A bit of populist Greek Fire
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Posted:Sep 17, 2008 8:00 am
Last Updated:Sep 23, 2008 2:14 pm
1558 Views
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Just let me get a few things straight here.
In the conceptual world of the “financially”, “Monetary”, “Chicago Boy” conservative we got these needling paradoxes.
Things like Government which is, allegedly, by and for the people is not to be trusted. Got to keep those scoundrels off the backs of bi’d’nes. Usually this is explained away by simple, less than explanatory, sentences such as “That’s Human Nature”. Yet these self same yahoos just delight in proclaiming that corporations are persons. Hmmm, well I would agree that corporations do tend to behave like selfish little two year olds, before the development of justice truly forms in a wee’uns mind.
Bizarre paradoxes like the oft heard statement of late, the ranting hew and cry of “Those people shouldn’t have borrowed that money if they couldn’t pay it back”. Yet it’s just dandy to chuck billions of tax payer dollars, my gawdamned dollars, into the self same market that has proven wholly unable to pay back its debt to society or its slimy little herd of “investors”.
The complete inability to wrap their heads around the fact that financial institutions intentionally invited folks onto their second hand broke down Astroturf calling it a magic carpet and then pulled it out from under them as soon as they step onto it. Caveat emptor my big ugly arse. Or if it is caveat emptor then why do they bleat so bitter when their machinations, inevitably, lead to their own financial destruction? One of them goose and gander kinda things if you ask me.
Now, as to government, I don’t care for it too much myself, seems to breed maggots and other vermin as much as a dead by the side of the road on a hot day. But at least their easier to pin down and give ‘em a piece of your mind, vote the rascals out or if it comes to it, chase ‘em out yelling and screaming.
We got no way to really do that with the scumbags seated at the designer table undoubtedly cut from some rare and disappearing rain forest hard wood.
Yeah Yeah and what the hell.
“Break downs, call ‘em breakdowns. Go and so.
What’ch’a gon’na do about it, that’s what I wan’na know”.
Simple, like this.
When the rabid, frothing at the mouth media repeats mantras like “we need to fully privatize Fanny Mae”, those words learned from the corporate tape worms they are always putting their head under the desks for, tell ‘em to piss off. Tell ‘em fine you buy into that moldering bucket of tripe. Then demand government fully take over the loans floating on real people’s homes. Christ, if you ask me, that’s a hell of a good bet. Oughta beat the hell out’ta Tbills, you know invest in the American people? Yeah there are going to be folks who will default on that nasty ass McMansion and maybe some folks do need to have their Igotmine, keepin’uppwiththeJonses pompous, wasteful asses feel the sting of their own selfishness. See I reckon you’ll have a hell of a lot more folks paying their reasonable mortgage, with interest rates that won’t get Christ looking for his bullwhip, all those nice green frogskins going back into the treasury. You know, OUR freaking money.
So now I hear that AIG is getting bailed out Eighty some odd billion? Fut the whuck!!!!
What were those scallywags doing taking the money given them in good faith and gambling it away?!! That’s an insurance company so big you’d need one cosmically big stick to shake at it.
Yeah well, opportunity and danger all mixed up. See, if we the people now own and control this company again I say hell yeah. Lets take the insurance industry away from scoundrels who would gamble away the money that folks tendered them to protect them in times of crisis. Been saying it for years, ya cain’t trust the bastards. So here’s our opportunity to create universal health insurance. Scream at your congress critters folks.
For once I agree with the hyenas of Wall Street. This crisis does need intervention. The government does need to play fast and loose with the bullion. So it needs to stop wasting half of our hard earned money on stupid wars, stupid anti missile systems that don’t work in Poland and say its ‘cause of Iran (look at afriggin’ map y’all), stupid do as I say and not as I do violations of the Nuclear Non Proliferation Treaty, we got no right saying who can’t build or develop nukes when we are spending billions doing so.
Where we gon’na get the rest of the money we need?
Now that’s as simple as it gets. Tax the rich, tax ‘em for breathing, tax ‘em for waking up in the morning. Tax them for going to bed at night. Tax them until they come up to our level. Hard earned money from hard earned work folks’ll say, I am so sick of hearing that. Most any one I know knows what hard work is, most folks I know have stared death in the face at work. Sorry, but most of those bastards wouldn’t know what hard work was unless they were put on a chain gang. …..Hey, that’s not a bad idea……
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Land of Drought and Flood
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Posted:Sep 17, 2008 7:20 am
Last Updated:Sep 23, 2008 2:15 pm
1210 Views
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Land of drought and flood.
