One of the hardest parts of my job is selling my students the idea that I am not making things up as we go along. After all, gentle reader-student, isn't that what we think of English teacher questions? Especially the ones that land on quizzes? I know I did.
Well, let me assure you that we aren't making it up as we go along. We are stealing it from study guides published by professionals. And they're the ones making it up...
No!
English discussions are driven by questions. Some of them are surface level, plot-based questions with firm, definitive answers. Black and white answers. Like Scout Finch is a girl. Boxer is a horse who is turned into a bottle of glue. And Gatsby isn't his real name.
Fact, fact, fact. I like those quiz questions, don't you?
Inferences don't work that way. They demand our ability to intuit information from the facts. We need to assemble bits and pieces that span sentences, paragraphs, pages, even whole chapters. We must discern among these details which are the important ones without ignoring the rest of them. In fact, without ignoring any of them. Remember, good authors don't give us fluff. The fluff died on the editing floor long ago. What remains must be useful, somehow. This process, inferring, is harder than finding explicitly stated information. But even inference work is still grounded in the text.
Consider Grendel's trick-or-treating nightmare from chapter 4. To be clear, he shows up as a non-human carrying a human corpse. Whatever his reasons, however pure his motives, Grendel presents a frightening image. He must appear monstrous to the Danes as they are jamming out to the Shaper's song.
But is he a monster? Are we meant to view him as one?
Not here.
But in my opinion...
No. Stop. Not here. And not because I say. Because John Gardner, our esteemed author, says. He says many, many times all over the page. Providing quotes from Grendel ("Peace!" and "Mercy!" and "Friend!" and "Friend!"); writing Grendel into a position of submission and vulnerability (on his knees); supplying him with tears ("Waaa!"); causing him to run away and curse at the wind (supply your own four-letter words here...). To be sure, there is more than sufficient evidence to NOT view Grendel as a monster. Naïve maybe. Innocent probably. But not a monster. John Gardner writes this scene to elicit sympathy for this character in this moment of the book.
Still not convinced? Reread. That is our best tactic here. When it comes to inferring, we only have the words on the page. Return to the text! The proof is always in the pudding.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Poetry 1, Grendel 0
Late in chapter 3 of John Gardner's Grendel, our young creature-narrator is drawn in by the Shaper's song. Like everyone else in the room, Grendel is swept up in the art of the Shaper's craft, the weaving of music and mythology, with little bits of fact stuck here and there as decoration. Yet, unlike the Danes who roar with approval after, Grendel is stricken.
He claims to be "torn apart by poetry."
What a ridiculous sentiment, gentle reader! After all, poetry is, well, poetry. And we tend to hate (too strong... whole-heartedly disdain?... strongly dislike?) poetry. But it's not poetry Grendel means. It is the Art, capital A. It is the inspiration that seeps forth from the art, the inspirado that motivates men and women to do great feats afterward.
It is the jam tape before the big game.
It is the favorite playlist during the jog.
It is the comfort movie played at the end of a rough day.
It is the Art that tears Grendel apart. Check that. It is one step further: for Grendel, it is the content of the art which moves him to stress.
The Shaper is lying. Transmuting history. Changing names and dates and outcomes. Minimizing faults and exaggerating honor. He is changing Fact. And he is doing it so well as to raise his story up to the level of Art.
If only the rest of the audience could make that distinction. But maybe they do. Which causes this to be a very dangerous notion. After all, stories are important. And whether they are fiction or not, they have the chance to stand as Art if they are told well enough, by someone with the power to elevate it. They have the chance to endure. But do we not also have the responsibility to look into what we are allowing to endure? I don't know. Do we?
Poetry can tear nothing down (or build anything up, as it were) unless it has the teeth to do so. Do we not supply the teeth?
He claims to be "torn apart by poetry."
What a ridiculous sentiment, gentle reader! After all, poetry is, well, poetry. And we tend to hate (too strong... whole-heartedly disdain?... strongly dislike?) poetry. But it's not poetry Grendel means. It is the Art, capital A. It is the inspiration that seeps forth from the art, the inspirado that motivates men and women to do great feats afterward.
It is the jam tape before the big game.
It is the favorite playlist during the jog.
It is the comfort movie played at the end of a rough day.
