Went out for dinner the other day. Nothing fancy, just some fast food Chinese joint. While looking at the menu above the counter, I noticed some numbers next to the various food items. At first, they appeared to be prices, but a closer look revealed them to be calories. What in the world!? Why would I want that information?
Don’t we assume a certain level of responsibility when we venture into any restaurant, nutrition-wise? Especially fast food joints? When was I supposed to start caring about the number of calories in chow mien, pot stickers or even a Big Mac? I already know there are probably enough calories in any combo meal at any fast food joint to feed half of the starving people in Africa. Who doesn’t?
It’s just another attempt to avoid taking responsibility for our own actions. I fell off the ladder, not because I was foolish enough to climb to the very top step, lean over and lose my balance. It was because the manufacturer didn’t tell me not to be stupid. I gained 100 pounds not because I ate every meal at a fast food joint, but because they kept it secret how many calories I was eating. It’s their entire fault. Damn corporations.
Obesity is an ever constant problem and continues to grow (pun intended). We have a generation that was raised on fast food and soft drinks. Of course, we as a society must assign blame to someone. But it can’t be the kids and god forbid we should look to the parents. It’s the restaurant’s fault. Had they only informed us of the calories we consume, we would have made better choices. Oh, and exercised more. Honest.
So I ordered my Chinese grub. It was yummy, as usual. But I couldn’t help adding up the calories that I was consuming. Couldn’t shake the guilt of making a pig of myself while others are starving. The Karmic numbers just didn’t add up. Or maybe they did.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Fathers
Fathers. We come in all shapes and sizes. And dispositions. It’s one of those situations in life that can be frustrating, exhilarating and downright scary. Sometimes all at the same time. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Some of us take to fatherhood like the proverbial duck to water, others a bit tenuous and others just plain failures. I wonder what sort of father Charles Manson had. How about Adolf Hitler? Did they do their best and then their sons just turned evil? Is raising children really a crap shoot? Do fathers roll some sort of cosmic dice when it comes to their children, or does it involve hard work and a whole lot of luck?
My Dad told my brother and me the same thing: you’ll make plenty of mistakes raising children, just don’t make the same ones as me. Sage advice. Tried to remember those words on more than one occasion. Succeeded more often than not. I think. We are, as Plato said, what our mothers made us, but boy, fathers can sure play a big role.
I sometimes wonder what sort of fathers the more famous around us are. LeBron James springs to mind. Has he instilled the “let them eat cake” philosophy he embraces in his children? How about Mel Gibson, Matt Damon, Cary Grant? And just what sort of father will the aptly named Representative Weiner make? I wonder.
One thing about being a father, it’s a never ending job. No matter what your children might do, or how old they become, you’ll always be their father. The day to day responsibilities lessen, hopefully, as they grow older and face their own world, but you’re a father even if only in name or to spring for dinner. Of course, some of us fathers were seemingly put on earth as a constant source of embarrassment to our children. Ain’t it grand?
The mantel of fatherhood placed on young shoulders can indeed be a heavy one. I accepted it with pride and elation. Those feelings have not faded. Through thick and thin, sleepless nights, graduations and the many firsts: love, job, heart break, car, traffic ticket and leaving the nest. I tried to stand unwavering through it all, a loving and caring father. I only hope my son avoids the mistakes I made with his own children.
Some of us take to fatherhood like the proverbial duck to water, others a bit tenuous and others just plain failures. I wonder what sort of father Charles Manson had. How about Adolf Hitler? Did they do their best and then their sons just turned evil? Is raising children really a crap shoot? Do fathers roll some sort of cosmic dice when it comes to their children, or does it involve hard work and a whole lot of luck?
My Dad told my brother and me the same thing: you’ll make plenty of mistakes raising children, just don’t make the same ones as me. Sage advice. Tried to remember those words on more than one occasion. Succeeded more often than not. I think. We are, as Plato said, what our mothers made us, but boy, fathers can sure play a big role.
I sometimes wonder what sort of fathers the more famous around us are. LeBron James springs to mind. Has he instilled the “let them eat cake” philosophy he embraces in his children? How about Mel Gibson, Matt Damon, Cary Grant? And just what sort of father will the aptly named Representative Weiner make? I wonder.
