The Sounds Of Silence

A long time ago, 6,681 days to be exact, our youngest son was born, joining his two older brothers. And what a time it's been.

We've gone to Field of Dreams



and fields where dreams became real.




















We've gone on road trips and hung out in bars.

We've said goodbye to one dog and hello to another.



There's been school



and school plays.




















There's been time with family

and, of course, there's been time with Grandma.



















There's been playing with friends

and trick or treating with friends

and traveling with friends

and hanging out with friends.

There's been bingo. Oh yes indeed, there's been bingo.



There's been soccer

and basketball



and baseball



and baseball

and baseball 

and a championship at the end.

And now, after a long time, 6,681 days to be exact, there's college and infinity and beyond.

The Other, Of Course, Involves Orcs

“Hey Uncle Mark,” I said.

“Hello Snag,” he said, his attention focused on threading a reel-to-reel tape, part of the music collection I envied even if our tastes didn’t exactly overlap. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine,” I replied. “Looking forward to finishing high school next May.”

“Where’s your mother?” he asked, looking around for his sister-in-law. Along with the rest of our family, we had just arrived from Minneapolis for one of our visits.

“She and Aunt Blanche are in the kitchen bossing each other around,” I said. He snickered.

“So, what are your plans once you get to college?” he asked.

“Not sure,” I said. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

He raised his eyebrows at a concept he hadn’t been familiar with for quite some time, if ever. “You haven’t really thought about it?”

“Um, no, not really,” I said. Now I was looking around for my mother.

“What have you been doing instead of thinking about it?”

“Reading?” I suggested.

“Reading. What have you been reading?”

Mostly old issues of National Lampoon, but I wasn’t going to admit that. Fortunately, my mother walked in and interrupted us. 

“How are you, Mark?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I was talking with Snag. He said he’s been reading.”

My mother looked at me. “That’s what he said, did he?”

Thanks Mom, throw me under the bus. “I have been reading,” I said. “Philosophy.”

“Philosophy,” said Mark. “That’s an excellent way to spend your time. And what philosophers have you been reading?”

“I like the existentialists,” I said.

“Of course you do,” he replied. “You’re 17 years old. Which ones?”

“Camus. Kafka, Kierkegaard.”

I must have come close to correctly classifying them and pronouncing their names, because he nodded.

“What do you like about them?” he asked.

For God’s sake, I thought. Why did I open my big mouth?

“There’s no meaning?” I guessed.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

Why am I here? I thought. I could be home playing foosball and trying to talk to girls.

I blurted out, “It’s like Kierkegaard said – ‘I feel as a chessman must when the opponent says of it, “that piece cannot be moved.”’

He looked at me, impressed, in a sad way, as though I was a dog that had somehow memorized a Zen koan.

“What else have you been reading?” he asked.

Relieved to be leaving the existentialists behind, I offered, “I’ve been reading a bunch of stuff by this woman philosopher I like.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ayn Rand,” I said.

He flinched, visibly. “Who?” he asked.

“Ayn Rand,” I repeated. “She’s got some really interesting ideas.”

“That’s true enough,” he said. “If you can call them ‘ideas.’”

I’d just finished Atlas Shrugged, and like many a young man before me, was besotted. “Don’t you think she makes some good points about people taking responsibility for themselves?”

“No.”

“But when she talks about the fact that A is A, you have to admit that makes a lot of sense.”

“No,” he said. “No, I don’t. Because it doesn’t.” He glanced at my mother. “Do you approve of this?”

“As if that would make a difference?” she asked, reasonably enough. She and I had already had this argument. Several times.

He turned back to me.

“Do you remember when I taught you to play 52 Card Pickup?”

"Yes," I said. Who could forget? I'd been 6 years old. He'd asked me to play, I'd agreed, he'd thrown a deck of cards in the air and told me to pick them up. I cried and he got scolded by my mother and his wife. It was a safe bet neither of us had ever completely recovered.

“I was trying to teach you to not be gullible,” he said.

“After all these years, that's your best excuse?” asked my mother. He ignored her.

“Now you’re letting a crackpot play 52 Card Pickup with your moral philosophy,” he said.

