[martyup]

Oh sure, the words on the banner played no part in the decision.  If the words were "Go Stanford" I'll bet there would have been no suspension.

[martyup]

Oh sure, the words on the banner played no part in the decision.  If the words were "Go Stanford" I'll bet there would have been no suspension.

[M T]

On certain campuses in the 1920s, there was a crack-pot theory that the saxophone was a problematic instrument. That the mere sound of the horn could have a aphrodisiac effect on young women. Predictably, it was proposed by some folks that school bands should prohibit its use. Happily, saner heads prevailed and so did the sax. Fun ensued. No record of any saxual anti-fun issues on the Farm during this time.

This statement failed by BS meter, so I decided to check it out.   While it proves nothing, I found nothing on either Google or Duckduckgo that supports this claim.   Are you trying to pull our chain, passing on fake news, or do you have a reference?

[M T]

On certain campuses in the 1920s, there was a crack-pot theory that the saxophone was a problematic instrument. That the mere sound of the horn could have a aphrodisiac effect on young women. Predictably, it was proposed by some folks that school bands should prohibit its use. Happily, saner heads prevailed and so did the sax. Fun ensued. No record of any saxual anti-fun issues on the Farm during this time.

This statement failed by BS meter, so I decided to check it out.   While it proves nothing, I found nothing on either Google or Duckduckgo that supports this claim.   Are you trying to pull our chain, passing on fake news, or do you have a reference?

[Spiny_Norman]

The trend is very clear and it extends beyond the current administration. Stanford has been systematically taking over or disbanding every significant student-run group on campus. The Toyon eating clubs are gone. Bulldozed with no advance notice. The Suites dining service which had been self-operating successfully for 30 years was taken over by the university. The concession was contracted to a company run by the brother-in-law of the person who made the decision. Fraternities - mostly gone. The Saturday evening restaurant at Casa Italiana - shut down. The Band has been effectively taken over by the Administration. The Band seems to most concerned about potential consequences for "procedural violations." That is not how a student-run organization usually talks.

And another trend also continues - the University won't say anything when criticized. They clam up, decline comment. It's like the lawyers are running the campus now and everyone lives in fear or being on the wrong side of them. It's not a healthy culture for growth and learning.

[Spiny_Norman]

The trend is very clear and it extends beyond the current administration. Stanford has been systematically taking over or disbanding every significant student-run group on campus. The Toyon eating clubs are gone. Bulldozed with no advance notice. The Suites dining service which had been self-operating successfully for 30 years was taken over by the university. The concession was contracted to a company run by the brother-in-law of the person who made the decision. Fraternities - mostly gone. The Saturday evening restaurant at Casa Italiana - shut down. The Band has been effectively taken over by the Administration. The Band seems to most concerned about potential consequences for "procedural violations." That is not how a student-run organization usually talks.

And another trend also continues - the University won't say anything when criticized. They clam up, decline comment. It's like the lawyers are running the campus now and everyone lives in fear or being on the wrong side of them. It's not a healthy culture for growth and learning.

[82lsju]

Seems like suspending the tree for this just proves his point.  Also telling that the sign was displayed in front of the virtually empty student section.  I'll bet more were in the library than at the game having fun.

Fun? At FB games? So much for the "fun factor" at games this year. And the year before. And the year before that. And the year before that...

I like the fading effect!

---

Looks like this was the Band's decision.

[tweet]https://twitter.com/RedditCFB/status/1587473632594272256[/tweet]



Recent former Tree is not pleased.

[tweet]https://twitter.com/MiwokDancer62/status/1587478975781257217[/tweet]

Daily article with a few more details

https://stanforddaily.com/2022/11/01/sta...l-january/

[82lsju]

Seems like suspending the tree for this just proves his point.  Also telling that the sign was displayed in front of the virtually empty student section.  I'll bet more were in the library than at the game having fun.

Fun? At FB games? So much for the "fun factor" at games this year. And the year before. And the year before that. And the year before that...

I like the fading effect!

---

Looks like this was the Band's decision.

[tweet]https://twitter.com/RedditCFB/status/1587473632594272256[/tweet]



Recent former Tree is not pleased.

[tweet]https://twitter.com/MiwokDancer62/status/1587478975781257217[/tweet]

Daily article with a few more details

https://stanforddaily.com/2022/11/01/sta...l-january/

[dabigv13]

I picked Stanford because it seemed a lot more fun and relaxed than the Ivies. Admit weekend and LSJUMB were a big part of that. The tree being suspended for this very on point sign, yuck. Fie on the student executive committee. Fall on your swords you losers. The prior tree coming back also smells wrong but perhaps it's better than the alternative.

[dabigv13]

I picked Stanford because it seemed a lot more fun and relaxed than the Ivies. Admit weekend and LSJUMB were a big part of that. The tree being suspended for this very on point sign, yuck. Fie on the student executive committee. Fall on your swords you losers. The prior tree coming back also smells wrong but perhaps it's better than the alternative.

[French Rage]

Well this is definitely having a Streisand effect.  Smart move by the administration.

[French Rage]

Well this is definitely having a Streisand effect.  Smart move by the administration.

[jacket3ree]

All we had to do when on a date with girls from Mercy, Pres and St. Rose was bring along a sax. Worked every time.

That sure as heck didn't work with a trumpet for me.  I had [drumroll] two dates in high school. One played the piano. That date was pretty good but the "relationship" ended on her front porch at 2 a.m. The other played trumpet (way better than I could). That date end ended with me alone in Laramie, WYO.  (It started in suburban Denver.)

[jacket3ree]

All we had to do when on a date with girls from Mercy, Pres and St. Rose was bring along a sax. Worked every time.

That sure as heck didn't work with a trumpet for me.  I had [drumroll] two dates in high school. One played the piano. That date was pretty good but the "relationship" ended on her front porch at 2 a.m. The other played trumpet (way better than I could). That date end ended with me alone in Laramie, WYO.  (It started in suburban Denver.)

[TonyLima]

All we had to do when on a date with girls from Mercy, Pres and St. Rose was bring along a sax. Worked every time.

That sure as heck didn't work with a trumpet for me.  I had [drumroll] two dates in high school. One played the piano. That date was pretty good but the "relationship" ended on her front porch at 2 a.m. The other played trumpet (way better than I could). That date end ended with me alone in Laramie, WYO.  (It started in suburban Denver.)

