In the last installment of 'Gender Stereotype Debunking,' the subject was the remote control. This installment has to do with another navigating device: the map.

Let me set the stage with a typical dialogue between Catherine and me, one that you would no doubt witness for yourself if you happened to go on a road trip with us. It usually goes something like this:

'Where the hell are we?'

'No friggin' idea. I think I made a wrong turn back there.'

'Give me the map.'

'Wait, wait. We don't need the map, I think I can get us back to . . . '

'Give me the map.'

'Oh God. Okay, fine! Wait . . . it's not . . . it's on your side! Get it yourself.'

Can you guess which one is me? Many people would assume that since I am the male, I would be the first to go for the map. But they would be wrong. The assumption probably stems from a generally-accepted notion that women can not read maps, a notion that is actually supported by a number of scientific studies, which I suppose makes it more of a 'hypothesis.' I did a quick Google search and found several results on the topic. One recent University of California study looks to the different ways men and women use their gray matter and white matter as the reason why women have a harder time reading maps. Another study from Ruhr University in Bochum, Germany points to a lack of testosterone, citing the fact that women can actually read maps better during times when the hormone is more abundant in their systems, like during a period. (Hey, I'm not making this stuff up.) Well, I challenge any scientist offering evidence in favor of women being inferior at reading maps to drive from DC to New York with my wife. He'll be singing a different tune somewhere around Wilmington, Delaware.

There is a reason that I usually drive when we are navigating difficult territory on road trips, and it's not because of my superior driving skills, though that would be a pretty good reason in and of itself. (Eh-hem.) No, it's because, while I'd love to sit here and tell you that I'm an excellent map-reader, that shit ain't the truth. The harsh reality is that I suck at it, and after several frustrating episodes involving poor advice and wrong turns, we decided it was best for both of us if Catherine manages the directions.

Now, in my defense, it's not that I can't read a map. Honestly. I do grasp the nature of it relatively well. I think even Catherine would attest to the fact that I have a pretty good sense of direction and she might even admit that I can get around certain parts of DC better than she can. I guess when it comes to me and maps, the problem is this: I can't seem to effectively process the information on a map through my brain and have it come out of my mouth in any kind of useful, or even recognizable, verbal communication. As you can probably guess, this makes it challenging for anybody who happens to be in the driver's seat next to me. I think my map-interpreting issues stem from the fact that I don't really perceive the map as a 'tool' the way it's intended. Instead, I see it as some kind of abstract object, a work of art even. I look at a map and I get lost in the patterns, the lines, the pretty colors. I know it's supposed to be about A to B, but that's relatively boring stuff, isn't it? I like things to convey some deeper meaning or significance. And multiple layers of it, if possible. For this reason, I believe a map should be studied and contextualized. If you ask me to tell you the way from A to B, I won't give you a straight answer. Instead, I'll give you an array of confusing possibilities. And when I'm through, we will be well on our way to someplace we never intended. I don't mean for it to happen. It just does. It is the way of things.

Catherine, on the other hand, has a much more commanding way with maps. For her, it's about finding the quickest, most efficient route from A to B and she has no problem determining that within a couple of seconds. Also, she seems to have greater powers of recollection which allow her to determine our exact location on a map quickly, if asked. I've seen her with a map in one hand, the steering wheel in the other, driving through traffic, and she'll point to where we are with a casual flick of the wrist. Effortless. Like I had just asked, 'point to the nose on my face,' or even simpler, 'show me the general location on my body where my head is located.' Yeah, my baby has mad map-reading skills. More importantly, she can take the information she finds on a map and turn it into meaningful language. She can employ phrases like, 'take a right here' or, 'continue straight ahead through the next intersection.'

So there you have it. Gender stereotype, the map: Debunked.

One side note: As long as I'm disproving one stereotype, I should go ahead and affirm another. When the map fails, Catherine has no problem stopping to ask strangers for directions. I, on the other hand, conform to the general principle that no self-respecting male should ever submit to the indecorum of asking another human being how to get somewhere, especially a human being he does not know personally.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  GSD  Cath 

What's your success noise?

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This blog does not often contain much in the way of 'scandal' or 'gossip.' Mostly, this is because it is about me and, let's face it, there's not much about me that is 'scandalous.' And if there is, like the time last year I finished the last of the milk then stuck the empty carton back in the refrigerator - my heart still races at the thought of it, I usually don't write about it in public.

