Fondles, Leaks, and Monkey Fingers

The holidays are upon us and the craziness is on full throttle.

The TSA is touching our junk, our Wiki is leaking, and my parents have joined the Beatles in my living room. What’s the deal, people?

Let’s start with the TSA...

Everyone seems overly upset that their private parts are either getting X-rayed, photographed, or fondled. Is your junk so famous that you care about someone taking lousy, blurry, night-vision-goggle photos of your stuff? No one cares, people—no matter how fabulous you think you look. If your hoo-ha ends up on YouTube, good luck differentiating your night-vision-goggle version from someone else’s!

And fondling—was it so long ago that a little action wasn’t appealing to you? For the price of a flight you can get to second base. And I was complaining they took away the in-flight snack. Glass half full, people. Think of that!

But if you just don’t go for the touchy thing, don’t think for a minute that the TSA people are too happy about it either. You may be in love with your privates, but chances are, they aren’t. If you don’t believe me, imagine walking next door and fondling that guy... Yuck.

My advice: first, let them take your picture. If they pull you aside for the up-close-and-personal Easter Egg hunt, enjoy it. Or, just raise your hands, take a breath, close your eyes, and count Mississippis. It’ll be over soon.

Okay, now for these leaky Wikis...

First off, let’s not just jump to whether this Wiki dude was right or wrong to publish 250,000 State Department embassy cables (is it me, or does that WikiLeak guy look like a Bond villain?). Instead, tell me how these secrets leaked in the first place. Someone else should be in BIG trouble. MORE trouble. I thought the dude surfing porn at work was irresponsible. But sending out state secrets? That is bold. And from the State Department, nonetheless!

Now, you might agree, some of the stuff in those memos isn’t so secret:

• Russia's president Dmitry Medvedev "plays Robin to Putin's Batman." (Love this one—some ambassador is a Dark Knight fan! Holy comic-book, Batgirl!)


• French president Nicholas Sarkozy displayed a "thin-skinned and authoritarian personal style." (And his wife is HOT! And he smells like cheese. Sticks and stones, people. Give Frenchy a break).


• Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi is described as "feckless, vain, and ineffective as a modern European leader." (But, in tights, he may be a great Bat-villain. The Italian Riddler...? Feckless and vain are perfect comic book villain characteristics.)


• Hamid Karzai, is "an extremely weak man who did not listen to facts but was instead easily swayed by anyone who came to report even the most bizarre stories or plots against him." (The Penguin is coming with birds, Mr. President--each strapped onto a missile, aimed at your bathroom. Better send the bat signal. How’s that for a bizarre plot? Riddle me that.)

Not to make light of all these state secrets. When the documents also show what we know about Iran’s nuclear capabilities and how we found out, things start to get a little dodgy... But, why are we angry at the WikiLeaks dude? I mean, I’m a little angry. But that guy should never have gotten that stuff in the first place. Am I right? Bring me the geek with the thumb drive. He's the supervillain here! Or maybe the Technology Manager who made it so the geek with the thumb drive could actually get away with stuff. Bring him!

The Pentagon announced there would now be monitoring and limits to how much restricted information the drones at the State Department can download. NOW? These restrictions are being put into place only NOW?

My company has been monitoring what we download for years and I guarantee we don’t have anything nearly as sensitive as the State Department, let alone the Batcave (just can’t let it go, can I?). I have better restrictions on my Xbox than the government has on their computers? Yeesh. I think WikiDude may have done us a favor. He poured water into our bathtub and now we can find all our leaky Wikis.

Still, it would be fun to see him get in trouble. Guantanamo, maybe?

Now, let’s talk about the Fab Four. The Beatles are back in the news with John Lennon’s 70th birthday back in October and the release of the Beatles discography on iTunes in November. But the real Beatles news for me was that I have Beatles Rock Band in my living room (the interactive singing and instrument-playing game for the Xbox).

Fans of my blog will recall my parents’ last attempt at playing Rock Band. Dad sang, “Eye of the Tiger” like Sinatra, only without the voice, knowing the words, or liking what he was doing. Okay, maybe nothing like Sinatra at all.

