‘Chicken is chicken. Parts is parts.’

A friend recently posted a note on Facebook concerning her young sons voracious appetites, bemoaning the fact that her first-grader could “apparently eat a whole rotisserie chicken by himself!’”

Ahh, rotisserie chicken.

At one time or another, we’ve all had the need for a quick meal. If you are really in a rush, you can go the convenient but less than healthy fast-food route, or you hit the grocery store deli area for something already prepared and ready for you to just grab and bring home. One of the more popular grocery store grab-and-go’s are those golden brown, rotating slowly on the spit chickens.

As they are known in our house, ‘Barbarian Chickens.’

When our now sixteen year old son Will was seven, we picked up a rotisserie chicken for dinner one night. While setting the table, washing hands, etcetera, we put it in the center of the table, and Will stared at it quizzically, sitting there in its black plastic container with the clear top. He knew what it was, but he was used to having his chicken served on a plate, cut up, so was a bit puzzled. His younger brother Sam was non-plussed awaiting whatever was put on his plate.

We opened the steaming carton, cut the chicken up and served it without incident that night; Will ate it without any vehemence whatsoever that night, nor any of the others that we opted for a deli bird.

One chicken night changed that.

Will and Sam had been at daycare, where they had seen a movie in which a character goes glutton and messily gorges himself on a large turkey leg. Having also previously seen a commercial for the Minnesota Renaissance Festival in which a corpulent king poses with a large drumstick, Will politely (and ironically) asked if, the next time we had rotisserie chicken, he could eat it ‘like a barbarian’ – ripping the drumsticks off with his bare hands before chowing down.

Seemed like a one-and-done deal to me,so, why not?

A few nights later, we brought home both the boys and a golden brown, hot and juicy chicken fresh off the grocery store Ferris wheel. There was a palpable excitement as we set the kitchen table, and once we sat down and said grace. Will asked if he could he could have at it, and we said yes.

We removed the clear lid of the chicken container, and Will dove in – grabbing the drumstick closest to him and yanking it. And then yanking it again. Fortunately, the bird was tender and easily separated from the bird’s thigh on that second yank. Will looked at it triumphantly for a moment, then dove in doing his best-as-could-be-expected-for-a-seven-year-old Henry VII impersonation, tearing (plucking?) meat from bone with a gleeful smile.

Thus was born, as it is known in this household to this day, ‘Barbarian Chicken.’

Fast-forward some seven, eight years and we were now living in New Orleans. To supplement my teaching income, I was working part-time as a cashier at an upscale neighborhood market that had a large deli department and a loyal following or their prepared foods – expecially rotisserie chickens. The store featured different seasoning combinations of the rotating fowl, and they were quite popular not just for dinner, but as the base for a good New Orleans staple – the stock for gumbo. It wasn;t uncommon for customers to buy five or six chickens at a time.

One night one of our regular customers came in and we were chatting as I scanned her three birds, making a comment that she usually only purchased two. The woman shook her head and told me that they were all destined for gumbo prep, as her kids ‘didn’t like the chicken anymore’ which she attributed to a ‘pickiness phase’ by her three kids, ages eight-to-eleven and lamenting the kids disinterest, as she and her husband both liked the chicken.

“My boys love it when I bring home Barbarian Chicken.” I remarked casually.

“What did you call it?” the woman replied with a laugh as I bagged her fresh asparagus and kale.

Explaining the story to her, she nodded and I could see the light-bulb clicking on. She paid for her groceries, then asked if she could leave her cart behind my register briefly. A few minutes later returning with three more chickens purchased at the deli.

“I’ll let you know how it goes” she said enthusiastically as she headed out the door.

A few nights later she there she was in my line with another load of groceries, sans chicken this time. She said she was glad I was working because she wanted to tell me when I told her  my story about ‘Barbarian Chicken’ she knew she could get her kids into the concept with exactly that sales pitch, and that it had worked like a charm. Her husband found the dinner-table Phillistine angle odd but effective, as their once bored-with-rotisserie chicken-boys chowed down with gusto on the re-branded ‘Barbarian Chicken.’

And they weren’t the only ones.

In my time at the store, I frequently recommended our rotating birds to many a stumped-on-what-to-fix-for-dinner mom, along with the Lucker-family label for the treat. It wasn’t long before store customers were coming up to my register with multiple roasted fowl and reminding me that it was “Barbarian chicken night at our house.”

