Rambling Josh

How often do you witness something that makes your eyebrows lunge for your hairline as your eyes involuntarily widen and your jaw slackens while whatever your preferred “what the ….” slowly spills out of your mouth soaked in bewilderment?

The engineer, pedaling the bicycle, appeared to be late teens early twenties, the caboose, also known as your garden variety little red wagon, was occupied by a downy haired child that I’m sure hadn’t possessed the ability to sit unassisted long enough to appreciate all the ways the ride he was occupying could get sideways…or upside down.

I was driving north on a busy traffic riddled street, they were bouncing and lurching south on the sidewalk. Although our passing was relatively quick, it was quite apparent that the engineer had cobbled together some sort of duct tape hitch connecting his bicycle seat post to the handle of the little red wagon.

I’ve ridden in little red wagons. Their steering responsiveness, loaded with two knuckleheads rolling down a hill bobsled style, is quite twitchy and highly unpredictable. The handle gives you the illusion of steering, your little brothers high-pitched scream from the “backseat” paints a more realistic picture.

I don’t recall the name of the elderly lady that lived in the stucco house at the bottom of the hill next to our house in Palermo in 1978? I believe the stucco was painted yellow? I believe she wasn’t very pleased that pieces of her house broke loose and landed in our wagon on impact…all three times. I believe they held a parade in Palermo when we moved to Lignite? We weren’t invited.

When I saw the guy on the bike (with no helmet) pulling a toddler (with no helmet) in a wagon (with questionable stability) my first thought was, “does his wife know of the contraption her husband has devised?” My second thought made more sense to me, “the mastermind engineer is the older brother of the unwittingly unsafe little one.”

The hands of an older brothers are notoriously questionable choices in which to place the health and wellbeing of a younger sibling within. Those hands may be attached to an able body, but the whole lot is at the mercy of a brain that holds anyone that can light a fart on fire in the highest possible regard.

I am an older brother, and it is no small feat to convert a fart to a flame. As the old song goes…poetry in motion. Not enough to read by, but poetry just the same.

My brother Gabe is twelve years younger than me, and I was given the responsibility of watching him quite often while growing up. “Watching” him. Maybe adults should be more specific?

I “watched” me put him in the baby carrier on mom’s bike when he was about two-years old to take him for a spin around town. He loved riding back there, and I loved giving him rides.

It wasn’t my fault…My friends were jumping their bikes on our favorite ramp up a steep approach. As was always the case, some were jumping, and some were marking the landings so those that were jumping could see what mark they had to beat. The mark “we” had to beat.

Clicking through the gears on moms Schwinn, my approach speed was magnificent, the launch angle was near perfect, but I failed to take into consideration the impact my cargo would have on our flight trajectory.

If you measure the success of a flight by a landing that includes both wheels and swiftly riding away to the applause of your friends, then our landing, some would say it closely resembled a crash, was not a success.

But, like Orville and Wilbur Wright, we flew. If only for a moment, the eldest and youngest Ellis boys took flight together, while, in unison, the eyebrows of a handful of neighborhood kids made a hasty lunge towards their hairlines. It was glorious…then it wasn’t. So it goes.

I’m fairly certain Gabe got his first concussion that day. Happy birthday brother.

I am always a bit hesitant to tell people what they should see, where they should go, or what they should do when I hear they are going somewhere that I have been. Mainly because I am aware that my sightseeing interests, much like many of my interests, just aren’t that interesting to a lot of people. So it goes.

I also resist the urge to direct another’s travels because it feels as though you’re giving them an assignment, and a completed assignment is never as gratifying as an accidental discovery or a quest fueled by self-interest, curiosity, and good old-fashioned serendipity.

It was self-interest and curiosity that first led me to McSorley’s Old Ale House in the East Village of Manhattan about ten years ago on a visit to the Big Apple. Opening for business in 1854, it lays claim to bragging rights as the oldest pub in New York City. As the writing on one of the window pains looking into this kaleidoscope of bygone times says, “We were here before you were born.” My math skills are embarrassingly minimal, but I’d say that’s a pretty sound statement.

On that maiden voyage to McSorley’s a decade ago, my brother-in-law, the only one in the group in possession of a smart phone, assumed navigation responsibilities. As I said, my interests are not always that interesting to others, so it took a fair bit of negotiating to convince my brother-in-law of the importance of this pilgrimage.

