Dear California,
You and I have gotten along pretty well so far. You’ve been sunny and friendly, I’ve been exploratory and appreciative. Really, it’s been great.
But I thought I might toss out an idea for the next stage of our relationship, California. That is this: you should help me find a job. I know you’re hurting right now, and I know I’m not the only one asking you for this, but I’ve seen what you’re made of and I know you have something for me. It doesn’t even have to be a super awesome job. Just something that involves work and meeting new people. And a paycheck. Because you should know that Oregon keeps telling me she doesn’t think you’ve got it in you. She keeps sending me little notes about Portland and public transportation and clean air. But I tell her you’ve got something up your sleeve.
And in return for you finding me a job, I promise to never call you “Cali.” We both know how much you hate that. I’ll even see what I can do about convincing people that the Governator jokes have never been very funny.
No matter what happens, though, thanks for everything. It’s been a blast.
Sincerely,
Beau
Monday, October 26, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
From Fairfax: Characters and Photographs
The Fairfax Library is full of interesting people. In my experience this is true of all L.A. libraries, but it seems especially true today. Three chairs to my left is a man whose biceps are about as big as my head. He’s wearing headphones, but they’re not plugged in. He’s scanning Fox News videos, and it’s not very loud so only a few of us can hear, but I think he thinks the headphones are in. I thought about saying something, then I remembered his biceps. I guess Fox News isn’t too bad as white noise, mindless entertainment humming in the background.
The lady in front of me looks like a mid-aged Maya Angelou, headscarf and all. I want to ask her to tell me stories about caged birds, but she seems pretty engaged in her reading about backroads in France.
To the right and two tables up are two girls, probably just a couple years younger than me, who have been talking about Glee for an hour now. Have you seen this show? I haven’t yet, but its fans sure are enthusiastic. Kara, the girl on the left, thinks Finn is really cute, but her friend (whose name I haven’t learned yet) has a thing for Puck.
What kind of name is Puck? I don’t think I like him. Unless we’re talking about Shakespeare’s Puck, of course. That’s different.
Since I’ve been sitting here, I have heard at least six people approach the information desk behind me and ask about a job. They should hang a “Hiring Freeze” sign out front and save everyone a lot of time.
Speaking of, I’m still on the hunt. I’ve had e-mails and conversations that were immediately promising, but none of them have actually led anywhere yet. It’s pretty easy to get discouraged about it, but I’m trying to take advantage of the extra time I have.
And Britton’s been super busy, which is awesome. He’s working as a production assistant on Wipeout, and he’s doing an internship at this brilliant little photography studio. At least he says it’s brilliant. I haven’t seen it yet, and everyone knows I am the authority on photography. I think Britton, his interests and gifts and dreams, fits really well in Los Angeles. It’s an exciting thing to watch.
The verdict’s still out on me, though.
At the table in front of me, next to Maya, a Jewish man just sat down with his son, who I would guess is about twelve. The boy is wearing the black pants, white shirt, and black yarmulke to match many of the other students in this area. Have I told you about all the Jewish people in our neighborhood? It’s been a joy. The dad is reading The New York Times, sitting quite close to his son who is working on math homework. Whenever the boy has a question his dad leans over, puts his arm around the son’s shoulder, and walks him through the problem. They speak softly, so I can’t understand them, but even so I could watch them for hours.
Make that seven people asking about a job. Sorry, hiring freeze.
Today’s volunteer reader just walked in. She looks frail and is remarkably older than the girl from last time. I’m a little disappointed about that.
A few nights ago David and Neil took us to the Getty museum, which was incredible and will be worth many revisits. They have an Irving Penn exhibit right now, called “Small Trades,” pictures of city workers from Paris, London, and New York in the 1950s. Each person stands in front of the camera, dressed in work uniforms and holding whatever tools he or she works with, and stares into the camera.
Those stares are what grabbed me. There was one, a street photographer with his camera and a cigar, that I could not get out of my mind. His gaze ignored the lens and the frame and the five decades between us, and I could not help but feel that he knew something about me, something that would surprise even myself. But he remained silent, as did the undertaker in the next room, whose raised brows and wrinkles under his eyes suggested that he was full of fascinating stories.