Land of feast or famine.
Been chuckling a bit lately on how things so often reflect the environment from whence they come.
So many folks come here to my little patch of paradise, enchanted by the architecture and culture. So many of those folks bring the high amperage fussle and bustle, the nitty do as I think you ought’ta do city and sea of suburban rodent on amphetamine culture. They’ll pound their fury against us lazy New Mexicans. Do every thing in their impotent power to change us into the exact polar opposite of the “charm” that brought ‘em here in the first place.
See, here the skies are so big it can only see the mountains as equals, the wide llanos as peers. Fussy little critters don’t mean doodley. Even the two legged ones.
You beat yourself against the mountain and you beat yourself up. You try to plant yourself on the arid plain and you dry up and blow away.
Man didn’t make this place like it made the concrete canyons out east or the denuded farmland where once a squirrel could’a gone from Philly to the Mississippi without alighting on the ground.
Us puny humans ain’t in control.
So us folks who lived here a bit kinda get it.
You got’ts let things sort themselves out of their own volition, ‘cause all you can do is bloody your knuckles or stub your toes against a geology adamant.
Out here one year the late frost kills the buds, next year the boughs are so weighted with apricots they just might snap.
One year you truck around in the high country and only come home tired, another it takes eight days to pack the elk out of the wilderness.
One year the hills have so much snow on them you sink to your waist come Spring Turkey season, another you look up onto your beloved, forested slopes and pray no damn fool tosses a cigarette.
Often, on those dry years, the ground parched, nothin’ but blow dust clinging to everything, the change comes like it was stuck under pressure in a can. Strata Cumuli all belly full of hail thrashing everything in site. Soil gone hydrophobic tossing the insanely heavy drops into the draws and arroyos ‘till you can hear boulders the size of trucks and houses thumping and clinking in the boiling turmoil. Three foot culverts getting munched like a ’s popcorn at a scary movie.
Out here a lot of us call that a “Male Rain”. All macho and full of bluster. Often as not that first bit of rage, and maybe a few more. to break the drought leads to a summer of gentle Female Rains and the Indian Paint Brush and Penstomen are resplendent in the rich greens.
So, I’m hoping that the other day, when I was at the Thirsty Ear Festival, surrounded by too many delicately or divinely or stunningly beautiful women vying for my attention, dancing my ass off, was like those billowing clouds of a male rain to break my love forlorn drought. I’m hoping for some gentle love to rain down on me. My heart tumbling like boulders in a flood was a little hard to keep up with.
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For America
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Posted:Sep 15, 2008 10:32 am
Last Updated:Oct 7, 2008 12:58 pm
1440 Views
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My Dad's family has been here on Turtle Island just a few years short of four centuries.
Mum's a Brit now living in Florence.
I'm definitely My Dad's boy.
For me this country has my heart.
There is no place for me to go but here.
I would rather die fighting (peacefully) for what this country means to me than to live anywhere else.
For America
As if I really didn't understand
That I was just another part of their plan
I went off looking for the promise
Believing in the Motherland
And from the comfort of a dreamer's bed
And the safety of my own head
I went on speaking of the future
While other people fought and bled
The I was when I first left home
Was looking for his freedom and a life of his own
But the freedom that he found wasn't quite as sweet
When the truth was known
I have prayed for America
I was made for America
It's in my blood and in my bones
By the dawn's early light
By all I know is right
We're going to reap what we have sown
As if freedom was a question of might
As if loyalty was black and white
You hear people say it all the time-
"My country wrong or right"
I want to know what that's got to do
With what it takes to find out what's true
With everyone from the President on down
Trying to keep it from you
The thing I wonder about the Dads and Moms
Who send their sons to the Vietnams
Will they really think their way of life
Has been protected as the next war comes?
I have prayed for America
I was made for America
Her shining dream plays in my mind
By the rockets red glare
A generation's blank stare
We better wake her up this time
The I was when I first left home
Was looking for his freedom and a life of his own
But the freedom that he found wasn't quite as sweet
When the truth was known
I have prayed for America
I was made for America
I can't let go till she comes around
Until the land of the free
Is awake and can see
And until her conscience has been found
Jackson Browne
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Caribou Barbie
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Posted:Sep 4, 2008 2:12 pm
Last Updated:Sep 28, 2008 10:15 pm
991 Views
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Alright I'm just shootin' from the hip here.
