Monday, December 31, 2012

My World Ended and Began in 2012

Perhaps in a way the world did end this year just like the Mayans famously predicted.  My world ended and began again and again in 2012.

This time last year, I was alone in a tiny one-room studio and wondering if I would ever escape the San Francisco Street compound that had trapped me for two years after I had arrived expecting to stay six months.

One thing I want to make sure I do in 2013 is always remember that the world can turn on a dime and things can go either way at any time.  In a way, we are all like engineers on a too-fast train, only barely in control of our direction or destination.

So many ironically happy and tragic things happened.  I got out of that little place when a friend offered to allow me to take his lease at a home in South Capitol.  This is one of my favorite parts of Santa Fe because the neighborhood is charming and old and you can walk nearly any where downtown easily.

I happily moved in.  I started a garden and began again with a fresher and better outlook than I had at the New Year.

But life gets complicated and sometimes the gift of a place that had been such a major part of my life for so many years entangled me emotionally and I went through an experience with another person that deeply affected me in a lot of mostly very bad ways.

I had the chance to come here to Zaguan and took it.  And here I am, again with my world changed.  I'm in love with the most wonderful woman I've met.  Unexpectedly and incredibly.  She has changed everything.

And my best friend in the world decided, and did, move to Brooklyn and I have been touched by that, as well.

My writing is changing, too.  I did my first-ever reading here at the Zaguan earlier this December and woke up the next day to take things in a completely new direction and give up on the characters who had carried me for so long through so much.

I had to say goodbye to them - Paul, Greer, William, T.S., Cameo - all of them are going to have to wait until I can come back to them and write the ending of their lives in Santa Fe.

My life as a writer has to go on.  This is far easier said than done, but after going through a long dry spell enhanced by the high of new love, something new finally started coming.  It's a challenge and it's so different that I am unsure of how to move.  But moving is what the story wants to do and I am going to let it.

There is no predicting 2013.  How can I after 2012?

Sunday, December 30, 2012

A Look Back. A Look Forward. A Look Around.

New Year's eve eve, Sunday, night, Santa Fe.

Was 2012 crazy? That sure felt like a wild ride, what happened? Last year I was planning my night on the town, my cousin swung by, took me out for a drink, I had several parties to attend that night, we sat at the bar, she picks the drinks, tequila coffee, nice, I never take my phone but I did that afternoon. It rings, Max, it's Greg, he may have had a mild heart attack, I need you to take me to the hospital.

That was last New Year's Eve, I sat with him in the emergency room, doctors probing and prodding, he was still telling his stories to the nurses and doctors, he was an entertainer. It was the beginning of the end for him, it would be a hellish trip, I am so honored to have been there for him, sure do miss him. I phoned everyone, I'd be spending the night with him.
Well that is how the year started, a few months later I would find him, lifeless, gone. That night was a fucking trip, whew. Then came the phone calls, his friends from all over the country. Making all of the arrangements, taking care of his what's the word, nuts, brother. The landlady, not ever sure about her, Greg's dog, I am not a dog person, his stuff, I was exhausted!  But I did it and after a week in bed I was back on my feet and dammit I had to find some transforming moment where the dearth of death would make me mature, I shouldn't have looked so hard.
Then it was time for the studio, I'll take the summer off from looking for a job, I'll not worry, I'll paint, paint and how did I. Luckily I was able to keep afloat, to enjoy my summer of no one sick or dying, focus, paint, take pictures, have parties, keep my heart and door open. I felt differently, maybe it was my renewed faith, weird, not in a god like thing, faith in a way that let's you relax, don't worry, don't stress so much, fuck it all, paint.
The summer went that way. It was a very productive and plenty of good times had by all. Then Jeff becomes a resident, a writer, how exciting, at the same time the kids pack up and leave, going the the city. Made me think a lot of what it would be like to be going back there, the excitement, the unknown, that feeling that I had over thirty years ago. I can distinctly recall the sensation of being on the plane as we circled the city, I was going to be a star.  Sure I experienced a tinge of wanderlust after Enrique and Angie left, but then I simply felt at peace here. I am not completely satisfied with Santa Fe, but I am never completely satisfied with anything. Except for a good pizza and the company of the people that I love. 
Summer turned to fall, money was scarce, not the first time, but again that landlord thing, don't stress, been doing this for so long now. Look for work, nada, oh whatever, paint. The parties keep happening, Jeff starts dating Tess, suddenly I am surrounded by couples. What the hell? Aren't I a keeper. Yeah maybe if I got out more I might meet someone. Make it a plan, go out Max, you can do it. My record of being single and horny ain't pretty, I did find love, loves of a lifetime, but there were many bad choices in between, surely I have learned something by now. Fall turns to winter, I am an artist, or something like that, funny how it stills feels awkward wearing that badge. Things work out somehow, that faith thing. Then I go and fuck my knee up, been hobbling since that horrid party at Site. Snow falls, the skiers are pleased.
I had another birthday, 51, meh. Things start to settle down here at El Zaguan. Then the faralito party, Christmas, and news that Brenda is flying from our nest. Somehow I have experienced a sort of contentment after this year, not what I would call a shattering experience, but for me it kind of is. I'm happy, ugh I can't believe I just said that. Today Harrison took me to the art store, I have new brushes, paint and paper. We popped into the grocery store afterwards, food enough for days. There is plenty of booze, I really don't need anything right now, it feels good, the kids are fine, there is peace, there is the light of the moon to guide us, my pain is minimal, the dog needs walking.

