had diversified into kitchen tables and ceiling fans. Although I have to question the wisdom of this move since my first instinct when buying a kitchen table is not to look up a place called The Door Store.

There were also three shoe repair shops. I don't see many shoe repair shops, but I saw three within a quarter-mile of one another. This baffled me. I always figured the era of the cobbler was long-dead, having gone the way of the chimney sweep or the typewriter repair man. Am I in the dark here? Is a good shoe repair guy the same thing as having a good mechanic or talented accountant? Is it that common? Answer me readers!

We also spotted one tannery. Whether or not hides were actually tanned there could not be ascertained as they were closed on Sundays, but this certainly raises some of the same questions raised above.

Another store we came across was titled Bob Slate Stationer. The sign had Bob Slate's signature written above the block letter "Stationer." While a stationary store isn't that uncommon, I chuckled all day thinking about Bob Slate introducing himself to everyone as "Bob Slate, stationer." I couldn't get the image of him at a cocktail party out of my head. "Hi there, I'm Rick, Nancy's husband." "Hi Rick, name's Slate. Bob Slate...stationer."

I have consumed one jar of mayonnaise in one and a half months. I am disgusted with myself and wanted to share this fact with everyone. If I die tragically young you'll have a place to start when trying to determine cause of death.

On a similarly dark note, my friend who is in medical school felt the need to tell me after my "FU Does Not Have AIDS" post that overcoming a serious illness is indicative of someone who has AIDS. (I stated in my post that overcoming the flu was proof that I was AIDS free). Apparently I still have some leverage for landing the nickname 'Magic.'

I just finished a book on the run-up to the Iraq War that included an account of the CIA operations in Iraq in the late fall and winter of 2002/3. As part of the operation, the guy in charge had to be able to dole out large sums of money in cash and so had millions of dollars stuffed in duffel bags lying around his place. I think it was something like $37 million. In case anyone was wondering, $1 million in hundred dollar bills weighs 40 pounds and can fit into a backpack. There's no snarky comment there, I just thought that was interesting to know exactly how much $1 million was. However, one amusing tidbit was that after three months of paying the local opposition group exclusively in $100 bills, it soon came to dominate the local currency and hyperinflation set in. Apparently a cup of coffee couldn't be bought for less than $100 because nobody had any change. The CIA ended up having to smuggle in a few tons of cash in smaller bills over three truckloads. Again, there's no point here, just sharing.

One of my friends has suggested repeatedly that I incorporate pictures into the blog as a means of spicing up the delivery of its content. As a gesture that I am open to criticism and not oversensitive about people questioning my artistic decisions, I have decided to make an attempt to spice it up with some pictures.

On a totally unrelated note, I am no longer friends with that loser.

That's for you Joe.

Finally, I'll be traveling for the next 10 days or so which could mean some pretty irregular posting. Stay strong America, I'll be here.

FU

Roadhouse, an FU Movie Review

Last night I caught the tail end of "Roadhouse," a 1980s Patrick Swayze classic. Back when I was working I actually spent part of my day drafting a review of the movie which I felt compelled to dig up and revise. It is one of those movies that is so bad it ends up being really good.

Premise:

A nationally renowned bouncer with only one name is recruited to a small town in Kansas to clamp down on the absolute chaos that is the DoubleDeuce bar. Unfortunately for him, the small town has been run for years by a millionaire named Brad Wesley who doesn't like the arrival of Dalton, the bouncer (Patrick Swayze). The conflict between these two men will shape the rest of the movie. Let's take a closer look.

According to his medical records, which he carries with him wherever he goes due to his propensity to find trouble, Dalton has been shot twice and stabbed 9 times. He has an out-of-this-world mullet, wears tight jeans and smokes Marlboro Reds. We are led to believe that he has amassed considerable wealth from bouncing--a sign of just how good he is. When not bouncing he does tai-chi while sweat glistens off his body, reads Jim Morrison, or just lays on the roof of his car looking at the sky.

He apparently sews his own stitches, except for when he doesn't. (In the span of five minutes he is shown sewing his own stitches and then going to a hospital to have stitches sewn for him. This incontinuity is never explained and doesn't make much sense). At the hospital he meets a leggy blonde doctor. This is the love interest of the movie. Her intelligence is a good match for his brawn, but then again, he also studied philosophy at NYU--specifically "man's search for faith or some shit." So Dalton in many ways is the total package.

Dalton's mastery of the bouncing profession is illustrated very early in the movie by having him assess, in only 15 minutes mind you, everything wrong about the DoubleDeuce that the long-time owner has been unable to--drug dealing, bartenders skimming, underage people being let in, and sex occurring in the broom closet. Not to mention medieval levels of violence. In firing the skimming bartender, Dalton sets off a maelstrom due to the fact that the bartender's uncle is Brad Wesley, the millionaire who owns the majority of the town. Instead of finding his nephew a much better job at any of the 100 businesses he is part owner in, he refuses to be slighted and insists that his nephew WILL work as a bartender at the DoubleDeuce. Why Wesley won't find him a better job at any of the other businesses he owns and/or terrorizes is never explained and doesn't make much sense. Regardless, Dalton refuses to employ the nephew and the town quickly devolves into violence as these two titans collide over the fate of the DoubleDeuce. Throughout this conflict Dalton manages to befriend a few of the town's innocent victims and lays the doctor. He also rips out the throat of Wesley's no. 1 goon in a moonlit, riverside showdown. I've never found out if ripping out a throat is actually possible, but Dalton does it while wearing sweatpants. That's Dalton.

