Two Babies in the Wild


“Don’t part with your illusions. When they are gone you may still exist, but you have ceased to live.” ~ Mark Twain

“Life itself is only a vision, a dream. Nothing exists; all is a dream. God — man — the world — the sun, the moon, the wilderness of stars — a dream, all a dream; they have no existence. Nothing exists save empty space, and you!”  ~ Mark Twain, The Mysterious Stranger

The sky this morning reminds me of the year I spent in Massachusetts; in Worcester, and no the sky was not always gray and pensive. I lived in the Florida Keys for nearly 20 years, at that point, so a sunny day was only so much furniture to me, and the furniture rarely got rearranged. But I’ve been away from home for four days, and that alone could account for the Worcester memory. In many, if not most, ways that year was pretty much timeless. I moved there a mere three years after the bike accident, head trauma, NDE. I wasn’t even close to coming back to Earth at that point and place in time. Sigh. In the name of Guad, I could write for hours about that year, and the two or three that followed. The memory of Cheryl King haunts me when I think of those next two or three years. I mean, OMG, sister! I never had a sexual, spiritual, intellectual, and emotional rush like the one I had when I saw you for the very first time, as you walked past, at twilight, left to right, and the light from a window of the house shone behind you as you passed, and your right shoulder silhouette, your sheer blouse, and . . . . ummmm . . . . well, I was rendered breathless, literally breathless. And then I heard you speak, the Georgia accent, and the articulation, the intelligence, the education of a well-bred . . . and then I found out you were looking for a man with money. But you and I had a lot of good times together. Remember the day of the dolphins?! It was such a rush to see those two babies in the wild, up close and personal. Now – wow – moving forward. I was getting a tad too intense there. But wait – those eyes of blue. Sigh. Breathe, bud, breathe. The truly funny part – and amazing as well – is that I simply know that Cher can feel me looking at her at this very moment. We were, are, whatever, that close, that intimate, at that level of exemplary evidence of quantum entanglement. Sister, if I ever see you again, the kiss ain’t gonna be on the cheek, k? Just sayin’. I’m 63 years old, and I have earned to right to honestly express myself, when needed, or otherwise. I’m guessing that you have aged well, and proper. In fact, I know it. I can feel it from here. I love you.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.


Backstory or Whatnot


Rosie, my cat, and longtime companion on several levels of reality.

“Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It’s a way of understanding it.” ~ Lloyd Alexander

“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”  ~ Sylvia Plath

“A book is made from a tree. It is an assemblage of flat, flexible parts (still called “leaves”) imprinted with dark pigmented squiggles. One glance at it and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, the author is speaking, clearly and silently, inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people, citizens of distant epochs, who never knew one another. Books break the shackles of time ― proof that humans can work magic.” ~ Carl Sagan

“When writing a novel, that’s pretty much entirely what life turns into: ‘House burned down. Car stolen. Cat exploded. Did 1500 easy words, so all in all it was a pretty good day.” ~ Neil Gaiman

Hmmmm, I am writing a novel, right? Well, not until I transcribe a couple of thousand word written on, during, lunch hour. It was my free time. That’s the point. If there is a point. Thus, the writing is going quite well, considering that so much of a novel is written in the mind first; backstory and whatnot. Yes.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Angels and Apples


“If I got rid of my demons, I’d lose my angels.”  ~ Tennessee Williams

“Every angel is terrifying.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

“So you’re an angel, fine, that’s terrific. Now give me back my shadows.” ~ Peter S. Beagle