Here is to all of the best in 2013!

Saturday, December 15, 2012


It's Saturday afternoon in mid December.   The sky is heavy with clouds and more snow is on the way. Winter is making up for being late this year and it's left most everyone here happy and a little relieved.

For some reason, I have been thinking a lot about a passage in "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" by Hemingway.  In it a writer is dying of gangrene and while he is dying in an African jungle campsite he remembers.  One of the most beautiful memories - and one of the finest bits of writing Hemingway ever did - was about skiing in fresh new Swiss snow.

It was snow too that fell all Christmas week that year up in the Gauertal, that year they lived in the woodcutter's house with the big square porcelain stove that filled half the room, and they slept on mattresses filled with beech leaves, the time the deserter came with his feet bloody in the snow. He said the police were right behind him and they gave him woolen socks and held the gendarmes talking until the tracks had drifted over.

In Schrunz, on Christmas day, the snow was so bright it hurt your eyes when you looked out from the Weinstube and saw every one coming home from church. That was where they walked up the sleigh-smoothed urine-yellowed road along the river with the steep pine hills, skis heavy on the shoulder, and where they ran down the glacier above the Madlenerhaus, the snow as smooth to see as cake frosting and as light as powder and he remembered the noiseless rush the speed made as you dropped down like a bird.

They were snow-bound a week in the Madlenerhaus that time in the blizzard playing cards in the smoke by the lantern light and the stakes were higher all the time as Herr Lent lost more. Finally he lost it all. Everything, the Skischule money and all the season's profit and then his capital. He could see him with his long nose, picking up the cards and then opening, "Sans Voir." There was always gambling then. When there was no snow you gambled and when there was too much you gambled. He thought of all the time in his life he had spent gambling.

Of course, there is far more to this than skiing.  It speaks to me because the writer in the story is dying and realizing there is so much he never wrote that he had been waiting to write because he never felt ready.

Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write them well. Well, he would not have to fail at trying to write them either. Maybe you could never write them, and that was why you put them off and delayed the starting. Well he would never know, now.

And I wonder about myself now.  And I realize once again - the sky pregnant and gray with oncoming snow - that everything is fleeting and nothing is on solid ground.  What wind will come and blow me along?  What breeze will come up the great and grand hallway outside my door and point me in a new direction?

I came to Zaguan to write.  But I am not writing.  I came with an empty heart and it was filled and still I cannot write.  I prayed for the snow that's come down like a veil over Santa Fe and got it and I still cannot write.  It's like the beat of a poem is missing in my head.

-Jeff Norris, December, 2012

Sunday, December 9, 2012

The End Is the Beginning

Another Sunday staring at the screen of my laptop and wondering where the words went. Some say you can sit and sit and sit and something will finally come.

Some say this is all about perspiration not inspiration.