Until now.

Let me come out with it, then: I'm having an affair. I know, I know. Crazy, right? Who with, you wonder? Who could this vixen be, this licentious home wrecker? Well, here's where things get a little more interesting. I'm having an affair with Fiona Apple. And you want to know the truly outrageous part? Fiona doesn't even know it. (So keep it under wraps, okay?)

I have to say that my iPod is an accomplice in this whole thing, the pimp. He set the whole thing up. He and his iTunes. I don't begrudge him, I'm simply placing blame where it is due. Thanks to him, I've had several clandestine dates with Fiona, unbeknownst to Catherine. Sunday, we went for a long walk together in the city, enjoyed the crisp fall air. We worked out together, did the dishes. That night, I even brought her to bed with me . . . while Catherine was sound asleep right there next to us! I'll admit it, this is a bitter pill to swallow. It is not for the faint of heart.

The only thing that's played on my iPod since Friday evening has been Extraordinary Machine, Fiona's latest release. But I just can't seem to help myself.

The first listen was sort of a 'get to know each other' thing. We weren't really sure if it was going to work out. There were new sounds, new sensations. It was strange.

But the more we got to know each other, the more those sounds enveloped me, heavy, like a burden I longed to bear. I craved more.

The entire album has that dark, floating wavelike feeling that made Tidal so memorable. The melodies are infectious and interlaced with delicious, well-timed moments of dissonance. Her throaty, sensuous voice breathes an easy honesty into her lyrics. Each line contains a bare-boned candor, unadorned, simple in it's depth.

from 'Parting Gift'

I opened my eyes while you were kissing me, once
More than once
- And you looked as sincere as a dog
Just as sincere as a dog does
When it's the food on your lips, with which it's in love

There are slow, minimalist songs like 'Parting Gift,' (quoted above) which I love, and poppy, I dare say almost 'hip-hoppy,' little confessions like 'Tymps (The Sick in the Head Song).'

I would definitely recommend this album to anybody. And as far as Fiona and I go? Well, as with any heated affair, I'm sure this thing will begin to cool. I'll move on to other music, other artists. She'll continue to not know I exist. But Extraordinary Machine will always be one of those albums I'll come back to from time to time and remember warmly that one special weekend we had together.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Reviews  Music 

I read a good article recently in the October, 2005 issue of Harper's Magazine. The article is by Rebecca Solnit and it's titled, "The Uses of Disaster: Notes on Bad Weather and Good Government." In it, she talks about how the kind of disruption in our lives that comes from a natural or man-made disaster, can actually be a positive force, drawing people out of their routine lives and making them concentrate on things outside of themselves.

I particularly liked this passage:

But around the periphery of many diasasters is a far larger population of people who are unhurt but deeply disrupted. Often enough, many of those people find the disruption deeply satisfying as well as unnerving. They enjoy the disruption not only of the barriers that normally separate them from their neighbors but also of their own grinding self-absorption. Such disruption can provide a satisfaction so profound it transcends even the fear and sadness of diasaster's devastation. For disasters experienced as trauma make people feel helpless, but this awakened civil society instead often makes them feel powerful and free.

I think Solnit touches on something we don't often consider: Maybe what we really want in life, what we really need every now and again, is disruption. It seems counterintuitive. I know I spend a good part of each day trying to establish order to things. I like to reason that once order is established, once I am 'less busy' and things are 'less chaotic,' that I will do the things I've been meaning to do. But it usually doesn't really unfold this way. I'm never less busy. And, in fact, most of the meaningful things I've accomplished in my life have come at a time of stress, when things were in flux.

It makes sense: If we feel comfortable and safe, then the instinct is to remain that way. Do nothing. The order is alluring. We stay the course. We tend to resist change. But then there is sameness which leads to boredom, and eventually becomes discontent. Which leads back to the longing for disruption in one form or another.

When there is disruption, we're compelled to get up and do something about it. The disruption can come from outside or we can bring it upon ourselves. In either case, it compels us to act in some manner different then we had acted before. It may bring us out of ourselves, make us think in new ways, burn new synaptic pathways through our brains. It may lead to creative thought, to problem solving, getting our minds out of whatever endless loop it is on. A great disruption can help people put aside all the constructed barriers, self-imposed or otherwise, and let them truly focus on the situation at hand.