One thing about being a father, it’s a never ending job. No matter what your children might do, or how old they become, you’ll always be their father. The day to day responsibilities lessen, hopefully, as they grow older and face their own world, but you’re a father even if only in name or to spring for dinner. Of course, some of us fathers were seemingly put on earth as a constant source of embarrassment to our children. Ain’t it grand?
The mantel of fatherhood placed on young shoulders can indeed be a heavy one. I accepted it with pride and elation. Those feelings have not faded. Through thick and thin, sleepless nights, graduations and the many firsts: love, job, heart break, car, traffic ticket and leaving the nest. I tried to stand unwavering through it all, a loving and caring father. I only hope my son avoids the mistakes I made with his own children.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Lists
Almost stopped cringing every time I hear or read the phrase “Bucket List”. The movie, from which it originated, was pretty silly, or at least I think it was since I was only able to suffer through about twenty minutes of its utter nonsense. But, not surprisingly, we’ve adopted the term and even less surprising, we have run it into the ground. Some people will say anything to be hip.
A list of things to do before we die, or kick the bucket. How very noble. But isn’t any list we make, including chores, work duties or even a grocery list supposed to be done before we die? Is there some other plane of existence in which these tasks can be completed? Maybe you’ve figured out a way to do any of those things after you’ve died. If so, please let me know. I’ll add it to my cosmic list of things to be done.
So is this Bucket List something I’m supposed to actually write on a piece of paper, or save as a file on my computer? As an old retired fart, the thought of any list of things to be done is too much of a reminder of my working days. That big pad sitting on my desk emblazoned with TO DO at the top and a bunch of lines on the page filled with crap I had to do to keep my job. Yikes! Makes my stomach start to knot up just writing about it.
Then of course, what happens when I kick off and my list still has unchecked items on it? Do friends and relatives stand around tsk, tsking over my lack of commitment, organizational and time management skills? Kind of like a post mortem job review? Will they be given an opportunity to fill out a performance review and slip it into my coffin as a final evaluation? CC: God.
There are certain things that I’ve wanted to do in my life, but now realize the chances are real slim. Climbing Mount Everest is aptly at the top. Running a marathon. Not walking part way, but running, or in my case, plodding the whole 26.2 miles. A blown out knee took care of that. But there are things that I have done. I witnessed the birth of my son. Running with the bulls in Pamplona and as an added benefit, with my son. There are many others, some long forgotten, some as vivid as the day they were accomplished. But none were on any physical list.
We all have dreams of going places and doing things but to add them to a list is to diminish their value. To be lost among the so many other lists we have for our lives. To add to the pressures we face. To add to those self perceived shortcomings. The best place for your life’s To Do list is in your heart. Now go check some off.
A list of things to do before we die, or kick the bucket. How very noble. But isn’t any list we make, including chores, work duties or even a grocery list supposed to be done before we die? Is there some other plane of existence in which these tasks can be completed? Maybe you’ve figured out a way to do any of those things after you’ve died. If so, please let me know. I’ll add it to my cosmic list of things to be done.
So is this Bucket List something I’m supposed to actually write on a piece of paper, or save as a file on my computer? As an old retired fart, the thought of any list of things to be done is too much of a reminder of my working days. That big pad sitting on my desk emblazoned with TO DO at the top and a bunch of lines on the page filled with crap I had to do to keep my job. Yikes! Makes my stomach start to knot up just writing about it.
Then of course, what happens when I kick off and my list still has unchecked items on it? Do friends and relatives stand around tsk, tsking over my lack of commitment, organizational and time management skills? Kind of like a post mortem job review? Will they be given an opportunity to fill out a performance review and slip it into my coffin as a final evaluation? CC: God.
There are certain things that I’ve wanted to do in my life, but now realize the chances are real slim. Climbing Mount Everest is aptly at the top. Running a marathon. Not walking part way, but running, or in my case, plodding the whole 26.2 miles. A blown out knee took care of that. But there are things that I have done. I witnessed the birth of my son. Running with the bulls in Pamplona and as an added benefit, with my son. There are many others, some long forgotten, some as vivid as the day they were accomplished. But none were on any physical list.
