Old Time Rock & Roll - a Desert Trip aka Oldchella

Sometime during the two week festival known as Coachella, where 125,000 people gather five miles from my home and throw a party complete with multiple concerts, fashions, foods, camping and celebrities, a rumor was leaked (I suspect by the very entity that feigned upset. . . Goldenvoice) that another mega concert would be held in the fall with true rock icons on a playbill not to be believed.

Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones, Neil Young, Roger Waters, Paul McCartney and The Who. . .all in a one square mile area over two weekends in October?  Who wouldn't want to do that?  I mean that is the pinnacle of music as we know it and it's happening a bike ride from my house.

Email started flying between people.  Do you want to go? Should we get a block of passes? One day? Three Day? VIP or General Admission? The questions, the plans.  Just think about it for a minute.  In one 48 hour period you could conceivably see six epic shows and still go home and sleep in your own comfortable bed. I even have out of state friends asking if they can stay here when they go to the show. This is a really big deal. It's a no-brainer to me and so I email back. . . I'm in.

Notice I say "I' and not "We".  I bring it up to Moondoggy, excited, "everybody's going" I tell him.  "Not me," he says and I am slightly sad but still determined. I make plans to man computers with a friend to try and get our passes (VIP is the way to go) when tickets go on sale at 10 a.m. Monday.  Everything is set.

Sleeping soundly through the night, I am suddenly awakened with a jarring thought.  This pass will cost anywhere between $1000 and $1600 (GA is $399). . .that's a lot of money.  It's a cruise or a new computer (which I am in need of right now.) But it's  THE STONES, THE WHO, I mean this will never happen again.  I go back to sleep.

Bam! Awake again. What if something comes up and we can't go?  It's not like they sell concert insurance like they do trip insurance which means there is no guarantee that I could sell my pass.  Hmmm.  But, what are the odds, really.  I go back to sleep.

I wake up and Moondoggy is on the computer. . . on the website and he's looking at ticket options.  "Come here," he says pointing to the schematic of the seating.  "Are you wanting passes to the Standing Pit?"  Standing?  For a whole concert?  With a bunch of other standing people?  Um. . no.  "These seats," he says pointing to the seats in front of the stage, "are down here behind the Standing Pit,  And these," he points to the Grand Stands (and priciest of the options)  don't even face the stage so you will have to stand and turn to see. Which are you hoping to buy?"  I start seeing the dollars in terms of comfort versus Mick Jagger singing "Satisfaction". Mick Jagger. . . not the younger Mick Jagger who preened and pranced to the song originally but the now Great-Grandfather Mick Jagger.  He can still do it but. . . and what about Keith Richards?  I mean is he really still even breathing?

And then I recall the last concert I went to - Aerosmith, a few years ago.  What I really wanted during the entire show was ear plugs. And I once camped out to buy Dylan tickets which turned out to be the biggest disappointment ever. . .do I want to replay that to the tune of a grand? And I've seen Pink Floyd and now the dollars flying around my brain are marching back into my subconscious wallet.  I could buy the entire works of each of these groups for less than the cost of this epic weekend five miles down the road and still have money left, my hearing intact and a peaceful uncrowded place to enjoy the music. Besides what if one of these guys breaks a hip?

And with that, I emailed my friend, "I'm out."
Think I'll be driving Uber those weekends instead.

When The Plan Goes Out The Window. . .

Yesterday I was reading through the weekly newspaper from my former town in Northern Illinois.  I moved away two and a half years ago but, as I explained to a California friend recently, when you've lived in a small town for over thirty years you really do know everyone - if not on a personal level, then at least to recognize them on the street and know who they are.  It's something like a large, dysfunctional extended family that share the same estate. . .you see Odd Bob in the hardware store, you know it's Odd Bob but you may not talk to him because, well, he's kind of odd, right?  You don't say anything to anyone either though because chances are good Odd Bob is the store owner's second cousin who married the postmaster's daughter but she had an affair with their son's second grade teacher and everyone knows but Odd Bob.  You get the idea. 

So, yesterday I was reading the newspaper when I came across an article about a retiring firefighter; not just ANY retiring fire fighter but, my own personal,  had an "intimate moment" with firefighter and he is retiring from the department.  I never knew Gary Banjac on a personal level.  I knew his name and I knew he was a firefighter and one late, late night we came face to face at the most vulnerable moment of my life and we both lived to tell about it.  But first, a little history. . .

