Roads? Where we're going, we don't need roads. ~ Dr. Emmett Brown: Back to the Future

Repost of a Guest Post at Suburban Kamikaze, August 14, 2011

Nothing is an idle threat. For example, when I threatened to write about time travel, you probably thought I was kidding. This just isn't that kind of blog. I mean the SK has hung her virtual and professional reputation on publishing only the truth, as she knows it. Her professional articles are well researched. Her SK photo vérité submissions are humorous, yet accurate, depictions of daily life in suburban Chicago and they are the soul of this site. She does not link cheesy videos from YouTube, resort to Bartlett's Quotations, indulge in political posturing, vague pseudo-science (apart from the container store series) or speculate on what it might be like to actually be in a Dorothy Dunnett novel, at least not on this site.
I might add that she does not drink bad wine, eat carbs that are not French bread bien cuit, or wear frumpy shoes. If you read this site you are coming here because she is real and she is funny, whereas, your guest blogger has a beat-up copy of a good bit of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (chapter 3 is inexplicably gone) an idea that most good stories aren't precisely true and over 50 years of memories which are more like impressions of things that might have happened. I would not have made a good journalist or a good scientist. Once, while following the instructions for an acid test, I set fire to my junior high school science lab, unintentionally of course. My recipe contained no Kool-Aid, but, I may have missed a step. My friends will also tell you I can't find Polaris with both hands and a star atlas. Fair warning.
The SK and I have a long running dispute about writing. You might say we are friends the way Thoreau and Emerson were ---Thoreau, you remember him, living in environmentally correct invisibility on Walden Pond, hanging out with Emerson who once famously said: “Do not follow where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail”
I was married to Emerson once. He was irrresponsible about wet towels in the bathroom.
My position on writing (and reality TV) is that there is no such thing as non-fiction. Once you choose the words in a story, frame the shot, it becomes more than a factual account, but even more to the point, is a factual account of anything really possible?
I recently linked an article about time travel that contained the following facts from a survey that reads as though it was probably taken during a 1964 road trip in a 1939 Harvester school bus. Thirty percent of the three thousand surveyed believe that time travel IS possible (not will be). Twenty-four percent believe that teleporting is a real mode of travel despite the fact that most, ok, none of those same people can put together a chair from Ikea let alone reassemble a human being on the atomic level. And eighteen percent believe they can see gravity. That last one is a given. I think anyone over forty with a full length bathroom mirror is in that last 18%.
But maybe those surveyed weren't completely stoners. We all use a time machine every day, whether we are thinking about what we will have later for lunch or, when we stop data entry long enough to recall the name of that quirky ale we had last week on a trip to St. Petersburg (still Florida). So, right now you think you know where I'm going with this and you are paused, half a click to Facebook -- because someone over there may actually be doing something other than waiting for someone else to do something. You would of course be wrong, on both counts.
What is the aversion to just going nowhere? Why isn't it enough to just be where you are? Why is everyone obsessed with being somewhere else all the time? All good questions that I'm not going to answer. Those of you expecting a philosophic discussion of motivational locomotion please click the back button now and start again.
So, it's just the three of us. Think for a minute about where you would want to be, right now, if you could be anywhere. Perhaps back at the summer camp where you found your best friend for life or maybe you want to travel to India someday. Maybe you want to be with the SK in the French countryside separating the parsley from the carrot tops for today's dinner of Coq au Vin. (You guys just have fun, I'm fine here, really I am...and the plants are fine. And the weather is fine. Perfectly fine.)
Why can't we just like being where we are? Better yet, why can't we just be where we are? You are going to say, have you actually seen where I am? I have. You are sitting in your living room with the TV muted, latte cooling off, thinking you really should be doing the laundry, some Kegel exercises and paying the bills.
Don't you see the problem now? You aren't really where you are. Everyone is already in their own time machine, windows rolled up, music blaring, all the time, at least when they aren't texting because everyone knows that texting and time travel are deadly and no one would ever do that, right?
We are all going places we have never been, places which seem familiar but which are not in the least bit accurate, either before we see them or after and surprisingly, not even while we are seeing them.
As it turns out, you are incapable of storing one present thought accurately or recalling even one single accurate memory. You need proof? Let's see if I can remember all the steps this time. Keep a fire extinguisher handy and start with something you see every day. This is a two step experiment, unlike the prior multi-step Ikea experiments. You will be fine.
In 1979 Dr. RS Nickerson and Dr. JJ Adams did a study, the point of which was to see what our long term memory of a common object might be.Go HERE and pick out the real penny, then take a look at a real penny and come back.
If you picked the right penny you are excused. You have an eerily well organized brain and your friends probably use you as a walking birthday compendium because they are too lazy to use Birthday Alarm. Go Tweet someone about how perceptive you are. If you chose the wrong penny then you are like the rest of us. Flawed in the perception, retention and analysis of what we have seen and experienced, and, proceeding to India someday with that flawed background we will find, once there, we meant to go to Egypt and also we left the coffee pot on. We are doomed to live a life parallel to the one we are actually living.
So, how do we get to experience our real life? Maybe we don't. Maybe we haven't the genetic predisposition to encode memories accurately enough to create a frame of reference capable of supporting the truth. Perhaps the thing we have to learn and learn early is that, in our present state, everything is approximate.
FP&L, listen up. My section of the cosmos went dark once because we underpaid by 65 cents. Utilityworkers are also singularly ungifted in big picture economics. Did you know that it takes two entire days to turn your water back on, even though they turn it off at light speed. Perhaps they use the same software as Google Earth.
But the funny thing is, that even though (I contend) we can't really experience our own lives, not accurately anyway, we can affect the reality of our lives. So, when Ken Kesey volunteered for LSD experimentation and began the original magical mystery tour, he ended up starting a movement that changed all of our lives and he was doing exactly what we do by painting the living room, turning on a light or infusing the room with good Jamaican Blue in the morning. Our reality is (almost) what we make it.
So, this afternoon, absent any kind of review from my long trusted movie critic, who is busy photographing things I can only imagine in, where was it, France? I'm going to take a chance, alter my almost reality some more. I am out the door to see a movie called Another Earth and I'm hoping that it won't seem the least bit silly or contrived.
Because, I already know there is another earth. I'm living in it.

