Category: me

no one of consequence

The Works

Crazy spinning tilt-a-whirl

I got my first job through family connections.

My Sibling. She worked at the nearby–at least in midwest suburban standards–hamburger joint called Burger Chef. The manager, Ken, really liked her alot. There was a shift opening, and she got me in. I don’t think Ken thought that I’d be a hard worker, but since he liked Sib, alot, he took a chance. It wasn’t a big risk. Kids got on and off that store like an amusement park ride, and there was always another 16-year-old needing a first job.

I don’t think that I worked a shift with the Sib. She soon got a school sponsored co-op job at a graphics shop and couldn’t do the hamburger thing. Lucky.

My first day I donned my plastic uniform. It was plastic. Seriously. They made this awful double-knit fabric that was made out of melted straws and drink cup lids. You would pull it out of the washing machine and it would be mostly dry because it wasn’t actually fabric.

It was topped by a crappy brown plastic tunic and crappy brown plastic pants–I guess to hide the stains of a day’s work–with 70’s orange and yellow stripes. Like the worst that the Brady’s would wear.  And then there was the worst cap ever. These days fast food workers wear baseball caps. In those days we wore clown jester hats. Nobody looked good in it. Even Emma Watson wouldn’t be able pull it off. Judge for yourself here.

My training shift was a two hour gig between lunch and dinner rush. Since there was virtually nobody there, the boss could actually spend time telling you what to do.

It was my first day at my first job and I didn’t yet constitutionally hate my crappy brown plastic uniform. I was cheerful and bouncy–like a worker should be, right? Ken showed me how to punch in and gave me my name tag. I toured the back of the house. I had never actually seen a grill or a triple sink before. The walk-in fridge was incredibly impressive. [Ask me sometime what I did when I accidently dumped over the pickle bucket in the walk-in. Be assured I never ate pickles again at that store. Another fun fact, when we were overcome by peeling and slicing onions, we’d go into the walk-in and put our faces next to the fan. Cleared the tears in a minute.]

After the tour, it was time for some actual work. Ken gave me a towel and a bucket with some diluted cleaning solution. He showed me how to wipe down the table and the booths, being sure to sponge the back of the bench as well as the seats.

I methodically worked my way through the dining room. Leaning over to make sure that I did a really good job. I went around the perimeter washing each booth then moved to the bolted down tabletops and twisty chairs. The booths were orange and the twisty chairs were beige and yellow. [Who chose those colors? Papa Brady?]

It probably took me 25 minutes to do a thorough job. Ken was behind the counter, prepping the cash registers or identifying what needed to be stocked for the dinner rush. When I was done, I walked back behind the counter–not gonna lie, it felt cool to cross the line to the back of the house. Boss Man was leaning against the stainless steel expo area and talking to another staffer. I eagerly asked him what I should do next.

He looked at me and surveyed the empty dining room. “Clean the tables.”

I thought he must have misspoke since I had just done that and nobody had sat down in that time. “I just did that.”

“Do it again.”

“What?” I thought. And I am sure that my face was somewhere between are you kidding me and screw you. But he was serious.

He was letting me know that he was the guy in charge and I answered to him. It didn’t matter that the tables were cleaned almost contemporaneously. He was paying me. Paying at below minimum wage, I might add still bitter decades later, because Burger Chef participated in a rip-off program that hired high school students at a lousy wage so they could exploit us even more while we got work experience so we could hop off their tilt-a-whirl.

“I said, go clean the dining room.”

I furiously grabbed my rag and my bucket and with a high level of attitude began rewiping down the tables and chairs. I mouthed and maybe spoke many curse words aimed primarily at my boss. The litany included everything except the F-word, because it was not yet my go-to when spitting vulgar profanities at the injustices of the world.

I was significantly pissed. I could have quit right then and there, I was telling myself. It was so stupid and unreasonable, I complained in my head as I squeezed out my towel. Why did I have to do something that was already done, I blasphemed as I extended my reach to the back of the booth next to the window and wiped again. I hated that stupid weasel-faced Ken with his stupid white shirt with short sleeves and that lame brown tie, those hideous aviator glasses and his awful mousy hair parted neatly on the side when all the guys I knew wore their hair like Jon Bon Jovi if they had curls or Tom Petty if they did not.

