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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Yes, Ol’ Robbo’s vacation is about over and done and tomorrow I put back on the ol’ harness. On the whole, it was quite restful and I’m ready to get back to work. A few observations to wrap it up:
As promised earlier, I did clean out the garage yesterday, at least as far as I could. I duly emptied it out, swept, blowered and mopped, threw a bunch of junk away, and reorganized the remains. So it’s definitely cleaner. (I did not make any friends among the many spiders who live there.) However, a really thorough job would have involved a good power-washing of the floor (my washer is hors de combat) and repainting the walls (don’t tell Mrs. R I said that). Maybe next year.
Another result is that I may, at last, have finally found the crack whereby the water gets down into my basement study from the garage every time it floods. (It happened again last week and there’s mud all over my study floor. Another job for another day.) Fortunately, I had some quikrete left over from another of this week’s projects with which I won’t bore you, so I duly filled it in. I guess we’ll get to test it soon, as I understand what’s left of Hurricane Ida after it makes landfall is supposed to come through here mid-week, and I’m sure lots of water will get into the garage.
Eldest Gel and I watched “Around The World In 80 Days” (2004) last evening because we both like goofy Jackie Chan action movies, but really, this was ridiculous. (And Jim Broadbent ought to be ashamed of himself.) I’ve never actually read any Verne, but the knowledge of what violence this film must do to his novel has motivated both the Gel and me to pick it up in order to, so to speak, get the bad taste out of our mouths. One of the arguments made for film adaptations of liddashur is that they’re supposed to encourage viewers (especially the young people) to read the source material. Personally, I’ve never believed that happens very much. True, it’s happening here, but we’re both cranks and I doubt if many others would share our motivation.
On that note, I’ve also got “20,000 Leagues Under The Sea” (1954) in my queue, this time on the Gel’s recommendation. Again, I don’t know how closely the film follows the book, but the Gel enthuses over it because it actually tells a story without relying on explosions every five seconds, and also because she’s discovered what a good actor James Mason was. (And now she gets a real kick out of my Peter Lorre impersonations, too.) I may have seen this film when I was a small boy but I remember nothing about it, except maybe a giant squid.
Oh, speaking of books, those of you who recall that Ol’ Robbo started his vacation binge-reading the works of George MacDonald Fraser may be interested to know that I made it through virtually his entire canon, fiction and non-fiction, except Black Ajax (which I don’t own), Mr. American (which is too long), and The Steel Bonnets (his history of the Anglo-Scots border reivers which, frankly, puts me to sleep.) That should hold me on GMF for a while.
Mrs. Robbo returns home today from playing in a regional USTA tournament, her first I believe. (She also got to visit with Middle Gel because the tourney was in her neighborhood.) I’m happy that she has her tennis even though I’ve never had any interest in the sport myself. While her team didn’t advance, I gather they nonetheless put up a respectable showing. (Mrs. R has played since she was a little girl and was captain of her college team. She’s never been a power hitter, but has always relied on control and finesse. Recently, so I understand, she has developed a wicked slice that has placed her much in demand as a doubles partner.)
To celebrate her return and as a send-off before we all – Mrs. R, Eldest, and I – go back to work tomorrow, I’m doing a bit of a slap up dins tonight. Mrs. R doesn’t eat meat, so I am doing her some fish. Fortunately, she recently discovered a taste for tilapia. I say fortunately because a) the thing is so mild that you can go to town with sauces and marinades, and b) no more salmon stinking up the kitchen. I’m trying a cilantro-lime marinade recipe this time. Eldest and I are quite content with steak on the bar-b. Add some popovers and artichoke and we’re all good to go.
Well, that’s that. Time, almost, to re-enter the (un)real world of madness that I have been trying to ignore mostly while on vacay. Ol’ Robbo avoids politickal commentary here as a rule, but God help us all.
UPDATE: What better way to wind up your vacation than to set your hair on fire! Ol’ Robbo has a small firepit near his grill in which he’s accustomed to burning empty charcoal bags. I must have got a bit cavalier about it this evening because tossing the screen on top I managed to create a fireball that wooshed past my head. A little later, I noticed that it had singed a goodish part of the hair above my left ear. Distinctive smell, too. Fortunately, I am approaching what Mrs. R calls the “Mountain-Man” look, so even though the ends withered, there was no permanent effect.