This time, with Beatles songs, we got Mom’s attention and Dad seemed a little more perky about the whole thing. We started easy with, "I Saw Her Standing There." My brother strummed guitar, my daughter pounded the drums, and Mom sang in a strange falsetto that was oddly both on and off key. The dogs didn’t seem to mind, so I left it alone. Dad took pictures. Better, I thought, not to discourage them, but to just enjoy the spectacle in my living room.

Dad finally jumped in with “Can’t Buy Me Love” but didn’t seem as excited halfway into his own performance as he did when he first started. The words on the screen were too small for him to read and he was less familiar with the song than he claimed when he snatched the microphone from my incredulous mother. I think she secretly delighted in his failure.

It wasn’t long before Dad went back to the camera (dear God, I just realized this has all been recorded for future mischief). Mom enthusiastically agreed to sing, “Come Together,” but I knew we were in trouble when I asked her if she had “monkey finger” or “joo-joo eyeball” and she just looked at me blankly as though she thought I had suffered some sort of brain aneurism.

Once the music started, she plodded into the song, started singing the nonsensical lyrics, and prompted my Dad to think of one-liners to trip her up as she sang.

Mom sings, “He wear no shoeshine he got toe-jam football...”
“You play football?” Dad chimes.

“He got monkey finger...”
“Keep your finger to yourself.” Dad laughs at his own joke at this point.

“He shoot Coca-Cola...”
“Sprite. Dr. Pepper... um... 7-Up!.”

“He say ‘I know you, you know me...’”
“I don’t know you. Who are you?”

“One thing I can tell you is you got to be free...”
“Wish I was free. I don’t understand anything you’re saying.”

Dad’s laughing so hard at his own humor he can hardly finish his joke. Mom’s giggling and can’t sing the song (not that she knew what she was singing anyway). Before we “came together,” we gave up (rather like the real Beatles when you think about it.... Hmmm. Would Dad by Yoko in that scenario?).

In the end, Dad proudly proclaimed he played Beatles Rock Band, but really—he was just a heckler. A Yoko, band-breaking, heckler.

We tried playing “AC/DC Rock Band,” but that just got my brother screaming “You shook me, you shook me...” and the kids telling him he sounded like Gilbert Gottfried.

All in all, a wonderful Thanksgiving. Laughed so hard I had to take a WikiLeak.

Now, I’m left with only one question. How will we top it next Thanksgiving? And who do I have to fondle for a "Ticket to Ride?"


© 2010, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Ode to Fall

It happened again. Summer has flown by and it’s nearly fall. To my way of thinking, fall is the best time of year. It’s really when I think people should start their resolutions—at least those folks inclined to resolve themselves. What possesses us to make resolutions in January, anyway? It makes more sense to start our processes, proclamations, commitments to change, and what have you when nature itself has decided to do the same. What really changes on January 1st except the calendar? It’s fall when it starts...

“Fall” is a good name, too. Leaves fall, darkness falls—even daylight savings time falls back to the way things were. Look around dudes. Fall is the season. Of course, I like the name, “autumn,” too. But let’s not get carried away with ourselves. “Fall” it is.

New TV shows start in the fall. It would be cool if there were mind-bendingly awesome shows on. Now there are okay shows, a few “more than okay” shows, one or two great shows, and a truckload of what-the-hell-were-they-thinking shows. Let me have a show, people. One show and I’d change the world! Or at least my world. The Herb Show, starring Herb, written by Herb, sponsored by Herb, winner of five Herbies. Nyah-ha-ha!! The evil plan is hatching right here. This is why you come to the blog—for late breaking announcements!

Anyhow, fall is change and change can be great! Change doesn’t have to be about turning red or yellow, dropping off your tree, or turning crisp to die. It can be about renewal and growth, improvement and achievement. It can be about transition, fixing things, repairing things, making things right that were wrong (or left). Leaves can change and die, but leaves turn green, too, people!

When I inevitably lose my marbles and climb up to my yet-to-be-constructed, currently-figurative tree house to write my rambling manifesto, I’m going to pick the fall to do it. Spring is too hopeful and I’ll lose the hard-won cynicism I need for my opening paragraph. Winter, too depressing to craft my clever closing and call to action. And summer, I’m just too busy with my playing and barbecuing and sun burning to climb the tree and craft the manic flow of the meandering logic. Dear God, have I already started writing it?