This will not be anything like a Ginsberg stream of consciousness, more like puking out something foul and indigestible.
YIKES!!!!!! What a nasty ass psycho hose beast!
Jesus Ef Chwist, what a nasty little piece of work!
All she can do is cast Lies and wretched little insults!?
Caribou Barbie, indeed, she reminds me so much of those uber-nasty cheerleader girls from Princeton High. I could not believe them then, all Snottery and cruelty. No brains, just hate on stick, vicious, vindictive, just plain mean. There boy friends with the little alligators on their shirts and the belief that they were of an aristocratic class blessed by their births into a class better than others.
What of substance did she have to utter?
Obama never wrote any legislation, indeed.
Give me a friggin' break.
Please, please, anyone who came away with a positive attitude toward that person after last night, please, review the McCain ideas as per taxation (Tens of billions of dollars of tax cuts to oil corps and other mega corporations, none for the working class).
Yeah Obam intends to raise taxes, or to be more precise, to bring the tax rate back to what it was ten years ago. FOR those lucky enough to make more than $250,000 a year!!!!!
I'm so tired of the Republican's inability to debate on issues of substance and just hang out as bottom feeders of society at the bottom of the sociological septic tank.
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So this guy goes a'huntin'
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Posted:Sep 2, 2008 5:35 pm
Last Updated:Sep 3, 2008 10:06 am
968 Views
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So this guy goes a'huntin' bear.
Gets up all early, drives to the woods, walks a bit.
Sees a nice little bear, all cute and everything.
Blasts it away.
He's feeling like a real man now, ya' know.
But then he feels this tap on his shoulder.
There's this REALLY big bear behind him.
Bear says, "look, dude, that little bear was my favorite nephew. But I'm not feeling too mean today. So I'll give you a choice. I can either rip your lungs out or I can fuck you"
Well to that 'ol boy it was kind'a'a no brainer so he went home walkin' funny and harbouring a deep resentment that only got worse as the year wore on.
So's, needless to say first day of bear season, he grabs his gun, hops in his truck, drives for a bit, walks for a bit, finds that gawdamned bear and Bahdhabing,
Blasts him away.
He's feeling good now, like his masculinity has been restored.
But then.
He feels this tap on his shoulder.
Turns around.
There's this REALLY, REALLY big Griz behind him.
Griz says
"You don't come to the woods for the hunting, do you?"
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Not Regret
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Posted:Sep 2, 2008 7:17 am
Last Updated:Sep 23, 2008 2:15 pm
1385 Views
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I could feel her nipple, centimeters from mine, her warm breast, still damp from our hours of love making, pressed lightly, covering my nipple, full, firm, round, resplendent. I was still in that state of heightened sensitivity, almost transcendentally lucid. Yet I could not move, exhausted, lying on my back, arms spread. I could not open my eyes. Yet I could see her face, those warm brown eyes gazing upon my face. I could feel a few strands of that luminescent, long, brown hair upon my face. With my eyes closed, I could see how her hair framed her face, curving with gravity as it rested upon her shoulder, slightly tousled, catching the dappled sun in her highlights. She stayed like that for moments, I could feel her breathing, now slow and relaxed. Moments more passed and there was a slight catch in a breath drawn in. Almost as if in pain.
And then a long litany, in a voice almost pleading, “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…..”
I could not move.
Could not figure out how to even put my arm around her.
Becca.
She had been sixteen a little longer than I had been eighteen. One of my two youthful loves who had made the unprecedented decision for my group of post/neo free love friends to wait until sixteen to cast aside their virginity. I had deflowered neither. Laura and I had drifted apart before she came of the age of her choosing. Becca and I had become lovers soon after she had finished her long, resolved wait.
We had sojourned into the woods of the Institute for Advanced Studies, known as the “Quaker Woods”. The woods of many a stroll of Einstein and other thinkers, whose brilliance verged upon the beyond spiritual.
We had taken off our clothes in haste, not realizing that our proximity to the Raritan River was a haven for vile and horrible, blood sucking, swarming mosquitoes. Laughing and giggling we grabbed our clothes, day pack, shoes and boots and deer hopped to a safe little depression, where those clothes made our nest to lie upon.
