Fun With "The Grunt of Incomprehension"

Here in killer cowboy land, the natives signal incomprehension with a guttural grunt--"huh?"
Repeat it to yourself a few times.
"Huh?"
"Huh???"
"HUH????"
Dreadful, really....... but with what might one replace this aspirated exhalation of bewilderment?

May I suggest the renewed usage of the archaic and quaint "prithee"? It would offer endless hours of amusement a la Abbot and Costello:

First Speaker: (inaudible mumbling)
Second Speaker: Prithee?
First: Huh?
Second: Yes, essentially........
First: Huh?
Second: Exactly....
First:(shoots second)
Second: AAAArgh!
First: Huh?

and so on

Cute Report 9

I loved the style of children books' illustrator Quentin Blake. This cover of Mrs. Armitage, Queen of the Road is so charming! Thanks to Alexandre Soares Silva for the link.



A cute felt cabbage. There's other cute stuff made in felt there. It all looks very decole inspired to me, I like it. Burnt toasts, pink muffins, milk cartons and -- the most bizarre thing ever -- cute little felt tampons. Now I've seen everything.


Childcare Robot PaPeRo. "This Childcare Robot is capable of recognizing and verbally communicating with people, sending images by mobile phone to persons far away, as well as playing games and singing along with others. With it, we are looking for new relationships and possibilities as a part of children's groups at daycare centers, kindergartens and elementary schools." I don't really like the idea of people developing an emotional bond with robots, especially children; but the design is kinda cute.


I don't know why beauty in Cocker Spaniels varies so wildly, but when they're cute there's nothing cuter. On this page you have several Cocker Spaniels of various sizes and colours, puppies and grown-ups. They're all so beautiful it's ridiculous! I dare you to look at those faces and not smile silly. And for f*ck's sake, leave their tails alone!


I love product mascots, and this new P'tits Heinz Ketchup bottle is pretty cool. Of course, you know it's all targeted at kids and making them fatter than ever, but their bad luck is my bliss. The P'tits Heinz Sauce Mayo bottle is cool too.

Fun With Anagrams

Right, then…….what’s all this I keep hearing about the universe expanding? From where I’m standing, it certainly looks to be contracting, getting smaller all the time.

Exhibit “A”: two of the three clients I had on my table last Tuesday were connected peripherally to my old job—one a licensed health care professional from a “rival” facility, another in the governmental body that finances the facility I escaped from.
This can only mean that Einstein got it dead wrong, science is a delusion, and that I must immediately turn to superstitious savagery to stave off the displeasure of the wrathful gods. Either that, or I should just get a nap and see if I feel more sane afterwards, but I don’t really feel sleepy, so superstition wins for now.

In today’s journey into the unproven, we will explore the hidden meanings in proper names, thanks to this fun little anagram generator
http://www.wordsmith.org/anagram/index.html

I tried both the name I go by, and the odious one on my birth certificate. Let us explore the hidden secrets therein:
LEERY HOT = you’re attractive, but I dunno….. you’re scary, too.
EELY THOR = Norse God of Thunder, but like a snakey fish
HOLY TREE = I should have been a Druid (again?)
HOTEL REY = king of hotels
A CAB HERE TILL YON = taxi takes you from A to B
A CAB THEYRE ILL ON = they were drinking too much, now it needs washing
A CAB YELLER HIT ON = that perverted old dog…
.A CAB HELLION TYRE = you really don’t want one of these rolling over your foot
A CAB LITHELY NERO = a taxi that is black and supple
A BELLYACHER I NOT = I really don’t bitch that much
A CELEBRANT HOLY I = the druid thing, again
A BLANCHE RELY I TO = something to do with “the kindness of strangers”
A BACHELOR LYE TIN = it’s unmarried, and you keep your caustic substances in it
A CALIBRE TEN HOLY = self explanatory
A CABINETRY HELLO = greetings from the cupboard!
A ACERBITY HELL NO = a snarky refusal
A BACH EON YE TRILL = singing Bach seemingly forever
A BALTIC EEL HORNY = those Baltic eels are a randy bunch…..
A BOTANIC HELL RYE = nothing you want to make bread from
A CORNBALL EH YETI = don’t dis me to the abominable snowman
A CALLBOY THEREIN = pardon?
A CALLBOY NETHER I = damn right!
A CALLBOY NEITHER = yes, as I said
A CALLBOY RENE HIT = who’s Rene?
A CALLBOY ERE THIN = I’ve put on a few pounds, but….hey! Wait a tic…
A CALLBOY HE RENT I = I don’t like the direction this is heading
A CALLBOY HEIR TEN = a slutty, attractive person due to inherit something
A CALLBOY THEN IRE = lust, then anger
A BLANC EERILY HOT = gothic and sexy (?)
A BACON ETHER LILY = made from pork, left by the ether bunny
A BACON EYE THRILL = love looking at bacon
A BLAIR CELT HONEY = sequel to “Blair Witch”—Irish and sweet
A COBRA TEENY HILL = a small pile of extremely venomous reptiles
A TRIBAL CLONE HEY = indigenous group with advanced knowledge of DNA
A BAY HERETIC NOLL = again, self explanatory
A BAY ERECT HILL NO = moving on…..
A LACE ROBE THINLY = something “more comfortable” to slip into
A LACE BINT RELY HO = this is extremely naughty
A LACE BYRON LITHE = a supple poet in lacy attire
A LACE BONY HITLER = dead fascist in lace shroud
Ok, I feel better.