Somehow I worked my way around the dining room and my shift was over. I clocked out. I came back the next day and learned the cash register. And that’s how I learned to work.

God, it was awful. I swore I would never ever ever work with food again. That was a promise I kept.

When I left, they were sorry to see me go. They told me I had a future, as a crew chief. That’s the other thing I learned. Don’t go away mad. Just go away.

Now I’m thinking about Ken for the first time as a person. He was in his early twenties–just six or seven years my elder–even though he seemed like an old man when I was sixteen. I’m the old person at work. I hope I’m not so unreasonable. I hope I either advertently or inadvertently grant some valued lessons. And I hope that Ken has had a great life.

Posted on by docthink 1

Too Much Blues

A huge pile of like nine pairs of jeans.

When I was fat, I had too many pairs of jeans.

Not like I had three different sizes in my drawer. I didn’t have the typical menu of fat jeans, jeans jeans and skinny jeans. Wherein the fat jeans were the ones you actually wore, and the jeans jeans are the ones you wore before you got stuck in the fat size and aspire to wear that day after a fast which will be the beginning of getting control over your eating, and the skinny jeans which are totally ridiculous and way past the point of aspirational to the point of downright laughable.

I only had the fat jeans. Just too many of them.

How many jeans can a Doc wear? First, you can only wear one pair at a time. Second, there isn’t much diversity in the style; it’s like five pocket or five pocket. Third, the color variation consisted of blue, blue-black, black-blue and black. And, fourth, if you were lazy and let them all get dirty, you’d end up washing two very large loads of denim and drying them all day.

As I was defatting myself, I didn’t buy interim jeans. This translated, over a period of many months, to pants that began to slip down and were held by my hips, then drooping past my hips until I had to keep hiking them up as they literally fell off my ass.

I got to delay buying jeans over the summer since I don’t wear jeans during swamp season. So, in the fall at the confluence of clothing absurdity and reducing to my goal, I went to Target and bought a cheap pair of new bootcut jeans. They were blue. I know, right?

They were fine, but I wanted a pair of Levis. I bought an olive green pair. About that same time, I loaded up bags of bigger sized clothes, including a shitton of jeans and put the bags on the porch for the nice driver to take to the thrift store.

My dressers and closet were amazingly unstuffed. I wondered why I had so many pairs of jeans (and elastic waist pants and granny panties and t-shirts). Enough!

I bought stuff because it was on sale, because it was a “new season,” because there was a color I didn’t have, because I like that label, because I’m bored and shopping. And because I’ve been programmed to buy via a bombardment of ads featuring skinny models in high heels and a good weave.

I’m over it. I did buy a 3rd pair of jeans to fit in my boots. And that’s it. The new rule is one in and one out. No more retail therapy. Instead I’ll take a walk. To the brewpub.

Beer is my shopping methadone. Hmmmm. Might need to rethink that.

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Tour de DC

Man and Horse sculpture at FTC

Met a friend and her delightfully punky son at the Smithsonian Portrait Gallery last weekend. There was beer. There was space for a crazed toddler with a full nappy to terrorize tourists. There was amazing art. Not all at the same time, though, but parts were concurrent.

After our parley, I gave her a hug and the sweet imp a kiss and exited the museum. I strolled past the Spy Museum even though it was drizzling. My hair didn’t care and it wasn’t too cold. I walked past the Shake Shack to my jalopy, which was expertly parked across the street from that cement monstrosity also known as F.B.I. headquarters.

I foolishly did a u-turn  (“Srsly, Doc! Have you no shame?” you ask. “Right in front of the heat?”) so I could circle the block to Pennsylvania Avenue. I drove away from the White House–that’s about six blocks in the other direction.

Instead I went left and passed the Department of Justice and the Archives. My whip  wheeled past originals of our nation’s founding documents like the Declaration of Independence, The Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. They are just there.

Next on the right is the Federal Trade Commission. I have no idea what they do, but they have an amazing stone statue of a beefy guy trying to tame an even beefier horse. I love this sculpture.

I drive by the Canadian embassy guarded by Mounties on the left and on my right is the National Gallery of Art. The West wing has those beautiful Monets as well as the bronze cast and canvas ballerinas of Degas. Crossing 4th St, I pass the East Wing  of the Gallery where they hang the red and black triangles balanced on the Calder mobile.

