Heading south to
Los Angeles
The place
I ran away from
Years ago
Beckons in the
Morning

Brostein needs help
With moving

His Papa Rossi
No longer the Godfather
Had a ton of shit
In storage
Dementia
Took a great mind
At least I knew him when
He ruled without
Question

I know
I shouldn’t say it
But I like him better now
A pussycat
Happy to oblige
And so I travel
Once again

Decided to take the train
Give my sweet Mamita
A rest
The worlds greatest
$300 Mini Van
A year later
She still purrs
When we hit the road

The train leaves
At 6:45am
My computer says
It’s 6:25am
My phone says
It’s 5:25am
My clock says
It’s 6:01 am
My coffee maker says
It’s 7:15am
My stereo says
It’s 1:15pm
My internal clock says
Fuck time

But we must save time
It slips away from us
So desperate are we
To have more
It’s always about more
Fuck Ben Franklin
His idea of daylight savings
Crimps my soul

I smoked a cigarette
Three minutes
I took a shower
Ten minutes
I packed
Five minutes
I ate
Two minutes
I cursed God
Ben Franklin
And Timex
Fifteen minutes

I’m leaving now
I still don’t know
What time it is
But it’s not Saturday
I’m not in the park
And it’s definitely not
The fourth of July
Later

I dag har det gått i ett, og skoene mine ble drept av byens mange brosteiner. Hat prosjekt, jeg lover, men heldigvis skulle jeg møte Aina på cafe spesial og der sitter man jo stort sett stille…. Da maten var slukt oppdaget vi en BIFF brosjyre på naboboret og bestemte oss for å se filmen som skulle begynne om 20 minutter på kinoen som lå lengst unna. Kan fortsatt ikke tro at vi rakk det og faktisk fikk biletter. Hurra!

Fimen var Vietnamesisk og het Choi Voi (Drifter i drift) og var av typen herlig sær. Uten å avsløre for mye må jeg få påpeke at kamphanen som er med burde få sin egen film. Jeg har ikke ord, men ser ett potensielt kjæledyr i dyret, selv om Aina sier det er ulovlig i Norge.

Jeg dør litt…! Vanja laget (etter mitt ønske) Lille-My frisyre på hesten sin Eldmax, og jeg konkluderer med at det er det stiligeste jeg har sett på lenge. To lange ører og en knott med hår midt i mellom, fantastisk bra!

Brostein,

The agenda of hate leaves me prostrate by the fountain, naked with a Madonna deep within my ass.

I think it will be the opening line in my next literary endeavor..

It says it all, why say anything else?
I suppose, one could speculate many things:

“Fountain? Did he mean Fountain of youth?”
“Why the Madonna? Why not a dradle?”
“Agenda? No one chooses hate!”

There it is….
I thought I had something to say, but all I had was an opening line..

Another great opening line!!!

It could also be a cool quote that I am remembered for
Much along the lines of …

“Ah yeah, I am talking to myself.”"
“Whaddya mean no smoking?”
“Only Decaf?, Fuck..”

And my personal fave…
“I’m outta here!”

I wish there was more,
So sad
Oh holy agenda, leave me quiet as a lamb amongst the followers of our Lord; a whispering glade of righteous moon.

Bindo

Brostein was sick
Of concurring
Family
Friends
Strangers
Cretins

I don’t blame him

I too
Sick of concurring
Wishing only to sleep
I woke up
In the middle of the night

Again

I heard an Avocado
Hit the ground

I went outside
Lit a cigarette
Breathed in
Smoke
And the cool night air
Grabbed the food
That fell from the sky

Made some Guacamole
Salt
Hot sauce
Lime

Dipped in a tortilla chip
Munch munch munch
Crunch crunch crunch

Went back to bed
And felt my eyes close
Darkness
Silence

I concur

I needed
Musical inspiration
Lost in my good mood
So unusual

It had been several days
Waiting
Wondering
Almost hoping
The pain of existence
Would return

No such luck

I went through
The mother load
Of music
Bequeathed by Brostein
Everything from
The Dandy Warhols
To Mozart

Nothing spoke to me
My fear
Being drained of
Artistic expression

Abandoned to
Happy smiles
Blubbering platitudes
The……..gulp!

