Thursday, July 31, 2003
APOLOGIES. A PAUL? OH JEEZ...
by Paul Ravi Nair, editor of TID
I must say I'm very sorry about the recent lack of updates. I've been very busy, I really have...Please believe me. Here, have a look at what I wrote at work when I was really busy. More updates soon, I promise.
The North Raleigh Flowers
these flowers are blooming all over raleigh. summer is in full swing--stifling, lethargic--yet day by day more petals appear. they grow on short, bushy trees, clusters of small, bright magenta dots. they are vivid and stunning. trees of them line quiet residential streets with tudor houses and brick walkways. in the gutters the fallen petals look like the caked splatters of some mystic creature's blood. on the beltline they fly by, planted in the median, forming a continuous bright streak flying by at 70 miles per hour.
they are astounding. so pretty that you actually hit the brakes when you pass a particularly wonderous arrangement of them. so pretty i want to call the local sports talk show and ask Balls Mannigan or whatever his name is if he's seen how beautiful they are and risk being called a faggot on citywide AM radio.
and so i pass these flowers, they surround me, until i reach the northern sprawl of the city--endless strip malls, park and rides that no one use--and the flowers are no more. i slink into my office building, plop down at my desk and savor my full view of a white wall adorned solely by a corkboard.
said corkboard is covered with memos forgotten by time. re: oksana bayul. there have been reports of employees pontificating on her recent discipline problems. this behavior must cease immediately. sincerely, the management. and so on. in the extreme left corner of the board, far from the passing glance of coworkers, are scrawled the lyrics to a song i sang to myself one day, for six hours, out of sheer boredom.
cat abduction
it's a cat abduction
cat abduction
it was sort of an 80s power ballad, to be sung with a shaken fist.
as you can tell, the job bores me to near tears. in fact, i would weep openly if not for the fear that the massive number of tears would warp my maple desk, and then my pay would be docked. so i keep it all inside, venting minor snippets of rage at various electronic devices:
Epson Stylus 820 InkJet Printer
Intertel Axxess 8560 Multi-line Telephone
Windows XP and related Microsoft Software (of course)
and the red-headed stepchild of them all,
Seiko Instruments Smart Label P200
The latter is perhaps the cruelest invention ever. It sits, all day, refusing to print a simple mailing label, flashing its green LED at me mockingly. I have decided that on the day I quit, I will take the Smart Label P200 and I will put my testicles on it; nay, i will rest my testicles on it for the better part of a Saturday, whilst drinking beers and chiding it verbally, questioning its manhood and soforth.
My God, I've lost my mind, haven't I? Here I am expounding on blooming flowers and my latent sexual attraction to dysfunctional label printers when I should be checking payroll and making sure that Debbie Moyer isn't trying to sneak away with .62 hours of vacation time that she JUST DID NOT EARN. GOD FORBID, MARS MAY EXPLODE IF THAT WERE TO HAPPEN. MATTER OF FACT, INSTEAD OF PORING OVER PAGE AFTER PAGE OF SPREADSHEETS, WHY DON'T I JUST TAKE THE WHOLE VINYL BINDER, ALL SIX POUNDS OF IT, AND BASH MYSELF REPEATEDLY AGAINST THE FACE WITH IT? THAT WOULD SOLVE THE PROBLEM OF TRUANT WORKERS AND AT THE SAME TIME ALLEVIATE THE MIND-NUMBING AND EMASCULATING BOREDOM AND DESPAIR I FEEL EVERY SINGLE SECOND OF EVERY SINGLE DAY IN THIS GLORIFIED JAIL CELL MAKING SMALL TALK TO GHOULISH DROIDS WHO DON'T SEEM TO MIND THE UTTER TRAVESTY OF THE SITUATION AROUND THEM AND THE SITUATION IN GENERAL IN OUR MEANINGLESS LITTLE LIVES ON THIS DOOMED LITTLE BALL OF DIRT FLOATING IN A GIGANTIC GALACTIC TOILET BOWL.
I miss college.
by Paul Ravi Nair, editor of TID
I must say I'm very sorry about the recent lack of updates. I've been very busy, I really have...Please believe me. Here, have a look at what I wrote at work when I was really busy. More updates soon, I promise.
