It's that time of the decade when we do battle with the networks about television coverage of the olympics, and I have to say, that this year's edition is about the worst I've ever seen. It's bad enough that we have to watch tape delayed coverage from across the globe when the events are held multiple time zones away, but why the three hour lapse in coverage when it's on the west coast of our very own country?
MONEY, my friends, pure and simple.
The olympics are about spirit, the brotherhood of humanity and the dreams of athletes worldwide. They are not about money, yet NBC has turned a premium sporting event into their own personal pinata, busting the coverage for the sake of gathering all the dollar bills they can that fall to the floor. I am as pro american as the next guy but when all I see from NBC is the good ol stars and stripes in competition I begin to wonder if I'm watching the nationals instead of the worldwide olympics. Rarely has so few countries been so poorly represented as at these games. We see lindsey, we see shaun and his boyz, we see apollo and his protege, we see the figure skaters likely to win gold, but do we see any other competitors in any detail? Nope, we get snippets of competition and unlikely stories told in sidelights, we get highlights from the 'rest of the field'. We get more commercials than the superbowl and for what? taped delayed coverage that if you had any interest at all in following you would be better off perusing the internet for scores and highlights.
It's a wonderful event that NBC prez Dick Ebersol said is going to lose money for his network. Well, I can't say I feel sorry for dick, because his worry is not my problem as all I want to see is some unbiased coverage of what is supposed to be the greatest stage in the world for its athletes. And what is Cris Collingsworth doing commentating snowboarding???? Does he know anything about the sport?
So much for biased commentating as NBC has working the biggest set of 'homers' this side of chicago and harry caray. I guess I'm cranky because we watch so little tv and what we do watch we like to be entertained by and not talked down to, or told who to root for, or be part of that great american machine that we are made out to be.
The olympics ARE fun to watch, but not on NBC.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
We live in a temporary society doing temporary jobs in a temporary world, so when I get a chance to see something permanent and timeless, I stand in awe. We went out to the coast on valentine's day to get away from the concrete jungle and wallow in the immensity of the ocean. It had been too long since either of us had been there, and the beauty with which we were assaulted was amazing. The sky was littered with cottonballs, and the vast blueness of the pacific was like a riffling bedsheet. The swells could be seen from far away as we crested the coast mountains and began our descent into Cannon Beach for our day of rest, relaxation and fun in the sun.
At Oswaldt state park we left the subaru and with truman and abby began the walk thru the old growth cedar forest to the beach. Oswaldt is a big bay, framed by Cape Falcon (cheers dane) on the one side, an anonymous point on the other. The deep swells from the far reaches of the pacific filter in here, growing taller as the seafloor rises up the closer it gets to the continent. At high tide the beach was fairly nonexistent, but there was still plenty of room to roam and to listen to the thunder of the gods coming to rest against the oregon coast. It was loud, discombobulated, and chaotic, frothy whitewater everywhere with breakers screaming against gravity from one end of the bay to the other.
What I love most about the ocean is its vastness. It has an empty quality to it that stands in direct contrast to the amount of life that depends on it...for sustenance, for mental clarity, for spiritual healing, for global cooling (:) ). The ocean is always there, an eternal friend and while sitting on a driftwood log, I realized that I dont ever want to live far from the ocean again. We live two hours away, but it is WORLDS away in my opinion, a distinct class of people live in the city while another entirely different race lives out there on the edge, near the bubbling, gurgling, breathing, violent, roiling, frothy continental edge. I like it out there, love it, and cant believe I'm not out there right now.
There is the timelessness that I need. The permanence in this world, the permanence of change is what the ocean represents and to leave the world of buildings, cars, people, hustlebustle is as healing to the mind body and soul as a soothing full body massage and a glass of wine. What it is is finding your place, finding your place where it all comes together in one point of the compass. I know where my place is, have always known, but it takes living away from that point to realize it.
At Oswaldt state park we left the subaru and with truman and abby began the walk thru the old growth cedar forest to the beach. Oswaldt is a big bay, framed by Cape Falcon (cheers dane) on the one side, an anonymous point on the other. The deep swells from the far reaches of the pacific filter in here, growing taller as the seafloor rises up the closer it gets to the continent. At high tide the beach was fairly nonexistent, but there was still plenty of room to roam and to listen to the thunder of the gods coming to rest against the oregon coast. It was loud, discombobulated, and chaotic, frothy whitewater everywhere with breakers screaming against gravity from one end of the bay to the other.
