Breakfast with Pandora

This blogger is a saint

If you like dark, grown-up juvenile humor, smart-aleck attitudes, curiosity, silliness, words, and things that make you waste your time and keep clicking, check out this blog. You've got to love a blogger with "kidicarus222" in the URL. Large amounts of fun content for free. The Internet is amazing.

Tiramisu for you, Drew.

Labor Day weekend movie notes, II: The Natural

There are a few movies I watch over and over again: Defending Your Life, when I need a boost of encouragement; Vertigo, when I'm nostalgic for the old San Francisco; When Harry Met Sally, when I need to be guaranteed a laugh; The Princess Bride, when I need to quote along some funny lines; Sideways, when I need to be reminded I am not as bad off as some people.

Movie poster from here.

Another one of these movies is The Natural, the self-consciously mythological baseball movie by one of my favorite directors, Barry Levinson, with one of the best performances Robert Redford has ever given. It tells the story of the ultimate underdog, Roy Hobbs, a 35-year old rookie who once had the chance to be "the best there ever was" but now just wants to get a piece of his dream 16 years after a near-fatal moral error.

Back when I had ambitions of publishing a scholarly book on Greek mythology and American cinema, I wrote a 6000-word chapter comparing the movie with Pindar's Fourth Pythian Ode, which is an extended telling of the myth of Jason and the quest for the Golden Fleece.

I liked the idea of Roy Hobbs as Jason, his teammates as the Argonauts, and the Golden Fleece as the championship of the league, which is symbolized by a "bit of cloth," the pennant.

Over the weekend I popped this one into my VCR because there were no decent sports on television, and did a little pleasure research with it. Apparently Barry Levinson used Arthurian legend as a template for the story, which he adapted from the much darker-- and brilliant-- Bernard Malamud novel. But now I read that on a DVD extra feature someone is comparing the movie to the Odyssey.

The movie is Arthurian because the team Roy Hobbs plays for is the New York "Knights." And it is Odyssean because of the character of Iris Gaines (Glenn Close, a smashing cast), Roy's long-lost faithful Penelope who hasn't seen him for 16 years.

But I shouldn't go on with these pedestrian insights. My 6000-word chapter is absolutely the last word.

<grin>

Well. It's been nine years since I wrote that chapter. Let me excerpt something from it, the poor thing:

There is nothing more entertaining than a good sports story. An exciting finish, unlikely turns of momentum, all of these get our blood racing. But to be good, that kind of story must also have a moral dimension. We must be able to root honestly for an individual or a team. It seems that we consider victory satisfying only when the worthy person or team achieves it. And in the stories we've just considered, it seems that the worthy person must be someone tied intimately to the family, to the things of civilization. If all these ingredients are present, it almost obligates the storyteller to cast his tale in a positive light.

It was a first draft.

Nine years later, I think of The Natural in a more postmodern light, as a story told by a certain author in a certain time. The mythological elements-- which include lightning bolts, special bats (swords, to bring back Arthur for a sec), the death of the father, the unknown son who comes to light, the good woman and the bad woman, good and evil generally, the quest, the moral error, the death and three-day wait for the resurrection moment, the fireworks, the redemption (just to name a few things)-- are put in there on purpose, partly as a way of telling a good story, but mostly as an affectionate tribute to those elements and to the sweetness of American mythology overall.

American cinematic mythology is what I really mean, and that post-Depression, I think. We got addicted to stories with happy endings during that prolonged economic tragedy, and we never got off of them. Barry Levinson is acknowledging that in The Natural.

I finally realized that The Natural wasn't going to be mythology for others as it is for me when one recent academic year I showed the clip of the climactic scene to a bunch of teenage heroes. It is, for me, a baseball and mythology fan, one of the greatest moments in cinematic history. To them, it was a random bit of celluloid without context or interest.

No one in the class had seen the movie, and not very many were interested in baseball. I think if they were to see the entire movie, it might move some of them. But there is something antique about it now that I don't think would translate.

It has been, after all, 25 years since the movie was made. Few things last that long in today's Internet daze.

I wonder if you saw it, and what you thought of it. If you weren't alive in 1984, did you see it on VHS or DVD? Did you know it even existed before this blog post? These are the questions that old scholars need to answer.