For hours we made love, in as many ways as our not quite masterful minds could conjure. Finally, in that position so typical, she was wracked by earth shattering orgasm after orgasm. Her first time to be there.
“Stop. Stop”, she cried, in the end unable to handle the sensory overload.
And so we lay wrapped in each other’s arms, until, finally I fell over on my back, irregardless of the bracken and detritus of the hard woods.
It would be untrue to say that I was not also a little terrified of the knowledge that soon we would separate.
That little, stodgy university town, with all its airs and norms, protocols and snobbery, rules and regulations fit me like a woman’s size four spandex outfit would fit me now.
I felt constrained and trapped. If I were to bust the seams of that town of existential claustrophobia, who knows how much the earth would tremble. Or such is the vain musings of youth.
I needed to return to the West of my heritage, where the skies were as expansive as the heart bursting in my breast. Where I wouldn’t have to worry about my quest for things unknown to tear this small horizon asunder.
We had spoken of this and it had been decided. I would return to Colorado and she to Philly to finish school. With the heedless hope of youth we thought it would all work out.
We had mutual permission, or so we tried to convince ourselves and each other, to see, to make love, with others. Just so long as we kept our hearts true, to each other.
Stupid .
Back in those days, that fabled time before the advent of AIDS, my friends and I had a well established protocol when it came to contraception. I still struggle with the thought that it became, or it seemed to be a function of young womens’ mothers making sure their daughters had diaphragms or the pill, at any rate, contraception was generally the role of the woman. Condoms being an undesirable, lesser option. Stupid , especially us boys, who were all too happy and oblivious to enjoy things that were given us, delivered on stolen silver platters.
We always asked, we were always safe.
Stupid .
And so it came to pass, over the course of the next year that a friend and I became lost in passion, as the fire sank low in the tipi, a few sparks flying up through the smoke flaps as we loved all night.
I will never, could never, even if my life depended on it, regret the birth of my .
I only wish that I hadn’t broken Becca’s heart.
Years passed, Alicia and I were torn apart like cheap sail cloth in a gale of the follies of responsibilities too young rendered.
Over the years we would come to live in and appreciate our undying love for each other, if not so often with our bodies as with our souls.
Years passed.
I came to love a woman whose ten years younger were an echo of my earlier love of not quite two years younger. She, of course, would need to go on. To break free of constraints, real or imagined, that, perhaps, a few more years of maturity might make irrelevant.
It was what I pretty much knew and would turn out to be, our last love making.
We made love for hours.
Finally, culminating with me on my back, her back to my front as she delicately allowed my engorged penis to penetrate her anus, her sculpted arms and strong hands guiding me in, both feverish. Her strength, so remarkable, as she arched her back upon full engagement. My hands grappling her strong belly, her breasts, stroking her clitoris until she was wracked by earth shattering orgasm after orgasm.
We collapsed into the bed and she fell asleep with the light of the city streets bathing her long elegant beauty.
Those city lights, which I could not stand, those city lights that were calling her away.
I rose to my elbow, my nipple lightly upon her small, three times a mother’s breast.
I gazed into her insanely beautiful exotic face. Those impossibly full and shapely lips, the high cheekbones where Mediterranean meets Native American, those wickedly long eyes that Nefertitti would kill for.
And I repeated a litany that, as I said it, brought all those years crashing back into my conscience.
“I love you, I love you, I love you…..”
Of course I would wish later, upon reflection, that I had, all those years ago.
Taken her in my arms and pulled her close.
Not just to feel her length against my length, our legs intertwining.
Not just to feel her round, full, youthful breasts against my chest.
But to feel her quickened heart, beating, against my chest, as she felt mine.
And to join her in an otherworldly harmony,
“I Love you, I love you, I love you, I love You…..”
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Denver, again
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Posted:Aug 29, 2008 7:54 am
Last Updated:Sep 28, 2008 10:14 pm
1252 Views
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Alright, Sorry and all, but here's another. From now on I's'a gonna try to write stuff that is more fun and tittilating.
I looked up at the cold, blotched, white and grey tower. I had been here before. Inside and up high, in that hearing room. Thirty years and something like a month ago. I was sixteen. Leonard had only just been put in jail and the idea that he still would be on this day, this day that seemed impossibly into the future back then, was inconceivable.