With the voodoo magic encased in his Black Berry (remember those?) he reluctantly led us to McSorley’s and allowed for the consumption of a round of their famous light or dark ale (the only two choices) before scuttling us through the swinging doors to resume the scheduled tour.

I enjoyed the visit, was grateful to my brother-in-law for indulging me, but wanted to go back someday and just be in that space a little longer. Be where the likes of Abraham Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, Harry Houdini, Tommy Makem, Frank McCourt, and many…many more historical, musical, and literary notables tipped a pint or two amongst the regulars at the worn wooden tables around the potbelly stove.

I was able to get back to McSorley’s a couple of times during my recent 10-day ramble about the city. Once with Sierra and her boyfriend, and again a few days later with Dawn and Jackson. Often times with places like this I am hesitant to return for fear that the initial lure and luster will begin to pale, but thankfully that fear drifted away and was completely lost among the sawdust strewn upon the foot worn wooden floor.

McSorley’s walls hold a treasure trove historical photos and documents, but more importantly, they contain the laughter, song, and voices of an unimaginable number of people. People seeking the company of others, or simply the company of a pint while they read, think, and contemplate whatever is in need of contemplation.

So yes, McSorley’s is on my “must see” list for New York City, or to be more accurate, my “must experience” list. We saw a lot on our trip to the city, but we experienced McSorley’s, and as we pushed through the swinging doors, and the sawdust turned to sidewalk, I was grateful for the experience and for the people I got to experience it with.

The bookend of summer is upon us. Happy August. The Olympics are in full swing in Tokyo, and over the past few days track and field events have begun to take center stage. As always, it is enjoyable to watch the plethora of other events that athletes have dedicated their lives to perfecting, but for me, track and field is the favorite.

For the most part, I find Facebook to be a useful tool to keep up on all the goings on in the lives of family and friends near and far, and as I watch the fleet of foot fly around the track in Tokyo, I am reminded of a post made by a friend back in May.

My friend, and my former high school track coach, Ray Sayler, announced his retirement from coaching Burke Central track and cross-country, and I would like to thank him for all he has done over the many…many…many years for many…many…many young athletes.

Each of the athletes we see competing at any level did not get to where they are on their own. Behind each of them is a bleacher full of supporting characters that have played a part in their story. Parents, friends, family, teammates, and coaches.

Ray was my coach. He taught me the value of setting lofty goals and not wavering from the pursuit of those goals. He taught me that the attainment of the goals I set was secondary in importance to the effort I put into the pursuit of it. Attainment is nice, but the effort, the dedication, the process…that’s where one learns a bit about themselves.

As Robert Pirsig wrote in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, “To live life only for some future goal is shallow. It’s the sides of the mountain that sustain life, not the top.”

Thank you Ray for dedicating so much of your time to those of us on the side of our mountain, often not knowing where the top was our could be. Thank you for seeing what we could not see in ourselves and nudging us towards being better. Better athletes, but more importantly, better people.

One of Ray’s coaching techniques that I carry with me to this day is his willingness to listen to young people explain what they want to do, and while knowing full well that they are going to fail miserably attempting what they want to do, but allowing them to proceed.

On more than one occasion, I was that young person explaining to Ray my ill-conceived plan. One master plan that is as fresh in my mind today as it was in 1991 is, “I hate the 400 meter dash, I think I should run the 800.” Without pause, Ray said, “Okay, you can run the 800 at the next track meet in Stanley.”

Ray said, “All you have to do is run a 56 second first lap, and a 66 second second lap and you’ll qualify for the State Track Meet.” I thought, “That sounds much more leisurely and enjoyable than the 400.” As Ray fully knew, I thought wrong. So it goes.

As I made my first lap the timekeeper yelled out “56”, right on track. About 100 meters later, someone invisible, but very large, jumped on my back. Ray, as he always did, sprinted across the infield with clipboard in hand, trotted backwards at a speed I was having a hard time matching running forward, and yelled, “Run!” I weakly responded, “I am.”

The second lap was not a 66. I crossed the finish line, wobbled to our team camp and slipped into a coma. When I regained consciousness, I looked up to see Ray standing over me…smirking…“You want to run the 800 again?” Lesson learned.

Thank you Ray…for your time, effort, and dedication.