We all have dreams of going places and doing things but to add them to a list is to diminish their value. To be lost among the so many other lists we have for our lives. To add to the pressures we face. To add to those self perceived shortcomings. The best place for your life’s To Do list is in your heart. Now go check some off.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Music
Music. It allegedly has charms to soothe the savage breast (not beast, Google it). We all have our favorites; Mozart, Benny Goodman, Dion and the Belmonts, The Beatles. Maybe even some of the new stuff. Music that is now listened to on satellite radio or iPods. It all has its place in our minds and some even in our hearts. Songs that when listened to can take us back. Back to a time or place, a special memory. Maybe even a bad one.
I can’t listen to Satisfaction by the Stones without thinking of summer nights cruising Twain Harte in Dan & Charlie Bennetts’ purple ’61 Chevy. Nor can I listen to Marvin Gaye’s soulful “Heard it Through the Grapevine” without recalling a college party where my buddy Ed Garcia and I were the only non Blacks in attendance. Power to the people, bro.
Music is never has the same effect to multiple generations. What my parents thought was just a bunch of undecipherable screaming, was helping me define myself and my generation. Now, I think most of today’s crap is, well, just crap. With a few notable exceptions. Very few. And I’m pretty sure that my son will feel the same about the next generation’s music. It’s inevitable. A parental duty.
It’s amazing how sometimes I can’t remember why I went into the kitchen and yet sing the complete lyrics to some song from the 60’s or maybe even the 50’s. “Well, you load sixteen tons and what do you get?” The lyrics just come out of some corner in my brain. Oh yeah, went to the kitchen to get some trail mix to munch on. I think. Yeah, that’s it.
While self employed I was fortunate enough to be able to play music while I worked. Oldies, of course. But in deference to my helpers, I would sometimes let them play Mexican music. Corridas and Norteno, with its distinctive oompa style. I loved the voices of the Mariachis harmonizing. Some of those oldies sometimes still remind me of my Dad and almost bring a tear to my eyes. If I weren’t so Macho, that is.
Maybe we could settle our differences by enjoying our mutual love of music. Maybe President Obama could meet with world leaders and over some music leave the room with an agreed upon plan for world peace. Well, Ok, no point getting crazy over it.
In the meantime, kick back, relax and listen to whatever makes you happy. Makes you one with yourself. Maybe even have a glass of wine while you’re at it. The dishes, laundry, oil change and those other errands will still be there. Here’s to you Mrs. Robinson (wherever you are).
I can’t listen to Satisfaction by the Stones without thinking of summer nights cruising Twain Harte in Dan & Charlie Bennetts’ purple ’61 Chevy. Nor can I listen to Marvin Gaye’s soulful “Heard it Through the Grapevine” without recalling a college party where my buddy Ed Garcia and I were the only non Blacks in attendance. Power to the people, bro.
Music is never has the same effect to multiple generations. What my parents thought was just a bunch of undecipherable screaming, was helping me define myself and my generation. Now, I think most of today’s crap is, well, just crap. With a few notable exceptions. Very few. And I’m pretty sure that my son will feel the same about the next generation’s music. It’s inevitable. A parental duty.
It’s amazing how sometimes I can’t remember why I went into the kitchen and yet sing the complete lyrics to some song from the 60’s or maybe even the 50’s. “Well, you load sixteen tons and what do you get?” The lyrics just come out of some corner in my brain. Oh yeah, went to the kitchen to get some trail mix to munch on. I think. Yeah, that’s it.
While self employed I was fortunate enough to be able to play music while I worked. Oldies, of course. But in deference to my helpers, I would sometimes let them play Mexican music. Corridas and Norteno, with its distinctive oompa style. I loved the voices of the Mariachis harmonizing. Some of those oldies sometimes still remind me of my Dad and almost bring a tear to my eyes. If I weren’t so Macho, that is.
Maybe we could settle our differences by enjoying our mutual love of music. Maybe President Obama could meet with world leaders and over some music leave the room with an agreed upon plan for world peace. Well, Ok, no point getting crazy over it.
In the meantime, kick back, relax and listen to whatever makes you happy. Makes you one with yourself. Maybe even have a glass of wine while you’re at it. The dishes, laundry, oil change and those other errands will still be there. Here’s to you Mrs. Robinson (wherever you are).