It is the Art that tears Grendel apart. Check that. It is one step further: for Grendel, it is the content of the art which moves him to stress.
The Shaper is lying. Transmuting history. Changing names and dates and outcomes. Minimizing faults and exaggerating honor. He is changing Fact. And he is doing it so well as to raise his story up to the level of Art.
If only the rest of the audience could make that distinction. But maybe they do. Which causes this to be a very dangerous notion. After all, stories are important. And whether they are fiction or not, they have the chance to stand as Art if they are told well enough, by someone with the power to elevate it. They have the chance to endure. But do we not also have the responsibility to look into what we are allowing to endure? I don't know. Do we?
Poetry can tear nothing down (or build anything up, as it were) unless it has the teeth to do so. Do we not supply the teeth?
Friday, September 5, 2014
Inverse Relationships: Narrative Limits = Universal Themes
Back in August 2012 I wrote about J.R.R. Tolkien's thoughts on the narrative structure of Beowulf and the poem's lack of "steady advance."
(to read that entry, click http://mrguimondnondoer.blogspot.com/2012/08/beowulf-clunky-perfect-legend.html)
Tolkien takes this criticism head on, concluding that the epic does, in fact, fail to live up to the modernized version of Point A to Point B narrative arcs, but that it is this very failure that enlivens the tale with enough nuance, enough layering to elevate Beowulf the Story from mere tune to "composition." Indeed, Beowulf the Man benefits from this layering; we see him travel home, we hear him retell his own story, we witness him interacting with his uncle-king, Lord Hygelac, back in the safety and comfort of his own land. In short, we see Beowulf in his sweat pants with his hair down. Only, he never, ever wears sweat pants, and his hair is of no concern. Too heroic.
A second fascinating observation made by Professor Tolkien centers on Beowulf's universality. He comments that the poetic structure is "not a perfect vehicle of the theme or themes that came to hidden life in the poet's mind," and proceeds to observe that Beowulf the Hero should stand as the quintessential hero for all humanity in all time, but that he would be more easily seen as such if only he would have stayed home, if he would not have sailed to Denmark for Grendel's head. Beowulf staying put, Tolkien asserts, makes the "stage not narrower, but symbolically wider." One people, one set of problems, one hero to overcome them. With limits come just the one focal point: Beowulf the Hero. Like Bernoulli's Principle of pressure and volume: squeeze a water balloon and you elevate the liquid's pressure.
Consider:
*Batman dominates Gotham City. The streets of Gotham = universal justice.
*John Proctor fights for the soul of Salem. Salem = universal gossip.
*The Sneetches have their fight on just the one beaches. Those beaches = world community. Those Sneetches = one humanity.
As it stands, Beowulf does travel across the sea; he does help the Danes (i.e. not his clan); he does step outside of the easily defined literary town limits of Geatland and gerrymanders right on over to a second set of problems. So I suppose this second set of problems threatens the universality by flooding the story with too many elements. Too many moving parts. Only, Beowulf is Beowulf. He overcomes, resolves, and comes home. And then he retells his story. He reestablishes himself at home by recounting what he did abroad. This benefits the characterization of Beowulf the Man as well as provides nuance to Beowulf the Hero. Which is precisely Tolkien's point. In this case, the epic poem's "clunky" narrative structure allows for this digression and is actually helped by it.
In short, it is true to life. Beowulf the Man looks human; Beowulf the Hero isn't perfect, which in turn makes him more compelling. The flaws allow a conversation. They demand it.
So, I suppose Beowulf is awesome. But not perfectly so. And so his story endures.
(to read that entry, click http://mrguimondnondoer.blogspot.com/2012/08/beowulf-clunky-perfect-legend.html)
Tolkien takes this criticism head on, concluding that the epic does, in fact, fail to live up to the modernized version of Point A to Point B narrative arcs, but that it is this very failure that enlivens the tale with enough nuance, enough layering to elevate Beowulf the Story from mere tune to "composition." Indeed, Beowulf the Man benefits from this layering; we see him travel home, we hear him retell his own story, we witness him interacting with his uncle-king, Lord Hygelac, back in the safety and comfort of his own land. In short, we see Beowulf in his sweat pants with his hair down. Only, he never, ever wears sweat pants, and his hair is of no concern. Too heroic.