It came to me in a dream (not much mythology)

I spend a lot of time wandering cities in dreams, and in this dream I not only was in a city but I also had snail mail.

Who knows why that pile of envelopes was there in front of me, but one of them contained a letter from an editor at the New Yorker, that venerable magazine in which for serious writers a byline is like a golden trophy.

I was hoping for a check. Like all freelance writers, I always go to my mailbox hoping for a check.

The letter from Fiona Little (or White, maybe)-- on tri-fold, greenish stationery-- was not terrifically coherent. But apparently I had some kind of relationship with her where I had mentioned that I make Spanish tortilla, a kind of potato and egg omelet. I have a slice of leftover tortilla in my refrigerator now.

Fiona felt as if her readers would benefit from an essay that related omelets-- or in my case, Spanish tortillas-- to life in the city.

She waxed poetic about omelets and city life. I don't remember any of it, except that she felt even walking down the street worried about your safety in a tough neighborhood related to omelets.

I didn't read the body of her letter that closely. I was looking for my assignment.

Fiona did close the letter with an invitation to write the essay and a promise of $50 if she accepted it, though even that sum may have just been wishful dream-editing on my part after I woke up.

I am half-tempted to write this essay and include the dream in my pitch letter. This summer I taught a course in using the five senses to enrich one's writing, and writing about food always involves the senses. It could be a great exercise in practicing what I preach.

It would take a little thought to figure out how the Spanish tortilla relates to city life, now that Miss Little's (White's) letter has gone poof in my head. I have posted about it before, with credit to the original food blogger, and a reference to the cookbook where it is enshrined forever.

The New Yorker may not be the best place for this essay-- there is a better choice, I think, called Alimentum, which is a literary journal concerned with food.

And while I'm on the subject of literature and writing through the senses, you might want to check out the new book by my friend and colleague Peggy Millin: Women, Writing, & Soul-Making: Creativity and the Sacred Feminine.

Peggy is an author and acclaimed writing coach who has helped many women find their stories and publish them in a variety of venues. Although I have never taken any of her classes, being the wrong gender, I do know her as a kind, generous, and wise human being. And I have read the first chapter of her book, which shows how writing and the writing process can become a spiritual activity for the writer. I am quite down with that.

I wonder what Peggy would say about my dream. I have a feeling she'd tell me to pursue the inspiration. I'll let you know if I do.

In the meantime, if you have an interpretation for this dream, please weigh in.

And, no, I will not be telling you about the dream where I was transformed into a Dionysus-like figure with Dionysus-like powers.

Heroization and micromythology: a counter-riff on Moomin Light

Over at the always thoughtful MoominLight blog, a "riff" on my post about what I call the heroization of America through micromythology. The following post started out as a comment on Moom's riff, but it got too big, so it has become a counter-riff, maybe the 2nd half of the fugue, so to speak.

Photo: ye olde pork shoulder dinner.

In my original post, I argued that America is becoming heroized in the Greek sense through reality shows, blogs, Facebook, and other social networking and keeping-in-touch sites. An ancient Greek hero, I explained, is one who lives a life that is outstanding, talked about, and whose stories are recounted by poets. I contended that, through publication on the Internet, we are calling attention to our own lives as outstanding, worthy of being talked about, and that mostly we ourselves are becoming our own mythologists, telling our own stories.

I also argued that our stories are being told in snippets, and are "micromyths." I did not argue that everyone wants to be as famous (and as troubled) as, for example, John and Kate Gosselin, Sarah Palin or Michael Jackson. It's a matter of degree.

Anyway, I think Moom handsomely illustrated my thesis, especially in the matter of degree of wanting to be known.

Not that I don't like having people read my blog.  I definitely enjoy it when more people read (and comment), but that's not my major goal, and it certainly wasn't the goal I started with* (although, if you want to make me happier, you could go check out our new blog, (grin)). 

Her asterisked footnote reads, "Actually, the reason I started my blog was to give myself a reason to practice writing.  I'm really amazed (and quite happy) that you guys read it (grin)."

The key here is "reason." The reason why Moom didn't want to practice writing on her own, anonymously-- it seems to me, at least-- is precisely because no one would read it. The pleasure of blogging (two grins' worth here) comes from knowing and being known, of telling your story and having it be validated and enjoyed by others. This impulse to share is the same (though not as outsized, perhaps) as that which motivated ancient Greek heroes.