Some say writing is something that can be done in any mood on any day.

All true. Maybe. I have never been able to sit down and just do it - just write - and have it come easy. Unless I have the string of a story fully in hand. Then I can do it.

I wonder if the real trick is the story? Of having something actually to say. At what point do you admit to yourself that maybe the story you have been thinking about and semi working on is not the story you should be writing at all.

We had a reading here at El Zaguan a few weeks ago. There was a nice-looking crowd. I read two stories. One was a continuation of a series of stories about the same small group of friends that I have been writing the past four or five years. "The Stream and the Path" had gone through many permutations, the last one being a brutal paring down so it could fit into a five-minute flash fiction idea. It did and it was a good exercise but the cards in this particular game have gone cold.

I read a second story, one from the fall that I had written quickly because it came easily. The emotions that gave birth to it were still raw. The story worked well and was appreciated. It scares me, though, that this might mean I have to write from an emotional point that is unpleasant and basically sentences me to a life of solitude I do not want or at least choose not to want.

The crux of the matter is I know now that it's time to leave that little group of Santa Feans - the made up ones in my story - behind for good or at least a long, long while. They served me well. They got me through my misadventure in New York City and then back in Santa Fe again. They helped me come to terms with the feeling of failure I lived with so long.

I'm going to let them stay frozen where I left them. This decision was not easy. I am haunted by the words of a writer I once dated. She was a real writer - one that made a living off writing and never went to a job and the freedom killing things a job does to the artistic mind. What she said was this: "You can't just not finish writing about these people! You made them up and brought them to life. Not letting them live is like killing them."

She is right, of course, I am killing them. But it's a ritual killing in a way. I need to do this and it's almost religious - they need to die so I can live and move on and find something else to write about.

That particular bridge from there to writing about something else has not been crossed yet. I get older every day. I worry about getting too far away from the impulse to write. Things I need get in the way. Things I wish I did not need do, too.

It's the December the Mayans told us the world was going to end. A few furtive flakes of snow are falling out my window.

Things feel like they are ending and beginning at the same time. I can see the cycle of things and can feel the wheel beneath my hands but I cannot find the beginning or end of it or see where it will turn. I only know it will.  - Jeff Norris, December, 2012.  He may be a writer.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

It Was A Very Good Week For The Residents

 My head has been a little foggy for the past few days, some other allergy or something. The words just ain't pouring from me tonight, I like to write on Sundays. Instead I finally finished the new flower inspired painting, what the hell am I doing? Flowers? These new pieces don't look anything like their subject, they come across as some sort of abstraction. But with the fourth piece completed I think that the small body might make some sense. I want to paint another Indian next. 
 It was my birthday Tuesday, again. Last year was the big 50, you know monumental, this year I was ready to have some bubbly and watch a movie on the computer. Instead the lovelies all showed up, some over-worked and fatigued, some wearing the glow of new love, others with hugs and lastly but not least a delicious fresh homemade cheesecake with a George Washington ornament surrounded by a polite amount of candles. What more could I ask for?
Wednesday I went to the dentist and the new sexy underwear arrived that I ordered online, thanks to one of my delicate patroness. That was on odd day, I didn't get much time in the studio, was also stressed about the rent, but the oral check-up went much better than I had expected, no major problems, knock on George Washington's wood, that and the underwear looks good. 
It seemed like there was a tense dynamic about the show, not only that but during the same weekend we were hosting our first reading as a group of artists who write, and Jeff, our newest co-conspirator calls himself a writer. Well he is a writer and we do all write for the most part, there is only one of us who doesn't do it, but he reads a lot. The boys were telling me to read, Tess was insistent, I had a panic attack, hey why don't I emcee, yeah I've done that plenty of times, the majority agreed after a weird full-moon inspired chain of emailed innuendos. 
Woke up Friday morning with that little dog huffing and puffing, walk me, walk me, walk me, look at me, look at me. I'm dogsitting again for a few days. We walk along the river, it is dry, there has been so little moisture here, weird, warm days, no snow, no tourists. I hear the voices of dead poets along the dusty trail down the street, like the way I used to hear Whitman in Brooklyn. This verse will not get out of my head, returning, repeating, refining. I write it down as the hour approaches, we all expected no one to show up, write refine repeat. Read aloud, over and over. Fine it'll do, ready set go. 
It's showtime, no one is around, we'll just be reading to each other, beer in hand, smile on face, a crowd fills our space, who are all of these people, action. It all turned out nicely, everyone had their fans, the readings done, my role in cement, as per the cowboy. Saturday afternoon we hosted the "opening" for our latest exhibit, again without snow and or maybe this time of year the tourist traffic- pickings were slim, but we all came together as a spirited community, our colony of resident artists, sunny day, an endurance test in self-promotion and all evenly coated with a certain kind of magic.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