A second fascinating observation made by Professor Tolkien centers on Beowulf's universality. He comments that the poetic structure is "not a perfect vehicle of the theme or themes that came to hidden life in the poet's mind," and proceeds to observe that Beowulf the Hero should stand as the quintessential hero for all humanity in all time, but that he would be more easily seen as such if only he would have stayed home, if he would not have sailed to Denmark for Grendel's head. Beowulf staying put, Tolkien asserts, makes the "stage not narrower, but symbolically wider." One people, one set of problems, one hero to overcome them. With limits come just the one focal point: Beowulf the Hero. Like Bernoulli's Principle of pressure and volume: squeeze a water balloon and you elevate the liquid's pressure.
Consider:
*Batman dominates Gotham City. The streets of Gotham = universal justice.
*John Proctor fights for the soul of Salem. Salem = universal gossip.
*The Sneetches have their fight on just the one beaches. Those beaches = world community. Those Sneetches = one humanity.
As it stands, Beowulf does travel across the sea; he does help the Danes (i.e. not his clan); he does step outside of the easily defined literary town limits of Geatland and gerrymanders right on over to a second set of problems. So I suppose this second set of problems threatens the universality by flooding the story with too many elements. Too many moving parts. Only, Beowulf is Beowulf. He overcomes, resolves, and comes home. And then he retells his story. He reestablishes himself at home by recounting what he did abroad. This benefits the characterization of Beowulf the Man as well as provides nuance to Beowulf the Hero. Which is precisely Tolkien's point. In this case, the epic poem's "clunky" narrative structure allows for this digression and is actually helped by it.
In short, it is true to life. Beowulf the Man looks human; Beowulf the Hero isn't perfect, which in turn makes him more compelling. The flaws allow a conversation. They demand it.
So, I suppose Beowulf is awesome. But not perfectly so. And so his story endures.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Tips on Writing: The Function of Figurative Language
Writing is hard work. It doesn't always have to be difficult, but it is always challenging if you seek to do it well. Because good writing requires good thinking. Consider, gentle reader:
Good writing is 90% good thinking done before the writing.
I just made that up. That percentage is totally arbitrary. Gardner and King and Strunk would quite possibly cringe at it, but I don't think they would disagree with the idea here: that good writing derives from quality thinking done fully and done well before the writing begins.
One of our biggest challenges in AP Lit. is analyzing the function of figurative language. We can identify literary devices, can categorize them into their proper rhetorical tropes and schemes. We can articulate themes in broad strokes. We can characterize people and things as good or bad, as positive or negative. But can we analyze what the figurative language actually accomplishes in the text? Can we connect the definitions of these terms with the context of the poem or novel surrounding it? Can we qualify our themes and characterization? And finally, can we write about it?
Let's take a quick look at Seamus Heaney's poem "Blackberry-Picking," from lines 15-16:
"Our hands were peppered / with thorns, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's."
Heaney provides us with a reflection on the memory of the childhood madness of over-picking a blackberry field to the point of wastefulness. In their euphoric glee, the children cut themselves to pieces on the thorns as they lust for more and more bucketfuls of blackberries, so many, in fact, that most of berries later rot in the barn. Yikes! What awful little whelps these children are, their hands peppered with thorns, their palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
Sticky as a murdering pirate's.
The children are murdering pirates.
Murderers!!!
No, gentle writer. Let's back up and quickly discuss the function of the figurative language in this line. At first glance, I notice two pieces of figurative language:
1. the simile palms sticky as Bluebeard's
2. the allusion to Bluebeard the Pirate.
Ok. So we have identified the figurative language. Check. And we know the definition of both terms, simile and allusion. Check again. What next? Here's what. Answer the following questions:
How does the simile function in the context of the poem?
How does the allusion function in the context of the poem?
A quick sidebar: so far, all of this stuff is thinking. Sure, you might be annotating things along the way, providing yourself with notes to consult later, but let's be clear: none of this belongs in your essay. This is all pre-writing info, stuff to clarify in your head before you attempt to organize it in your paragraph.
For the sake of brevity, let's tackle question #2: how does this allusion to Bluebeard function in the context of the poem? Now, since you've read this poem already, I will briefly highlight that Heaney organizes his poem into 2 stanzas, and the first stanza is exclusively about describing the manic act of children picking berries. And the kiddies are out of control. But out of control as children are out of control. They aren't looking to pillage and plunder literally, there is no real threat of violence, but they are acting like it. Because they are kids.