Come on. Don’t be a tease.

[TonyLima]

All we had to do when on a date with girls from Mercy, Pres and St. Rose was bring along a sax. Worked every time.

That sure as heck didn't work with a trumpet for me.  I had [drumroll] two dates in high school. One played the piano. That date was pretty good but the "relationship" ended on her front porch at 2 a.m. The other played trumpet (way better than I could). That date end ended with me alone in Laramie, WYO.  (It started in suburban Denver.)

Come on. Don’t be a tease.

[2006alum]

The trend is very clear and it extends beyond the current administration. Stanford has been systematically taking over or disbanding every significant student-run group on campus. The Toyon eating clubs are gone. Bulldozed with no advance notice. The Suites dining service which had been self-operating successfully for 30 years was taken over by the university. The concession was contracted to a company run by the brother-in-law of the person who made the decision. Fraternities - mostly gone. The Saturday evening restaurant at Casa Italiana - shut down. The Band has been effectively taken over by the Administration. The Band seems to most concerned about potential consequences for "procedural violations." That is not how a student-run organization usually talks.

And another trend also continues - the University won't say anything when criticized. They clam up, decline comment. It's like the lawyers are running the campus now and everyone lives in fear or being on the wrong side of them. It's not a healthy culture for growth and learning.

+1 to all of this. (And I am a lawyer.) Stanford has been on a multi-decade crusade to destroy fun, and it seems like students' mental health and wellbeing is more precarious than ever. It seems like adults lament how fragile young adults are even as they simultaneously do everything in their power to prevent them from exercising any agency of their own. I decided to stop donating to Stanford about a decade ago and honestly I haven't regretted it for a moment since. On so many levels, the administration is undoing nearly everything about the place that once made me so proud to be an alum...

---

And I should add: I can't recommend this article, Stanford’s War on Social Life, more highly. This pretty much sums it up:

Starting in 2013, Stanford was consistently ranked first by students and parents as “America’s Dream School.” Stanford was elite, but unlike most elite schools, what made Stanford the object of such national obsession was that it was also fun. Stanford had created a global talent hub combined with explicit permission for rule-breaking. As a result, students learned a valuable lesson: they had agency; they could create their own norms and culture instead of relying on higher authorities.

Stanford had become a global symbol—of privilege, of excellence, and of a college admissions process gone mad. Suddenly, the inner workings of Stanford were of intense interest to outsiders. And the very culture that made Stanford unique—including the drugs and naked houses—became a liability in the eyes of the bureaucracy. Their presence spawned the salacious articles about Stanford traditions and Stanford students gained a reputation for “unprofessional” irreverence, even as they were increasingly judged as representatives of a global brand. Something had to give.

In 2013, the administration took over...

[2006alum]

The trend is very clear and it extends beyond the current administration. Stanford has been systematically taking over or disbanding every significant student-run group on campus. The Toyon eating clubs are gone. Bulldozed with no advance notice. The Suites dining service which had been self-operating successfully for 30 years was taken over by the university. The concession was contracted to a company run by the brother-in-law of the person who made the decision. Fraternities - mostly gone. The Saturday evening restaurant at Casa Italiana - shut down. The Band has been effectively taken over by the Administration. The Band seems to most concerned about potential consequences for "procedural violations." That is not how a student-run organization usually talks.

And another trend also continues - the University won't say anything when criticized. They clam up, decline comment. It's like the lawyers are running the campus now and everyone lives in fear or being on the wrong side of them. It's not a healthy culture for growth and learning.

+1 to all of this. (And I am a lawyer.) Stanford has been on a multi-decade crusade to destroy fun, and it seems like students' mental health and wellbeing is more precarious than ever. It seems like adults lament how fragile young adults are even as they simultaneously do everything in their power to prevent them from exercising any agency of their own. I decided to stop donating to Stanford about a decade ago and honestly I haven't regretted it for a moment since. On so many levels, the administration is undoing nearly everything about the place that once made me so proud to be an alum...

---

And I should add: I can't recommend this article, Stanford’s War on Social Life, more highly. This pretty much sums it up:

Starting in 2013, Stanford was consistently ranked first by students and parents as “America’s Dream School.” Stanford was elite, but unlike most elite schools, what made Stanford the object of such national obsession was that it was also fun. Stanford had created a global talent hub combined with explicit permission for rule-breaking. As a result, students learned a valuable lesson: they had agency; they could create their own norms and culture instead of relying on higher authorities.

Stanford had become a global symbol—of privilege, of excellence, and of a college admissions process gone mad. Suddenly, the inner workings of Stanford were of intense interest to outsiders. And the very culture that made Stanford unique—including the drugs and naked houses—became a liability in the eyes of the bureaucracy. Their presence spawned the salacious articles about Stanford traditions and Stanford students gained a reputation for “unprofessional” irreverence, even as they were increasingly judged as representatives of a global brand. Something had to give.

In 2013, the administration took over...

[jacket3ree]

All we had to do when on a date with girls from Mercy, Pres and St. Rose was bring along a sax. Worked every time.

That sure as heck didn't work with a trumpet for me.  I had [drumroll] two dates in high school. One played the piano. That date was pretty good but the "relationship" ended on her front porch at 2 a.m. The other played trumpet (way better than I could). That date end ended with me alone in Laramie, WYO.  (It started in suburban Denver.)

Come on. Don’t be a tease.

I didn't mean to tease. The short and boring story is that I had two dates in high school: one pretty good, one an abject disaster.  End of story. The longer story was six years in the making. I'll quote Elvis Costello's needle-drop on Armed Forces, which was indeed spinning as I responded to what I thought was an interesting muse from Phogge about dating in the Sunset, as opposed to my own experience sans sets of schools full of girls. That is, the only available girls were those in front of us on the daily, or more correctly, not in front of us on the daily. Returning to the quote:  "Oh, I just don't know where to begin."