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Cell Phones
Used to be that owning a cell phone held a certain status. Of course, that was when they first came out and were called car phones. Mostly because that’s where most of them were. But even when the first portable phones came out, the size of shoe box, to own one set you apart.
I remember when someone would get a call in a public place, especially a restaurant; they would politely walk outside to continue their conversation. Out of courtesy and respect for others. That’s what I thought until my buddy Steve suggested that maybe they were really going outside for better reception. Steve has always had a way of showing me another perspective. But I like my version much better.
Then cell phones were no longer car phones having gotten smaller, pocket sized. And cheaper as well. But not so cheap that everyone had one. But still, there was a certain protocol in talking to someone in public. Hushed tones, going outside, or some convenient corner; or better yet, asking if you could call them back later. Yikes, what a concept.
I’ve owned my share of cell phones, from the Motorola Razor to a HP handheld computer that was jarred loose on a bicycle ride and run over by a passing motorist. Even had one so compact that it was “loosing small.” It had a tiny joy stick to maneuver through the menu. That one lasted about three months before I got a more manly replacement.
These days almost everyone has a cell phone. Even saw a homeless guy pushing his shopping cart while talking on a cell phone, dog in tow. Lots of people that seemingly have no transportation except maybe a bicycle and no visible means of support, have a cell phone. Unfortunately the glut of cell phones has brought along a glut of poor manners.
The other day while sipping my Starbucks (yeah, I know) some guy, possibly the manager, came from around the counter talking on his cell phone in the requisite loud voice. Bad enough, but he then proceeded to pace next to my table. I looked at him and said “hey, Dude, take it outside, we don’t need to hear your conversation.” He apologized and walked outside.
It’s amazing how people think that their conversation is so important that we should all hear it. For crying out loud, show some respect and either leave your precious phone in the car, or just walk outside. And no, it doesn’t matter if it’s raining. Don’t be that person. Do your friends and family proud.
I remember when someone would get a call in a public place, especially a restaurant; they would politely walk outside to continue their conversation. Out of courtesy and respect for others. That’s what I thought until my buddy Steve suggested that maybe they were really going outside for better reception. Steve has always had a way of showing me another perspective. But I like my version much better.
Then cell phones were no longer car phones having gotten smaller, pocket sized. And cheaper as well. But not so cheap that everyone had one. But still, there was a certain protocol in talking to someone in public. Hushed tones, going outside, or some convenient corner; or better yet, asking if you could call them back later. Yikes, what a concept.
I’ve owned my share of cell phones, from the Motorola Razor to a HP handheld computer that was jarred loose on a bicycle ride and run over by a passing motorist. Even had one so compact that it was “loosing small.” It had a tiny joy stick to maneuver through the menu. That one lasted about three months before I got a more manly replacement.
These days almost everyone has a cell phone. Even saw a homeless guy pushing his shopping cart while talking on a cell phone, dog in tow. Lots of people that seemingly have no transportation except maybe a bicycle and no visible means of support, have a cell phone. Unfortunately the glut of cell phones has brought along a glut of poor manners.
The other day while sipping my Starbucks (yeah, I know) some guy, possibly the manager, came from around the counter talking on his cell phone in the requisite loud voice. Bad enough, but he then proceeded to pace next to my table. I looked at him and said “hey, Dude, take it outside, we don’t need to hear your conversation.” He apologized and walked outside.
It’s amazing how people think that their conversation is so important that we should all hear it. For crying out loud, show some respect and either leave your precious phone in the car, or just walk outside. And no, it doesn’t matter if it’s raining. Don’t be that person. Do your friends and family proud.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Customer Nonservice
Was doing a favor for a neighbor by picking up some patio furniture she had purchased at the local CVS Drug Store. When we arrived, we walked up to the nearest counter as it had an employee behind it. Unfortunately, some guy, an obvious friend of the female employee beat us there. They were having a pretty good conversation. We, paying customers, were completely ignored. Not an acknowledgement that we even existed.
Customer service in this country has sunk to a very low level. But it’s our own fault. We accept poor service at every level. It’s OK by us for a cashier to answer the phone and answer questions to a potential customer while we stand waiting. Merchandise in one hand and cash in the other. But it makes it all OK if they turn to you and say “thank you for waiting.”