Rhymed cuplet…

Left me with
Resolve
To continue
Searching

For something
Anything

And there it was
A man named Mancini
Master of musical scores
Dozens of hits
In his time

Before
MC’s and hippy hopsters
Before
Teen Spirit in Seattle
Before
Oingo Boingos and Grey Matter
Before
Safety pins and mosh pits
Before
Saturday Night Fevers
Before
Long boring guitar solos
Before
Strawberry Fields

A man and his piano
And this song
So ridiculously happy
I laughed out loud

Walked outside
Breathed deep
And enjoyed
Being alive

Just like baby elephants
Rolling in a pond

5/9/09

Brostein,

Again I wonder at all the things we do and the reality of the end result which is always pointless. I look forward to seeing you and your hot wife soon. In case you didn’t know, Santa Barbara is burning to the ground, so perhaps you can find a fixer upper pretty cheap.

I appreciate your kind words about my current work but at times it seems like only a struggle to continue on. Is it a quest for immortality, a way to get out from under dead end jobs, a way to hide from reality or only a sickness that the voices inside my head, remind? Either way, I long for days of random nothing. The days where we would wander about, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, finding amusing games to while away the hours and lose ourselves outside the meaningless crap the world at large desperately wants us to ingest and assimilate; they are my fondest memories.

But today you have your path, and I will refrain form the word “prophecy” it seems to place you in a light of great importance and the truth is I know what a buffoon you can be. I suppose my thought of the moment is, “Can a buffoon bring great change?” Of course you can but its fun to say these things out loud because in the end we as in (you and me), understand the emptiness but carry on regardless.

This brings me to my current dreary about writing in general. As you know, I hate to write; so much inner exposure, but I feel compelled and like a good junkie, slam the dope of words into my vein and feel the rush, then the high and sadly, the numb and OD, leaving me prostrate and shaking from withdrawals. The paramedics arrive and witness my fetal convulsions and think to turn off the laptop, take it away and never return it. I scream and wail and beg them to lock me up because the world is too overwhelming. They laugh and tell me to have a good day as they leave in search of something more important. Is there anything more important then words? I suppose there is.

Why not find another addiction, one that doesn’t destroy me? I don’t know my dearest of friends and perhaps this will be my end, slumped over a keyboard, coffee cold and smoke torching my room, sending me to hell in a blaze of glory where the devil herself waits with open arms and perfect breasts for me to suckle through eternity.

Of course, there may not be any hell and the sad truth is, the place I now dwell, earth, is the hell of all hells. I can’t say for sure and maybe it doesn’t matter. My books will float through the hands of desperate minds long after I’m gone and if my words make an impact, so be it. If my books end up on a sad and forlorn shelf at Goodwill, being sold for fifty cents or a garage sale for a quarter, I’m good with that as well.

But the words won’t leave me alone and the road only lends itself as the ultimate dealer, offering great highs for the small price of sanity. Maybe one day, when all are gone and we find ourselves alone, much like the old days, we can drive up to Sun Valley and have a Carl Night with the master of the electric blender drink himself. When we get good and ploughed, head over to Papa’s house, now a museum, and sneak in our double barrel friend. Do you think Papa would mind if we mix our grey matter with his in the holy chandelier? I suspect not.

The reality of this musing is that even this semi-tragic, pseudo romantic ending is as big a bunch of shit as striving for the New York Times best seller list.

When you get here I hope we have time to hit a few Chinese joints and without fail, that which always brings me great joy. Yass, sit down with a double double w/cheese, onions and extra pickles, a diet coke because I like the taste; to hell with my boyish figure (God bless In and Out Burgers) feed the birds my fries and play our poetry game. Those poems still make me laugh until it hurts.

Bindo

Inspired by:

A letter from Brostein

The morning
Made itself known
Another day

Hundreds of decisions

Which ones?
Cause and effect
Good and bad
But then again
Not really

Carl and Ron
Two good friends
Now defunct
Gone
Good riddance

But then again
Not really

They highlight fear
Inspire fear
Imbue fear

Of this fear
Aspects dream of doom
Speak of falsity
Death
God

The same fear
The mask placed
Upon my face
By me

So I tilt my head
And have another smoke
Smile into the clouds
Laugh

In the face of death
The face of god

Neither what I believe
Both illusions
In my mind
A vital truth

Only one exists
All that exists
Not the way I think

For years
Searching
Reading
Digesting
Talking
Endless talking
My own voice
Leaving me bored

One day I woke up
It could be this morning
Any morning
All happening at once

God was everywhere
Fear was gone
And no words
To describe it

So I took off
The mask
And breathed easy

01/20/09
Brostein,

Happy fucking Birthday!! Your recent visit with Maui was surely a fine distraction from the hell I verily call my life. Of course, you two would have to be eating at my last bullshit job when I walked out. Truly, I was embarrassed for you to eat at a dump of a diner where everything is frozen, dropped on the floor a couple of times, walked on, hacked on and thrown on the grill to cook up for the contemptuous old fucks who come in twice a day and demand to be treated like royalty. I guarantee, your food was not hacked upon!