Hey knucklehead, begin in the beginning. [Cue opening to The Twilight Zone. Serling speaks.] Picture if you will.....the glaring, ballast-addled fluorescent lighting of an elementary school cafeteria circa 1974. Below the buzzing illumination sit aspiring musicians of the sixth grade variety at the first band practice. Tuning is attempted. Tuning will not happen today, or any day in the immediate future. Young Jacketree, bred of frugal parents and desperately in need of orthodontia that will not arrive for another five years is blowin' his grandfather's b-flat cornet of the War years (the first capital W war) with all the other boys in the brass section. But wait, what do we have here?  A young lady, with young lady parts and perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, brand new to PV Elementary (est. 1968) from the exotic Davis, CA arrives through the cafeteria double doors, softly backlit in a (OMG) skirt, and takes the one empty brass section seat.  This empty seat happens to be immediately to the left of the intrepid cornetist in a sea of trumpets that parents could afford. Who is this mysterious newcomer? Submitted for your approval, Date #2, henceforth known only as "L".

L appears softly lit through the grungy cafeteria doors, sits to my left and pulls out.....a cornet!  Puberty for me begins the second she opens that slide valve and blows spit on the floor.  Right next to my left foot!  Henceforth L will live rent free in my loser brain for the next six years, and after reading this, you may conclude the rest of my life.  Long before smart phones (heck cell phones, heck phones without a rotary dialer) and social media, I am not obsessed.  Periodic pining is more appropriate.  The pining of course waxing and waning depending on circumstance. To L, I am probably nothing more than furniture.  And she was a far better trumpeter (we both eventually "upgraded" from the trumpets smaller cousin) than I. In high school she would routinely be third chair, while I one made.......oh man, fourth chair....which means that with the same brilliant white, straight teeth and even larger lady parts she could blow spit on my older left foot. For a whole week that one time! No way would I challenge her for third chair. No way. However, I was soon challenged for fourth chair and under the overwhelming pressure quickly slide down the metaphorical pine deep into the second trumpets, where the notes aren't as high, and as you all know, chicks dig the high notes. (NB: no one was challenging either of the first two chairs, who went to Julliard and Eastman respectively. Julliard in particular was brilliant and everyone knew it, even Eastman. Julliard is a principal in a major orchestra with stuff on Spotify now. I did a lot of backpacking with Eastman. Not in touch. Doesn't appear to be famous.)

....to be continued.

[jacket3ree]

All we had to do when on a date with girls from Mercy, Pres and St. Rose was bring along a sax. Worked every time.

That sure as heck didn't work with a trumpet for me.  I had [drumroll] two dates in high school. One played the piano. That date was pretty good but the "relationship" ended on her front porch at 2 a.m. The other played trumpet (way better than I could). That date end ended with me alone in Laramie, WYO.  (It started in suburban Denver.)

Come on. Don’t be a tease.

I didn't mean to tease. The short and boring story is that I had two dates in high school: one pretty good, one an abject disaster.  End of story. The longer story was six years in the making. I'll quote Elvis Costello's needle-drop on Armed Forces, which was indeed spinning as I responded to what I thought was an interesting muse from Phogge about dating in the Sunset, as opposed to my own experience sans sets of schools full of girls. That is, the only available girls were those in front of us on the daily, or more correctly, not in front of us on the daily. Returning to the quote:  "Oh, I just don't know where to begin."

Hey knucklehead, begin in the beginning. [Cue opening to The Twilight Zone. Serling speaks.] Picture if you will.....the glaring, ballast-addled fluorescent lighting of an elementary school cafeteria circa 1974. Below the buzzing illumination sit aspiring musicians of the sixth grade variety at the first band practice. Tuning is attempted. Tuning will not happen today, or any day in the immediate future. Young Jacketree, bred of frugal parents and desperately in need of orthodontia that will not arrive for another five years is blowin' his grandfather's b-flat cornet of the War years (the first capital W war) with all the other boys in the brass section. But wait, what do we have here?  A young lady, with young lady parts and perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, brand new to PV Elementary (est. 1968) from the exotic Davis, CA arrives through the cafeteria double doors, softly backlit in a (OMG) skirt, and takes the one empty brass section seat.  This empty seat happens to be immediately to the left of the intrepid cornetist in a sea of trumpets that parents could afford. Who is this mysterious newcomer? Submitted for your approval, Date #2, henceforth known only as "L".

L appears softly lit through the grungy cafeteria doors, sits to my left and pulls out.....a cornet!  Puberty for me begins the second she opens that slide valve and blows spit on the floor.  Right next to my left foot!  Henceforth L will live rent free in my loser brain for the next six years, and after reading this, you may conclude the rest of my life.  Long before smart phones (heck cell phones, heck phones without a rotary dialer) and social media, I am not obsessed.  Periodic pining is more appropriate.  The pining of course waxing and waning depending on circumstance. To L, I am probably nothing more than furniture.  And she was a far better trumpeter (we both eventually "upgraded" from the trumpets smaller cousin) than I. In high school she would routinely be third chair, while I one made.......oh man, fourth chair....which means that with the same brilliant white, straight teeth and even larger lady parts she could blow spit on my older left foot. For a whole week that one time! No way would I challenge her for third chair. No way. However, I was soon challenged for fourth chair and under the overwhelming pressure quickly slide down the metaphorical pine deep into the second trumpets, where the notes aren't as high, and as you all know, chicks dig the high notes. (NB: no one was challenging either of the first two chairs, who went to Julliard and Eastman respectively. Julliard in particular was brilliant and everyone knew it, even Eastman. Julliard is a principal in a major orchestra with stuff on Spotify now. I did a lot of backpacking with Eastman. Not in touch. Doesn't appear to be famous.)

....to be continued.

[jacket3ree]

High school. L and I crossed paths in marching band, stage band, and English.  Some of us took physics, chemistry, and calculus.  She was above that in her own academic orbit. Tutored the school in math and science. Did some sort of self-study in quantum physics, brain surgery, or who knows, commercial real estate. I remained furniture.  Furniture that occasionally blurted things like "space under the blanket" during the frozen football games.  I think once she said something like: "I'm plenty warm, thanks."  Oh my god - she talked to me.  At the end of our junior year, a group of us had the 'honor' to serve as graduation attendants (or something smarmy like that) for during graduation and baccalaureate for the class above us.  Incidentally, L's older sister was in that class. Honor is in air quotes because we were not selected. We were voluntold based on GPA.  They just went down the list until they had enough personnel to handle the abuse to be dished out by a graduating class, who with diplomas already in hand, had absolutely no reason not to heap said abuse on the younger nerds. Faculty or staff sure as heck weren't going to do it. Fun, fun.