I stared at him like a dog who had forgotten its koan.

He shook his head in exasperation and walked out of the room. He returned a few minutes later with his book, Generalization in Ethics.

“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “Read it and then we’ll have this conversation.”

In the years since, I did read it, mostly in bits and pieces. We talked about it a few times, but never in depth. There were always other people around or dinner was being served or my own kids were interrupting us. I didn't, and don't, understand everything he wrote or everything he thought or everything he taught. I do understand that he made me smarter, and that he did the same for others, and that he made the world a better place. I miss him.

Happy Anniversary, O Lovely Bride

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove,

That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,

Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,

Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow Rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses

And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,

With Coral clasps and Amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May-morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

 

- Christopher Marlowe

Dragon Lady

"Please tell me that's not real," I said.

"Of course it is," said my mother. "Feel it."

I shuddered and waved her away. "Maybe you really do have dementia."

My mother glared at me. "Can you please make him shut up?" she asked the Lovely Bride.

"I wish," said the Lovely Bride. "He's just like that. It's genetic."

"Thank God he's adopted," said my mother. "I'd hate to think I'm responsible for him."

"Yes, thank God I'm adopted," I said. "At least there's a chance I won't act like a lunatic when I'm your age."

"Is it always like this on Sunday mornings?" my sister asked my oldest. She'd come along to see this.

"Pretty much," said the oldest.

"I see why you went to Miami," my sister told him.

He shrugged. "You get used to it after a while."

"Stockholm Syndrome," said the Lovely Bride.

"Hey, we're kind of getting off the point here," I said. "Specifically, what the hell is wrong with her?"

"I think it's nice," beamed my mother.

"No, 'nice' would be a new hairdo. This is nuts."

"Stop overreacting," she said. "My friends think it's interesting."

"Then it's time to find new friends."

"You're not really one to be criticizing someone else's choice in friends," said the Lovely Bride.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded.

"Let's just say your friends don't always make good choices."

"He was like that growing up," my mother mused. She brightened. "Oh well, at least he never got arrested. That's a small miracle in itself."

My oldest looked up with interest. "Why do you say that?" he asked.

"Can we focus on the issue?" I interjected before things got further out of hand. "What in God's name were you thinking?"

"I'm eighty-one. I can do what I want."

"So you want to be a carny?"

"You're being ridiculous."

"Sorry, my mistake," I said. "I meant a biker chick."

"Well," said my mother, getting up, "I've had enough of you for one day. I am going to drop your sister at home and then I am going to a movie."

"What are you going to see," I asked. "'Caged Heat?'"

"If I had known he'd be this upset, I would have done it years ago," said my mother.

"What did you do, Grandma?" asked the middle kid as he came through the front door.

My mother held out her arm. My son gaped at the green dragon tattoo coiled around her elbow. "Do you like it?" she asked.

"You're the coolest lady ever," he finally said, shaking his head in wonder.

"Thank you," she told him. "I'll see you next Sunday. Have a good week." She turned and smirked at me.  "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Freebird

Jennifer to the rescue!

Amerika

"Why do you suddenly want a passport?" the Lovely Bride asked suspiciously.

"So we can run away somewhere exotic," I said, trying to give her a kiss. She waved me away.

"Are you certain you don't have another family somewhere?" she asked. "You've sure been 'traveling' an awful lot."

"Of course," I said. "This family turned out so well I couldn't wait to start another one."

"I see your point," she said. "But seriously, why the passport?"

"I want to enroll in the TSA Pre program. I'm tired of standing in security lines at the airport. Besides, our kids all have one. Eventually we'll stop spending money on them and we can go somewhere interesting."

"Fine," she said. "Get a passport."

The next day I diligently filled out my paperwork, enclosed an original copy of my birth certificate, and sent the application off to the appropriate authorities.