And really, while I’m reliving that gruesome day, why is it that old people demand respect for solely being on the planet for an extended period of time? Shouldn’t respect be earned? You would think that after being pummeled by existence for eighty some odd years, one would be beaten into a sense of reasonableness. Alas, they only become more cantankerous, more demanding and more sour as they approach that final day when everything shuts down and they say goodbye kicking and screaming, wanting to stay one more day just to make everyone’s lives a little shittier.

Now I’m not saying all old people are this way. I know many seniors who by virtue of moving through life with integrity, honesty, courage and grace receive respect strictly by being in the room; it’s just obvious they are skilled warriors of this catastrophe called life. However, those rare and shining humans never came into the dump I slaved at. And so it is that trailer trash will always be trailer trash and the wife beater T-shirts will always have stains on them and if they could get that old 75 gold Trans Am running, they would be in it, causing accidents and being the perpetual pain in the ass they have always been.

Ah, but to have your smiling face at the house for three beautiful days was enough to keep me floating on a sea of hate and loathing with a smile. I was glad to see Maui and Jewel become like sisters instantly, but who could deny your hot wife’s Peruvian charm and of course, they made quite the beauteous team. Thank god we had time to slip away and talk about our favorite subject, hate without interruption and regret.

I would say more on this day when O’Bama will be sworn into office and sit in the chair that so many great, not so great and hands down pathetic and worthy of death men have sat in. I doubt either of us will tune in to watch the historic event. All the hope of teary eyed Americans, gathered like sheep for the slaughter, seeing this day as a symbol of change and worthy of being part, only makes me smirk. Ultimately, I see it as just another four years of more of the same and if I’m lucky, I’ll go to sleep one night after a fine dinner, incredible sex and never wake up again.

What was the line by Pete Townsend?
Ah yes,

“Meet the new boss, same as the old boss”

Happy Day Brother

I think I’ll  smoke one in your honor.

Bindo

12/5/08

Brostein,

What a drag about circumstances surrounding The Godfather, a mighty man who has dedicated his life to keeping the family intact. Of course, I didn’t know him in his heyday, but only the later years of mellowness and gardening. The Patriarch of your family could very well live another ten years or ten minutes; such is the way of modern medicine.

It is western medical practice which compels me to write you this morning in Oregonia, a strange land unto itself. Your mention of politics surrounding family and friends and ultimately, doctors strikes a chord in me because I hate politics of any kind. What is it about human beings that they need to be correct in all matters concerning morality and finally death? Looking at it objectively, it’s obvious that death is the only unknown factor in all of life. It’s funny that people can be so determined and self-righteous about something of which there is no proof.

Fear has a way of bringing out the worst in every situation and the all knowing doctors play upon that fear until their bank accounts are overflowing into off shore accounts and shopping mall investments. Is it any wonder that the poor sap without insurance will be left to die on a gurney in the hallway? The triage had him more critical with internal bleeding than the guy with an ulcer the doctors wheeled past him into a room with only one bed. But the guy with only an ulcer was deemed more important because his insurance said so. In the world of hospitals here in the good ol USA, if you want to live a long life, better have a long number at the end of your bank statement.

Insurance isn’t the case with your father and no doubt it has to do with the god complex of doctors in general. They are taught from the beginning to see themselves as the gatekeepers. The helpless loved ones count on them to bring back those they love for another run at life and all its unknown qualities. I can see them conferring and concurring as to what the course of action should be. I also see your family running around like turkeys the day before Thanksgiving trying to understand it all, how to be and how it will pan out in a place where the only course of action is to wait and see.