WHILE YOU WERE OUT...

Repost of a Guest Post on Suburban Kamikaze, August 13, 2011

Dear SK. I would be derelict in my duty if I did not keep track of what has happened here, on this side of the world, while you are gone.(Pay no attention to the Christian Porn, at left-all will be explained in good time-have faith)
I can only cover Monday through Friday though, because, well, I wasn't really paying attention on the weekend, everything after darts on Friday is pretty much gone.
And, sadly, my laser-like focus on the news of the day was not very sharp the rest of the week either so I've had to rely mostly on the NPR archives and the Onion to figure out what happened. I confess my news gathering time has been diverted a bit by the Little League World Series --- where the announcers cannot seem to figure out why all the 12 year old boys from Pearhuddle Texas are 5ft 11, can throw close to 85mph and have very deep voices.
In this day of reality TV, was it really a surprise that someone thought it would be a great idea to put microphones on the coaches? Back and forth, trip after trip to the mound to deliver patient encouragement to mini-sized pitchers (incredibly always their own sons—what are the odds?). Just “hang in there” they say patiently, bases loaded, one run down in the 9th with thunder clouds bearing in. "You only have 54 pitches. Stay with it." A quick retreat with the slow crunch crunch of clay on cleats, as they return to the dugout, pause and violently punt the water-coolers, forgetting for a moment that they are live audio blogging. Everyone can always use an insightful clip of real baseball vocabulary. Now that's exciting TV. I'm sorry, am I off-topic?
So, back to the content problem. (Yes, it's a problem, you know it, I know it and all three of the readers you have left know it...) When you forced asked me to do this you assured me that it was an emergency, that there was some kind of internet barrier, a disturbance in the ethernet if you will, between Paris and North America. I warned you that I would fill your blog with kittens and speculative treatises on the relationship of the decline of time travel to the disappearance of phone booths, and a possible weeks-long discourse on why Cowboys and Aliens is the new Star Wars. If not, what's the point of Harrison Ford-don't you see? Never mind.
Ok, so, on Monday there was this story about how Babies' Palates and Food Memories are Shaped Before Birth.
This does not explain why half of your kids would only eat white food until they were 13, however, since the article says nothing about them being able to SEE the color of the foods. And also, because none of your family has even attempted to consider blue cheese stuffed olives a good source of protein, I must conclude this study is lacking in everything but Euro-poo and move on into Tuesday...
On Tuesday, Evangelicals questioned the existence of Adam and Eve...seriously.
I know that sounds too good to be true for a Tuesday, but it really happened, and it nearly brought the Catholic Church to its knees. Think about it. If the Evangelicals are going to question the existence of Adam and Eve, the Pope might as well admit that the Earth is not the center of the Universe and finally let Galileo out of the Vatican gift shop, where everyone keeps confusing him withMichelangelo anyway.