Still…..
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Decanter Kitten has taken to insisting on crawling into Ol’ Robbo’s lap when he sits down to read or watch teevee in the evening, to the point that when she sees me finishing up with the dishes she starts meowing stridently for me to get to my chair. (She is easily the most intelligent – and communicative – cat I’ve ever known. She’s also the most skittery, with her head constantly on a swivel, ready to bolt at the slightest alarum. It amazes me, then, that she so loves me to scratch her jaw, throat, and tummy.)
All fine and good.
The problem is that when Mrs. R is not here, Decanter Dog, who usually spends the evening with her, needs a substitute mommy. That would be me.
Just as in physics, where two particles of matter cannot share the same point in time and space, so too, two pets cannot share Robbo’s lap at the same time. I don’t think the kitteh would mind, but DD wouldn’t stand for it. She generally ignores the cats altogether, but in this kind of situation she gets ugly.
Decanter Kitten, who is the natural loser, is mighty angry at me over the upset in routine. But I feel I have no choice but to favor the pooch, who has always been something of an emotional basket-case. (We sometimes joke that she’s our “special needs” dog.) Kitteh will just have to live with it until Mrs. R gets home.
Gratuitous Random UPDATE: Golly, (**looks at sitemeter**) folks don’t seem to care much for dog and cat posting!
Upon inspection around lunchtime, it turned out that the Port Swiller lawn isn’t going to make it till next weekend even though I mowed it just this past Monday. I’m cleaning the garage out tomorrow and knew instantly that I wouldn’t have the energy to do both jobs the same day, so………….
I had got about seven-eighths of it done before being chased indoors by a thunderstorm just now. (I’d hoped the thing was going to miss so I could finish up after it passed, but after 20 minutes of dry-eyed rumble-bumble, the skies have now opened up. Yup, we’re done here.) I’d watched it coming and told myself that I would give up when I could hear the sound of thunder over and above the noise of my engine. On reflection, I’m thinking that was maybe not the wisest decision. (There was a sudden strike close enough to make me jump.)
When I came in, I found a voicemail on my phone from the CDC asking me to participate in a vaccination survey (the covidz “and others”). Why, yes, Mr. Gubment Nosey Person! I’d love to tell you about my jab-status! And I totes believe your pinky-swear assurances of confidentiality and anonymity! Oh, hang on a sec…..I see flashing lights outside and somebody is suddenly banging on my door…………
Gratuitous Random UPDATE DEUX: Yarg! The Port Swiller Manor washing machine seems to have committed suicide this afternoon. I’m pretty sure it was the last surviving appliance already here when we moved in. I guess nearly 21 years isn’t a bad run. Now to go and start pricing replacements……Grrrrrrrrrrrrr.….
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Following up on what I said about future plans in the post below, in a rare display of common sense my braim told me this morning that cutting and hauling brush in this weather is just not on. The forecast suggests this heat may break next week. It can wait till then.
In the meantime, I took care of Mrs. R’s pachysandra patch. That, at least, is mostly in the shade and pulling weeds isn’t really very strenuous, although given the slope of the ground and the need for careful foot placement, it’s sort of a cross between imitating Buster Posey and playing a protracted game of Twister. I was yet again soaked with sweat by the time I was done, as well as feeling dizzy and shaky. To borrow a phrase frequently in use at the White House these days, I’m calling a lid on the rest of the afternoon.
Speaking of which, I cannot begin to tell you friends of the decanter how sincerely I hope that I am flat wrong about what’s going on these days both at home and abroad, and what the future likely holds. Because if I’m not, then God help us all. I won’t say anything more than that.
But since I, personally, can’t do much about it one way or the other, I’ll simply focus on what’s immediately around me, which means, among other things, moar home projects to finish off my vacation. I never did get around to painting the bedroom and certainly am not going to start that now. I’ll wait till cooler weather when I can have all the windows open. Instead, I plan to finish off by cleaning out the garage and giving it a good scouring. I’m ashamed to say I can’t even remember the last time I did this, so it’s going to be a pretty big job. But a rewarding one, too.