Where Pennsylvania Ave merges with Constitution, I see the sometimes infamous U.S. District Court. It’s infamous when there are are dozens of reporters with their satellite sticks jutting in the air like a field of unwelcome windmills in Nantucket Sound.

If I look straight ahead, which really is the right thing to do since I’m driving, I see The Capitol. I’m grateful that it sits at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue because I get to drive and walk by it all the time–even now as it’s covered in scaffolding. It makes me feel so patriotic, so American. Like somehow I’m a founding father. It’s one of the best sites in our beautiful city.

On this trip as I jogged left onto Louisiana Avenue, I see three round blue orbs. The helmets on top of Capitol Police motorcycle cops. All three bikes have sidecars, too. I never see passengers in the police sidecars. Never. There are, however, covers on them. I imagine that they have an arsenal, like Detective Billy Rosewood from Beverly Hills Cop, underneath those hoods. The three follow Louisana Ave to North Cap Street, then they peel off towards the trains at Union Station.

I went up a a few streets then made a right on H Street, behind the station. I took the arched bridge across the tracks. At the end of the bridge is this crazy set of accidents waiting to happen where the new trolley will cross into traffic. The street cars aren’t starting up until next week. No street cars; no accidents; so no traffic jam. Not today.

I made a left at Sixth Street, NE. This is the corner for the new Whole Foods.

I’m on my way to Union Market to stop at the bread guy for tonite’s dinner and at DC Fishwife for tomorrow’s.

As I head up Brentwood Road to home, I can see the blue dome and spire of the Shrine. The same Basilica that Justice Scalia was laid to rest the day before and that we walked to for Easter Mass that time Baby Bear was two and his pants fell down around his ankles as he was walking to the pew. He was likely singing, too.

Welcome to my town. This Sunday drive was all of twenty minutes (including the 5 minutes in the market). Yup. This is where I live.

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Recursive Storm

bunches of beautiful green spearming

You look across the blue cloudless sky. There’s a bit of heaviness in the air, as you’d expect for this time of year.

It’s a pretty blue, both deep and true sky. There’s just a whisper of a breeze. Not a relief from the heavy, but as you’d expect.

Something feels a little off. The hair on your arms becomes attentive. Maybe there’s a murmur of an echo of that broken ankle or a low drone in your right ear.

You shake it off but empty the overfull ashtray on the porch. You don’t put the ashtray back on the table in the middle of the porch.  You put it on the shelf next to the house. You grab the rake and walk it back to the garage, picking up a few empty flower pots on the way. You stack them just inside the garage and put the rake up.

As you walk up the back porch steps, you realize that nobody picked up after that last party. There are beer caps on the table and an empty box that has a deflated bag of ice. Ice gone for months. You put the cover back on the Weber. You moved a chair and see an old crumpled napkin skip across the deck. Looks like the breeze is picking up and the color of the sky is getting deeper. You pull the red and white awning striped umbrella in the house.

Occasional big fat drops bomb the sidewalk and burst on the metal roof. It’s windy now and the sky darkens behind you. You run upstairs and pull the windows shut. Your fingers make sure the latches catch.

You step onto the front porch to welcome the monster storm and as the rain pounds you are sprayed. Flashes of light and crackles of thunder give way to sideways gale and the popcorn of hail.

You see the sky get that sickening color and close the door behind you. Crouch down in a safe place and listen as the freight train tears by above you. As you crawl out, you don’t know what to expect. You peep out to assess the damage. You pause. You’re okay. It’s a mess, but you’re okay. You begin to clean up and move along. It’s over except for the healing, and you beat that storm.

The weatherman tells you that the further you get from the disaster, the less likely it is to recur. It’s been two years, he said. Five is the magic number. See you in six months.

And this is where my analogy breaks down. It doesn’t totally work.

You are disquieted at the reminder that the danger is both random and maybe even brewing.  After you leave, you find yourself scanning the sky again for the portent. You will carefully search the sky for the next few days and then, hopefully, right a few picture frames and plant some mint.

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Sweet Dreams

sleeping dog lie

I had a hard time falling asleep last night.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I was reading a book* on the couch from about 10:30 p.m. to 1 a.m. when I woke up realized I was thirsty and that I needed to brush my teeth.