Consider the hero Odysseus and his famous encounter with Polyphemus, the Cyclops. He gets into a terrible scrape with this monster, and only escapes-- after blinding his opponent with a hot, pointed stick-- because he is smart enough to call himself "No-one" when Polyphemus asks him his name. When Polyphemus calls on his brother Cyclopes for help, they ask him what is going on. "No-one is killing me by trickery and guile!" He roars, and they all shrug their shoulders. "Well, if no one is killing you," they conclude, "then we can't give you any help, can we?"

So far, so good. But when Odysseus gets to his ship and thinks he is safe, he can't resist publishing his name, occupation and pedigree, boasting that he is the main character in the story Polyphemus will tell about his misfortunes:

Cyclops, if anyone, any mortal man,
Asks you how you got your eye put out,
Tell him that Odysseus the marauder did it,
Son of Laertes, whose home is on Ithaca.

(translation Lombardo)

Odysseus' desire to be known gets him in trouble, as Polyphemus now has someone specific to curse, and he prays to his father Poseidon to give Odysseus terrible troubles. Poseidon is glad to oblige.

The impulse to publish (large or small) is a hero's impulse, whether the publication is a reality TV show, a blog, or a 140-character post on Twitter saying you love the bison burger at Rocky Mountain Grill.

Seems to me that Homer may have also been putting a lesson into that encounter: that the impulse to be known is irresistible, and potentially dangerous. The more people know your story, the more likely you are going to come across someone who isn't going to like it, for whatever reason.

Online, there are monsters out there called "trolls" who take the place of Polyphemus. "Trolls" tend to spend their time cursing, criticizing and belittling bloggers, posters, and other online heroes who don't agree with them. In extreme situations, a troll can cause quite a bit of trouble for someone who has decided to go the route of Internet notoriety.

Moom has a lot of other really good stuff in this post, but I will close now and let you go back to perusing the myriad micromyths that are coming out of Facebook etc. at a thousand a second. In fact, I think I'll go on FB and continue my saga. I had a lovely pork shoulder sandwich and peach for lunch.

Tiramisu for Sean Wilson's beer and community vision

Does beer go with tiramisu?

If there were any beer that could, Sean Lilly Wilson would get it made. He is the brains behind Fullsteam Brewery, a local brewpub startup that is hoping to get up and running this year in Durham, North Carolina.

Full disclosure: Sean is a friend of mine and so I am biased. But I like what he's doing as a local entrepreneur who wants to benefit the community.

Sean's vision is Southern beer, locally made, enjoyed at a local place where everyone knows your name, or close to it.

Southern beer? That's beer that comes from ingredients at home in the Southern USA, or goes well with food from the Southern USA-- such as Fullsteam's Hogwash, a hickory-smoked porter (dark beer) designed to go with barbecue (that is, whole pig roasted overnight, for you non-Southern folks).

Or a sweet potato-enriched beer. Or one with Scuppernong grapes, which are native to North Carolina. The message: Budweiser is from St. Louis. Drink something from a little closer by.

Fullsteam is not just about new ingredients, however. Sean wants to open a pub that's truly open to the public-- a place to take your laptop, sure, but even better, a place to meet people and spend a couple of relaxed hours. Is there any way to stop the frenzy of our busy, busy, busy lives? Have your PTA meeting at Fullsteam. After a pint or so, the meeting will run that much smoother.

I have often been told I need a "third place" to lower my blood pressure and stress level. That is, a place other than home and work, a place that doesn't have the focus of home or work. People in the UK have known this for centuries. That's the place Fullsteam aims to be.

I'm also rooting for Fullsteam because of the courage-- and hard work-- it takes to open a new, community-oriented business in these tough, transitional, even transformational times. Seems like nowadays the only startups that can work are the ones that emphasize the virtual-- such as writing the killer app for a handheld digital device. Sean stubbornly sticks to the physical, and though I wouldn't be surprised if videoconferences from the pub were common occurrences, he insists on the importance of real people coming together to enjoy food (click on "Bully!" at the Fullsteam website) and drink made with local ingredients, local passion and local creativity.