And now for something really completely different: Ol’ Robbo happened to be watching Star Trek: TOS last evening. (And no, I’m not a “Trekkie”.) It was the conclusion of the two-part episode “The Menagerie” which, as Trek fans know, incorporates the original pilot episode of the series into its plot. (And just as an aside, I couldn’t help thinking again of our present mess when the Telosian said to Captain Pike, “Wrong thinking is punishable. Right thinking will be as quickly rewarded.” The Telosians were plotting to breed a race of Earthling slaves. It’s remarkable how many TOS episodes were warnings against totalitarian dystopianism. Just sayin’. (No, dammit, I’m really not a “Trekkie”!
Aaaaanyway, in the credits I noticed the name Peter Duryea in a role which evidently was in the pilot but not in “Menagerie” itself. It rang a bell so I looked him up and he turns out to have been the son of that Dan Duryea who played Waco Johnny Dean in “Winchester ’73“, my favorite and (in my humble opinion) the best of the Anthony Mann/Jimmy Stewart westerns. I love stumbling across these useless little bits of trivia. (Duryea was also, along with the young Lloyd Bridges, one of the tank crew under Humphrey Bogart’s command in “Sahara“, which is a very good movie in itself, as I’ve had occasion to mention here a time or two.)
So there you have it.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Well, my series of staycation project postings has certainly sent the ol’ statmeter spiking [Narrator: “It hasn’t”], so how about another one?
You would think that I’d be old and wise enough by now not to promise to do things late at night when I’m worn out, sleepy, and possibly not quite sober, but no.
When Ol’ Robbo said I’d help out Mrs. R with weeding her pachysandra patch last evening, I thought she meant “do it with her”. I found out this morning that she actually meant “do it for her”. (It really needs doing and she leaves tomorrow for an out-of-town weekend tennis tournament.)
Too late to back out now. I’ll just have to juggle the other items on my honey-do list to make it fit.
In fact, I’ve only my own productiveness round the house this week to blame. Mrs. R sees this and naturally takes advantage of it. (I’m not actually complaining, you understand. Truth is that overall she probably works a lot harder than I do. ‘Sides, Ol’ Robbo is old-fashioned enough to believe that grounds-keeper and maintenance guy are part of the husband job description.)
And speaking of such things, I just got done replacing the leaky faucet in the downstairs loo. A couple times I thought the thing had me beat and I was going to have to climb down and call a plumber. First, it took me about 45 minutes to work loose one of the anchoring nuts on the old faucet. I’m glad nobody was around, as I likely would have been quite rude to them. Then, it looked as if I was going to have to replace the whole drain, but after thinking it over I figured out a way to jury-rig the interface between the new plunger and the old stopper assembly.
I must say that I don’t much like plumbing jobs because they always leave me feeling paranoid about leaks. Wait, is that moisture fresh? Was it there before I tightened the nut? Did I over-tighten it? Did my moving the line around cause something else to weaken? Is the whole thing about to blow sky-high in true comic-strip geyser fashion? I also don’t like them because the things you need to get at are usually harder to reach than in any other kind of project. (At least in my experience. I’ve an idea those who work on cars might disagree.)
But nonetheless, Ol’ Robbo got ‘er done.
By the bye, I made my first trip to Home Despot this morning in something better than ten years. I instantly remembered why I dislike the place so much: aisle too cramped and overflowing for the big carts and wagons and a staff that doesn’t give a damn about anything. I only went because I wanted to eyeball the new faucet in person rather than guessing at its true dimensions on-line. Fortunately, I rarely have to do anything like that these days.
Tomorrow? Whacking back the forsythia. Also, you guessed it…….the pachysandra.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Those friends of the decanter following Ol’ Robbo’s recent posts will be pleased to learn that my plan to attend to projects around Port Swiller Manor this week seems to be working out: I even had the sense to get up early this morning to get in some outdoor chores before the day became too unbearably hot and humid. (Not that I wasn’t sweating buckets by the time I got done anyhow.)
First up was retraining some ivy strands that are working their way across the wall above our garage door. Yes, ivy. Lots of folks these days react to the idea of ivy on brick walls the same way a vampire reacts to a crucifix, but I like it and I don’t care. (Odds are when we come to sell this place someday it’ll just get knocked down anyway.) This particular batch has really taken off of late, reminding me on the one hand of my godmother’s saying of “First year it sleeps, second year it creeps, third year it leaps”, and on the other of the George Price cartoon “Watch out, Fred! Here it comes again!” The strands, by the bye, were covered with ants. Fortunately, they were those very small ones that don’t bite, but I still don’t like having them crawl all over my hands and arms.
