Friction and Harmony

She has to rely on me for such things as… Updating her blog sidebar.

And maybe when she learns how to do it on her own, she can un-link her Official Seal from this post!

Tough love, Kitten. You know how much I love you… And I think your new seal is great, no matter what your mom says!

Of course I like it even more when it’s providing linky-love!

*Runs from an ARMED Mrs. Who!*

Father’s Day has come early at the HoZ – twice already this year. I haven’t the faintest clue why.

Seriously. I’m a tough sonofabitch… I ride their asses like government mules, and I’m certainly no shining example of how they should act.

Just do as I say, dammit!

I haven’t had a chance to blog it yet, though I’ve been meaning to… Several weeks ago, I was surprised to have been honored at the 8th Annual Pensacola Fatherhood Initiative, Father of the Year Essay Contest Awards Banquet – courtesy of my stepson, Eraserhead. He was one of 52 finalists from reportedly over 20,000 essayists’ submissions. Mrs. Who and I don’t go much into the detail of interpersonal struggles and triumphs under our roof, but I have to say – I was floored when I learned that we were to appear at a banquet in our honor!

Here is what he wrote:

“What My Stepfather Means to Me“

My family is not the average one. Divorce and remarriage has created two families in my life. My dad is very important to me. He is a great dad and I couldn’t ask for anybody better. However, I do not get to see him that much because he lives [over 500 miles away]. I do have a father figure in my daily life though, and that is my stepdad. He will never replace my dad, but my stepdad has been a positive influence in my life.

My mother and my stepdad married in 2000. At the time, my life was much simpler than it is now. I remember we lived in a house by the beach. My stepdad would drive my sister and me to the library where the school bus would pick us up every morning. One rainy morning as we drove by a pasture, we noticed that the cows were marching two by two along the fence line. Seeing this, my stepdad started to invent a parody of “The ants go marching.” I have never forgotten this song, and I can still recite it to this day.

Life didn’t remain as simple as this though. Sometime during my sixth grade year, my stepdad’s kids came to live with us. This caused a lot of chaos and stress in my life; I felt like the routine of my life had been shattered. My stepdad remained a positive stabilizing force throughout this transition however, and now I accept my stepbrothers as just brothers.

Divorce is a terrible thing and I resent it. However, through the actions of my stepdad, I have learned that it can be turned into something that creates happiness and does not destroy it. He is a good man and I am glad to have him in my life.

Wow. After some of the parent-teen knock-down, drag-out tussles we’ve had, the last thing I expected was to be a nominee for “Father of the Year” at his behest.

Thanks, Eraserhead. You’re a great and gifted (step)son, and you are indeed one of my own. I love you! (Note the lesson in how to embarrass and gross-out a teenager – say it publicly! )

Oh, and as for the lyrics to that song, I have them memorized too. It’s nothing much, but I remember it being an awesome icebreaker during those first couple years when I was thrust into a car at the crack of dawn with two young ‘uns and a whole lot of discombobulated emotions, kid-reasoning, adult-fear (seriously, don’t little kids scare the crap out of anyone else?) and tension. I remember being so relieved at making a connection and loving the sound of their laughter as we sang it together:

• The cows go marching two by two
• Hurrah! Hurrah!
• They won’t give milk until they’re through
• Hurrah! Hurrah!
• No butter, no yogurt, no milk, no cheese,
• Ice cream makes their udders freeeeze…
• And the dairy’s closed ’till the cows come marching home!
• Cows marching into city square
• Hurrah! Hurrah!
• To protest bovine rights, unfair!
• Hurrah! Hurrah!
• The mayor’s position is firm, you’ll see…
• Tomorrow we grill and the steaks are freeeeeee.
• And the gate’s flung wide as the cows stampeded home!

Okay, I had to use bullet-list to get it formatted properly (don’t ask!), and that’s at least one of the final-verse versions that I recall (we had many). Goofy, I know, but it still puts a smile on my face.

I can still see them marching – just like Eraserhead described – two-by-two along the roadside fence line, then they turned 90 degrees with bovine-surreal, military precision at the corner to march off into the distance – still two-by-two.  It was weird – definitely making me consider if Gary Larson’s The Far Side cow-toon characters weren’t more fact than fiction.