That Rilke quote: I can’t attest to his accuracy, but the angel I met certainly was . . . is. I can only, maybe, use Hurricane Andrew as an analogy, and even that falls short, like an apple reaching only halfway in its fall to the ground. If you think of a traditional Heaven/Hell relationship, Hell is down toward Earth and Heaven is above. It would be way easy to milk the symbolism here. But back to that apple, which alludes perhaps to the Garden of Eden, or maybe not. I certainly don’t intentionally suggest that. I truly don’t mind what Eve did there. I think she may have done us all a favor, seein’s how the population on Earth would likely be way less, iffin she had not done what she did, and then most of us would not be here to speak of such things. Say the apple falls halfway and stops. Hey! Newton? Dude, what’s up with that?! There is indisputably balance achieved, but the shrewd observer must note that apples don’t fly. As an author and storyteller, I can make it happen anyway. Listen, apples do too fly. Now what does that mean, my dear reader? Flatly stated, the flow from Heaven to Hell and back again, and again, is by it’s very nature unavoidably chaotic. Higher intelligence emerging, unfolding from the chaos is like all scary and stuff. Try it this way — say a big, shiny, warmly smiling face emerges from a raging storm and you’re like there to witness that shit. There’s a friggin face in the clouds! You might be infused with awe and wonder at that point, but ya ain’t gonna just whistle as you walk on and get on to your day. If ya ain’t terrified by what you see then you ain’t lookin’ and ya surely ain’t seein’. And that apple? I’d say that likely that is exactly what happened when that apple came to a stop. There was balance in the world at that point, and Eve snatched it away just to get a hit of pectin and fructose. The forbidden fruit was chewed up and swallowed. I reckon it went down righteously easy. Eve gifted the world with wisdom, which if Yahweh had had his way, that shit wouldn’a happened. Period. As an aside: Yahweh is so powerful that he can make himself not real, if he so chooses. I’m of the ‘not real’ school here, but only because, as is carelessly claimed by countless Christians, there are more than one god; yet as Merlin purportedly said, “all gods are one”. Say what? Merlin wasn’t real either — which only goes to show how powerful he was as well. It’s complicated, see? As a panpsychist I see that in Nature all bets are off. Think what you want, the truth is all que sera, sera; not some friggin algorithm. And so, having got that esoteric shit out I must get on with my day. I had no intention of writing this like this — it just happened. Capiche?

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Desktop of My Soul


At one point yesterday, I said to a coworker, “I’m tired of talking about the weather”. I spoke the truth. It’s drought time here. The days are beautiful, but there is an underlying, somewhat ominous, current of tedium afoot in the land. Whatever. It will rain or snow when it snows or rains. Yeh, the world has entered new realms of weirdness these days. President HamBurgler is responsi . . . oh, never mind. I’m letting myself slip slightly out of phase today; just because I can; make new space on the desktop of my soul. Leave it wide open; see what comes; and it will.

“I thought about one of my favorite Sufi poems, which says that God long ago drew a circle in the sand exactly around the spot where you are standing right now. I was never not coming here. This was never not going to happen.” ~ Elizabeth Gilbert

“When I was young, I had to choose between the life of being and the life of doing. And I leapt at the latter like a trout to a fly. But each deed you do, each act, binds you to itself and to its consequences, and makes you act again and yet again. Then very seldom do you come upon a space, a time like this, between act and act, when you may stop and simply be. Or wonder who, after all, you are.” ~ Ursula K. Le Guin

“Mankind accepts good fortune as his due, but when bad occurs, he thinks it was aimed at him, done to him, a hex, a curse, a punishment by his deity for some transgression, as though his god were a petty storekeeper, counting up the day’s receipts.” ~ Sheri S. Tepper

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Grip on Reality


“I’m trying in all my stories to get the feeling of the actual life across—not to just depict life—or criticize it—but to actually make it alive. So that when you have read something by me you actually experience the thing. You can’t do this without putting in the bad and the ugly as well as what is beautiful. Because if it is all beautiful you can’t believe in it. Things aren’t that way.” ~ Ernest Hemingway

“A related point: The job of the imagination, in making a story from experience, may be not to gussy the story up but to tone it down. The fact is, the world is unbelievably strange and human behavior is frequently so weird that no kind of narrative except farce or satire can handle it. The function of the storyteller’s imagination sometimes is simply to make it more plausible.” ~ Ursula K. Le Guin