In one section, a panel on the wall discussed the differences between the three cities. Penn said that the Parisians were constantly skeptical, certain that there were ulterior motives involved. The Londoners were consistently passive, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for someone to invite them to a studio to take a picture of them in their work clothes. The New Yorkers were the most unpredictable, every day a few ignoring the directions and showing up showered and in suits, convinced that this was their first step to Hollywood.
The experience of the evening was heightened by the gardens and fountains and all of the different displays, topped off with a brilliant view of the city. From up there, if you can ignore the smog and the painfully absent stars, Los Angeles is quite beautiful.
It’s beautiful down here, too, again if you can ignore the smog. This library alone probably has more nationalities represented than the entire populations of Bradenton and Jacksonville combined, and that has been endlessly refreshing. And I am still enjoying the energy here, the life and movement and all of the people trying to do something big.
Even if my place in that energy is an ever-growing question mark.
The lady in front of me looks like a mid-aged Maya Angelou, headscarf and all. I want to ask her to tell me stories about caged birds, but she seems pretty engaged in her reading about backroads in France.
To the right and two tables up are two girls, probably just a couple years younger than me, who have been talking about Glee for an hour now. Have you seen this show? I haven’t yet, but its fans sure are enthusiastic. Kara, the girl on the left, thinks Finn is really cute, but her friend (whose name I haven’t learned yet) has a thing for Puck.
What kind of name is Puck? I don’t think I like him. Unless we’re talking about Shakespeare’s Puck, of course. That’s different.
Since I’ve been sitting here, I have heard at least six people approach the information desk behind me and ask about a job. They should hang a “Hiring Freeze” sign out front and save everyone a lot of time.
Speaking of, I’m still on the hunt. I’ve had e-mails and conversations that were immediately promising, but none of them have actually led anywhere yet. It’s pretty easy to get discouraged about it, but I’m trying to take advantage of the extra time I have.
And Britton’s been super busy, which is awesome. He’s working as a production assistant on Wipeout, and he’s doing an internship at this brilliant little photography studio. At least he says it’s brilliant. I haven’t seen it yet, and everyone knows I am the authority on photography. I think Britton, his interests and gifts and dreams, fits really well in Los Angeles. It’s an exciting thing to watch.
The verdict’s still out on me, though.
At the table in front of me, next to Maya, a Jewish man just sat down with his son, who I would guess is about twelve. The boy is wearing the black pants, white shirt, and black yarmulke to match many of the other students in this area. Have I told you about all the Jewish people in our neighborhood? It’s been a joy. The dad is reading The New York Times, sitting quite close to his son who is working on math homework. Whenever the boy has a question his dad leans over, puts his arm around the son’s shoulder, and walks him through the problem. They speak softly, so I can’t understand them, but even so I could watch them for hours.
Make that seven people asking about a job. Sorry, hiring freeze.
Today’s volunteer reader just walked in. She looks frail and is remarkably older than the girl from last time. I’m a little disappointed about that.
A few nights ago David and Neil took us to the Getty museum, which was incredible and will be worth many revisits. They have an Irving Penn exhibit right now, called “Small Trades,” pictures of city workers from Paris, London, and New York in the 1950s. Each person stands in front of the camera, dressed in work uniforms and holding whatever tools he or she works with, and stares into the camera.
Those stares are what grabbed me. There was one, a street photographer with his camera and a cigar, that I could not get out of my mind. His gaze ignored the lens and the frame and the five decades between us, and I could not help but feel that he knew something about me, something that would surprise even myself. But he remained silent, as did the undertaker in the next room, whose raised brows and wrinkles under his eyes suggested that he was full of fascinating stories.
In one section, a panel on the wall discussed the differences between the three cities. Penn said that the Parisians were constantly skeptical, certain that there were ulterior motives involved. The Londoners were consistently passive, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for someone to invite them to a studio to take a picture of them in their work clothes. The New Yorkers were the most unpredictable, every day a few ignoring the directions and showing up showered and in suits, convinced that this was their first step to Hollywood.
The experience of the evening was heightened by the gardens and fountains and all of the different displays, topped off with a brilliant view of the city. From up there, if you can ignore the smog and the painfully absent stars, Los Angeles is quite beautiful.
It’s beautiful down here, too, again if you can ignore the smog. This library alone probably has more nationalities represented than the entire populations of Bradenton and Jacksonville combined, and that has been endlessly refreshing. And I am still enjoying the energy here, the life and movement and all of the people trying to do something big.