During my first year of wedded bliss, approximately nine months were spent alone as my husband was working abroad.  I, on the other hand, was living in Virginia Beach working as the on site manager for a large apartment complex.  Everyone knew Moondoggy was not around, thus, I slept with an axe.  Yes, an axe and no, not to do serious physical harm to the murderer I was sure would be breaking in.  The axe was for breaking the window so I could make my escape.  I hated being alone at night. . .still do, although it got immensely easier when we moved from the big house in the woods to the small house in town where I had next door neighbors; within screaming distance I always say. Now back to my story. . .

For thirty years the thought of being alone all night has conjured elaborate scenarios involving me slithering out of bed and slipping under it (which no longer is possible because the underbed clearance is less than space my butt displaces), me using my mad kick-boxing skills, or me breaking the window for attention and then running like hell. I have lain awake at night plotting every escape route, strategy and hiding place possible should I be stuck alone and the murderer come a callin'.  So, one night, due to work schedules, Moondoggy had to work an odd midnight shift and there I was, alone.  I wasn't even nervous about it, after all, I did have Moose the Wonder dog - my scrappy Bichon Frise who requires constant grooming and foofing so he looks like a white cotton ball - terrorizing menace that he is.

There I was, minding my own business, sleeping in the middle of the bed with ALL the pillows and my dog, when my ADT alarm beeps the little staccato beat indicating that a door, somewhere in my house, has been opened.  The dog cocks his pretty poofy head, listens for a quick second and then goes nuts barking and leaps off the bed scrambling headlong into the living room.  Me? I have prepared for this moment for years, I know exactly what to do after all Self Preservation is my middle name.  And what do I do? Go out the window? Hide in the closet?

No, I climb out of bed, head down the hall toward the living room where I see the light of a flashlight shining along the floor.  You would think at that point I would have stopped and turned back, maybe hidden somewhere, right?  Someone in my house in the middle of the night using a flashlight to see does not signal a good outcome. Any sensible person with a history of knowing what to do when the murderer comes would've stopped.  Me? NO!  Instead, I keep going where I come face to face with a man. . . in a dark clothing who now rounding the corner to the hallway where I am coming from.
Remember that scene from "E.T" where Drew Barrymore discovers ET in the closet?  She screams this high pitched, fear driven scream and ET screams the same scream because both are startled beyond reason?  Well, that's what it was like for me, not the intruder, just me.  I screamed for both of us. 

"Oh NO!  Wrong house," the man says to I don't know who because I can't see - it's middle of the night dark, but then I notice another man standing in the front doorway. The intruder calmly and quickly raises his hands in the air and clearly announces, "We're firemen!  Wrong house!" Like a scene from some slapstick comedy movie, he starts backing up repeating, "We're firemen.  Wrong house.  We're leaving. Go back to bed."  Moose is doing his best warning growl (although secretly thinking that if one of those guys produced a ball, all bets were off) and I'm thinking, "Did he just tell me to go back to bed?" Before the intruder closes the door and leaves, I say, "Wait, what's your name?"  He stops and without even taking enough time to make up a name (because that's what I might've done) says, "Gary Banjac (and I am now awake enough that I know who he is)."

I briefly considered doing just what he told me to do by going back to bed but, I noticed a ghastly smell.  I think Moose might have had a little "nerve" gas over the incident. At least, I hope it's just gas.

I flip on the light and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Holy Hell! I get a gander at what the intruder was looking at when we came face to cafe in the hall. I am wearing my best thread bare pair of red Mickey Mouse jammy pants that long ago lost the drawstring and may or may not have a gaping hole somewhere south of my waist.  I am also wearing an old gray tank top.  Gravity hit the girls long about pregnancy time and never left, so, without a bra, a tank top is about the worst look I can have and I am sporting it like a model right now.  My kids have said they need therapy after seeing me in that tank top.  And amazingly, I'm not scared, I mean I knew who it was, right?

I called Moondoggy at work to relay the humorous tale, calm down, and allow my dog to relax because something smelled awful and I'm pretty sure it is my perfect little dog. Moondoggy was not happy at all and asked me to call the police.  I waffled.  I WAFFLED but acquiesced, dialing 911 assuring the operator It was NOT an emergency but felt it needed reporting. . .sort of. She did not think it was funny either. "Ma'am there have been NO fire calls tonight.  I am going to have an officer stop by."