Several weeks later, I came home to an envelope from the Department of State. It didn't look like it would contain a passport, and sure enough, it didn't. Instead, it held a letter on very official looking stationary from the United States Department of State, Charleston Passport Center. It began:

Dear Snag:

Thank you for your recent passport application. The evidence of U.S. citizenship or nationality you submitted is not acceptable for passport purposes for the following reason(s):

The document you submitted does not sufficiently support your date and place of birth in the United States since you were a non-institutional birth. Therefore, please submit the following:

• A combination of early public documents created at the time of your birth. Examples of such documents include: notes created by the midwife regarding your mother's pregnancy and delivery, early religious records, your parent's tax, rent, or employment records created at the time of your birth which indicated their U.S. residency, elementary school records showing your name, date and place of birth, and/or any other document established in your infancy or early childhood that indicates your date and place of birth.

My first thought was, I hate it when people use "and/or."

My second thought was, what the hell?

Fortunately, the people at the State Department had included a telephone number for someplace called the National Passport Information Center. I dialed the number and, after the requisite ten minutes of working through a phone tree, connected with a very nice woman at the Center.

"Hello, may I ask who I'm speaking with?" she inquired.

"Snag," I said.

"What can I help you with?"

"I got a letter that says because I'm a non-institutional birth, I have to provide other records. I'm trying to figure out what that means."

"May I please have your date of birth?" she asked.

I gave it to her.

"And the file number at the top of the letter?"

I gave that to her as well.

"Now, please read the letter to me," she said.

"The whole letter?" I asked.

"Yes, please."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

So I did. I kept waiting for her to stop me, but she never did, and I read it all, the salutation, the citations to the Code of Federal Regulations, the closing, every last word.

"Thank you," she said. "Now what is your question?"

"I'm not sure why I'm considered a non-institutional birth. Is there something weird in my birth certificate because I'm adopted?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't tell you that."

"Why not?" I asked.

"We're not authorized to provide that kind of information."

"Okay," I said. "So what am I supposed to do?"

"You should do what the letter says you should do."

"Right. But I was adopted so I don't have any of those documents."

"Could you get a copy of your parents' tax returns from the time of your birth?"

"No, you see, I don't know who my biological parents are. And the birth certificate I sent you before already has my adoptive parents' information on it, and that's apparently not sufficient."

"That is a problem," she conceded.

"So what should I do?"

"You should do what the letter says you should do," she cheerily responded.

 "But I can't," I said. "So what can I do instead?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, we're not allowed to tell you that."

"Let me guess," I said. "You're not authorized to provide that kind of information."

"That's right," she chirped, clearly pleased I was catching on so quickly.

"In that case, who can I talk to?"

"You'll need to talk to the Charleston Passport Office. They're the ones who sent you the letter."

"Fine," I said. "What's their phone number?"

"I'm afraid they don't have phones," she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"They don't have phones."

"They don't have phones?"

"Right!" she chirped again.

"Look," I said. "I know you just work there, but that's the craziest thing I've ever heard."

"Why do say that?" she asked.

"I'm pretty sure there's phone service in Charleston and I'd be willing to guess the State Department isn't working off the grid."

"Sir, all I know is that we've been told they don't have phones."

"Well, how am I supposed to talk to them if they don't have phones?"

"That is a good question."

"Do they have an email address?"

"Hmm," she said. "I don't think so."

"I suppose if they don't have phones, they probably don't have email either,"  I said.

"I know!" she exclaimed. "You could write them a letter and ask them to call you!"

"That's an interesting idea," I said. "But how can they call me if they don't have phones?"

"They could borrow one!" she said.

"That might just be crazy enough to work!" I said.

"I know!" she agreed.

"Well, thank you very much," I said.

"You're very welcome," she said. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, thank you," I said. "You've done plenty already."

"Have a great rest of the day!" she said.

"You too," I replied and hung up the phone.

"Who was that?" the Lovely Bride asked.

"Kafka's granddaughter."

 "What are you talking about?"

"I don't really know anymore," I said.

This Week's Show - Long Time, No See Edition

Songs I Kind Of Like Right Now - Part 5

Last Straw

What I'm supposed to be doing tomorrow night:



What I'll probably be doing tomorrow night:

In Toto

"What is he carrying on about?" my mother asked as she sat down at our kitchen table for her regular Sunday morning visit.

"He's reading the editorial page," said the Lovely Bride. "You know how he gets."

My mother frowned at me "Why do you do that to yourself?"

"Otherwise I'd take it out on my family," I explained.