With the possible exception of news media, nobody actually wakes up in the morning and hopes to have something truly disastrous occur - a flood, an earthquake. But I think people do long for disruption on a more 'micro' scale: The office worker who secretely hopes that today will be the day he gets fired from his mind-numbing job, if for no other reason than it will get him off his ass to look for a new one. The abused spouse or friend who sabatoges her marriage or friendship as a way to escape a relationship dynamic that has become caustic. It hurts to fall out of the familiar pattern. But when we do, it opens up a new range of possibility.

Seems fitting to end on this quote from Fight Club: It's only after you've lost everything that you're free to do anything.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Chewing 

Hosting the open mic jam at Pharaoh's has become a regular thing for The Jones. We do it just about every other Thursday. I have to say that it's becoming one of my favorite things to do. It's not the standard audience/performance dynamic that you might get at a regular show, where the band plays, the audience listens, and never the two shall mix. The difference is that most of the time the people in the audience are also musicians, and they've come to participate. This creates a more sharing, atmosphere, one that's more about maintaining a dialogue, or rather several dialogues, a multi-directional communication. There's always that aspect of communication with music, but when you open that up to other people in the room it can make for some exciting times.

Walter usually gets up and jams with us at some point in the evening. Walter is the owner of Pharaoh's and also a talented blues musician. I look forward to the jams with him because his guitar has a very 'mellow' sound and his style is so confident and polished. It really adds a touch of authenticity to our sound. This past Thursday, we were jamming with Walter in A - just a standard blues progression - and we suddenly stumbled across this lick. Walter got up to the mic and contributed some impromptu lyrics, and just like that, we had a song. It was very cool. A similar thing happened a couple of weeks ago, only there were lots of musicians on stage, including a sax, and we jammed for about 30 minutes. Let's face it, a long jam can sometimes get really boring - for the player as well as the listener. But in this environment, where people pop in and out of the conversation, it keeps things fresh and interesting.

The whole environment reminds me of something you might have stumbled across at some dark night club in a back alley of New York in the 30s or 40s and it's very cool to be a part of it. It's really less of a 'performance' and more of a 'conversation.'

Speaking of band-related things, we have two shows at DC 9 coming up in the next few weeks.

Tomorrow, October 18th, we're playing with two great bands - Mason Dixon from Brooklyn, NY and Omega Band from DC. Our set is at 9:30pm.

Then on Tuesday, November 1st, we will be opening for The Roustabouts at 9:30pm at DC9.

Sorely, we will be missing Mat on drums for both shows as he is honeymooning with Em, so percussion will be provided by George.

And on a non-music related note. The Broncos took down the Pats this weekend, though it got a bit close at the end. I hate to even mention this stat for fear of jinxing it, but Plummer hasn't thrown an intereception in over 100 passes. Amazing. Apparently, it's all about the beard.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Sports  Music 

Today was our 6-to-12-month follow-up on our Hepatitis A vaccine. With this booster, we are now protected for life. At least that's what we're told. We originally got the shot for our trip to Costa Rica last spring, but now we can go to any number of countries for the rest of our lives without worrying about Hep A. Phew! That's a relief. One less health-related thing for me to worry about. Check. Let's see, that's 823 more to go.

We had to find a new doctor to administer the shot because the doctor who did it last time is no longer on our insurance. Actually, this doctor, I'll call him 'Dr. R.,' was not on our insurance even at the time we got the shot. But, we thought, how expensive could two Hep A shots be? A word of advice: if you ever have to stop to ask yourself something like this when having a voluntary procedure at a doctor's office, you should go ahead and find out before you actually have said procedure. It might change your mind, or at least make you find a cheaper alternative. It turns out two Hep A shots can cost $500. But this, mind you, was at Dr. R's office, an office located in the swank Human Rights Campaign building on Rhode Island Ave., an office that prides itself on its laser hair removal machine, its elegantly designed interior, and its flat-screen TV in the waiting area. This was also a medical practice that took the time to send all their patients a letter itemizing the various and sundry ways they could (over)charge them for performing routine medical tasks. And, oh yeah, to remind everybody that they absolutely WILL be charged for canceling an appointment less than 48 hours ahead of time. I think they even charged me for a Kleenex I took from the front desk. Yes, Dr. R had you by the balls. And you didn't even need to schedule a physical for that.

