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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Long time friends of the decanter will know that ol’ Robbo usually puts out a post some time in late July bemoaning how burnt out he is and how he hopes that his upcoming summah hols will recharge him.
For some odd reason, I’ve no inclination to put up that post this year.
I am burned out, in fact. I’ve been working like a dog on this project that just finished for about 15 months now (indeed, I missed my summah hols last year altogether because of it). I’ve also got all kinds of cares on the home front to wrestle with. (Don’t worry, they’re nothing out of the ordinary for a responsible family man in his 50’s, but they’re draining nonetheless.)
Perhaps the big difference is that, at least so far as Ol’ Robbo has seen, we’ve been blessed with a relatively temperate summah so far here in the neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor. This was capped off by a gen-u-ine cool front that rolled through here over the weekend, bringing positively September-like conditions for a few days. (I’m sure that Big Climate will condemn this observation utterly and insist that we are STILL on the path to Mother Gaia being burnt to a cinder because I won’t listen to my betters and resist switching out my lightbulbs for LED alternatives. Or something. Because shut up.)
Well, I guess maybe this post is that post after all, but I still say there’s something different about it all this year.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ever have a book which you genuinely dislike, yet you still feel compelled not only to read it but to reread it? My personal gremlin is Jeff Shaara’s The Last Full Measure. It continues to bother the hell out of me (whatever the arrangements might have been) that he lifted the entire concept – story, style, language, and all – straight off his father; the book’s way too long-winded; and if I had a quarter for every time he mentions “the screams of the wounded”, I’d be a very rich man.
And yet, even though I’ve already read it four or five times, I tossed the damned thing into my bags when I went away on my recent trip, I’m now to the point where Grant is just investing Petersburg, and I know for a certainty that I’m going to feel compelled to finish it yet again.
I believe psychiatry has a term for this kind of behavior.
At least I’ve reached the point of familiarity where I can skim over great chunks without any sense of guilt or loss, but still……
Anyhoo, the good news is that I will be seeing my brother on my upcoming hols and he is promising to bring along a fist-full of Ian Fleming’s 007 novels. I’ve never read any of them (although I heard a portion of Dr. No on tape years and years ago), and am quite looking forward to trying them out.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo is once again posting from the comfort of Port Swiller Manor’s back porch, a nice big cup o’ kahfeh at his side on this gloomy Saturday morning, after getting back yesterday afternoon from his nearly two weeks on the road.
Thank Heaven.
And what was ol’ Robbo doing all that time, you may ask? Why, he was first chairing a bench trial in federal court out west, that’s what. Last week, we put nearly 900 miles on the rental car roving hither and yon to prep witnesses, and then this week we had the actual trial. (No news on the results likely for another couple weeks, but we were pretty pleased.)
Ol’ Robbo’s braims don’t yet seem to have come to the realization that it is all finally over and done, as I kept having dreams last night about the next witness we need to call.
In the course of things, Ol’ Robbo managed to pick up a very nasty head cold which quickly got into his ears and lungs as well. I spent so much time hacking and gasping this week that the judge himself remarked on it, albeit sympathetically, and the clerk practically buried me in cough drops and kleenex. (The court reporter told me that this sort of thing happened a lot in their court, apparently as a result of the combination of stress-induced exhaustion and high altitude.)
In a way, the sickies actually helped me out, insofar as yesterday when we flew home, we landed in the middle of a thunderstorm. All the way down from the point of our initial descent, we bucked and pitched all over the place. Under normal circumstances, I would have been in something close to heart-attack mode, but I was just too tired and miserable to give much of a damn anymore, so I calmly kept working on my crossword (or at least staring at it blankly) even as people around me were grabbing on to the seats in front of them to keep from being pitched about too much. (Although once, after a particularly violent lurch, I did mutter, “Next time, Jack, write a goddam memo!”, much to the bewilderment of the woman sitting next to me. (Spot the quote.)
Also, the change in pressure coming down caused me to go something close to stone-deaf, giving me a wonderful sense of detachment from the whole biznay. That’s the key to controlling fear, by the bye. You can’t be afraid of something that doesn’t engage your attention.