When Heaney inserts the line about Bluebeard, he is alluding to the fact that these crazy kids are like that crazy pirate who murdered his wives. Now, the moment of truth:
Crazy how? How can we qualify the word "crazy" in our analysis?
Murderer how? How can we qualify the word "murderer" in our analysis?
Well, how do we? We revisit the text. Remember, these are kids Heaney is describing, and none of them belong in a juvenile detention center. They are crazy excited and crazy wound up and crazy immature but crazy dedicated to the task of picking and so they become crazy cut by thorns that they don't notice until later. They are children acting crazy. Not crazy psychotic or crazy unsettling like a creepy Boo Radley.
Crazy how? Crazy, qualified by the context of the poem. The allusion to Bluebeard activates the ideas of murder and danger. But we're still describing children. Or at least childish behavior.
Crazy, qualified.
This is challenging stuff. And this is quite a lot to process for 2-4 sentences worth of analysis. You might be questioning to cost-benefit ratio of this. Perhaps it is small, but only for now. Only here at the beginning. Because we get good at this. Very good. And you will do much of this in your head, naturally, without formally going through the steps. At that point, the only thing we will have to do is write it down as clearly and concisely and accurately as possible.
And that will be a good day.
Good writing is 90% good thinking done before the writing.
I just made that up. That percentage is totally arbitrary. Gardner and King and Strunk would quite possibly cringe at it, but I don't think they would disagree with the idea here: that good writing derives from quality thinking done fully and done well before the writing begins.
One of our biggest challenges in AP Lit. is analyzing the function of figurative language. We can identify literary devices, can categorize them into their proper rhetorical tropes and schemes. We can articulate themes in broad strokes. We can characterize people and things as good or bad, as positive or negative. But can we analyze what the figurative language actually accomplishes in the text? Can we connect the definitions of these terms with the context of the poem or novel surrounding it? Can we qualify our themes and characterization? And finally, can we write about it?
Let's take a quick look at Seamus Heaney's poem "Blackberry-Picking," from lines 15-16:
"Our hands were peppered / with thorns, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's."
Heaney provides us with a reflection on the memory of the childhood madness of over-picking a blackberry field to the point of wastefulness. In their euphoric glee, the children cut themselves to pieces on the thorns as they lust for more and more bucketfuls of blackberries, so many, in fact, that most of berries later rot in the barn. Yikes! What awful little whelps these children are, their hands peppered with thorns, their palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
Sticky as a murdering pirate's.
The children are murdering pirates.
Murderers!!!
No, gentle writer. Let's back up and quickly discuss the function of the figurative language in this line. At first glance, I notice two pieces of figurative language:
1. the simile palms sticky as Bluebeard's
2. the allusion to Bluebeard the Pirate.
Ok. So we have identified the figurative language. Check. And we know the definition of both terms, simile and allusion. Check again. What next? Here's what. Answer the following questions:
How does the simile function in the context of the poem?
How does the allusion function in the context of the poem?
A quick sidebar: so far, all of this stuff is thinking. Sure, you might be annotating things along the way, providing yourself with notes to consult later, but let's be clear: none of this belongs in your essay. This is all pre-writing info, stuff to clarify in your head before you attempt to organize it in your paragraph.
For the sake of brevity, let's tackle question #2: how does this allusion to Bluebeard function in the context of the poem? Now, since you've read this poem already, I will briefly highlight that Heaney organizes his poem into 2 stanzas, and the first stanza is exclusively about describing the manic act of children picking berries. And the kiddies are out of control. But out of control as children are out of control. They aren't looking to pillage and plunder literally, there is no real threat of violence, but they are acting like it. Because they are kids.
When Heaney inserts the line about Bluebeard, he is alluding to the fact that these crazy kids are like that crazy pirate who murdered his wives. Now, the moment of truth:
Crazy how? How can we qualify the word "crazy" in our analysis?
Murderer how? How can we qualify the word "murderer" in our analysis?