What I love most about the ocean is its vastness. It has an empty quality to it that stands in direct contrast to the amount of life that depends on it...for sustenance, for mental clarity, for spiritual healing, for global cooling (:) ). The ocean is always there, an eternal friend and while sitting on a driftwood log, I realized that I dont ever want to live far from the ocean again. We live two hours away, but it is WORLDS away in my opinion, a distinct class of people live in the city while another entirely different race lives out there on the edge, near the bubbling, gurgling, breathing, violent, roiling, frothy continental edge. I like it out there, love it, and cant believe I'm not out there right now.
There is the timelessness that I need. The permanence in this world, the permanence of change is what the ocean represents and to leave the world of buildings, cars, people, hustlebustle is as healing to the mind body and soul as a soothing full body massage and a glass of wine. What it is is finding your place, finding your place where it all comes together in one point of the compass. I know where my place is, have always known, but it takes living away from that point to realize it.
Friday, February 12, 2010
In the everyday adventures of the big city unemployed, I come into contact with a bevy of different professionals doing their "professional" work, refusing to be pigeonholed into the normalcy of the working world. I popped in on a medical clinic, where girls in slinky socks and clogs mingled with secretaries wearing highnecked sweaters and gstrings, who were either acupuncturists, herbal doctors, massage technicians, or possibly even plain janes who fell into a job on the temp service site of craigslist. I stopped in to a tall building downtown, across from Powell's universe of books where I go weekly to volunteer to file random things in an ancient cabinet and there were three women and a tall smile laced man who greeted me warmly. They were curious people, asking about my day and how I was. I dropped off a CycleDeli menu in the hopes that they would order next week, but these are writers working for a nonprofit who hoard their money for books, new releases, a bottle of nice wine, and maybe a new pair of Dansco clogs for the upcoming anthology release party. Then I crossed Burnside and down into Oldtown, where my friend Sam (not the woman who lets me live with her) works in an old building with lots of windows and a habittrail of hallways and stairwells. He is a internet guru, a web designer who surfs the web like Laird Hamilton surfs pipeline. He showed me the set up, showed me the conference rooms with handmade (from recycled doors!) tables, the huge windows, the dominating Vaio video monitors on the wall and all of the young, hip, urban, funky folk who live and work there. A coworker was shovelling some food into his mouth from a styrofoam togo box, while an uneaten slice of pizza the size of a dinner plate sat untouched in front of his buddy to the left.
The point is that all of these people that I came into contact with are living the life of a professional, whether they want to be called that or not. I have never considered myself a professional, and only just recently became aware of the fact that I have/had a career. What seems funny to me is that in my former life of an Alaskan, there were very few "professionals" in my immediate world, most of whom would be reluctant to call themselves that for fear of being labeled an "adult". Most of my friends and associates were what I would call "workers", able to do most any job capably and some jobs quite proficiently. We weren't professionals at all, just people trying to get by and make some money so that we could hang out together, and bitch about working. PeterPan syndrome, I believe is what some call this infatuation with staying young and refusing to grow up, but the ability and desire to try new things, to avoid the rut of putting in years of servitude is what keeps us young not the refusal to grow up because I like my graying hair and expanding belly. I am a cook, that's what I am, but because I refuse to scale the ladder of success in that field, I find the word professional offensive.
The move down into this professional world has always felt at odds with who I am. When I was cooking here, I felt like I had to prove my worth in the cooking community and act the part of a respected professional in my class. Well, that's just not who I am and maybe that was why that experiment didn't last very long. I'm still a kid trying to get used to the idea that I have a career and a house and a fiance and a dog and a car and a stock portfolio. I also have a 31 year old woman living with me who insists that I stay young forever because she doesnt want an old man cramping her style.