But then I see you, eyeballing all of it, shifting your perception, embracing your hate for all things worldly and finally going out for Starbucks and a burger; Yes, when life gets too tough just slam down some coffee and chew upon questionable meat until ya feel better. In my case, a pack of smokes must be included. I hope to see you on this trip to the US and of course, your smoking hot wife who now has a Visa, regardless of Bolivian politics…Ya gotta love payoffs.

Bindo

Bronstein’s bailout package came in and once again I felt falsely safe. After a shower, shave, a couple of more smokes and another cup of coffee I felt even more falsely safe. The Countess wrote me to say her students are now quoting me and I felt even more falsely safe. Through it all, I continue to smoke and drink coffee, look around, feel the world and wish to the heavens I could really understand there is no safety.

I’m already tired of doing the “right” thing, tired of trying to relate to those who believe that if they do the “right” things, all will turn out in one big happy ending. I’m tired of getting up every day and searching for a way to fit in and tired of my reflection smiling and turning to doubt. Of course, I’ll continue on because safety lurks in my mind. It speaks to me constantly about my body and what I need to do to protect it. I light another cigarette in rebellion against my body, my fear and all that represents the lie everyone embraces.

I put on the Pixies which seemed to ease my false safety. There is nothing better to do at the moment and music sooths my soul, even when it’s hardly soothing. Words of angst grind on my falsity and it runs out the door. I am left with a feeling I’ll dissolve at any moment and won’t have to go on those stupid interviews, won’t have to tell the gatekeepers what they want to hear and finally reclaim my righteousness. The feelings that resonate with a righteous act of denial can feel like smooth glass, silk sheets and vanilla milkshakes. The air gives off the scent that I still don’t have words for, but clean clothes come to mind.

I sat back and let incredibly loud music pulverize its way into my soul. Flashes of the crazies, the med line, steel cots and falsely concerned faces of shrinks filled my internal vision. I do not see with my eyes; my dreams during sleep remind me of this.

I heard the insanity of schizophrenic speak, smelled the stale air of asylums and remembered that through all, the madness the so called patients never uttered a falsely safe word. I smiled and opened my eyes, decided I wasn’t hungry and walked out into the world without one iota of safe feeling. Suddenly I felt incredibly safe.

11/02/08
Brostein,

I must first start off with humble thanks for your offer of bail out. Once again, you prove to be my friend, anchor and benefactor. I hope my own brand of friendship keeps you satisfied that our comradeship is truly equal. Perhaps when you and your hot wife return from third world land to set up shop and make babies, you will travel to your storage unit in Idaho; yank out my painting, put it in a deserving frame and place it on a wall of your choosing. It would be fun just to watch you and Maui try to decide on a wall which could no doubt take longer than it took to paint it!

The USA is in trouble my friend regardless of a fine presidential election. Though Obama Man, our new super hero, is a refreshing change, the task at hand is daunting and makes me wonder if he’s really a masochist in saviors clothing. Only a masochist would want the job in the first place. Jobs are few and the huddled masses move for shelter and stand in line for food stamps. Why do the masses always huddle? Is it out of togetherness or fear? These thoughts pass quickly as I stand and smile and hope to hear welcoming words from those that sign paychecks.

Choices I’ve made as of late have me re thinking my wandering ways. No doubt you laugh at this and see me for the gypsy I am with a touch of fear myself. In truth my friend, I am done traveling the world and only wish to call one place home. Is it ironic I’ve chosen Oregon as my Alamo? I have to say that for some reason, people have a tendency to lose their teeth here. Perhaps Carlito should move to Oregonia and set up practice. Oh I forgot, though he is a far better dentist than most of the ones already here, the government would make him go back to dental school; a place where he could teach a thing or two.

This is the way of things in the USA, an arrogance that doesn’t dissipate because the economy has tanked. Perhaps it is a good thing that this country is in trouble for it could use a dose of humility. I can speak clearly on this subject today. My own arrogance has slipped into darkness and slashes its wrists in despair. Ah, the truth of suicide makes it self clear. It’s not really a desperate plea for help or self loathing but an ultimate arrogance too afraid to change its ways! Camus is correct in his deduction that ultimate nihilism is an attitude of all or nothing, the real story of Romeo and Juliet and all the so called tragedies.

Speaking of arrogance, I suppose I’ll head up to Ashland and mingle with the woo woo’s. I love their contrived spirituality and smiles that always seem to have back lighting. Even panhandlers need resumes in that town. I saw a guy with a sign there yesterday standing on the corner.