Well, how do we? We revisit the text. Remember, these are kids Heaney is describing, and none of them belong in a juvenile detention center. They are crazy excited and crazy wound up and crazy immature but crazy dedicated to the task of picking and so they become crazy cut by thorns that they don't notice until later. They are children acting crazy. Not crazy psychotic or crazy unsettling like a creepy Boo Radley.
Crazy how? Crazy, qualified by the context of the poem. The allusion to Bluebeard activates the ideas of murder and danger. But we're still describing children. Or at least childish behavior.
Crazy, qualified.
This is challenging stuff. And this is quite a lot to process for 2-4 sentences worth of analysis. You might be questioning to cost-benefit ratio of this. Perhaps it is small, but only for now. Only here at the beginning. Because we get good at this. Very good. And you will do much of this in your head, naturally, without formally going through the steps. At that point, the only thing we will have to do is write it down as clearly and concisely and accurately as possible.
And that will be a good day.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Summer Reading Program
What are you reading, gentle reader? Anything other than the ticker feed at the bottom of ESPN? Something longer than 140 characters at a time? Perhaps a chunk of text that comes above the COMMENTS section?
What?
How about Vince Flynn's The Last Man or Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach. How about that one book you've read every summer since you were twelve. Those count, you know.
What?
How about Gatsby. Again?
What?
What?
How about Vince Flynn's The Last Man or Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach. How about that one book you've read every summer since you were twelve. Those count, you know.
What?
How about Gatsby. Again?
What?
Saturday, July 5, 2014
A Very Guilty Pleasure
So I found myself watching Bloodsport on TV a few nights ago. You know Bloodsport, that 1988 action thriller starring Jean-Claude Van Damme as Frank Dux, the "American" trying to win the Kumite. What's a Kumite? I can't help you. Perhaps in another blog, gentle reader. Anyway, Bloodsport has all the ingredients of a late '80s movie that makes my wife roll her eyes in polite, I-suffer-this-awfulness-on-my-television-because-I-love-you-but-you-can't-make-me-watch-it disdain:
1. a backstory about loyalty, impossible odds, and crazy non sequiturs
2. a terrible Belgian accent from the American protagonist
3. characters wearing tank-tops tucked into khakis, on purpose
4. an inspirational 80's pop rock song about 2/3s of the way into the film
5. really fantastic and absolutely realistic kung fu, complete with back to back roundhouse kicks in slow motion that would make Pat Swayze from Roundhouse blush
I have no excuse. It's a terrible movie. And I can't not watch it. Like Roadhouse, or Gone in 60 seconds or Happy Gilmore. I am a grown man. I should know better. But I don't care. In light of it being July 5, I am feeling incredibly patriotic and free, so I want to celebrate myself. Like Whitman, I want to loaf and celebrate me. Do I contradict myself? Oh well.
Some favorite lines:
"Ok USA!"
"What the hell's a dim mack?"
"Very impressive. But brick not hit back."
That last one comes from the fighter-villain Chong Li, a non-English speaker, so don't hold the poor syntax against him. He's trying to intimidate Van-Damme's character. Of course, we all know that Van-Damme's characters can never be intimidated. They don't threaten. Because of the roundhouses.
I'm curious. What are your guilty pleasures? I love this topic, because it gives us a chance to breathe easy, side-step any literary or Hollywood heavy lifting, and just kick around some titles of entertainment. How summer is that?
By the way, I am finishing Ian McEwan's Saturday. Because reading in the summer is allowed...
1. a backstory about loyalty, impossible odds, and crazy non sequiturs
2. a terrible Belgian accent from the American protagonist
3. characters wearing tank-tops tucked into khakis, on purpose
4. an inspirational 80's pop rock song about 2/3s of the way into the film
5. really fantastic and absolutely realistic kung fu, complete with back to back roundhouse kicks in slow motion that would make Pat Swayze from Roundhouse blush
I have no excuse. It's a terrible movie. And I can't not watch it. Like Roadhouse, or Gone in 60 seconds or Happy Gilmore. I am a grown man. I should know better. But I don't care. In light of it being July 5, I am feeling incredibly patriotic and free, so I want to celebrate myself. Like Whitman, I want to loaf and celebrate me. Do I contradict myself? Oh well.
Some favorite lines:
"Ok USA!"
"What the hell's a dim mack?"
"Very impressive. But brick not hit back."
