Niaid was curled up on the bed, [I double-checked] so whatever else that critter was, it was an outsider. The chickens were ranging free and I couldn’t hear any alarm from them, but this guy just looked too big to have roaming around without interruption.
As I came around the cabin where I could see him better:
It was obvious the feline was operating out of a different reality. Which didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t need to be the focus of protective measures. But how does a person protect his chickens from a shadow-cat? I’ve done some websearching on the various news sites and checked out the methods incorporated by the US Government into programs to avoid having shadow-cats disrupting citizen-like critters such as these:
The consensus seems to be you have to get one of these:
No matter what the cost.
I’m not certain I want to have one of those running around here loose, even when I have dangerous shadowcats skulking around peeking at my holdings.
Once something of that sort gets a foothold there’s no predicting where it will end:
Sugar pills in toy jars
Candy counter cures
For the sensory deprived
For the spirit that yearns hardship
Facade struggle for the
Stagely frightened
Sedentary soul
Living a reality
Where gangster boss of fantasy
Celluloid deeds and words
Are worth repeating;
Gladiator wars in plastic armor
Oaken clubs and pigskin missiles
Pudding danger jello struggles
Hard and real inside the mind
Inside the molded plastic
Toy of the mind
Man who cleans the windshield
At the signal is an actor
In the show last night
On MTV or HBO
Sexy girls dancing
In the background
As he postures
Rag and bucket
On the glass
Toy hero pushes button
In the Kevlar coated dragon
Of the field
Sees the enemy extinguished
In a prophylactic
Box of evening news
Before and after
Old war movies
All the same
Any loss is accidental
Cost of war’s
In higher taxes
Salaries for heroes
Fuel bullets
Not in blood
Not in blood
Sterile sealed
In plastic baggies
Plastic baggies
Hold the artificial
Flavor
Of the life
When life was real
Yet the sickness
Needs a remedy and cure
Sugar pills in toy bottles;
New candy counter pudding
For the soul.
From the inside of Night Fortress 2 there’s a step up through the exit hole and he’s having a lot of difficulty with it because of his crippled leg and wing.
Those chains, incidently, are part of an ongoing war with generations of Brother Coon trying to dig into the fortress at night. The links where they meet the ground have treble-hooks wired to them to discourage digging there, but it’s a labor intensive game. They’re the first line of defense. Under the wood chips they’re on the holes are stuffed with prickly pear cactus, then covered with wood chips. Brother Coon eventually gets past them all and insists on my going to the next level of debate: The Lost Coon Diggings
Even the largest hen doesn’t have a problem with it. But after the hens are all out harvesting the night carcasses under the bug-light he’ll still be in there crowing, evidently dreading the prospect of fighting his way through that opening.
I load the chicken drinking water up with home-made colloidal silver, catch him and soak his legs in orange-peel tincture, and it all seems to help, but gradually GSB’s hard living before I got him’s coming home to roost.
Usually GSB doesn’t indulge in cliche, but maybe his mind’s going, too. Lately I’ve heard him say more than once, “If I’d known I was going to live this long I’d have taken better care of myself.”
If he keeps doing that I might be tempted to chop off his head.
A man I went to grammar school, junior high and some high school with, then several decades later became reacquainted and huff-puffed a lot of up and down mountain canyons recently began visiting this blog. If no other reader enjoys the tale, at least he will, because he was there:
The following is copyrighted material from a book I wrote once. I give myself permission to use it here. [ Crazy Lost Gold Mine-ism]
I’ve never concerned myself much with the dangers of wild animals during my extensive time in the woods. Mostly they’ll mind their own business if a person takes reasonable precautions and doesn’t go out of his way to provoke them. In New Mexico backlands of the late 20th century the real threats usually come in the form of humans. When those happen they usually come as suddenly and unexpectedly as finding one’s self in the middle of a herd of elk.
Grasshopper Canyon and Stinking Springs are on the northern end of the Zunis below Oso Ridge on the west face of the mesa. Two canyons run north and south, parallel to the face, half a mile apart, separated from one another by steep, narrow walls several hundred feet high. These two walls consist of coral reef from some ancient time when Oso Ridge was an island. The canyons aren’t easily accessible, so I prospected there a while.