Okay, now turn your head and cough.

Eh-hem.

Thank you. Now, bend over, Mr. O.

Oh, man. Once wasn't enough?

So we definitely wanted to schedule this shot with a different doctor, which led to procrastination. I hate finding a doctor. One of the things that almost kept us in Dallas was the frightening prospect of finding new doctors. I mean, we had just gotten the whole M.D. thing squared away. We liked our family doctor, Dr. M. We also had a cadre of specialists with whom we were very comfortable, along with a brilliant chiropractor (oh, she had magic hands) and a skilled dentist. Starting over with nothing, not even so much as a referral, was daunting. How many doctors would we go through before finding the right one? As it turns out, there have been two so far, and it looks like the third might, indeed, be the charm. The doctor we went to today, Dr. S, was a complete departure from Dr. R. He had a very practical office space, not one that looked like it belonged on the cover of Interior Design magazine. The receptionist spoke with a charming South American accent and called us 'dear' a lot. She always smiled, and never copped an attitude. That's a rare find in DC. Also, there was no room with a sliding window that separated us from her. She had a desk right in the middle of the open room, and she greeted us when we entered. When she called our insurance company and the automated answering service told her that I was no longer active on the insurance policy, she didn't stop there. She actually spoke to somebody and found out what we all suspected - that the insurance company's system was all screwed up. In other words, she didn't make me deal with the problem. She actually went above and beyond. I know, I know. Bizarroland.

Dr. S. himself was also very nice and down to earth. He took us back to his office and spoke to us in a way that made it seem more like we were about to share a Yerba Mate and talk about politics than have a couple of Hep A shots. This was our kind of doctor. He ad-libbed on the state of medicine in America and expounded on why things were so expensive (the insurance companies, of course.) Like the receptionist (who I think may have been his wife, but I'm not positive) he also spoke with a heavy South American accent. (He got his degree from the University of Buenos Aries, so I'm assuming he's probably from there, though I didn't ask.) To keep his costs low, he did not store vaccines. Instead he prescribed them to us, then we went and got them from the pharmacy downstairs, came back up to his office, and he administered them. A pretty practical way of doing things, when you think about it. This way, he doesn't wind up spending money on vaccines that he doesn't use and has to throw away. The only problem is that our insurance company did not cover the vaccine when filled at the pharmacy, though they probably would have covered it if it had been filled at the doctor's office. This was annoying, but it didn't really bother me. My guess is they don't really cover it when it's filled at the doctor's office either; rather, they make the doctors eat the cost. It's not really fair any way you slice it, and the basic rule of thumb is the insurance company wins. Kind of like casinos.

In the end, the two shots today cost us $160 total. A whopping $340 less than at Dr. R's. And we found a new doctor that we like. It was a win-win kind of day. I guess I'll find out for sure if this doctor is 'the right one' next week, as I went ahead and scheduled my annual checkup with him. I just hope he has small fingers.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Health 

If you're a Dave Matthews fan, this will crack you up. Even if you're not, you'll probably laugh.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Music 

This weekend was the wedding of Emily and Mat. For us, it's the second wedding in about a month's time. 'Tis the Season for unions.

It was held in Cambridge, Maryland, which is a little town that sits on the edge of the Choptank river, near the Chesapeake Bay.

It rained. A lot. Really. I spent a good part of each day with wet clothes on.

Looking back, however, I wouldn't have had it any other way. It just wouldn't have been the same if it had been sunny and beautiful. In spite of, no because of the rain and wet and mud, it was fun as hell. Kind of like the first Lollapalooza tour or Woodstock. Memorable, bonding, communal, completely unique, impossible to duplicate, though some may try.

The highlight for me was meeting lots of new people - long-time friends of E&M. Good friends of good friends usually get along pretty well together and this was no exception.

Photos were taken. Drinks were consumed. It might be said that I danced.

To top it all off we came home and watched the Broncos whoop up on the Skins. Go Tatum Bell! I'll have to be careful not to wear my Broncos cap around town for at least a week or two.

link to this | comments (7) | File:  Friends 

There are certain stereotypes inherent in the male/female relationship. C and I defy those on many different levels. I plan to explore this in a series of semi-regular posts called 'Gender Stereotype Debunking.' Welcome to installment one: The Remote Control.