Let's move on to Brad Wesley, the town's despotic millionaire. He throws rock star parties even though he is 50, and has a band of goons who drive around in monster trucks terrorizing the populace. He is given to buzzing livestock in a helicopter and laughing sardonically. We are never told how he made his fortune, but it is clear that he now demands regular payments from every business in town. For what, we don't know. He is given to burning down or demolishing these same businesses by way of monster truck for apparently no reason at all. Despite this apparently spotty business sense, he is able to bring a JC Penney to town, which is his proudest accomplishment. To display just how completely above the law he is, he drives his convertible on the wrong side of the road while listening to show tunes forcing oncoming traffic to veer of the road. The oncoming traffic happens to be Dalton, perhaps a foreshadowing of the conflict that is certain to occur when anyone lines up against Swayze in a movie.

Why Wesley would drive on the wrong side of the road and directly into oncoming traffic is never really explained and makes absolutely no sense at all--which is also one of the movie's main themes. In fact, after 10+ viewings of this movie I am convinced that the whole project was conceived, directed, shot, and edited without a script or anyone ever being told what it was they were filming. In addition to plot sequences that make no sense, we are also treated to some head scratching lines. While getting stitches (Dalton refused a local anaesthetic--also never explained why), Dalton tells the doctor "pain don't hurt." Wesley, not to be outdone by nonsense statements, asks one of his goons "you know why I don't like you?" He then punches him in the face, forcing the goon's nose to bleed, and says "because you bleed." It would be fair to say the average viewer could be somewhat confused by this sequence of events. Clearly Wesley disliked him before he was bleeding--why else would he punch him?

And finally, we have the DoubleDeuce. The bar becomes a character of it's own throughout the movie. How this place was ever in business in the first place is never explained. On a nightly basis it gives Baghdad and Lebanon, circa 1985, a run for the money. When Dalton first sees the DoubleDeuce, everyone in the place is involved in a fight. Literally everyone. Most patrons who come to the DoubleDeuce seem to order a single beer before deciding to throw the bottle at a blind band member or destroy wooden furniture on other patrons (or vice versa). Despite low alcohol sales, a thieving bartender, a never ending need to replace chairs and tables, and a 65-75% chance that as a patron you will be killed or dismembered, this place stays afloat.

Here are some more bits and pieces about this movie that make it an absolute delight to watch.

-Monster truck. Utilizing a monster truck in a movie I'm fairly confident in saying, has never been done before or after Road House. It is totally random, excessive, and doesn't make sense, which puts it squarely in keeping with the rest of the movie.

-"Prepare to die." I feel like the presence of this line in any movie signals a terrible movie, and this movie has it.

-Patrick Swayze rips out a throat. I already mentioned this, but it needs to be repeated. Patrick Sway rips out a throat in this movie.

-Gratuitous sex and topless shots. If the producers of this movie planned one thing of this movie it was that they would definitely receive an "R" rating. Tough to grasp on television, the DVD version (which I own) is replete with sex scenes topless women.

-Not mincing words. Like previous point, this movie's inane plot would seemingly lend it to an audience of 12 or below, however, along with the toplessness, it does not shy away from dropping F bombs.
-An alternate universe? I can't imagine a world where bouncers gain national fame, but this is it. Everyone in this Kansas town has heard of Dalton and his mentor (yes, he has a mentor--another bouncer who is apparently the only bouncer in the world who can give Dalton a run for the money. Luckily, they're on the same side.)

Let's hope Swayze regains his health can continue delighting us with gems like this.

FU Does Not Have AIDS, Still Wants to be Called "Magic"

This post has been a long-time coming. I don't have AIDS. At least the results from my 2001 test told me so and I don't have any reason to doubt things have changed. Although, I did have a stage where I was really into experimenting with needle drugs, which ultimately led me to develop an insatiable appetite for Botswanan hookers. And while I don't recall ever having gay sex, there are some weeks I can't account for in 2003-3004 due to an incredibly potent score of China White. Sure, this may sound like a high-risk lifestyle, but it was the 2000s. Who wasn't high on smack and sleeping with anything with a pulse for an extra hit? If I have AIDS, then find me someone who doesn't.

Though I did have somewhat of a recent scare about a month ago. Here's a little background. My move from San Diego to Boston involved a 4000 mile road trip with my college roommate which touched off a two week onslaught of feverish drinking accompanied by little sleep and very unhealthy food. The result of two straight weeks of abusing my body in every way imaginable was that upon reaching Boston, I was hit almost immediately by a near-fatal case of the flu. For two days I was ensconced in sweatpants and a sleeping bag on my living room floor, too tired to even watch tv. The chills I experienced all day were accompanied by annoyingly regular night sweats for almost a week. I found myself searching for simple words like "toilet" and "remote" while in conversation, to no avail. There were moments where I welcomed death. But luckily my pedigree and robust physical fitness allowed me to ward off this disease within a week. Others would most likely still be suffering. Indeed, lesser mortals could have died.