Boosted by post-nap energy, I watched funny videos with The Big Guy on his phone. We then groaned through that Buzzfeed list about why we need to burn down the Internet. Short answer, the person tweeting about their 80HD and the other person gay bashing because Rosetta Stone didn’t sit on that bus for nothing. Think about that.

So after doing enough Internet to feel very superior, I went up to bed.

I usually fall asleep within approximately 32 seconds of my head hitting the pillow. Last night, it was closer to ten minutes. That’s a hard time falling asleep for me. (Don’t hate insomniacs. You have other gifts.)

In those ten minutes I decided what to wear to work and what to have for breakfast so I could be super efficient and jump out of bed without hitting snooze and take the dog for a good morning walk. I spent the night with some weird dream about being on a train and having to balance luggage while carrying my friend’s sweet baby. Let’s not try and interpret that one.

The alarm fired about four hours after I fell asleep. I leaned over to turn it off.  You have to swipe right to turn it off, or you have to tap to snooze. I accidentally tapped and at that moment someone put an arm around me so I snuggled back in. Totally not my fault.

The other alarm in the room tripped and the arm de-enveloped. My cue to get up. I was thinking that the arm would have coffee waiting for me if I stalled. I closed my eyes and sank a little lower under covers.

Pop went the snoozed alarm and it’s time to get up for real. I sat up.

I did my lazy technique of making the bed. You can avoid walking all around the king size bed to straighten the sheets if you sit in the middle. From this position you can pull the sheets up and shake them out so the bed is just about made. Super efficient.

I started pulling up the sheets. I moved the pillow next to me. It was still warm from the arm. I put my head on the warm spot and thought about that nice strong arm. I fell back to sleep. The dog missed his long walk.

* This is a common euphemism for falling asleep downstairs.

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Mockingbirds

a sample of a format for a handwritten paper

Dear Miss Harper Lee,

I know you’re dead, and therefore unlikely to read this, but I write it nonetheless, because it’s a letter not just to you. You are welcome to read it, though, if that is such a thing given your current state.

I wanted to thank you for my favorite teacher, Mr. Davidson. He loved your book so so so so very much. He made me love it, too. I bet he made other students feel about it, as well.

He taught us the word empathy via your story. I remember that day. I was at Carter Jr. High School.

He was a beloved teacher who tragically lost his young wife who I think also taught at the school. I knew that his wife died because there was a memorial to her in a glass enclosed garden at the school. I don’t know when it happened. It was before my time there, and as a 12-year-old anything 3-4 years prior was the equivalent of olden days. Also this was just something we “knew” and didn’t ask questions about at that time. Like Scout knew some things she just knew.

This is just background, though, because this thing we “knew” was just, you know, background. I don’t have any inkling if he was a different teacher before, since I didn’t know him before.

He didn’t bring his personal loss into the classroom. But, as you wrote, we all bring all of us into every interaction. I’m sure it impacted him, and therefore us, but that’s something I didn’t realize until many years later.

Yes, I still think about this English teacher who taught me to walk around in someone else’s skin before passing judgement (or was that you?). Trying to understand someone doesn’t make what they do “right,” but it acknowledges the other’s humanity, and that makes us more human, too.

I was a bratty smarty pants–not as smart as Hermione Granger but equally annoying. I would read ahead and do my assignments ahead because I was engaged. The class slowed me down. I bet my class participation included spoilers. Mr. Davidson let me write my final paper early. Then he had to do something with me as the class plodded through your novel.

He gave me my first book of poetry to read and sent me off on independent study in the library. I was to write a paper about Edna St. Vincent Millay. I didn’t realize at the time that he was encouraging me to keep my own independence and follow my dreams. Something else I realized many years later when I reread her and about her.

When he handed me back my paper, he looked at me very seriously. Me, Hermione Granger-esque, figured that I was in for it. I really didn’t understand poetry, and maybe I misinterpreted like everything.

He apologized to me.

He said that he was sorry that he was unable to challenge me enough. I heard this at the same time I saw the A+ on the top of the page.

I learned right in that moment that it wasn’t enough to do well or even excellently. Although that remains an ambition. In that exchange, I learned that it was important to stretch yourself as much as you can and to seek out people who will make you reach.

A few years later, I was in the high school gym watching a basketball game. Mr. D. was there and I hadn’t seen him for a long time (3 years which had become less like “olden days” but still a long time). I don’t recall the specifics of the dialogue, but I do remember what he said at the end.