How To Play "Nostril"

My late brother Edd and I shared the same absurd sense of humor. We shared several fraternal traditions, like the house we always bellowed at as we passed in the car (imagine the Doppler effect, and the people inside going “there it is again—that strange noise”), and the game of “nostril”.

“Nostril” is a cooperative channel surfing game.
A flip of the coin determines who is the “changer” and who is the “score keeper”. The “changer” wears a special hat, and holds a staff (or sword) of office, as well as the television remote. The “score keeper” has a pad and pencil.

A further coin flip determines the direction—“up” or “down”—the direction the “changer” pushes on the remote, at the appropriate time.

Play begins when the television is turned “on”.
Players stare intently at the screen, waiting until they can clearly see “nostril(s)”. Side of the nose isn't enough--you must be able to see in. Players must shout “nostril!”(there are no “turns”—everyone screams communally), and the “changer” “changes” the channel in the before chosen direction. This continues until all the channels have been “nostriled” (or, in the case of the weather radar channel, “forfeited”), returning to the original “first channel”, when the two “players” exchange roles, and another “coin flip” determines the “new” direction.

But what, you may well ask, of the “score keeper”?

The role of “score keeper” is a sacred one.
The “score keeper” keeps track of the various values of the televised air-intake openings. Different “nostril”s have different “values”:
(“double barrels” count x2)
Baby nostrils = 20 pts
Newscaster nostrils = 50 pts
Cartoon nostrils = 100 pts
Historical nostrils = 500 pts
Villainous nostrils = 500 pts
Heroic nostrils = 700 pts
Musical nostrils = 800 pts
Animal nostrils = 1000 pts
Simultaneous group nostrils = reverse direction

Add to that the various combinations of points—say “heroic musical cartoon animal nostril” would be a full 2600 points!

Dawn dropped by to participate in the First Annual Edd Hoel Memorial Nostril Games. Being the first, it was a small, intimate gathering. Next year I hope to have a larger group (you’re all invited).

Until then, you have the basic rules—go practice.

Unfaithful Wives 4

Frances McDormand as Doris Crane in the Cohen Bros' movie "The Man Who Wasn't There" was perhaps the most interesting unfaithful wife I've ever seen in the movies. Her part is very peculiar, starting with the fact that she says very little. Her character is an attitude, a look, a way of speaking through her presence alone. In that sense she reminds me of another unfaithful wife, mute Ada in the unforgettable movie "The Piano." In both characters silence reflects their voluntary isolation, contempt for others, an unwillingness to communicate with people they can't relate to. It's like they're saying "There's no point in trying to talk to you people." Their silence means war.

One could describe Doris as someone who doesn't suffer fools who is trapped in a small town where there's nothing but fools. She only puts up with her husband because he's so quiet and meek, because theirs is a loveless marriage.

A scene that perfectly describes that couple is when a traveling salesman drops by their house. Although her husband is not interested in buying anything he feels obliged to listen to and talk to the man. His wife, however, only wears kid gloves on her hands. When she shows up you can see her sizing up the stranger, and quickly seeing him for what he is, yet another fool wasting her time with mindless blabber. She takes the leaflet in her hands and tears it up, which calmly and efficiently sends him going -- without having to say a word, of course. She tells her husband "I don't want to talk about it," like she doesn't have the energy to listen to more foolishness that day. She's an intriguing mixture of a refined woman who has given up on social graces.