But I perservered. And that weekend I was visited by my sister (mentioned in previous post). Somehow, while watching an NBA game on television, Magic Johnson's seemingly miraculous bout with HIV/AIDS came up in conversation. In order to satisfy our curiosity about his health picture, we turned to google where my sister stumbled upon a list of AIDS symptoms which she read off. The list included: fever, soaking night sweats, shaking chills, dry cough, and loss of memory. I felt a javelin go through my heart. I had AIDS. The next few days were a living hell for me as I came to grips with my certain demise; except for a very pleasant trip to Kennebunkport, Maine where I found my future retirement community (also mentioned in previous post).

Then, in an interesting turn of events, I realized that I wasn't sick anymore. In fact I hadn't been for several days. I had either beaten AIDS or I never had it. I wasn't sure which, but I wanted to share the good news with my readers with whom I had offhandedly mentioned I might have contracted the virus. But I had a serious hesitation. While coming to grips with my AIDS, I had also come to really like the nickname "Magic." I admired the nickname so much that I felt the name itself effectively counterbalanced, if not entirely outweighed the devestating stigma of the most damning disease of the 21st century. I was hoping I could leverage my potential AIDS virus to garner the nickname before revealing to the world that I did not actually have AIDS. Despite learning a rash of magic tricks and then performing them in front of my friends at every chance while also letting them know that I was 100% AIDS positive, I couldn't get anyone to call me "Magic."

And so I finally gave up. I don't have AIDS. But I am still unemployed...forever.

Happy Hump Day America

Quote of the Day

From the Boston Globe:

"With his lumberjack's no-nonsense demeanor, Hibbs leaves the distinct impression he prefers the company of dogs to people."

Snow and Inactivity

There's a lot of snow on the ground right now. I know this because I looked outside and there's a lot of snow on the ground. It wasn't there last night. In case I missed this, every major newspaper or website has this on its front page. I'm not sure I get why this is worth reporting. Aren't journalists paid to report on things the rest of us don't know? CNN.com has the winter storm ahead of "Octuplet Mom Holding Out for Reality Show?" and "Mom with Two Wombs Gets Pregnant Twice" on it's breaking news section. I think there was a story about a leader of some nation getting assassinated as well. At least two of those stories are really interesting and worth a click. I wonder if the authors of those stories just stare from behind their laptop screens at the guy who wrote about the snow with utter contempt.

As an aside, I was going to shovel some snow today. I don't have to at all, but I was craving some vigorous activity that would leave me feeling as though I depended on myself for my own survival. I wanted to feel like Teddy Roosevelt did after he killed half of Africa's animals or like Daniel Boone after he built his own log cabin all by himself. As I was gearing up to go outside I saw a snow plow go down our sidewalk and in 30 seconds did I was planning on doing for two hours. So now you're getting a second blog.

Anyway, back to the reporting of obvious news, I started thinking about this one a little bit. Perhaps there are too many journalists out there and perhaps we are a little too crazed for "breaking news." I probably check three to four news web sites anywhere from four to five times a day. That's up to 20 times a day I look for news. Granted, I have very little to do, but I did this when I was working while I was avoiding things I did have to do. So this isn't a new occurrence for me and I don't think I am alone here. In fact if you're reading this it's probably a sign that you're running out of web pages to read yourself. But why do I think I am really going to be affected by any of this? With the exception of 9/11, I can't think of a single news story that really impacted my life. And without sounding too callous, 9/11 really didn't affect me aside from causing longer wait times at airports (and a visceral suspicion of every middle easterner I saw from 2001-2005...I have since calmed down a bit).

Maybe what I should take away from this is that people need more things to do during the day to avoid work. Or maybe the fact that I am now writing about others writing about snow means I really need to get out of the house.

Happy Monday America, only four more days-

FU

FU Turns 26

I feel that I have to bring my readers up to date with the fast moving events of FU's life. I am now 26. Sure, this could have been predicted given the Earth's reliable 365 day orbit and humanity's long-standing history of aging, however birthdays catch me off guard nearly every year. The result is that I enter a mini-existential crisis that lasts for about 12-24 hours where I contemplate humanity's struggle against beast, as well as our race's collective struggle against imminent death. And this year was no different. However, this year I came away more confident than ever that I am winning.

Let me expound. Every day that we wake up alive and healthy on this planet should be a good one. But every day that we wake up without going to work is about as close to the sun as we can fly without our wings melting, and I make this flight every day. And on Friday, that flight took me to the neighborhood liquor store where I bought eight 40s and three lottery tickets to celebrate my birfday. As I walked back through the housing projects that lie between my apartment and the liquor store, I contemplated my haul as well as the fact that I am unemployed and not paying taxes at the current moment, and realized my ability to transcend cultures. I truly am a man of the people, all people. And that's a great realization on your birthday.

I'll have a few more posts up today touching upon random happenings.

Adieu-

Forever Unemployed