Oh, and cows have replaced my header image in honor…

It seems like the only thing that’s getting me to sit down and write is the ever-loving need to bitch about something. So…

I liked the new template for about a day. Now I’m tired of looking at a $70k TOYOTA at the top of my blog, and it all looks just too washed-out. I know, I know… I can go in and tweak it. Gah – I’m not that motivated. There has to be something else out there that’s closer to what I have in my mind of how I want my site to look.

I liked my old look – it was comfortable. I liked the little gizmo drop-down buttons to hide the crap I’m not interested in looking at until I need it. I wish the author was still around to fix it – no telling what happened there. I suppose the problems are minor, but I don’t like the idea of something being broken… Random-spewing XHTML errors and widget-challenged sidebars don’t cut it, I’m afraid.

Now that my database errors are resolved, I did manage to find a bunch (okay, well, a handful) of recent comments that got sucked-up in the Bad-Karma Vortex (including my own and Mrs. Who’s; I found our IP in the addy blacklist – go figure). If you had tried to comment recently and it didn’t show, it’s probably because my idiot hosting company changed SOMETHING on the SQL server to cause it to blow bits, which in-turn screwed Spam Karma AND the commenting scripts in WP.

I don’t care if it is or isn’t their fault, I’m still blaming it all on my asshat hosting company. Principle and all, you know…

I’m coining a new euphemism.  And yes, it’s at least metaphorically what it sounds like.

It’s what I’ll use to refer to driving around like this for nearly a week, and getting shot-down at every near-opportunity to get it wet:

(Sorry – sucky thumbnail.  Click for better view.  Oh, and is this a Bubba-truck or what?  SCV tag, “W” sticker, and if you look real hard, you can see my axe-handle in the back winduh.)

That’s Mojo (my truck) and Kyra (my kayak) sitting in my yard last week – waiting to go play. 

It was Tuesday and I didn’t have any calls, so I thought – COOL!  I’ll  go kayaking!  So I ran the obstacle course in the shed to retrieve my beloved Wilderness Systems Tempest 170 and all my gear.  As I was doing this, I noticed the sky was getting dark.  And darker.  Damn!  I don’t want to be the high-spot in a large body of water in a thunderstorm…

I ran back inside to check the weather.  SHIT!  There’s a wall of red, orange and yellow marching from Louisiana across Mississippi and straight toward us.  I *might* have enough time to get in at the local bay just down the road…  But I decide I had better watch to see what direction and how quickly the storm is advancing – and of course, check the marine advisories.  Not good.

I watched ALL DAY as the storm moved toward me and disintegrated on Mobile Bay’s western shore – nearly 30 miles from me.  The weather in Mobile was dreadful – rain was coming down in buckets.  Locally, it was overcast and cool – perfect kayaking weather, save for the threat of lightning – which never came.

No matter, I’ll go tomorrow.  I really want to get some rolling and self-rescue practice in so I can traverse the bay on one of the upcoming kayak-club paddles.

I wake up sick.  My sinuses are congested, my head feels like it’s about to explode.  Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow.

Next morning, more of the same.  Plus it’s HOT.  I moved Mojo and Kyra into the shade of the trees so her hull doesn’t warp or get sun-bleached.  I notice how dusty she is – and there’s bird poop on her – from inside the shed.  No matter – that’ll be taken care of when I get her in the water.

Friday morning, things are looking better.  I’m feeling better, the skies are partly-cloudy, and there’s no rain on the horizon.  Perfect!

Wait.  Mrs. Who leaves me a list of “critical” things that have to get done.  Oh, and our youngest is coming home early and alone since PrincessNO has a party date – and he may or may not have a house key.  I’m housebound.  Again.  And the weekend schedule doesn’t look good, either.  Pensacola Saturday, Goob’s birthday extravaganza Sunday.  Mrs. Who has other miscellany packed-in the nooks and crannies, too.  I may just have to put-up the boat…

4:20 am Saturday morning.  As usual, I wake up after sleeping only four hours.  Usually, I toss and turn for about 30 minutes and finally get back to sleep, managing to get in another few hours.  However, as I lay there, I thought, “I don’t have to be in Pensacola until 11:00…  That’s over six hours away!

So I jumped out of bed and donned my wetsuit and rashguard…  I’m going kayaking!

I found my water shoes, made sure I had my GPS and phone, kissed a sleepy Mrs. Who and I was off!