Even if my place in that energy is an ever-growing question mark.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
To the Girl Across the Aisle on United Flight 925
Dear Girl Across the Aisle on United Flight 925,
I think you are wonderful. I'm not sure what it is, but I like you. A lot. Maybe it's the giant backpack, rolled up pants, flannel shirt, and Chacos...all of which suggest you have been traveling for a while. Maybe it's your calloused and sun-burnt feet, which make me think you spend a lot of time outdoors. Or maybe it's your smile. You have a great smile.
I heard you talking on the phone before we got on the plane, about whether or not you wanted to move to LA, and I think you should. In fact, I think you should move to Hollywood. You can sleep on my couch if you want it. And before you think I'm creepy for listening to your conversation, don't forget that you helped me remember where we were when I was trying to talk to my brother. You were listening to me too.
And don't pretend you're not interested, Girl Across the Aisle on United Flight 925. I saw you smiling at me each time I glanced across the aisle. At the very least, you are amused by me. And amusement is always worth spending more time around someone.
Of course, something about your traveling nature and your terrific smile silenced me, so we haven't actually spoken yet. But I can only assume you will be reading this, so I would like to fix that. Maybe we can take our sheepish smiles all the way to the level of verbal communication. Then maybe I can join you on your travels. I could tell you stories about a trip I just finished, then you could tell me stories about the trip you're taking, and we could talk about our families and our hopes and everything we are feeling. But for that to happen, Girl Across the Aisle on United Flight 925, I might need to learn your name. So let me know what you think.
Sincerely,
Beau Denton
I think you are wonderful. I'm not sure what it is, but I like you. A lot. Maybe it's the giant backpack, rolled up pants, flannel shirt, and Chacos...all of which suggest you have been traveling for a while. Maybe it's your calloused and sun-burnt feet, which make me think you spend a lot of time outdoors. Or maybe it's your smile. You have a great smile.
I heard you talking on the phone before we got on the plane, about whether or not you wanted to move to LA, and I think you should. In fact, I think you should move to Hollywood. You can sleep on my couch if you want it. And before you think I'm creepy for listening to your conversation, don't forget that you helped me remember where we were when I was trying to talk to my brother. You were listening to me too.
And don't pretend you're not interested, Girl Across the Aisle on United Flight 925. I saw you smiling at me each time I glanced across the aisle. At the very least, you are amused by me. And amusement is always worth spending more time around someone.
Of course, something about your traveling nature and your terrific smile silenced me, so we haven't actually spoken yet. But I can only assume you will be reading this, so I would like to fix that. Maybe we can take our sheepish smiles all the way to the level of verbal communication. Then maybe I can join you on your travels. I could tell you stories about a trip I just finished, then you could tell me stories about the trip you're taking, and we could talk about our families and our hopes and everything we are feeling. But for that to happen, Girl Across the Aisle on United Flight 925, I might need to learn your name. So let me know what you think.
Sincerely,
Beau Denton
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Of Weddings and Weather and Virginia
It’s been a busy few days for America. Friday morning the president won the Nobel for helping people work toward peace, conservatives went crazy again, and we bombed the moon. Twice. But perhaps the most important event was Saturday, between the Charlottesville airport and the always resplendent EconoLodge, when I noticed a giant red “C” adorned vaguely like a chicken. My heart thrilled and my stomach flipped and, for the first time since June, I enjoyed the culinary sensation that is Chick-fil-A.
But first we need to go back a few states. There was snow in Minneapolis. From the sky I thought it was frost, but then I stepped over a pile that had blown into the breezeway. My layover was fairly long, so I left the airport and walked around for a bit. I’m not a huge fan of Minneapolis, but it was cold and I think snow is lovely, even when it’s patchy, so I was happy.
I was in the process of flying to Virginia for my cousin Peter’s wedding. I had left LA around midnight, accompanied by perfect weather and a slanted half moon, and I was in Minnesota until sunrise. Speaking of which, if you’re ever flying at sunrise, try to get a window seat. Watching new colors chase the night as the sun works its way toward the clouds will change your life from 30,000 feet.
There were lots of clouds on that stretch. At first they were separate, each unique, but eventually they grew into a single, dimpled mass that was constantly moving and reinventing itself. It was beautiful.