Nothing striking, or even mildly amusing, comes to me today. I’d likely be content skimming news on the internet while perched upon the edge between waking and sleeping. But I do so like to get down at least a few words. Especially today, because I’ve got a four night housesitting gig beginning tonight. And there’s the dog as well, who lives in the house, so . . . well, you get the picture. She’s a wiry coyote-blooded dog. I’m not kidding about the yotee blood. She has numerous characteristics that suggest so. But she’s a sweetie as well. The point is that I don’t know how much writing will get done. I’ve been feeling so tired lately, and I just may find myself vegging out in front of cable news. I like to get the news this way, and I don’t have a TV at home, so all I get are video clips from yesterday’s cable shows. Yes, I like the news this way, but I also enjoy watching the commentators doing their jobs. Their’s is a courageous position, sitting up front and center, reporting news and commentary, all the while ducking metaphorical dung being flung by childish people who greet every friggin little scrap of news they don’t like as “fake news”. To watch so many career politicians (all republican, that I know of) lose their grip on reality is deeply disturbing. Some repub fella from Georgia was even so stupid as to report that the children at Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School were well-rehearsed for their “performance”. Never mind that 17 people died. That doesn’t mean that the whole thing wasn’t fake. Maybe they were actors who simply  pretended to die? Yeh, right, that’s it. How could anyone doubt that. Among all the various things I could say I’m feeling, tis a special blend of deep sadness and dread that prevails. I just don’t get it. Alas, I am now out of time. Off to the workday.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Lost Treasure and Seduction


“Now that you’re an adult, you might still feel a pang of guilt when you decline a dinner invitation in favor of a good book. Or maybe you like to eat alone in restaurants and could do without the pitying looks from fellow diners. Or you’re told that you’re “in your head too much”, a phrase that’s often deployed against the quiet and cerebral. Or maybe there’s another word for such people: thinkers.”  ~ Susan Cain

“Introverts are offered keys to private gardens full of riches. To possess sucha key is to tumble like Alice down her rabbit hole. She didn’t choose to go to Wonderland – but she made of it an adventure that was fresh and fantastic and very much her own.” ~ Susan Cain

I finally got her to calm down – the cat, that is. Or maybe she just calmed down on her own? It matters not. It’s probably multi-factorial, at best. It didn’t hurt to give full display of the water spray bottle, thus confronting the marauding beast, and perhaps convincing her to shut the fuck up. There. I said it. Please note that profanity is used for emphasis in this blog, although I have been known to say that very thing to my longtime companion. The spray bottle says a lot as well. I didn’t have to squirt her this time. I don’t know . . . it’s just a matter of remembering that interspecies communications of this kind require adherence to much more than simple words. Cats got no fondness for rhetoric. They only take so much. Cats are weird . . . but here I sit, satisfied that I somehow got the cat to calm down. I have no idea what she was on about, and exactly why she chose to use a form of cat rhetoric, such as she did. That’s the difference between her and me: I seek to understand, while she already knows all of that shit, and she’s like all “figure it out for yourself, knucklehead”. I can tell you right now that any day that starts out with my cat calling me a knucklehead is going to be a very good day. Now, as a writer, I probly shouldn’a used that word “very”. Just sayin. This morning’s post is a good example of the lexical, syntactical interplay I . . . . oh, in the name of Jesus and his half-wit brother, Hairy! I’m just playing here. And it’s not about me, now, is it? Okay, agreed, now, going forward. Yesterday some precious things came back my way, some trinkets that my mother collected through the years. I don’t remember how I lost track of them. I could surmise to my heart’s content, and still not truly know how I lost them for a few years. Overall, the past five or so years are much more nebulous and uncertain than I know, at least as far as my overt, functional memory is concerned. I attribute this, in large part, to my having begun medication for two of my traveling companions in this life: PTSD and bipolar disorder type 2 . . . about four years ago. The one med I take for the bipolar stuff is a long-term med that has to be maintained at a certain level in the blood. My recent blood-work shows that the level in my blood is optimal at this time. I use these two (the second one is gabapentin) as tools. Since the diagnosis, by the lovely Dr. Solomon, my world has shifted, somewhat tectonically, into uncharted waters. Whew. Which brings me back to mom’s trinkets. One of those is a nice piece of bling, a hefty yet slim braided silver chain, which holds a chunk of silver that came from the wreck of the Señora de Atocha. This chunk of precious metal lay under 55 feet of water, just off of Key West, for over 350 years. Back in the day I knew some treasure divers, who by temperament are pretty much pirates, and I ain’t talkin’ some Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville pretenders. Henry Taylor often whipped out and brandished his trusty ukulele to spin a sea shanty for an unsuspecting audience. Henry was step-father to Lori Mellon, the truest love of my life. OMG, do I ever miss that woman! Our relationship was headed toward a beautiful place when she suddenly bowed out of this level of reality, via a car crash on the Interstate near Fort Meyers. Only a few months earlier her mother and the illustrious step-father, Henry Taylor, also had a car crash, and Henry didn’t make it through. I don’t know. I was 2000 miles away when it happened. Leaves me breathless to this very day. But enough of that, now. When I slipped this silver piece around my neck I had a spontaneous memory, which, though related to the treasure hunters, was a kinda sorta out of left field thing. It happened in the nightclub where I was a janitor during the first months after my major bike crash and head trauma. We had Dave Mason performing that evening. I mean, Dave friggin Mason! He performed with an accompanying guitarist, no mas. I was standing in the crowd, watching and listening to a rock legend, when something brushed up against my right side. I shivered at first because the ghost of an old sailor haunted that club. But it was a warm flesh and blood presence at my side, the girlfriend of a fellow musician, and that fella was the son of one of the famous treasure divers. There’s yer connection right there, me hearties. I don’t remember her name, but I do remember that she was a young, willowy beauty of a woman. The music was loud, so she sidled up close, her breast warm and soft against the side of my chest, and fairly whispered in my ear, close enough to allow me to feel her warm breath in my ear. She said, “He’s good, but you can do that too!”. She was comparing me to a rock and roll legend. There was another message there, one that I am truly sorry, to this day, that I missed. Her boyfriend was the son of a pirate, and a fellow musician, and I had a high sense of honor in those days, fired by the celestial Light that I had encountered a few months earlier. She was there to seduce me, and I missed it by way of unexpected virtue. Dammit. As I sit here this morning I can feel the truth of her aspirations toward me, and I wish I’d a gone and done it. I passed up a true gift from the Goddess. But that gift remains available to me to this very day. And perhaps that is why I spin a tale of pirates and seduction for you, here, this morning. I now wear a piece of Spanish silver around my neck, on a silver chain. That treasure is small compared to the treasure the Goddess offers me today, and tomorrow, and the next day. I’ll not pass it up again.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Purring Primate