The land below Oso Ridge around Grasshopper Canyon is checker-boarded in ownership. Grasshopper is all National Forest, but immediately south is a section of Navajo tribal land. Adjacent to the Navajo section is a section belonging to the Zuni tribe. Fences between these sections allow a person to always know whether he’s on public land or tribal land.
I was working Grasshopper Canyon with my friend Keith, a stockbroker from Santa Fe. We separated and worked the arroyos southward parallel to one another, gradually moving toward the fence delineating the Navajo section. Occasionally we’d call out through the woods to make certain we weren’t out-distancing one another. The last thing either of us expected was an encounter with another human in those woods.
I was bent over taking samples from the bed of a shallow arroyo, just deep enough so when I straightened I could view the small meadow around me. I stood getting my breath and stretching the kinks out of my back when I saw a man dressed in cammies backing out of the woods at the edge of the meadow. He was being stealthy, carrying a .22 rifle in a ready position. He had twenty to thirty colorful birds hanging on a string around his neck the way a fisherman carries a stringer of fish. As I watched, almost invisible to him with only the top of my head showing above the arroyo, his eyes searched the woods to his right where Keith was working. Keith had called out from there a few moments previously.
Still watching Keith’s direction the man backed toward me until he was only a few feet away from me. “Nice string of birds.” I scrambled up the bank while he spun and pointed the .22 in my general direction.
“My partner’s in the woods back behind you. You don’t want to be firing in that direction.” We studied one another. He eyed the shoulder rig I was wearing and the butt of the 9 mm automatic showing from the bottom. “’You out here killing songbirds?”
Mister Songbird was a young man and from appearances, a Zuni. He stared a moment longer before answering. My impression was that he was considering whether I was a game warden or other law enforcement official. “I’m getting them for Zuni New Year. They let us do that.”
We talked for a few minutes, me accepting what he said at face value, and the tension gradually dissolved. He agreed to get the hell out of the canyon because we were working there and wouldn’t want any shooting. Besides, we’d probably messed up his hunt with our yelling and bustling around the woods. I watched him back into the meadow to the south and allowed myself to sigh with relief.
Back in Santa Fe I called the US Fish and Game Department. I thought there was a remote chance the feds were really allowing Zunis to kill protected species birds on National Forest land. If so, I was prepared to be indignant.
When I told my story the fed was silent a moment. “You are a lucky man,” he observed. “You confronted an armed man committing multiple Federal felonies and he didn’t shoot you.”
* The following didn’t make it into the final draft of the manuscript: The fed also observed the Zuni lad would have spent a lot more years in prison for killing those songbirds than he would have for killing me. I drew a good bit of comfort from knowing that.
Eventually logic won out over the other appeals of the Zuni Mountains as a location for the lost gold mine I was searching for. Although the Zunis were handy for me, being only a few hours drive from Santa Fe, they were too far from Tucson.
Also, too many prominent landmarks in the area would have immediately brought the original survivors back. The route I imagined them following would have taken them within sight of Los Gigantes and enough other one-of-a-kind eccentricities to make the location unmistakable.
Even the Big Notch and Little Notch in the Continental Divide can be seen from miles to the west. There’s nothing else similar to it in North America.
I was discussing the Future Me post with Hydrox and his littermate, Naiad, a few days ago and they suggested some other letters to the guy I was would probably be in order. Those two were there through those years wondering with me where the next bag of Purina cat food would be coming from after I gave us a Y2K [ https://sofarfromheaven.com/category/y2k/].
To be delivered January 1, 2002.
“Hi Guy,
“This is me, Hydrox and Niaid, talking to you from 2011.
You are in for a lot of strange experiences over the next few years, and some profoundly difficult times. You’re going to do a lot of things you’ve never dreamed of doing, just to get by month-to-month. You deliberately chose to give yourself a Y2K, whether anyone else had one or not. Trust me, it’s the best decision you ever made.
I can tell you now:
“Don’t waste your time trying to get teaching jobs, any job where you can take advantage of your education and job history. Save yourself a lot of energy and discouragement. [Hydrox suggests I mention it also won’t buy any cat food.]
“That part of you is gone. They don’t want any white male in his late 50s, no matter what he might have done in the past. You are going to have to become really good at some unconventional approaches to survival to just squeeze by without going to live under a bridge somewhere. [Naiad says to tell Niaid to stay the hell away from that pool of water running out of the pipe behind the motel next door and quit worrying about Mehitabel bullying. She’s about to get hers.]
