Mr. Moody Goes to Washington I was in DC last week for a few days of sightseeing. I thought a White House tour was in order, but I wasn't interested in the half-assed one any chump off the street can get by showing up and standing in line for a few hours. I wanted the GRAND TOUR, which I'd heard can only be arranged through your local congressperson, the one where you get to walk the very semen and slime covered hallways that our nation's Presidents have trod.
Unfortunately, my Representative, with precious little regard for his constituency or my vacation plans, had the gall to die a few months ago, so arrangements were made through my parents' Representative - the same district that gave us that weasely sack of shit hypocrite uh, shining beacon of representative democracy, Newt Gingrich. When the letter arrived confirming our tour, no mention was made of the White House, only the Capitol. I was a little disappointed I wouldn't experience first hand the strange chill that legend has it settles over any location frequented by Dick Cheney, but a Capitol tour was good enough for me. I didn't realize until we were in DC that the Queen was in town on the same days, and apparently pulled rank and bumped us off. Thanks, we didn't want to see that glorified wedding cake, anyway, you uptight old biddy!
We arrived about fifteen minutes before the scheduled time at the Representative's office. I expected an office that, while not ostentatious, would at least be dignified. No, the office was a cramped mouse-hole, and there was nothing going on in the office you couldn't overhear whether you wanted to or not. At least The Man himself wasn't there, which came as a relief, because I was afraid I might fall under the spell of the SVENGALI-LIKE POWERS OF HIS MUSTACHE and become a right wing nut, just like him. With the complete lack of privacy in the office, I knew as soon as I sat down that I was going to overhear something very revealing - some underhanded dealings with big business or a plan to distract the rubes from our country's real problems with demagoguery, or whatever evil machinations it is that keep our elected officials occupied all day.
And I was not disappointed...though not in the way I expected. It seems that the office minions were doing a little damage control after the mass mailings got crossed up and all newly dubbed Eagle Scouts in the district got certificates declaring "Congratulations on your becoming a United States citizen!" The more I heard of the conversation, the more clear to me it became that this really was our government in action.
Having witnessed "the real DC" that I came to see, the only question left from my visit concerns this purchase:
And the question is, of course, "Is this going to make as excellent a drinking game as I think it's going to?" This weekend, we plan to do our patriotic duty and find out!
"It's a sure thing" I'll admit that I'm probably just as guilty of conspicuous consumption as your average American, so it's seldom that a product provokes in me a negative reaction beyond "That's overpriced" or "Why would anyone ever need that?" Yesterday, however, I ran across a product that caused me to think, "Not only would I never buy that, but anyone who does deserves a SLOW LINGERING DEATH, preferably at the hands of a torch and pitchfork wielding mob of toothless inbreds, followed by their remains being tossed into an open field so vultures can peck at their bones."
Satan, thy name is Vermont Teddy Bear.
Since there are so many things about this commercial that are simply WRONG WRONG WRONG, I'm not exactly sure at what point during this two-minute window into the bowels of hell I realized there was no hope for humanity - I think it was when the matching tattoo is revealed - but I am certain there is no other conclusion that can be drawn from it.
As a teenager growing up in Dallas, I developed a keen interest in the Kennedy assassination. I read far too many of the conspiracy books and made the obligatory pilgrimage to Dealey Plaza. I'll admit I was initially somewhat taken in by the conspiracy theories. Certain things didn't add up, too many facts seemed contradictory, too many questions went unanswered. And that Woody Harrelson always did seem a little creepy, so it's certainly plausible - maybe even probable? - his hobo father really did kill Kennedy.
The fact that our government is controlled by lying weasels and our fumbling mainstream press unable to investigate anything properly only made it that much easier to believe the conspiracy theories. But after awhile, I developed "conspiracy fatigue." Since the theories are by nature mutually exclusive, no matter how rational or well-supported they might seem taken individually, all save one has to be wrong. It can't be that, in the words of that classic Onion headline, "Kennedy Slain By CIA, Mafia, LBJ, Teamsters, Freemasons."
In the end, I reached the completely boring conclusion that Oswald acted alone. I did realize something far more frightening to me than the possibility that there was a vast conspiracy at work or that a loser with good aim could so drastically change our nation's course, however: that well-intentioned and very intelligent people can believe the damnedest things. It would seem that the more facts you have, the more obvious and iron-clad your conclusion should be, but the assassination showed me that the more facts your have the more easily you can go down the wrong path. More trees just makes it harder to see the forest.