I wonder if Bananas Foster got started this way?

I no longer work at the market, and the whole gluttonous role play thing is only a memory. Will is now sixteen, Sam thirteen, and on the rare occasions we have barbarian chicken, both boys handle it in a refined manner more reminiscent of Henry Gibson than Henry VII – though they still refer to it by its more romantic moniker.

That’s just how we roll. How the chickens roll.

Or at least, how they rotate.


Signs of the times

Oh, sign, sign everywhere a sign
Blocking up the scenery, breaking my mind
Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign
Five Man Electrical Band, 1965

Oh meme, meme, everywhere a meme
clogging up my Facebook, beating on my mind
animals, politics, cutesy kids clogging up the scene
everything’s a statement, everything’s a meme
Me, 2012

Memes. We all get them, many of us have made them. Facebook, emailed, texted them. Memes are everywhere; cute, political, sarcastic. Pictures with a message, many that ‘go viral’ in our Internet age and end up coming to you from half a dozen different folks in far-flung corners of the world. Or Detroit.

I am not putting any memes in this posting. In the spirit of D.I.Y. and not being an enabler, I am offering you the raw materials to make your own meme(s). The supplied pictures are all from my phone, having been snapped, filed away, and rediscovered as I was trying to download new pictures on my phone and was accosted by the ‘Memory Full – Delete Some Items’ warning from my dumbphone.

Dive in, have some fun. See what you can come up with.

One more thing: Realizing that just the pictures might not be enough for some of you, there are also some random comments included – meme prompts, off sorts. They are not etched in stone. As food packages frequently read, ‘SERVING SUGGESTION’

Speaking of food…

I encountered this ‘Express Lane’ signage array in a Missouri grocery store last winter. Really befuddling for those with grocery-cart-approximation issues or general math anxiety, sweaty palms territory for the OCD crowd.  The outright indecision (1 -15, ‘About 20′) is definitively Midwestern.

This store does give you multiple options for ticking off the people in line behind you. Always nice to have choices.

My wife (who found this one and sent it to me) knows that the whole canned food/can food issue continues to bedevil me; in the Midwest, where I grew up, it is ‘Canned Food’ – presumably because it is canned. Or jarred, which is still referred to as ‘canning.’  In New Orleans, it is ‘Can Food’ – because, so I have been told, ‘Because it is food in a can.’ Admittedly not as compelling as the ‘pop’ versus ‘soda’ vernacular debate, but curious nonetheless. At this particular New Orleans grocery, the indecision is palpable.

Or not.

This sign is really indicative of nothing; it’s just the street I live on and I enjoy being able to tell people that (or in this case, write it) using a French dialect: “I leeeve on LOUeee zeee four-teeeze Street!”

I found this one last spring in a Mississippi gift shop. Nice reminder, as long as your kids aren’t yet old enough to read. I would take this particular warning to heart; the proprietor of the shop had a certain, ominous Deliverance quality to her.

And they serve the espresso there in Mason Jars…straight up. Buyer (or parent-shopper) beware.

This New Orleans billboard conjures up all sorts of interesting interpretations: costumed ushers, Kool-Aid and graham cracker communion, aw-shucks-and-brimstone sermons…

“I luv YEW….yew love MEEEE…” with Barney the Choir Director.

This is just a cool sign you will see all over New Orleans – phrase copyrighted by the artist, Dr. Bob. They are ubiquitous in public locales and in very high demand. Just a very cool sentiment.

‘Be nice or leave.’ 

I saw this one a few years ago at a campground in southern Mississippi and it made me laugh simply because of the placement of two seemingly unrelated signs. Then again, in whatever context you might read them, its decent advice.  I mean, you get a couple of shots of schnapps into your typical gator, and..

As my old friend Mark Preston put it, ‘Hey – “Gators Gone Wild.”

Conversely if you have a few, and you see a cute gator…just don’t.

F.Y.I.  – Do not ask local game wardens for clarification on the topic, “But what if the gator comes right up here to your tent?”

Finally, this bumper sticker. And if you have read this blog more than once, now you truly do!


I just finished writing and sending an email to an old friend. Though we haven’t seen each other in a number of years, modern technology has negated much of the distance and filled in the gaps; email and blogs were not part of the lexicon when Keith and I first met and cellphones were still more a status symbol than necessity.