L and I had the same GPA and thus are in The Attendants.  No, wait. Escorts. That's it!  Of course, what could go wrong being a named male escort to the same people who had spent the previous two years stuffing you into lockers.  Except effing Chris Catagnia.  One too many lockers Tania. Call it fed up bullied strength with a side of adrenaline.  He would stuff us in lockers and leave the door unlocked. Yuck yuck. I finally stuffed him into his own locker and put a padlock on it. Then skedaddled to class. The dude was a State champion wrestler.  I was a cross country dropout. [After running a 4:53 mile during an early practice, the coach told me that if I could shave a minute off my time, I might have something.] Something about the indignity of bolt cutters and a cross county guy (!) kept his silence.  As a backdrop, I did my escort service with the vague fear he would kill me in public and just serve the time.

Anyway, the abuse and warm May Colorado nights lead to serious escort bonding, male and female, and I went into the escort business knowing that love doesn't wait forever. It's now or never.  I think we know how this turns out.  Accidents indeed do happen.

Submitted for your approval is Date #1, henceforth "K".  With a small brain, there is only room for a single rental, that being L. I have no idea why I never noticed K that year. K was of like GPA, hailed from Lake Charles, LA (dad in Big Oil), had an O.M.G. drawl sweeter than the sweetest thing this side of Heaven, oh that dress, (cleavage!!), the perfume, she laughs at my snark, she just put her arm around me (high voltage! - still remember the shot of electricity through my mid section), had me drive her home from Applewood Ice Cream [hey this is the nerd group - we weren't out drinkin' after being set free] and Paradise by the Dashboard Porch Light.  The official first long, wet kiss.  "Thanks a bunch!" I probably spent the next 24 hours as a puddle on her porch before waking up with the sheets soaking wet and going outside into the wilds behind our house to do something about the freight train running through my head. That something was kicking L out.  Thus ends Junior Year.  (I spent the summer battling turf, dog poop, hornets, lead paint, swimming pools, tennis courts, German shepherds, Argentine maids, and a truly famous female aviator/fashion icon extraordinarily wealthy boss who did once have "pool boy" put lotion on her very naked, very sun damaged back.  But I got to drive Lambos and Ferraris, met Prince Phillip and Princes Anne (or Ann?), and made $3.05 an hour including Saturdays. And since they had invented Vail, took all the year-old equipment their spoiled grown children felt like dumping on pool boy.


Sorry, did not mean to digress.

---

Senior Year.  A rent increase and now K is the lessee.

Haven't spoken all summer. She's in calculus and English with me. She smiles and waves!!  I ask her to homecoming. She accepts! This is  Date #1. First, let us be clear that K is a very, very nice person.  She acted like she enjoyed my company and our homecoming date. I think she truly did.  It began in a Big Oil mansion kitchen inquisition (dad), who only softened when told I planned to study engineering at Mines (probably half a mile from her house), Boulder, Fort Collins, or Atlanta of all places.  "Atlanta.  Georgia Tech?"  Yes sir, my dad wants me to apply.  "Son, I'm from the South. You need to go there."  Mom was nice and managed to get the corsage pinned to K once she noticed my nervous hands were afraid of going anywhere near the décolletage that incredidress had difficulty containing, certainly in front of her parents. And her older sister - a stunning twenty something woman. She ended up with buttoner duty and there was something about how she smoothed the lapels of my tan, 3-piece Angel Flight flared-pant almost Dumb and Dumber quality suit. I probably should have quit life while I was ahead.

I took her to a fancy Golden restaurant with "brook" in the name and managed not to puke on my shoes. WRHS had a tradition of not spending money on homecoming or prom, rightly, and let student bands furnish the live music. Our Catalina Wine Mixer band only did late '70s Wagon (REO Speedwagon).  Time for me to dance very slowly with my date.  It was nice. It also ended under the same porch light with a much longer spit exchange and I took my sweet puddling self home to not sleep the rest of the weekend in anticipation of something good the next Monday....

[jacket3ree]

High school. L and I crossed paths in marching band, stage band, and English.  Some of us took physics, chemistry, and calculus.  She was above that in her own academic orbit. Tutored the school in math and science. Did some sort of self-study in quantum physics, brain surgery, or who knows, commercial real estate. I remained furniture.  Furniture that occasionally blurted things like "space under the blanket" during the frozen football games.  I think once she said something like: "I'm plenty warm, thanks."  Oh my god - she talked to me.  At the end of our junior year, a group of us had the 'honor' to serve as graduation attendants (or something smarmy like that) for during graduation and baccalaureate for the class above us.  Incidentally, L's older sister was in that class. Honor is in air quotes because we were not selected. We were voluntold based on GPA.  They just went down the list until they had enough personnel to handle the abuse to be dished out by a graduating class, who with diplomas already in hand, had absolutely no reason not to heap said abuse on the younger nerds. Faculty or staff sure as heck weren't going to do it. Fun, fun.

L and I had the same GPA and thus are in The Attendants.  No, wait. Escorts. That's it!  Of course, what could go wrong being a named male escort to the same people who had spent the previous two years stuffing you into lockers.  Except effing Chris Catagnia.  One too many lockers Tania. Call it fed up bullied strength with a side of adrenaline.  He would stuff us in lockers and leave the door unlocked. Yuck yuck. I finally stuffed him into his own locker and put a padlock on it. Then skedaddled to class. The dude was a State champion wrestler.  I was a cross country dropout. [After running a 4:53 mile during an early practice, the coach told me that if I could shave a minute off my time, I might have something.] Something about the indignity of bolt cutters and a cross county guy (!) kept his silence.  As a backdrop, I did my escort service with the vague fear he would kill me in public and just serve the time.

Anyway, the abuse and warm May Colorado nights lead to serious escort bonding, male and female, and I went into the escort business knowing that love doesn't wait forever. It's now or never.  I think we know how this turns out.  Accidents indeed do happen.