The point is that all of these people that I came into contact with are living the life of a professional, whether they want to be called that or not. I have never considered myself a professional, and only just recently became aware of the fact that I have/had a career. What seems funny to me is that in my former life of an Alaskan, there were very few "professionals" in my immediate world, most of whom would be reluctant to call themselves that for fear of being labeled an "adult". Most of my friends and associates were what I would call "workers", able to do most any job capably and some jobs quite proficiently. We weren't professionals at all, just people trying to get by and make some money so that we could hang out together, and bitch about working. PeterPan syndrome, I believe is what some call this infatuation with staying young and refusing to grow up, but the ability and desire to try new things, to avoid the rut of putting in years of servitude is what keeps us young not the refusal to grow up because I like my graying hair and expanding belly. I am a cook, that's what I am, but because I refuse to scale the ladder of success in that field, I find the word professional offensive.
The move down into this professional world has always felt at odds with who I am. When I was cooking here, I felt like I had to prove my worth in the cooking community and act the part of a respected professional in my class. Well, that's just not who I am and maybe that was why that experiment didn't last very long. I'm still a kid trying to get used to the idea that I have a career and a house and a fiance and a dog and a car and a stock portfolio. I also have a 31 year old woman living with me who insists that I stay young forever because she doesnt want an old man cramping her style.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The sun comes out along Tom McCall waterfront park in February and you would think the asylum had just opened its doors and released the patients. Airplanes buzzed overhead in continuous circles, spying on the traffic, the river, and the pulse of humanity wandering down the promenade. The kids at the USS Oregon war memorial packed their loaded apple and celebrated 4:20 a few hours early. An old black guy with a grizzled beard and milky eyes talked to his burrito while cannibalizing it at the same time. All the black clad youth stood in stark contrast to the blue sky and ghostly pallor of their exposed skin. Vampires exposed, warmth and summer on the way, slinking back into their five month coffins. Grass slithery with perceived wetness and the first traces of brave joggers without gloves and hats. Bike path brisk with noontime walkers, strollers, bikers, strutters and the pillars of any waterfront public space, the homeless.
I felt especially good today, having done my volunteer shift at Oregon Public Broadcasting (yep, im answering phones for their pledge drive:)!), made my first batch of lunches for my new business empire, the cycle deli, and then did more volunteer work filing papers and reading essays for my group Write Around Portland. A busy day. And now, as my gin sits sweating on a coaster, im thinking about going to the blazer game with samantha. We have yet to go to a game, and mr durant and his Thunder are in town, so it should be a nice pasting by the visitors.
I do have to say, that things are looking up...we have irises blooming in the front, along with crocus', and inside is a burgeoning hyacynth as well as a chia pet.
Our new fish Masta (who is a beta) is living comfortably in his cracked glass bowl while a stalk of bamboo springs out of his house, swimming his circles and eating blood worms to satisfy his sushi craving.
I felt especially good today, having done my volunteer shift at Oregon Public Broadcasting (yep, im answering phones for their pledge drive:)!), made my first batch of lunches for my new business empire, the cycle deli, and then did more volunteer work filing papers and reading essays for my group Write Around Portland. A busy day. And now, as my gin sits sweating on a coaster, im thinking about going to the blazer game with samantha. We have yet to go to a game, and mr durant and his Thunder are in town, so it should be a nice pasting by the visitors.
I do have to say, that things are looking up...we have irises blooming in the front, along with crocus', and inside is a burgeoning hyacynth as well as a chia pet.
Our new fish Masta (who is a beta) is living comfortably in his cracked glass bowl while a stalk of bamboo springs out of his house, swimming his circles and eating blood worms to satisfy his sushi craving.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Today just may be the first day of the rest of my life. last night while sitting on the couch contemplating my inherent idleness, sam and I came up with 'the next BIG thing'. It is an idea borne out of simplicity, necessity, and mr zappa's mother's of invention, an idea that transcends restaurants and food carts, drive thru fast food and sack lunches. It takes elements from all aspects of food service and wraps it into one tidy little package called...MATTY'S CYCLE DELI...hows that for a catchy name?
The more we started to think about it the bigger it got, and the better it became, and the more money we were making, and before you knew it, we were vacationing half the year in Mexico with our own private palapa and getting hitched on the beach with all of our friends enjoying rounds of tequila and beer on us. It went that fast. But truth be told, reality is a nice brisk headwind when starting a new business, and this one will be no different.