The Life of an Artist

Small Jean Genie snuck off to the city
Strung out on lazers and slash back blazers
Ate all your razorswhile pulling the waiters
Talking bout monroe and walking on snow white
New Yorks a go-go and everything tastes nice
Poor little greenie, woo ho
Get back home


Okay so David was the one who would be my first, not Bowie, no that guy that I met at Bloomingdales, we went out a couple of times, he showed me the ropes, treated me like a gentleman, I was charmed and openly vulnerable. Eventually he would play my body like an instrument, harpsichord? I was finally able to open up, to lose myself in the heat of an embrace, he fucked me and I loved it, what a revelation, oh what joy! Of course I thought that I was in love, I was a little I guess. We did have some good times together though, even if it would not last for more than six months, but that was a record for me at that time.

With his help I found a couple of temporary jobs, that since I was fired from Bloomingdales on Christmas Eve. Worked as a coat check at Les Mouches, a very trendy at that time club and restaurant.  That gig would be short lived since the business was going under, drugs and excess I suppose. I did meet some wild people, there is a baton twirler that sticks out in my mind. Saw Kraftwerk when they toured The Robots, and was able to bring a little money home.

The days were filled with walking and wonder, joy and disappointment, the city. I would find my way, finding my way, finding my way back home. When I was with David he would put his arm out, I would put mine on his, you have got to realize that public displays of gay affection were not to be seen or heard of, of course there were the piers and other private places where one could find random sex night and day, I never went, I was terrified of the thought, wanted to go though. We were public, David and I, and if anyone said anything to us he would turn into a Pit bull and tell them to fuck off. Now that I think about it, how romantic it all was, wandering the streets, arm in arm, 1981, he guiding me through the concrete jungle, looking for the  stores that sold record albums, teaching me about Judy, Piaf and Billie, then feeding me in his captain’s bed.  

David’s apartment was tiny, nice but small, part of a massive complex on West End Avenue. His bed on the floor, a futon like thing, where I would wait for him when he went to the Saint, I didn’t know what he was doing there, he was a member, refused to take me. So instead I read his books, Maurice, The Pillar and the City, Bent, playing records, waiting defrosting that pint of Haagen Daz that we would share later.

Emile and I very quickly ran out of money, we were always getting lost on the subway, life was terrifying and brilliant, very different from the home we once knew. We’d eventually find our way back to Queens where food and jobs were scarce, our landlady a drunken nightmare with an abusive boyfriend. The city was dirty, filthy actually. Crazy people roamed alongside others that hid it better, homeless people with fires burning, drunks like me, drug addicts, squatters. Our subway train was parked at the end of the line, the lot filled with brightly colored graffiti masterpieces. Windows were broken out, danger lurked everywhere, don’t look anyone in the eye, people would get killed for that, didn’t stop me though, I was fascinated by the diversity, it made me feel like I fit in somewhere, perhaps even that was some kind of myth.

Emile asked his folks for some money, they loaned him $500, we got by. One month I had to borrow some cash from David to pay the rent, he worked at Pan Am, the call center, it wasn’t much money, he was very nice about it, I never paid him back. We got through those first six months by luck and guile, we were not returning home, not yet and possibly never.

 I would write to mom, letters filled with my fears and excitement, details about my relationship with David, my life with Emile, I didn’t hold back, she never did. I wanted her to know everything. I had no phone, so for the most part we wrote, I read those letters years later, oh my poor momma. Once in a while we’d arrange a collect call from the phone booth that was across from the apartment, practically in the graveyard, those calls would be brief and sad, I cried in many phone booths then.