The North Raleigh Flowers
these flowers are blooming all over raleigh. summer is in full swing--stifling, lethargic--yet day by day more petals appear. they grow on short, bushy trees, clusters of small, bright magenta dots. they are vivid and stunning. trees of them line quiet residential streets with tudor houses and brick walkways. in the gutters the fallen petals look like the caked splatters of some mystic creature's blood. on the beltline they fly by, planted in the median, forming a continuous bright streak flying by at 70 miles per hour.
they are astounding. so pretty that you actually hit the brakes when you pass a particularly wonderous arrangement of them. so pretty i want to call the local sports talk show and ask Balls Mannigan or whatever his name is if he's seen how beautiful they are and risk being called a faggot on citywide AM radio.
and so i pass these flowers, they surround me, until i reach the northern sprawl of the city--endless strip malls, park and rides that no one use--and the flowers are no more. i slink into my office building, plop down at my desk and savor my full view of a white wall adorned solely by a corkboard.
said corkboard is covered with memos forgotten by time. re: oksana bayul. there have been reports of employees pontificating on her recent discipline problems. this behavior must cease immediately. sincerely, the management. and so on. in the extreme left corner of the board, far from the passing glance of coworkers, are scrawled the lyrics to a song i sang to myself one day, for six hours, out of sheer boredom.
cat abduction
it's a cat abduction
cat abduction
it was sort of an 80s power ballad, to be sung with a shaken fist.
as you can tell, the job bores me to near tears. in fact, i would weep openly if not for the fear that the massive number of tears would warp my maple desk, and then my pay would be docked. so i keep it all inside, venting minor snippets of rage at various electronic devices:
Epson Stylus 820 InkJet Printer
Intertel Axxess 8560 Multi-line Telephone
Windows XP and related Microsoft Software (of course)
and the red-headed stepchild of them all,
Seiko Instruments Smart Label P200
The latter is perhaps the cruelest invention ever. It sits, all day, refusing to print a simple mailing label, flashing its green LED at me mockingly. I have decided that on the day I quit, I will take the Smart Label P200 and I will put my testicles on it; nay, i will rest my testicles on it for the better part of a Saturday, whilst drinking beers and chiding it verbally, questioning its manhood and soforth.
My God, I've lost my mind, haven't I? Here I am expounding on blooming flowers and my latent sexual attraction to dysfunctional label printers when I should be checking payroll and making sure that Debbie Moyer isn't trying to sneak away with .62 hours of vacation time that she JUST DID NOT EARN. GOD FORBID, MARS MAY EXPLODE IF THAT WERE TO HAPPEN. MATTER OF FACT, INSTEAD OF PORING OVER PAGE AFTER PAGE OF SPREADSHEETS, WHY DON'T I JUST TAKE THE WHOLE VINYL BINDER, ALL SIX POUNDS OF IT, AND BASH MYSELF REPEATEDLY AGAINST THE FACE WITH IT? THAT WOULD SOLVE THE PROBLEM OF TRUANT WORKERS AND AT THE SAME TIME ALLEVIATE THE MIND-NUMBING AND EMASCULATING BOREDOM AND DESPAIR I FEEL EVERY SINGLE SECOND OF EVERY SINGLE DAY IN THIS GLORIFIED JAIL CELL MAKING SMALL TALK TO GHOULISH DROIDS WHO DON'T SEEM TO MIND THE UTTER TRAVESTY OF THE SITUATION AROUND THEM AND THE SITUATION IN GENERAL IN OUR MEANINGLESS LITTLE LIVES ON THIS DOOMED LITTLE BALL OF DIRT FLOATING IN A GIGANTIC GALACTIC TOILET BOWL.
I miss college.
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
BURNING EGGS SPARED YOUR LIFE
by Helen Amalya Burgess
BURNING EGGS SPARED YOUR LIFE!
Understand the ways of the master cat!
THE MEANING SHALL COME UNTO THEE, YOU MEANEY!
Heaves, heaves upon the ashes of those whose total sandbags weigh neither ten nor twenty caskets in total maximum gross, as dictated by our forlorn lord and master, he who rides so high upon withered blackberries that neither Barry Bonds or thy neighbor may grace his bespectacled chin snippings with thine highest and almightiest grasp!
Woe, woe unto the dried out pastures of heaven's torrid little love children! Those whose diapers are so soiled by the unkempt leavings of rhododendron-eating pests resembling newspaper clippings! Those who speak of the ills of saxophones yet do nothing to report them to the highest of authorities! Woe unto them!