Submitted for your approval is Date #1, henceforth "K".  With a small brain, there is only room for a single rental, that being L. I have no idea why I never noticed K that year. K was of like GPA, hailed from Lake Charles, LA (dad in Big Oil), had an O.M.G. drawl sweeter than the sweetest thing this side of Heaven, oh that dress, (cleavage!!), the perfume, she laughs at my snark, she just put her arm around me (high voltage! - still remember the shot of electricity through my mid section), had me drive her home from Applewood Ice Cream [hey this is the nerd group - we weren't out drinkin' after being set free] and Paradise by the Dashboard Porch Light.  The official first long, wet kiss.  "Thanks a bunch!" I probably spent the next 24 hours as a puddle on her porch before waking up with the sheets soaking wet and going outside into the wilds behind our house to do something about the freight train running through my head. That something was kicking L out.  Thus ends Junior Year.  (I spent the summer battling turf, dog poop, hornets, lead paint, swimming pools, tennis courts, German shepherds, Argentine maids, and a truly famous female aviator/fashion icon extraordinarily wealthy boss who did once have "pool boy" put lotion on her very naked, very sun damaged back.  But I got to drive Lambos and Ferraris, met Prince Phillip and Princes Anne (or Ann?), and made $3.05 an hour including Saturdays. And since they had invented Vail, took all the year-old equipment their spoiled grown children felt like dumping on pool boy.


Sorry, did not mean to digress.

---

Senior Year.  A rent increase and now K is the lessee.

Haven't spoken all summer. She's in calculus and English with me. She smiles and waves!!  I ask her to homecoming. She accepts! This is  Date #1. First, let us be clear that K is a very, very nice person.  She acted like she enjoyed my company and our homecoming date. I think she truly did.  It began in a Big Oil mansion kitchen inquisition (dad), who only softened when told I planned to study engineering at Mines (probably half a mile from her house), Boulder, Fort Collins, or Atlanta of all places.  "Atlanta.  Georgia Tech?"  Yes sir, my dad wants me to apply.  "Son, I'm from the South. You need to go there."  Mom was nice and managed to get the corsage pinned to K once she noticed my nervous hands were afraid of going anywhere near the décolletage that incredidress had difficulty containing, certainly in front of her parents. And her older sister - a stunning twenty something woman. She ended up with buttoner duty and there was something about how she smoothed the lapels of my tan, 3-piece Angel Flight flared-pant almost Dumb and Dumber quality suit. I probably should have quit life while I was ahead.

I took her to a fancy Golden restaurant with "brook" in the name and managed not to puke on my shoes. WRHS had a tradition of not spending money on homecoming or prom, rightly, and let student bands furnish the live music. Our Catalina Wine Mixer band only did late '70s Wagon (REO Speedwagon).  Time for me to dance very slowly with my date.  It was nice. It also ended under the same porch light with a much longer spit exchange and I took my sweet puddling self home to not sleep the rest of the weekend in anticipation of something good the next Monday....

[BostonCard]

Digress away.

BC

[BostonCard]

Digress away.

BC

[jacket3ree]

Monday!  (Monday, Monday)

First period calculus. She'll be there.  She'll usually be in a student lounge ahead of time.  Let's go!

There is K, sitting on a guy named Bruce's lap.  Bruce is a good guy - in our brass quintet. Tuba. I like Bruce. Been to his house to practice dozens of times.  Bruce is K's former boyfriend - they broke up near the end. of. last. year.  Dammit!  K and I talked later.  I wasn't some master jealously plan even if it worked.  Well, maybe I was getting back at him.  So sorry.  We all remained close friends the rest of the year right up to my Ford Ranchero drivin' buddy's graduation party. K was off to (THE) Oxford and I was off to Edgemont, SD as soon as my dad dropped by with a duffle bag and a ride down to skid row and the Trailways depot in the middle of the night.  Everybody's talkin' at me.....don't hear a word I'm sayin'....

In retrospect, we were so very adult about it at the age of 17.  You never forget your first.

Now the interim and how the heck does Laramie come into this?

K is with Bruce, then ultimately another Escort, Todd, also a good friend.  For reasons that cannot be rationally explained, instead of taking S. - a Princeton graduate with a PhD from Columbia who is a best selling author - to Prom (and as she wrote in my yearbook: 'We should have gone to Prom together, but you are forgiven - please keep in touch [phone number]) gotta take care of this L thing.  She was tutoring in the morning. The furniture walked right up to her and asked for the Prom date.  She looked as if a non-carbon based alien life form  had just asked her for a blood sample. All she could stammer was "Uh, I guess so."

________________

Date #2

Another sultry early evening May in Colorado. Meaning it would snow less than a week later. A mix of tan Angel Flight, flop sweat, sweat sweat, and Polo by Ralph Loren shows at her door.  No Mom.  Dad and her older sister, just home from UC Davis.  Her older sister was very nice.  Should have taken her to Prom.  Couldn't quite place it, but that prom dress is awfully casual and not in a good way. Anyway, I pulled out all the stops. No limo, just the 1969 Karman Ghia I drove, but I drove it to dinner theater at Heritage Square.  She's just a quiet person I guess, but the food is good and the theater is at least mildly amusing.  Brief panic when I cannot find my wallet.  Fast Times moment at a pay phone inbound, but while I'm thinking who the heck am I going to call with access to my wallet or more (gasp) important my license other than my dad, who will probably just laugh and say 'good life lesson son. figure it out.' there she (the wallet) is in that hidden breast pocket.  I go back to pay the bill wondering what color tan is when it is soaked with sweat, but it is Prom Time.

[jacket3ree]

Monday!  (Monday, Monday)

First period calculus. She'll be there.  She'll usually be in a student lounge ahead of time.  Let's go!

There is K, sitting on a guy named Bruce's lap.  Bruce is a good guy - in our brass quintet. Tuba. I like Bruce. Been to his house to practice dozens of times.  Bruce is K's former boyfriend - they broke up near the end. of. last. year.  Dammit!  K and I talked later.  I wasn't some master jealously plan even if it worked.  Well, maybe I was getting back at him.  So sorry.  We all remained close friends the rest of the year right up to my Ford Ranchero drivin' buddy's graduation party. K was off to (THE) Oxford and I was off to Edgemont, SD as soon as my dad dropped by with a duffle bag and a ride down to skid row and the Trailways depot in the middle of the night.  Everybody's talkin' at me.....don't hear a word I'm sayin'....

In retrospect, we were so very adult about it at the age of 17.  You never forget your first.

Now the interim and how the heck does Laramie come into this?