While in London a couple of years ago, I walked into this small shop of English sports memorabilia. Stuff like old cricket bats and balls and other stuff I had no clue about. The lone clerk, a young girl, was on the phone having an obvious personal conversation. As our eyes met, we instantly knew something about each other. She knew I wasn’t going to buy anything and I knew she wasn’t going to get off the phone. Plus, she certainly didn’t care.
I was buying a new saddle bag for my bike and the cashier seemed a bit preoccupied, disturbed or maybe just plain angry. She was a bit curt while helping me and taking my money. But to her, all was well when she thanked me for my purchase. Yeah, that made it all OK.
Well, here’s how those three scenarios ended, where I drew the line in the sand. As the young man at CVS was walking back to the store, I asked him for the woman’s name behind the counter. The one that had ignored us. He told me and then asked if there had been a problem, since that’s why people usually ask about names. I told him what had happened. He replied that it would be mentioned to the manager.
The girl in London didn’t know one more thing about me. I was going to make her get off that phone. I looked intently at stuff in the cases and then asked if I could see something. I don’t even remember what it was. With a roll of the eyes, perfected by young girls everywhere, she told her friend something, put the phone down and came over. I thanked her politely and then moved onto the next case waiting for her to start up her conversation. Then once again, I asked to see something. She hung up the phone and I turned to the door and with a smile, thanked her just the same.
After cashier finished answering questions to the customer on the phone and thanked me for waiting, I politely said that other than leaving, I really had no choice. Then I asked if the phone had a “Hold” button and suggested that maybe it would be better to have a customer that she didn’t even know would be purchasing something be put on hold rather than someone standing there cash in hand. All with a big smile on my face.
The girl in the bike shop, poor thing, was having a crisis. I simply asked her if she was having a bad day. She replied that it was almost time for her to go home. I mentioned that she just looked a little out of sorts. She just looked at me. I hoped that it wasn’t anything serious, sweetness and concern oozing out my every pore. She ran my card through the machine. I hoped that her day would be much, much better, grabbed my stuff and left.
To quote that old movie: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.” Won’t you join me? Come on, strike a blow for mistreated, unappreciated and ignored customers everywhere. Be sure to kill them with kindness and then smile all the way home.
Customer service in this country has sunk to a very low level. But it’s our own fault. We accept poor service at every level. It’s OK by us for a cashier to answer the phone and answer questions to a potential customer while we stand waiting. Merchandise in one hand and cash in the other. But it makes it all OK if they turn to you and say “thank you for waiting.”
While in London a couple of years ago, I walked into this small shop of English sports memorabilia. Stuff like old cricket bats and balls and other stuff I had no clue about. The lone clerk, a young girl, was on the phone having an obvious personal conversation. As our eyes met, we instantly knew something about each other. She knew I wasn’t going to buy anything and I knew she wasn’t going to get off the phone. Plus, she certainly didn’t care.
I was buying a new saddle bag for my bike and the cashier seemed a bit preoccupied, disturbed or maybe just plain angry. She was a bit curt while helping me and taking my money. But to her, all was well when she thanked me for my purchase. Yeah, that made it all OK.
Well, here’s how those three scenarios ended, where I drew the line in the sand. As the young man at CVS was walking back to the store, I asked him for the woman’s name behind the counter. The one that had ignored us. He told me and then asked if there had been a problem, since that’s why people usually ask about names. I told him what had happened. He replied that it would be mentioned to the manager.
The girl in London didn’t know one more thing about me. I was going to make her get off that phone. I looked intently at stuff in the cases and then asked if I could see something. I don’t even remember what it was. With a roll of the eyes, perfected by young girls everywhere, she told her friend something, put the phone down and came over. I thanked her politely and then moved onto the next case waiting for her to start up her conversation. Then once again, I asked to see something. She hung up the phone and I turned to the door and with a smile, thanked her just the same.
After cashier finished answering questions to the customer on the phone and thanked me for waiting, I politely said that other than leaving, I really had no choice. Then I asked if the phone had a “Hold” button and suggested that maybe it would be better to have a customer that she didn’t even know would be purchasing something be put on hold rather than someone standing there cash in hand. All with a big smile on my face.