My goal is to provide a healthy, quality alternative to those people in the workplace with not enough time to go out and grab something, as well as those folks who have exhausted the lunch choices within walking distance of their places of employment. I want to make sandwiches that buck the 'subway' norm, push people out of their comfort zone by not giving them a choice, but rather forcing themselves to trust me in my creativity. Their only choice will be vegetarian or meat. I'll do the rest of the work for them. Check either box on the order sheet and your sandwich will be delivered the next day. Of course, this won't be an everyday job, god forbid, but what I'm hoping for is to develop enough of a client base where I make three deliveries to three different locales three days a week of between 10-20 sandwiches per delivery. I'm thinking 45 sandwiches a day, three days a week at twelve bucks a pop...what is that? nearly five bills a week, and doing deliveries on my bike with a rack (a very large one apparently)and a smile.
I love making sandwiches, it just might be my favorite food, and the scope of variety is endless so not only will I not get bored, but neither will my customers. I've been sitting around far too long this winter trying to figure out what to do with my time, and I think I may have hit the nail on the head with this one. It's a simple idea made
The more we started to think about it the bigger it got, and the better it became, and the more money we were making, and before you knew it, we were vacationing half the year in Mexico with our own private palapa and getting hitched on the beach with all of our friends enjoying rounds of tequila and beer on us. It went that fast. But truth be told, reality is a nice brisk headwind when starting a new business, and this one will be no different.
My goal is to provide a healthy, quality alternative to those people in the workplace with not enough time to go out and grab something, as well as those folks who have exhausted the lunch choices within walking distance of their places of employment. I want to make sandwiches that buck the 'subway' norm, push people out of their comfort zone by not giving them a choice, but rather forcing themselves to trust me in my creativity. Their only choice will be vegetarian or meat. I'll do the rest of the work for them. Check either box on the order sheet and your sandwich will be delivered the next day. Of course, this won't be an everyday job, god forbid, but what I'm hoping for is to develop enough of a client base where I make three deliveries to three different locales three days a week of between 10-20 sandwiches per delivery. I'm thinking 45 sandwiches a day, three days a week at twelve bucks a pop...what is that? nearly five bills a week, and doing deliveries on my bike with a rack (a very large one apparently)and a smile.
I love making sandwiches, it just might be my favorite food, and the scope of variety is endless so not only will I not get bored, but neither will my customers. I've been sitting around far too long this winter trying to figure out what to do with my time, and I think I may have hit the nail on the head with this one. It's a simple idea made
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
January 30, 2010
One of the joys you forget about when you live in Alaska is that of the ‘road trip’. Living in just about any other state (except Hawaii), roads are endless, spreading out in the four directions, and beckoning the wandering spirit in all of us.
If you drive a full day from Seward you might make it out of the state. A full day’s drive from Portland lands you in San Francisco. In Missoula, Montana. In Reno. And even deep into Canada if you wish. I love road trips. Love seeing the highway out in front of me, the cooler packed within arms reach, the dog resting plaintively between the seats watching, and a Sam with mismatched socks splayed on the dashboard. We pack the gear in the rocketbox on the roof next to the bikes, leaving Abby’s bed, a tote of “campstuff”, our clothes and some food inside the Subaru and off we go. And then we drive.
We did a fair bit of exploring this summer and fall but we recently drove down I-5 to California for Christmas with my family, and then I did it again solo about two weeks later to help my mom celebrate her 65th birthday. Now, road trips with family and friends and lovers are great as it’s all about the destination, not so much the journey itself, whereas the solo car ride is a more introspective endeavor filled with old songs played at great volume with bad singing accompaniment, some steering wheel drumming, a bit more flaunting of the local speed limits (hello 95 through Ashland at midnight) and maybe a more generous splash of gin in my tumbler.
Driving the I-5 corridor is a 75mph experiment of staying awake and staying between the white lines, as cops don’t care about egregious violations of speed but they do care if you are swerving at 80. The drive to Sanfran is ten hours in a straight shot, or broken up, into two manageable days by yourself. I left Portland at five in the afternoon (nice rush hour planning), drove til midnight then found a deserted little road disappearing into the Trinity wilderness and slept for eight hours in the comfort of my empty car. I cruised through the Shasta wilderness area in a blizzard, me and drive by truckers keeping pace while Kia and Mazda shuffled along at 35. I flew through he Sacramento River delta bird refuge seeing hawks on posts, geese in V formation a hundred strong, a melting sunset, countless ducks and waterfowl, and even a few deer.
