no green pea are she
round fast buttery lightning
zoomery is her not
black-eyed pea instead
barely ovoid ebony orb
tabascoed limpery yes
drag race on skillet
skateboard ramp accelerating
never ever braking
sweet green pea flying
splatting
dying
black-eyed pea spinning
skidding
winning
Spanish moss in the trees beckons like the bony fingers of a withered corpse and the omnipresent aboveground crypts conjure images of decomposing residents emerging stealthily, freed by hinges rusted from decades of rain and mist to roam once more. The acrid whisper of voodoo and obeah is stronger than the aroma of Café du Monde and beignets wafting through the French Quarter. Residents well acquainted with charms for good luck or amulets to ward off evil straddle a precarious liminal threshold separating the living and the dead.
Serafina Boudreaux has also teetered precariously above that narrow chasm separating life and death. She entered the world prematurely, a pitiable, shriveled, mewling, and red-‐faced gremlin. Her very doubtful survival was ensured only after spending three months in the pediatric intensive care unit at Tulane’s Children’s Hospital. By the age of eight months, she had turned into the most adorable infant the residents of Metairie’s Jefferson Parish had ever seen; laughter and delight bubbled from her as effusively as a jazz riff from Preservation Hall. At 25, her radiance outshone that of Botticelli’s Venus, and left almost every man she encountered stunned, speechless, and certain he could neither muster the courage to speak to her nor dare imagine himself worthy of winning her affection.
John Pardoner was one of the very few men undaunted by Serafina’s extraordinary beauty. When they met there was an instant attraction, and a nearly palpable electricity arced between them, simultaneously dizzying and exhilarating, yet a bit frightening in its intensity. Serafina was visiting her beloved grand-‐mère Antoinette, a tiny Cajun woman with a vigorous personality and a slightly risqué vocabulary sprinkled generously with a delightful smattering of Cajun French. Both characteristics belied the physical fragility that had led her to an angioplasty in the teaching hospital connected with Tulane University’s medical school. John Pardoner, a young intern undecided about his area of specialization, was just beginning a cardiac rotation and, with the other cardiac interns, walked innocently into Antoinette’s room, completely unaware that the wheels of fate, spinning wildly and uncontrollably, were about send his life swerving and careening straight into Serafina Boudreaux.
After that fateful meeting, John and Serafina were rarely apart. John’s rigorous schedule often meant they enjoyed only fleeting but treasured moments stolen between his shifts. In an effort to atone for his absence, he gave her sweet and imaginative little gifts – poems and wild flowers from the roadside – and when his meager intern’s salary allowed, flea market bijoux. His heartfelt tokens were always delivered within the velvety soft Crown Royal bags she had loved since childhood. Serafina’s father had often relaxed with a Crown and ginger after a long day’s work, and each purple bag surrounding his Crown bottle was soon repurposed, hidden in her room until a treasure hunt revealed the bag, without fail holding a tiny new doll or toy from her father. After learning about this rite between Serafina and her father, John perpetuated the tradition, touching Serafina and often moving her to tears.
After nearly three years and countless Crown Royal bags, John’s and Serafina’s love had become as expansive as the universe; their mystical fairy tale romance seemed unfathomable to even those Louisianans firmly in touch with the ethereal, the arcane, the unexplainable. No one was surprised when Metairie’s oldest jeweler, purveyor of precious estate heirlooms from venerable old families along Plantation Row, reported in strictest confidence that John had purchased a singularly unique engagement ring for Serafina. John’s plan was to surprise her with the ring on the third anniversary of their meeting, and he asked her to pick him up at the hospital that evening.
Much to Serafina’s delight, John pulled a Crown Royal bag from his breast pocket when he opened the car door. Despite her excitement, he elicited her solemn promise to open it only when they reached their very top-‐secret destination, to which she would be directed in a convoluted series of turns and back-‐roads intentionally intended to confuse and disorient. The excitement was simply too great for Serafina, and try as she might to ignore the temptation, she found her glance straying far too often from the road and toward the bag lying tauntingly on the huge expanse created by the bench seat in her grand-‐mère’s old car.