Wednesday was a good day. Your trip to the Louvre inspired a gaggle of Sydney Australian SK groupies to recreate the Mona Lisa using over 3000 cups of coffee, painting the different shades by adding different amounts of cream to each cup. My husband predicts her smile will "evaporate" soon, but still, it was an inspired use of litter. And so unlike the dream disturbing Dali paintings I managed to see on MY vacation in St. Petersburg (um, Florida); this is Art that will literally keep you awake all night.
The event in Sydney would have been a boon to the flagging Starbucks market if they hadn't decided to short the bandwidth to their customers in the hopes of attracting more customers in search of bandwidth. I assure you this has nothing to do with Kitten Wars, judging by the traffic to this site while I've been tarting it up. According to the news, there is a real shortage of bandwidth (do not click on this unless you are having trouble sleeping ) and the internet as we know it is about end via the President or the Mayor of Philadelphia, not sure which. Apparently this drain on bandwidth is serious, what with all the streaming media and the flash mobs and ---hold on, watch this!

All I know is, that if they shut down the internet, my teenaged son will lose contact with the kid next door forever. Communication is essential to life, the way I see it. And the French are not taking this seriously. Who writes a fictional story about the collapse of a monetary system while the collapse is actually happening? But for the alert British, who, after reading the story in Le Monde over tea and gin on Friday, immediately took the fictional story about The End of the Line for the Euro and ran it as the truth, which it quickly became.
This is what happens when the Murdochs are not minding the store. Absolutely nothing was verified by properly hacking into anyone's phone. Still, impressive result. When was the last time Money Magazine took down an entire currency? This is what happens when you fail first form French.
Meanwhile, back in Iowa at the State Fair on Thursday (hold on, this is what time travel is really like), Republican Presidential hopefuls gathered to, no pun intended, participate in a straw poll on Saturday. It was unclear why they chose this particular venue, where people, eating fried butter on a stick, heckled Mitt Romney for insisting that corporations are people too! Michelle Bachman was also heckled by a rock shaped like a chicken but it didn't make the front page. She was eloquent but the chicken-rock ultimately took the whole Future Farmers of America block by promising free range subsidies. The candidates should understand that the moral of this story is, if your next stop is either the Little League World Series or Sydney, you are going to need a cup.
So, really, nothing at all happened this week. Oh wait, now I remember. Right, while you were away (and this so happened to me last week when I was on vacation and the office services department redeployed my entire staff to India), Print Journalism died. It was all over Twitter. I'm sorry.



Yours truly,

nthnglsts

You Were Promised Kittens...While the SK is away...

Repost of a Guest Post on Suburban Kamikaze, August 7, 2011

You Were Promised Kittens...While the SK is away...

HA! I'm in. You were promised kittens. And kittens you shall have. But first, have you ever wondered what it would be like to be the Suburban Kamikaze? I know I have always longed to know what it would be like to sink my toes into those fabulous size six shoes. (I'm guessing at the size here, though I can tell you from experience, fabulous shoes only come in size six, at least where I shop.)
You would think she would have chosen a guest blogger who actually has a blog. You would think she would have chosen someone funny, erudite, deep and charming who, resarches each topic thoroughly and can spell. You would think she would not have left the keys with someone who will undoubtedly leave them out in plain view of that joy-riding Boy Esquire and his pal. She clearly knows, after many years of missed PTO meetings and muffed middle school fund raisers that I will forget to water the plants, feed the fish, stock the pop tarts or lock the door. You would think she would have, at the very least, left the combination with someone who would not take her threat of posting kittens literally.
And, you would be soo wrong.
Because it is a huge responsibility, keeping the SK's blog going while she is in Paris trying on designer lingerie and walking those pretty heels into the cobble stoned ground. I have to keep the foot-traffic up and the complaints down. And we all know there are only two things that keep people coming back to your blog. That's right, Porn and Kittens and while the two are not mutually exclusive, (think Cat Woman) for the purposes of today's blog, we are going to stick to the pussy cats.
You want proof, you say, that the internet literally runs on kittens? Here is my favorite quote from a somewhat obscure movie called the Social Network, which didn't have any zombies or cowboys or aliens, but still wasn't a complete waste of two-ish hours:

"K.CSeven different people spammed me the same link.
KC's Friend: What is it?
K.C.: I don't know, but I'm really hoping it's cats that look like Hitler, because I can never get enough of that."'

So, in the great tradition of Facebook, which, in case you have been living in some library somewhere, is the top ranking social network on a list I read once, and is storied to have gotten its start based nearly entirely on its algorithm for ranking girls, but surely not in a bad way, I give you the point of today's blog, which may soon become the veritable point of your entire existence, excluding of course your MW2, Black Ops and tweet time----

Kitten War!

And there is more. You must have a playlist to go with this very dangerous link, because, hey, if you are going to waste spend time ranking kittens, then you gotta have the right tunes...

Are you still here? Ok, then, Little known facts--what Hollywood good/bad guy relies entirely on his cat to do his hair?

Another little known fact-- Justin Bieber? Totally stunt voiced by his dog, which explains a lot, really:

Now go away. It is time for my nap.

Guillermo del Toro's New Clothes

Repost from February 18, 2007

Guillermo del Toro's New Clothes

Pan's Labyrinth

If Pan's Labyrinth wins anything this year at the Oscars, I swear I will eat my own gun. At least that's what would happen if Guillermo del Toro were the screenwriter of my life. And then someone would come along, hack out my teeth with broken glass and shoot me again in the temple, eyes and chest, at very close range just to be sure. Because in del Toro's world, apparently you can't be dead enough. In del Toro's world, death means your mother won't recognize your body and God won't recognize your soul.

Pan's Labyrinth was written by and is the 9^th film directed by Guillermo del Toro who started his career 22 years ago with the film Dona Lupe. Other credits American audiences may be familiar with include Cronos a 1993 vampire movie and Hellboy, a 2004 comic book adaptation (sequel in pre-production). With a clear affinity for horror movies, no one has ever accused him of being a subtle storyteller. And in the tradition of the Brothers Grimm, both book and movie, del Toro's Pan's Labyrinth is about as dark a fairytale as has ever been told.

The story as described by NPR is:

"Del Toro sets his film in a remote mountain outpost in Spain in 1944, in the aftermath of the civil war. It stars Ivana Baquero as Ofelia, a young girl whose father is dead and whose mother is pregnant with her new husband's baby. That husband is Captain Vidal, a brutal captain in Franco's army, who ignores his new wife and stepdaughter and is interested only in his unborn child.

As Vidal ruthlessly hunts down anti-Franco guerrilla fighters, Ofelia escapes from her dreary reality into an equally dark fantasy world, full of strange and scary creatures. "

Sounds like the framework for a good film. Mother and daughter journey through a rainy forest to their new life. Daughter is chided for being too fanciful, spending too much time reading fairytales. Once they arrive, there are problems with the pregnancy. Ofelia bonds with a housekeeper close to her new father but who also holds a very scary secret. Very soon we realize that Ofelia's new father makes Hitler look like a Nantucket camp counselor. Ofelia's new "imaginary" friends are terrifying and cruel, offering no real escape from her own crumbling life. She is drawn to a mysterious labyrinth where she meets Pan the faun, who tells her she is really a princess, the princess in a book she was reading who, out of curiosity rose out of the underworld and became human, living and dying and forgetting about her happy life below. Her father, the king, would not give up on her and believed she would come back to him in another form someday.

To prove she is the princess, Ofelia must perform three tasks assigned by Pan. One of the tasks includes the monster pictured above. The murals on this beast's walls show him spearing and eating children like so many small shrimp. His eyeballs are on a plate in front of him while he sleeps. It is Ofelia's task to retrieve something from his lair without waking him. Starved for simple bread, let alone things as exotic as fruit and meat, she has been told to eat nothing from the banquet table spread before her. She has three fairies who accompany her on her mission. Somewhere an hourglass marks the time she has to get there and get out.