Well crap!  I've already seen myself in the mirror and, looking around, I realized that I was not prepared for guests.   I quickly threw on a hoodie sweatshirt, fluffed the couch pillows, took my old coffee cup to the kitchen, decided I didn't have time to do dishes so opted to shut that light off and sat down with the shade up to wait for the officer, like it was the most normal thing in the world.  And a minute later he was there.

The young, good looking, former marine was on duty.  I wished I had brushed my hair!  He took some info but offered what he thought had happened:

The next street over in the same location lives a woman who is infirm.  She often makes errant calls to the fire and police stations and sometimes they do midnight wellness calls to her house.  There is a new driver on duty and he got confused with the streets. . .

As he was telling me this, there was another knock at the door and the two firemen returned after making their call, to apologize again.  All I can think about at that moment was about is my hair, which looks like a tornado!  They had in fact, been doing exactly what the police officer said.  "I knew something was off the moment I came in because there was nothing on the floor to step over, no paths through the house," he looked around, "Your place is clean - looks nice!" Gary Banjac had just redeemed himself in one sentence although perhaps it would've been nice if he would have said I didn't look scary, too.  Whatever. I looked at these three men standing in my living room, one apologizing profusely, one turning redder by the minute (he must be the new driver) and one who now has to make a report about the whole thing and I said, "Next time I'll make coffee and have donuts," to which the police officer, a funny guy, says "Donuts?"  

As they left , I scooped Moose into my arms and took one last look in the mirror, "and I'll even brush my hair,"  I commented to my reflection.  Moose sniffed close to my mouth and jumped away running down the hall.  I smelled that putrid, rotting sour odor again.  It wasn't the dog, it was my breath.  Forget brushing my hair, I should have brushed my teeth.

As for the practiced escape plan?  It went out the window without me.

DON'T DO IT!

READ THIS BEFORE MAKING A RESOLUTION

They started early this year, those gym and weight reduction commercials that assault us every time we turn on the television.  They have a great hook, one that a majority are taken in by every single year.  The New Year's Resolution.  That one time where you pledge to do something different, better, more often all in the name of new year.  A flip of the calendar.  Seriously?  If you didn't get my message last year when I painted the scenario: resolve, join gym or diet program, go great guns for a week or two, get tired. . .or hungry, cheat, self flagellate, try again, give up.  The result?  Dollars thrown away and unnecessary guilt all because you felt compelled to announce a resolution when the calendar changes.  Who wins?  The gym, the diet program and now the self help centers that are ready to rush in and repair your ego. . .for a price.  I've said it before and I'll say it again, DON'T DO IT!  Instead, join me for some red wine and dark chocolate touted as heart healthy not to mention delicious. That's my kind of good health!

You're not going to listen to me, are you? 

The Moments That Remind Us . . .

There are important people in your life and then there are IMPORTANT people. Unsung heroes.  Your hairdresser, your nail tech, your dog sitter. Not much stands in the way of my hair appointment, little stands in the way of a manicure but nothing, and I mean NOTHING gets between me and our dog sitter.  She is an esteemed part of our family.  My dog loves her.  He happily prances out to her car and never looks back even after spending days moping because the suitcases are out.  Jan's here?  See ya! The same could be said of our neighbor's dog.  She loves Jan, too. So, when my dog sitter's husband passed away recently, it wasn't a shock but still a surprise.  when we got word from her sister-in-law that there would be an open house to honor Jan's husband, John, at our community clubhouse, neighbor Carol and I decided to go up there, pay our respects to Jan. I didn't really know John but he loved my dog so. . .

We, Carol and I, decided we'd go together.  So, we dressed, put on make-up and made our way to the clubhouse at the appointed time.  The plan was to seek out Jan, extend our sympathies and then get out of the way so that others who are really closer to her could socialize.  That was the plan.

The clubhouse was packed.  Recognizing almost no one, we assumed it must be family and scanned the crowd looking for Jan.  Near the food table? No, but there were some delicious looking cheese and meat spreads and desserts. Near the beverages? No. Near the 4 men standing in uniform near the door? Uniform? Hmm. John was former Navy, perhaps they were there to pay respects, too.  Finally we spot Jan holding court at a large table and she is delighted to see us, encourages us to get some food and take a seat, "They should be starting soon."

