The days of overnight shoots and overloaded work madness seem to be over for a while.
Now, on to the new madness: a new home. Yep, for those of you who know me, I'm moving again. Hopefully, though, this will be the last time for a while. It's a lovely place, and very close to Conor's school. I'm downsizing our lives . . . smaller, more-efficient car, single-story home, low-maintenance yard, and a lot less CRAP in the house.
How we accumulated two stories' worth of that much shit, I'll never know.
The world seems to have passed by in the meantime. Not just passed, I guess, but rocketed. And the more wild things are "out there," the more I want to hunker down with a supply of red wine and beef jerky. Every morning, I wake to the news. In those half-sleep, snooze-button excerpts I'll catch blurbs that, inevitably, I wish I hadn't heard.
This morning, for instance, the radio came on and the news of Hizbollah's kidnapping of Israeli soldiers was top story. I cracked an eye open and saw a stripe of livid orange sunlight on my bedroom wall. This wasn't a normal sunrise, because our valley has been blanketed with a smoky, burnt haze from the San Bernardino forest fires. So daylight here is extra-bright, extra-lurid, and terrifically unkind. This is the kind of sun you'd imagine over battlefields. I imagined that would be the same sun that's too familiar in other parts of the world -- sun that pounds through the smoke caused by gunfire and RPGs and roadside bombs and grenades.
It took three hours before I could shake that apocalyptic feeling.
There is something else going on with me, something physical, but I'm not sure I want to write about it. Maybe I will . . . but maybe that's just putting far too much of myself out there.
In the meantime, I look forward to our new home. There's something so exciting about making a fresh start. We'll be moved in just before the boy's 8th birthday. Just before he starts third grade. And I'll be that much further down the road, away from the things that are haunting me.
The better days are ahead, I know.
And thank you, those who visit here and encourage me. I'm trying to re-engage. Thank you for still being around.
7.12.2006
6.30.2006
Joining the Tribute
I'm meerkat-ing: popping my head up to let y'all know I'm alive. Work's been absolutely heinous.
Enough of that. I've put in my name at 2,996. I love this idea, and I can't wait to get started on the person they choose for me, God rest his or her soul.
Five years. I can't believe it'll be five years.
Enough of that. I've put in my name at 2,996. I love this idea, and I can't wait to get started on the person they choose for me, God rest his or her soul.
Five years. I can't believe it'll be five years.
6.13.2006
Fabulous insight at the World Cup
I actually heard this during this morning's game between France and Switzerland:
"The Swiss are very organized."
"The Swiss are very organized."
Now I'm really going
I've been slammed at work, getting ready for another TV shoot. I leave tonight for Portland.
So, even though I haven't been around, I'm not going to be around for about a week.
So, even though I haven't been around, I'm not going to be around for about a week.
6.06.2006
6.05.2006
Season's End
Tonight was my boy's last rookie baseball game. They took fourth place in the league.
It was an exciting, heartbreakingly adorable stretch in which the Sidewinders finished their regular season with only three losses, then won three playoff games to make it to this evening's semifinal.
In the last inning, the score was 8 - 7. We were losing. The first boy hit the ball harder than any of us thought possible - and it stuck right in the pitcher's glove. One out. Next, Conor came up, fought off two pitches, and got a hit. The next guy hit a double and there he was: Conor on third base with one out.
And then we all watched his hopeful little face as he silently begged his teammates to hit him home and tie the game. I stood by the dugout, fixed on his nervous, puppy-ish frame . . . and sent every loving thought I had to him. I hoped he'd get to touch home safely.
The next boy struck out.
And the boy after that hit a ball right to first base. Three outs. Game over. Sidewinders lose.
Conor stood on third base for a moment longer, as if he couldn't believe he'd never get to score. Then, he took off his batting helmet and shuffled over, right through the middle of the other team's celebration. He ran to me, and I pulled him close to speak so only he'd hear.
"I'm proud of you, my Pumpkin. I love you so very much."
You see, you can't call a growing boy in a baseball uniform "Pumpkin" out loud. Such things aren't done. There are no Pumpkins in baseball.
But there is crying. Some little ones were that upset. Others wanted to assign blame before their parents could hush them. Mine kept his feelings to himself.
On the way home, I told him stories about my times playing softball in high school. He was very interested to hear that we never went to the playoffs. He sat up straighter in his booster seat when I told him his team was much better than the teams I played for. He begged to hear about times I personally did well, or times I messed up.