Yet here we were, Ward and the wife of Soul On Ice, Lakota warriors, wife and man.
Those thirty years ago I was up there, terrified , with that courage of conviction, standing at the podium, looking for recognition of humanity in the eyes of over coiffed women and men in polyester and ridiculous sideburns. I looked into their eyes, pleading with my eyes, as only a passionate sixteen year old can. Implacable, the panel, not quite scowling, at the in the Tyrolean hat. “Don’t you understand we’re here because we care about you?” I took a small step or two and fell over, “dead”. Butch reached out from his position a’muerte and squeezed my calf in solidarity. Later Diana said I fell as if I had truly died, yet with incredible grace. Yeah well, a buddy’ll say anything to encourage a friend.
That was my first action that could’ve led to a booking. Other than sitting on those railroad tracks leading into the Rocky Flats nuclear weapons facility. Or just being an untamed young Wildman with more passion than sense.
Today, however, it’s the “real” opening day of the Democratic Convention. And Leonard Peltier is still in jail and Mumia Abu Jamal. And so many others.
A communist true believer approaches me, we discuss the fact that, as a Quaker, I can’t support violent revolution. That Emma Goldman is more representative of my attitude and that, in the end, with her disavowing of the “Attentat”, that she was one of the early “Evolutionary Anarchists”, as I call it. That I believe, especially in America, that the concept of a forced centralized economy is not only despotic, but bloody well ludicrous. Whelp, does it take much to reckon that all that went over her head so fast that it mussed her sensible, short haircut? She said that I should read her “New Constitution”. It only costs five bucks. I handed her the Fin as I said, “Funny, I’d’n’’t? That it costs five bucks to overthrow the American Capitalist System?” She didn’t laugh. And there in does lay one of those crux {i} of the biscuit, to wit’ Commies and Nazi’s and Capitalism Sauvagistas can never succeed in the long run ‘cause they suck at laughing at themselves
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A Tale of a Knight Errint
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Posted:Aug 28, 2008 8:22 am
Last Updated:Sep 28, 2008 10:14 pm
1008 Views
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A Tale of a Knight Errint. (Spelling intentional)
Driving home to my little canyon, my refuge from the storm of obsessive, compulsive humanity, contemplating the brazzzilion things I’ve got to do before heading up to the DNC in the morning. Ah rats, there’s some road rats busted flat, the vital fluids of the wee little Volkswagen “pickup” splattered on the highway. The Uhaul trailer attached, no doubt the cause of this tragedy. After all, was it not Glorietta Pass that caused the demise of the great warrior Philbert’s Protector, the War Pony?
A guy a bit older than me, mismatched beach sandals, sun carved features, California plates screaming aging surfer. A young ravishingly handsome dready . Surfer boy frowns at my laughter at the idea of a mechanic to be found as the sun goes down in a late summer’s evening. “Dude, there ain’t no way you’re gonna find one either here or even in Santa”.
He’s getting a little anxious now.
“So where you headed”
“To Denver for the Democratic National Convention”.
“I’ve got all of Code Pink’s (do you know about Code Pink?) props and bicycles in the trailer”.
“Bah, never heard of ‘em”.
Well, at least he gets my sarcasm, as he looks at the billboard of leftism that is the tailgate of my truck.
“OK”, I say “I’m headed up there tomorrow, I can pull your trailer and you can stay at my place tonight.”
Looks of incredulity. I love being that not masked man.
So. Of course this guy, Tighe, as it turns, is indeed an LA surfer boy/movie industry dude via Florida and Detroit acts like it. Fluttering around, all a-twitter.
There are times when one truly can appreciate the few times that the calm of the mountain dweller can emanate from and infuse the mad thrashings, gazillion mile’a’second rantings of the city dweller.
After getting his little VeeDub pushed to the nearby mechanic’s shop we head up to my place as the last light finally fades from the sky.
So the dready 's name is Kai, Tighe and Kai, just freakin’ great, the universe throws a combination of names guaranteed to befuddle the dyslexic.
Kai’s twenty two, or thereabouts, born here in the states spent his hood in London, Brixton to be precise. You know “when they kick at your front door, how you gonna go, shot down on the pavement or….”. ’s sweet to the point of angelic.