“As her analyst had told her: the deeper buried the distress, the further into the body it went. The digestive system was about as far as it could go to hide.” ~ Richard Matheson

“I was a little excited but mostly blorft. “Blorft” is an adjective I just made up that means ‘Completely overwhelmed but proceeding as if everything is fine and reacting to the stress with the torpor of a possum.’ I have been blorft every day for the past seven years.”  ~ Tina Fey

Dull of mind this morning, and okay with it. Seems there is something wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it. Likely because it plain ain’t there; nothing is wrong. That’s a hard one to get used to. I never have gotten used to it. It is chronic anxiety talking. There’s a low-grade version of the feeling that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. But there is no need. Nothing is wrong. That is the point. Sigh, that’s why I take meds everyday. Well, one reason anyway. There are more but I am all about anxiety this morning. I took the pills about 15 minutes ago, so there’s a ways to go yet before things start calming down. I’m fascinated by PTSD. I think the fascination makes it easier to bear. And yet there are times when I’m all about self-blame, shame, whatever. There’s really no reason for that. It serves no useful purpose. But about the PTSD. It’s a snapshot that takes hold and won’t let go. The trauma of the bicycle crash that precipitated the whole mess for some reason made physiological changes. Or something. I do know that PTSD is not a weakness of will. Don’t even go there, k? Thanks, yer a pal. And it’s not like I mope around and stuff. I don’t moan. Well, maybe I growl at times, but that is a cultivated habit that serves to keep me in touch with my animal nature. I can’t stress enough how important that is. I mean, some of the expressions we give daily are simply not meant to be filtered through the somewhat limited confines of language. I’ve been known to purr at times as well. I’m a purring primate at times such as those. It’s that simple. Regardless of my philosophical musings here this morning I am still in a fight or flight condition, with nothing to run from. It’s a puzzle. Hey, maybe I can start a solid spiritual practice and climb my way out of this? I don’t think Christianity is the way to go for me. The very existence of hell within their lore suggests to me that anxiety is pretty much built in, pretty much a given, pretty much mandatory. I don’t know, I just know that it is not for me. But I don’t have to choose a religion anyway. Spirituality can be practiced sans religion. I think I’ll go do that very thing. Because of my feeling of light fatigue I’m likely gonna hafta sorta lean on mindfulness today, as a way of getting me on through til tomorrow. That brings laundry day followed by profound rest. Let’s get to it. Burnin’ daylight. Heeyaaa! This is my spiritual path for today. Mindfulness involves self-observation. Self-knowledge involves a venue for change. Make it so.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Black Cat and the Wormhole