The Lovely Bride muttered, "It's not working."

"Don't you have wifely chores to do?" I asked her.

"Judging by your wife's expression, this would be a good time for you to shut up," my mother suggested.

"Good luck with that," said my youngest son.

The Lovely Bride gave me one final look and then turned to my mother and asked, "What's new with you?"

"I'm considering a safari," my mother said.

"I thought you were going to Sarasota," I said.

"I am."

"They don't have safaris in Sarasota," I said. "Besides, I thought you were attending Clown College."

My youngest smirked. "You're the one who went to Clown College, Dad."

"The last time I heard that I laughed so hard I fell off my dinosaur," I told him. He sneered at me in return.

"They're certainly noisy, aren't they?" my mother said.

"I've learned to ignore them," said the Lovely Bride.

"Anyway," said my mother, "I am not going to Clown College. I am going to an arts program."

"You're going on an art safari?" I asked. "I don't think you can hunt artists, even in Florida."

"I'm talking about a photographic safari."

"You're going to take photos of artists? That's kind of meta."

"Not in Florida," she said in exasperation. "In Africa."

"Mom, Sarasota isn't in Africa. Are you sure you didn't go to Clown College?"

"I am visiting Sarasota next week. Then, later, on a separate trip, I would go to Africa. Is that clear enough for you?"

"Why didn't you just say so?"

"He is particularly difficult today, isn't he?" my mother said to the Lovely Bride.

"Trust me, it'll get worse," the Lovely Bride said. "Football is on later and he likes to yell, 'Move the chains!' after every play."

My mother shook her had sadly. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but you have my sympathy."

"You did warn me," said the Lovely Bride.

"I tried," said my mother. "In any event, I enjoyed Africa so much the last time I was there, I'd like to go again. I'm afraid my memory is not what it used to be and I need to travel while I can."

"Your brain is fine," I said. "Surprising, given the heroin problem you had during my formative years."

"No, I can tell I'm not as sharp as I used to be," she said.

"For God's sake," I said. "You were just in Switzerland for twelve days by yourself. And it's not like you got on the plane by accident. Stop being such a worrywart."

"I'm just being realistic."

"I thought you made the doctor give you a test and that came back just fine."

"Doctors don't know everything."

"That's what I keep telling her," I said, pointing at the Lovely Bride. "Why doesn't anybody believe me?"

"Evaluating the wisdom of a bourbon and sausage diet doesn't exactly require a sophisticated medical background," said the Lovely Bride.

I shrugged. "My cardiologist is a quack."

"He went to Stanford," said my mother.

"So did Bernie Madoff," I replied.

My mother and the Lovely Bride looked at me for a moment and sighed in unison.

"Give me some," I said, holding my fist out to the youngest for a bump. He ignored me, but Lucy the dog gnawed on my hand a few times.

"Where do you want to go on safari?" the Lovely Bride asked.

"South Africa, I think," said my mother. "I've been to Tanzania, and although it was lovely, I don't feel a need to return there."

"Bring me some rhino horn," I said.

The Lovely Bride gave me a frozen smile. "Don't bother," she said.

"South Africa would be cool," said my youngest. "They have hippopotamuses."

"Yes," said my mother. "That's one of the things I'd like to see."

"What's the point?" I asked. "You couldn't tell anyone about it."

"Why?" asked my mother.


"HIPAA regulations," I said, gleefully.

 "Dear God," said the Lovely Bride.

"Move the chains!" I yelled.

Where In The World Is Snag - December 12, 2013

1. Not in the Arctic.
2. For a change.
3. More of a frozen wasteland of the soul.
4. But there's no minus sign on front of the temperature.
5. ?

Carry On, Soldier

One

 "Why'd you join the Army?" I asked Dan when we first met. We were in Texas and I was responsible for orienting him to the base.

"I didn't like the hats they wore in the Navy," he said.

"Really?"

"Why did you join?" he asked.

"Okay, your reason was better than mine."

Two

We were watching M*A*S*H.   Hot Lips' dog got killed. She was crying. So were we.

"Stupid dog," said Hot Lips.

"Stupid dog," Dan said.