K is with Bruce, then ultimately another Escort, Todd, also a good friend.  For reasons that cannot be rationally explained, instead of taking S. - a Princeton graduate with a PhD from Columbia who is a best selling author - to Prom (and as she wrote in my yearbook: 'We should have gone to Prom together, but you are forgiven - please keep in touch [phone number]) gotta take care of this L thing.  She was tutoring in the morning. The furniture walked right up to her and asked for the Prom date.  She looked as if a non-carbon based alien life form  had just asked her for a blood sample. All she could stammer was "Uh, I guess so."

________________

Date #2

Another sultry early evening May in Colorado. Meaning it would snow less than a week later. A mix of tan Angel Flight, flop sweat, sweat sweat, and Polo by Ralph Loren shows at her door.  No Mom.  Dad and her older sister, just home from UC Davis.  Her older sister was very nice.  Should have taken her to Prom.  Couldn't quite place it, but that prom dress is awfully casual and not in a good way. Anyway, I pulled out all the stops. No limo, just the 1969 Karman Ghia I drove, but I drove it to dinner theater at Heritage Square.  She's just a quiet person I guess, but the food is good and the theater is at least mildly amusing.  Brief panic when I cannot find my wallet.  Fast Times moment at a pay phone inbound, but while I'm thinking who the heck am I going to call with access to my wallet or more (gasp) important my license other than my dad, who will probably just laugh and say 'good life lesson son. figure it out.' there she (the wallet) is in that hidden breast pocket.  I go back to pay the bill wondering what color tan is when it is soaked with sweat, but it is Prom Time.

[martyup]

[martyup]

[jacket3ree]

"Take me home!"

"I'm sorry?"

"Take me home. I'm done."

"Are you sick? I'm so so....."

"Nope. I'm done. Take me home. now."

"Please."

It is maybe 8 p.m. in bright daylight savings.  The temperature is in the 90s.  Turning from the door shut in my face in a soaked 3-piece tan suit, I weigh my options:

1. Go stag.  This wasn't some teenage movie where two people without dates find true love to '70s Speedwagon.  Stag = loser.  (It would have been awful, frankly.)

2. Go home. 

a.  Tell the truth. Listen to my mother tell me for the next few months I should have taken the girl on the street two doors over because she is gorgeous and you've known her your entire life. Mom, she'll say no. I don't play football or wrestle.  She can't say no if you are the first to ask. What world do you live in Mom?

b. Lie.  She got sick and I took her home. In fact, I'm not feeling great. Going downstairs to spin angry nerd music. That would entail Mr. Costello.  Listen to my mother tell me for the next few months I should have....

I drove home, but instead of making the left off Kipling I kept going.  To Interstate 70. East or West?  East. Am I going to drive around town for the next several hours, avoiding the klieg lights of my Mom? I hit the Mousetrap.  Interstate 25. North or South? North. By the time of probable last dance, I'm in Fort Collins.  I leave Interstate 25 and guided by who knows what, take the backroad rather than go to Cheyenne. Further north across State lines.  Laramie. It is now about 10:30 or 11.  Pull into gas station.  The 65 horses of air cooled majesty need so petrol.  Wearing a sweaty tan three-piece suit, I muscle through the Cowboys and grab a coke. No smiles.

The fresh air has done me well. If I go home now, it will be like I went to Prom and had a good time. Maybe Mom will have passed out waiting. No questions. Clarity.  It's just an a.m. radio and this does not belong on a.m., but the first station I pull in the prairie is playing just the right song. Maybe my lord and savior is just blue toothing it in. A miracle.

I've been run down and I've been lied to.
And I don't know why, I let that mean woman make me a fool.
She took all my money, wrecks my new car.
Now she's with one of my good time buddies,
They're drinkin' in some cross-town bar.

Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I've been tied to the whippin' post.
Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post.
Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'
My friends tell me, that I've been such a fool.
But I had to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin' you.
Drown myself in sorrow as I look at what you've done.
But nothing seemed to change, the bad times stayed the same,
And I can't run.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I've been tied to the whippin' post.
Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post.
Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I've been tied to the whippin' post.
Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post.
Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'

[jacket3ree]

"Take me home!"

"I'm sorry?"

"Take me home. I'm done."

"Are you sick? I'm so so....."

"Nope. I'm done. Take me home. now."

"Please."

It is maybe 8 p.m. in bright daylight savings.  The temperature is in the 90s.  Turning from the door shut in my face in a soaked 3-piece tan suit, I weigh my options:

1. Go stag.  This wasn't some teenage movie where two people without dates find true love to '70s Speedwagon.  Stag = loser.  (It would have been awful, frankly.)

2. Go home. 

a.  Tell the truth. Listen to my mother tell me for the next few months I should have taken the girl on the street two doors over because she is gorgeous and you've known her your entire life. Mom, she'll say no. I don't play football or wrestle.  She can't say no if you are the first to ask. What world do you live in Mom?

b. Lie.  She got sick and I took her home. In fact, I'm not feeling great. Going downstairs to spin angry nerd music. That would entail Mr. Costello.  Listen to my mother tell me for the next few months I should have....

I drove home, but instead of making the left off Kipling I kept going.  To Interstate 70. East or West?  East. Am I going to drive around town for the next several hours, avoiding the klieg lights of my Mom? I hit the Mousetrap.  Interstate 25. North or South? North. By the time of probable last dance, I'm in Fort Collins.  I leave Interstate 25 and guided by who knows what, take the backroad rather than go to Cheyenne. Further north across State lines.  Laramie. It is now about 10:30 or 11.  Pull into gas station.  The 65 horses of air cooled majesty need so petrol.  Wearing a sweaty tan three-piece suit, I muscle through the Cowboys and grab a coke. No smiles.

The fresh air has done me well. If I go home now, it will be like I went to Prom and had a good time. Maybe Mom will have passed out waiting. No questions. Clarity.  It's just an a.m. radio and this does not belong on a.m., but the first station I pull in the prairie is playing just the right song. Maybe my lord and savior is just blue toothing it in. A miracle.

I've been run down and I've been lied to.
And I don't know why, I let that mean woman make me a fool.
She took all my money, wrecks my new car.
Now she's with one of my good time buddies,
They're drinkin' in some cross-town bar.

Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I've been tied to the whippin' post.
Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post.
Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'
My friends tell me, that I've been such a fool.
But I had to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin' you.
Drown myself in sorrow as I look at what you've done.
But nothing seemed to change, the bad times stayed the same,
And I can't run.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I've been tied to the whippin' post.
Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post.
Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I've been tied to the whippin' post.
Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post.
Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'

[martyup]

[martyup]

[bl82]

Permission to continue to digress...