So yes, it’s been a while.

This time I was writing Keith at the behest of his wife, who has gracefully and compassionately been using email over the past few years to keep us all abreast of Keith’s battle with pancreatic Cancer – a journey that now has him in hospice care in another state. His wife’s latest update tells us that while there are many things he can no longer do well, his ‘one constant companion is his iPad on which he reads books and email.’ She has noted in previous updates how much comfort and enjoyment such messages bring Keith.

I am gratified that I can oblige.

Technology has certainly changed all of our lives dramatically over the past few years, for better and worse. It certainly makes situations like this more immediate; an email is received, responded to and then read in a very short time frame. There is something to be said for immediacy – and for Keith not having to try to read my handwriting.

Knowledge is power – and powerful.

Just this past weekend I learned of the death of the father of a good friend from high school; she had been keeping people posted on her dad’s situation since he entered hospice care a week before. It obviously brought her some comfort to be in electronic communion of sorts with a lot of people, and hopefully the ongoing responses help bring her some comfort.

Such is the age we live in.

Thirteen-plus years ago, my wife was on five weeks of bed rest in Fairview Hospital in Minneapolis, trying to prevent the very premature birth of our son Sam. In order to keep friends and family in the loop as to what was happening, every couple of days I sent out an email detailing the latest medical developments. This enabled me to quickly get out information to a lot of people, and also resulted in responses that, in those CPU’s and tower days, needed to be printed out at home and brought to Amy in the hospital.

This turned out to be a valuable tool in stemming her boredom and disconnectedness.

The longer she stayed bed ridden, the more involved the responses became, and the more valuable they were to her as a comforting reading material. Those emails and the touching responses ended up in a ring binder that was not only a source of heartfelt concern and inspiration, but as a diary of sorts of our hospital stay – nearly three months overall, by the time Sam was born and when he finally came home.

It’s a wonderful, organically occurring keepsake, our ‘Sam Binder.’

Fast forward thirteen years: it is a fairly regular occurrence for me to be sent a link via email or Facebook to someone’s CaringBridge site, and the opportunity to quickly reach out to friends in crisis. A recent situation involving the father of a good friend of my wife’s, who was injured in an accident allowed the opportunity to offer support even without being there physically. Sometimes it’s for someone who we only know tangentially – but even those moments allow us to reach out to the persons or families we know more keenly.

These are all good things.

Though it would be easy to simply dash of an email response, hit ‘send’ and go about day-to-day life, I don’t believe most people are like that. For the most part, I think my generation (tail-end baby boomers) view this form of community as a welcome development. Even my mother regularly passes along CaringBridge and church prayer request updates from her circle of friends and generational family members that I am acquainted with.

The personal list of cyber-connections in times of need is a lengthy one; a friend of forty-plus years whose son has leukemia (thankfully now in remission); another friend from the same vintage in has struggled for years with severe diabetes. He and I chat on line often and it gives me the chance to check in, see how he is doing, offer up some encouragement, share our faith journeys with one another.

It’s good for both of us.

There are other friends with various health issues who have yet to join the technological revolution, and I must admit to a sense of frustration in having to keep track of things via phone and snail mail. This is especially frustrating for a friend of mine who lives in another state and suffers from Parkinson’s; he frequently has a full answering machine – a source of frustration on the occasions when I do think to give him a call.

I can always call back, though I admit to a certain degree of frustration and forgetfulness in that regard.

I have found it personally and professionally beneficial to keep up with technology, for many reasons I never envisioned. Though I am pretty handy with a wide array of software, accounting has never been my thing – with our without a computer. But I can certainly say that there aren’t many weeks that go by when simply hopping on-line gives me a pretty good accounting of my personal blessings.

Which reminds me:  I need to make a phone call or two.

Past his/my freshness date

My grandson-to-be Felix is, at this writing, some five days removed from his expected due date and still in utero. This, of course, has created much consternation amongst a wide range of folks – most notably his mother, my daughter Lindsay, and his dad Brad.

As is the apparent norm in this modern technological age of ours, the updates on all-things Felix have come via frequent Facebook updates on the young man’s stubbornness in joining us in the world. While Facebook allows wide, quick dissemination of news, it is also provides a wide-open responsorial forum for commentary.