"Stupid dog," I said.

Three

It was Thanksgiving. We were sharing an apartment off base.

"Do you really think we should give the turkey carcass to your puppy?" I asked.

"Sure," said Dan. "He'll love it."

Ten minutes later we were cleaning up dog vomit.

"Why'd you get a damn beagle anyway?" I asked. "And why'd you name him Sooner?"

"I know. I should have called him 'the Littlest Angel.'"

"Fucking kill me," I said.

Four

"Do you ever miss the Army?" I asked him. We were living in Seattle. I topped off his daiquiri glass from the pitcher we'd made out of the berries in our back yard.

"Never," he said.

"Not even color guard? Not even when we got to wear those cool, shiny helmets?"

"That sucked," Dan said.

"Remember when Top said we were going to get court-martialed for ragging on the President and we gave him a copy of the First Amendment?"

"That was hilarious," Dan said.

Five

"ALS?" I said. "You've got ALS? Like Lou Gehrig?"

"Yeah," said Dan. "Like Lou Gehrig."

"Shit," I said.

Six

"Thanks for coming to see me," said Dan. He still lived in Seattle, I lived in Minneapolis.

"Of course."

Seven

"What kind of nightmare is this?" Dan asked.

"It's winter in Minnesota. A fucking wonderland."

"This is worse than the Army."

"Nothing's that bad."

"Why did I come visit in February?" he asked.

"Plane tickets are cheaper?" I suggested.

"I wonder why," he said. "My damn hands don't work. Zip up my jacket."

"What's it worth to you?" I asked.

"What's it worth to keep me from telling your wife you were picking on a cripple?" he asked.

Eight

"What's that song?" I asked. My middle son and I were in Portland, staying with Dan, his wife, and their kids.

"Johnny Cash's version of 'The Mercy Seat,'" said Dan.

"It's haunting," I said.

"Try listening to it when you're dying," said Dan. He laughed.

Nine

"Hey, I'll see you in a few months. I've got business in Portland," I said.

"Perfect," he said. "Maybe the Packers will be playing. We can catch the game on TV."

"Yeah, whatever," I said.

"Nobody loves the Packers like I do," he said. "Except maybe your wife. Hey, did I tell you they sent me an autographed ball and a bunch of other stuff? Somebody wrote them and said I was a fan. They must have felt sorry for me."

"That was awfully decent of them," I said.

"I felt like I was stealing from the Make-A-Wish Foundation," said Dan.

Ten

"I'm sorry," said Dan's wife. "He's gone."

Goodbye, Dad

Bernard "Bud" Greensweig, age 84, passed away peacefully at his home in Royalton Township outside of Pine City, Tuesday, September 3, 2013.  Bud was born May 11, 1929 to Solomon (Sol) and Sadie Greensweig in Brooklyn, New York.  Bud received his undergraduate and law degrees from Northwestern University and his master's degree from the University of Chicago.  

Bud was a successful executive in Minneapolis and Atlanta and for a number of years ran his own law practice.  Bud was also an accomplished violinist who played with the Bloomington Symphony Orchestra, North Side Symphony Orchestra of Chicago and the Atlanta Pops Orchestra.  Throughout his life he enjoyed playing string quartets and making bad puns.  In January of 1984 he married his wife Jacquelyn.  They enjoyed their grandchildren, traveling, music, art, and their pets.

Bud was preceded in death by his parents Sol and Sadie, sisters Audrey and Ruth, and brother in-law Al Goldrich.  Bud is survived by his wife Jacquelyn of Pine City, son Dan (Colleen) Greensweig of Circle Pines, daughter Eve Meys (Tony) of St. Louis Park, son Thom (Alana) Petersen of Pine City, his grandchildren Josh, Ben, Noah, Ellie, Dylan and Waylon, and his nephew Barry (Jill) Goldrich and Noreen Goldrich of Chicago.

The family would like to thank the staff of St. Croix Hospice and Family Pathways for their assistance.  In celebration of Bud's life a reception will be held on Sunday, September 15, 2013 from 2pm - 5 pm at the family's home, 9218 Linden Lane, Pine City MN.