Change can be good, people. Think about it. Right now. Do it while I find that marble that just rolled out. Think about one thing you might want to change—it doesn’t have to be a big thing or an obvious thing. Maybe it’s just one little thing. It doesn’t even have to be a thing you want to change about yourself.

Maybe it’s the pillow on your sofa that needs replacing or that bulb that burned out months ago that you haven’t changed. How about that smoke alarm battery you took out when the damn thing started beeping? Jeeze, scare the bejeezus out of us, smoke alarm people. Why don’t you tell us that thing up there is gonna scream at us?

We took out that funny square battery just to keep our brains from leaking out our heads and haven’t been safe for months on account of how scary it was just getting the ladder out with all that screeching! Now we gotta change that damn battery. Hate batteries. Hate needing them, charging them, and having to change them. Isn’t it enough I remembered to get them in the first place? That’s it. Batteries are going in the manifesto.

What if you just changed a battery or fixed a something-something? Tighten a screw, replace that toilet seat. Change that one little thing that was annoying you... Or maybe two things.

There it is. A homework assignment. I can give you homework because I was an English major, people! I can create little metaphors, I can invoke fancy language, I can write horrible blogs, I can plan my manifestos, and I can assign homework. You tech heads out there can drop all the lines of code you want a dinner party. No one’s listening. It’s the poets who woo the crowds. Neener on you! Sorry, it’s all we got. You got Windows 7. We get manifestos and crowd wooing. Doctors get the money. Lawyers get the blame. Plumbers get the butt cracks. It’s just nature sorting things out.

But, really, homework. Change one little thing. See how it feels. Try it on. If you like it, maybe change one more thing. Don’t get carried away. Some things need staying the same. Things like air to breathe or food to eat. Don’t stop those things. But I bet you can find a thing or two that shoulda changed a long time ago. So just do that one and see where it takes you. You may have one thing in mind right now!

Or, if that doesn’t work, there’s always winter.




© 2010, Herb Williams-Dalgart

iSwoon

It’s just a pocket-sized rectangle, thinner than my thumb. A single button in front, up-and-down buttons on the side, and a single hole on top. I’m talking about my new iPhone 4, people! And I think I might be in love.

I know what you’re thinking—how can a man love a machine? We don’t have that much in common. I mean, I do have a button in front, too, but mine is of the “belly” variety. I have holes, too, but let’s just leave it there.

Now, I have to tell you, physical differences aside; this iPhone really does it for me.

Truth be told, I had a brief affair with a phone before: the iPhone 3GS. I got my 3GS phone a mere 30 days ago. But when they announced the 4’s were coming out, my love for the 3GS waned. I wanted the 4. As luck had it, I was still in my trial period and, for the cost of a restocking fee of $30, the new phone was mine.

I know it sounds harsh. I left my first love for the next best thing. I suppose that’s true. But for those of you without an iPhone, let me break it down for you:

Imagine a relationship that’s all about you... You can be selfish and self-involved and it won’t get irritated. It will think only of your needs. And it will like it. It doesn’t care if you’re smart, or good looking (which, of course, we are!), and it is happy to keep things very simple for you without too much pressure. And, if you want it to do more, 99 cents will take care of that in the form of an “app”—a tiny application downloaded to improve or enhance its functionality.

The iPhone has needs, too, of course. But nothing a little plug-in for an hour can’t handle. Really, it’s that simple.

I sort of wish I was more like my iPhone. If I needed to do something I didn’t know how to do, I could just get an app for it. Imagine that! Can’t slam dunk a basketball? Dial me up an app and I’m LeBron! Don’t know how to make Beef Wellington? App me a Martha Stewart. It’s that cool! If George W. Bush had an iPhone, I have a feeling things would have been way different over there in the Middle East. None of those pesky tubes and hoses from the “Internets.” We’d have iPresident.

Too bad those BP fellas can’t get an app for their problems (iSpill? iLeak? Oh, the options!)

I realize this may be a phase. A boyish obsession. I mean, it’s just a phone, right?

WRONG! It’s so much more!

I know I’m starting to sound like Steve Jobs’ doting mother, what with the over-the-top loving here. But really, as I’m getting to know my new iPhone, I’m starting to believe it can read my mind.

Dialing the phone: “I wish it would just show me the keypad...” Voila! Keypad.

“Why can’t I listen to music while playing Scrabble?” Oh, you can, dirty boy. And where will you play that “Q”?