A few people have mentioned lately that I am easily excited. Maybe not excited in the way you might think, because I don’t jump around and apparently I don’t smile very often, but excited in the sense that I overuse words like awesome and beautiful and favorite, and my Top Five list for any category is likely to include at least thirty items. They say this, “easily excited,” like it’s an insult, like my taste is not discerning enough for them, and the implication is that the list of things that amuse and amaze me will be much shorter as I grow older. But I’ve decided that I see it as a compliment. I like being consistently awed, and I like seeing beauty and wonder all over the place, and I think it’s okay that there aren’t very many movies or books I absolutely dislike. If growing up means becoming more cynical and pointing out faults in everything, then maybe I’ll just be immature.
Sorry. I wrote all that after calling the clouds beautiful and feeling defensive about overusing that word. Back to Minnesota.
Actually, to Detroit. That’s where I flew from Minneapolis. Have you been to the Detroit airport? I decided to take the walkway instead of the shuttle. The moving sidewalk contraption thing went through this incredibly long tunnel, in which the ceiling and walls lit up in different shapes and colors that were constantly moving and changing, and terrific music was playing really loudly. My thanks to Detroit, for wanting to give its passersby a little aesthetic pleasure on our way to the plane. It was beautiful. There, I said it again.
And then to Charleston, Virginia. When we came out of the clouds we were right at the mountains outside of Charleston, which were smoky and blue ridgey and absolutely stunning. The trees bore the tint of autumn’s beginning, and some had already sprung into full-on color. I will say it again, with all of the meaning I can muster: it was beautiful. One of the things I love about traveling is sharing little moments with strangers, and this was one of them. You could hear people all over the plane pointing out the mountains and the leaves, and everyone was smiling at each other and happy to be there.
Charleston is brilliant. The trees, the mountains, the architecture, the weather…but all of that took second place to time with family. It was so good for me to see grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. We shared meals together, did some sightseeing, and caught up on each other’s lives. And because everyone was so generous, I never once pulled out my wallet until on my way back to California. That’s always a good thing.
We toured Monticello, which is fascinating in its history, and the University of Virginia, which is stunning in its architecture. The trivia nerd inside me loved every minute.
The highlight, of course, was the wedding. I had never met Stephanie before, but she and Peter seem a lovely match, and I enjoyed meeting her family and seeing again some friends of my own family. The ceremony was gorgeous, and the words from the rabbi were moving. We were a few hills over from Monticello, at James Monroe’s old home. The land was absolutely stunning, with the wedding and reception scattered throughout the property. You should have seen those hills at dusk, and a little bit later the stars, which I have missed so dearly in LA. And it was cold.
Oh. And as if the full meal and locally brewed beer at the reception was not brilliant enough, there was a man selling fresh, hot, made-from-scratch organic donuts. Who does that?
So my congratulations and best wishes to Peter and Stephanie, and my thanks to the families who treated us with such generosity. And to my family, it was so good for me to see you all there. I am very, very grateful for you.
Then yesterday, after seeing the university and lunching with my uncle Dan, I caught a quick flight to DC. It was an express flight, one of those where the flight attendant’s safety spiel is more lengthy than the airtime. After a couple hours at Dulles I boarded a plane back to LA, which was marked by two things of significance: the gorgeous girl in the window seat across the aisle, and the four hour conversation with the guy beside me, who was on his way home for his dad’s funeral. Both made me grateful to be a human, grateful for the spectrum of emotions and experiences, even the ugly ones, that pass through us.
It’s good to be in LA again. I think I needed a couple days away from this frustrating job search, and it was so refreshing to be around family, but I am happy to be back.
Wherever you are reading this, I hope you find some refreshment as well. I hope you find strangers to share something with, whether it’s mutual awe at mountains and trees, or a painful conversation about fathers and death and God, or simply repeated glances and smiles across an aisle resulting in nothing more than silent flirting.
And remember love.
But first we need to go back a few states. There was snow in Minneapolis. From the sky I thought it was frost, but then I stepped over a pile that had blown into the breezeway. My layover was fairly long, so I left the airport and walked around for a bit. I’m not a huge fan of Minneapolis, but it was cold and I think snow is lovely, even when it’s patchy, so I was happy.