I’ve known for quite some time that it is time to stop doing something that I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember, but I’ve kept doing it. No, it’s not chewing my toenails, those reside the greatest anatomical distance from our mouths for a reason. It’s baseball.

As James Earl Jones said in the movie Field of Dreams, “The one constant through all the years has been baseball. Baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, it’s a part of our past. It reminds us of all that once was good and it could be again.”

I was 17-years old when my Mom and I went to that movie at the Crosby show hall. It left us both teary eyed, but being 17 I wasn’t comfortable with being teary eyed in public yet so I was quick to blink back any remnants of emotion before the lights of the theater were able to expose me.

Things change. I’m in the twilight of my 40s, quite comfortable with getting teary eyed in public, and although playing baseball still reminds me of all that once was good, for me, it won’t be again. So it goes.

I’ve enjoyed having the opportunity to be teammates with my son the past few years, and thankful I am still in good enough shape to sort of look like a baseball player out on the field. But with Jackson shipping off for Air Force basic training the end of August, I’m fairly certain he won’t be around here to play ball next summer.

He’s ready to see a bit of the world, so we will set ourselves to the parental task of soaking up what remains of his time here in Rapid City.

As he has been my sole reason for digging out my old glove and suiting up the past few years, I am certain this is the end of the line for this game…time to put it in the past. I was better in the past anyway. Weren’t we all?

In the distant past, I occupied one of the top few spots in the batting order, where I was expected to contribute consistently to the team. In the present, I languish near the bottom of the order where little is expected, contributions are inconsistent, and more often than not, nonexistent. On the field, who you were offers very little solace to who you are.

The epitaph on the tombstone hovering over all that once was, and my parting words to those strapping 20-year olds that have been kind enough to allow a spot for the “old man” in the lineup the past few years, “As you are, I once was. As I am, you will one day be.”

In sports, as in life, enjoy each season you get to the fullest of your ability, so that when you cross that line for the final time you can look back with the satisfaction of knowing that you gave it a good go and you left it all on the field.

We humans form emotional attachments to many things, automobiles, animals (both stuffed and sentient), lucky socks, and sometimes, whether they like it or not, other humans. Like many of you, I had a teddy bear when I was growing up that I apparently was quite attached to. His name was CBS.

Apparently, I had an attachment to one of the three television networks our rabbit ears were able to pull in as well. There is a vast amount of “things” that have came and went into and out of my life over the years, but I still have CBS. He’s in a trunk in our basement, along with a few other things that have managed to hang around from my youth.

Of all the emotional attachments that have formed, deformed, and detached in my life over years I never expected a campsite to make the list.

I spent two weeks holed up off the grid in our camper in a lovely little secluded campsite in the Black Hills. I’d probably still be there, but I still have some responsibilities in need of my personal attention in the civilized world. So it goes.

Before I uprooted the camper from the site it had dutifully occupied for two-weeks, I took a stroll around the site to bid farewell to all that had kept me company. Abraham Lincoln once said that a bore is someone that relieves you of solitude, but does not replace it with company. The campsite was “boreless” with company and solitude a plenty.

As I strolled amongst the trees that had offered me shade during the day and softly sang in the evening breeze I swear I saw their evergreen boughs slump and their crowns dip as if to say, “ahhh you’re leaving?”

The little stream that was a constant companion offered accompaniment to a farewell song…“The Parting Glass”…the song I used to sing to the cabin each time I prepared to depart. Yeah, I sang to the cabin, it sang to me too, before it lost its voice to a wildfire.

Perhaps the cabins parting has opened up emotional attachment space within for other places of solitude? That’s what the chipmunk suggested as it thanked me for the peanuts and pistachios. Wise little fellow.

The campground has about eight campsites, and even though I didn’t visit with the many people that came and went over the two-weeks I was there, I often wondered where it was they came from and where it was they went when they left.

Introverts aren’t uninterested in others, and indifferent to their comings and goings, we’re just quietly curious from a distance, and only get close enough long enough to possibly borrow something of interest from your life to ponder and potentially write about. That’s how we say thanks. Thanks for allowing solitude in a world that is so often so noisy.

So as the days of summer creep steadily towards the days of fall, I find myself hoping to attach myself to all that that place gave me once again for just a little while. Just a little while. Sometimes that’s all it takes.