He admonished my high school cynicism–translated to 2016 that would be the unending teen irony. He also told me that a cynic is simply an idealist. In that sentence, he created a space for me to be both.

I finally met up with Mr. D. in his office at the school three or four years ago (which in today’s time frame seems like just yesterday) after decades apart. I thanked him in person for his encouragement that I still draw down from. It wasn’t enough, but I brought him a coffee and a donut.

Thank you, Miss Harper Lee, for being a connector. And for your wonderful book.

Your loyal reader,
Doc Think

 

Posted on by docthink 1

Ever After?

old fashioned bride and groom cake topper

My parents didn’t go to my Sib’s wedding.  Mom boycotted and Dad wasn’t crossing her pickett line.

I’ve always given Dad a bit of a pass on this, holding Mom more accountable in this ugliness. Because it’s ugly when parents don’t show to a child’s wedding.

The entire scenario had many missteps that played themselves out in the worst ways possible. A secret romance, an inability to tell the secret, and a toxic build up of resentment and expectations and disappointment. I’m not quite sure that there was ever an actual invitation. But everyone knew.

I was assigned the making of the meatballs. I had finals that week and the following week. My Sib asked for a couple hundred of my “famous” meatballs. Really not famous other than it was one of the things I could cook. It was literally the least I could do, so since not much was asked, I made the meatballs.

I was a broke student. I didn’t have any dress clothes that weren’t a costume.  I borrowed my friend’s dress. It was a simple heavy cotton t-shirt fabric with a boat neck and green and pink and yellow stripes. It was as dressy as we could find. It wasn’t my best look. (I never returned the dress. I never wore it again, either. It hung in my closet for years.) I did have some pretty shoes, though.

My boyfriend and I drove the VW Superbeetle into town. I think we went right to the church. We helped a little with the set up. Warming up the meatballs. Setting out some favors. Not much. My Sibs, the one who was getting married and the one that lived at home with her and the parents who were not scheduled to attend, and the bridesmaids did most of the lift.

This is my memory and my story, and I know that I don’t have many of the details. I was busy and self-absorbed and living away. The main story is not mine.

Others can likely remember with more clarity and more particulars and much more flavor. Others experienced their own feelings–their own sadness and incredible joy. But I mostly remember two things.

We sat in the front row, on the bride’s side of the church. It wasn’t our church. I’m not sure it was the groom’s church, but it was a church. I sat in the row with my Other Sib and our respective boyfriends. Nobody else from our family attended. Not one of my father’s eight siblings or their families. Not one of my mother’s six siblings or their families.

My Other Sib and I were pretty sure that Dad would come. We were definite that Mom would remain absent. But Dad wouldn’t let his daughter down. We waited in our seats and our Sib appeared at the back of the church. She had a pretty ring of flowers, a crown, in the curls of her hair. Still no Dad.

She was on the arm of some short old man that we had never seen before. He was spry enough. I guess this stranger was going to give my Sib away. It really should be Dad. I exchanged glances with the Other Sib who was having the same thought.

I guess there had been music the entire time, but I didn’t notice until this weird little guy was walking my Sib down the aisle. I looked beyond them to the door of the church. This is the time when the man who belongs there walks in and takes her arm and does his job and there are tears of joy and relief that all is well.

Instead I was standing there like Princess Buttercup in the Princess Bride. When she believes that she was married and her true love did not come and save her.

CUT TO: BUTTERCUP standing there. Dazed.

BUTTERCUP: “He didn’t come.”

He let my Sib down. He let us all down. He was supposed to come and save our hearts from breaking. Instead they felt trampled, even as my Sib was saying her vows. He didn’t come. There was no Hallmark moment.

But it was still a wedding. A time for dancing and drinking and meatball eating. There was a lot of food in addition to my two-hundred homemade meatballs. There was garter throwing and bouquet tossing (this was the beginning of my streak of 5 catches). And at the end of the night, we helped clean up. 

The Other Sib’s boyfriend was the D.J. for the night. One guest was especially stewed and didn’t want the evening to end. She kept requesting one song again and again in her drunken slur.

Turn the Page.

Turn the Page.

Turn the Page.

Turn the Page.

That’s the other thing I remember. Turn the Page.