Of course, I'm not unaware that the official position also appeals to my sense of humor, because it means that, in the single instance where perennial fuckup Lee Harvey Oswald actually accomplished what he set out to do, nobody gives him any credit whatsoever. Hell, they'll even dig up his bones just to prove that he couldn't do it, poor bastard.
I find it a little sad that the Kennedy Assassination has been replaced by 9/11 conspiracy theories as the Conspiracy Theory du Jour. I suppose that the torch has been passed to the young generation of bug-eyed conspiracy nuts, and the Grassy Knoll and the Three Tramps have been replaced by Seven World Trade Center and the temperature at which steel melts. I bet the young people today think "infomercial blender" when they hear the phrase "magic bullet."
So, just for nostalgia's sake, could someone lend me, say, $1.5 million to buy that window, because it'd look really cool hanging in my living room. Anyone?
01. The Rolling Stones ($150.6 million) 02. Tim McGraw / Faith Hill ($132 million) 03. Rascal Flatts ($110.5 million) 04. Madonna ($96.8 million) 05. Barbra Streisand (95.8 million) 06. Kenny Chesney ($90.1 million) 07. Celine Dion ($85.2 million) 08. Bon Jovi ($77.5 million) 09. Nickelback ($74.1 million) 10. Dave Matthews Band ($60.4 million)
Ay ya ya - what a bunch of crap! Oh, ok, the Stones had a number of classic albums (twenty plus years ago) and Madonna is a influential entertainer I'll grudgingly admit, but some of these people are more deserving of being drawn and quartered than they are of earning millions. Apparently these figures include only North American album and tour grosses, so the fact that the above performers earned even more than what's listed is a little sickening. Let's hope the rest of the world has better taste - though I doubt it.
So this got me to thinking, who in popular music legitimately deserves this kind of money? Who really has earned the appellation "GENIUS"?
Let's establish the following caveats:
1. Gotta still be alive.
2. No fair riding on the coattails of the collective talents of fellow band members. The Stones and Zeppelin, instance - no doubt the sum is greater than the parts. Would any of them had made an impact on their own, however? I say no. Well, maybe Jimmie Page, but that's pretty iffy. And Paul McCartney doesn't make it just because he's a dipshit.
3. There needs to be some sort of ambition to what they do. Guys like John Fogerty and Tom Petty are, without doubt, extremely talented song-writers who have written any number of classic songs, but I'm not sure either really pushes any boundaries. They're more like excellent craftsmen than creators of high art.
4. Gotta distinguish between merely having a high IQ and having real artistic insight. There are a number of musicians with a least some Ivy League edumacation, but that doesn't make them geniuses. Being clever is not enough.
5. Needs to have some longevity - there's a lot of one-album wonders out there.
6. Has to be a part of English-speaking popular culture (just to make it easy).
Whew, dismissed! I did think of something amusing I forgot to mention in my entry yesterday.
At one point, the judge sent us back to the jury room while the attorneys hashed something out. I sat off to the side, hoping to avoid any social interaction, but was soon cornered by one of my fellow jurors who introduced herself as a bus driver for the county. The few times I've taken mass transit in this city I've always been amazed at the number of passengers holding lengthy conversations with themselves, but apparently it must be contagious because she proceed to speak for at least twenty minutes about various unrelated and irreverent topics without me so much as saying a single word or even nodding my head in encouragement. I kept hoping she'd shut up for even the half-second I'd need to offer up some reason to excuse myself ("Hold that thought while I go KILL MYSELF!"), but that half-second never came.
Among the topics she covered were her daughter's precocious reading ability, her desire to learn to fly a plane, her driving philosophy during her years as a truck driver, and her heath problems. This was within the first minute or so. The next nineteen minutes of uninterrupted monologue are mostly a blur now. I do remember that I could see out of the corner of my eye all the other jurors slowly move away from the two of us.
Here's what is still making me chuckle, however: she told me her mother works at the ACC Library, and that, when the library switched over to a new catalog system a few years ago, Bill Gates, yes, the Bill Gates, founder of Microsoft and the world's richest man, had spent a month in Athens installing the software! She assured me that Gates was very humble in spite of his billions, and was more than willing to patiently explain the new system to her mother. In fact, she went to great lengths to explain that he really was one of the nicest men.