They will be met in suburbs! Feasting upon their glorious bacon they will choke on the semaphore flags wielded by none other than the most supreme of cheesecakes! Draped in the garb of the magnificent grab bag, it will shine unto the men of a thousand prances! And they will bow, bow like cats in Madrid to the utmost glory of the wonderous visage of o---------------------------XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX [/input:/admin]
[Helen Amalya Burgess is unauthorized to post at http://thisisdepression.blogspot.com]
by Helen Amalya Burgess
BURNING EGGS SPARED YOUR LIFE!
Understand the ways of the master cat!
THE MEANING SHALL COME UNTO THEE, YOU MEANEY!
Heaves, heaves upon the ashes of those whose total sandbags weigh neither ten nor twenty caskets in total maximum gross, as dictated by our forlorn lord and master, he who rides so high upon withered blackberries that neither Barry Bonds or thy neighbor may grace his bespectacled chin snippings with thine highest and almightiest grasp!
Woe, woe unto the dried out pastures of heaven's torrid little love children! Those whose diapers are so soiled by the unkempt leavings of rhododendron-eating pests resembling newspaper clippings! Those who speak of the ills of saxophones yet do nothing to report them to the highest of authorities! Woe unto them!
They will be met in suburbs! Feasting upon their glorious bacon they will choke on the semaphore flags wielded by none other than the most supreme of cheesecakes! Draped in the garb of the magnificent grab bag, it will shine unto the men of a thousand prances! And they will bow, bow like cats in Madrid to the utmost glory of the wonderous visage of o---------------------------XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX [/input:/admin]
[Helen Amalya Burgess is unauthorized to post at http://thisisdepression.blogspot.com]
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
TURN THE RADIO ON, MAKE ME LOSE CONTROL
by Armaeneous Hines
FRANKLIN PARK, IL - I'm an old man. I don't even know what I'm doing here. These people--I guess the people you all know, don't you?-- they came to me and asked if I had any interesting stories. Said it was for some sort of "bog," whatever that means these days. Naturally, I don't keep up with slang. In my time, a bog was something like a swamp. I grew up in Peoria, Illinois. Stayed in Peoria, Illinois for 67 years, too. Hated Chicago. Didn't want to move here; I'd rather eat a skunk with my eyelids held open than move to Chicago, I used to tell my kids.
But Carol and her husband settled in Chicago and so now here I am, at the home. I don't know why the hell I'm telling you all this. Why do I have to tell them all this? What do they get out of it? They say I have to tell you this for background. Since when am I the hot topic of conversation?
What? They say find a good memory. Well, it certainly won't be this. What? The thinner one is saying 'Technically this isn't a memory yet, it's still happening.' Who died and made you boss? What? Okay, okay. You people don't understand, they have this tape machine in front of me. Damn thing looks like a phallus, for crying out loud. In my time, only the big honchos had tape machines, and they had the...you know...the reels on them. Cost a pretty penny, too. I don't know how all the kids have these tape machines now, but this doesn't even look like a tape machine. Looks like what they used to call "personal massagers." Can I say that on here? I can.
Okay, okay. A good memory. Well, they're all good memories. 'Til I came here. I don't get out much. What? A bad memory? Well who'd want to hear that? Everyone? You guys are crazy. Bloody sadists, I tell you. Alright then, mister, I'll tell you and your phallic tape machine a bad memory.
Will you let me just tell the thing, for crying out loud? Is it scary? What kind of simple question is that? Of course it was scary! What bad memories don't come from scary experiences? Huh? What? Every bad thing is scary for some reason! Jesus H. Christopher...
Okay, here I go then... So this happened to me in 1955, summer of 1955. I was 22 years old, working at the Hammer Mills plant just west of Peoria. Hammer Mills was a paper making outfit, you see? I didn't have anything to do with the paper making, though. Nope, I was just a night watchman. I sat inside a guard house from nine in the evening to seven in the morning. Did this for about six years, then I met the wife and had to get a real job. But for six years I sat in that guard house there, west of Peoria, Illinois. Guarding a bunch of half-made paper, you could say. Don't even know why they needed a guard--who's gonna steal paper in Peoria, Illinois in the middle of the night? The commies? That's a joke we used to make.