“This Web page would look so much better sideways...” Okay, now you’re just making it easy.

At Costco, I see they’re selling a movie I want. But should I get it? Is the Costco price the best I can do? Guess what? An app lets me use my iPhone camera to scan the UPC code and then tells me how much I can get the flick for online or at a nearby store (‘cuz it knows where I am, people!). Turns out, Costco has the deal and I buy the flick without any of that pesky buyer’s remorse.

What relationship does a man have that WON’T make him feel guilty? The iRelationship. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Oh, my. I’m starting to feel warm.

It can do videoconferencing, video recording, digital photography... Is it watching me now?

It even has voice recognition. I say, “Play music... Lady Gaga--”

--and it does, Poker Face! Now, full disclosure: On occasion my iPhone 4 doesn’t exactly understand what I say and when I asked it to play the game, “Pocket God,” it decided, instead, to dial someone on my contact list.... Classic misunderstanding. And what relationship doesn’t have those? Then again, was she trying to call some other dude? Okay, that’s just the jealousy talking....

I try to recall if I’ve ever felt this way about a machine. I did love my Atari back in the 80’s. We even had “Coleco-vision” for a while, but that seemed to go the way of the abacus. Come to think of it, I loved my abacus, too...

I sure did love my first computer—the Apple IIe. Why’s it always Apple? Does Disney have something going on with Apple, what with the addictive, pervasive, think-of-everything, stylings...? Hmm... Could evil be at work here?

Of course my first IBM ThinkPad rocked the house, too.

Maybe this is a habit. Maybe I’m too fascinated by machines...

I’m a little obsessed, I know. Of course, it may wear off. I may realize after a while that I’ve wasted hours on end, swooning and downloading, and pressing buttons and playing with holes (not mine, the iPhone’s. I mean, really, people!)

But if the time comes and I’m feeling down, I bet there’s an app that will make me feel better...

Or maybe that’s just how I’m wired.




© 2010, Herb Williams-Dalgart

The Cheese Stands Alone

As an admitted Franco-file and a Scandinavian by birth, I have a rare and committed devotion to cheese. Soft cheese, hard cheese, stinky cheese, cheese with unpronounceable names, cheese with mold that would scare the US department of Health—I love them all. I’ve been known to smuggle cheese from foreign countries back to the U.S. counting down, like the tick of a bomb in Kiefer Sutherland’s pants, the hours between the purchase of the cheese and its inevitable expiration at the end of the flight, fearing (or hoping) I might have to eat the whole brick en route lest the whole thing go south. I doubt Keifer would eat a bomb, but I don’t really watch “24” so I’ll let one of you tell me if he’s ever contemplated the ultimate sacrifice via digestion as I have done. Yes, I’m saying it: Keifer’s a wuss and I’m a cheese hero.

Those familiar with my blog know too well the stories of my gastrointestinal adventures (sorry!). After internal probes that are typically prohibited by the Geneva Convention and an unsuccessful relationship with an alleged allergist, the source of my intestinal distress has heretofore gone undiagnosed.

So I’ve been forced to contemplate the worst possible thought—maybe it’s the cheese.

I long ago switched from regular milk to soy milk because it upset my stomach. I thought of that not so much as lactose intolerance. I was just “lactose annoyed.” But could my dear, delectable, nutty, smooth, creamy, silky, lovely, yummy cheese actually be causing my internal angst?

I had one of those “Men-In-Black” moments where Will Smith is offered a spot as a secret agent if he’s only willing to give up his identity—forever. He sits on a bench as the sun rises and falls, spending an entire day deciding if becoming a “man in black” was worth walking away from everything he knew. (Okay, duh? We’ve seen the trailers and it’s only 15 minutes into the flick. We KNOW he’s IN!).

But could I do it? Could I walk away from cheese? I knew it wasn’t just a brick, a slice, a wedge, a shmear. We’re talking pizza, fondue, mac and cheese, chicken Kiev (alright, I never really have that, but when you think you’re gonna lose something, you suddenly want it more than anything. I bet you want Chicken Kiev right now! Oh, yummy Kiev).

I had my sleepless night like Will Smith, the imaginary tastes of Comté and Brie swirling in my mouth dreaming of my fate. Forget sugar plum fairies, people. The cheese stands alone.

Then, I decided I’d go for it. I was in. It was time for me to cut the cheese.