[bl82]

Permission to continue to digress...

[jacket3ree]

Guys. I'll need therapy.....

And now, the rest of the story with a little time shifting, Gabriel Garcia Marquez style.

As I hurtled south out of Fort Collins, le brers providing a reminder than L was in fact a succubus, I quickly realized the mistake and hey at least she did not in fact wreck my car.  I would wreck my car about a week later, going downtown to apply for the aforementioned summer in South Dakota, in the old fields, as an illegal 17-year old demolition expert, but there ain't enough time to tell the many tales of that summer.

Strike that. A Mr. Famer A. Grey from Driving When Way Too Old, Minnesota turned left immediately in front of me.  As the police officer told my dad on scene: "He never had a chance."  We always new the VW defrosting/heat system (open levers and hope some latent heat from the rear-mounted engine would magically de-ice the windshield) was a joke, but apparently so was the clip on seat belt system.  Doctor said it wasn't flying into the windshield that concussed me, but the heavy seatbelt clip hitting me square on the noggin'.  A week later I took RTD downtown and got the job.  So cool! Seismic International Research Corporation.  We will be rappelling out of helicopters in Alaska looking for oil and natural gas.  Oh my luck!  It turns out minimum qualifications were a pulse and stupidity for signing up with Stan's Seismic Circus.  We would be "practicing" in Wyoming for a couple of weeks, then flying to the Great White North. Thus the overnight bus trip to Edgemont.  It was in fact a tax-dodge. Lose money by the fist full. But rather than pay us all hundreds of thousands of dollars, losing money meant skirting safety (I once jumped from the oil-covered bed of a flatbed truck loaded to the gills with dynamite, primer chord, and blasting caps as it rolled over during a tornado), and literally driving trucks into the ground.  I once secured the coveted middle seat for the 90 mile drive home from the Niobrara range back to SD. Coveted over the open back riding oil, Punjars, dynamite, and the mix of sand, gravel, and sage we concocted as some sort of tractive material to avoid daily death.  Good old Fred was driving when the steering wheel came off in his hands.  So we ended our 14-hour shift McGyver-style using the vise grip we found at the bottom of all that oil and sludge.  Fred had enough and declared we would spend triple time hours 18-24 in the Mule Creek Junction Bar.  I was 17.  We were all fired on the spot, but Fred told boss man to watch his back and his wife's something else that night.  Boss man: "Eff you Fred and eff all you effing effers.  Better show up on time tomorrow."  We did not go back to Edgemont that night. We rolled right back into the field to work off hangovers setting off explosives and dodging rattlesnakes.

Rattlesnakes are what I remember most about L. I cannot stress what an idiot I was/am.  Gregg Allman set me straight, but I still asked L to sign my yearbook because back then you signed yearbooks.  She signed it. The book resides on a bookshelf next to my hi fi equipment. I still have it, so this is a direct quote:

"Good luck with your nerdom at the nerdiest school in the world, or so I've heard.  I can't believe you are going to school in the South. That is so insane. So you. Hope no one burns a cross on your lawn.  Watch out for the spiders and snakes.  Best, -L"

So when snake encounter #6705 a mere six weeks after clearing my head in Laramie resulted in a "tag", I figured she had cursed me for life.

Not so - the bite was dry (as they often are when you just sit on the snake when neither party knows what the heck just happened) and freed from the shackles of high school, L, and my mother, I lived that summer with zero baggage. The grocery store clerk was nice and she thought I was some sort of international man of mystery and eventually I hung with an older (and stunning) woman who happened to be an engineer (drove a train and Edgemont was a railroad town) and thought it was hilarious that she could take a 17 year old into bars.  I mean the drinking age in Wyoming was 19 - can't remember South Dakota's, but I looked all of 14. Maybe. Honestly, I think she was sick of being hit on all the time and just like watching jaws drop seeing dork me and a ravishingly beautiful woman in tight sweaters hanging out in b.f. South Kadoka.  "Hang" is not a euphemism for anything nefarious or sexual, by the way. Nothing more than a hug from your big sister. The drilling crew had spent the summer trying to get me laid, but no thanks to what Zappa affectionately called crew sluts. Anyway, the statuesque engineer and I had fun, we shared the same sense of life's absurdity, she taught me how to hold my liquor (I'm 17 remember) and she taught me to make sure not to take guff from any woman because she sure as hell didn't take guff from any dude. At the end of the summer, I needed to take my tanned body and substantial earnings back to Denver to pack up for Atlanta in the fall.  She made good money and offered to pay for a flight from Rapid (City) rather than have to take the bus back, or have my dad drive the 3 hours up and 3 hours back.  Then the kicker.  "I'll go with you."  We sailed Lake Dillon in our boat while my younger brother's eyes never left her bikini. My mother was speechless. My dad winked.  My younger sister just bonded with her.  We left a little mystery.  Lastly, I drove her back to Stapleton.  Saturday or Sunday I can't remember, but it was the weekend.

She:  "Where does that L chick live?"

Me: "Lakewood"

She: "Is it close?"

Me: "Pretty close"

She: "We've got time."

Back at that door.  Afternoon. Hot.  The Engineer is also.....hot.  I figured no one would be there, but damned if L opened the door.  (You guys need a peephole.)  Not really practiced, but man, oh, man, was this the best two minutes ever.

Me: "Oh hey, glad you are home.  I've always felt bad not thanking you for Prom."

L: {nada}

Engineer: "You don't know what you missed honey," planting an embellished adult kiss on my. Totally unplanned. I figured no one was home. Not gonna lie. That was NOT like getting a kiss from your big sister.

L stared, we turned and walked to the car (dad's CJ7 - Levi edition) arm in arm, then laughed all the way to Stapleton.  No goodbye kiss or anything, that's not who we were, but I'm never forgetting the Look on L's face and could care less if she thought that maybe that was a cousin or something.  Statuesque grabbed her stuff and said not to worry about keeping in touch.  Just remember. Never, ever, ever let anyone eff with your heart.  Never saw or heard from her again. Nor L.

And if you should see her
Please let her know that I'm well
As you can tell
And if she should tell you
That she wants me back
Tell her no
I gotta go

[jacket3ree]

Guys. I'll need therapy.....

And now, the rest of the story with a little time shifting, Gabriel Garcia Marquez style.