“All that Y2K credit history and the mistooken belief the IRS would collapse is catching up with you.
“You’ve always succeeded in everything you did. Now you’re basing your decisions on that history, but you’re failing to comprehend that everything’s changed. Don’t waste your life in all those months of self-doubt and guilt, judging yourself against a set of standards and assumptions you learned from Grand-dad and you’ve always tried to live by. Those are dead.
“You are still you. You’re still strong, and you still have a million things to be grateful for. What those human resources departments believe is meaningless, doesn’t say a thing about whom and what you are because they reject you.
[Hydrox says to tell Hydrox he can save himself a lot of grief by staying out of that bucket of waste grease behind the Chinese restaurant in front of the apartment. And if he gets it on him, tell him to just belly up to the bar and get it shampooed off in the bathtub. Licking it will provide a lingering case of the Egyptian Ducksquirts.]
“You’ve always relied on yourself and you now have to start doing it again in ways you never thought possible. You are about to have to become a person living in the shadows, off the government paperwork, inside the underground economy. The sooner you understand there’s no place for you in the ordinary job market the better off you’ll be.
“Old Deano, [A Strange Way of Thinking] over in Belen’s going to try to talk you into learning blackjack. You’ll want to shrug and resist. My advice to you, is ponder it. Don’t resist so hard, but don’t believe anything he, nor anyone else tells you about the nuts and bolts of playing it until you study it all and think it through. What’s said by the experts is largely BS.
[Hydrox and Naiad both want you to urgently inform their counterparts NOT to stay indoors when you go off working 11pm to 7am at that damned motel every night and to keep a sharp eye out for those damned cat-killing dogs.]
“Don’t let anything surprise you except by hindsight, as it surprises me, all these years later in 2011.
“These are just short-term morsels. Deano’s been dead so long I barely remember him.
“You, my friend, are entering a brave new world. Savor every minute of it. Maybe I’ll send you an email occasionally to hint you along.
“Hang in there amigo. You can do it.”
[Hydrox and Niaid in two-part harmony to Mehitabel: “YOU ain’t here, BITCH!]
Yourself, 10,000 blackjack hands in the future, and after it’s a dim memory.
I don’t give advice, but I’m frequently interested in the viewpoints of people who do consider themselves wise enough to give it.
Well, I say I don’t give advice and I sincerely try not to, try to catch myself at it and chide myself when I discover I’ve backslid in a way I can’t squirm out of. Well, most of the time. If you’ve read the Survival Book [ https://sofarfromheaven.com/survival-book-2/ ] you know I’m lying to myself and to you when I say it.
Some of you nitpickier readers might assert the ‘Ask Old Jules’ blurbs Jeanne posts on the Facebook page amounts to advice, but I can’t agree. That’s just answers to questions with no attempt to be helpful, no wish to influence the choices other people make.
But I’ve digressed.
I read Ed Hurst’s blog, ‘The Oracles of Marriage’http://my.opera.com/soulkiln/blog/, and while I find myself not in total agreement with him in a lot of ways, I suspect people involved in relationships with other people might profit from reading and carefully considering what he says.
There’s also the Dear Coke Talk http://www.dearcoketalk.com/ blog ruminating and giving advice I find amusing and might have found helpful when I indulged in relationships.
We’re living in a time of possibly the most profound social experiment in the history of mankind. During the past century 10,000? 50,000? years of accumulated human wisdom and tradition has been discarded worldwide in favor of various packages groups believe they’ll like better. I’m not, personally, certain anyone on the planet is qualified to give advice in times such as these. The body of experience just isn’t sufficient to pull solutions out of a catch-as-catch-can gut feel cauldron of individual preferences and biases, and deliver them any meaningful where.
Seems to me it would be a good time for people involved in relationships to do a lot of pondering, reading, discussing with the party of the second part about boundaries, about ownership, about mutual dependencies, about verbalizing expectations, and about self-reliance.
But what the hell do I know? I can show you how to start a fire with flint and steel. I can elaborate at length on how you can make the best of almost any bad situation and come away from it a lot more confident and probably happier than you went into it. But when things go into the arena of two people clinging to one another in a complex web of expectations neither has clearly defined, neither has ever agreed to, the only reasonable approach seems to me to be honest communications.