It was still pitch-black, so I thought I’d drive east until it started to get at least a little-bit light.  I could be on the water to watch the sunrise…  Cool!

That meant that Wolf Bay, Palmetto Creek and Soldier Creek were out.  Maybe Perdido Bay…  That’s always gorgeous at sunrise!  But I have been wanting to hit the sound-side of Pensacola Beach…  I look at the clock.  It’s about a 45-50 minute drive, and I’ve already been on the road 15 minutes.  I could make it.  Rolling practice is so much more enjoyable in clear water…  We’re on!  I put my foot down on the accelerator.

When I got to the toll booth at Pensacola Beach, the attendant, a grizzled, leathery parrot-head looks at Kyra and grins.  “Nice,” he says, “but be careful.  They’re reporting lightning just off the beach right now.”

I look at the sky.  To the southwest, there are some hazy, dark clouds off in the distance.  That’s where I’m headed, but maybe it’ll be moving away – and that’s further out in the Gulf where I don’t plan on being.  I turn down Fort Pickens road and start looking for a place to put-in on the sound.  I haven’t been down this way since before Hurricanes Ivan and Katrina…  I knew that the road to Fort Pickens was washed-out and there was bound to be a lot of construction still – and construction is what I saw.  A LOT of it.  Nearly every inch of northern shoreline was under construction.

Finally, I found a parking lot with the water just beyond.  It was perfect.  The sound looked calm, and the beach was just 50-75 yards from the lot.  I swung Mojo in and went for the far-corner, away from other vehicles and nearest the water, backing-into the parking space so I could unload directly over the sand.  I stepped out of the cab to stretch and survey the skies…  Awesome!  Light, fluffy clouds – and the darker stormy clouds were fading off the southwestern horizon.

“Sir!  Sir!  You can’t park there!”  A little old man in a rent-a-cop uniform was walking quickly toward me from the nearby condominiums.  “Residents and construction vehicles only!  You’ll have to go to the public beach…”

Shit.

So off I go.  I hadn’t planned on paddling the open gulf, and the surf makes rolling a bit more challenging, but hey.  I’m getting in the water, dammit!  I drive to the end of the road and swing into the public beach area.  I cast a forlorn look at the trek I’m going to have to make…  They’ve had to rebuild the beaches since the hurricanes, and somehow, I think they’ve gone a little overboard…  The water was at least 150 yards from the parking lot.  That’s a long haul across soft sand with a 65 pound boat and another 10-15 pounds of gear, not to mention my own middle-aged fat ass.  I was already exhausted by the time I got to the water…

After a short breather, I started gearing-up.  With my sprayskirt and PFD on and readjusted, (who has been using my gear?  My PFD was cinched ALL THE WAY IN.  Was that some kind of fat-joke?  Harumph!) my paddle assembled and feathered, my GPS and cellphone in the waterproof case and secured to the deck with my drinking water and Gatorade, I was finally ready.  I noted there was a small group of about five fishermen about 70-100 yards to the west with their lines in the water…  One of them waved as I stood over my boat, assessing the shoreline and the surf.  I waved back.

The beach rebuilding had left the surf-line steep.  There was about a four-foot drop over about six feet from the “deck” of the beach to the surf.  There was a lot of algae floating in the water, but it was otherwise clear.  I walked into the surf to see how quickly it dropped off.  Damn…  Just eight or ten feet out, I was over waist-deep.  That’s pretty steep.

I trudged back up to my boat and positioned her to get-in.  I was going to have to hang the bow out over the water and “hop” to the edge and ride it down into the water.  Landing would be much more difficult.

I straddled my kayak, sat on the rear deck behind the keyhole, stepped in, straightened my legs and slid into the cockpit.  I reached for the footpegs, but I couldn’t find them.  They were nearly up to my knees!  Who had been in my boat?!  Normally, I can fine-tune the adjustment of my footpegs by swinging my opposite foot behind the peg and catching the release lever with my toe, but that requires me to be able to get at least one foot on the peg in the first place.  Maybe I can reach under the deck with my hand and…

OH SHIT!!!