Um, well, you know what I mean. I decided I could give soy cheese a try and ignore the siren-like call of the goat, the cow, the sheep, the buffalo…

Now, before you disparage soy cheese (and you should understand that I’m the first to protest the application of the world “cheese” to anything that isn’t), you should know that not all soy cheese is created equal. I actually have found “Veggie Slices’ to be a reasonably digestible and not unpleasant brand. It ain’t cheese, but on a cracker, I’d eat it.

So, I decided it was time. I applied my CRP (Cheese Removal Plan) and immediately saw results. I felt better. I really didn’t want to admit it. I still felt the pang of my lost love, being spoken aloud. Wondered if my cheese might miss me too. I know cheese can sweat. Can cheese cry?

But in the end, the cheese, my love, was not so kind to me. Like one of James Bond’s girlfriends, my cheese wasn’t just sexy and beautiful. It was dangerous. Don’t get me wrong—I love me the Bond girls. Lipstick and guns. Very compelling. Quite like cheese, really. I’m just koo-koo for queso.

But a week into the CRP, I fell off the wagon. Pizza, the sneaky cheese delivery system we stole from the Italians, delivered the deadly blow in a glorious way. Hoo-nelly. I was bloated like a blimp and feeling like one of the Keifer-pants-bombs ready to explode!

Then, came my second discovery—Lactaid. A chewable little pill you can take when you know the cheese is coming. Chew, swallow, and bring on the pizza, baby! It was like Bond’s gadget-guru, “Q” had given me a secret pill to fend off the effects of the bends or the airless impact of space travel or the poisoned lips of a Bond girl. And it worked!

Now, don’t get me wrong—it was chalky and horrible and almost not worth it (Note to the Lactaid people: Build a better mousetrap!) But that next slice of pizza was SO good. I’m not ready to eat Lactaid on a daily basis on account of the “yuck.” But there are now options. Bond can love ‘em and leave ‘em. Keifer can jump from the plane (or drop his pants?). Herb can eat cheese. It’s on that level, people!

My guts seem to agree. I’ve been more, shall we say, even-keeled. Not quite 100%, but notably better, if not a little heartbroken. I can’t always say yes, but I don’t always have to say no.

And I can now just say, “cheese.”

Put that in your pants, Kiefer.


© 2010, Herb Williams-Dalgart

The Indignities of a Humble Business Traveler

In my quest for domination over U.S. airspace, I just finished my first of three consecutive out-of-state business trips. Hello, Gold Status! And while the explicit purpose of these trips was to further my business objectives (thank you, employer!), it’s become increasingly clear to me that there has been an inherent and disturbing pattern of discomfort and indignity which has characterized each of them.

Start with my persistent gastrointestinal discomfort. Truth be told, this began last August, but I’m still trying to blame that on something or someone. I’ll spare you the details (notice the moment of restraint? Yes, friends—personal growth!)

In my crusade to determine the cause of my intestinal strife, it was suggested to me that I might have some sort of food allergy. A little trip to the allergist revealed what I already knew: I’m allergic to cats.

So, after promising not to eat any of those, the question of what my guts are up to remained unanswered. To explore the mystery further, my allergist suggested (with what I now retrospectively regard as a maniacal smile) that I consider trying something called an “Elimination Diet.”

“It’s a little diet my grad school colleagues and I created,” he boasted. “I’ll go get the paperwork and review it with you.”

I waited expectantly, hoping to be presented with the new Atkins diet or some such magic to make me healthy and, perhaps, beautiful (Okay, I added, “beautiful.” I can dream, right?) The dude comes back with a near-empty single sheet of paper. Someone needs to explain to me how a single sheet of paper can be considered, “paperwork.” If true, then I’ve been working on my novel WAY too long.

Anyhow, the doctor (and I’m starting to wonder if he IS such a person) shows me his little one-sheet explaining the Elimination Diet. For those of you readying to Google the Diet, I’ll save you the trouble. Here it is:

Basic Elimination Diet

Foods Allowed:

Meats: Lamb, beef, turkey (boiled, broiled, or baked), and chicken that is non-basted.
Seasoning: Salt and honey (without preservatives).
Cereals: Rice, rye, barley, and oats all used with juice from fruit instead of milk
Vegetables: Fresh carrots, squash, lettuce, beets, sweet potatoes, and white potatoes
Fruits and fruit juices: Pears, peaches, bananas, plums, and apples (all fresh).
Beverages: Soybean milk, water, tea, natural cranberry juice, and Welch’s grape juice.