Hope your summer is progressing slowly and has been sprinkled with a bit of solitude and a bit of company.

On June 8th, 1996 Dawn and I were united in marriage at a destination wedding in Webster, South Dakota. As this was before Google, we had to rely on our own research to guide our decision on which lavish location we were going to drag our friends and loved ones to bestow upon them the honor of witnessing the beginning of our marital union.

We chose this destination for a few reason, Webster is Dawn’s hometown, it is in close proximity to where a large portion of her large family resides, and I wanted my upstate North Dakota family to have a chance to get out of the hustle and bustle of the city and experience some relaxing small town hospitality.

That day seems closer in memory than 25-years seems like it should feel, good days are like that. On that day, Dawn was 24-years old, hitching her wagon to a much younger man. If you are going to hitch your wagon to someone, hitch it to someone younger. They don’t know where they are going, but they will get there fast.

At 23-years old, I thought I knew for certain where I was going. Looking back, I know for certain that I knew very little. I guess what I did know at the time was enough for then, enough to woo my classmate, my math tutor, my friend, into becoming my girlfriend and my wife.

Like any journey, we both brought our share of baggage along for the ride. Things we thought we needed, things that were ours, things that were given to us, things that we had learned from the lives around us. Things that sometimes we found ourselves peering over the top of to try to see one another.

25-years later, many of those things have been left behind, and what remains we are able to reach across rather than peer over. We know each other…for better and for worse…in sickness and in health. The questions that Father Leonard Savelkoul asked us in front of our family and our friends. “Do you…?”

We did, and we continue to do.

We are both pulling the wagon, it moves a little slower nowadays, but the direction is more reliable. 25-years ago I probably would have confidently orated upon the final destination of our journey. Now I know that that is largely unknown, and for that matter, largely unimportant.

The author, Robert Pirsig, once wrote that it is often more enjoyable to travel than to arrive, and that when making good time, the emphasis should be on good, not time.

So, we shall continue to travel, we shall strive for good, and the destination shall be what it shall be in its own time.

June 8th, 1996 was a good day, and we are forever grateful for all the good people that came from far and near to celebrate our day. Some of those people have since completed their journey, their destination is known, but they move on with us each time we ponder and celebrate our beginning. So it goes.

Sometimes it seems as though the blinking cursor on the white page of the Microsoft Word document sitting empty before me on my computer screen is taunting me. Like a pompously impatient finger tapping silently and quietly whispering, “Well, well…here we are again. What do you think you can manage to pull out of that little brain of yours and place upon the void that stretches before me today?”

Sometimes, thankfully not too often, the answer is, “I don’t know?” I don’t know what to write? I don’t know what to say? I don’t know what to think? Over the twenty or so years, I have been teaching it has gradually gotten a bit easier for me to say, “I don’t know” to my students without feeling like a complete sham.

None of us can know everything about all things at all times. We are all knuckleheads in a few areas…some more…some less. Yes, Google has the answers, but it takes one of us human types to appropriately apply that answer in a useful way to the particular situational enlightenment and guidance we seek here in the real world. Whatever that is?

Over the past few weeks, and in the few weeks to come in the month of May, many students have and will pass into what is colloquially referred to as the “real world”. The realness of this world that young people are transitioning into today seems a bit harder to objectively identify than the real world us “elders” found ourselves in many moons ago.

I suppose this shaky and shifting ground of realness makes it even more important to have, or attain, the capacity to humbly and authentically embrace not really knowing some things, or at least not really knowing some things for now. Provisional truth…true for now given the best available evidence.

Vigilant skepticism of where, and from whom, that “best available evidence” is paid for, produced, and presented by is of course prudent and wise while traipsing through the real world. Skeptical because you want to know the truth, not because you want to believe. Someone once said, “The truth doesn’t need you to believe it, the truth simply is.”

Maybe the real world is real in different ways for each of us? Maybe there is a common real world that each and every one of us must stumble into at some time or another? Maybe I’m not sure what I’m talking about? Maybe that blinking cursor finally got to me, finally pushed and prodded my fingers to type things the rest of me knows nothing about?

I don’t know? So it goes.

What does the real world need from each of you graduates? I don’t know? Maybe start with kindness and civility and see how this real world gig plays out? If that doesn’t work, try it until it does. What else do you have to do now that you are not being forced to shuffle from room to room at the ring of bell anymore?