Starting? Carol and I are perplexed. Starting what?  Is this a memorial service?  Collectively we went through the gamut of options. Certainly we don't belong at John's memorial service. Do we sneak out the back door? Squeeze past the uniformed men? What do we do?  We aren't family. We didn't really know John.  And so we stood awkwardly, with smiles plastered across our faces, talking through our teeth:

Me:"What do you want to do?" Smiling, smiling.

Carol: "I don't know." Looking around, smile firm and toothy, "Lets go get a drink."

We shuffle in synch across the room to the beverages and get some iced tea. I never know how to naturally place my arms in these situations, so holding a cup of tea seems like a good fix.

Me: "Now what?" Ever smiling.

Carol: "I don't know." Looking around and pointing with her eyes to the far wall, "I think that's a guest book. Let's go sign it and then slip out the door."

Collectively, we walk stiffly back across the room, in synch, toward the table with the book.  Only it isn't a book, it's a memorial card with John's information. We each pick one up. 

Me: "Now what?" Smiling, smiling.

Carol: Smiling, "I don't know."

Just then, a man kindly urges us to take a seat, he would, he said, be starting in a minute.  I looked at Carol and she looked at me and our smiles, still plastered on our faces said it all, "We're staying."

And so it began with a few words from Jan's brother-in-law. He reminded us that John was a veteran, a career man in the navy doing the jobs that don't garner bravado but most certainly keep that well oiled machine going; the jobs below deck that are necessary for keeping the whole vessel afloat. He traveled the world, served our country faithfully and then he settled in California where, the speaker said, he tried to become a gentleman farmer.  Always a gentleman, John was, apparently a lousy farmer.  His final years were spent at Ralph's Grocery Store - he worked the deli and had a list of regulars who would only allow John to cut their order.  He was that well liked.

The Veterans who had been standing along the side of the room were now beckoned forward.  They marched up in synch (now THEY know how to look natural doing it) and solemnly snapped a crisp flag out and then carefully, methodically, each movement made with full intention and perfection, folded the flag
into the familiar, revered triangle before then presenting it to Jan who was seated, surrounded by family.  I looked at Carol, a tear forming in the corner of her eye and knew I was sunk. 

The veterans then stood at attention while one of the men slowly, methodically raised a trumpet to his lips.  I turned to Carol and said, "They are going to play taps."  She shook her head, "I can't watch.  I'm going to lose it," she said.  "Lamaze breath," I replied.  I've found that Lamaze breathing has done more for me in the control of crying than it ever did in childbirth.  So now I am breathing, hee, hee , hee as the crystal clear notes of Taps resonate through the room. Hee, hee, hee.  It wasn't working. Carol, by then has given up. The veterans, well oiled in their minuscule movements then march off the floor to the chant of one of the men. Hee, hee, hee. Now I know exactly what to do with my arms because I have to wipe the flowing tears from my face. It was short and sweet but, it was powerful.

Awkward standing, unnatural arms, feeling like a voyeur at someone else's private moment - all of that disappeared when I realized that this kind man who loved my dog had spent a good part of his life in service to our country. He is a true unsung hero and deserves honor and an audience.

Happy Veteran's Day to All Veteran's and Thank You For Your Service.

Am I Working on Any New Books? Or, How Marketing Killed My Muse

I'm often asked if I am working on any books right now.  My guess is that people ask this for several reasons but most likely because it's a nice way to make conversation. Or, they are interested in the elusive "writer person" they know who rarely discusses writing in social company or and this is one is guided by my own conscious - they wonder why in the hell I haven't written (and really I mean publish) anything new since my last book which is now 3 years old.  My pat answer is yes, I have works in progress (WIPs to those who speak the lingo) but the mojo just hasn't been there.  And that would be the truth.  What I don't tell them is that my brain is going all of the time.  I have more great beginnings than even I realize but somewhere between five or 10,000 words in, I lose focus.  I get side tracked.  I've spent a lot of time thinking about this recently because I've got some really good ideas and it's time to get moving.  So what stops me?  Again, my default response would be to lean toward humor - my muse lives at the beach while I live in the desert.  We aren't on speaking terms right now.  Something like that.