The girl in the bike shop, poor thing, was having a crisis. I simply asked her if she was having a bad day. She replied that it was almost time for her to go home. I mentioned that she just looked a little out of sorts. She just looked at me. I hoped that it wasn’t anything serious, sweetness and concern oozing out my every pore. She ran my card through the machine. I hoped that her day would be much, much better, grabbed my stuff and left.
To quote that old movie: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.” Won’t you join me? Come on, strike a blow for mistreated, unappreciated and ignored customers everywhere. Be sure to kill them with kindness and then smile all the way home.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Out With the Old
I don’t consider myself a pack rat, much less a hoarder. OK, I still do keep scraps of wood leftover from jobs and/or projects from around the house. And there are a few tools from my career as a Handyman that have been tough for me to get rid of. But at least I can get both my vehicles in the garage. And still have plenty of room to walk around. Well, maybe the fact that we have a three car garage might help.
We’ll be having community wide garage sale next month and the wife and I have already started gathering stuff to get sell. You know the stuff I’m talking about. The clothes that haven’t been worn since Clinton was in office; the “had to have” pasta maker and all those CD’s that are now on my iPod. Outta here. See ya later. Hope they find a nice home.
Then there’s the stuff that was put where I could find it when I needed it. Then that spot was quickly forgotten which meant a trip to Home Depot (usually) for a replacement. Then, as usually happens, the lost item pops up. Well, that stuff in now in the Garage Sale box.
Of course, some stuff is hard to get rid of. When we moved to our current home, we decided to sell some of our antiques. Things that looked good and were good ideas at the time, but we just don’t use. But, we thought maybe a phone call to our son David might be appropriate. Give him first refusal privileges. How did that turn out? Well, turns out, he wants us to keep all the pieces. Somehow, each and every one holds special memories for him. Sheesh.
But we’re forging ahead with other stuff and adding to it on a regular basis. Just this morning I walked out the side door of the garage and accidently bumped some deep sea fishing rods, which by the way, haven’t been used in at least a dozen years. But it’s more stuff David wants. Anyway, that bump caused the poles to fall over, hitting the metal detector which then hit some long clamps, which fell to the floor. Oh, that’s where those clamps are.
We do have a different philosophy when it comes to yard sales, though. Everything is priced cheap. Old shovel, a buck. CD’s, a buck. Clothes, twenty five cents each or all you can carry for a buck. My thinking is that I’d rather have some money, no matter the amount, in my pocket rather than haul that stuff back into my garage. It’s a win/win situation.
Oh, oh, gotta get going, the wife is starting to go through some of my drawers and boxes. Can’t let her do that. That’s all the good junk.
We’ll be having community wide garage sale next month and the wife and I have already started gathering stuff to get sell. You know the stuff I’m talking about. The clothes that haven’t been worn since Clinton was in office; the “had to have” pasta maker and all those CD’s that are now on my iPod. Outta here. See ya later. Hope they find a nice home.
Then there’s the stuff that was put where I could find it when I needed it. Then that spot was quickly forgotten which meant a trip to Home Depot (usually) for a replacement. Then, as usually happens, the lost item pops up. Well, that stuff in now in the Garage Sale box.
Of course, some stuff is hard to get rid of. When we moved to our current home, we decided to sell some of our antiques. Things that looked good and were good ideas at the time, but we just don’t use. But, we thought maybe a phone call to our son David might be appropriate. Give him first refusal privileges. How did that turn out? Well, turns out, he wants us to keep all the pieces. Somehow, each and every one holds special memories for him. Sheesh.
But we’re forging ahead with other stuff and adding to it on a regular basis. Just this morning I walked out the side door of the garage and accidently bumped some deep sea fishing rods, which by the way, haven’t been used in at least a dozen years. But it’s more stuff David wants. Anyway, that bump caused the poles to fall over, hitting the metal detector which then hit some long clamps, which fell to the floor. Oh, that’s where those clamps are.
We do have a different philosophy when it comes to yard sales, though. Everything is priced cheap. Old shovel, a buck. CD’s, a buck. Clothes, twenty five cents each or all you can carry for a buck. My thinking is that I’d rather have some money, no matter the amount, in my pocket rather than haul that stuff back into my garage. It’s a win/win situation.
Oh, oh, gotta get going, the wife is starting to go through some of my drawers and boxes. Can’t let her do that. That’s all the good junk.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)