Needless to say, my head almost exploded at this. It's true that the library did install a new system a few years ago, and I don't doubt that her mother works - in some capacity - at the library, but something tells me there has been a slight misunderstanding somewhere along the line.
I suspect at some point in my life I'll feel compelled in such situations to say what I'm really thinking, which is "Lady, you are fucking insane." But for now, my strategy is just to sit there with a big smile on my face and hope she doesn't kill me. I think this is probably the best approach, too.
Back again! Meh, wasn't one of my New Year's resolutions to get back in the habit of writing here? Oh well, I haven't been eating well, exercising, or reading more, so don't feel particularly neglected, my little livejournal.
These last few days I have been subjected to the hellish ordeal known as jury duty. Jury duty always reminds me just how much I've (wisely) insulted myself from the hoi polloi. To paraphrase the old saying, it's not that the average person is stupid; it's that, by definition, half the people out there are even stupider than the average person.
And, at least in my experience, jury deliberations always confirm that those with the least amount to say are the ones who talk the most and the loudest. Oh, I'm sure in some court room somewhere in America right now there's a Henry Fonda overcoming the prejudices and preconceptions of twelve angry men with cool-headed logic, but frankly a gag and cat-o'-nine-tails would be more useful in the jury room.
My fellow jurors were not without some insight, however. Before we were impaneled, one leaned over to me and whispered "Isn't Judge Gaines the one who always sleeps through the trials?" to which I had to answer, "Yeah, that's my understanding."
At least our trial had entertainment value, enough even to keep Judge Gaines awake. Our defendant manage to elicit sympathy in that "You just made World's Dumbest Criminals" way by trying unsuccessfully to break into a car by busting out a window with a big rock. When that failed, he moved on to the next vehicle and, opening the all too conveniently unlocked door, found, much to his surprise I'm guessing, two police officers sitting inside. It's a shame we couldn't find him "buuuuusted, dude" instead of merely guilty.
And to top it off, I have to call the court after 6 p.m. to see if I'm required to come in again tomorrow. Oh yes, I can hardly wait.
No doubt about it, Iran's President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, is a dangerous megalomaniac hellbent on acquiring nuclear weapons to satiate his fascist desires, thereby leading us down a path that will inevitably lead to the destruction of our little "whirling, fire-smote, ice-locked, disease-stricken, space-lost bulb" should he succeed.
But, if you can get past this character flaw, I gotta say the guy is actually rather likable in a crazy uncle sort of way.
I love his press conferences, if only to see what backdrop from the Iranian equivalent of Olan Mills he will be standing in front of.
Yesterday, President Ahmadinejad announced Iran had recently acquired the faux-bookshelf backdrop - you know, the one with picturesque old books - and he will not hesitate to use it at his next photo op, should American aggression continue.
Admittedly, that one was a little less batshit crazy than the one from earlier in the year:
I think this set was left over from the "When Doves Cry" video.
In light of the old saying, "Don't change horses mid-apocalypse," I suppose it would be irresponsible to hope that some moderate forces will come to power in Iran, but this guy is a little worrisome indeed.
And it should be mentioned that, like all megalomaniacs, he has a blog! Too bad he's not on LJ, so I could friend him, because this would make an awesome icon:
And, of course, I'm going to try to slip a funny comment onto his blog - you know I gotta at least try! I'm just hoping I wont be spending the holidays at Club Gitmo as a result.
On politics. Seriously now, have political campaigns always been this obnoxious? I don't remember them always being so.
Oh, I'm not talking about those ridiculous televised debates where lame ass arguments that would get you laughed out of middle school debate club are advanced, nor the attack ads with the oh-so-concerned voice stating that Candidate X doesn't really care about the plight of elderly people and cute little kittens, nor the absolute lack of any substantive ideas or plans on the part of anyone running for public office in general. Those things are givens, I suppose.
When I was too young to vote, seems like I could escape all the hullabaloo except for two things: (1) a bunch of misleading TV commercials that interrupted all the black sitcoms we latchkey kids enjoyed after school and (2) people putting signs up in their front yards. Oh sure, there were political rallies (attended only by those with the zombie-like stare characteristic of the True Believer) and such, but you could easily ignore all those things if you wished. If it wasn't for the TV commercials and signs, you could remain blissfully unawares.