The truth is and it dawned on me just recently is two fold.  The first is marketing.  When a writer signs with a publisher they often receive an advance check followed by royalties (pennies per book) on sales. Unless you are John Grisham or Patricia Cornwell or some other famous author, the amount of time and money spent marketing your book by a publisher is best summed up as "not much." Many of us have opted to go independent, publish on our own. There are benefits to that, the most important being royalties earned on every book - paperbacks maybe $1 but the ebook market is 70%.  I always encourage people to buy ebooks whenever possible.  It is environmentally sound. . . and I make more for my work : ) The downside is that an independent author is responsible for their own marketing.  And that, my friends, is the rub.  Marketing is time consuming.  Where are the best places to advertise?  Spend time researching it. What is the return on a marketing dollar? Spend time on spread sheets. Does your book fit in the parameters of said market? Spend time researching best avenues for your genre. The digital age has thrown even more curve balls because the algorithms change constantly. Algorithms - look it up. Keeping up with that is important for keeping sales afloat and it takes a lot of time.  By the time I have completed my marketing homework everyday, I'm ready to toss my computer out the window. So, basically marketing has killed my writing muse.  Today I decided I am done marketing.  Sales have been good for all of my books, I can't lie but, I'm done.  If I'm going to write, I have to get to it - whether sales remain constant or not. Ok. Gosh, that feels good.  Now on to the next reason and full disclosure - this gets kind of heavy.

My last book, No Such Thing, was based on a deeply disturbing time in the lives of the community in which I was raised. A serial killer, a pedophile preyed upon young kids in a very small area, abducted them, held them hostage, abused them and then killed them.  Something like that sends deep ripples through the community in which it occurs. It anchors its vile tentacles to every single person who becomes aware of the crimes and shapes how people live the rest of their lives- sometimes in subtle ways for which we are often unaware. For me it was even closer because of who the "final" victim was, Tim King.  Tim was the youngest brother of my friend and the friend of my youngest brother-in-law.  Still, I AM NO ONE in comparison to the family members who lived on after their children or siblings were abducted and murdered. I wanted to write a book that told the real story. I wanted to write it true to what was known but what was known has inflated, changed shape and become bloated by lies and lore.  And, the worst is that there is still no ending.  It's still an open case because none of the suspects have been charged.  So, I had to go with fiction because I needed an ending.  It sucked the life out of me to write it and it's taken awhile to dissipate the consumption that this case causes in me. I don't know that it will ever go away but, it's time to allow these other characters to live the life they have been living in my head for so long.

Thanks for asking, my friends, because it forced me to face some truths and thanks for listening but I've got to go. . .there's some writing to be done.

Wake The Kids, Phone The Neighbors! El Nino Is Here!

Rumors of snow in the mountains, unseasonably warm temperatures in the Midwest and almost no hurricanes in the Atlantic Ocean all point to the arrival of the feared and dreaded El Nino. What does that mean for us desert dwellers? Cooler temperature and even some rain.  Real rain  (which is desperately needed to assuage the drought) and the most unique and overblown weather reports I’ve heard yet.  With a mixture of heightened adrenalin-driven giddiness and tempered seriousness, our weather people spend a good portion of the news show describing and reminding us of what El Nino is and how much havoc it brought the last time, followed by how it will effect us as well as other parts of the country in the coming days. And I will give them this; it can bring weather related disasters to many areas. . . just not here so much. Yet, these driven and hard-hitting professionals will level their eyes and look into the camera and deliver the forecast that by all accounts, should send us running and screaming, tying down trees, bringing in outdoor furniture and hunkering down. Example?Rains are called monsoons and generally equal about .2 of an inch, if that. Sometimes it has been no more than a spattering of drops on my windshield - IF I'm in the right location at the right minute. A winter storm might bring some winds and cooler temperatures and snow in the mountains – which, by the way, is exactly where I like my snow; pretty to look at. . . from a distance. By comparison, the California weather people – ours especially, who report on these major weather events with the accompanying bluster and bravado still don’t have a clue what real weather is like. Yesterday we had some cloud cover, with the cloud bank surrounding the tops of the mountains while our temps were hovering in the low 70s yet this was the weather headline,  delivered by an  attractive weather caster (because I’m not sure if she is a meteorologist or not) wearing a darling little sleeveless dress, “Major Winter Storm Barrels (BARRELS!) Through." To prepare, I wore blue jeans. . .and a light long-sleeve top.