It’s been fun.

For most of us, anyway. Lindsay might just roll her eyes at this stage at any ‘fun’ comments.

Aside from Facebook, text messaging is of course another source of instantaneous checking in. Knowing this, and getting a slight sense of exasperation from Lindsay as the week wore on, I tried to keep my Felix inquiries to just a couple of  light-hearted texts each day.

Brevity was almost as difficult as the waiting is.

Others got in on the act; son Sam the-seventh grader got out of school the other day, immediately flipped on his phone and texted Lindsay this quick query: “Any word yet on my uncleocity?”

A SIM card micro-chip off the old block.

Meanwhile, back at the grandpa-in-waiting’s Facebook homepage, I was endeavoring to keep my peeps posted on the latest goings on and…clarifying a few things to wit:

Mark Lucker
has mentioned a few times, in passing, that now-overdue-a-day first grandchild Felix will be fourth in line to the Lucker throne. Yes, there is, indeed, a Lucker throne – though we refer to it as the ‘king chair’ or ‘birthday chair.’ It is a treasured heirloom that resides in a corner of our dining room until a special occasion, when it moves to the head of the table and the guest of honor gets to sit in it for the day. Sometimes, we even decorate it for said special events. Inquiring minds may or may not have wanted to really know this…

On Thursday, the poet in me took a shot at updating the situation with a kicky and  topical  haiku:

Mark Lucker watched pot not boiling
patience is not my virtue,
overdue grandson! 😉

But Friday, my early morning update showed me to be more antediluvian than my young-and-hip mastery of grandfatherly social networking would indicate:

Mark Lucker just wants to say, to grandson-to-be Felix: “Olly olly oxen free!”

As I had been posting early in the morning, I would get to share these mini-gems with the family before heading out to work. My ‘olly olly oxen free’ prompted a look of quizzical disdain from Sam, and prompted me to add the explanation, “You know, when you’re playing hide-and-seek…”

“Yeah, I know, dad…but that’s a ‘your generation’ thing. People don’t say that anymore.”

“What? Sure they do. You have to when you’re playing hide-and-seek.”

I’ve never said it, and I never heard anybody say it.” He began blithely pouring milk on his cereal, as I turned to my six-years-my-junior wife for validation.

“Yeah, I don’t think I ever said it. I have heard of it, but Iiiiiiive never said it. Don’t think I ever heard it used.” She took a bite of her raisin bran and continued reading the paper.  Son Will the high school sophomore was, fortunately, still in the shower, and totally missed out on this one.

“Harumph.” I shook my head and headed out the door.

At school, I was relating the story to my colleague across the hall, a fellow English teacher and self-professed word geek just a few years younger than me. She, too, claimed she never said the phrase, nor could she recall ever hearing it in personal H&S usage.

She did  allow hopefully that she had heard it on t.v. or in a movie, “Probably a Leave-it-to-Beaver episode, or something like that.”

‘Something like that.’ A Leave-it-to-Beaver episode.  Sigh.

Gosh, Wally – I mean Felix –  you gotta get cracking and get out here. I am apparently getting more outdated with each post.

Olly olly oxen free, dude.

“I think I can, I think I can…but I prefer my beer from a bottle, thanks.”

The marvels of modern technology.

The week leading up to my anniversary, Facebook kept reminding me…it was my anniversary. Contrary to popular stereotype, perpetuated by television sitcoms ad nauseam, most men I know do not forget their anniversaries, and can recite the date when asked.

My first thought about this was that whoever programmed this little feature into Facebook was really sexist, because my wife received no such reminder. My second thought on this was that with all of its odd little reminders, Facebook was becoming a nagging, t.v. sitcom wife.

My third thought was, that second thought makes me the sexist.

Stupid Facebook.

For what it’s worth, I don’t think anyone has ever said to me,”Who does your hair?”

In a recent blog post I mentioned dreaming in song, which prompted a friend of mine to respond that, ‘sometimes, I don’t even dream in color’ which makes me wonder if some people’s dreams are like late night television, flipping through a bazillion channels, landing on this old sitcom or that old movie, some in color, some in black-and-white. Is there a big ‘clicker’ in your head, jumping you from dream-to-dream in your head until you find something interesting? Who or what controls that remote? Is it your id, or your inner child? Your subconscious or some subliminally implanted messages?