Now here’s something I didn’t know: Just after we landed, lightning bolts started coming down all around the airport. As a result, they wouldn’t let us come in to the jetway, but made us loiter around for about 45 minutes on the tarmac. Apparently, although the plane itself and the main terminal are safe enough, a lightning strike on a jetway is bad biznay for anyone who happens to be in it, so there is a “rule” that they have to wait 10 minutes after the last bolt before letting anyone on. (That’s what the pilot said. Nonetheless, just after they opened the hatch and people started filing out, there was a hell of a bang nearby. We kept exiting nonetheless. Go figure.)
Aaaaanyhoo, it’s good to be home again. There’s a country song from the ’90’s called “Just Another Day in Paradise” – I’m too lazy right now to look up the singer – which “gets” the particular “felicity of unbridled domesticity” in all of its manifestations. And so it is here: When I got home in the middle of said driving thunderstorm, the driveway was flooded and water was getting into the basement again. Half the first floor lights don’t seem to be working (despite my ardent flipping of circuit-breakers last evening). Eldest Gel was in her usual sass mode. Youngest Gel was in her usual too-noisy mode and had chosen that evening to have a friend sleep over. I had to kybosh Middle Gel’s plan to drive down to King’s Dominion today because the weather threatens to be as bad as yesterday. The dog was barking at shadows. The cats were fighting each other for the right to jump into my lap. Mrs. Robbo, fearing infection, booted me on to a downstairs sofa for the night.
And I smiled.
It’s also lovely (although strange) to have nothing in particular to do, for once. The only item on Ol’ Robbo’s agenda today is to retrieve La Wrangler from the shop where she’s been having her rear differential rebuilt. Otherwise, I intend to do nothing but chill.
Oh, and some good news? Ol’ Robbo’s long-awaited summah hols start this Friday! (I missed vacay entirely last year due to this same case.) We’re headed back to Maine, which I haven’t seen in three years, there to have a Robbo Clan Reunion. Can’t. Wait.
UPDATE: Yep, I’ve definitely put on my “Dad” hat again.
Fixed the lights. It was the circuit breaker after all, but it was only this morning that I remembered what an electrician had once told me. The proper way to make sure a tripped circuit really re-engages is to flip it off, wait about five seconds, and then go: On……Off……ON!
Phil Vasser (or possible Vassar) is the name of the fellah who’s song I reference above. Rascal Flatts (whom I dislike) also did a song on a similar theme around the same time, as did somebody else who’s completely escaped my memory. I’ve long had the suspicion that Nashville songwriters keep an eagle eye out for what themes sell and then quickly try to get their own version up in order to get in on the profits. This has probably been true of artists since the Dawn of Civilisation.
Picked up La Wrangler. The horrible noise is gone, and she seems steadier on her pins, but it’s going to take a couple days of re-acclimation for me to finally decide if her overall ride is improved, since, as I say, I’ve spent the past two weeks cruising about in a tricked-out, comfort-heavy SUV.
By the way, I mistakenly referred to our rental last week as a GMC Yukon. It wasn’t. Instead, it was a Chevy Tahoe. Very nice drive, but it reminded me of those awful Chevy commercials on the tee-vee these days with that nasty little Beta-boy pretending he’s Mike Rowe or somebody and trying to hang with the Bro’s and talk Truck with them. Is anyone else put off by that, or is it just me? (And I say this as a 5’10”, 160 lb., desk-jockey whose work with his hands doesn’t usually go beyond yard maintenance and minor home repairs. It’s the pretense that bugs me.)
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo has spent the last three days logging something not far short of 800 miles in the rental car as he passes hither and yon across the landscape on his biznay. This time around, I find myself driving a tricked out, new model GMC Yukon. (There are four of us and we have a lot of stuff.)
The thing contains a number of features Ol’ Robbo has never encountered before, including some kind of sensor field that causes the driver’s seat to vibrate if the car thinks you’re drifting out of your lane or are about to back into something.
I can kinda, sorta see the benefits of such a feature, especially with a beast the size of a Yukon.
What I can’t see is the new semi-autonomy of some of the controls. For instance, skirting through scattered storms this week, the thing would suddenly announce “rain conditions detected” on the dashboard and start turning the damned windshield wipers off and on all by itself. Ditto the headlights.
This bothers Ol’ Robbo to no end. A machine is supposed to do what I tell it to do, not the other way ’round.