Serafina still has that Crown Royal bag, clearly more special to her than all the rest, and in it she stores one lonely and solitary $100 bill, money John doesn’t know about. Everyone here has a stash, and whether it contains money or herbs gathered deep in the bayou or pig bones is of little consequence. Everyone keeps secrets and everyone dwells in the clutches of imagined hexes and spells as surely as Serafina leans on her own crutches, real and tangible implements that help her navigate her home, the sidewalks, and her life.
More importantly, the crutches herald, as their rubber tips meet the ground a few inches before her footfall, the sorcery waiting to claim its next victim, lurking just below the surface of the scummy swamps like the cruel fate lurking below her perfect right thigh. Like her left, it is beautiful, exquisite and muscular. The lower half of her right leg, however, now exists only in fading pictures and in her dreams and nightmares, and provides nothing except phantom pains.
Her new prosthetic leg, the latest in a long line of models assuring the latest technology and guaranteeing ambulatory ease, differs little from the others she has tried, and guarantees only continued reliance upon crutches. Today, her eagerness to spend the $100 bill on a special anniversary gift for John will be tempered by the reality that she must again rely on someone to drive her from Metairie into New Orleans.
Serafina is fortunate enough, upon leaving her apartment, to find John on duty; he is her favorite cabbie and the lone Metairie taxi driver who steers a mangled Chevrolet Impala around the city’s streets. She actually finds him in her neighborhood more than random coincidence allows, but is always thrilled because she loves his taxi, the same kind of car her grand-‐mère Antoinette drove during the years before she died.
Despite Serafina’s now otherworldly beauty, people avoid her. Her eyes are tinged with a sadness that has deepened their azure blue, changing it forever into the color of the angry and violent storm-‐tossed seas. The quiet sorrow emanating so subtly from her invokes sympathy, yet her neighbors cannot offer her solace, frightened lest such a cataclysmic desolation seep unwittingly into their own lives, and petrified that Serafina’s misfortune will, through the force of some mysterious hex or spell, become their own.
For in this backwater land, teeming with the powerful undercurrents of spells and incantations, such a transference of tragedy is entirely within the realm of possibility. Serafina’s neighbors cross the street to shut out the sound of her voice as she speaks animatedly into the driver’s-‐side window of the empty car left to her by her dead grand-‐ mère. It is a rusted and twisted shell of the Chevrolet Impala long abandoned in the alley beside the apartment she shared with John Pardoner until the night he died in the fiery car crash that took Serafina’s leg and her love. More than they fear the powers of voodoo and obeah, her neighbors fear the long and grisly fingers of insanity that have entwined Serafina in their icy grip as inextricably as the faded Crown Royal bag she carries everywhere, its gold rope threaded through her fingers like a rosary.
All I knew before has gone awry;
night tends not to day, but toward some unknown place
and I am alone with darkling, brooding sky.
Today I saw the truth behind life’s lie
laid bare. Absent hope and without faith,
all I knew before has gone awry.
Tears flow unfettered in the silent night.
With no chance that I will gain sleep’s sweet escape,
I remain alone with darkling, brooding sky.
Despite my grief, I would not hope to die,
but only to survive, some newfound grace
replacing all I knew that’s gone awry.
In blackest hour I pray that morning bright
will come to free me from love’s jape, yet
I am alone with darkling, brooding sky.
I realize in hindsight crystalline
the harness locked cannot, will not untrace.
All I knew before has gone awry,
and I am alone with darkling, brooding sky.
It has never once occurred to me that I need therapy to recover from my childhood, or perhaps require hypnosis to unearth some long-buried dastardly deed that ruined everything and totally screwed me up. In fact, I have never considered that my childhood – or that of anyone I knew – was anything but normal. But what would anyone in such a small town know about normal, at the end of the day? Where I grew up, I suppose we all thought everything was going along simply swimmingly, but we had very few things against which to measure life.
That life was confined chiefly to the tiny little town in which some of my luckier, more prosperous friends lived; I was an outside-the town-limits outcast, with an address of Route 3. Today, I give total credit to the mailman who must’ve had a small amount of genius to discern between all the “Route 3s” to which he delivered. I suppose he simply knew everyone in such a tiny town and the surrounding environs, but at the time I wasn’t focused on his small-town geniality. Mostly what I did was silently swear in my very limited lexicon of naughty words when we got stuck behind him, driving as he did at his inevitable snail’s pace, perched in the middle of his bench seat, left hand on the wheel, right hand reaching out to fill the rusting boxes stretched out along that two-lane road. Only worse were the times we got stuck behind a tractor or combine, because then there was almost no escape; they were too wide to pass on a two-lane road, at least in the family Chrysler, which was itself like an ocean liner. But “Ed” the mailman offered a way out, since he drove a rusting sedan that was narrower than farm machinery, but which rivaled the mailboxes in its state of disrepair and equaled the farm machinery in its lumbering speeds.