After the sweeping and storing, I kissed my Sibs goodnight, and me and my boyfriend got back into the Beetle and drove back to school.

 

 

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Tea Time

hydrangea. blue ones. from my yard.

I started writing a post this morning. It was shaping up well. I was working on descriptive writing.

I had an intellectually full day today and came home to warm up leftovers. I was planning on finishing that post.

I looked for tonite’s debate. And then I got a headache. It’s too hard to be creative. So this is all I’m writing today. This meta post about writing. Or more like about not writing. It is still a post. It still counts.

I’m going to have some chamomile tea. And an Advil.

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Stars in Reach

Pegasys constellation. In the sky.

My astronomy TA was a really nerdy guy. At least to a few of us political science/history type undergrads taking a summer class to fulfill distribution requirements. One short class looking at the stars, and we had three natural science credits including lab toward that bachelors’ of the arts degree.

I’m sure the TA had one of those classically 60’s name like Steve or Dave or Mike. He would never go by Steven or David or Michael, and certainly not Caleb or Liam.

Steve?Dave?Mike? had oversized heavy aviator glasses that barely held his thick lenses in place and not-on-purpose disheveled hair. The most remarkable thing about him–and remark about this we frequently did–was the embroidery on the back pocket of his jeans.

They were constellations.

We found that amusing in that snarky, look at the nerd way.

We had class in the morning twice each week. Sometimes class would be in the planetarium so we could study the location of the stars in the sky. We learned by looking at the ceiling filled with an image of the sky filled with stars.

Steve?Dave?Mike? would point to different groups of stars and in the dark as we leaned back to look at the “sky” he told us stories. Stories about Pegasus, the great winged horse (see the big box there?), and about Cepheus (that house over there), and his wife Cassiopeia (the “W” on the other side of the sky) trying to protect the maiden, Andromeda (less distinctive, but you can see that line on the horizon).

Sweet Steve?Dave?Mike? was an astrophysicist kindly sharing his love for our universe with us not worthy of what he knew. He’d take us out on the roof at 9:30 pm (the sun sets late during a Michigan June). He’d set up the telescopes so we could see the moons of Jupiter. It was remarkable and humbling.
I fell in love with the sky.

I still look at the stars to pick out the belt of Orion. I squint to see the stars of Draco between the Little Dipper and it’s Big Dipper sibling. I follow the permutations of the moon and text my family when it is especially noteworthy.

I remember the time I first saw the Milky Way on a moonless night far away from the light pollution of the city. And shooting stars. And sometimes when my family is away from me, I’ll look to the sky and take comfort that they can see the same stars.

We found out that his wife held the needle and thread and stitched the stars on his jeans. This was shocking to us twenty-year olds because the only people we knew who were married were our parents. He had a wife, someone who loved him. And we loved him a little bit, too.

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Homecoming

This week is Homecoming Week for the 16-year old. Today he got to dress like a Bama. So he wore the oddest conglomeration of clothing, primarily consisting of layers of mismatched crap. (Although I do admit surprise to see the T-mac* jersey as the top layer, but this is a digression.)

Also this week, I drove past my old high school, a bunch of times. And for the first time since I graduated, I almost stopped to see what it looked like. It didn’t have a football field when I was there. We had to rent from the other school. But we did have fun at those Friday night games! When I was there, kids and teachers would huddle around the exit doors–smoking cigarettes. I bet that there aren’t ANY teachers bumming a Newport off of a student these days.

When I was there, me and M.P. used to skip first hour and hang out at the Bicentennial Family Restaurant. Drinking coffee and avoiding a VERY dull class. When I was there, we didn’t have AP classes. I was invited by my “college prep” English teacher to sit for a test that could get me college credit. But it cost a bunch of money, and there were no guarantees. I did learn, a few months later, that my college classmates had earned tons of college credit from these AP tests. Shoot, the SAT was a big enough deal, even for me.

When I was there, I had a fight with my social studies teacher who threw me out of class for insisting on fairness in his grading of a test. I only agreed to go out on “independent study” if I could bring 3 of my cronies with me. We obsequiously studied the history of film and were only thwarted by our teacher’s inability to pick up the AV on his way in.

As I drove by the school, I thought about stopping in. But then I just kept driving.

*if you do click here, let the song load.

(c) 2005-2016 Doctor of Thinkology. Some rights reserved under Creative Commons License.
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