Next (well, after spraying weeds in teh garden but there’s nothing to tell about that) I attempted some temporary repair of a section of the fence hit by the big maple when it fell earlier this summah. One of the rails was smashed apart and I sought to nail it back together. (Eventually it will need to be replaced, but this will do for the nonce.) I won’t say that my carpentry skills are really all that bad, but I’m always reminded of an old joke: A young apprentice is banging away industriously when the foreman comes up and says, “Son, I’ve been watching you, and you really hammer those nails like lightning.”
“You mean I’m fast?” asks the apprentice.
“No,” says the foreman. “I mean you never strike twice in the same place.”
Thank-yew!
The last project was a bit unusual. We have three skylights on the Porch Swiller Manor back porch. Two of them are kept reasonably clean by the forces of Ma Nature, but the one closest to the house has been subject to some serious bird-bombing that the rain simply wouldn’t wash away. What to do about this was something that had been burning at the back of my mind for some time. The problem is that it’s a second story roof: Even though I could in theory climb out on to it from an upstairs window, that’s just too high for my nerves. But then I had an idea. Not climbing out the window but instead leaning out as far as I could, I discovered I could juuuust reach the whole thing with a mop. The result isn’t perfect and there’s still some cleaner residue that’ll need to be rinsed out by the next rain, but it’s certainly a lot better than it was.
Not too shabby a morning’s work, I think? I certainly feel entitled to the iced kawfee I’m currently enjoying. This afternoon I need to swing by the hardware store for some quick-crete and lawn moss killer for tomorrow morning’s jobs. My paramount goals this week are to hog back the forsythia hedge in the garden and to replace the dripping sink faucet in the downstairs loo. If I can hit those targets, I feel I’ll be in really good shape. Who knows? I might even go all in and clean out the garage for the first time in I don’t know how many years!
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo is still on summuh hols this week. I can’t remember the second Monday of vacation in a row in, oh, I dunno how many years.
An interesting setting of the Mass yesterday by a composer I’d never heard of, the Messa in onore di San Luigi Gonzaga by Oreste Ravanello (1871-1938). It was scored for only two voices and continuo. Very intimate and also very melodious, and had that quality wherewith it contributed to the worship without drawing undue attention to itself (which quality I couldn’t possibly put into words). Ol’ Robbo is no great fan of the romantic style in musick (which is what this was), but I liked it.
Speaking of which, despite the fact that the sheeple are all masking up again at the stores, hardly anybody had one on at my church. But then we TLM sharks are already bad, no good people. So I’ve been told by my Betters.
I read the nooz today, oh boy. Did anybody really expect anything else out of a John Gill administration?
On a different note, I believe both the Younger Gels start their kollej classes today. Meanwhile, Eldest and Mrs. R go back to their teaching jobs next week. So the cycle begins again.
Speaking of such things, I’ve recently noticed that change in the sunlight on the trees which signals summah is beginning to wind down. (It’s the shift in the angle at which the light hits them in the middle of the day. Once you know what to look for, you can’t miss it.) I suppose I’ll be getting to my annual griping here about raking up leaves before I know it.
And on that note, the yard isn’t going to mow itself, so I suppose I’d better get off my backside and get to it. As I mentioned a couple posts ago, I spent the first week of my hols just loafing. But I promised myself I’d get back to doing things this week. Time to start.
UPDATE: Done! While I was at it, all kinds of bloggy material floated through my braims, material which would have made you laugh, made you cry, made you think, made you pray.
Alas, despite the fact that I slathered myself with Deep Woods Off, the gnats ate me alive and I was so distracted by the Itchy & Scratchy show by the time I was done that I clean forgot about everything else. Durn it!
UPDATE DEUX: After several glasses of water and a long shower, I now recall that I was ranting to myself about smiley-face collectivist totalitarianism. Aren’t you glad the gnats got to me now?