I was in the process of flying to Virginia for my cousin Peter’s wedding. I had left LA around midnight, accompanied by perfect weather and a slanted half moon, and I was in Minnesota until sunrise. Speaking of which, if you’re ever flying at sunrise, try to get a window seat. Watching new colors chase the night as the sun works its way toward the clouds will change your life from 30,000 feet.
There were lots of clouds on that stretch. At first they were separate, each unique, but eventually they grew into a single, dimpled mass that was constantly moving and reinventing itself. It was beautiful.
A few people have mentioned lately that I am easily excited. Maybe not excited in the way you might think, because I don’t jump around and apparently I don’t smile very often, but excited in the sense that I overuse words like awesome and beautiful and favorite, and my Top Five list for any category is likely to include at least thirty items. They say this, “easily excited,” like it’s an insult, like my taste is not discerning enough for them, and the implication is that the list of things that amuse and amaze me will be much shorter as I grow older. But I’ve decided that I see it as a compliment. I like being consistently awed, and I like seeing beauty and wonder all over the place, and I think it’s okay that there aren’t very many movies or books I absolutely dislike. If growing up means becoming more cynical and pointing out faults in everything, then maybe I’ll just be immature.
Sorry. I wrote all that after calling the clouds beautiful and feeling defensive about overusing that word. Back to Minnesota.
Actually, to Detroit. That’s where I flew from Minneapolis. Have you been to the Detroit airport? I decided to take the walkway instead of the shuttle. The moving sidewalk contraption thing went through this incredibly long tunnel, in which the ceiling and walls lit up in different shapes and colors that were constantly moving and changing, and terrific music was playing really loudly. My thanks to Detroit, for wanting to give its passersby a little aesthetic pleasure on our way to the plane. It was beautiful. There, I said it again.
And then to Charleston, Virginia. When we came out of the clouds we were right at the mountains outside of Charleston, which were smoky and blue ridgey and absolutely stunning. The trees bore the tint of autumn’s beginning, and some had already sprung into full-on color. I will say it again, with all of the meaning I can muster: it was beautiful. One of the things I love about traveling is sharing little moments with strangers, and this was one of them. You could hear people all over the plane pointing out the mountains and the leaves, and everyone was smiling at each other and happy to be there.
Charleston is brilliant. The trees, the mountains, the architecture, the weather…but all of that took second place to time with family. It was so good for me to see grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. We shared meals together, did some sightseeing, and caught up on each other’s lives. And because everyone was so generous, I never once pulled out my wallet until on my way back to California. That’s always a good thing.
We toured Monticello, which is fascinating in its history, and the University of Virginia, which is stunning in its architecture. The trivia nerd inside me loved every minute.
The highlight, of course, was the wedding. I had never met Stephanie before, but she and Peter seem a lovely match, and I enjoyed meeting her family and seeing again some friends of my own family. The ceremony was gorgeous, and the words from the rabbi were moving. We were a few hills over from Monticello, at James Monroe’s old home. The land was absolutely stunning, with the wedding and reception scattered throughout the property. You should have seen those hills at dusk, and a little bit later the stars, which I have missed so dearly in LA. And it was cold.
Oh. And as if the full meal and locally brewed beer at the reception was not brilliant enough, there was a man selling fresh, hot, made-from-scratch organic donuts. Who does that?
So my congratulations and best wishes to Peter and Stephanie, and my thanks to the families who treated us with such generosity. And to my family, it was so good for me to see you all there. I am very, very grateful for you.
Then yesterday, after seeing the university and lunching with my uncle Dan, I caught a quick flight to DC. It was an express flight, one of those where the flight attendant’s safety spiel is more lengthy than the airtime. After a couple hours at Dulles I boarded a plane back to LA, which was marked by two things of significance: the gorgeous girl in the window seat across the aisle, and the four hour conversation with the guy beside me, who was on his way home for his dad’s funeral. Both made me grateful to be a human, grateful for the spectrum of emotions and experiences, even the ugly ones, that pass through us.
It’s good to be in LA again. I think I needed a couple days away from this frustrating job search, and it was so refreshing to be around family, but I am happy to be back.
Wherever you are reading this, I hope you find some refreshment as well. I hope you find strangers to share something with, whether it’s mutual awe at mountains and trees, or a painful conversation about fathers and death and God, or simply repeated glances and smiles across an aisle resulting in nothing more than silent flirting.