So I told him everything: about the tendonitis that would send me home in tears; about my 16th birthday, when I lost a ball in the sun and got smashed in the mouth - giving me a bloody lip and a swollen face; about the time my ex-boyfriend showed up to a game to rattle me, and I played like a friggin' pro; about the constant open wound on my left shin from sliding into second base; and I told him about the times we played games in the cold and wind against teams so much better than we were, making us wonder why we even tried.
But I told him we always tried our best, no matter what. And I told him that I was proud of him for doing his best, even though they didn't win the game.
At bedtime, he was clean and lying down and he looked up at me.
"I love you, Mommy."
My God, he breaks my heart.
"I love you too, my Pumpkin."
Minutes later, he was asleep. Sweet and small but more grown up than he was before tonight's game. Tonight, he learned that even though you try, you can still lose. But even knowing you can lose, you never stop trying.
Not only is that baseball, it's life.
It was an exciting, heartbreakingly adorable stretch in which the Sidewinders finished their regular season with only three losses, then won three playoff games to make it to this evening's semifinal.
In the last inning, the score was 8 - 7. We were losing. The first boy hit the ball harder than any of us thought possible - and it stuck right in the pitcher's glove. One out. Next, Conor came up, fought off two pitches, and got a hit. The next guy hit a double and there he was: Conor on third base with one out.
And then we all watched his hopeful little face as he silently begged his teammates to hit him home and tie the game. I stood by the dugout, fixed on his nervous, puppy-ish frame . . . and sent every loving thought I had to him. I hoped he'd get to touch home safely.
The next boy struck out.
And the boy after that hit a ball right to first base. Three outs. Game over. Sidewinders lose.
Conor stood on third base for a moment longer, as if he couldn't believe he'd never get to score. Then, he took off his batting helmet and shuffled over, right through the middle of the other team's celebration. He ran to me, and I pulled him close to speak so only he'd hear.
"I'm proud of you, my Pumpkin. I love you so very much."
You see, you can't call a growing boy in a baseball uniform "Pumpkin" out loud. Such things aren't done. There are no Pumpkins in baseball.
But there is crying. Some little ones were that upset. Others wanted to assign blame before their parents could hush them. Mine kept his feelings to himself.
On the way home, I told him stories about my times playing softball in high school. He was very interested to hear that we never went to the playoffs. He sat up straighter in his booster seat when I told him his team was much better than the teams I played for. He begged to hear about times I personally did well, or times I messed up.
So I told him everything: about the tendonitis that would send me home in tears; about my 16th birthday, when I lost a ball in the sun and got smashed in the mouth - giving me a bloody lip and a swollen face; about the time my ex-boyfriend showed up to a game to rattle me, and I played like a friggin' pro; about the constant open wound on my left shin from sliding into second base; and I told him about the times we played games in the cold and wind against teams so much better than we were, making us wonder why we even tried.
But I told him we always tried our best, no matter what. And I told him that I was proud of him for doing his best, even though they didn't win the game.
At bedtime, he was clean and lying down and he looked up at me.
"I love you, Mommy."
My God, he breaks my heart.
"I love you too, my Pumpkin."
Minutes later, he was asleep. Sweet and small but more grown up than he was before tonight's game. Tonight, he learned that even though you try, you can still lose. But even knowing you can lose, you never stop trying.
Not only is that baseball, it's life.
Things I Hate
In this precise order:
1) Work
2) Summer colds that turn into . . .
3) Sinus infections
Sniff. Koff. Gurgle. Bleah.
1) Work
2) Summer colds that turn into . . .
3) Sinus infections
Sniff. Koff. Gurgle. Bleah.
5.23.2006
The pup
My Cassie. Nine-plus years and 75-plus pounds of Golden Retriever love. She's a senior citizen, by doggie standards. But sometimes . . . sometimes she acts like a 9-month-old.
Last night, the boy was in bed and I was doing my before-sleep canvassing of the house: locking doors, shutting off lights. Cass was nowhere to be seen, though. I called her, but she didn't come and I immediately began to worry. She always comes when called, so I had a little heart skip, imagining she was sick somewhere in the house (after all, she isn't getting any younger).