That last one comes from the fighter-villain Chong Li, a non-English speaker, so don't hold the poor syntax against him. He's trying to intimidate Van-Damme's character. Of course, we all know that Van-Damme's characters can never be intimidated. They don't threaten. Because of the roundhouses.
I'm curious. What are your guilty pleasures? I love this topic, because it gives us a chance to breathe easy, side-step any literary or Hollywood heavy lifting, and just kick around some titles of entertainment. How summer is that?
By the way, I am finishing Ian McEwan's Saturday. Because reading in the summer is allowed...
Monday, June 2, 2014
College Tip #14
"Find your study spot early."
Claim it, like a plot of soil in a Wild West land grab; like a hunting territory to be protected against orca and bears; like an ancient burial ground that brings things back to life only imbibed with mystical powers.
Like your college GPA depends on it.
You see, gentle reader, it does. Your study spot will dictate your staying power in college. It is non-negotiable. You will either make the grade or you will not, and you will not if you don't carve out a quiet, sustainable place to lay your books and your technology and your caffeine about you, a wall of academia to firmly push the world back with, to be pushed upon by the world.
For the record, your dorm room (or other living situation) cannot count as your study spot. Because other people are there. The math is that simple:
[All things ready to be studied. A knock on the door. Enter any other human.]
HUMAN: "Hey, what are you doing?"
YOU: "Nothing, wanna do something?"
HUMAN: "Uh huh."
[You and other human exit room. Or stay in room, doing things not studying. End scene.]
As for me, I went Underground. To IWU's old Sheean Library, basement level, English literature side, southeast corner carrel. I had a carrel! Now this was pre-phone, gentle reader, and I did not yet own a laptop, so I carried nothing with me but books and pens and such. Antiquity, I know. But that is where I carried my stuff. And I sat there, staring at books and notes. I sat there and studied. And studied. And I wrote. I reorganized. I churned things over. I also daydreamed, and fantastically, I went wandering up and down those rows of literature. I read Yeats. And Frost. Yes, I was wasting time, but I was wasting time reading Poe and Steinbeck.
I became a student down there.
Listen, this isn't about pretention. Or impeding your social agenda. I don't care where your study spot is, or what decorations hang near it, or who else shares it, or how severely isolated it is, or what tree you had to fell in order to supply the fuel to heat the room, or other such madness. This isn't a contest. But it is about the very real reason why you are attending college in the fall. To do college-level academics.
You can't accomplish those without your study spot. Mine was in the basement. There were no windows, it smelled like old books, the carpet was clean but old and trampled, the lighting was poor, the desk had a weird rut burrowed into the right-hand side which made writing on single sheets of paper tricky, but it was mine. I had to find it out. And I still remember it, among other things.
Happy hunting.
Claim it, like a plot of soil in a Wild West land grab; like a hunting territory to be protected against orca and bears; like an ancient burial ground that brings things back to life only imbibed with mystical powers.
Like your college GPA depends on it.
You see, gentle reader, it does. Your study spot will dictate your staying power in college. It is non-negotiable. You will either make the grade or you will not, and you will not if you don't carve out a quiet, sustainable place to lay your books and your technology and your caffeine about you, a wall of academia to firmly push the world back with, to be pushed upon by the world.
For the record, your dorm room (or other living situation) cannot count as your study spot. Because other people are there. The math is that simple:
[All things ready to be studied. A knock on the door. Enter any other human.]
HUMAN: "Hey, what are you doing?"
YOU: "Nothing, wanna do something?"
HUMAN: "Uh huh."
[You and other human exit room. Or stay in room, doing things not studying. End scene.]
I became a student down there.
Listen, this isn't about pretention. Or impeding your social agenda. I don't care where your study spot is, or what decorations hang near it, or who else shares it, or how severely isolated it is, or what tree you had to fell in order to supply the fuel to heat the room, or other such madness. This isn't a contest. But it is about the very real reason why you are attending college in the fall. To do college-level academics.
You can't accomplish those without your study spot. Mine was in the basement. There were no windows, it smelled like old books, the carpet was clean but old and trampled, the lighting was poor, the desk had a weird rut burrowed into the right-hand side which made writing on single sheets of paper tricky, but it was mine. I had to find it out. And I still remember it, among other things.
Happy hunting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)