And yes, I have tasted the beer, and it is good: a porter, a lager, and an India Pale Ale so far. As for the IPA, if you have ever tasted the pretty popular Sierra Nevada, that's what this tastes like, except with a bigger bitter pucker and a fresher liveliness.

Stay tuned for a review of a more exotic type of Fullsteam. There is talk of a rhubarb-enhanced brew. Maybe that one will go with the tiramisu. You never know.

Gary Vaynerchuk, storyteller?

I have concentrated here at BwP for over four years now on the power of stories, and it's great when someone I admire backs that up.

Gary Vaynerchuk, the Internet TV star and wine and social media expert (about whom I have written before), just gave a long interview on ObsessedTV.com where he characterized himself as a storyteller and affirmed his desire to be the greatest storyteller "of this generation":

I think of myself as a storyteller-- selfishly, because I think the people that I really look up to... in the business world...[are] Walt Disney, Vince McMahon, and Notorious BIG. And the common thread between those three men is that they are tremendous, world-beating storytellers...

Walt Disney I knew, but Vince McMahon and Notorious BIG were mysteries to me. I knew Notorious BIG (real name Christopher Wallace) was a rapper from the nineties, but that's all. Vince McMahon, I learned, is a television personality for wrestling shows and owner of the World Wrestling Federation.

A strange combination-- Disney is the king of family entertainment, while Notorious BIG (here and here), who was murdered in 1997, was a "hardcore" rapper with all the undesirable and family-unfriendly qualities many have decried in hip hop music for a long time now. Meanwhile, McMahon presides over the ultra-violent and yet ultra-campy professional wrestling world.

You'd think a wine connoisseur wouldn't be into such popular culture icons, but Vaynerchuk breaks a lot of molds. He made his reputation busting the stereotype of wine as a highbrow drink with a limited clientele. Often on his show he will have plastic wrestling action figures, and sometimes describes the color of a white wine as reminiscent of wrestler Hulk Hogan's blond hair.

After reading a bit about Notorious BIG and McMahon, I can see why Vaynerchuk puts them together. Notorious BIG used his raps to tell stories about an extreme life involved with drugs, money, and violence. McMahon orchestrates a huge complex of stories which get told in and out of individual wrestling matches.

Nevertheless, I don't see Gary Vaynerchuk as a storyteller. The three men he cites tell extreme, entertaining stories that make use of basic American mythological themes: the good guys versus the bad guys, for example, or in the case of Notorious BIG, the anti-hero you love to root for.

Vaynerchuk tells anecdotes, but his main activities veer more into the uncool profession of teaching. In the above-linked interview he admits to being a "class clown," and I have found in my twenty years of teaching that that one characteristic is a better predictor of who ends up a teacher in life than any other.

The class clown seems to be the opposite of the teacher-- loud, disruptive, dismissive, and seeming to want to be anywhere else but class-- but in reality, I've found, the clown feels completely at home in class, envies the teacher's ability to hog all the attention, and secretly wants to be the one in front of the whiteboard with the dry erase marker, telling everyone what matters.

Vaynerchuk also has a subject to get across: wine knowledge, expanding his students' wine palates, and now, as he expands his empire, teaching people how to develop their own personal brand. He is "passionate" and evangelical about his subjects, he loves his students (he has said he wants to "meet everyone in the world"), and spends a lot of time studying his subject and bringing new knowledge to his students. In fact, he has mastered the teacher's secret of knowing so much about his subject that he creates respect simply by opening his mouth.

If that's not a teacher, I don't know what is.

If you'd like to see Vaynerchuk in action as a teacher who is helplessly sandwiched between two class clowns, watch this episode of Wine Library TV.

As a former class clown myself, I admire Vaynerchuk's crusade to bring enlightenment to as many people as possible. He is already a thousand times richer than any schoolteacher I know, and God bless him for it. I wish all of us had the drive and initiative he has for doing good work and making it pay.

Breakfast with Pandora joins Open Salon

Of the eleventy billion blogs out there, how many are worth reading?

For me, perhaps one in a thousand.

Etwart says, stop reading and buy me a gumball.

I don't think I'm being picky. I think that very few of us, me included, can wow a person with any given blog post. The standards are high, time is short, and blogging inspiration is limited.

But when I was alerted to the Open Salon blogging network by Rebecca Clay Haynes, I was astonished.

Almost everyone I clicked on had something to say. And I clicked. And I clicked. And I clicked.