Having leaned so radically forward in the cockpit threw my center of gravity over the edge of the incline.  I just managed to grab my paddle as I was shooting downhill and into the surf.  Frantically, I tried to gain control of my boat, which is near impossible if you can’t “grab” it with your legs.  Without the benefit of knee-braces, I tried to extend my legs fully forward for some purchase on the hull.  The surf was already buffeting me back against the steep shoreline when I realized that what I was pushing on was my foreward bulkhead.  Cringing at the thought of what a costly repair a ruptured bulkhead would be, I pulled my knees back and tried to brace myself by plunging my paddle down into the sand on my starboard (and open Gulf) side.  Pushing myself parallel to the shoreline, I realized I couldn’t easily release my paddle without pulling, which combined with the surf, started to take me over.

There I was, hugging the un-submerged port blade of my 230cm paddle, water filling my cockpit and facing the inevitable when I saw a single fin skimming the surface of the water just 40 feet from me, running parallel to the shoreline.  The fin stayed above water for a good 60 feet or so before it submerged again.

SHARK!

Dammit!  How stupid am I?  This beach is infamous for it’s shark attacks.  And what two things are you never supposed to do?  Go into the water at sunrise or dusk (primary feeding times), and NEVER near where anyone is fishing!!

At this point, I’ve realized my fight to control my boat is futile, and the next wave makes sure of that; it crashes into my already canted hull, filling it and capsizing me.  Now I’m in nearly chest-deep water, trying to simultaneously jerk my paddle out of the floor of the gulf and get around my water-laden 17-foot boat and back onto dry land before parts of me become breakfast tidbits for a bull shark.

Guardian angel protect me!

I guess I should mention that I’ve retired a few guardian angels in my 41 years – most of them in my late teens and early 20′s.  Mrs. Who and I have joked that they have returned to earth as dolphins to “vacation” and get some play time in, far from the western deserts where I grew-up.  Well, now I have no doubt about that theory…  I’m sure they were laughing their tailfins off as after uncharacteristically skimming the surface past me and finally submerging, two dolphins then arched to the surface to blow/inhale and then they were gone.

Good one, guys…  Really – after soiling my wetsuit, I’m laughing with you.  Hahah.

After bailing out my boat, I tried one more time to make a go of it…  I still couldn’t get my footpegs properly positioned, my sprayskirt wouldn’t stay-put (maybe ’cause it’s Mrs. Who’s and doesn’t fit my cockpit properly) and what must have been a five-pound mass of algae decided to attach itself to my paddle.

Cursing, I gave up after only a few minutes in the surf – still thinking about sharks and the bad combination of time and proximity to chummed waters – and I packed my shit and dragged my kayak and all my gear across the 200 yard stretch back to the parking lot.  Of course by now, I felt like I was either going to have a stroke or my heart would explode…  I can’t believe I’m getting so old and feeling it.

As I was loading Kyra back on top of Mojo, I noticed the bird poop was still there – now softened just enough to at least partially come off on me.

*sigh*

A few blocks from home, I swung into the car wash and pressure-washed remnants of bird poop and all the other accumulated grunge from Kyra’s hull.  Then I added a little hot wax, so the water (and hopefully the bird poop) will roll off her. 

So eventually the trip did have its upside…  Gah!

I think we’re in the market for a new web host.

NetFirms.com has blown our databases more than once, causing all kinds of fun, including nearly a week’s worth of lost posts and comments a couple of months ago. Connection problems and speed issues are commonplace. And whenever I call or email them for support – their first kneejerk response is usually “it’s not our fault! Check the FAQ’s to help your own damned self!!”

Last time they dropped our server, rather than submitting an emailed trouble-ticket, I decided it would be best to call to bitch find out how it possibly could have happened and what *I* might do to correct their problem. As one might expect, I spent nearly a half-hour on hold, waiting for some sort of response, let alone a resolution. A few weeks later, I get a phone bill with over $10.00 of “International Long Distance” added to it.

Shit!

Damn Canadians… Who would have thought a call to “America Light” would be “International Long Distance.” Stupid local damn phone company, too. I pay an exorbitant “flat-rate, no long-distance, no extras” (they weren’t lying there!) monthly service fee, and I get bent-over at every turn.

SO…

For anyone out there hosting their own sites – do you have a web host that you can recommend? Oh, and the first person to say “Go Daddy” wins either a groin or head-shot… your choice.