“I have never listened to anyone who criticized my taste in space travel, sideshows or gorillas. When this occurs, I pack up my dinosaurs and leave the room.” ` Ray Bradbury

“The gods do not protect fools. Fools are protected by more capable fools.”  ~ Larry Niven

“There are no passengers on Spaceship Earth. We are all crew.” ~ Marshall McLuhan

“One of the liberating effects of science fiction when I was a teenager was precisely its ability to tune me into all sorts of strange data and make me realize that I wasn’t as totally isolated in perceiving the world as being monstrous and crazy” ~ William Gibson

Just a few minutes ago I was checking in with a spankin’ brand new Kennedy. We’ve been without one for near 10+ years? Has it been that long? Hard to believe. But we’ve got a new one now: Joseph III. There’s no support or non-support here, I just look forward to watching the kid move. He’s got the chops, the looks, and let’s not forget a legacy full of money. Why this little corner of politics is on my mind first thing in the morning, I don’t know. I ‘just know‘. It’s hard to explain. There’s a sweet Full Moon out there, and I’m fixin to go have a look in a few minutes. It’s cold, but not too cold. A hair below freezing. Now, I just checked, and the first Full Moon in March is the “Worm Moon”. Make of that what you will. I’m just snatching a ride on the magic that is flowing in madness tonight. That’s what today’s opening photo is: magic. This is a view looking up into Pueblo Canyon. I was told that the Giants live back up there. In this photo I perfectly captured an image of the inter-dimensional portal that opens up sometimes. I’m not sure if it’s a wormhole. Or a tesseract? Your guess is as good as mine. But when it opens, like this time, on the Full Moon, rich magic flows forth into the valley. Now, okay, let’s be honest about the somewhat woo-woo nature of this morning’s post. I’m doing it on purpose, k? It’s science fiction. It’s fantasy. It is a look at the archetypal blueprints we use to create our reality. You can reach right into it and put your fingers right to work manipulating the process. That’s such a tiny invasion – but you can go deep and do what Terence McKenna suggested was possible, you can hack the mainframe. You really haven’t much choice in the matter. You pretty much must manipulate the real world, if you can find it. If you are here, participation is mandatory. Period. Whew.

It was perfect. As I sat in my usual space, looking around at the darkness, movement came, emerging from the shadows just as easy as you please. The movement snapped my instinctual attention right into place. I was locked in. It was a cat, a big black one, looked male by it’s build. By moonlight it was perfect. The animal skittered a few more feet. I was moved to express: “pssst”. I could not see the animal anymore, but I imagined him to be sitting upright all godly like they do. He was looking back at me, matching my gaze in balance. But I chuckled because I really had no empirical data to backup my perception. And suddenly there was movement again. From the looks of it he really had been watching me, matching my gaze. It is hard to see in the dark, but somehow my brain had sensed what was going on. The cat skittered, once again, and came to the corner of the coyote-proof fence. He wavered his haunches a bit, preparing his body to fly, the there he went, up to the top of the fence, where he stepped gingerly along the ridge of the cedar planks, on to the corner post, where he attempted to sit atop the post. And failed. Friggin cat was showing off for me. I was impressed. This dark animal in the dark held me rapt. Having failed with the post the cat slipped right over the edge, out of sight. I could hear him go, all scratches on wood and a sound like a mammal hitting the ground. Clumsy boy kinda missed his mark. He fell down to the ground. I enjoyed the show immensely. But for now I’m signing off. That cat was a messenger, and danged if I got the message. Nothing happens by accident. I will figure it out.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Perfectly So


In the Rio Grande Gorge, at Pilar.