I went to David’s one night, he had a friend there, an older man. I think that David wanted to have a three way or something, I don’t know just very subtle innuendos. I sat on the floor being ignored playing Billie Holiday on his record player, “you’ve changed.” I wasn’t known for speaking up but I really felt myself compromised, maybe I just wasn’t Gay enough. So I removed myself from the situation and left that night never to return. At that time I just wanted one boyfriend, one person who I could trust and rely upon, I felt betrayed by love and then let myself become swallowed up by the city, she would protect me or spit me out.

Finally finding my way home at dusk after taking the Roosevelt tramway, being stuck there on that island, hearing in disbelief as the conductor announced that it was the last ride of the night, spending what was left in my pocket to ride a bus back to the city, ending up on 14th street at a pool hall with the runs, convinced the guy to give me the key to the bathroom, shitting in the urinal, jumping the turnstile after pleading my case to the toll worker, again letting my bowels loose by a dumpster once back in my neighborhood in Queens, I was home so I rested. It was over. I didn’t have a phone, no computer, no socializing network, David called my Italian neighbor Peter’s phone, the only way to reach me in case of emergency, I had nothing to say, I was silent on my end. Peter made some terrible baked noodle thing to cheer me up. It was just Emile and me again. He had been terribly jealous of David, but one of us had to be the first to date someone else.

David would become my first real stalker. Months later I was back working at Bloomingdales, I convinced them to rehire me, they happened to be looking for someone to work the Herb de Provence department, the woman who was the representative would fly in from France, she looked just like Greta Garbo, showing up in flowing minks, smooth skin, high cheekbones. I told the guy that interviewed me that the store was the best store ever in the history of mankind and I would be so grateful just to be able to apply myself again, all in the honor of our namesake, that plus I had experience in herbs.

So I was happily plying my trade, my managers were great, a guy and a girl, she was a Lesbian who lived in Carroll Gardens, my first trip out there for some holiday party of hers, a once desolate outpost that has since become so hip. The male manager, his name was Rob, both wonderful and kind people to work for, they would let me do my thing because I was a solid employee, one who worked alongside the older Irish guy, that man from Jamaica, Mary who thought that I was a drag queen because I grew my nails long and plucked my eyebrows, the young Black women, Nita who took me the Bronx for a party where we danced to Reggae nearly getting killed on the way home, we all wanted to be something else, somewhere else, all except for Phil, the older Irish guy.

David would show up at my department, sixth floor, what did they call it then? Saw Imelda Marcos during the Philipines promotion, Andy Warhol gave me a copy of Interview, waited on Brooke Shields and Claudine Colbert. David would show up and sit there in my department, staring with a half assed grin, taking notes, I would run to all of my co-workers, that guy is a freak and this is what happened. The managers said that there was nothing that they could do as long as he kept his distance.  The end of a brief love affair.

A couple of years later when I was with Jason, who would be one of the loves of my life, you gotta have more than one, we’d do the Sunday in the City circuit, brunch at the latest place, then the flea market, that street fair, everyone did the same thing, going to the latest restaurant, looking for the cool stuff that you could buy for cheap, walking through the streets without traffic. David would show up unexpectedly, he’d stand there across from some bric a brac filled table, staring with that weird smile on his face.

One day I finally talked with him, I can’t remember what I said, and then he simply disappeared from my life. I wouldn’t see him again for years and years. It was that night, that party that Jason and I threw, we were living in a huge loft in Tribeca, our second place in that neighborhood, rent was cheap, less then a dollar per square foot, we had lots of parties. In walked Scott, I had such a huge crush on him, thought that I was in love, my friends thought that he was in love with me. I would later leave Jason to pursue Scott, that was a disaster.

Anyway that night, what was the theme, I think it was when we had topless male bartenders, maybe, lots of chile, plenty of booze, joints rolled ahead of time, placed throughout the apartment, pot brownies for those who didn’t smoke, was that the night that we drank all of that Opus One?  