Another weird feature: Yesterday afternoon on the way back home, the center readout suddenly flashed out a fairly longish text that I couldn’t read at just a glance. On a long, straight stretch of highway, I finally got a chance to focus on it. “Danger,” it said. “Do not attempt to read long texts while driving. Such distractions are hazardous.”
Was this some kind of sick joke?
By the bye, Ol’ Robbo can tell you one thing here and now: I will never, ever, under any conditions whatsoever, get into a so-called “self-driving” car. If I can’t control where it goes and when, I want no part of it whatsoever.
Do these designers not realize that Skynet was supposed to be a warning, not a “how-to”?
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
As promised, Ol’ Robbo made himself bring along his laptop on his current biznay trip, and so I am now posting for the very first time here from the comfort of my hotel room.
Ain’t technology wunnerful.
We were chatting with the clerk while we checked in this afternoon. Without completely giving away my location, this town is right in the bulls-eye for the big solar eclipse that will move across the United States next month.
The usual rate for this place is $91 per night.
Know what they’re charging for that week?
$1100 per night. And they’re booked solid.
So is everyone else.
Apparently, a lot of locals are also renting out their houses for the event – and charging similarly primo, not to say, ridiculous rates.
The other clerk told us that somebody even called him seven years ago to see if they could book a room that far in advance so as to catch the festivities. (The answer was no, apparently.)
Who knew a total eclipse was such a thing?
(Apparently, we’ll get about a 75% eclipse in the Port Swiller Manor neighborhood. That’s plenty for me.)
Greetings, my fellow port swillers! Ol’ Robbo finds himself lazing on the back porch of Port Swiller Manor this Sabbath, contemplating the cat sleeping opposite me and getting somewhat sleepy myself as a result. Just a few thoughts to keep the braims cranking over:
♦ First thought is that, considering it’s already mid-July, Ol’ Robbo is really rather lucky to be able to sit out like this in comfort. We had dinner on the porch last evening too, and it was quite pleasant. (I’m sure the Meteorological Community will tell me this is all in my own head, 2017 is in fact shaping up to be the Hottest. Summah. EVAH!, and we all know who’s fault that is.)
♦ On travel this past week, Ol’ Robbo walked into a hotel with two of his biznay colleagues and beheld a sign by the registration desk that read, “Welcome, BLM”. “Black Lives Matter?” I said, “Why would they want rioters? Oooh, that must be Bureau of Land Management.” (This was out West.)
My colleagues were……shocked. Oopsies!
♦ So it seems that the Beeb announced today the 13th Doctor of the long-lived “Doctor Who” series and it’s……a woman. Middle Gel, who is the big Whovian of Port Swiller Manor, is less than impressed with what she considers to be a pure casting stunt. If the Gel is any straw in the wind to go by, this won’t end well. (And lest you think Ol’ Robbo has some kind of problem with the concept of female Time Lords (or, more properly, Time Ladies) in and of themselves, I’ve got two words for you: Lalla Ward. Mmm, mmm, mmm…..)
♦ We had a handyman out yesterday to finally fix up the breakfast room ceiling, in water-stained tatters for months owing to the umpteenth overflow of the gels’ bathroom potty directly above it. This was a new guy for us, recommended by a friend, and I’m here to tell you that it was a revelation to me. I expected him to take most of the day banging and stamping about, but he had the whole job done, painted, and cleaned up in two hours flat. (And he charged about half what our regular people had quoted us.) I asked him about his speed. “Yeah,” he said, “We get a lot of calls from people having parties that evening and needing things to be fixed fast, so we just sort of developed this technique.”
Impressive. Most impressive.
♦ Not so impressive was the way the next door neighbor dealt with a 3 to 4 inch diameter branch that had fallen out of one of the maples out front when he was mowing his yard yesterday: He simply drove right over the damned thing. Cut it to match-sticks (as it was quite rotten). Now, Ol’ Robbo is hardly the kind of fellah who wishes ill on anyone, but by all rights this neighbor should have had his blades bent back about 90 degrees from pulling such a silly move. (He drives over things all the time with impunity. Why his mower hasn’t died a thousand deaths already, I simply don’t know.)