She starts an affair with the only exciting and exceptional man in town, a war hero. When her husband murders him (for reasons that have nothing to do with jealousy) she is accused and must stand trial. Thanks to the investigation she finds out the man she gave her heart and body to never so much as went to war, let alone become a war hero. She spent her life despising the small town people around her, but as it turns out he was much worse. There is a very interesting moment when the couple and their lawyer are discussing a defense strategy and the husband proposes taking the blame for the murder. It's not clear if at that moment she realizes the truth, or if she just assumes he's taking the rap for her to save her life. But whatever goes through her mind you can tell she didn't see that one coming. "I've been such a fool," she says. And later she hangs herself, maybe because she couldn't respect herself anymore after being duped like the biggest fool of all. Or maybe because she'd given up on believing that a soul mate was in her cards.

I don't see her suicide as a sort of redemption for being a cheater, so that we the audience can "forgive" her; but rather as in keeping with someone who was so demanding and unforgiving. I empathize with what she represents, a state of mind of being fed up with a dead-end life, with small people and their smallness. It's true there are a lot of pretentious, nasty people out there who are completely deluded about their self-worth, and who spend their entire lives hurting everyone. But there are also truly above average persons, who often go through life feeling very alone and misunderstood. It's easy to fall into self-pity, and I like the fact she's not sad but resolute. I don't think I ever saw a character quite like her anywhere.

Plan "B" is a Good Plan

I was knackered when it was over with--"it" being my first night on the new gig--but I also left with cash in hand (tips!!!!!!) and the satisfaction of a job well done. I got good reviews, plus--money talks. So I am happy to report that all is well on this end.
Today marks the 54th birthday of my late brother, Edd. We had a memorial BBQ at AK's house. The pitbulls were both very sweet--Chopper didn't try to kill me even once! Good doggie!
Then it was on to Amber's, to assist her in an operation of advanced babe technology--she was bleaching her hair, and needed an extra set of hands and eyes to get the back bits. Hair products are stinky, but I got to play with Io kitty--she hunted my foot. She stalks and pounces on my right foot, then disembowels it with her back claws. My left foot seems to be beneath her notice, but the right one she kills again and again.
I hope you've had a lovely day, and that someone stalked and killed your foot, too. Why should I have the priviledge all to myself?

"Adventures in Monk Baiting", OR "Lotsa Backstory for Such a Short Joke"

Back in my days working pediatric psych, I had the bizarre pleasure of working in proximity to not one but TWO Greek Orthodox monks. They were a couple of local boys who went to university, got a look at objective reality, and decided "fuck it--give me superstition and an erroneous calendar. We want to be part of the institution that helped the vampire myth get such a grip on the peasantry of eastern Europe." So naturally I just HAD to fuck with them whenever the opportunity presented itself.
My favorite monk baiting gambit is called "Tempt Them Into Impious Mirth", or "Make Them Laugh At Something Irreverent or Even Sacrilegious". I found myself in the ward dining room one afternoon, tossing out old peanutbutter sandwiches, when one of the god-bothering tossers swanned in and remarked "Goodness, those certainly are old snacks"........hehehe....... My response was swift and cruel--I said "You have no idea! I've got leftovers here from the sermon on the mount-- I may never finish! It's been loaf, fish, loaf, fish, all afternoon!"
The look on his face as he backed out of the room was priceless--a mixture of shock, anger, and barely suppressed laughter. Part of him saw the humor, and wanted to laugh, but the rest of him was about to disintegrate. So, by way of apology, I waited a month, and then I told him I'd figured out "the worst part about being an atheist". Silly bugger took me seriously, and asked what it was. I told him--"no one to talk to while you're having an orgasm".
How I miss that "I want to laugh, but I think I might go to hell if I do" look.

Plan "B" Underway

(The world's most famous "massage therapist"--John Redcorn. Thanks for keeping that stereo type alive there, Mike.)