I went to the back door and looked outside. About then, the smell hit: musty dog. She was standing outside the doggie door, hesitant to come in, because she was soaking wet. Apparently, she decided to run in the sprinklers. She couldn't have been any wetter if I'd thrown her in a lake. I coaxed her in and she proceeded to snort happily, wag wildly and flop all over the carpet, rubbing off the excess water.
Some people, people much more fastidious than I am, would have been angry that a wet animal was drying off on the floor. But I was simply happy that she was alright. And as I laughed, she got even more excited.
I took a picture that I'll have to post.
Last night, the boy was in bed and I was doing my before-sleep canvassing of the house: locking doors, shutting off lights. Cass was nowhere to be seen, though. I called her, but she didn't come and I immediately began to worry. She always comes when called, so I had a little heart skip, imagining she was sick somewhere in the house (after all, she isn't getting any younger).
I went to the back door and looked outside. About then, the smell hit: musty dog. She was standing outside the doggie door, hesitant to come in, because she was soaking wet. Apparently, she decided to run in the sprinklers. She couldn't have been any wetter if I'd thrown her in a lake. I coaxed her in and she proceeded to snort happily, wag wildly and flop all over the carpet, rubbing off the excess water.
Some people, people much more fastidious than I am, would have been angry that a wet animal was drying off on the floor. But I was simply happy that she was alright. And as I laughed, she got even more excited.
I took a picture that I'll have to post.
5.22.2006
My Daily Annoyance
Because Emily had one.
This is related, in a way.
Emily's annoyance stems from the self-importance of people. I'd like to submit my hatred of THIS thing.
The Bluetooth headset. The thing that sits on the ears of people invariably wearing dark pleated pants, too much hair product and a smug expression. This is Realtor-cool. Insurance-salesman-cool. Cool for anyone who is SO important he cannot function without constantly being plugged in to the legions of people dying to hear his pompous, ponderous voice. This is a person with views and skills, deserving of much admiration.
Or so he'd have you believe.
Three months ago, I was at a funeral for a much-loved and well-respected man. This guy was the real deal, and he hardly ever used a cellphone. He was old-school, I guess. At his funeral, which turned out to be the frickin' social event of the season, there was a woman. She was easily in her sixties, dressed in leopard print and white denim, her hair highlighted and curled within an inch of its life. She kept standing up and looking to the back of the chapel, because she was saving seats for her friends. She stood during the Rabbi's eulogy. She stood up during the daughter's eulogy. And she wore the fucking headset throughout the whole service.
Never in my life have I wished someone dead like I did her. Never in my life have I wished, so badly, that I could strangle someone with my bare hands.
I found out after the service that she was 1) the "best friend" of the widow, and 2) a hairdresser.
A stinking hairdresser?!?!? Wearing that thing during a funeral for her best friend's husband?
a very very bad word is coming up next. the sensitive should avert their eyes.
What an unbelievable fucking cunt. Cunt cunt cunt.
So now, every time I see one of those headsets, I make the snap judgement. Immediately, I think to myself, "what a TOOL. Not just a tool, but a whole fuckin' toolSHED." That's my failing, I suppose. Maybe someday I'll change my mind. Probably about the moment I get one.
Ha. Never. If I do, I give permission for someone to kill me. Really. Put me out of everyone's misery.
This is related, in a way.
Emily's annoyance stems from the self-importance of people. I'd like to submit my hatred of THIS thing.
The Bluetooth headset. The thing that sits on the ears of people invariably wearing dark pleated pants, too much hair product and a smug expression. This is Realtor-cool. Insurance-salesman-cool. Cool for anyone who is SO important he cannot function without constantly being plugged in to the legions of people dying to hear his pompous, ponderous voice. This is a person with views and skills, deserving of much admiration.
Or so he'd have you believe.
Three months ago, I was at a funeral for a much-loved and well-respected man. This guy was the real deal, and he hardly ever used a cellphone. He was old-school, I guess. At his funeral, which turned out to be the frickin' social event of the season, there was a woman. She was easily in her sixties, dressed in leopard print and white denim, her hair highlighted and curled within an inch of its life. She kept standing up and looking to the back of the chapel, because she was saving seats for her friends. She stood during the Rabbi's eulogy. She stood up during the daughter's eulogy. And she wore the fucking headset throughout the whole service.
Never in my life have I wished someone dead like I did her. Never in my life have I wished, so badly, that I could strangle someone with my bare hands.