Whelp, I suppose I should be be-stirring myself, as it’s almost the cocktail hour and this is my last evening of freedom for the next two or three weeks (during which time I probably will post very little, by the bye). I’ve organized a little family movie night for later – either “Megamind“, which I’ve seen and like a lot, or “Monsters University“, which I haven’t seen but heard good things about. (And I recall liking the original.) I’ll let you know later how it all turns out.
UPDATE: Went with “Megamind”. A good choice, even though Ol’ Robbo doesn’t think much of the cynical tone of the movie or of most of the vocal talent involved. It’s still pretty entertaining and a good time was had by all.
Oh, and what was really weird? Saying to the Elder Gels just before putting in the DVD, “Oh, by the way, can one of you pick me up at the Metro tomorrow evening? Thanks!”
Yep, I’ma gettin’ old.
Oh, BTW, I determined this evening that I’m going to bring my personal laptop along on my biznay trip, so hopefully will keep up the blogging. Just so you know.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Those two or three of you who have been following the saga of the aches and pains of Ol’ Robbo’s beloved Jeep Wrangler may be interested to know that I took her into the shop this morning, reporting to the fellahs there that I thought there was a problem in the front end because of jittery steering and a howling noise I thought was coming from the right front wheel.
Whelp, this afternoon, the shop gave me a call: Nope, they said, nothing wrong with the front end. They’d taken La Wrangler out for a spin themselves, listened intently to the noise, and diagnosed that a bearing was going, in fact, in the rear differential. Bottom line? Ka-ching! Ka-ching! Ka-ching!
In the immortal words of Tom and Ray, “Aw, Jeez!” **
This evening, I came across this article about rear differential noises. From my own observations, it seems to fit the case here, at least to the point where I figure the service wallahs aren’t trying to rip me off:
There are various situations which can create rear differential noise. For example, howling of gears is a sure sign of wearing. If you notice that the howling noise only occurs during deceleration, then it is a good indicator that the pinion-bearing preload has loosened.
Howling under acceleration at various speeds, however, indicates that the gears are already worn out or are out of alignment or depth with each other. If rear differential noise occurs while accelerating the car only at a certain speed, it is likely because the gears have become worn due to overloading and lubrication failure. If your gears are newly installed and still create a howling noise, double-check its preload and make sure that the teeth are properly aligned.
Rumbling and whirring noises at speed over 20 mph, moreover, can be the result of worn carrier bearings. For vehicles with C-clip axles, the rear differential noise may change at different turns. Generally, worn out pinion bearings can create whirring noises at various speeds, be it may during deceleration and/or acceleration. If the pinion bearings are the problem, they create more of a whirring noise than a rumble because it turns several times faster than the carrier assembly. Regular clunking every few feet can also be an indicator of a broken pinion gear and/or chipped and damaged ring gear.
Overly worn out bearings tend to make a howling noise when they do not properly support the gears. Rumbling while turning, on the other hand, is a sign of bad wheel bearings. Clunking and banging noises on the corners can be due to lack of sufficient posi-traction lubrication, broken spider gears, or worn posi-traction or limited-slip clutches. Broken spider gears, moreover, can also immobilize the differential and create a loud, crunching sound during final departure. If the rear differential noise is characterized by clunking every two or three feet, then there is a great chance that a broken ring gear is the problem with the section with the broken teeth banging or grinding as it tries to engage the pinion.
(Emphasis added.)
It really doesn’t bother me that my own initial suspicion was completely wrong. (I quizzed the fellah on the front end and, as I say, he insisted everything there was fine.) After all, Ol’ Robbo has never pretended to have the slightest savvy when it comes to auto mechanics, and besides, noise can be a tricky thing to pin down.
No, what I worry about is that the old girl seems to be starting to have multiple issues all at once. If she carries on this way and becomes a perpetual money-pit, I fear that Mrs. Robbo is going to demand that I give her up and get a new car. And here’s the thing: Mrs. R has always hated La Wrangler. For years now, my sole effective defense of her has been that she’s long paid off, so whatever Mrs. R thinks of her in terms of comfort and, eh, panache, at least she serves the Port Swiller Manor exchequer in a positive way. Were I to go for another, that shield would collapse completely.
We shall see.