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Despite the fact that the Port Swiller Manor grounds need attending to due to all the rain we’ve had recently, no garden posting today. You see, Youngest and Mrs. R left around 5 ack emma this morning headed for skool and I felt it behooved me to remain loitering within earshot of the phone rayther than go out laboring in the fields. Just in case they needed to call for…anything.
I’m pleased to report that nine hours and change later, they successfully arrived back at campus, Youngest having driven the entire way herself. This was better than three times her previous longest drive, when we went out to summah camp a few weeks ago, but I was so comforted by her obvious competency on that trip that I had very few qualms about her making it this time. (So few, in fact, that, as you can see, I slid out of going with her myself.)
They’ll get moved in this afternoon. Mrs. R will crash in the Gel’s dorm tonight (she has a single this year) and fly back tomorrow. Piece of cake.
(Youngest is already making noise about driving all the way home at Christmas all by herself. I’m not quite sure whether I’m ready for that one just yet. I simply narrowed my eyes and said, “We’ll see……”)
Meanwhile, Eldest is rejoicing today to regain sole possession of the Gels’ bathroom. Her recurrent accusation against Youngest all summah was that the latter “uses her stuff” and throws away inordinate amounts of TP. (The second charge, in fact, has considerable merit.) Youngest’s response to these accusations is to roll her eyes, shake her head, and say, “That girl is such a child.”
Birdies in their little nests……AGREE!! ****
Meanwhile, you may be asking, “Tom? What about Middle Gel?” Well, she stayed on campus all summah working a couple of jobs and sporting with her friends. I feel like I’ve seen her maybe forty-five minutes altogether over teh past few months. But it’s all to the good.
** Spot the quote'(hint, although you shouldn’t need it: Eagle-One is involved)
*** Spot the quote (hint: Said in a German accent)
UPDATE: Okay, not to leave you hanging, the first quote is from “Independence Day” and is the coded message sent to the President after Jeff Goldblum and Will Smith successfully upload the virus into the Mother Ship.
The second, and I grant that it’s pretty durn obscure, comes from the old Katzenjammer Kids comic strip. We had a book of the strip when I was a kid. It’s what Mama yells at Hans and Fritz when they get after each other. It was a great favorite of my own mother’s.
(Another family favorite from that strip, used during times of domestic blow up, was an episode where the family goes for a photographic portrait. After much mayhem getting everyone finally settled, the old-fashioned flash bar blows up, covering everyone with soot, In the last panel, der Captain (I think) turns to his neighbor and asks, “So vy did ve haff to look pleasant?)”
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo is happy to report that he went out this morning and got Youngest all loaded up for the big trip back to kollej. Even though they don’t leave until oh-dark-thirty Saturday morning, I wanted to get it taken care of today a) because it’s supposed to storm tomorrow, and b) because if there were any logistical problems, I wanted to know about them sooner rather than later.
Regular friends of the decanter will know that Ol’ Robbo has been fretting here on and off about the large pile of dorm furnishings that has been piling up by the Port Swiller Manor front door over the past couple weeks and how on earth we were going to stuff them plus the Gel’s clothes plus the Gel and Mrs. R into her Patriot. Fortunately, it all did fit. But I will say that this is only because Ol’ Robbo knows how to load.
The attitude of the wimminz in my life toward this sort of thing is basically:
- Pile of junk next to open tailgate.
- ?
- Profit! **
I try to explain and demonstrate what I call the Tetris approach*** and that even this has its limitations, but I fear it always falls on deaf ears. So it’s usually left to Ol’ Dad to get ‘er done. Funny enough, we have exactly the same issue with the dishwasher, which I finally have positively forbade all of them to load because they make such a hash of it. (In my darker moments I begin to wonder if this isn’t the plan.)
I’ll give Youngest some credit in that she’s not quite such a packrat as, say, Middle Gel (or me, to be honest). She’s actually taking less junk out this year that she did last year, when we loaded down Mrs. R’s Honda Juggernaut to the Plimsoll Line. No, this year’s challenge was somewhat….quirkier:
(No, it’s not real, but it had to be loaded in such a way as not to get crushed. Why on earth the Gel wants it I dunno, but it’s not my dorm room and I don’t have to live with it.)
At any rate, Load-Master Robbo has signed off and the Gel is ready to roll.