I'm not sure what I expected. Normally I would blame myself. I should have read the reviews. I should have listened to friends. I should have known something about the director. In this case, all I can blame is whatever weird confluence of parallel universe that switched me with my double on the other side, because I swear I DID read the reviews, listen to my friends and learn something about the director, all diligent attempts and all information from very trustworthy sources. What sources you ask?

Everyone. Everyone is so excited about this film that it has SIX Oscar nominations. The director, Guillermo del Toro, was featured on NPR, and some of my closest movie savvy friends personally recommended this movie, without caveat. My daughter in law drove 400 miles with the grandkids and she had only two requests when she got here. She wanted to visit a bookstore, since the nearest one to her home is a 60 mile drive, and she wanted to see Pan's Labyrinth with me. We went to the theater, bought our tickets from a smiling kiosk vender who never even thought to suggest that we, sweet Mother and Daughter on a girls night out, might not wish to see the most shocking, brutal and graphically violent film since A Clockwork Orange, on a full stomach. No red flags at all. And that's unfortunate.

I'm sure that I must have missed something. All the critics, my friends, the ticket taker, the Oscar voters, they can't all be wrong, can they?

Is it possible I didn't get IT? Let's see. Oppression is evil. Check. There are only two ways to respond to oppression, fight it or flee it. Check. Fighting oppression is hard and even when the good guys win, it is usually a Pyrrhic victory. Check. That about covers it.

I've seen movies about oppression before. I can honestly say I've never had to press my hands hard over my already shut eyes in a vain attempt to make the image fade. I've never had gunshots make me flinch so hard or watched people around me drop popcorn so fast. I can tell you what I didn't expect. I didn't expect a movie about a military commander so immune from human empathy that he is a caricature of evil, about a mother so selfish that she would trade her own small loneliness for the safety and security of her child, about a child who is surrounded by monsters both real and imagined and whose only hope is to commit murder and then take comfort in madness.

The fact that this film has drawn any attention at all speaks whole libraries about how far we all have strayed from good writing and good film and good judgment. This is a shocking and violent movie, not a deep one.

See the article and listen to the Fresh Air Interview here:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=7422528

But beware. The only fairytale here is the one you are hearing about what a great film this is. And should you choose to listen to EVERYONE and not me, the one fairytale you will most be reminded of when you leave the theater is The Emperor's New Clothes. You figure it out.

See Ebert/Roeper review here (NYT critic Anthony Scott filling in for Ebert): http://bventertainment.go.com/tv/buenavista/ebertandroeper/

Click on Pan's Labyrinth (At least Roeper does say that you should not bring the kids!)

What Makes the Ocean Smell Funny?

Original Placemat Commission for a friend- by Robert Perrotti, 1993

What Makes The Ocean Smell Funny?