Typically the male is known to be the primary channel-flipper in the 'married couple TV watching ritual.' I feel it is an unfair stereotype, but I suppose I understand where it comes from. Ultimately it boils down to the fact that the male is thought to be the restless one, the one who changes channels (insert 'lovers') as soon as there is a commercial break (insert 'no sex') and often forgets to flip the channel back before the show they had been watching starts again (insert 'gets caught in bed with secretary, mid-thrust, bare bottom mooning the ceiling as wife enters bedroom'). Of course, males see it as a competition to conquer the greatest number of channels, which will have them watching multiple shows at the same time, pretending to be faithful to all, and yet never really committing to any, dumping one, then another, as soon as something better comes along.

I'm here to tell you this is all b.s. - an unfair truism handed down from mother to daughter. The same channel-flipping behavior we're accused of can be found in the fairer sex, as well, and when it is, it is often compounded by a Lance Armstrong-like stamina that leads to a marathon of channel surfing, lasting hours, days, and if the necessities of work, sleep, and food didn't come into play, weeks.

Yes, contrary to the conventional wisdom, I am one guy that is usually satisfied to watch one show at a time. Now don't mistake my meaning here; I'm not saying this makes me noble or venerable in any way. Rest assured, my habit of watching one show at a time stems primarily from a laziness and a sincere belief that most stuff on TV is crap (the sexual analogy from above has ended, by the way), and since there are at least 75 other channels at my disposal with different but equally bad crap on them, I often have little curiosity in regard to finding said crap. Basically, once I've found one piece of crap I can tolerate, I am resolved to continue watching it until the end. When a commercial comes, breaking up the 2 or 4 individual segments of crap that make up the entire episode, I will do one of four things: 1) read a magazine, 2) go to the kitchen and search aimlessly for something to consume, 3) visit the restroom, or 4) pass bodily gases. Sometimes I manage to do at least three of these things at the same time. The bottom line is this: I commit to a show and I watch it. I'm loyal.

My wife lacks this faithfulness, this dedication to any one show. She will often watch two, three, sometimes four shows at the same time.

No way! you say.

Impossible! It can't be done! you say.

Oh, I assure you, it can be done. If channel surfing were abstract art, my wife would be Jackson Pollock. If channel surfing were jazz music, my wife would be Miles Davis. The remote is her instrument, and she improvises with it at will, and with alarming virtuosity. She will concoct new channel combinations, each press of the button like the decisive splatter of a painter's brush. Expressionistic, heroic, the ultimate extension, elaboration and refinement of the channel surfing ritual. She understands remote control functions I have never heard of. Her fingers blur across the remote with astonishing speed and precision. All the while, she's able to take in several plots, innumerable subplots, and complex character developments, all with a kind of concentration on a par with champion chess players who juggle multiple boards at the same time.

Watching her work can be mesmerizing, but because I don't understand it, I'm mostly left feeling baffled and vaguely nauseous. I stare at the ceiling in an effort to ground myself in the here and now and keep the room from spinning. Eventually I give up and resort to reading or some other activity.

There is no fighting for the remote in our home. I recognize C's superiority and I do not interfere.

Gender stereotype, the remote control. Debunked.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Cath  GSD 

Fiona Apple has a new CD out. I hope she's still a bad, bad girl.

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Okay, the first page of this article paints a picture of the latest supreme court nominee as somebody less likely to be a judge than to be the simple wife of a preacher or farmer. Somebody who idolizes the president and will tout his moral philosophy. Kind of scary.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Politics  News 

The other night I had a dream about Stephanie, an old friend of mine from high school. She and I became close friends sometime during our freshman or sophomore year. We took photos together, had a similar taste in music and books, and generally shared an overall cynical outlook on life, which always led to a lot of sarcastic jokes. She was witty and had a quick sense of humor.

She died during her sophomore year of college at UT in a car crash.

Somebody asked me recently if I had a 'thing' for Steph. I guess the answer to that is that I might have had a 'thing' for her someday, but at that time, we were honestly just friends, and that was good. Neither of us probably knew what we wanted out of the idea of 'romance' so any effort made in that direction probably would have ended in disaster and we knew that. So better not to screw it up. (Actually, thinking back, pretty much all of my 'romantic' relationships were disasters until I met Catherine.)