So, when last we spoke on the topic, I had just come to realize I was wasting time at the hookah lounge (trying to do chair massage, not smoking--silly), and I needed to do something else.
I just got hired at a discount massage establishment. I usually want to firebomb that kind of place--usually they are not owned by massage therapists, and end up being an unhealthy place for the therapist. My dear Vaia worked at one that kept her busy 8 hours straight, and paid her $8 an hour for it. See what I mean about the firebomb?
The place I signed on at is owned by a RMT who was a classmate of my two favorite instructors, and he is paying a fair and decent wage--bless him. So I'll be there Tuesday and weekend evenings.
I will be working about 16 hours a week, and making about the same as I did at Bedlam for 40 weekly hours of wrestling, screaming, and paperwork.
Hot damn!

Weekly Guest Post at Gatochy's

Click on the link to your left and learn some more about a subject that drives me nuts.

Wishful Thinking 65

In Portugal the government is going to introduce a system of quotas for women in politics (I don't know if that's the right expression to use in English, that's how we say it in Portuguese.) It means from now on political parties running for something will have to have a certain percentage of women in their lists. I agree with this measure because if we were to let it up to the parties to introduce women into their ranks the number of men and women in politics would be balanced in about a hundred years. Furthermore, the idea that people get into parties and rise to positions of power based on their sole personal merit is an illusion that only very naive people believe in. Those few women we see in politics didn't get there because of their exceptional merit either. But that's a myth that a lot of people, women especially, like to believe in: this idea that women have it so tough that if one actually becomes powerful it must be because she is not only equal to men but much better in fact than most men in her position (more hard-working, more intelligent, more qualified, etc.) It's a flattering thing to believe in, but it isn't true. They got there thanks to personal favours and interests and lobbies they serve, just like everybody else who is male.

It was very shocking to hear many of the women in power speak out against this system of quotas saying that they didn't want women in politics who didn't get there through their personal merit and work. It's shocking because the idea implied is that the reason there are so few women in power is because most of them simply don't have what it takes, and don't qualify for the job. Needless to say there are hundreds and hundreds of women who are qualified, and who would be very interested in serving their country (or themselves...) through politics, but no party will let them go near, or ever thinks of inviting them. The way women politicians talk about it you'd think women of worth only come along once in a blue moon (women like them, you see? They're so much better than everybody else of their own gender, of the opposite gender, in the whole of the galaxy... A woman's vanity never ends.)

But if most men and women in politics didn't get there because they were exceptionally qualified or worthy people, then what is the point of introducing a system of quotas, you might ask. If they're all the same anyway, equally corrupt, equally self-serving, equally incompetent? Do I believe that somehow women will be inherently purer? No, I don't. But one thing I realize is that people basically look out for themselves first, and what they perceive to be their group second. Meaning people in power will take care of the interests of those of their own gender, race, religion, social status, etc. So if the people want their interests to be served they must have people of their group representing them in the government and in parliament. That's one of the reasons why democracy is so ineffective: it's true everybody gets to vote, but not everybody gets to run. Those who would represent and fight for a certain group's interests aren't candidates. So quotas are in the interest of democracy.

You could say that by that rational then the percentage of women in politics should be higher than men. I think so too. There are more women than men in Portugal, and that should be reflected in our representatives. In fact, by that rational the percentage of races, religions, social class, etc, should also be represented. In order to assure this percentage truly was representative a study would be conducted periodically, to change the percentage accordingly. Meaning if there were, say, 5% Indian people in Portugal there should be 5% Indian people in power. I don't honestly believe this would guarantee that the interests of Indian people would be safeguarded. The fact most people in power are white men doesn't guarantee the rights of white men either. But I do believe from then on they would stand a much better chance of being heard.

Oh, Good--It's Not Just Me

(a picture of myself and the groovetastic Dawn, from the Burlesque Family Dining Establishment we met in. Here I am pictured being all puh-sykick, foreseeing that I would be so grateful today)
Gotta love that Dawn.
The groovetastic one has been a RMT for longer than I've known her, and according to her, the age group that frequents the Hookup Lounge does not seek massage. She says she's only worked on people that age when they'd been given massage gift certificates as gifts. So I'm pulling up stakes, as seeking greener pastures and fresher cliche's.
On the motivational end of things, the experience encouraged me to join as many on-line groups for the deaf as I could today, as an aid to market my deaf-centric table practice.
So I'll be staying in tonight, and will be well rested for the Mother's Day Rave. The out of control festivities will include fried chicken (ma's fave), pie and ice cream (certainly there will be complaints from the neighbors), and a special screening of "The Princess Bride". I know, we're headed for Hell in a handbasket. Don't try to stop us--we'll take you with us.