Repost from January 24, 2007

That was the title of an art installation by the most talented artist I ever knew. The answer seemed obvious at the time. Fish, of course, make the ocean smell funny.
I was barely out of high school and life was simple, representative, even straightforward. Balance was more than a protein shake.
We were unspoiled, direct, wealthier. We visited libraries, watched network TV, and had ethnic food once a week---pizza. We kept diaries, not blogs. Everything added up. The code we shared had to do with a guy named Morse and never went viral on us.
We wrote letters, and magically the message was delivered to the right place a day or two later. Our newspapers were dropped off, not linked. Our cars operated sans sensors. And with only a hunch that the metric system was going to take us places we didn't really want to go, we just said no. We embraced the anomaly of a Dunkin Donuts baker's dozen.
This is not to say there weren't mysteries within the mundane. For example, on Bonanza, no one really knew where (Ben's stepson) "Clay" went or, for that matter, why Adam moved to Australia. Why did Ben have three wives? Was he just unlucky or a full-on serial killer?
And why did all the wives and lovers die within one episode? Didn't word get around? Silver City was kind of a small place. You'd think it would spread like hoof and mouth in the quilting circles: fall in love with a Cartwright at breakfast, nailed into a pine box by evening. And what happened to Candy? Some claim there are answers in the theme song, but I've never met anyone who knows the words.
The Ponderosa aside, answers were absolute back then, and better yet, the questions made perfect, predictable sense. Unlike the current question at hand, the one I don't even know how to ask. Why isn't my damned cable working?
Seems a rather simple concept. Long signal carrying wire runs into my house, something like a phone, which, by the way, has been working without conflict and through hurricanes and floods since Bell invented it, and then this long, sturdy-looking wire is grafted into the back of my computer via a fancy little screw.
A marvel, an electronic In Box of sorts, nothing too complicated.
Signal in equals signal out: a personal assistant that keeps me in music, pays my bills, reminds me of birthdays, snags my movie tickets, turns my alarm on and off and stores all the complicated thoughts in the universe so I can concentrate on more tangible ponderings like grocery lists, 1960's westerns and getting to work on time.
Connected, I am much more efficient. I am a profile of my former self. Password protected. User friendly.
But since Christmas morning, inequalities have occurred. Packets have been lost. Nodes have failed. Men in Black have come and gone but still, signal in does not equal signal out. I have threatened to go back to DSL. I have threatened to go to city hall. I have threatened to get up on my roof, by God, and nail a satellite dish up with my bare hands.
That was in the beginning. Now I just beg. My web pages languish in last month's thoughts, colors and links. My blogs no longer represent my ever in-the-moment self.
My Yahoo friends have made other friends and moved on. My profiles have been deleted, my passwords have expired. My cookies are stale. I have stopped receiving spam, canned or otherwise. My iPod is gathering dust. (Can you tell me why it isn't called an EAR Pod?)
I have become a modern cautionary tale, an urban legend.
So they are saying my connection will be restored tomorrow. But I fear my faith has been lost forever.
It occurs to me that life was never simple. Everything I thought I knew, I didn't. Life is hard, complicated and has no Google Image feature. Sometimes, when the ocean smells funny, you just have to look beyond the fish.

8:55 PM

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UNDERGROUND

Image of Subway: http://www.allposters.com/

UNDERGROUND
Repost from January 14, 2007 MySpace

People at the bakery think I'm illiterate. I've been reading the same book for six weeks.
Every day, I sit at my desk and sip my Slim Fast, packed carefully with water, fruit and good intentions, and then I clock out and go next door to the bakery for cookies and coffee.
Not for company. I bring the book.
At first it was a good defense. Do NOT ask me to pass the salt or comment on the weather, Survivor, your job, my job, the food, the president, the holidays or your feet. Keep it to yourself. I am READING here. Busy, very busy. EATING and READING. Move on.
But now, I don't know. Perhaps if you only stay a minute.
The book is called "The Subway Chronicles." Editor Jacquelin Cangro says in the foreword that it began as a dinner conversation, as in "I can top that subway tale. Once, when I was on the E train…."
And like any clever dinner conversation, at some point someone always says "Hey, this would make a great book!"
In my life, when someone says that, the project is doomed. It never happens. I could fill a library with the great books of dinner that were never written. But of course I won't.
Just can't get round to it. So much to do.
This book, an anthology of writers telling their best subway stories, is only 200 pages.
There are 28 stories. I thought after reading two or three of them, I would be finished. How many good subway stories can there be? Turns out, quite a few. And I am reading them slowly, very slowly; sipping them like Springbank Scotch, holding them up to the noonday light.
Now, halfway through, I can almost see the bottom of my glass and it is getting harder and harder to swallow, knowing after this there will be only thirst. Isn't that how a good book should be? You shouldn't be able to imagine your afternoons without it. You will never find another book like it.
Here is the passage that drew me in, from a story by Colson Whitehead:
"Look down the tunnel one more time and your behavior will describe a psychiatric disorder. It is infectious. They take turns looking down into the darkness and the platform is a clock; the more people standing dumb, the more time has passed since the last train. The people fall from above into hourglass dunes. Collect like seconds."
So, if you see me in the bakery, do NOT politely ask how my day or my diet are going. Do NOT sit down and block my light and above all, do NOT ask me what my book is about.
Because I'm not really there.
I'm in the vibration, pulsing into a harmony of hammer tone and spark. I'm patient on the ghost platform at Hoyt-Schermerhorn, staring down the darkness, waiting for something to surf up, cresting behind a tube of oily wind, off the tracks, past the mole people and 100 pages from anywhere I really shouldn't be.
Image of Subway: http://www.allposters.com/
Also see http://www.thesubwaychronicles.com/

9:31 AM