“When two opposite points of view are expressed with equal intensity, the truth does not necessarily lie exactly halfway between them. It is possible for one side to be simply wrong.” ~ Richard Dawkins

“Metaphors have a way of holding the most truth in the least space.” ~ Orson Scott Card

“A scientist can pretend that his work isn’t himself, it’s merely the impersonal truth. An artist can’t hide behind the truth. He can’t hide anywhere.” ~ Ursula K. Le Guin

The word “multi-factorial” is a good one. It explains, in part, why this post is a short one. It’s not that I am not into it. I am. Some distractions snagged me and the time ran right by, and now I am coming up short, and none too embarrassed about it. Stuff happens. I will admit, however, that there was perhaps one too many Rachel Maddow video clips involved. That’s okay. Her show is like going to school for an hour. The clips, just as the whole show, satisfy my need for critical thinking, and intellectual perspective. Just sayin. It’s fun to watch her think. And I learn new stuff. Win/win. Outside the cold air . . . ummmm, I don’t where to go with that except to state the the air is cold, as should be. I’m just not feeling all that much poetic, and poetic expression is the only thing that would stretch this post out a tad. Yeh, that’s okay too. Perfectly so.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.


Past Ghosts of Dinosaurs


“To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.” ~ Joseph Chilton Pearce

“Anxiety is the handmaiden of creativity” ~ T. S. Elliot

“Creativity is an act of defiance.” ~ Twyla Tharp

“Keeping busy” is the remedy for all the ills in America. It’s also the means by which the creative impulse is destroyed.” ~ Joyce Carol Oates

“The thing is to become a master and in your old age to acquire the courage to do what children did when they knew nothing. ” ~ Ernest Hemingway

There’s a photo at the top of my Facebook newsfeed at the moment which clearly shows Micky Mouse looking all smug. Or maybe it’s a meme? Meme, photo, whatever. Usually I would let such a thing pass right through my field of perception, unaddressed past acknowledgement. But something caught my eye, so I looked. It was all about booze; sugar-laden cocktails; fancy, clever, pretty concoctions. There was even an image of Simba, the Lion King, gazing lovingly at a peachy tropical blend in a frappe glass. No worries, right? Yeh, right. This brings me to another thing, which my free-range mind associates with an obscure book from Carl Hiassen, a longtime columnist for the Miami Herald, and a prolific novelist, stories drawn forth from the plethora of quirkiness that is life in Florida. The book I note here is non-fiction, and it is a rather scathing critique of Mickey Mouse, and Disney in general, and how the corporation and the rodent colluded in building Disney World. The book: Team Rodent: How Disney Devours the World. (the underlined portion is a link). I highly recommend the book. It is a short and scathing blend of investigative journalism and satire worthy of Twain. Not to mention that Carl Hiassen is hilarious. Boy howdy is he ever. Not that . . . . must be positive, right? Carl is on my personal list of writers who inspired me. Now, going forward, that opening may well be the only portion of rational thought in my mind, so far today. But I’ve gotta work today, and running a cash register requires rationality. No, wait . . . we call ’em POS now. It’s a friggin computer wired up to a cash drawer. Ummmm, “Siri, take his money”. Anyway, my sense of time has been all wonky and stuff for several months now. I’m at the tail-end of two back-to-back days off, and let me tell you those two have been twelve. I don’t know how to say it any better. I’ve not taken the time to analyze the phenomenon, so I cannot speculate as to why and how this time distortion is occurring on an extended basis. No worries. The Sunday drive up to Colorado plays a part, to be sure. New Mexico State Highway 522 runs through some amazing territory, running past extinct volcanos, the ghosts of dinosaurs, and living herds of wild horses. Actually the horses are in Colorado. The highway number changes to a Colorado designation at the border, but I don’t wanna mess up that nice sentence with details. The whole drive is like a trip back in time. This is, after all, creative non-fiction I write here daily. Such as it is. Alas, I have run out of creative time for this morning. Shower, shave, you know the drill.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.