Scott walks in, he was the physical opposite of Jason, my heart was on fire, he had a friend with him, it was David! Oh how I played that one, not really sure in retrospect what I was trying to prove, if anything, something about some weird Gay-world type of revenge, even though there was nothing to be vengeful for or about, I guess that I was just happy about what in appearance was my success, my standing in New York at that time, how I went from being that lost boy that once needed guidance to a veritable hostess with a huge apartment filled with friends, my paintings lining the walls.

I don’t know where David is now, I’ve googled him and looked him up on facebook, I guess that I could ask Jason to ask Scott, they’re still great friends.

Monday, November 12, 2012

I Wish I Was a Painter

One of my favorite pages to follow is The Paris Review.  There are constantly quotes from novels or short stories, or poems or little bits about writers.   It's often revelatory and always entertaining.

You can follow it here.

It's a strange thing to be a writer amidst mostly painters.  Openings are made for painters and sculptors and not so much writers, who, by the nature of their passion, hang around a lot and can contribute little more than a ten minute story to what is kindly called a reading.  A reading is more often than not a group of people who been cajoled into hopefully filling a room so you can nervously read them something you have written and hope was worth listening to.

Reading my work out loud is the ultimate testing ground for me and I have found it to be the best editor of all.  But, before you go reading to others, you need to make sure you have read out loud to yourself plenty because failures of rhythm and chronology can pop up like unexpected weeds on a freshly mowed lawn that will soon play host to a banquet - you think you got them all but you didn't.

The other day The Paris Review posted a Frank O'Hara poem that really rang true for me.   I often watch Max and sometimes Billy paint and wish I had the gift of painting.  My girl Tess paints, too, and brilliantly.  So does my friend Scott Parker.  I have surrounded myself with painters and photographers and people who work in mediums more difficult for me to describe.  They are the group I have chosen to live my life with for the most part.

Here is the poem:

Why I Am Not a Painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.

Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg

is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is 
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of

a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a 
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.


Of course, this explains quite well that being a painter and being a writer or actually very much the same.  It's just that one seems to have more to show for it than the other.

I saw a bit from another writer cum painter.  I can't remember his name.  But he said something like this, "Once there were words in front of me when I worked.  I exchanged the words for cadmium yellow."

This is a painting by Joseph Hughes.

I suppose all of this painting intertwined with writing stuff came to me directly from Hemingway, who famously wrote a lot about painting and in particular the paintings of Cézanne.   What he got out of looking at these paintings for what he described as "a thousand times" was called the Iceberg Theory - an image on the surface but the true meaning and depth of the story is hidden.

From Wikipedia: At the time he wrote "Big Two-Hearted River" in 1924, Hemingway became influenced by Paul Cézanne's painting style. In an 1949 interview with Lillian Ross he said, "Cézanne is my painter after the early painters .... I can make a landscape like Mr. Paul Cézanne, I learned how ... by walking through the Luxembourg Museum a thousand times."] He wanted to structure "Big Two-Hearted River" like a Cézanne painting—with a detailed foreground and a vague background. In a letter written to Stein in August, 1924, he wrote, "I have finished two long stories .... and finished the long one I worked on before I went to Spain where I am doing the country like Cézanne and having a hell of a time and sometimes getting it a little bit. It is about 100 pages long and nothing happens and the country is swell. I made it all up".  

I have been trying to learn to write like this for a long time.  Just because Hemingway (and Raymond Carver) did it does not mean no one else can.  It's not hard to get away with it any way since the things Hemingway actually wrote seem to be fading even though the image of the man rings loudly still.

This style of writing takes a long time, which is not conducive to creating what my neighbor, the painter Max Martinez, calls "a body of work".  I believe in this theory that to be any good at all - to be a real writer or painter or poet - you must have a body of work and it must live and thrive and never be discarded but built on.   It's the only thing you will call your own when you draw your last breath.

But it takes a long time to write a story that has much beneath its surface.   A lot must be written and a lot must be left out.  It may seem spare in the end but the fine details of the narrowly examined part of the whole are the real story and more often than not what you started out to write is not what you meant at all.

In December, Zaguán will be hosting its annual holiday show.  I will be reading.  So will Adam Eisman.  Maybe others, too.  We will let you know when.  Bring your trepidation along.  We will make it worth your while.

Jeff Norris, November, 2012.