And it wasn't so bad that way. The commercials were always good for a laugh as I counted the number of seconds before something red, white and blue appeared on screen, and the yard signs were an interesting little socio-political experiment: did Republicans practice better lawn care, or were Democrats more given to jalopies up on bricks, or vise versa? I never could tell a difference, frankly.
But there seems to be three new annoying tactics that have come along since I've been of voting age: (1) an avalanche of over-sized pieces of mail, (2) politicians calling you at home to vote grub and (3) politicians and their supporters standing on the street corner and waving at you.
I still remember when I received my first phone call from a candidate circa 1997 or so: none other than Mayor O'Looney. Now, if I had known the mayor would be calling, I'd have prepared a few pointed questions at the very least, but since I was caught off guard while sitting on the couch in my boxers watching TV, my exchange consisted only of a few awkward sentences until I could get her off the phone. At least that was a call from a real person, however. I don't understand the purpose of the three or four pre-recorded messages on my answering machine each day over the last week, unless it was to piss me off enough to vote for the other candidate.
And let's all say it together: enough with the over-sized postcards already, damnit! I don't care what you or your spouse, nor any of your three ugly little kids, look like. I can hardly find my thrice-weekly discount coupon for Bed, Bath and Beyond between all the stupid political junk mail and that makes me angry.
As for politicians waving from the street corner, I propose a law that they should be forced to carry a cardboard sign that reads "Will work for Food," or better yet, "Will Exchange Vote for Post-Public Service Job at Cushy Think Tank." Yesterday as I was driving home, who did I see standing there waving but one of the guys that's been sending me over-sized postcards. A surge of annoyance swept over me, but then I noticed how flattering the photograph on the over-sized postcards has been, and I felt a little sorry for him.
Of course, I'll probably regret these words, since I fully intend to run for President in 2008. Yes, me. You got anyone better? Ha, that's what I thought! I think we can all agree that our current President has lowered the bar enough where even I could be Commander in Chief.
So in a few years when you receive that over-sized postcard with my slogan, "A Troubled Man for Troubled Times," feel free to say to yourself "A hypocrite, just like all the rest!"
My annual post-Halloween rant I went on a walk through my neighborhood at dusk yesterday as a scouting mission and confirmed what I suspected: kids today, or perhaps more accurately, their parents, SUCK. I saw a good number of kids with no costumes on going door to door. Sorry, no costume, no candy, you bitches! It doesn't take much imagination and very little money to make a costume: carry two plastic snakes around and you're Samuel mother fuckin' Jackson, or duct tape two bananas and an apple to your head and you're Carmen Miranda. Ringing my doorbell and asking for candy with no costume on doesn't make you a trick-or-treater, it makes you a beggar, so go away you little wretches, you'll get nothing from me!
But wait - these little bastards weren't even walking door to door...their parents were driving them from home to home! Now, I don't know who it was that was too lazy to walk - the kids or their parents- but I suspect it's both. Sorry, but if you can't be bothered to walk an extra thirty feet, you don't deserve a Butterfingers, you deserve a pamphlet on obesity.
Disgusted, I went home and turned off all the lights. Now I've got five bags of candy I'm already sick of, but I'd rather throw it away than reward such lame efforts.
I no longer feel like the clumsiest person in America I think I've mentioned my morbid fear of museum related accidents in this journal before. My fears have now been assuaged somewhat after reading this article in The New Yorker containing words of wisdom from the poor bastard who accidentally put his elbow through a Picasso that he had just sold for 139 MILLION FREAKING DOLLARS:
A few hours later, they all met up for dinner, and Wynn was in a cheerful mood. “My feeling was, It’s a picture, it’s my picture, we’ll fix it. Nobody got sick or died. It’s a picture. It took Picasso five hours to paint it.”
Admittedly, I will first need to become obscenely rich in order to adopt this enlightened view, but I am not adverse to that notion....unless it requires any hard work or special talents on my part, of course. Until then, I say let insurance take care of it.
Lured by the National Forest Service's promises of beautiful fall colors in the North Georgia mountains, we headed up that way over the weekend. This picture, while beautiful, shows the entirety of fall color in the area. Not only were most things still green, it was hot enough to regret not wearing shorts and flip-flops.