It was Goob’s 17th birthday today (Happy Birthday, Goob! – Love ya, kiddo!), and we did the usual Green Egg steak dinner at MamaBear’s house, cake and all that stuff. Now that it’s all over and I’m the only one up, I was thinking about my own life at seventeen years old…

Of all my teenage years, seventeen is the only one that I would do again for fun. It was a good year. I was testing the waters of my own freedom – I had a job and my own car. I frequently challenged my curfews (Mom was lenient because… well, because of Dad. I’ll leave it at that!), and I did a LOT of partying with friends… I remember street-racing anything that challenged me in my 1971 Pontiac GT-37 that was fast as hell, and Dad telling me after the second set of rear tires in a summer to “buy your own goddam tires from now on!” I remember pulling only 115mph up Parley’s Summit and being concerned that something was amiss with my vehicle – I’d lost enough power to cost me nearly 10 miles per hour on the steep grade. My best friend’s Plymouth Grand Fury (a retired UHP cruiser with a 440cid “Interceptor”) may have beat me, but I was still the better driver… Hell, I later beat his ass driving an un-modified VW Jetta against his Mustang GT. But of course that was on my first wedding day – and I was trying desperately to escape the sucking vortex of Death and Damnation.

But as usual, I digress…

One of the reasons we found ourselves racing so often up the canyon was to attend the countless outdoor summer concerts at ParkWest ski resort. We often didn’t even care who was performing – it was general admission, coolers and blankets allowed – a party and live music on the mountainside… They were great times.

Of all the bands I saw (discounting Oingo Boingo), for some reason this band, and this song sticks out in my mind:

I watched this video and about keeled-over in my chair. I’m effing OLD!!

I saw Depeche Mode no less than three times in concert during the five or so years following my seventeenth summer. At the time, I remember seeing the band members who were several years older than ourselves, and thinking they were “adults.” I couldn’t even vote yet, let alone drink (well, legally anyways.)

The concert in the video looks just like every one I remember… Except now, the Depeche Mode lead-singer and band members (and no, I was never a big enough fan to know or care to learn their names) look like Junior-High students!

Gah!

UPDATE:

In this video I both saw myself and found my solace – and decided I must share. Besides, I found my post “lacking” in profane expressions of anger… (In other words, this following video is NSFW!)

So, as a Public Service Announcement to you little Emo shits (including my own wonderful teenage delights)… Heed it well, for I guarantee you that it shall come to pass… :

Okay, so I’ve been away for a while. If there’s anyone out there still driving by to see if I’ve mowed the lawn or cleaned the windows… Looking for any signs of life at all… I’ll see if I can work on getting the place spruced up and rolling again.

Geez, even my sidebar widgets are out of whack. Damn.

Excuse me if this post is haphazard and a grammatical trainwreck. It’s going to be a wild rant…

*deep breath*

So I’ve had my head in a virtual bucket of sand lately. The Virginia Tech shootings and the mindless “this is too horrible to even think, so we’ll repeat it with the same looped tape of mindless interviews and ‘eyewitness’ accounts every three minutes for the next two weeks so you don’t miss a grisly detail…” was bad enough. Of course it doesn’t help that it followed on the heels of weeks of Anna Nicole and baby’s paternity coverage… If I’d heard another minute of that idiocy, I might have been compelled to shove an icepick upward into my own supra-orbicularis orbis in a desperate attempt at an auto-prefrontal lobotomy just to quell the rage!

Yes, school shootings depress the hell out of me. Why? Sure, the tragedy of innocent life lost, of course – and in frequently more bizarre and frighteningly cruel and senseless ways, too. But what compounds my frustration and dismay are the pinheads who think GUNS are the problem use the opportunity to immediately mount their soapboxes and try to strip me, my family and countless other law-abiding American citizens of their fundamental rights. Tonight I watched a Tivo’ed episode of Medium, for crying out loud, and they had to preface it with a perfectly acceptable expression of sadness for the VA tragedy and, then said “so we didn’t feel like we needed to show any more guns or senseless gun violence.“

Those VIOLENT FUCKING GUNS. They’re taking over!! Don’t turn your back on that old Colt that your grandpa left you, it might leap out of the old shoe box in the closet and kill you in your sleep! And THEN it will head down the road to the nearest school and start killing there, too! DON’T TRUST GUNS. They’re eeeeeeeviiillll!!

*spit* Pinheads.