The job was very boring. I'd sit in this guard house--which wasn't even a house, just a shack--and listen to the radio broadcasts from Chicago. Only good thing ever came out of Chicago, those radio broadcasts. In the entire six years on the job, maybe only had two exciting things happen. Caught some high schoolers making no-no in one of the parking lots one night, and then this.
So it's around three in the morning, then. I'm sitting in the guard house, of course, not really paying attention to anything. I remember the night like it was right now. Very nice night, it was. Calm. A nice breeze came through every once in a while, it wasn't humid at all. A very nice night for Illinois in the summertime. I had the radio on, tuned to the Chicago station, of course. A news report was on. They were talking some mess about the Cubbies not winning, as usual. (Other only good thing that came out of Chicago, though you wouldn't be able to tell it by looking at 'em. Those godawful Cubbies.)
So I'm half paying attention to the radio, half staring at my shoes on the table, when the radio broadcast all of a sudden goes silent. Well, I check the plug, and it's good. And the tuner knob is fine, I didn't knock it out of place. There's no static, nothing. Just silence. Just as I'm about to unplug the thing and check the inside of it, the loudest, most high-pitched noise I ever did hear came out of that thing. Just about sent me flying through the ceiling, I jumped so high. Well, I dropped the thing from right out of my hands and onto the table. That noise, it stopped once the thing hit the table, and then there was just silence again.
So I'm standing there, just surprised out of my wits, wondering what just happened and where in hell was the radio signal at? I step outside the guard house for some reason, I guess just to see if some plane or something was going by and maybe that's what did it, but it's just about as dead and still as can be out there. Only sound is the hum of the plant, and that isn't even that loud. It's just that hum and that's it. And me, standing in the doorway of this tiny shack, facing out on a corn field, with a radio on its side on a table in there not making any noise at all.
And so I go back into the shack and I sort of walk real slow up to that radio, which is silly--I mean, what's it gonna do, bite me? It isn't an animal or anything. Well, I pick the thing up and I tap it sort of, real slow but firm, on the side of the thing. I figure maybe something went loose in there, and it just needs a couple of taps.
Well, sure enough, right after the third tap, the piercing sound comes back, this time twice as loud. All I remember is just freezing up, like every muscle in my body was frozen. And just trying as hard as I could to let go of the darned thing, but that piercing noise was just so loud and so jarring all I could do was stand there with my eyes clamped shut and my teeth gritted together. And the longer I held it, the pitch began to change and soon it was just howling, howling so loud I thought the windows of the shack might shatter and there I am just gripping this thing so hard it seemed it would break into a thousand pieces and all I can do is wince and try, try as hard as I could to throw that contraption at the wooden wall and smash it apart and end that awful noise.
But all I could do was just stand there in shock, the howling getting louder and louder and louder and at this point tears were streaming down my cheeks and I was facing out the door into that still night and that corn field just swaying silently in the breeze. And my hands are turning red, red as beets, and I'm gripping this radio so hard my knuckles look like pieces of popcorn, they're so white. I'm wondering if the guys in the plant can hear this terrible shrieking, this horrible, blasting, piercing noise--they must be able to! But no one comes, it's just me and this radio which through its howling is just sucking the entire life straight out of me--killing me! And all I can do is grip it as hard as I can and wince and I'm all locked up like my muscles just grew rust on them, like rusty old bolts, absolutely incapable of movement and my heart is pumping so hard I can feel it through my shirt pocket and I feel like screaming as loud as I can but there'd be no way anyone, not even myself, would be able to hear it over this horrible, horrible wailing and finally I feel like bashing myself in the head with it, it just won't stop and I'm convinced I've been sucked, sucked straight out of that guard shack and straight into hell and I don't know why and I can't see anything but bright white light and pain shoots through my body and a giant wave of a cold feeling shoots straight down my spine and branches out into all my vital organs and I convulse and then...