I was married 25 years and one of the conversational mantras during that time was, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes, something’s the matter. What is it?”
“Nothing. No, really. Nothing.”
That interchange sums up what I’m talking about. It’s a statement communicated by non-verbal methods that the party of the second part hasn’t satisfied the expectations of the party of the first part.
Why isn’t the answer a forthright statement? Because the unsatisfied expectation isn’t one that has been brought out into the open, discussed, and agreed to.
“I’m angry and I want you to know I’m angry, but you’ll have to guess why, want me to not be angry. I’ve chosen this method in hopes of getting you to modify your behavior to something more in tune with what I want from you, knowing you probably won’t agree to it unless I sulk it out of you.”
How the hell can anyone presume to give advice about how to do that better? When the goal is ownership and control who’s better qualified than the party of the first part, whichever the gender?
Old Jules
Kenny Rogers & The 1st Edition – Something’s Burning
One of the ways I keep up on world events and amuse myself when I’m alone in an eating establishment without a book involves eavesdropping. I gaze at the food, a picture on the wall, something outdoors through the plate glass, and I listen to conversations at the nearby tables.
It’s curiosity, as much as anything else. And mostly I lose interest quickly because so often the talk is about some sports event, concert, or a television show. But sometimes it’s pay dirt.
A while before I left New Mexico I was doing the listening routine to the goings-on among several BDU and otherwise uniform clad people of both sexes, all toting large-bore automatic pistols in holsters hanging from their waists.
Turned out these folks were part of a conference between Federal and State Homeland Security forces (whatever that might be). I’d never seen that particular uniform combination, nor the patches and medallions, so I listened as closely as I dared without drawing attention to myself.
The eating establishment is on San Felipe Tribal Lands. Maybe that’s why the conversation drifted in that direction.
Fed: “Do you have any issues dealing with any of the tribes?”
NM State: “You wouldn’t believe it. Everything’s an issue.”
And so on in detail involving a lot of ‘issues’ a person born in 1943 (me), would never have believed could ever be discussed by government employees as though they should be part of any reality here. The attitude was clearly that the tribes were being irresponsible in reluctance and obstruction of the aims of Homeland Security.
The topic broadened in a while.
NM State: “I think a lot of people just don’t understand what we’re doing. They don’t realize how dangerous things are for them.”
Fed: “That’s a problem all over the country. I was in Phoenix a few weeks ago . . ., etc”
That NM Homeland Security lady all dressed up with a gun and nowhere to go was wrong.
I believe most people understand perfectly well what they’re doing and have an inkling of why they’re doing it. It isn’t a lack of understanding that makes me smile and cheer inside, knowing the tribes, at least, are dragging their feet.
I think people are beginning to ‘realize how dangerous things are for them’, to the extent that dangers actually exist in this hostile reality we’ve chosen for ourselves. But at least a part of the ‘danger’ people feel involves a new kind of policeman who thinks the US Constitution is obstructionist.
They just don’t know what needs to be done about it.
Three of these four worthless felines are getting a bit long in the tooth, two longer than the next in line. It’s been a tough summer with the drought and heat wave, so I’ve had to take some measures to give them some relief I couldn’t provide for myself.
Shiva’s not one of the two oldest, but she had a health event a couple of winters ago that’s taken a long time to recover from, and she has a special job here if the cows ever come back. She’s Shiva the Cow Cat. Loved chasing cows back when they were bothersome. [ Artful Communications – White Trash Repairs 3 ]
I might add some other meanderings here today as other things come to mind, but what’s on my mind this morning is I need to start working on the front porch cat houses I put together last fall to give them all places to get out of the elements. Now that the heat’s bending in the other direction I wouldn’t be shocked to see a winter rearing it’s head before I’m ready for it.
Old Jules
————————————-
7:45 AM – Escape Route Possibilities – Fridge and trailer
Another issue that’s been on my mind a lot lately is creating myself a place to live if anything intervenes to insist I get the hell out of Dodge. The whole thing’s complicated by the contract I have with these cats, all but one of them, to take care of them until they die off, or I die off. I’ve talked with them about it, and they have some strong views about minimum living conditions, etc, which I’m obliged to consider. A tent or under a bridge doesn’t meet their minimum criteria.