A few years later, when the town’s movers and shakers decided that a little more specificity was in order, it became Route 3, Box 60. Many years later, after I had moved away – no doubt in a final re-numbering geared toward modernization (and, I suspect, toward helping the EMTs find you when you keeled over in your too-big garden) – it became 1724 Highway 205. Still the same zip code, however. It’s not as tony as 90210, but it is, by crackey, 28103, forever and always.
Today, I might be inclined to count those boxes and find out, once and for all, what determined that we were “Box 60,” because I have to tell you, there were not sixty boxes between our house and the “city” limits. Maybe they numbered the boxes by tens, because I can’t remember more than about five or six houses that lined the road between the town and – where? What was the end of the line? If you were the child who lived at Box 200, I cannot even begin to imagine how isolated your life was. (I think there are still the same exact number of houses on that two-lane black-top. I’ve tried my best to think of new additions to that little stretch of road, but the only thing that ever shook up that section of Highway 205 was when these city-slickers moved into an old, but architecturally interesting, house and did a little updating. He was an Artist, and she was a Dancer. They were impossibly gorgeous and put a modern sculpture in the yard, and we all secretly lusted after them; they were carnality personified. When they showed up in church a time or two, believe me, heads turned and the preacher didn’t stand a chance.
But beautiful strangers aside, most days just blended one into the other, constructing a never-ending cycle of the years that formed the basis for my childhood. Some times were better than others; when there was rain, there were corn crops and soybean crops and the hay grew, and the hogs and chickens and cows were fed, which in turn fed us. Well, not the hogs. We didn’t raise hogs, but did, for a small period of time, have some chickens. They are truly nasty little creatures, I must say. Quite messy keepers of their little hen houses. Gathering a few fresh eggs is not even close to being worth it when you factor in the smell, and the chicken poop on your shoes, and the real possibility of an irate chicken. Maybe you’ve heard somebody say “she was as mad as a wet setting hen”? Well, let me tell you, that person had obviously come beak to nose with a pissed off chicken. When a mad momma hen comes flying toward you in the dim light of a chicken house, sunlight filtering through the weathered slats, and her feathers are flyin’, your little freckle-brown country legs, strong from climbing trees and running in the woods, will carry you out of a hen house mighty fast.
Although sometimes the chicken coop yielded interesting things, like double yolks, or the eggs that might’ve sat untended a little too long, and when you cracked them there was a sort of partially-formed little chicken inside. Sort of neat and gross at the same time when you’re a kid. Especially when you’re the female child on the farm who was always shooed inside whenever the dogs got “stuck together.” Or the cows were giving “piggy-back rides.” These were, of course, the ways we got puppies and calves. But the young and innocent eyes of a Southern Baptist girl had to be shielded from such acts of nature, and I was typically sent inside to dust the furniture or handle some other chore for my working mother. Eventually, I grew to know better than to pose a question about such things, and found my answers to reproductive curiosity in other ways.
For some things, however, there is only one answer, such as the proper ingredients for a pound cake: don’t even get me started on the eggs, and Dixie Crystals sugar, and Crisco, and real vanilla extract. Oh, how wonderful was the smell wafting from my mother’s oven when said pound cake was nearing golden-brown perfection. And even in the winter – because my mother had been so very wise and had frozen some delicious strawberries, which of course had to be thawed for absolutely hours and hours and possibly a couple of days, because this was long before the microwave had become widely available – you could have “fresh” strawberries on top of the still-warm pound cake. When you compound the Crisco in the pound cake with the fact that for absolutely years my mother cooked with nothing but bacon grease or some other animal fat that was saved almost religiously in a left-over coffee can on top of the generic stove, it’s really amazing that we are still kicking – and she, who passed away at the ripe old age of 94, was the most confounding testament to cooking with artery-clogging animal by-products.