Steph and I went to different colleges, but kept in touch via letters. (That's right: letters. Email had not yet become a household word.) Mitch was the one who called and told me she had been killed in a car crash - somebody ran a stop sign and blindsided her. It was shortly after Thanksgiving, 1993. A couple of days after my birthday. I remember sitting on my bed listening to Smashing Pumpkins, a band she really liked, and just being stunned that somebody I knew who was my age, who had a restless interest in almost everything, who was so smart and so real, could now be dead. I wrote a letter to her parents. I spoke with friends. And basically, I was sad for a long time.

I still think about Steph every once in a while, but usually not in any concrete way. It's more of an abstract thing that will pop into my mind during a certain song or event. So it's very strange that some 12 years later I've had not one, but two vivid dreams about her. The first one was a couple of months ago, so I've already forgotten a lot of the details because I didn't write them down. But I do remember that we made out in the dream, which was really weird given our platonic history. We also talked a lot, but I don't remember about exactly what. In the second dream, which I had a couple of days ago, I remember more details. In this dream, she drove up in a jeep wrangler (she used to drive a Ford pick-up, so not sure where the Jeep came from). She was very happy and excited about something. I asked her if she was okay and she said she was doing fine. I asked her if the previous dream I had had been real, if she remembered it, too. She said she did and it was. Then she gave me a big kiss and drove off.

It's definitely weird how a dream can throw you off-kilter for a time afterwards, how it kind of disrupts your normal modes of thought. I've been trying to come up with reasons why Steph has made these random appearances in my dreams and have thought of a few possibilities. (Sorry, Catherine, I still haven't reached any conclusions as to why they involve kissing.) Anyway, here they are:

1. This past weekend I hung out a lot with somebody named Stefanie. Stephanie and Stefanie look nothing alike. Stephanie was fair-skinned, blond hair, blue eyes. Stefanie is tan, dark hair, and brown eyes. They are also different in just about every other regard as far as their interests go. Moreover, they spell their names differently. Still, hanging out with a 'Stefanie' may have jarred some sort of sub-conscious memory which led to my dream of 'Stephanie.'
2. Catherine and I have taken a liking to the TV show Gray's Anatomy. There is a secondary character on that show who Dr. O'Malley dates once. I don't know the character's name and she's not pictured on the Web site, but she reminds me of Stephanie for some reason. A strange and completely unrelated side note is that this character gave Dr. O'Malley syphilis last season. (I don't claim sense-making here. Just the facts, ma'am.)
3. Recently, I've been playing some songs off The Commitments soundtrack, a movie I saw for the first time with Steph.
4. Last week I had lunch with Stephanie's best friend from high school. Whenever we get together, Steph usually comes up somewhere in the conversation.
5. Smashing Pumpkins has been in my iPod rotation a little more than usual.
6. Another friend of mine that I hung out with this weekend, who also, it so happens, is interested in photography, was badly injured in a car crash several years ago. And I think that each occurred in a pick-up truck.

These are some good theories on why I had the dream this week. In fact, as I write that last one out, I'm actually a tad freaked out by it. Given all of this I suppose it should be no surprise that Steph may have been in my subconscious. But the fact remains that my first dream of her occurred well before this weekend and before any of the above concurrencies.

So then there is the other possibility, one that I can't help but wonder about, despite my better (meaning 'reality-based') judgement. Maybe I did not think of Steph at all. Maybe the dreams were a result of nothing I thought, consciously, subconsciously, or otherwise. Maybe I had no role in it whatsoever. Maybe what happened is that she thought of me. Typically, I'm not somebody who believes in spirits or communicating with the dead, but I have to admit that I have my doubts when something like this happens. I've also had several dreams about my grandfather and, every time, it disturbs me for days. At the same time that it's disturbing, however, it's also very comforting when dead loved-ones appear in my dreams. It's comforting because it's nice to hold on to a hope that there may be communication and some sort of existence after death. And that those that are close to us actually never leave. Here's the thing: Every time I've had a dream about somebody who is dead, they have been happy. It makes me a little less scared.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Friends  Family  Chewing