In lieu of flowers, memorial may be sent to Pine City Arts Council to help sponsor a community concert.  Pine City Arts Council, 65 2nd Street SE, Pine City, MN 55063.

Where In The World Is Snag - July 29, 2013

1. Rocky Mountain High
2. As in high
3. It's been better
4. It's been worse.
5. ?

Goal

Last night my middle son's soccer team played their last game. They've been together a long time, most of them, since before this picture was taken. They've had some years when they won a lot of games and some years when they lost even more, but he loves soccer, he loves his teammates, and he's loved every minute of it.

When they started out, almost ten years ago, their coach told them how they lost was more important than how they won. He told the parents that too. Most important, he believed it and he lived it. He's still their coach, or he was until last night, and in all those years he never lost his temper, he never raised his voice at an official, he never treated his players, or their opponents, with anything but respect. And the team followed his lead.

God, my son loved soccer, though. If he could, he'd find a friend to kick the ball around. If he couldn't, he'd go by himself. If it rained or snowed, he'd play in our kitchen.

"Knock it off," I'd tell him. "You're going to break something."

"Nothing's broken yet," he'd reply.

"'Yet' is the operative term," I'd say.

Then I'd leave and he'd start bouncing the ball off the cabinets again.

That wasn't the worst though. The worst was his cleats. He left them in someone's car once and she thought an animal had died under the seat. Those damn shoes were always under our kitchen table or in the entryway or on the counter.

"Would it kill you to put them in the storage room?" I'd ask.

"It's not worth the risk of finding out," he'd say.

Every summer, there was an international tournament not far from here. He played teams from Norway, Mexico, Argentina, Venezuela. Once, when he was about ten, he played a team from Brazil. A high crossing pass came his way and he went up, both feet extended, and punched it in. We still talk about that one. Part of the family lore now, I guess.

The players grew up, and so did their parents. There were some divorces, not all of them easy, and when that happened, the coach and the team would rally around, not saying a word, just forming a protective circle until things got better. Even for the adults, soccer was one of the places differences got put aside, somewhere everyone could cheer for the same thing.

When a kid couldn't afford the registration fee, there was always a scholarship, a chance to earn some money, maybe a few parents kicking in a couple bucks or a pair of cleats, and soon enough there would be another teammate, another boy playing soccer instead of watching TV or something worse. It wasn't the Bad News Bears, they took it more seriously than that, but it was a place where the only thing that mattered was how hard you'd work and how good a teammate you could be.

Eventually, high school soccer took most of them. That was good too, and my son loved that almost as much as the summer season, running miles every day to get in shape, pouring his heart into the game. In the winter, they'd play indoors, usually late at night without many parents around, and as a ref once told me when I complained about being out on a cold winter evening, "Hey, it's midnight on a Friday and your kid's playing soccer. Can't complain about that."

But time rolls on and the final year of varsity soccer ended, and one more season of indoor play, and then it was the last summer before the boys, young men now, headed off to college. In a few weeks, my kid is leaving for school in Arizona, 1,600 miles away. I won't see him until December.

But this summer, one more time, one last time, they played for the coach who'd been with them since elementary school, coaching his own son and all these others he's grown to know so well, and this was an ending for him too. No more Mountain Dew and cupcakes after a game to celebrate a birthday, no more water balloon fights while his wife shook her head, no more walking off the field having learned a little more by losing than by winning.

It was a good year. They played well, they played like a team, they played like a team that had been together for almost ten years, they played like a team that believed in what they were doing.

And last night they played for the state championship. Tied at the end of regulation. Tied at the end of the first overtime. Tied at the end of the second overtime. A shootout. Tied 4-4, with my son on the line. The last time he'll ever touch a ball for this team. It goes in, he scores, he's got the winning goal, and as the team celebrates, I swear he floats above the field and so do I, looking down at all that's been.

Hasten Thee To See This Band

Songs I Never Hated - Part 42 (Happy Anniversary, Lovely Bride)

I Swear To God, If It Rains This Weekend I Am So Out Of Here

Where In The World Is Snag - June 1, 2013

1. Alaska

2. North of Alaska

3. North of north of Alaska

4. I don't care

5. ?

Happy Birthday, Bob