Come on! I’m from the Midwest; give me something to justify my new adorable winter jacket and cute boots.  That’s all I’m saying.

I Think My Exercise Classes are Twerking

We all have them, those moments of clarity when in the midst of some activity, the fog that lingers around old memories like a Vaseline covered camera lens dissipates and the memory becomes focused but the meaning and understanding of the memory have a newer, deeper perspective. That happened to me just this morning and the result was life altering - sort of.

When I was a little girl, like many little girls, I took ballet lessons and then later modern dance and jazz.  As a teenager I stopped formal lessons but, along with my friends, went to night clubs to dance- mostly in Canada which, in retrospect was intuitive given what I have just figured out.

I've always been active.  In the 90s I did step aerobics, then in the 2000s I moved to kick-boxing.  I loved the kickboxing.  There is something cathartic about kicking and punching a bag and I did this with a core group faithfully through 4 instructors before my knee gave out followed by the demise of my commitment to any structured exercise class.  What was next? Running. A friend of mine decided one day to train for a marathon (yes, just like that) so in solidarity I decided to train for a 5k (you know because it's ALMOST the same) and much to my utter dismay, I became a runner. I love running but, it can become monotonous and it did, so I took a break only restarting a running program recently.  All of this is background for explaining why I took the next step.

I'm not an athlete per se. If you look at me nothing about me screams athlete. Nothing. But, I walk an average of 18 miles a week (I have a dog so. . .),often ride a bike and sometimes swim (although swimming for me is a pleasure activity so why would I want to foul the mojo by making it exercise?) And yes, a few weeks ago, I added running back into the mix.  But look at me and what do you see? Well, lean and tough does not come to mind.

So, I decided to step it up and joined a Zumba class.  Zumba, for those of you who are also stuck in exercise class void, is basically step aerobics without the step and done to music with a distinct Latin flavor. It is salsa, mambo and a little bit of hip hop.  I spent the early 2000s leaping around a gym kicking at men holding bags. . . how tough could a little dancing be, right?

Channeling my former dancing self, I showed up to my first class, stumbled through it, went to the second class and gained some confidence since the moves were no longer foreign and, man, I felt pretty good.  So, yesterday I went to my third session. In walks Patty, the instructor who I quickly learned was BORN salsa dancing and off we go. There are lots of minuscule little foot movements in Zumba, back and forth, front to back to side to back to front to back to side and well, you get the picture.  All of this is done within the first measure of a song and keeps coming at you relentlessly.  Determined to catch on, I studied her feet and when I finally had it down, she had changed foot movements.  Then, I realized that in conjunction with footwork was hip movement, booty popping, then shimmying and finally arm movements that included waving in the air, shaking them out and then an arms-to-the-side morocco playing simulation. All of this ALL AT THE SAME TIME. And it was then, at this junction that I looked in the wall length-mirror that we all stand in front of for the class and watched in horror as this room full of old women twerked. TWERKED! Even more horrifying? I was one of them. If you have not witnessed a room full of just to the right of middle aged bottoms twerking consider yourself blessed and avert your eyes immediately.

As I watch myself move to the music like some out of control carnival ride through hell I realized what my mom, my instructors and my friends had quietly been trying to tell me all of my life: I can't Dance. And with that, I stopped moving and burst out laughing - laughed so hard I almost peed (and ok, it may not take hard laughter for that to happen anymore). I laughed at the site of my unatheletic, soft body that thought it was dancing well but really looked like it was fighting off a large bat and decided, what the hell - I'll keep coming because I can laugh or I can cry, either way it burns another 1.3 calories a minute so I might as well laugh, right?


Note of Apology:

To the dance teachers at Borgo Sisters School of Dance in Royal Oak, MI - I now understand why that starchy pink tutu was never going to be mine. I am sorry that it took me 4 years of your time to figure that out.

To Miss Jeanne, my jr. high PE teacher - It wasn't the song you made us perform a dance routine to, I rather liked 'Winchester Cathedral" by the New Vaudeville Band even if it was played on my parents radio station. . . I really wasn't misbehaving or mocking your choices, it was the fact that I can't dance!

To My Friends (especially those who daringly crossed the border on any given night because we could drink legally in Canada) - Wow. Way to allow me to look like an ass all of these years guys. No one told me?  I know, that is not an apology.