I am certain that those young years, during which I was taught to cook when I was yet so small that reaching the stove meant standing on a kitchen chair, have impacted my (in)ability to cook today, for there is not a lard-filled coffee can in sight (and frankly, I have no idea where they came from then, because my parents were not coffee drinkers). My culinary education consisted of taking a package of butter beans or green beans and some other accompanying vegetable like sweet corn out of the freezer, throwing them in pots of boiling water with some salt, pepper, and two heaping tablespoons of the grease from the can – and sugar if it was the corn – then waiting, mouth watering, until they had simmered to readiness. If you were really lucky, it was summer, and everything was fresh, including the vine-ripe tomatoes that still make me drool. There is such a huge difference between those sweet, juicy, brilliantly red tomatoes and the mealy, pale things one generally finds in the grocery stores today.
Regardless of the season, however, it was all perfectly timed to coincide with the readiness of whatever meat product was accompanying the vegetables. And sometimes that led to a vegetarian meal for me, because if it was hunting season, that meat might well be a few doves or quail from the day’s hunt, and I absolutely refused then, as now, to eat something some barbarian – i.e., my brother or father – had gone out to shoot just for sport. (I suppose if I had known then what I know now about the mob-style offings at the abattoir, I might’ve refused to eat old Bessie the cow, too).
I would not eat the little birdies from the sky because, while we weren’t the richest people in the world, it wasn’t like we didn’t have some money for groceries (both my parents worked, and once we stopped raising chickens, the Sunday fried chicken came from the grocer’s meat counter, after all). Despite the Food Lion grocery store in town that stocked everything we could’ve needed, my parents simply and firmly believed in living off the land, even in the last quarter of the 20th century, and this meant that I, along with my older brother, had to go out into our acre-square garden (I kid you not) and hoe and rake and weed and pick, and then shuck and shell and silk and pare and peel, and every other possible thing you could do to the wide variety of things grown on that plot. Watermelon, cantaloupe, okra, green beans, green peas, tomatoes, squash, corn, potatoes, even beets. Ugh! How I loathed the smell of beets cooking, a dislike even stronger than my fear of the pressure cooker that was, we were told, a veritable death trap if not handled correctly.
Well, I shouldn’t say “we.” Because my brother, as a male, was chiefly excluded from “woman’s work,” required instead to help my father feed the cows, and the dogs, which were not our lovely little pets, but working dogs who lived outside in kennels, and whose chief collective requirement was possessing the aptitude to learn how to point and set, taught by my father, who did so wielding a bird’s wing tied by a string onto a long stick. Or if they were bitches, their job was to spawn a litter of adorable little pups that could do so; once any of them showed extraordinary promise, they might be kept on as future accessories to crime or might, like some of our cows, become the property of some man who arrived from who knows where to get his new prize animal.
The only dog we ever had that came close to being a pet was Jack, who also lived outside, but not in a kennel. He had the choice spot under a beautiful old shade tree, with his own dog house and a little “run” he could access while still being tethered to a chain. This might sound cruel, but we didn’t want poor Jack to start out chasing a bunny or squirrel and end up squashed by a Ford pick-up; Highway 205 was, despite its rather unimaginative name, a fairly busy and somewhat heavily traveled thoroughfare connecting not only the farmers to the FCX, but also connecting our town to another nondescript town known only, as far as I know, for its fish camp.
Those of you who didn’t grow up in the boonies may have no idea what a fish camp is, so I will enlighten you. It is not a place where little fish go to learn the flute or trombone, or where they are taught the finer points of spawning upstream, but is, typically, a very rustic structure, sometimes (usually) with fake wood paneling inside, equipped with a kitchen and populated with a plentiful supply of rickety, cheap linoleum-covered diner tables or picnic tables stocked with plastic squirt bottles of ketchup and seafood sauce and tartar sauce, and where you can go to get a deep-fried seafood feast, complete with hush-puppies and Cole slaw (the sweet kind, not the vinegary kind, if you please). As I have always steered clear of fish with bones, having been born with a natural aversion to anything that requires some work to eat (ribs: a definite no; crab claws, also not worth it), I almost always ordered the fried shrimp.