I found out after the service that she was 1) the "best friend" of the widow, and 2) a hairdresser.
A stinking hairdresser?!?!? Wearing that thing during a funeral for her best friend's husband?
a very very bad word is coming up next. the sensitive should avert their eyes.
What an unbelievable fucking cunt. Cunt cunt cunt.
So now, every time I see one of those headsets, I make the snap judgement. Immediately, I think to myself, "what a TOOL. Not just a tool, but a whole fuckin' toolSHED." That's my failing, I suppose. Maybe someday I'll change my mind. Probably about the moment I get one.
Ha. Never. If I do, I give permission for someone to kill me. Really. Put me out of everyone's misery.
5.11.2006
5.10.2006
Newsflash
WARNING: rant ahead
"Madonna: I'm a bad mother"
SHUT UP.
JUST. SHUT. UP.
God Almighty, I can't stand this vacuous bitch. If you reaaaaaaalllllly want to be a mom, then STOP BEING AN ATTENTION WHORE. Because hey, Madge, that's the thing about kids: they need to feel important to you. That's kind of where their whole sense of self comes from. It doesn't come from the nanny, and it definitely doesn't come from having mom TREATING THEM AS ACCESSORIES! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Fuck, these kids don't have a single chance of being healthy.
"Madonna: I'm a bad mother"
"I'm always going 'Oh my God, I'm a crap mother'. I want to get home and put my kids to bed and then sometimes, if I'm spending a lot of time with my children, I think 'Oh God, I just want to be an artist,' " she said in a TV interview.
SHUT UP.
The 47-year-old - recently reported to have problems in her five-year marriage to film director Guy Ritchie, 10 years her junior - added that Lourdes often gets embarrassed by her mother's fame.
"Sometimes she doesn't want to come to certain things because she knows everyone is going to pay attention to me," she said.
JUST. SHUT. UP.
God Almighty, I can't stand this vacuous bitch. If you reaaaaaaalllllly want to be a mom, then STOP BEING AN ATTENTION WHORE. Because hey, Madge, that's the thing about kids: they need to feel important to you. That's kind of where their whole sense of self comes from. It doesn't come from the nanny, and it definitely doesn't come from having mom TREATING THEM AS ACCESSORIES! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Fuck, these kids don't have a single chance of being healthy.
Implosion of the Day
I'll miss The Boardwalk for one reason: The Surf Buffet.
The Surf Buffet used Butterbean as a pitchman in its commercials. The best line I've ever heard is this:
"The Bean don't eat no snooty food!"
Brillant. The Bean speaks in third person. The Bean uses double negatives. The Bean is a man of the masses.
I may have to follow suit:
"The Shan don't use no exclamation points in her copy!"
Hm. The Shan may have to rethink that.
The Surf Buffet used Butterbean as a pitchman in its commercials. The best line I've ever heard is this:
"The Bean don't eat no snooty food!"
Brillant. The Bean speaks in third person. The Bean uses double negatives. The Bean is a man of the masses.
I may have to follow suit:
"The Shan don't use no exclamation points in her copy!"
Hm. The Shan may have to rethink that.
Hell-Ay, Revisited
On Monday and Tuesday, we were shooting the spot we cast for last week. This is my short recap:
1) Talent was great, not a single Lip Bite in sight
2) Client was happy
3) Craft service (catering) was fabulous
4) Dinner Monday night was at The Lodge steakhouse in Beverly Hills, where we saw Keanu Reeves and Jack Nicholson (or a vagrant that stole Jack Nicholson's glasses)
5) Soundstages are hot, sticky miserable places
5a) I spent at least eight hours of each ten-hour day stuck (because of the humidity) to a leather couch
6) Dinner Tuesday night was at Frida in Beverly Hills, where we saw a lot of tequila
That's the nutshell version. That, and I'm glad to be home.
1) Talent was great, not a single Lip Bite in sight
2) Client was happy
3) Craft service (catering) was fabulous
4) Dinner Monday night was at The Lodge steakhouse in Beverly Hills, where we saw Keanu Reeves and Jack Nicholson (or a vagrant that stole Jack Nicholson's glasses)
5) Soundstages are hot, sticky miserable places
5a) I spent at least eight hours of each ten-hour day stuck (because of the humidity) to a leather couch
6) Dinner Tuesday night was at Frida in Beverly Hills, where we saw a lot of tequila
That's the nutshell version. That, and I'm glad to be home.