I like the ability of OS bloggers to have "friends" in the same way as you do on Facebook. You can see a thumbnail of the bloggers' profile picture, and you can easily see who's connected to whom.

Also, besides commenting on an OS blog, you can rate it, which is a way of giving online praise. You can also tip people money.

And the more readers you have, the more likely your post will be posted to the Open Salon headline page.

You don't have to create a new blog to participate in OS-- you can cross-post your existing blog to Open Salon. So I'm doing that.

I don't know that I can come up to the standard of most of the folks at OS. My game is noticing and interpreting the myths that humans live by, whether ancient or modern. I hope that will be of interest to OS readers. Because I am trained as a mythologist, it's possible a few folk will have questions they want answered. So much the better.

I'm hoping I don't get addicted to reading OS blog posts, but I probably will. These are some favorites already: 

• This one is for grown-ups. Middle-aged grown-ups, it turns out. 
• This one is also for grown-ups; a rough, sad, kick in the gut. 
• Most of the posts are for grown-ups, BTW. 
• I love this woman's profile photo; also, her writing.
• This was quite a bit of eye-opening to read.
• I want to comment on this guy's post.
• I'd like to get to know this woman. 

Happy blogging, all. I'm right there witcha.

Food blogging revisited: Chef John's pork n' beans n' greens

Every now and then I blog on food, and I love a good food blog. I don't watch the Food Channel much anymore because every time I tune in, it seems to be either Rachel Ray, Bobby Flay, or about cake or candy. Blah.

Photo: Chef John's pork. Scroll down for my version.

But I am enthused about Chef John Mitzewich's video food blog, foodwishes.com, a happy departure from those boring stock shots of Skittles being candy coated on conveyor belts.

Chef John is the most accessible food blogger I've seen out there. Part of this is surely due to his teaching background (he is now about to film a culinary cooking course. Sounds like a winner). Part is also that his videos are well produced, to the point, and enhanced with his dry sense of humor.

But most dominantly, Chef John's videos are addictive because You Can Make This Stuff and It Will Taste Good.

As an example, I give you his Pork n' Beans n' Greens, which I made last night for my son's birthday, using baby bok choy as a substitute for his suggestion of "adult" arugula.

It was in-cred-i-ble, and very easy.

First you get a pork shoulder roast. Kudos to John for getting me to buy one of those. I like buying small amounts of meat frequently rather than whole roasts. If you mess up a roast you're out a lot of money, but if you burn a pork chop it's no big deal.

Then make a "wub," or wet rub, a combination of spices, garlic, oil and vinegar that's rubbed on the meat. Very simple ingredients included fennel seeds, which I didn't have, so I substituted fresh thyme that had recently dried into dried thyme.

Pop the meat in the oven, turn it once, and it's done. Amazing. No marinating time, no fancy equipment, no technique. It comes out fantastic and I did almost nothing to it.

Then you sautee cannellini beans in olive oil and garlic, put some lemon juice in (daughter didn't like that, but it added another awesome layer of flavor), wilt some greens on top.

Put the beans and greens underneath the crispy-and-tender pork, and there you have it.

The best pork shoulder roast I have ever made.

Also addicting: the intro and exit music; his Mozo shoes voiceover.

Below you see the final plating, in the hands of young boy who is now 16. I drank super special $4.99 Trader Joe's Ste. Croix Syrah-Merlot from southern France. Another winner under 5 bucks.

So I'm a Chef John fanboy. Representing.

More inaugural poetry

For Professor Michael Leddy's, click here.

For a video of the official inaugural poem, click here. For the text, here.

Here is a video and text of Maya Angelou's 1992 inaugural poem.

And here is another, very short.

Photo: Snow for the inauguration.

I wish I could say I was enthused over the official one of 2009, although after having written one myself I see the challenge-- to write something grand for a grand occasion, and yet not to sound pompous, overblown, and cliched.

Professor Elizabeth Alexander fled from the pompous to the minimalist, writing and reciting in a style that put emphasis on separate images, small phrases and individual words, almost as if she wanted the words to be chips of stone and glass that made a literary mosaic-- or maybe more accurately, photos in a verbal photo mosaic.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum, 
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

Hearing these words at the time, I yearned for something grander. Somehow the pieces didn't come together for me, though I appreciated them as the poet panned through them.