I mentioned in an earlier post that I’m looking around for an old travel trailer I can get for a price I can afford, and the new truck up there Gale’s going to help me pull to town to let an honest-to-goodness mechanic fix the wiring mess, inspect it to get it legal, and eventually pull whatever I come up with for it to pull.
While I’m scouting around looking for an old travel trailer I’ve also been looking at this, considering whether it mightn’t offer an alternative:
Of course, if I select this option I’ll be building it from salvaged recycled materials.
This trailer below has been sitting there with that load on it from the time Gale and Kay moved here from Pflugerville. His shop building was full and he didn’t have anywhere to put all that stuff, so it’s stayed there, everything on it getting ruined by the weather and the tires going flat.
another view:
That lathe, left rear, is troubling to see. But so’s a lot of the other once-useful items on there.
another view:
another view:
If I can think of somewhere to put that junk, protecting whatever’s left worth protecting, I just might be able to talk him out of the trailer if I decide the building a house on a trailer option seems the best after everything’s considered.
On the other hand, the fridge is now a sure thing. I was talking with Gale while he was doing some jewelry work the other day and noticed this, down there bottom center:
Turns out it’s the gas/electric fridge out of an old travel trailer I gave him about 30 years ago. He says it’s mine if I want it.
A friend and I were chewing the fat outside a car wash business he owns next to a convenience store in Las Lunas, New Mexico a few years ago. A pregnant woman who worked at the convenience store came outside and plopped down out of sight of the front door, smoking a cigarette, sitting on the concrete and leaning against the building.
We’d discussed this woman before…. a nice young lady with a life a person wouldn’t wish on anyone…. last time I’d seen her she was sitting in the same spot crying, which is how I came to ask my bud about her story. Anyway, seeing her brought her into the conversation again.
Most recent weirdness in her life:
The lady was 20 years old. She’d gone into Isleta Casino a while back with a friend, began feeding her paycheck into the slot machines. Now, it was illegal for this woman and her friend to be playing the slots, minimum age being 21.
So what happens? She hits a $5000 jackpot on the machine she’s playing. It lights up like Times Square on New Years Eve, making all kinds of commotion, people coming from all directions to see. She knows she’s going to have to show an ID to get the money. So what does this poor lady do?
She and her friend beat feet out of there, leaving the jackpot.
I suppose the first thing that comes to mind is this: What the hell was she doing putting her money into a gambling machine if she couldn’t accept a payoff, supposing she hit? Did she do some heavy thinking about this?
But, even so, she ought to have been able to get someone legal to accept the payoff and split it with her, thinks I.
But she knew she was breaking the law, and what do you do when you get caught red-handed? Why hell, you run if your knees are still good enough to allow it.
That’s what’s called thinking on your feet. Thinking afterward what you done-already should have thought before-wards.
This post requires some background to get to what it’s about. The first part is background. The actual subject of the post doesn’t start until ‘way on down toward the bottom.
Back before Y2K happened I spent a lot of years and energy researching and searching the mountains of SW New Mexico for a particular lost gold mine.
Doing a thing of that sort, the smart individual would keep his mouth shut about it. But I don’t qualify in that regard. I spent several years poring over records and winter nights poring over maps with a magnifying glass, almost always certain of knowing where it was, chawing at the bit to get out into the barrancas to file a claim on it. But also putting my research into a form others searching for it might find helpful. Insane.
Eventually I found a location where evidence on the ground fit the legend locations well enough to keep me working the west face of that mountain, climbing and unclimbing it with friends and associates, building up a lot of muscle, finding a lot of interesting rocks, and getting surprising assays, but no joy to speak of on gold.
“A burned out cabin ruin with an aspen tree growing out of the inside, bear claw marks 12 feet up, 3 hand forged nails, a longtom sluicebox axed out of a 3 foot diameter log, a spring 75 feet above the sluice, an arrastra below. A mysterious map chiseled on the face of a 300 pound rock surface depicting the exact layout of the canyon, the cabin, the waterfall, all so accurately depicted the person had to have scrutinized the layout from the mountaintop, then scratched it on this stone 600 vertical feet below and half a mile away. The rock was carefully placed on the canyon wall above eye-level so it was easily seen, but only by someone looking up.”
By 1998 I’d spent a lot more treasure, worn out vehicles, worn out relationships with lady friends and put a lot of friends to sleep going on about it and spending all my waking hours thinking, searching, or talking about it. I decided it had taken up enough of my life and it was time to move on to other things after one final effort.