5.05.2006
Crazy-ass bastard
Yeah, this guy:
Daredevil thrills crowd, hurdles Caesars' fountain
108 feet, complete with a backflip. Good for him, considering the history of the jump.
My uncle was at the end of the ramp for this one:
December 31, 1967. This was probably the last thing Evel remembered before the crash. While Evel himself ended up across Flamingo Road in the Dunes parking lot, the motorcycle headed for the crowd. My uncle, 13 at the time, jumped onto the back of a fireman to avoid being run over.
Somewhere, there's footage of this. I hope to someday find it.
Daredevil thrills crowd, hurdles Caesars' fountain
108 feet, complete with a backflip. Good for him, considering the history of the jump.
My uncle was at the end of the ramp for this one:
December 31, 1967. This was probably the last thing Evel remembered before the crash. While Evel himself ended up across Flamingo Road in the Dunes parking lot, the motorcycle headed for the crowd. My uncle, 13 at the time, jumped onto the back of a fireman to avoid being run over.
Somewhere, there's footage of this. I hope to someday find it.
5.04.2006
Hell-Ay
I've been in Hollywood the last two days, casting for a TV spot I'm shooting next week. This is, believe it or not, one of the toughest parts of my job.
Two days, morning to night, sitting in a dark room watching non-union actors audition. There is so much pain involved in the process: the pain of hearing, for the first time, the lines that clunk in my script. Then there's the pain of watching actors that clunk, period. There's a pain in my ass from the couch I've been on too long.
I've been on the lookout, especially, for Actors' Tics. These are the things used by a bad actor to convey emotion. The most popular is The Squint, resulting in Actor's Forehead. Try it. Say something profound and squint at the same time. Your forehead will furrow, giving the impression of Deep Thought.
Another good one is The Lip Bite. This conveys conflict, mostly of the inner variety. Try it. Say something about illicit love, then bite your lip. Instant Conflicted Emotion.
If you can do both The Squint and The Lip Bite at once? Audition gold, baby. The job is yours. You're our "MAN 1," and you'll enjoy a full five seconds of screen time during the morning news commercial breaks in Las Vegas. Congratulations.
Two days, morning to night, sitting in a dark room watching non-union actors audition. There is so much pain involved in the process: the pain of hearing, for the first time, the lines that clunk in my script. Then there's the pain of watching actors that clunk, period. There's a pain in my ass from the couch I've been on too long.
I've been on the lookout, especially, for Actors' Tics. These are the things used by a bad actor to convey emotion. The most popular is The Squint, resulting in Actor's Forehead. Try it. Say something profound and squint at the same time. Your forehead will furrow, giving the impression of Deep Thought.
Another good one is The Lip Bite. This conveys conflict, mostly of the inner variety. Try it. Say something about illicit love, then bite your lip. Instant Conflicted Emotion.
If you can do both The Squint and The Lip Bite at once? Audition gold, baby. The job is yours. You're our "MAN 1," and you'll enjoy a full five seconds of screen time during the morning news commercial breaks in Las Vegas. Congratulations.
5.01.2006
. . .
I just couldn't title it. I'm a couple of days late on this, because I didn't know until right this minute:
Steve Howe killed in truck accident
It's odd: As long as a long-troubled addict is alive, you can make jokes. You can laugh at the person's stupidity. You can shake your head at the wasted chances and shrug off the pictures snapped in front of the courthouse.
(Need examples? How about Darryl Strawberry or Dwight Gooden?)
Sometimes, you can get angry. You get angry for all the same reasons: waste, stupidity, etc.
And then, this. It's not funny at all. Not anymore. And there really isn't any anger there, either. I just feel sad. That's the thing about addiction: You watch the person toss his life away. You deal with it the only way you know how – either with anger or humor or a combo of both. You watch, helplessly, through the nods and the methodone and the rehab and the relapses. You watch, sometimes, as he trades one addiction for another (alcohol, gambling). Through it all, you wait. You wait for the phone call that says he finally did himself in, whether from an overdose, a bad deal, or an accident. Sometimes, you get so damned tired of the waiting that you push him out of your head.