“Spiritual master seeks a handout.”

I went into a store and bought a bowl and went over and gave it to him. When he asked why I was giving him an empty bowl, I explained it wasn’t empty but filled with manna!

I miss you both,

Bindo

01/31/00
Brostein,

The madness of the world continues. The Y2K thing was a joke but everyone was still worried; a few years from now, who knows, a bombing, a depression? People were hording food. They always hord food first, then shoot your neighbor because he didn’t prepare. Of course, they break into your house to get some rice or maybe rice cakes. The millennium for me was a mellow evening. I walked the dog on the strand and watched everyone go nuts. I’ve never seen so many cops on Pier Avenue. Blue got spooked by the fire works so we went home.

I watched a plane dive into the ocean tonight. I was out on the boat on a rather clear night. The winds were light out of the south and it was a perfect 65 degrees outside. It shot down in a flash and at first, I thought it was a meteor. My radio confirmed my sighting, and it seems to have gone down near Ventura. I’m sure all are dead, or most. I’m not sure how I feel about it.

Of course, this brings me into my story, always a story. I haven’t had a drink in four years now and found myself becoming angrier and angrier with god. Fred was right when he wrote, “god is dead.” Without a doubt, the most misunderstood quote, quite possibly ever. But what of my idea of god? What is it that I really believe? If god was indeed perfection, how can perfection conceive of imperfection? Everything dies, nothing is eternal. Ah yass the spirit, but what of the rest; is it even real? Perhaps the Buddhist illusion and doctrine of compassion is missing an ingredient. Could it be that Yeshua’s dogma of forgiveness is that missing piece? Could it be that the illusion itself is what must be forgiven? I become lost with the possibilities. Whatever it is, I found myself slowly filling with an unspeakable rage. I took the boat out and Blue found her spot down below. I threw out my anchor a mile out and began fuming at the world and all the misperceptions I have about it.

I blamed god for everything from a prolapsed rectum to starvation of the masses. I began screaming out loud to a god who I seriously doubted, had anything to do with this dualistic hell. I screamed; guttural, primal, anguished screams. I demanded an answer, pleading for a sign of divine intervention; none came. I turned into a blazing ball of angst and rage, pulsating and gyrating toward an invisible source that I couldn’t reach or understand. But I wanted a symbol of the fool god regardless. I heaved and shouted for hours, a madman on the verge of complete breakdown.

I’m not sure when I passed out, but the next morning found a warm morning sun and Blue licking my face. I opened my eyes to her snout in my eye, waiting for an answer. I sat up, scratched her behind the ears and looked around. The coast of South Bay looked peaceful and I suddenly felt hungry. I made some coffee, lit a smoke, pulled up anchor and headed back in.

I can’t tell you exactly what happened, but I’ve felt quite at peace for several days. I wander around the beach with blue, paddle out, catch waves, eat at The Spot and sit around with a stupid peaceful look. It’s that same stupid peaceful look that I make fun of when I pass someone with that constant back lit look; devotes of Deep Packed What His Face. In truth, I hope it doesn’t last too long, I haven’t written a thing. I’m just too fucking happy and peaceful. If it keeps up, I’ll be writing about “The Lord” or even worse, rhymed couplets.

Bindo

08/15/99

Brostein,

I’ve been enjoying your tales of wonder down in South Beach, Miami. Your poetry is beyond impressive. I’d say you were on fire. So it’s the land of the supermodel is it? Perfect, I hope your eyes are in a constant state of laser beam, or conceivably, you are cross eyed by now. Perhaps I’ll head down and join you for a few. But first, I have to tell you what’s been happening; my apologies for not being my responsive self.

I left Seattle with four hundred dollars and not a clue. I hit the wall with all the hypocrisy that goes on within a corporate restaurant; mindless fools who have no clue what it means to work the floor; nothing but numbers and policies. They claim to care about the guests, but in reality, it’s a façade, just like all jobs and the belief that we are what we do. The art of service is dead. I walked out in the middle of my shift, went back to the pad, grabbed my stuff and headed south. When I got to I80, I did the traditional coin toss; heads I go east, tails I keep going, possibly to the border; Mexico border that is. Heads it was, so I made a left and kept going.