As Robert Pirsig wrote in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, “The place to change the world is first in one’s own heart and head and hands, and then work outward from there.”

Congratulations graduates, welcome to the real world. You’ll do fine…or you won’t…it’s mostly up to you.

Happy May. Along South Dakota Highway 79, somewhere between Buffalo Gap and Hot Springs, just inside a stretch of barbed wire there sits an old two-horse trailer with wood panel sides on the edge of a pasture. Old horse trailers, barbed wire, pastures…nothing out of the ordinary along most any stretch of highway in the Dakotas.

I’ve driven by this point of interest several times over the years on my commute to Chadron, Nebraska, where the powers to be are kind enough to let me teach at Chadron State College.

What makes this old two-horse trailer, which obviously hasn’t held two horses or been trailed for quite some time, any more interesting than any other such? Painted in white on the faded wood panels of this particular trailer in worn but quite legible all capital letters is, “WE DON’T RENT PIGS”.

As I said, I have driven by this statement many times over the years, and many times, I have wondered what prompted or necessitated one to feel such a statement needed to be made known to all who may pass? “WE DON’T RENT PIGS”…curious?

Beyond the statement about a half-mile up a long gravel driveway, a ranch sits back against the hillside. I assume they raise pigs, but from the road much of the view of the ranch is obstructed by a thick grove of pine trees, and since I have no sense of smell, assumption is all I can go on. So it goes.

What would provoke someone to say, “Enough is enough. Junior, gather up a can of white paint, a brush, and drag that old two-horse trailer down by the fence line. It’s time we take a stand and make a statement.”

As they stand defiantly in front of their canvas of worn and faded wood, Junior asks, “Daddy, what are we stating?” Daddy ponders thoughtfully for a moment and with a flurry of his arms states, “WE DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES BORROW OUR BELOVED SWINE TO ANYONE FOR ANYTHING. NO EXCEPTIONS. NONE! DON’T EVEN ASK!”

Junior gazes at the two-horse trailer, tilts his head, squints his eyes, scratches his head and says, “Daddy, that old two-horse trailer ain’t got room enough for all those letters and words and punctuations and exclamations.”

Daddy gazes at the two-horse trailer, tilts his head, squints his eyes, scratches his head and says, “I suppose you might be right. Howsabouts, WE DO NOT BORROW SWINE TO PEOPLE?” To which Junior replies, “Still too much words if we want them big enough for all those people inquiring about pig rental to see our statement from the road.”

Daddy says, “Well I’m at a loss, go fetch your Momma, she’s good with saying a little that means a lot.” Junior comes back a few minutes later, a bit out of breath from the run to the house and back, and pants out, “Momma says she’s too busy for such things, but she gave me this note.”

Daddy peers at the note and reads aloud, “WE DON’T RENT PIGS…boy, your Momma has always had a way with words.”

So, in my mind, that’s how it all came to be. In that same mind, questions remain about who was attempting to rent a pig and why? You can write that story.

When we last “spoke” my brother and I were being sent to our rooms for eating vegetables. “Eat your vegetables…eat your vegetables…eat your vegetables…” was and has been the adult mantra to youngsters seated around dining room tables or TV trays since adults, kids, and vegetables were invented.

I guess the emphasis is on “your vegetables”, once they are on “your” plate ownership of them has been transferred to you and you are now allowed (forced) to eat them or no dessert…no cartoons…no whatever it is that you hold near and dear to your wee little heart.

Adults in their odd adult world with their arbitrary adult rules making life difficult and more confusing than necessary for the slightly deranged and mildly confused little ones they’ve found themselves responsible for. So it goes.

So yes, those particular vegetables were not ours, they were not on our plate, nor did they grow in the soil of any of our kindly kin. In the adult world that would technically fall under the realm of theft. I shudder to think of what they do to vegetable thieves in the hoosegow.

When our mother, a lovely woman that did not deserve the degenerates bestowed upon her, told us through clenched teeth, “Go to your room and think about what you’ve done, and don’t come down for NOTHING” we listened…for once. Well, we sort of listened…as usual.

We went to our room, we didn’t come down for NOTHING, but very little pondering of repent or anything resembling thinking passed through our mop heads.