** Ol’ Robbo used to listen to the Tappet Brothers every Saturday morning in the very late 80’s up through the 90’s, frequently spewing coffee through his nose at their wit and wisdom. Alas, I still remember the point where they got on the anti-SUV “GloBull Warmening is gonna kill us all!!!” bandwagon. If I recall correctly, their response to families (like my own) who argued that they needed to drive SUV’s because nothing smaller could hold multiple children, their gub’mint mandated car seats, and all their other paraphernalia, was basically, “So don’t have so many children.” Whelp, have this, boys!
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
WHO put the “bop” in the bop-she-bop-she-bop?
WHO put the “ram” in the ram-a-lam-a-ding-dong?
The world wonders.
Ol’ Robbo apologizes. As mentioned below, I’ve a trial coming up eftsoons. We’re scheduled to go on up to Maine on hols almost immediately afterwards, in large part to visit the Mothe, whose health has declined rather significantly this year, but there is some small but hideous chance that said trial will interfere with said trip.
I find myself…somewhat stressed by the possibilities of both legal combat and familial disruption, and thus prone to such apparently inane lines of thought.
UPDATE: As I typed, Middle Gel got home from an evening out with a gentleman friend seeing the latest Spider-Man reboot and going out to dinner. She mentioned that she had wasabi, which immediately brought to Ol’ Robbo’s mind a Budweiser advertising meme that flared and died before she was even born. Those of you old enough will recall it, I’m sure:
The rest of you? Lawn. Off.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Last fall (I believe), the Family Robbo won a set of primo tickets to a Nationals game from an auction at St. Marie of the Blessed Educational Method – about seven or eight rows right behind the Nats’ dugout and a parking pass. Ol’ Robbo was looking mighty forward to going to the game.
Whelp, that game was today. And it was a sweet, sweet win.
Alas, Ol’ Robbo didn’t wind up going after all. Because he is head honcho on one side in a trial coming up in a couple weeks with a wicked pre-trial schedule in front of it, he instead found himself spending most of the day moodily pouring over deposition transcripts and other legal falderal. (And if you don’t hear much from me between now and August, now you know why.)
At least it was a genuinely pleasant day in the neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor – warm, but not too hot, quite dry, and comfortable enough that I could sit out and do my work on the porch. Also, Middle Gel (who did go to the game, along with Mrs. R and a couple of family friends), was sweet enough to give me the Nats tee-shirt she snagged when they were being thrown into the stands.
So I got that going for me….
Anyhoo, a few things:
♦ One break I took was to go to Mass, of course. We had a guest priest today, a padre from somewhere else in the Diocese. He mentioned that he had a brother who is a Brother at Clear Creak Abbey out in the Diocese of Tulsa. Co-incidentally, ever since I swam the Tiber, I have bought rosaries, books, CDs, and calendars from this abbey, but I don’t recall that I have ever explicitly plugged it here. For those of you who are interested, consider it plugged now.
♦ Another, somewhat more earthy break was to fool with the Port Swiller Manor clothes-dryer, which after 17 years of service suddenly is producing no heat whatsoever, although it still tumbles and blows air. My suspicion is that we have been less than diligent about clearing out the overflow from the lint trap and that some accumulation of same has probably shorted out the heating element. (Mrs. R is going to see if we can get this replaced before we go plunking down dosh on a new dryer.) Anyhoo, this afternoon found Ol’ Robbo digging around in the space below the lint trap slot with an old coat-hanger (surely there’s a better way to do this?), and dredging up all kinds of things. In addition to the accumulated lint, I discovered a $5 bill, another $5 in loose change, several hair twisties, a couple lost earrings, innumerable old “Hi, My Name Is…” nametags, and a pair of miniature keys to what I believe was an old locket. I would not have been the least surprised to find the bones of Piltdown Man in there, too. UPDATE: Mrs. R had a repair guy out today. It was just the thermostat. He replaced it and cleaned the whole thing out. MUCH cheaper than plunking for a new one. Ol’ Robbo is happy.
♦ Regular friends of the decanter will recall that Ol’ Robbo had a duff steering damper replaced on La Wrangler a couple weeks ago in order to alleviate a bad case of the “death wobble”. Whelp, as I feared, the fix appears to be more of a Band-Aid than anything else. The wobble is gone, to be sure, but I can still feel the front wheels fighting with each other. Also, in the past couple days, the right front has begun making an ominous howling noise that is definitely linked to rotation velocity. I believe an alignment check is in order, but I now fear that the fellah who recommended the damper replacement may not have actually checked the rest of the steering mechanism. I don’t want a ball-joint going as I swing down the G-Dub some fine morning, thereby flipping me into the Potomac.