I listened to the football game. I turned back the clock to the Grateful Dead and did the Jerry jam for an hour or two. I listened to cartalk. Twice in the same day (different editions!). I made up stories for the people in the cars next to me. I put my feet up on the dash while setting the cruise control to 72. I ate a chicken club at Carl’s Jr. I got excited when the odometer clicked over to 34,000 miles. I drank baileys and coffee followed by a Guinness (in the same cup).
Basically, I had a good time by myself doing exactly what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it and how I wanted to do it. It was a small bit of pleasure that I had forgotten how much I enjoyed. Sometimes we get too caught up in stereotyping aloneness, equating being alone with being lonely, but a solo road trip is anything but lonely as you have your whole head to explore and talk to.
One of the joys you forget about when you live in Alaska is that of the ‘road trip’. Living in just about any other state (except Hawaii), roads are endless, spreading out in the four directions, and beckoning the wandering spirit in all of us.
If you drive a full day from Seward you might make it out of the state. A full day’s drive from Portland lands you in San Francisco. In Missoula, Montana. In Reno. And even deep into Canada if you wish. I love road trips. Love seeing the highway out in front of me, the cooler packed within arms reach, the dog resting plaintively between the seats watching, and a Sam with mismatched socks splayed on the dashboard. We pack the gear in the rocketbox on the roof next to the bikes, leaving Abby’s bed, a tote of “campstuff”, our clothes and some food inside the Subaru and off we go. And then we drive.
We did a fair bit of exploring this summer and fall but we recently drove down I-5 to California for Christmas with my family, and then I did it again solo about two weeks later to help my mom celebrate her 65th birthday. Now, road trips with family and friends and lovers are great as it’s all about the destination, not so much the journey itself, whereas the solo car ride is a more introspective endeavor filled with old songs played at great volume with bad singing accompaniment, some steering wheel drumming, a bit more flaunting of the local speed limits (hello 95 through Ashland at midnight) and maybe a more generous splash of gin in my tumbler.
Driving the I-5 corridor is a 75mph experiment of staying awake and staying between the white lines, as cops don’t care about egregious violations of speed but they do care if you are swerving at 80. The drive to Sanfran is ten hours in a straight shot, or broken up, into two manageable days by yourself. I left Portland at five in the afternoon (nice rush hour planning), drove til midnight then found a deserted little road disappearing into the Trinity wilderness and slept for eight hours in the comfort of my empty car. I cruised through the Shasta wilderness area in a blizzard, me and drive by truckers keeping pace while Kia and Mazda shuffled along at 35. I flew through he Sacramento River delta bird refuge seeing hawks on posts, geese in V formation a hundred strong, a melting sunset, countless ducks and waterfowl, and even a few deer.
I listened to the football game. I turned back the clock to the Grateful Dead and did the Jerry jam for an hour or two. I listened to cartalk. Twice in the same day (different editions!). I made up stories for the people in the cars next to me. I put my feet up on the dash while setting the cruise control to 72. I ate a chicken club at Carl’s Jr. I got excited when the odometer clicked over to 34,000 miles. I drank baileys and coffee followed by a Guinness (in the same cup).
Basically, I had a good time by myself doing exactly what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it and how I wanted to do it. It was a small bit of pleasure that I had forgotten how much I enjoyed. Sometimes we get too caught up in stereotyping aloneness, equating being alone with being lonely, but a solo road trip is anything but lonely as you have your whole head to explore and talk to.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Stuporbowl
January 30,2010
Having listened to but not watched the last game of the playoffs while driving north from San Francisco, I had made a bet with my buddy George after watching the first quarter of the Viking-Saint game. I bet him that in his desire to be “the Man”, “the Hero”, and to have his gunslinger reputation put to rest permanently, Brett Favre would do something so insanely stupid that everyone from the casual fan to the most hardened critic (including Favre backers), would know that there isn’t room in the NFL anymore for egos as big as his. Not at quarterback anyway. He took my bet and today owes me a nice bottle of scotch.
He gave that game away. Gave it away because he needed to make a play that justified all his stupid plays in years past. He needed to complete that pass or make that first down at whatever the cost (hello, twelve men in the huddle with the game on the line???!!!) to his team. He is the consummate pro, don’t get me wrong, but when the game is on the line, he might not even be in the top ten quarterbacks I would choose to have under center in a big game.