Sometimes it was popcorn shrimp, with which a kid could have great fun, trying to spear as many as possible onto the sadly misshapen forks rolled in practically useless paper napkins that had to be discarded almost immediately, soaked in grease as they soon were, and supplanted by the equally ineffective napkins stuffed into the table-top napkin holders as bent and dented as the forks. Other times it was the grown-up version, huge shrimp encased in some light and airy batter, always fried to golden perfection and practically begging for that red seafood sauce peppered with just enough horseradish to make you pucker a little – but as a brave little kid you ate it, eyes watering, and washed it down with Coca-Cola. The real stuff, then; this was long before the days when I began to imagine that Diet Coke was the cure to all my problems and, in fact, probably long before Diet Coke had even been invented. (You could get a Tab, though, because of the plentiful supply of generously-proportioned Southern women who believed that Tab was the cure to all their problems).
By now you are surely imagining that, with all this talk of food, I am one of those over-nourished belles; perhaps you envision a tragically obese woman wearing a caftan in her house-trailer, with cakey, streaky makeup and bright fuchsia false fingernails adorned with little butterflies, the pads underneath those Lee Press-on nails stained with Cheeto-orange sludge that will surely survive nuclear disaster, perched precariously before her computer on her swiveling, over-stuffed chair and grunting with every keystroke, wistfully remembering the days before her doctor put her on a diet intended to circumvent impending cardiac arrest.
Somehow I evaded all that and have turned out to be a relatively normal woman with acceptably negligible body fat and am living in Texas – a place where beef barbecue trumps pork barbecue and breakfast tacos reign supreme over bacon and eggs, but where you can still get a glass of sweet tea. Texas is not in the South proper and yet not quite in the Southwest, but somewhere in between. One might think it sounds like limbo, and perhaps so; for it may just be far easier to recall those carefree and halcyon days of one’s youth, far better to live in a place with some similarities to one’s past than to come, as one might’ve in the chicken coop debacle, beak to nose with the startling reality that, despite an extraordinary childhood, one has arrived at a very ordinary, hum-drum middle age.
I like to jot down poems, or song lyrics, or quotes that seem pithy or meaningful, or that might be useful in some future situation. Sometimes they can originate from a novel, or television, or even just hearsay, but the source is not important: it’s whether the words and/or possible intent or portent resonate with me at a particular time that is note-worthy, if only to me. I have a computer file I keep for such things, and I add to it when inspiration strikes. One such gem presented itself to me several years ago, when I was reading “House of Sand and Fog,” by Andre Dubus III.
“If there is no snake at your feet, do not lift up the rocks at the side of the road.”
Taken out of the context of the novel, this innocent grouping of words might be the insight one would gain from within the fragile confines of a fortune cookie, or glean from a weighty tome of collected Taoist wisdom, or could also simply be a sweet and yet somewhat vaguely sinister little tidbit your sweet granny shared with you when you were a child. Whatever the origin, the time one can recall the words and insert them successfully into a conversation may just mean that heads turn and eyebrows raise and, when done successfully, gives just a glimmer of satisfaction that all your time geeking out with a book in your hand has not been squandered.
I used this particular one once at work not that long ago, and did indeed get a few brows arched in my direction, despite the fact that it was entirely appropriate to the conversation and setting. It wasn’t my first incident by the proverbial water cooler, so I didn’t feel too bad and, indeed, did get that little frisson of word-nerd victory. It’s the little things in life, after all.
During the past few weeks while driving my car, I must admit that I’ve glanced down at my feet a few times after hearing the story of the woman who was confronted by a snake in her car – because one just gets a sense that a snake will be crawling out from underneath the driver’s seat, not just coiled calmly and serenely in the passenger seat, waiting to go wherever it is a snake in your car wants to go. Petco? The park? Al Biernat’s on a Thursday?
I have also been busy trying to offset this downward vision by looking at other drivers, because within the past few weeks I’ve had what feels like a remarkable instance of near-crashes with cars whose drivers were apparently suffering from some version of: a) unawareness that they were making a left turn from the center lane; or, b) obliviousness to the fact that they were changing lanes while their back bumper was still far too perilously aligned to the front bumper of mine; or, c) conscious or unconscious ignorance of the road sign indicating that the left lane was a left-turn-only lane, and not a fast-break to the freeway on-ramp.
Maybe life is just a delicate balance of skipping across the rocks beneath your feet – whether or not the requisite snake is dwelling beneath – and looking up often enough to evade the other people who might be panicking from their own snake-in-a-car scenario.