Do you dream in color or black-and-white, or are you a history buff, whose dreams are sepia toned? Do you dream in reruns or original programming? Forget about Freud and all that ‘wish fulfillment’ stuff – what genre do you dream in? Drama or comedy? Adventure or Sci Fi? Are dreams like Netflix? What’s in your dream queue?

Maybe the whole dream thing is more about the platform you dream on. Do you dream on VHS format, fast-forwarding past stuff you don’t want, rewinding and re-watching certain parts over and over? Maybe you dream in DVD format; extended cuts, director commentary options, special features. Do you dream on portable device, or big screen in HD? (NOTE: If you dream in Betamax, seek professional help) Inquiring minds want to know.

As for me, I dream mostly in color, usually on a mid-70’s vintage, Zenith console model television, but on occasion in grainy, silent super-8 movie form, though I have at times had ViewMaster dreams about childhood events like family trips. (I stopped dreaming in filmstrip form in the early 1990’s, but sometimes I still slip in a daydream or two on microfiche).

Sometimes, though, when I dream about my wife, its big screen stuff; Technicolor and shot in wide-screen Panavision…lots of sweeping-vista camera work and bold oboe and trumpet musical scoring in the background, you know, Lawrence-of-Arabia-type epics.

Oddly, in those particular dreams, I’m never riding a horse. Wonder what Freud would think about that.

As a smart shopper, I use coupons and take advantage of rebates when I can, but I have an issue with the rebate process. I think manufacturers should add forty-four cents (the price of a stamp) to any rebate you mail in for. In a purely P&L way, I feel I am getting ripped off (because I AM) because the value of my rebate is diminished.  Next time I buy a printer cartridge, I want a rebate for $5.44, not $4.56.  

Just sayin’.

Warning! Old guy harangue forthcoming:

This incidence crops up every couple of years, and always fires up my indignation: Mr. Potato Head was a great toy…

until they started using a plastic potato.

My first Mr. Potato was received as a gift in 1966 while I was in the hospital having my tonsils out. It came in a box, with a couple of dozen pieces; noses, eyes, arms, feet, hats, etcetera – but no potato. That had to be supplied by mom. Or she/you could substitute rutabaga, carrot, green pepper or pretty much any vegetable or even (“Gosh, Wally!”)…fruit!

Mr. Potato Head came up the other night in a workplace conversation with twenty-something coworkers and the conversation swung to me. They simply could not get their heads around the idea of Mr. Potato Head not being….well, the Mr. Potato head we know today: standard, smooth, brown, boring, only a few select-location holes, plastic Potato Head. I pity them.

They know not what they missed out on. Proof? Click below


See?  In terms of toys, my generation was Picasso…theirs is flippin’ clip-art.

Harangue concluded. We now return you to regular blogging.

Damn. Film broke. That’s all I got. For today.

A little of this, a little of that

Just wonderin’ if th’ earth would eventually deflate. Try this one three times quickly:

“How much crude can one hole spew if the screwed up well can’t be subdued?”

# # #

I work part-time at an upscale market in New Orleans. As most everything here revolves around food and drink, it’s an interesting place to get insight on the city. The store also has an extensive wine and liquor department, and it is not an exaggeration to say that on many busy evenings over half of our customers have a bottle of wine or two in their cart to go with their groceries.

Our store is also noted for its baked-fresh-through-the day French bread, often, it is the only item they are getting: “Dinner is cooking – just needed the bread!” is an everyday occurrence.

Pretty regularly that someone will come through my checkout line with just those things: a bottle or two of wine, and a loaf of French bread. Frequently it is one of our store regulars, and as they greet me and I see their selections gliding toward me on the belt, I greet them with a leading, “Ahhh, a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and….?”

I get a blank stare in return.

Keep in mind that this is an upscale place that caters to a much more white collar than blue collar demographic, including a lot of university types, as a couple of major campuses are close at hand. Only on a couple of occasions has anyone picked up on the comment and finished it – and, much to my chagrin, nobody has added their own little risqué spin on the end

A few weeks back I had a regular customer, guy about my age, come through the line with just those two items; two loaves of our fresh bread, and a pricey bottle of wine. “Ahhh” said I, “A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and…?” A look of surprise followed immediately by the light bulb going off:

“Jeez. I got nothin’, Mark. Or should I say nobody!”