The sheer absence of food on the list raised an eyebrow and probably my signature, unintentional scowl (the one I’m accused of having ALL the time). On my lackluster response to his pathetic senior thesis, the doctor (disguised hobo?) says something like, “I know it seems a little boring…”

Boring? Ya think? I wanted to say, “Dude, your logo and list of partners takes up more space on the page than the list of food I’m allowed to eat. Where are the recipes? Where are the details? This isn’t a diet! It’s cruel and unusual punishment. Even a supermodel couldn’t’ throw that up.”

It didn’t occur to me to ask how “Welch’s” got a sponsor spot on a diet prescription. And I was too surprised by the brevity of the list to ask, “Since when is “honey” a seasoning?” Hello?

The parking lot attendant disguised in the white coat goes on to tell me that two weeks on the diet will eliminate any allergenic foods that may be troubling me. Then, after the two weeks are up, we can introduce more into my diet and gauge my reaction. If I react unfavorably to the new food, then, voila! Allergy identified. Mission accomplished. See you in two weeks. Will that be cash or charge?

Of course, when I check out, flummoxed by what’s passing for modern medicine, wondering what to do with a sweet potato, the appointment nurse tells me the doctor/corner fruit salesman is going on vacation in two weeks. She asks when I’m free during week three. Of course, I’m only free at the end of week three so we make my appointment and off I go.

As I drive home, contemplating the fresh hell I’ve now gotten myself into, I realize that Dr. Magoo’s vacation just put me on the diet for three weeks, not two. I don’t know which food to reintroduce after the two weeks are done! I was duped!

So, after a hastily baked, salted chicken and sweet potato dinner (do tears count as a seasoning?), I also realize I have my business trips to navigate. How will I manage such a Spartan diet when traveling? I’m here to tell you, rice cakes don’t travel well. And try explaining a sweet potato in your pocket to the TSA dude. Do I have to put that in a clear plastic bag?

Hungry and defeated, I take off on my trip, hoping for the best. Before and between my meetings, I manage to have oatmeal for breakfast, apple juice for lunch and naked lettuce for dinner. Yes, boring. And hardly nutritional. I fear I might faint from malnutrition (dramatic perhaps, but work with me).

Feeling more than a little sorry for myself and a little loopy, I decide I’ll try to sleep my way home during the four-hour flight. Instead, I find myself seated between two of the largest men I’ve ever seen—each easily pushing 400 lbs. I resent their girth. Wish I had it, or at least the food that caused it. Not good. And my starvation-induced delirium wasn’t helping. Oh, how I longed for a Ho-Ho, Ding Dong, Twinkie, Ruffle, Pringle, anything!

Needless to say, each enormous fellow passenger spilled over into my seat rather significantly so that I couldn’t see, let alone use, my armrests. I was practically squashed between them, feeling as though I was trapped in the cheeks of someone’s ass. No sleeping there.

And I didn’t know what to do with my arms. Very disconcerting. I kept gesturing unnecessarily to give my arms something to do and the flight attendants kept thinking I was flagging them down. It was like I was some sort of insane conductor of an invisible airplane symphony trapped between uninterested Teamsters. And the flight attendants kept eying me sideways and offering me Ginger Ale.

Don’t they know that’s not on the list? Ug.

Now, I was hungry, thirsty, trapped in a flesh prison, and afraid to/unable to breathe. I lost myself in my iPod (Corinne Bailey Rae really can soothe me, ya know?) and decided this was just going to be one of those weeks. (This blog pretty much writes itself, now huh?)

I landed back in California, waiting to exhale like Whitney Houston, never so happy to be home, oddly longing for salted chicken and sweet potatoes, my pants full of rice cake remnants, an inexplicable desire to join the Teamsters.

Sadly, my intestinal distress persists, but is now accompanied by emotional and spiritual distress—sort of the “Three Stooges” of disorders. And there you have it. Don’t ask too many questions.

My second business trip is next week. Week 2—New York City. The Big Apple.

And don’t worry, apples are on the list.


© 2010, Herb Williams-Dalgart