........it was like a meditation on impermanence........

What a day. Quite the assortment of experiences. The day began interestingly enough, with a surprise visit from an estranged friend that was actually quite pleasant and reassuring. And the comments on the last post were great--thanks, ya'll, for the stimulating feedback.
Then, I went to the hookah lounge for the chair gig.

Tonight the patio area--where I set up-- was full by 10:20. The bad news--they were all American. Don't get your red, white and blue knickers in a twist--I'll explain myself.
American kids didn't grow up in a culture that recognizes and appreciates "natural healing" techniques. The kids from Asia, South America, India, Iran, etc--they see something different when they look at me. They ask about my training, and express admiration for my level of education and training. To the American kids, I'm that creepy older guy. Americans still tend to associate massage with sexuality.
I set up a bit early, and had a nice chat with a young gent smoking hookah with his brother. As the place filled up, I went from being an object of brief curiosity, to being invisible. I said "screw it" around midnight, and split to get some food, making a note to self to promote my practice heavily to the international community here.
Ok, so the really grotesque irony? I was reading the Dalai Lama while I waited. Even as I recognized the merit of what I read, I found myself getting more self conscious, and less compassionate. Disgusting on a certain level, but then I remember I need to practice loving kindness.............I am not in any danger of enlightenment any time soon.

I've Got A Theory: Men, Passive Aggression, and Video Games

(there are no "cheat codes" in this book, if that's what you're looking for)
Ok--mind now, I am sharing my observations of behavior here in Texas.........

First of all, let it be known--I freaking HATE passive aggressive behavior. It truly drives me nuts. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, just Google it, already.

To be fair, it is a behavior learned and utilized by people who think/feel/believe/perceive themselves to be powerless against a ruthless/domineering agent or agency. Someone once remarked that "sarcasm is the weapon of the slave". They were talking about passive aggression.

Passive aggression formerly was the weapon of the pre-liberated woman. As such, it was the voice of the oppressed, casting ridicule upon the macho, sexist status quo. Finally, after thousands of years, women are free to express themselves, to get angry without being accused of "being hormonal".

It's gone pear-shaped for the gents, however.

While young women are encouraged to express their anger directly, young men are restrained, and taught that expressing their anger makes them "macho assholes". So now the shoe is on the other foot. Men are becoming more and more passive aggressive--using avoidance and other passive tools to express their anger.

Video games--perfect vehicle for male passive aggression. First of all, it is this virtual world to sink into, a haven to escape the powerless feelings--"soooorry, didn't hear you--I was busy playing my game"--on more levels than one. Video games are also largely violent, giving men a place to transfer their aggression. Some may argue that this is a healthy outlet, but if you are angry over a domestic dispute, and you "act out' your anger by shooting virtual people, you've reinforced the whole caveman thing--me angry, me kill.
The point I'm trying to make is that we need to work on our communication skills, and examine our attitudes. It is unhealthy and hypocritical to demonize men's expression of anger at the same time we encourage women's. We really need to find better ways of communicating, and they aren't coming from your x-box. Unplug from the noise and flashing lights, and have a listen to the still, small voice that is being ignored.

Peter Panic

(Peter says: What next, damn you? This maturity crap must have a limit!!)
I don't know what to think......I've passed a milestone or something........my very last childhood food aversion.......gone!
I got over liver hatred when I was 11, after a gruesome morning of tests in hospital-- it was a matter of "what further indignity can you visit upon me--bring it!". My aversion to avocados vanished at adolescence. Other minor aversions--mayonaisse, par example--no more. But the final one I held into my mid 40's. But not any more. The dreaded, feared, and religiously avoided beet has entered the role of acceptable food stuffs. Bloody beety hell.

Justin and His Amazing Karma, or something......

About the same time Amber started dating Justin, he adopted Io, kitty extraordinaire. I have noticed some significant similarities between the two ladies.
1: They are both independent, not shy about attacking, but keep claws sheathed.
2: They are both petite examples of their respective species.
3:They both have high pitched voices.
4: Io is black and white; Amber goes between jet black and platinum blonde.
5: They are both lots of fun to hang out and watch movies with.
I don't know what this has to do with Justin and his karma, really. It's just nice to mention him without the requisite gerbil reference.