♦ In re culchah-related matters, I’ve been on a bit of a John Wayne toot this weekend, watching back-to-back, “Hondo” and “The Comancheros“, two of my favorites. (I confess that I also have “The High and the Mighty” at home. It’s pure cheese, but I like to think that Robert Stack was gamely parodying his performance in it years later when he did “Airplane!“.)
Whelp, that’s about all that occurs to me at the moment and is suitable for discussion over the Stilton and walnuts.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Mrs. Robbo pointed my attention to a recent article over at NRO by Samuel Abrams about some new survey of colleges and universities that grades them on the genuine “diversity” of political thought and opinion on campus. Get this: According to the survey, la-di-da New England schools that pride themselves on being “diverse” are anything but:
At a time when the diversity of ideas — and notably conservative thought — is diminishing on college campuses nationwide, this new classification of schools is important. It answers questions such as, Is the school a place where students are likely to encounter a variety of views on politically and socioeconomically controversial topics? And: Has the school created and fostered an environment where students who do not hold the dominant political viewpoint are afraid to speak up?
The ranking has revealed that New England is by far the worst region of the country, especially for liberal-arts colleges, when it comes to campuses that support and maintain viewpoint diversity. With Harvard, Yale, Brown, and Tufts on the university side and Williams, Wesleyan, Smith, Amherst, and Mount Holyoke on the liberal-arts college side, these schools reflect the politics of the region and were all at the bottom of the rankings in terms of viewpoint diversity. This could well be the first time that these esteemed institutions have found themselves at the bottom of national rankings that are so crucial to the very mission of higher education.
Gee…ya think?
Regular friends of the decanter will know that Ol’ Robbo attended The People’s Glorious Soviet of Middletown, CT back in the day, and that I saw this lockstep group-think crap 35 years ago. Indeed, the very first time I came across the term “politically correct” – which is Maoist in origin, by the bye – was in the late summah of 1983 when I was a newbie frosh being orientated to campus life. At first, I naively thought it was a joke. About 15 minutes later, I realized the Kampus Kulturny were in deadly earnest.
To be fair, back then one could still call these people out, which I proceeded to do vigorously for four years. Nowadays? Well, not only would one risk getting a bicycle lock to the temple, one would also face getting hauled up before the campus Star Chamber on charges of Hate Crimes.
No, thankee.
Curiously (and what prompted Mrs. R to send me the article to begin with), the current Premier at the Dear Old Soviet gets a quote in the article:
This message [i.e., that lockstep leftist groupthink is bad and that colleges should be championing the robust, free interchange of ideas] is beginning to resonate. Wesleyan president Michael Roth, in an opinion piece for the Wall Street Journal, recently acknowledged the problem and proposed aggressive action to “create deeper intellectual and political diversity,” because many, often conservative, ideas “seldom get the sustained, scholarly attention that they deserve.” While Roth was short on specifics, his message suggests that the Connecticut college president finally sees that there is a real problem, and he may push Wesleyan to move in the right direction.
And pigs may fly. (Dear Ol’ Wes is, I believe, still at the forefront of the movement to abolish sexist pronouns such as “he” and “she” and replace them with gender-neutral alternatives such as “xer”. I kid you not.)
My guess is that any “push” in the “right direction” is going to have nothing at all to do with intellectual honesty, scholarly tradition, or a rediscovery of the virtues of the marketplace of ideas.
No, it’s going to be driven by some critical mass of parents suddenly saying, “Why the hell are we shelling out $65K a year for this?”
This just ain’t sour grapes, by the way. As I say, I went to Wesleyan. My brother was undergrad at Hamilton. My sister-in-law went to Wellesley and my cousin went to Holyoke and Harvard. Mrs. R’s grandfather was a drunken DKE at Dartmouth. We know these schools. That said, I certainly would never dream of wasting that kind of money to send any of the Gels to any one of ’em these days. So there.
The Port Stands At Your Elbow 
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