I’m not bashing Favre but I hate what he stands for and what he is playing for now that he is out of Green Bay. He wants another ring to cement his status as the greatest ever. I can’t fault him for that, but holding teams hostage to deal with his inability to decide if he wants to play another season is insane. The Packers made the right call in letting him walk, and today are laughing all the way to the pro bowl as Aaron Rodgers has done a more than capable job of filling Brett’s shoes. What happens if no contending team wants him and only the Raiders, Bucs, and Seachickens want to sign him? Does he sign? HELL NO. Will he sign to be a backup? HELL NO.
Brett is as selfish as it gets, and in that respect he is a lot like a Major League baseball player, going to the highest bidder for their services for one year in the hopes that they have a career year and take that team to the promised land. Well, I can tell you right now, that Favre’s best year was the one he just had. Seven interceptions? Unheard of, and if he doesn’t get hurt the poor coach who has him has to play the guy just because he is a Hall of Famer.
If he was smart and willing to do the right thing, because even he knows he can’t have this kind of year again, he would tell Childress he is retiring as soon as possible so the Vikings can get on with their lives and start digging through the scrap heap of the NFL’s unwanted to find next year’s quarterback. Hey, Michael Vick, need a job?
But, because Favre is who he is, he’ll keep everyone waiting, hoping, watching, so that he can make his big announcement when the timing is right, and when the media need a story. Selfish. I’m truly sorry to all those Viking fans out there (Scotty, you listening? Riley, you too?) who have to put up with this.
And in a related story, Adrian Peterson, the greatest runner in the game today, contacts Lester ‘the molester” Hayes and wonders if he can borrow some stickum for next year.
January 30,2010
Having listened to but not watched the last game of the playoffs while driving north from San Francisco, I had made a bet with my buddy George after watching the first quarter of the Viking-Saint game. I bet him that in his desire to be “the Man”, “the Hero”, and to have his gunslinger reputation put to rest permanently, Brett Favre would do something so insanely stupid that everyone from the casual fan to the most hardened critic (including Favre backers), would know that there isn’t room in the NFL anymore for egos as big as his. Not at quarterback anyway. He took my bet and today owes me a nice bottle of scotch.
He gave that game away. Gave it away because he needed to make a play that justified all his stupid plays in years past. He needed to complete that pass or make that first down at whatever the cost (hello, twelve men in the huddle with the game on the line???!!!) to his team. He is the consummate pro, don’t get me wrong, but when the game is on the line, he might not even be in the top ten quarterbacks I would choose to have under center in a big game.
I’m not bashing Favre but I hate what he stands for and what he is playing for now that he is out of Green Bay. He wants another ring to cement his status as the greatest ever. I can’t fault him for that, but holding teams hostage to deal with his inability to decide if he wants to play another season is insane. The Packers made the right call in letting him walk, and today are laughing all the way to the pro bowl as Aaron Rodgers has done a more than capable job of filling Brett’s shoes. What happens if no contending team wants him and only the Raiders, Bucs, and Seachickens want to sign him? Does he sign? HELL NO. Will he sign to be a backup? HELL NO.
Brett is as selfish as it gets, and in that respect he is a lot like a Major League baseball player, going to the highest bidder for their services for one year in the hopes that they have a career year and take that team to the promised land. Well, I can tell you right now, that Favre’s best year was the one he just had. Seven interceptions? Unheard of, and if he doesn’t get hurt the poor coach who has him has to play the guy just because he is a Hall of Famer.
If he was smart and willing to do the right thing, because even he knows he can’t have this kind of year again, he would tell Childress he is retiring as soon as possible so the Vikings can get on with their lives and start digging through the scrap heap of the NFL’s unwanted to find next year’s quarterback. Hey, Michael Vick, need a job?
But, because Favre is who he is, he’ll keep everyone waiting, hoping, watching, so that he can make his big announcement when the timing is right, and when the media need a story. Selfish. I’m truly sorry to all those Viking fans out there (Scotty, you listening? Riley, you too?) who have to put up with this.
And in a related story, Adrian Peterson, the greatest runner in the game today, contacts Lester ‘the molester” Hayes and wonders if he can borrow some stickum for next year.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)