And then the damned thing went silent. It took me about five minutes to come out of the shock, and when I did, I just stood standing there. Standing there, staring at the damned thing. I wasn't angry, I wasn't afraid, I wasn't relieved. What I did, I'll tell you, what I did was wipe my brow free of the sweat (and there was a lot, boy, was there ever) and walk over to the electrical outlet. And I unplugged that radio and marched like a soldier in a parade out of that guard shack and across the empty blacktop of the two-lane road right in front of the plant and into that still, black cornfield. And I kept walking, through row after row of corn, with all these silhouettes, these dark black pointy corn cobs all around me, a sea of them, and the stalks brushing against my face and arms. And I held that radio with both hands, didn't ease my grip on it once until I got to about the center of that there corn field and then I threw that radio as far as I think a man's ever thrown anything in his life. I threw that radio into the dead black of night so hard I figured some kid would get bonked in the head in China with it by the time it got back to ground.
And then I breathed the biggest damned breath I ever have breathed, and I dropped to the ground. And I curled up like a little baby in the womb, put my thumb in my mouth, and rocked myself to sleep, out there in the inky black darkness of a corn field off Robbins Road, west of Peoria, Illinois, on a cool summer night in 1955.
And that's pretty much the worst memory I can think of. Now get that phallus-looking tape machine away from me. That oughta be good enough for you two. Do I get paid for this?
by Armaeneous Hines
FRANKLIN PARK, IL - I'm an old man. I don't even know what I'm doing here. These people--I guess the people you all know, don't you?-- they came to me and asked if I had any interesting stories. Said it was for some sort of "bog," whatever that means these days. Naturally, I don't keep up with slang. In my time, a bog was something like a swamp. I grew up in Peoria, Illinois. Stayed in Peoria, Illinois for 67 years, too. Hated Chicago. Didn't want to move here; I'd rather eat a skunk with my eyelids held open than move to Chicago, I used to tell my kids.
But Carol and her husband settled in Chicago and so now here I am, at the home. I don't know why the hell I'm telling you all this. Why do I have to tell them all this? What do they get out of it? They say I have to tell you this for background. Since when am I the hot topic of conversation?
What? They say find a good memory. Well, it certainly won't be this. What? The thinner one is saying 'Technically this isn't a memory yet, it's still happening.' Who died and made you boss? What? Okay, okay. You people don't understand, they have this tape machine in front of me. Damn thing looks like a phallus, for crying out loud. In my time, only the big honchos had tape machines, and they had the...you know...the reels on them. Cost a pretty penny, too. I don't know how all the kids have these tape machines now, but this doesn't even look like a tape machine. Looks like what they used to call "personal massagers." Can I say that on here? I can.
Okay, okay. A good memory. Well, they're all good memories. 'Til I came here. I don't get out much. What? A bad memory? Well who'd want to hear that? Everyone? You guys are crazy. Bloody sadists, I tell you. Alright then, mister, I'll tell you and your phallic tape machine a bad memory.
Will you let me just tell the thing, for crying out loud? Is it scary? What kind of simple question is that? Of course it was scary! What bad memories don't come from scary experiences? Huh? What? Every bad thing is scary for some reason! Jesus H. Christopher...
Okay, here I go then... So this happened to me in 1955, summer of 1955. I was 22 years old, working at the Hammer Mills plant just west of Peoria. Hammer Mills was a paper making outfit, you see? I didn't have anything to do with the paper making, though. Nope, I was just a night watchman. I sat inside a guard house from nine in the evening to seven in the morning. Did this for about six years, then I met the wife and had to get a real job. But for six years I sat in that guard house there, west of Peoria, Illinois. Guarding a bunch of half-made paper, you could say. Don't even know why they needed a guard--who's gonna steal paper in Peoria, Illinois in the middle of the night? The commies? That's a joke we used to make.
The job was very boring. I'd sit in this guard house--which wasn't even a house, just a shack--and listen to the radio broadcasts from Chicago. Only good thing ever came out of Chicago, those radio broadcasts. In the entire six years on the job, maybe only had two exciting things happen. Caught some high schoolers making no-no in one of the parking lots one night, and then this.
So it's around three in the morning, then. I'm sitting in the guard house, of course, not really paying attention to anything. I remember the night like it was right now. Very nice night, it was. Calm. A nice breeze came through every once in a while, it wasn't humid at all. A very nice night for Illinois in the summertime. I had the radio on, tuned to the Chicago station, of course. A news report was on. They were talking some mess about the Cubbies not winning, as usual. (Other only good thing that came out of Chicago, though you wouldn't be able to tell it by looking at 'em. Those godawful Cubbies.)