Tighe is like the lone male mascot of that all girls’ crew, Code Pink, the most in your face political activists who’s hard core femininity scares the living crap out’a the fascists they delight in confronting.
That night they marvel at the spread of the Milky Way, splayed across the sky, northeast to southwest. Tighe takes it as a personal challenge to decimate that bottle of nasty, cheap wine someone brought to a barbeque up here that stayed unwanted and unloved until now.
The next day I do my duty to the work world where I am to meet a rider from Craigslist. She turns out to be one of those women of a beauty so delicate it makes you think of some kind of French or Italian pastry, somehow as light as air and yet a plethora of flavors so subtle yet distinct. Oh great, I say to myself, now she’s sure to think I’m a psycho, Qu'est-ce que c'est.
The trailer slows us down fairly badly and draws upon my fuel mileage. A few brief moments of worry as to the spirit of the journey and the journeyers but in the end its mischief managed.
The next day I check in to the Code Pinkers at their temporary headquarters, the Mercury Café.
Medea Benjamin, the, arguably, most charismatic and best known woman of Code Pink is pedaling around on a little pink bicycle. Tighe, ratchet in hand looks on. Madea is radiant, beautiful, a smile that conquers all on a small pretty face. Certainly not the boogey woman Condoleezza would have us believe.
Tighe introduces us and she thanks me, hugs me with warmth and appreciation.
Driving a couple loony bins and their trailer up to Denver?
A little lost sleep and mebe a hundred bucks of fuel.
A hug from Madea Benjamin?
Priceless.
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It could be worse....
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Posted:Aug 21, 2008 8:42 am
Last Updated:May 13, 2024 2:38 pm
872 Views
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It could be worse, ya know, I could be completely dependent on Craig's list where this little gem was on Albuquerque's W4M--
Not afraid to get dirty! - 36 (albuquerque)
I am a sweet girl with a wild side that has a particular fondness for mayo on bread as a late night snack (stinking bread was moldy tonight!!! - that's what I get for buying bread without preservatives and having no one to share it with). I am a marine biologist who can be found wading through mangrove swamps or snorkeling through seagrass beds- hence a little dirt does not phase me, nor does crab poop which tends to resemble chocolate sprinkles (don't worry - I won't trick you when serving ice cream). I also am a professor of biology and enjoy teaching as well as mentoring students. I enjoy reading (recently Mapping Human History, Under the Banner of Heaven, and The Namesake), watching movies (HBO, SHO, etc) and CNN, and playing sports like tennis, golf, swimming, jogging, canoeing. I enjoy crafts and make and sell beaded jewelry in my "spare" time (when not staying up until 3 am prepping lectures). I also really enjoy food and drink; my favorites are ethiopian, middle eastern, korean, thai, greek, japanese. I have two ladybutts (aka pussers) who keep me warm at night in the absence of some larger furry creature (possibly you??). I am looking to meet someone who is sincere, motivated, articulate, and has a good sense of self - all of which are terms I also would use to describe myself. Let me know if you want to experience the mud!
Now that's funny. Mangrove swamps and marine biologists......here.
Too bad she seems cool......
Reckon some idjit that doesn't really speak/read/write English very well copies these and pastes them without regard to how wildly misplaced they are?
The List's W4M section does have its entertainment value, regardless of the dearth of real women.
Or darlin', on the off chance that you didn't think to put a disclaimer such as "I return to Barry University in a couple weeks", I should say that I had dreamed of being first mate of Calypso in my younger days.
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Sweet Anticipation
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Posted:Aug 19, 2008 2:17 pm
Last Updated:Sep 28, 2008 10:14 pm
875 Views
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So you meet one.
One of those women who makes your heart do the BigBahdhaBoom.
You wonder, even as you know,
That her height will compliment yours,
That she is an epitome of what you think of as beauty.
Her large, strong hands.
That slightly husky voice.
Strength that is the feminine equivalent of your own.
And you wonder.
Will this be love sublime?
Will she taste as sweet as you think?
That musk of the morning when you don't quite know if its real or not.
Yet.
Drowsy, as if drugged, the scent of her draws you down.
Will you want to take a break from the watering hole?
Will the Cowgirl Hall of Fame be less frequented?
Is this the one that will have you stop searching?
For a while.
At least.
Reckon a couple'a weeks'll tell.
Sweet Anticipation.
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