I took several weeks of vacation from work and spent it determined to get that gold mine out of my life, or into it in a way that didn’t include continued searching for it. During part of it Gale and Dana, another old friend, joined me up there.
But that’s all another story.
During the 1990s I used to get several letters and phone calls a week from other people who were searching for the mine, asking questions about specifics of my research findings, asking questions about various terrain features, or just wanting me to go climb a mountain where they knew it was but didn’t feel like climbing themselves, willing to give me 10% of it if they were correct. Of course they always knew they were correct.
But gradually that all tapered off. In 2003, in the desperate throes of surviving the desperate financial aftermath of Y2K I published a book about my research, and the calls, emails and letters started coming in again for a while, but again gradually receded after a few years. Those guys all got old and everything quieted down.
That lost gold mine slid spang out of my life.
But finally, here’s what this post is about.
Suddenly, beginning a couple of months ago, my old email address box began a new trickle, becoming a stream, of questions about all manner of details about those canyons and researches I elaborated on in the book. Old guys, some older than I, were suddenly making noises about ideas, searches, evidently studying the book and maps, wanting refinements on what I’d described.
2011, every old worn-out has-been treasure hunter in Christendom is suddenly wanting me to search my memory-banks about canyons I once stomped around in. I’ve mostly answered the emails, tried to remember and flesh out what most of them were asking about, but a lot of it’s just too mixed in with too many other canyons, rocks and trails to recover with clarity.
But some of them are actually being subtle but provacative, wanting to argue with me about research findings, value judgements I made regarding 160 year old documents I dug up in the US Archives, military records, and a particular Apache I consider a key in the affair.
Heck, it ain’t as though I found the damned mine. I don’t know where it is, though I spent a lot of years, treasure, sweat, and women thinking I did. Now, suddenly I have people coming out of the woodwork wanting me to change my mind about where I thought it was because my reasons for thinking it weren’t the same as their reasons for thinking it’s somewhere I didn’t think it was.
Absolooooodle, incomprehensibly, insane.
Yeah. It’s real important where I think it is. If I don’t think it’s where it is, that old gold mine’s likely to switch places with where it thought it was. Next thing you know it will be where I thought it was. And that ain’t where these other guys now think it is, so I need to change my mind and think it’s where they think it is. Otherwise it won’t be there.
I have no idea what the hell this is all about. Maybe the price of gold combined with worrying about Social Security has the geezers going crazy thinking they’re 50 years old again.
Old Jules
Billy Vaughn And His Orchestra – The Shifting Whispering Sands ( 1956 )
The sign and that line of people outside the building suggests the Christians in Washington mightn’t have anything in common with regular old actual Christians of the old actual Christianity faith.
I don’t know what they’re doing to help those people in there, being a non-Christian, but they must be doing something. That line stretches all the way out into the parking lot.
I don’t need a gas grille, but if I did I’d have snapped this one up from the Salvation Army:
It’s missing the burners and regulator, cheap to add and retrofit, looks barely used, but the price is amazing:
Only thing I can figure is the Chinese have bought out Harley Davidson:
Damned thing is 200cc and has a pull starter like a lawn mower. They charge extra for ape-hangers.
But it looks as though they’re also wanting to cash in on some of the automotive company bailouts:
Notice the suicide shift above the right fender. You have to turn loose the steering wheel to shift gears. Can’t imagine how they got that through Ralph Nader’s US Department of Transportation and Welfare.
Best for last, though. Here’s a free crapper and exercycle from Habitat for Humanity:
Tempting, but I’ve already got the one, and I get my exercise just trying to stay alive. Fact of life.
74 years old, a resident of Leavenworth, KS, in an apartment located on the VA campus. Partnered with a black shorthaired cat named Mister Midnight. (1943-2020)
Since April, 2020, this blog is maintained by Jeanne Kasten (See "About" page for further information).
https://sofarfromheaven.com/2020/04/21/au-revoir-old-jules-jack-purcell/
I’m sharing it with you because there’s almost no likelihood you’ll believe it. This lunatic asylum I call my life has so many unexpected twists and turns I won’t even try to guess where it’s going. I’d suggest you try to find some laughs here. You won’t find wisdom. Good luck.
So Far From Heaven 