I found the benediction (text, video) of the Reverend Doctor Joseph Lowery to be somehow more poetic, especially since he quoted the text of the African-American hymn, "Lift Every Voice and Sing" at the beginning, and at the end made playful rhymes that sound of classic African-American gospel preaching:

Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get in back, when brown can stick around ... when yellow will be mellow ... when the red man can get ahead, man; and when white will embrace what is right.

All of which to say, God bless the President, our nation, and every nation under heaven. It was a most moving day yesterday, an incredible moment in which I felt infinitely blessed to participate, even in the smallest way.

Tiramisu and tickles for Jason Webley

Alerted by Asheville-based blogger friend Genie, I did last night what I normally do not do: venture out to see live music.

Genie loves music and appreciates skill in creativity, so when she took the time to recommend modern gypsy Jason Webley, I took notice.

I persuaded another person who appreciates creativity to come with me, and we braved a pitch-black (the moon and Venus had already set), freezing and deserted night after New Year's. We arrived as opening act Jimmy Sugarfix was finishing, and the young woman checking ID's said Jason would be going onstage last, after a Klezmer band called Gmish.

But pretty soon after we arrived, a tall, slender man, with a Dionysus beard, his wild horse's mane of hair corralled by a small fedora, floated past us and began checking sound onstage.

Till that point the warehouse-style, black-painted venue, about half full, had been loud enough to make me lean towards my companion to hear her. But suddenly it was quiet, and everyone shuffled closer to the man onstage, who was now holding an accordion.

Jason played, and as the music took him, he began bobbing his head, and the fedora, with a small brim and olive-green, ribboned band, began to totter, like a pot lid jostled by boiling water.

Pretty soon the fedora flew off, and Jason made the accordion describe his passion, and he had his audience hooked.

He told us the next song was a happy one about death, which it was, and it seemed to me I was suddenly transported to an elemental place where life and death are pretty much the same thing-- a big, old ocean of fear, perhaps-- and God himself is standing next to you, looking over a cliff at it, and scared just like you.

This is the charisma of Jason Webley, a Dionysus-like charisma. He is funny and sweet and non-threatening, but with his music he is inviting you into a dark place, all the while telling you not to be afraid of it.

His lyrics were both clear and incomprehensible at the same time, as sung lyrics often are. I got this live, however:

Our mother made us into swimmers.
She threw her babes into this river,
Full of mud and dense with weeds, a century of odd debris,
We learned to fight and learned to love

He also sang an amazing song, Icarus, part of which goes like this:

I've banged my head for days against the walls inside this maze 
I've never been too good at this damn kind of thing 
I'm in here with my father I'm just pacing but he's smarter 
he's been building a fantastic set of wings
and like that I'm up and flying 
with the labyrinth behind me 
but I go too high 
the sun is melting through the wax
it burns it hurts I tumble to the earth and as I fall I feel myself relax.

Imagine this verse sung at a breakneck tempo with a plugged-in, acoustic guitar jumping on repeated notes, a ramping up of the tempo and volume, and then at the very end, "relax" in an a capella roar.

Oh, heck. Here's a video of the whole thing.

My friend talked later that night about the somebody-nobody-anybody rule of acting and self-esteem. If you think you're somebody, goes the thought, then you can do something. If you think you're nobody, then you can do nothing. But if you can give up yourself, stop clinging to your ego and what you think you are, and can be anybody, then you can do anything.

That show felt to me as if Jason Webley had understood that principle and did transform himself into other people onstage-- into us, if you want to get metaphysical about it.

Even the funny, silly parts, of which there were many, had this quality of dead seriousness about them, which made them all the funnier. On the song Music That Tears Itself Apart, he made us come close to the stage and wiggle our fingers in the air-- then commanded us to tickle the person next to us under the armpits.

It was like that old evangelical pastor's practice of turning to the person next to us in church and saying one thing that God had done in our lives that week. But instead of terrifying us with the need to come up with something quote unquote spiritual we could say perhaps to a complete stranger, he challenged us to be physical with each other, which is infinitely more threatening, and infinitely more cathartic.

Genie said this was a great way to start the New Year. I agree. A slice of tiramisu for Jason Webley, and let's jump into that big, old ocean.