I ended up in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. I was down to my last fifty bones and no thoughts on what to do next. It’s the so called last stop of Doc Holiday. I never made it up to pay homage at the tombstone the locals claim is his. The natural hot springs are impressive though; especially the caves which have a natural eucalyptus pouring out from the walls; it killed a cold I had in one day. I was walking down the main street, which isn’t much, and see this chubby little guy hanging a sign. He had the face of a cherub and I laughed when he turned to look at me and smiled. In a classic, french accent, he has says “bon jour” and how am I. It turns out he’s opening a French restaurant and is a chef. We gabbed for quite a bit and I convinced him I was the greatest waiter on earth. I know you actually believe that, and God love you for it, but I was pouring it on. I took my last dough, bought some clothes at the second hand store, and showed up the next night. Well, I sold the shit out of it; every table had a spendy bottle of wine. The Frenchman comes out and looks around, walks up and hugs me! He made me Matri D’ and the rest is history. I’ve been camping out by the Colorado River, going to the gym to shower and pulling down over three bills a night!

We also get our share of rich Aspenites. The Frenchman has all this crap he bought at Wal-Mart on the walls and thinks it looks European. There was this one quilt in particular; that I know runs around $45.00, which an obviously wealthy woman was admiring. She called me over and asked me about it. I looked at her, and with my fake Italian accent, yass; I’ve been doing it the whole time. (It’s really my Grandpa Sammy as an Italian.) it’s too much. Since I don’t speak French, Italian it was. I just couldn’t resist. Oh to be European, different then the norm; suave, sophisticated; it’s all entertainment, and who better then I, to put on a show.

Anyway, I began telling her the story of the quilt. This quilt from Wal-Mart has really been in the Frenchman’s family for generations. In fact, it was used during the French Resistance of WWII to keep patriots warm. On and on I went with the fascinating history of the quilt from Wal-Mart. It doesn’t look new because The Frenchman rolled it around in the dirt and then washed it a bunch of times; guess it looked more French with some dirt on it. The now taken woman asks me if the Frenchman would consider selling it. I tell her I’m not sure but I’ll ask.

Now in a European kitchen, it’s so quiet you can here a pin drop; it’s just how they do things; bullshit if you ask me and as you know, I’m well versed in bullshit. It’s one the few workable gifts my father left me. So I walk in and just stand there for a couple of minutes not saying anything. The Frenchman finally looks up and says, “What are you doing?” I tell him “nothing” and go back out. I tell a now very excited, Lady Rolex draped patron, that though he appreciates the offer, it has huge sentimental value. If I’ve read her correctly, I know she won’t take no for an answer. Now she takes out the checkbook and looks me dead in the eye and says, “Do you think he’d take five thousand for it?” I look quizzical and tell her I’ll see.

I go back into the kitchen and just stand there. The Frenchman puts down his knife and says, “What are you doing now?” I say, “Nothing” and go back out. I tell this woman who doesn’t understand the meaning of no; the Frenchman is impressed by her eye for antique quilts and will accept her offer. She writes the check and asks to see him to say thank you. I inform her he had to leave and won’t be back for the rest of the night. She looks disappointed but I take the quilt down, fold it up and carry it out to her Rolls. You would have thought it was Christmas. I timed it so the transaction happened as I was dropping the check. She drove away, quite pleased with her acquisition. I’m sure this woman has never stepped foot inside a Marty’s, so all should be kosher. I’m sure her friends will love how she stole it for five grand.

I said not a word, and began counting the till. The Frenchman came out with dinner for the crew. I love that part of working in a European joint. He sits down and looks up at the wall and says, “Where is my fucking quilt?” I looked at him with a straight face and said, ‘Oh, I forgot” handed him the check for five grand and told him the story. He stared at me dumbfounded, broke into the biggest grin I’ve ever seen, hugged and kissed me and said, “You fucking crazy American, I fucking love you!” The next day, he handed me a grand and had another quilt in its place, with price tags on all the shit he bought at Wal-Mart; marked up two hundred percent.

Anyway, the season is over in a couple of weeks and I gave notice. He begged me to stay, but some things you just can’t explain; The Road is one of them. I told him thanks but no, I have to move on. He told me I’ll always have a job with him. That’s nice to know. So, as before stated, I’ll be seeing you in two weeks for complete buffoonery and lazy living; I’m sure you’re pleased. It’ll be good to hang with you; I’ve missed your company and brilliant conversation.

BIndo