We also stopped in at the Blairsville Sorghum Festival. You know with an official logo like this, there was excellent people-watching to be had:
I toyed with the idea of entering the "Biskit Eatin' Contest" but a half-spoonful sample of sorghum was enough to send me into sugar shock, so I wimped out. Since leaving the festival, I've subsisted on nothing but peanut brittle bought at a stand, however, so I'd like to think I'm already in training for next year's festival.
Out of idle curiosity A couple of you have posted links to that amusing album art video clip today so I may be the last one on the bandwagon (as usual), but if you haven't seen it, it's worth checking out here or here.
There are a few I can't identify, and there's not enough in the picture to figure it out from either. They are:
1. The screaming painted face at :33 2. The two guys in the street at :55 3. The dog at 1:17
Anybody know?
There were a handful I wouldn't have known without enough identifying info on the album itself (the Eminem and Yaz, for instance), but I was surprised how many of those I recognized (or would have recognized even if the band or album's name was removed) considering I only owned three of them (well, before the age of the, ahem, album art-less internet "evaluation copy"...)
Which bring me to another question: how many of those albums did/do YOU own, and perhaps more revealingly, how many of those are you embarrassed to admit to owning?
(Okay, I guess I gotta come clean first: I had two of the Led Zeppelins and the Violet Femmes).
I say it's bagged spinach, and I say the hell with it. So, I've been going around to all my co-workers this afternoon and saying, "Hey, you know that delicious spinach salad I brought to the office luncheon on Wednesday, the one you asked for the recipe for? Well, I don't know if you've heard the news or not, but ... if you're not here on Monday morning...it's been nice knowing you." I'm a little disappointed in that I've yet to hear a newscaster intone "Are you safe from the menace of KILLER SPINACH?" but then again I haven't heard any of the local news broadcasts, so there's hope yet.
My first thought was not to even mention it to any of them, reasoning "Oh, they'd already be sick by now," but then I read online that the average incubation period for E. coli is two to four days, so I felt compelled to give them a little heads up about "severe abdominal cramping and bloody stool this weekend."
Come to think of it, the only one that can save us from KILLER SPINACH is probably Leguman, that great vegetable-themed superhero from a French children's TV show.
For your daily zen, watch as Leguman bravely does battle with...well, a vacuum cleaner:
Yeah, Superman really pales in comparison. Maybe the French really are better.
Yeah, I know - really lame entry after such a prolonged absence from LJ, but what can I say? You should just be happy to have me back!
"Tell me, have you been a ... naughty little kitten?"
Oh great, if this flies, every world leader will fall back on the The Kitten Defense in an attempt to explain things away.
I would question the wisdom of the Russian people in electing this guy, if it were not for the fact that my own President has touched me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable.
DO NOT BE ALARMED. Really now, I don't want to seem like I'm condoning a crime spree. Stealing is wrong, and shoplifters suck and should be prosecuted.
However, having said that...
When the roving gang of transvestites currently "terrorizing" (yes, that word was used) New Orleans is brought to justice - or what passes for it in our society - I think I'll be satisfied if they just return all that fabulous apparel and apologize. I can't help but to favor forgiveness when it's reported that they "... first appeared in March when they raided Magazine Street like a marauding army of kleptomaniacal showgirls, said Davis, using clockwork precision and brute force to satisfy high-end boutique needs."
In fact, I think criminal behavior may be the least of this gang's problems, because we're also told that "Sarah Celino at Trashy Diva eyes the door, ready to flip the lock at the first sight of the ringleader's pink jumpsuit and fluorescent red wig."
I'm sure you've all heard the news over the last few days: "Bill Gates leaving Microsoft blah blah blah to head charitable foundation blah blah blah" and "Warren Buffet blah blah blah to give away blah blah blah billions."
What I want to know, where have these Johnny-come-latelies to the philanthropic scene been all these years? Although I'm a mere self-made thousand-aire, I've been quietly giving away my fortune while these two have been too busy gambling on the stock market and making crummy operating systems to think of anyone but themselves.
Yes, away from the limelight of the national media and self-serving press releases, I've been making monthly contributions (mostly on-time, let the record show!) to such worthy causes as Georgia Power, Southern Natural Gas Company, and the Clarke Country Water Business Office. Not to mention the times I've opened my wallet to the struggling Internal Revenue Service and kept them afloat with my generous contributions. I think it can safely be said my generosity knows no bounds.