Big data has become, well, big. Maybe bigger than big. Maybe even huge. No doubt there have been statistical analyses carried out for a long time – probably as soon as someone in a lab or workspace realized he or she should find out exactly what constituted a regression to the mean or had an inexplicable urge to stray beyond the common space in a Venn diagram – but I would imagine that those numerical loop-de-loops were once somewhat limited to the purview of mathematicians or scientists or financial analysts. Now, however, almost every company or website can track what we’re buying or where we’re clicking, and ostensibly (obviously) they use this mined big data gold, subsequently invading our space with savings and deals tailored to our purchases, or big-brother-esque reminders that only one pair of the shoes we browsed is still available in our size. I both appreciate this and am somewhat appalled by it, but when I score the shoes I’m generally appeased and well-shod enough not to rant.
In my job, I do a lot of data display; while I’m not particularly adept at serious, in-depth data mining (English major), I can take the data someone else digs up and make them pretty, by means of a line chart or a histogram or a pie chart. I should’ve spent more time at the business school and less time learning to recite Chaucer in Middle English, I reckon.
Usually my ponderings about this subject don’t extend past what I do at work, but this week I got a little distracted and abstracted, and that led me to thinking about the movie “Snakes on a Plane,” which I did not see. Did the script-writer or screenwriter or some of his or her lackeys have anyone do any statistical analysis on the subject, i.e., just how likely might it be that a plane would or could be filled with snakes, without the ground crew or flight crew having any advance warning? (Again, I didn’t see it, so I’m making this assumption – because surely someone would’ve stopped this plane from soaring into the sky, which I assume it did. Otherwise, there’s not much of a story: “Snakes fill a plane, takeoff aborted” doesn’t really get the movie going, now does it? Unless there was a fierce, scaly battle on the tarmac. Maybe I should watch the movie).
But I digress, although not to the mean. (A little humor for you statisticians who clicked on this thinking “Okay, someone finally GETS me, AND my pet snake, Carbuncle Eyes!” And that’s for all you English majors who thought I might be selling out).
But again, back to my point. Is there even a slight probability of this “Snakes on a Plane” scenario, depending on where the flight originated or landed, say for instance, in a tropical setting where one hears that snakes almost literally drop and drip from the trees like Spanish moss in Savannah? Or is it just a dim, nearly impossible possibility that was exploited for movie-goers who aren’t in the least squeamish about snakes, and/or love things that go bump and hiss and slither in the night, and/or love Samuel L. Jackson enough to tolerate any of the above?
This is the point when I confess what REALLY got me thinking about all this, and it happened while I was on the treadmill. I’m in tell-all mode because I assume that – just like the good people at Target who know I looked at that leopard bikini – someone, somewhere knows I plugged my headphones into an audio jack on a treadmill and listened to NBC5 news at 5 while doing a half-hearted workout.
And when this happened, just as is the case in every newscast, the man and woman telling us all the regional good and bad things gave a teaser about a story coming up at 6pm, after Lester Holt finished giving us a recap of the national disasters. This teaser definitely got my attention, because they meant for it to do just exactly that.
Apparently, a woman was driving down the road when a snake dropped right out of her glove-box and onto her feet. What?? How is this news that needs to wait until 6pm? Is that a better time for “Snakes on Your Feet?
All my life, or at least since the tender age of approximately five, when I started having recurring dreams about a nest of snakes I stepped into right outside the back door of my N.C. home, I have been absolutely petrified of snakes. I recently killed two baby snakes in my back yard, and this DID NOT MAKE ME FEEL BETTER. Why?? Because where there are babies, there is a mother and a father snake, and they will make more. I have known about this possibility since I bought my house last summer, because I saw a container in the garage, with a snake as its graphic, left by the previous owners. I can draw no other conclusion that it is some sort of poison one should deposit somewhere, and that in some way, having done so, one would expect to kill the snakes that are possibly running rampant somewhere nearby, possibly underneath my house but hopefully not INSIDE my house.
Since I heard this story on the news, I have been very busy being deathly afraid of getting in my car, and when in my car, have been, at least thus far, quite adept at driving while glancing, every two seconds, at my feet. What is the statistical probability that I will experience a snake in my car? What is the statistical probability that, should I have such an experience I will: 1. Have a heart attack; 2. Wreck my car; 3. Turn into just another statistic?
Stay tuned. News at 6.
randomorderliness 