So you're not waiting anymore, not really. Not consciously. You hear through friends that he's gotten his act together. You have a distant, cautious hope, but you've heard that all before. You can say, "oh, that's nice," and mean it. Then, you go for months, maybe even years, without hearing anything else.
And then you get the news. Sometimes it comes in a hysterical phone call. Sometimes it's a headline. You're not surprised. If you're angry, it's usually directed inward . . . you feel stupid for letting that hope creep in and take hold. If you were close to the person, you feel guilty for letting him go.
For him, you're just deeply sad. At the funeral, you're deeply sad for the family. It isn't until later, days, months later, that the anger comes again to be directed at him again. For all the familiar reasons: waste, stupidity, etc.
If you've read this, you probably guessed that someone close to me was an addict. He, too, died in a car accident. The toxicology came back clean, though. It was, in the end, just a freak thing – maybe he was switching the radio station or reaching for his Dr. Pepper in the cup holder. The wrong place - right into a telephone pole - at just the wrong time.
Steve Howe . . . I want to feel the familiar anger. He could have been so much, and he threw it away with both hands. His pitches were junky, dirty batters' nightmares. He had a gift. And he wasted it. I don't want to feel sorry for him.
And then I remember: sadness first. There's plenty of time for the anger later.
Steve Howe killed in truck accident
It's odd: As long as a long-troubled addict is alive, you can make jokes. You can laugh at the person's stupidity. You can shake your head at the wasted chances and shrug off the pictures snapped in front of the courthouse.
(Need examples? How about Darryl Strawberry or Dwight Gooden?)
Sometimes, you can get angry. You get angry for all the same reasons: waste, stupidity, etc.
And then, this. It's not funny at all. Not anymore. And there really isn't any anger there, either. I just feel sad. That's the thing about addiction: You watch the person toss his life away. You deal with it the only way you know how – either with anger or humor or a combo of both. You watch, helplessly, through the nods and the methodone and the rehab and the relapses. You watch, sometimes, as he trades one addiction for another (alcohol, gambling). Through it all, you wait. You wait for the phone call that says he finally did himself in, whether from an overdose, a bad deal, or an accident. Sometimes, you get so damned tired of the waiting that you push him out of your head.
So you're not waiting anymore, not really. Not consciously. You hear through friends that he's gotten his act together. You have a distant, cautious hope, but you've heard that all before. You can say, "oh, that's nice," and mean it. Then, you go for months, maybe even years, without hearing anything else.
And then you get the news. Sometimes it comes in a hysterical phone call. Sometimes it's a headline. You're not surprised. If you're angry, it's usually directed inward . . . you feel stupid for letting that hope creep in and take hold. If you were close to the person, you feel guilty for letting him go.
For him, you're just deeply sad. At the funeral, you're deeply sad for the family. It isn't until later, days, months later, that the anger comes again to be directed at him again. For all the familiar reasons: waste, stupidity, etc.
If you've read this, you probably guessed that someone close to me was an addict. He, too, died in a car accident. The toxicology came back clean, though. It was, in the end, just a freak thing – maybe he was switching the radio station or reaching for his Dr. Pepper in the cup holder. The wrong place - right into a telephone pole - at just the wrong time.
Steve Howe . . . I want to feel the familiar anger. He could have been so much, and he threw it away with both hands. His pitches were junky, dirty batters' nightmares. He had a gift. And he wasted it. I don't want to feel sorry for him.
And then I remember: sadness first. There's plenty of time for the anger later.
Fear Me . . .
. . . for I am CloverFooFoo, the Mariachi Larcenist!
When I'm not writing cheesy ad copy or producing cheesy TV spots, I am adventuring in The Kingdom of Loathing!
I've already killed 17 fuzzy white bunnies in the Dire Warren and I've only lost one hit point. Oh, the Moxie of me!
. . .
I don't know what I like about the Kingdom. Maybe its simplicity. Its absurdity. Or maybe it's just that it has nothing to do with advertising.
Thanks for this, Sobek.
When I'm not writing cheesy ad copy or producing cheesy TV spots, I am adventuring in The Kingdom of Loathing!
I've already killed 17 fuzzy white bunnies in the Dire Warren and I've only lost one hit point. Oh, the Moxie of me!
. . .
I don't know what I like about the Kingdom. Maybe its simplicity. Its absurdity. Or maybe it's just that it has nothing to do with advertising.
Thanks for this, Sobek.
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