I could even bring up that time I went to the Red Cross Blood Drive, but my giving of the gift of life was unfortunately called off when THOSE BLOOD THIRSTY VAMPIRES attacked me with their needles and I needed two gallons of apple juice and four boxes of chocolate-chip cookies before the wooziness subsided and I staggered out of that House of Horrors on Wheels.
Anyway, do I make a big brouhaha about my generosity like these self-centered jackasses? No, because I'm not giving away my fortune only with an eye towards my "legacy" like these two. No doubt they've squirreled away an insignificant little billion or two to support their lavish lifestyles. I, on the other hand, have literally NOTHING left over after all my monthly giving. NOTHING!
So, Mr. Gonzalez from Citibank, you can stop leaving your terse messages on my answering machine because I'M ALL GIVEN OUT ALREADY, THANK YOU VERY MUCH! Sharing is caring, no doubt, but even I can only care so much, you see?
Does anybody remember that great Twilight Zone episode where the aliens land and everybody is relieved to find that they're carrying a book entitled To Serve Man? You know, the one where the scientist runs in during the final scene and shouts, "Don't get on the ship. The book, To Serve Man, IT'S A COOKBOOK!"
Um, did anybody get a good look at the notes he was reading from yesterday? Was it a plan to return the CIA to its glory days of being the finest intelligence gathering organization in the world...or a list of ingredients?!?
Wait, I know the answer, because you can dress him up and put glasses on him, BUT I KNOW A KANAMIT WHEN I SEE ONE!
Hold on a second; there's a knock on the door. I'll be right back...Hey, take your hands off me!!
GRMMHMPHH, GRMPPHMPHH...
enter ROD SERLING SERLING: The recollections of one moodtobestewed, with appropriate irreverence and zaniness. Or more simply stated, the evolution of a man, the cycle of going from dust to dessert, the metamorphosis from being the ruler of a planet to an ingredient in someone's soup. It's tonight's bill of fare on the Twilight Zone.
Current Mood: delicious Current Music: doo dee doo doo, doo dee doo doo
One for you, nineteen for me! Now I know at least of few of you are hurriedly trying to wrap up your taxes, no doubt periodically stopping to curse The Man under your breath, so I thought I might pass along this intriguing book, brought to my attention by paularubia, which will put everything in perspective:
"What is an owl pellet? It's the football-shaped object regurgitated twice a day by owls, which contains the skeleton of at least one owl meal, be it a mouse, vole, shrew, or small bird. Used in elementary schools to teach the food web--but virtually unavailable at retail--a professionally collected, heat-sterilized owl pellet is now married to a lively, two-color illustrated book filled with facts and related activities about these most amazing birds."
Yes, somewhere out there, some poor soul is submitting a tax return with "Owl Puke Collector" listed under occupation. While amateur owl pellet analysis sounds like fun - I think I'm going to have to order the book, or at least add it to my wishlist - I suspect it's like most things in that the minute you go from amateur to professional, the fun ceases, for once you've picked over one set of regurgitated vole skeletal remains, it's just "another day, another dollar" from then on. And I hate to think what one might have to do to climb that professional ladder.
The Secret Service has asked that that employees not approach the former president when he arrives and do not engage in any conversation unless he or Mrs. Bush address you first. Under no circumstances should you try to photograph the former president.
Aw, shucks, I was looking forward to thanking the former President for his bone-headed short-sightedness in Gulf War I and the subsequent quagmire his evil spawn has dragged us into.
Strangely enough, just yesterday a co-worker was telling me that when Diana Ross appeared at a university concert in the early 80s, a rider in her appearance contract stated something along the lines of "No one shall make eye contact with Ms. Ross unless spoken to first."
So, the obvious question is, what's the real difference between Diana Ross and George Herbert Walker Bush?
I haven't been posting much because, much like Charles Foster Kane, I've been visiting far flung locales in order to fill my little Xanadu with artistic treasures. Let's just say I do believe I've made some major acquisitions recently. In fact, I think I can say, in all modesty, my collection now makes the Louvre looks like a bunch of tacky toaster cozies your grandma bought off Home Shopping Network.
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moodtobestewed's journal
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