Image Association 246

(Clickable Thumbnails)


Norman Riley, "Torso" 1982
Owen OMeara, "Reflection" Study



William Bouguereau, "Êtude Tête de Jeune Fille" 1898
Dominique Swain in "Lolita"



Jan Vermeer, "The Lace Maker"
Renoir



Linda Darnell
Niagara, Pure Underword Pop, "If I Want Your Opinion I'll Beat it Outta You."



Nickolas Muray, Greta Garbo, 1922
Robert Mapplethorpe, Patti Smith "Horses" album cover

Therapeutic Blogology

You can take the boy out of the psych ward, but..........(finish cliche here)
I recommend blogging as a therapeutic aid to many of my friends-- diaries and journals have long been used in therapy, but I think blogging has a bit of an advantage.
When you use a "hard copy" journal or diary, you encounter a couple of problems inherent to the format. A journal is a finite thing, with a first and last page--empty pages, defying you to fill them. A person struggling with an underdeveloped ego will often feel inadequate to the task, and will become discouraged, avoiding the intimidating "empty book".
The second issue is privacy. Putting down honest thoughts and feelings is difficult. First, one has to confront and own the feelings--difficult when they are unpleasant to begin with, and next to impossible if you are afraid of being "found out". A hard copy journal is a point of vulnerability, particularly to those struggling with an abusive-- or otherwise disrespectful of boundaries-- significant other or family member.
Blogging is a much better theraputic tool. By nature, it is an on going process--there is no last page, no blank pages to intimidate the person who fears that they have nothing to say. The "pages" don't exist until the mighty blogger calls them into existance. The on going process of blogging is made up of many smaller, completed chunks. Every post is a success--a completed assignment to be proud of.
Also, blogging has a higher degree of privacy. One may choose a pseudonym, there is a password to access the blog, and the blog doesn't exist in real space. Additionally, one has the option of keeping the blog off the blogroles--if you want to blog for your eyes only, no problem. Also, one never has to worry about losing the blog, leaving it somewhere, or forgetting to take it to a therapy session.
So, as much as I love the printed word, and books in general, I still think blogging is a superior theraputic tool. Just imagine how freakin nutzoid I'd be without it.........

20 Hours of Short/Nasty/Brutish

(a prehistoric blog post, before the invention of "LOL")

The weather gods and the gods of electric utilities got together to express their contempt--we were without power from 10pm Thursday until 6pm Friday. Now I see my house as a big box that runs on electricity, and myself as a spoiled monkey that also runs on electricity much of the time.
It was dark, humid, and boring. No AC, no fan, no distraction from it all. I have long maintained to my naive young friends who glamorize the past that they are kidding themselves. In less than a full solar day I was ready to raid the houses across the street (unaffected, damn them) for their precious electricity, but it's hard to throw a cask of electric power over your shoulder, no matter how well armed you are with sticks and torches. I'll be making extra preparations for this year's hurricane season just to be sure.

Delta Travels Around Sun Again!

(celebrant observing Delta Day in some colourful part of the world, where they dress up like that)

Delta is getting really good at star surfing. It's one of the oldest of the extreme sports--you find a chunk of matter orbiting a star, and hop on. It will take you all the way around the star--it's crazy! Our sun is pretty big and hot, so Delta does it from a cooler climate, for safety's sake. It would just be reckless to do it from, say, the equator. That would just be hot dogging, and Delta is too cool to stoop to such measures. (Look at all the "oo"s.)
So, he's made another successful trip 'round old sol, and people are dancing in the streeets to mark the occasion. Congrats, happy day, and may the world that comes back into focus be a kind one.http://deltaavidelta.blogspot.com/

My Inner Child Is Having a Fit

Seriously, the little fucker is ballistic about this. I caught him with my credit card, headed for the cell phone. It's overpriced and bloody useless, but my inner child yearns for it like nothing in a long time, so he'll probably get it eventually--I'll use it to give him incentive or something--he's not very materially motivated, so it's rare I get this kind of leverage.

Image Association 243 - Celebrity Look Alikes

Daryl Hall (left)








Ali Campbell (right)

Happy May Day

From all of us at IRBHN.