** The most famous example of this was when Mrs. R and I went up to the Adirondacks for a wedding one fall. Eldest was about six months old, and as rookie parents we naturally brought every piece of child-care equipment we possessed, thus stuffing the car (an old Jeep Cherokee, if I recall correctly). Nonetheless, while there, Mrs. R stumbled across an “antiques” shop she just loved and found half a dozen things she just had to have. We have very rarely fought in our thirty years together, but we had a major dust-up when I tried to explain the unpossibility of fitting any of it into our already overloaded ride. Got the silent treatment all the way home.
*** Ol’ Robbo was very good at Tetris back in the day. Spacial relations just seem to come to my braims naturally. I just know what will fit where.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
The mossification of Ol’ Robbo continues apace. So far this vacation, about all I’ve done is binge-read George MacDonald Fraser. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)
To be fair, it was always my plan to spend the first few days simply loafing. The trick will be to see if I can transition into Phase Two later this week and start getting on with various house and garden projects. We shall see. (**Shakes Magic 8-Ball** Reply hazy, ask again later.)
In the meantime, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make a sammich, crack a beer, and go back to my GMF. Because I can.
Storm of the Century of the Week UPDATE: For those interested and per the comments today, we were forecasted to catch at least some of what remained of TS Fred as it moved north today. Well, the wind was up slightly and it got dark a few times, but in fact we got exactly zippity-doo-dah in terms of storm or rain. Not that we especially needed it, now that the last week or ten days has got wetter, but still, Ol’ Robbo lurves him some thunder-boomers.
What we did get is that particularly brilliant blue sky that comes out once the storm has passed. If I recall correctly, such brilliance is caused by the storm gathering up lower-level ozone and spitting it out the top into the upper atmosphere, causing some kind of change in the refraction. Always nice to see.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo is officially on holiday now, which for all practical purposes means, at the moment, that instead of sitting up at his desk staring at his computer screen, he is instead lounging on a sofa…staring at his computer screen. Heigh, ho.
As I b’lieve I mentioned earlier, at the next-to-the-last minute we decided to chuck our vaycay trip up ta Maine this year. Instead, I will spend the next two weeks quietly at home, gently chipping away at my honey-do list. If I can summon up the energy, perhaps later today I will tool over to Home Despot and pick up a new faucet assembly for the downstairs loo. (Then again, perhaps not.)
I read the news today, oh boy. All I can say is that since I never for a moment believed the “return to normalcy” malarkey in the first place, I’ve no need to borrow Sarah Hoyt’s shocked face whilst viewing this on-going train wreck. (That’s an Instapundit-insider reference.) It’s only going to get much, much worse.
And I won’t even start on what opinions DHS now considers to constitute a domestic terrorist threat. Mom would be so proud.
Basta! We actually had friends over for dinner this past weekend. I’ve never been much of one for entertaining, but since the you-know-what it’s hardly happened at all. What with an iffy weather forecast I didn’t risk grilling out, so we went with a taco bar arrangement instead which proved to be a real success. However, it re-ignited an ancient debate: Ol’ Robbo holds firmly that “fish tacos” are an abomination and a blasphemy somewhat on par with putting pineapple on pizza. Others disagree. I’m not wrong.
Somewhere or other I seem to have lost track of time because it turns out that Youngest goes back to skool next weekend, not the following. And of course there’s a last-minute fire drill to get taken care of all the things that could have been done weeks ago. And of course the pile of gear which will never fit into her car continues to grow. All this despite my warnings. If Cassandra walked into Port Swiller Manor this moment, I’d shake her hand and tell her I know exactly how she felt.
I missed doing a garden post this weekend so will note here that I changed out the hummingbird feeder for the first time in about six or eight weeks. There were a surprising number of dead ants in it, which got me thinking that’s probably not a bad way to go if you’re an ant. Anyhoo, whether it’s a coincidence or not, suddenly I have not one but two hummers coming in. Not that they seem to have much time to feed: Hummers are very territorial and very aggressive and these two seem to spend most of the time fighting each other.
Anyhoo, I’ll be around. I finished up down to the office wicked busy, so it’s prolly going to take a few days to unclench and unkink. After that, who knows? I might even post something worth reading.
The Port Stands At Your Elbow 
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