But that’s just a FEW of the things that have kept me from wanting to go near my TV or any news-related (or for that matter, just about any) website for the past weeks… There’s plenty going on under our roof that has kept me on the brink of madness, too. But I’ll save that for later…

However, THIS was the straw that pissed me off and finally pushed me over the edge. I sortakinda accidentally browsed Drudge and saw the headline “Environmentalist calls mankind a ‘virus’…” That title didn’t surprise me at all – I’ve been railing on the self-loathing envirotards for over a decade, at least since I had to sit at a former place of employment and listen daily to a militant gay man defend his lifestyle choice as being “responsible negative population growth.” (Whatever. He was an asshole – I’m just happy he wasn’t creating more little versions of himself. He derisively used the term “Breeders” all the time – but complained petitioned threatened to have the employee handbook add “any derogatory speech regarding homosexuality or homosexual lifestyles” be deemed “cause for immediate dismissal.”)

But it was the “humankind a virus” coupled with the associated story of the attack on children – specifically babies – and families… It’s nothing more than a new angle for the abortion debate. “Babies are harmful to the environment.”

What fucking FUCK expects any rational, decent person to accept that argument…

In this case, I’m all for supporting the rights of the extra-tree-hugging-chromosome crowd to voluntary, government-funded sterilization. Then, they will be free to take their neutered-selves straight down to the nearest hybrid-selling dealership to buy a battery-powered eco-ego-comforting coffin in their choice of “look at me, I’m saving the planet!” logo-emblazoned glory. Oh, and don’t forget, you have the option of “Meat is Murder” LEATHER or “Carbon-offset” PETROLEUM-BASED FABRIC upholstery to choose from… Just don’t expect ME to have to pay for the fucking hazmat cleanup when you pull out in front of my 4800-pound SUV! And your fucking insurance had better pay for a rental while I’m having my motherfucking BUMPER replaced, even if said bumper is your ticket off the planet!!

Oh, and that reminds me. Here’s an Experience Based™ note to Progressive Insurance – you’re a bunch of whiny fucking *ASSHATS! Don’t try to penalize ME for your client’s stupidity OR try to tell me WHOM I MAY CHOOSE TO PERFORM A REPUTABLE REPAIR! Yes, I DO believe the guys who have had the same body shop on the same corner in town for the past 20 years are qualified to repair my vehicle to an acceptable standard. NO, I DON’T think the acne-plastered kid in the shop that sprang-up last week who tells me he’s going to cut the quarter-panel off my vehicle and then park it in his “yard” (read OUTDOORS) with a fucking TARP over it to “protect” my vehicle until they “can figure out from the insurance company what they need to order and get the right part in” is an acceptable alternative to the “excessive” three to four-week turnaround just weeks after a FUCKING CATEGORY 4+ HURRICANE rips through our community! Your claims adjusters are RUDE and your “supervisors” are even worse. And just so you know, I was cheering in the office when the body-shop owner dared your so-called “manager” to steer clients away from his business!

*[Oh, that reminds me... Welcome back Rachel Lucas!]

Where was I? Oh, the “humanity is evil, no more babies” crowd… How about you start with yourselves. You really want to reduce your carbon output? Stop breathing. Drink the kool-aid, call Dr. Kevorkian, whatever. Be brave – do the right thing and be the leaders you were meant to be. Off the planet – now. The ride is over. I need more room for my Suburban on the road anyway.

I hear purple shrouds are stylish… And I promise a round of thunderous applause on behalf of your willingness to take a real stand.

Oh, and for the “America Sucks” crowd, I propose the following new program: The IA Footprint Offset. For every “America Sucks” or “There’s just so many things wrong with our country today” soapbox squaller, I invite you to take the place of an Illegal Alien in his or her country of origin. Trade your income for theirs – along with your American Constitutional Rights and Freedoms. Help offset the burden of health-care and infrastructure drain by illegals by offering them your home, your job, and your… Well, I understand if you don’t want them driving your precious Prius. Besides, I’m sure they’d rather have something with a little more seating capacity. Anyway, simply trade identities, careers and Social Security and Federal Income Tax status with any illegal alien already residing here. This will effect an offset to the impact on our social and governmental systems, while at the same time you are escaping the trappings of Evil Corporate America and the VRWC.

It’s pure fucking genius – although I’m not holding my breath. The door still hasn’t slammed shut behind Alec Baldwin’s fat ass, after all…

*sigh* Wow, there was more venom to purge than I had thought… I’m starting to feel better already!