“Aw, I’m sorry.”  He swipes his credit card through the machine.

“Yeah, well…now it’s all I’m gonna be thinking about thanks to you! Me and my wine and my bread and Friday night alone…you’re probably really disappointed in me, I know! I know! I’ll try to do better next time I come through your line!”

His tone was one of exasperation but he had a very wry smirk. He grabbed his bags, finished his transaction and gave me a wink and a smile as he walked off – gestures not noticed by the woman behind him in line who stepped up with a look of dismay and a tone of indignation. “Didn’t do that guy any favors tonight, did ya? Glad I don’t have any wine tonight!”

The next Friday, same scenario, different regular. “Ahhh, a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and….?”

“I see where you’re going.” The guy smiles, shakes his head, sighs. “No, unfortunately. Not today.” He chuckles as he signs the credit card reader. “There goes a darn good story, too. Maybe next time, I’ll have one for you.” Adding, “Later, Mark!” as he waves and walks off.

Next customer in line, a woman in her forties, has been watching the exchange with interest and disappointment. “Well, that was sad.”

Must be a guy thing.

# # #

At the age of fifty-one, it is interesting to post a new entry on this blog, then note later that there were just two comments made on it; from my mother…and my senior prom date.

She is now married (the PD, not mom) to one of my best friends from high school, and he drops in the periodic comment as well. Now, it’s not just a blog – it’s a potential Jerry Springer episode.

# # #

And now, your haiku du jour:

Firm happenstance

seldom are; for randomness
uses GPS

# # #

Last week while on vacation in St.Louis my wife was in the hotel pool, frolicking with sixth-grader Sam, when I came in to join the fun. Any and Sam had been playing volleyball with a beach ball, and they wanted me to join them. Once in the pool, I did just that, but not before wading over to embrace and kiss my wife, while also trying to keep the batted beach ball airborne, Amy’s back to Sam, me swatting at it over her shoulder. After a few bats back and forth, the ball hit the water, and we tried again – though my attention was obviously more on my wife than on the beach ball, which Sam noted drolly and accurately, “Kissing while multi-tasking not your thing, dad.”

# # #

Whenever I’m on Facebook (FB), it sends me these odd little reminders about things it somehow thinks I might like, based on things I clicked ‘LIKE’ on previously. This is not unique to my experience, I know, but in talking with others it doesn’t seem to match up the same things in the same way – must be that newfangled ‘personalized’ FB experience I keep hearing about.

Like today.

A thumbnail picture of the Mona Lisa pops up, with the tag-line “Painting – many people who like graffiti like this.” Sure…makes sense to me. I know how the graffiti part came in – my cousin’s son in Minneapolis is part of an anti-graffiti group, and I clicked on ‘like’ for their post one time. I like the Mona Lisa, but linking these two things together seems a bit incongruous to me; maybe if it were graffiti and say, ancient cave art – we might be on to something.

But not as much as they goofy things FB thinks will interest me because I have (on multiple occasions, I am very sure) expressed my interest in/passion for all things baseball. Today it is hockey that the mighty FB deems worthy of my attention. The other day it was soccer, last week it was basketball (a downhill slide from fascinating to sheer boredom running unabated) and the week before that it was…

four square?

Now this was something I could sink my teeth into (although in my youth I much preferred tether ball – decapitation was always an accepted playground possibility before we went litigation crazy in America) and I held out hope that maybe, just maybe, FB would try to get me interested in kick ball.


Ahh, but back to graffiti, which could have easily been paired with four-square because both involve painting on an outdoor surface but wasn’t. Just out of annoyance, I clicked the ‘x’ to kill the painting/graffiti match, and lo-and-behold – it replaces it with…‘Cooking – many people who like graffiti like this.’ Hmmm. Now my curiosity pump is primed. I X that baby out and I get the TV show House…ostensibly because I like graffiti. Now I’m really hooked; X out House, and I get ‘drawing’ (O.K.) which is followed by swimming (Ummm…?) tennis (yeah, when I think graffiti I Think ‘Wimbeldon’) and then…


Sigh. Methinks Facebook telling me what I might like because I like something else is nothing more than cyber- graffiti.

But don’t tell it I said that.

# # #

So much for my weekend brain-dump.  Ciao.