And remember love.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
For the time being
As of this Thursday, we've been in Los Angeles the exact amount of time that we were on the road. I still enjoy the reactions from different people when we tell them about that trip, about how we took the least direct route possible and drew it out for more than a month.
But now we have been here more than a month, and everything has about it an air of reality and at least semi-permanence. I still haven't found a job, but that's okay because the weather's beautiful and I'm writing a lot these days.
And the job thing should be turning around soon enough. Tomorrow or Friday I have a phone interview with a small publishing company looking for an assistant editor, and that could lead somewhere exciting. If it doesn't, then I will keep searching and applying and asking and talking.
On a possibly related note, I worked at the West Hollywood Book Fair this past weekend, and it may have been the high point of my time in LA so far. I got to manage two stages, listening to the panels all day and interacting with the authors and talking about books and checking in with people who may help me find a job. Not to mention acting all official with a clipboard and radio, which is always fun.
On an impossibly related note, a few conversations and random thoughts after horrifying dreams have helped me see again how terribly insecure I am. Maybe more thoughts on that later, but first I go to Virginia.
My cousin Peter's wedding is this weekend near Monticello. I leave here around midnight Friday and come back midnight Monday. I'm really looking forward to this, spending time with family. Not to mention weddings are good and airports are always exciting. I even have a brand new book I've been saving just for this trip.
Today we drove out to the coast, walked down Venice Beach and to the Santa Monica Pier. There are some iconic spots out there, lots of things we've seen in movies, and the ocean was beautiful, but altogether it made me grateful again for the area we're living in now.
Last night we saw Where the Wild Things Are with a Q&A with Spike Jonze. That's my favorite movie we've seen out here, among my favorite movies so far this year. You should watch it. Then maybe we can talk about it.
On the note of media recommendations, I also suggest that you read For the Time Being by Annie Dillard and listen to "The Trapeze Swinger" by Iron and Wine. Both have been stirring me pretty deeply this week.
If this seems disjointed, it's probably because it is. I'm fighting a creative block for a story I'm working on, and I think I'm using this to chip away at it. So I'll get back to that, and you can get back to your cross-stitching or whatever it is you were doing before you started reading this. I might post something else on here tomorrow. If not, see you after Virginia.
But now we have been here more than a month, and everything has about it an air of reality and at least semi-permanence. I still haven't found a job, but that's okay because the weather's beautiful and I'm writing a lot these days.
And the job thing should be turning around soon enough. Tomorrow or Friday I have a phone interview with a small publishing company looking for an assistant editor, and that could lead somewhere exciting. If it doesn't, then I will keep searching and applying and asking and talking.
On a possibly related note, I worked at the West Hollywood Book Fair this past weekend, and it may have been the high point of my time in LA so far. I got to manage two stages, listening to the panels all day and interacting with the authors and talking about books and checking in with people who may help me find a job. Not to mention acting all official with a clipboard and radio, which is always fun.
On an impossibly related note, a few conversations and random thoughts after horrifying dreams have helped me see again how terribly insecure I am. Maybe more thoughts on that later, but first I go to Virginia.
My cousin Peter's wedding is this weekend near Monticello. I leave here around midnight Friday and come back midnight Monday. I'm really looking forward to this, spending time with family. Not to mention weddings are good and airports are always exciting. I even have a brand new book I've been saving just for this trip.
Today we drove out to the coast, walked down Venice Beach and to the Santa Monica Pier. There are some iconic spots out there, lots of things we've seen in movies, and the ocean was beautiful, but altogether it made me grateful again for the area we're living in now.
Last night we saw Where the Wild Things Are with a Q&A with Spike Jonze. That's my favorite movie we've seen out here, among my favorite movies so far this year. You should watch it. Then maybe we can talk about it.
On the note of media recommendations, I also suggest that you read For the Time Being by Annie Dillard and listen to "The Trapeze Swinger" by Iron and Wine. Both have been stirring me pretty deeply this week.
If this seems disjointed, it's probably because it is. I'm fighting a creative block for a story I'm working on, and I think I'm using this to chip away at it. So I'll get back to that, and you can get back to your cross-stitching or whatever it is you were doing before you started reading this. I might post something else on here tomorrow. If not, see you after Virginia.
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