So I'm half paying attention to the radio, half staring at my shoes on the table, when the radio broadcast all of a sudden goes silent. Well, I check the plug, and it's good. And the tuner knob is fine, I didn't knock it out of place. There's no static, nothing. Just silence. Just as I'm about to unplug the thing and check the inside of it, the loudest, most high-pitched noise I ever did hear came out of that thing. Just about sent me flying through the ceiling, I jumped so high. Well, I dropped the thing from right out of my hands and onto the table. That noise, it stopped once the thing hit the table, and then there was just silence again.
So I'm standing there, just surprised out of my wits, wondering what just happened and where in hell was the radio signal at? I step outside the guard house for some reason, I guess just to see if some plane or something was going by and maybe that's what did it, but it's just about as dead and still as can be out there. Only sound is the hum of the plant, and that isn't even that loud. It's just that hum and that's it. And me, standing in the doorway of this tiny shack, facing out on a corn field, with a radio on its side on a table in there not making any noise at all.
And so I go back into the shack and I sort of walk real slow up to that radio, which is silly--I mean, what's it gonna do, bite me? It isn't an animal or anything. Well, I pick the thing up and I tap it sort of, real slow but firm, on the side of the thing. I figure maybe something went loose in there, and it just needs a couple of taps.
Well, sure enough, right after the third tap, the piercing sound comes back, this time twice as loud. All I remember is just freezing up, like every muscle in my body was frozen. And just trying as hard as I could to let go of the darned thing, but that piercing noise was just so loud and so jarring all I could do was stand there with my eyes clamped shut and my teeth gritted together. And the longer I held it, the pitch began to change and soon it was just howling, howling so loud I thought the windows of the shack might shatter and there I am just gripping this thing so hard it seemed it would break into a thousand pieces and all I can do is wince and try, try as hard as I could to throw that contraption at the wooden wall and smash it apart and end that awful noise.
But all I could do was just stand there in shock, the howling getting louder and louder and louder and at this point tears were streaming down my cheeks and I was facing out the door into that still night and that corn field just swaying silently in the breeze. And my hands are turning red, red as beets, and I'm gripping this radio so hard my knuckles look like pieces of popcorn, they're so white. I'm wondering if the guys in the plant can hear this terrible shrieking, this horrible, blasting, piercing noise--they must be able to! But no one comes, it's just me and this radio which through its howling is just sucking the entire life straight out of me--killing me! And all I can do is grip it as hard as I can and wince and I'm all locked up like my muscles just grew rust on them, like rusty old bolts, absolutely incapable of movement and my heart is pumping so hard I can feel it through my shirt pocket and I feel like screaming as loud as I can but there'd be no way anyone, not even myself, would be able to hear it over this horrible, horrible wailing and finally I feel like bashing myself in the head with it, it just won't stop and I'm convinced I've been sucked, sucked straight out of that guard shack and straight into hell and I don't know why and I can't see anything but bright white light and pain shoots through my body and a giant wave of a cold feeling shoots straight down my spine and branches out into all my vital organs and I convulse and then...
And then the damned thing went silent. It took me about five minutes to come out of the shock, and when I did, I just stood standing there. Standing there, staring at the damned thing. I wasn't angry, I wasn't afraid, I wasn't relieved. What I did, I'll tell you, what I did was wipe my brow free of the sweat (and there was a lot, boy, was there ever) and walk over to the electrical outlet. And I unplugged that radio and marched like a soldier in a parade out of that guard shack and across the empty blacktop of the two-lane road right in front of the plant and into that still, black cornfield. And I kept walking, through row after row of corn, with all these silhouettes, these dark black pointy corn cobs all around me, a sea of them, and the stalks brushing against my face and arms. And I held that radio with both hands, didn't ease my grip on it once until I got to about the center of that there corn field and then I threw that radio as far as I think a man's ever thrown anything in his life. I threw that radio into the dead black of night so hard I figured some kid would get bonked in the head in China with it by the time it got back to ground.
And then I breathed the biggest damned breath I ever have breathed, and I dropped to the ground. And I curled up like a little baby in the womb, put my thumb in my mouth, and rocked myself to sleep, out there in the inky black darkness of a corn field off Robbins Road, west of Peoria, Illinois, on a cool summer night in 1955.
And that's pretty much the worst memory I can think of. Now get that phallus-looking tape machine away from me. That oughta be good enough for you two. Do I get paid for this?