As I hurtled south out of Fort Collins, le brers providing a reminder than L was in fact a succubus, I quickly realized the mistake and hey at least she did not in fact wreck my car.  I would wreck my car about a week later, going downtown to apply for the aforementioned summer in South Dakota, in the old fields, as an illegal 17-year old demolition expert, but there ain't enough time to tell the many tales of that summer.

Strike that. A Mr. Famer A. Grey from Driving When Way Too Old, Minnesota turned left immediately in front of me.  As the police officer told my dad on scene: "He never had a chance."  We always new the VW defrosting/heat system (open levers and hope some latent heat from the rear-mounted engine would magically de-ice the windshield) was a joke, but apparently so was the clip on seat belt system.  Doctor said it wasn't flying into the windshield that concussed me, but the heavy seatbelt clip hitting me square on the noggin'.  A week later I took RTD downtown and got the job.  So cool! Seismic International Research Corporation.  We will be rappelling out of helicopters in Alaska looking for oil and natural gas.  Oh my luck!  It turns out minimum qualifications were a pulse and stupidity for signing up with Stan's Seismic Circus.  We would be "practicing" in Wyoming for a couple of weeks, then flying to the Great White North. Thus the overnight bus trip to Edgemont.  It was in fact a tax-dodge. Lose money by the fist full. But rather than pay us all hundreds of thousands of dollars, losing money meant skirting safety (I once jumped from the oil-covered bed of a flatbed truck loaded to the gills with dynamite, primer chord, and blasting caps as it rolled over during a tornado), and literally driving trucks into the ground.  I once secured the coveted middle seat for the 90 mile drive home from the Niobrara range back to SD. Coveted over the open back riding oil, Punjars, dynamite, and the mix of sand, gravel, and sage we concocted as some sort of tractive material to avoid daily death.  Good old Fred was driving when the steering wheel came off in his hands.  So we ended our 14-hour shift McGyver-style using the vise grip we found at the bottom of all that oil and sludge.  Fred had enough and declared we would spend triple time hours 18-24 in the Mule Creek Junction Bar.  I was 17.  We were all fired on the spot, but Fred told boss man to watch his back and his wife's something else that night.  Boss man: "Eff you Fred and eff all you effing effers.  Better show up on time tomorrow."  We did not go back to Edgemont that night. We rolled right back into the field to work off hangovers setting off explosives and dodging rattlesnakes.

Rattlesnakes are what I remember most about L. I cannot stress what an idiot I was/am.  Gregg Allman set me straight, but I still asked L to sign my yearbook because back then you signed yearbooks.  She signed it. The book resides on a bookshelf next to my hi fi equipment. I still have it, so this is a direct quote:

"Good luck with your nerdom at the nerdiest school in the world, or so I've heard.  I can't believe you are going to school in the South. That is so insane. So you. Hope no one burns a cross on your lawn.  Watch out for the spiders and snakes.  Best, -L"

So when snake encounter #6705 a mere six weeks after clearing my head in Laramie resulted in a "tag", I figured she had cursed me for life.

Not so - the bite was dry (as they often are when you just sit on the snake when neither party knows what the heck just happened) and freed from the shackles of high school, L, and my mother, I lived that summer with zero baggage. The grocery store clerk was nice and she thought I was some sort of international man of mystery and eventually I hung with an older (and stunning) woman who happened to be an engineer (drove a train and Edgemont was a railroad town) and thought it was hilarious that she could take a 17 year old into bars.  I mean the drinking age in Wyoming was 19 - can't remember South Dakota's, but I looked all of 14. Maybe. Honestly, I think she was sick of being hit on all the time and just like watching jaws drop seeing dork me and a ravishingly beautiful woman in tight sweaters hanging out in b.f. South Kadoka.  "Hang" is not a euphemism for anything nefarious or sexual, by the way. Nothing more than a hug from your big sister. The drilling crew had spent the summer trying to get me laid, but no thanks to what Zappa affectionately called crew sluts. Anyway, the statuesque engineer and I had fun, we shared the same sense of life's absurdity, she taught me how to hold my liquor (I'm 17 remember) and she taught me to make sure not to take guff from any woman because she sure as hell didn't take guff from any dude. At the end of the summer, I needed to take my tanned body and substantial earnings back to Denver to pack up for Atlanta in the fall.  She made good money and offered to pay for a flight from Rapid (City) rather than have to take the bus back, or have my dad drive the 3 hours up and 3 hours back.  Then the kicker.  "I'll go with you."  We sailed Lake Dillon in our boat while my younger brother's eyes never left her bikini. My mother was speechless. My dad winked.  My younger sister just bonded with her.  We left a little mystery.  Lastly, I drove her back to Stapleton.  Saturday or Sunday I can't remember, but it was the weekend.

She:  "Where does that L chick live?"

Me: "Lakewood"

She: "Is it close?"

Me: "Pretty close"

She: "We've got time."

Back at that door.  Afternoon. Hot.  The Engineer is also.....hot.  I figured no one would be there, but damned if L opened the door.  (You guys need a peephole.)  Not really practiced, but man, oh, man, was this the best two minutes ever.

Me: "Oh hey, glad you are home.  I've always felt bad not thanking you for Prom."

L: {nada}

Engineer: "You don't know what you missed honey," planting an embellished adult kiss on my. Totally unplanned. I figured no one was home. Not gonna lie. That was NOT like getting a kiss from your big sister.

L stared, we turned and walked to the car (dad's CJ7 - Levi edition) arm in arm, then laughed all the way to Stapleton.  No goodbye kiss or anything, that's not who we were, but I'm never forgetting the Look on L's face and could care less if she thought that maybe that was a cousin or something.  Statuesque grabbed her stuff and said not to worry about keeping in touch.  Just remember. Never, ever, ever let anyone eff with your heart.  Never saw or heard from her again. Nor L.

And if you should see her
Please let her know that I'm well
As you can tell
And if she should tell you
That she wants me back
Tell her no
I gotta go

[bl82]

*applause*

[bl82]

*applause*

[M T]

Incredibly good!

I hope you have recorded that in a way that it can be enjoyed by others beyond the Cardboard.  (Perhaps here).

[M T]

Incredibly good!

I hope you have recorded that in a way that it can be enjoyed by others beyond the Cardboard.  (Perhaps here).