Mom came up to our room to check on the progress of our regretful thinking an hour or so after her order of not leaving our room for NOTHING. Might have been an hour, maybe two? Could have been 5-minutes? Kids have a warped concept of time and most anything else that exists in that before mentioned “odd adult world” that we never asked to be a part of.

Mom got to the door of our room and began to say something along the lines of, “I hope you two have…” but she abruptly stopped mid-sentence and stood with a confused and disgusted look on her face.

“What’s that smell?”, she said. Jarvis, sitting by the open window trying to catch a breath or two of fresh air, helpfully pointed to the Star Wars garbage can next to the desk that was placed in our room by lovingly delusional adults that hoped we might use it for homework and other such nonsense.

“You said we couldn’t leave our rooms for NOTHING”, I stated, glancing up from my Sergeant Rock comic book. All those vegetables, the excitement…pressing matters presented themselves, and I did not shirk orders given by my mother through clenched teeth.

“You could have left your room for that” she said with the bewildered look of someone that is wondering what she has done to deserve such things in life. All this fine print in the adult world. What’s a kid to do?

In a defeated, and sort of sad tone, she simply said, “clean it up” and turned to leave. I’m sure grabbing a six-pack of Tab and walking as far as a six-pack of Tab would take her crossed her mind.

Later when dad got home from work, we heard mom explaining the entirety of the day’s events to him. All the grisly details. We didn’t get in trouble. I think they felt that having to go through life as we were would be punishment enough.

Now you know “the rest of the story”. Pass the carrots.

I decided to venture into the Ramblings archives for this week’s column. “Pass the Carrots” appeared in the Burke Country Tribune on Wednesday April 5th, 2006. Much has changed in all of our lives since then, some good…some bad. So it goes.

It seems to me if you’re contemplating beginning a life of crime, April 1st would be a good day to give it a go and see if it’s really for you.

Rob a bank, get caught, the judge asks if you have anything to say in your defense, you simply reply, “April Fools, your honor.” The judge smiles, shakes his head, says, “You really got us on that one,” slams the gavel down, “Case dismissed.”

I guess I should have taken that into consideration when I decided to start my short lived life of crime. But since gardens don’t sprout much in April, the “April Fools Defense” wouldn’t have gotten me very far.

Apparently dirt covered stolen carrots had more appeal than the clean, peeled ones Mom had in the fridge. Or somehow had better flavor than the ones we were “allowed” to pick from Grandpa Fritz’s garden. Whatever the reason, Jarvis and myself did it, and we got caught.

The garden we chose as our first “hit” belonged to Blanchard Lein. Separating his garden from his house were some thick bushes that would provide good cover for our crime. Jarvis was loading up on carrots and I was enjoying some peas, when I saw someone coming down the path from the house.

It was Blanchard, and he didn’t look all that pleased to see us getting our recommended daily allowance of vegetables from his garden.

I told Jarvis to “run” as I took off, but when I turned to see how close behind me he was I saw him standing there like a deer in the headlights in front of Blanchard. I could have kept running, but Jarvis knew where I lived, and would more than likely share that information with Blanchard, so I stopped and returned to the scene of the crime.

Jarvis was standing there with a handful of carrots behind his back, unaware that his tiny eight-year-old frame wasn’t concealing the impressive bouquet of carrot tops behind him.

Blanchard asked him what he had behind his back, to which Jarvis slyly replied, “Nothing” as he dropped the bunch of carrots behind him. Maybe if he had been wearing bellbottoms he could have gotten away with that maneuver?

We were busted, caught green handed I guess you could say. Blanchard herded us off to his car, and since our house was only a rutabaga toss from his, in about five-seconds we rolled into our driveway. Jarvis and I jumped out as the car rolled to a stop, made a dash for the house, ran upstairs, and hid under the blankets of Mom and Dad’s bed. They would never find us there.

We heard Blanchard filling Mom in on what her boys had been up to, and telling her if it were up to him we should spend a few hours in the county jail to teach us a lesson.

Thankfully it wasn’t up to him, and after she somehow found us, Mom settled on making us apologize, and sent us to our room. I learned a valuable lesson that day. Always work alone.

A few years later the FBI mistook Blanchard for tax evader, Gordan Call, and busted down his hotel room door to apprehend him while he was on vacation. Jarvis and myself felt bad for him…really we did.

Pass the carrots.