As some of you know, I've been out of pocket for a few weeks. Circumstances being what they are, I may well disappear again for a few weeks. Can't be helped. Extended bouts of family illness can be a real bitch.

For those of you who've sent messages and received no replies, I sincerely apologize. I'll start playing catch-up this week. Meanwhile, browse the site, listen to the new tunes, and check out the new video featuring the U.S. Navy's salute to "Numa Numa." It's a real hoot.

Best to all,

LJ 

Howdy, pilgrims.

Those of you who've read my drivel know that I ocassionally wax windy and poetic. I appreciate a well turned phase as much as the next writer. Besides, some topics simply demand an air of decorum and civility.

Frequent readers also know that at other times, I tend to lose any semblance of civility and take a more direct approach to a given subject. During those moments I'm about as subtle as a triple root canal. This is one of those moments.

 I'm going to share some information with you. When I finish, I ask, urge, cajole, beg...hell, I dare you to share it with ten others. I don't care about attribution. Tell 'em where you got the info, or don't. I couldn't give a care less. Like the old saying goes, it's about the message, not the messenger. Now that my rambling preamble is out of the way, let's discuss for a moment the invisible wounds of combat. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, in particular.

If you read my last blog or recent offerings by Clint Overland or Dr. Kevin Keough, you know that many of us are more than a little bent by the recent examples of malfeasance committed by certain employees of the Veterans Administration (VA). "Cover-up" and "willful negligence" barely begins to describe the disgraceful  activities occurring with regularity at the VA.

Citing public opinion and time/budgetary concerns, some of the heav-hitters at the VA have gone so far as to encourge errant reports regarding suicide attempts by troops, and the deliberate misdiagnosis of  PTSD, a combat-related psychological illness. (See my previous blog for the story. If it doesn't set off your ulcer(s), you're in a coma.) In the minds of many, this writer included, that negligence borders on criminal practices. On second thought, it's passed the "criminal" and is headed toward treasonous.

Perhaps you're a strong supporter of the current U.S. military agenda. Or maybe you're one of the teeming thousands who've adopted the mantra, "I don't support the war, but I support our troops." Or, it's possible you really don't give a spit at a rolling donut about the U.S. military or our veterans. That's fine, too. Vets served so that you can enjoy the right not to give a spit.

But let's set aside for a moment those issues and any altruistic or ethical obligations of a citizen or government/society to its warrior class. (By the way, the notion of highly defined warrior class system operating inside a democracy has been around far longer than Plato's Republic. You don't have to agree with the system. You just need to understand that it's alive and well throughout the world, today.)

As of this writing, approximately 1.5 million American warriors have served in a Middle East combat theater since 1991. A significant number of those troops are citizen soldiers; average folk much like you and I, but who serve in the military on a part-time or "as needed" basis. Thousands of citizen soldiers have already, or soon will, return from the Middle East and reenter civilian life.

A significant number of those troops will carry the lifelong scars of combat, including Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). PTSD is an often debilitating disorder resulting from expsoure to extreme violence. Relentless nightmares, sleep deprivation, depression, anxiety, social withdrawal, violent behavior, substance abuse, and suicide attempts are some of the symptoms of the disorder.

Now with that in mind, please read the following excerpt, taken from a story written by Stacy Bannerman. (I'll tell you more about Mrs. Bannerman in an upcoming blog.)

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

"At least 30 percent of Iraq or Afghanistan [veterans] are diagnosed with PTSD, up from 16 percent to 18 percent in 2004," said Charlie Kennedy, PTSD program director and lead psychologist at the Stratton VA Medical Center. The number of Iraq and Afghanistan veterans getting treatment for PTSD at VA hospitals and counseling centers increased 87 percent from September 2005 to June 2006, and they have a backlog of 400,000 cases, including veterans from previous wars. The most conservative estimates project that roughly 250,000 Iraq war veterans will struggle with PTSD.

     These figures are particularly significant for citizen soldiers when considering that: A 2004 analysis of Operation Iraqi Freedom veterans who received VA healthcare revealed that 58 percent of the veterans seeking treatment were members of the Army Reserve/National Guard and 71 percent of Operation Enduring Freedom vets who utilized VA services were citizen soldiers. A 2006 report detailing VA healthcare utilization by Operation Iraqi Freedom veterans revealed that, of those who sought care for PTSD, 18 percent were formerly active duty personnel, and 30 percent were National Guard soldiers and Army reservists.

     Even at their highest rates of deployment, National Guard soldiers and Army reservists represented no more than 44 percent of deployed forces; and, many studies conducted at Walter Reed Military Hospital don't include National Guard and Army Reserve soldiers.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

The most disturbing fact about the above excerpt is that the numbers only reflect diagnosed or suspected cases. They do not take into consideration the potential (inevitability) for as-yet undetected cases that will eventually arise. Conventional wisdom tells us that hundreds, if not thousands, of new cases will surface over a period of months or years.

Since the beginning of Iraqi Freedom, I've heard people say some odd things.

Example:

*"Best trained, best equipped army in the world against a bunch of wannabes! This ain't no real war!"

*" Soldiers sign the contract, take the oath, and cash the paycheck, right? To heck with 'em. End of story."

*Shellshock? PTSD? No such thing! Psycho-babble!

*Not my problem, anyway. Right?"

Wrong.  On all counts.

Nothing truly prepares a warrior for combat except the experience of combat.  Period. Look at it this way: I can spend the next six months telling you that a baseball bat to the kneecap hurts. I can draw you a picture, sing you a song, or show you a video and you'll think you understand. But I promise you, if I actually de-cap you with a bat, your level of understanding will increase about a thousand-fold in just a few seconds.

Let's play a little game. Just for "fun."  Imagine if you will that you're a fulltime U.S. Marine or "regular" Army. (Not disparaging the Air Force or Navy. The imagery just works a little better with "ground-pounders.") Now, imagine that you live and train in a military environment twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Suddenly, you're out of that familiar base housing and standing in a narrow, smoke-choked, dimly lit corridor. Working on little sleep, you begin the mission: Flush out an enemy who is well armed, highly motivated, and extremely capable. An enemy who knows you're coming.

There are several doors to your left and right. No idea what lies behind them. As you move foward the distinctive bark of an AK-47 splits the air. The acrid smell of gunpowder fills your nostrils and stings your eyes. You hear the screams of the wounded and dying. An explosion. Blood and body parts litter the hallway. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Nothing to do but move foward or die.

You've been a fulltime soldier for 2-3 years or longer. You've received the best training in the world. But nothing…nothing…prepares you for the reality of urban combat. Are you a candidate for PTSD? You betcha. VA statistics tell us that you have about a 1-in-6 chance of developing the disorder.

Now, step away from the scene and reset your mind. Take a deep breath. Ready? Good. Let's picture that same scenario, except that now you're no longer a fulltime soldier. Last month you were a clerk at an auto parts store, or the manager of a movie theater. Sure you went to basic training several years ago, and you drill a month out of the year. Yet, last week you were sacking spark plugs and battery cables or tearing movie tickets. And now... Given this scenario, are you a PTSD candidate? Those same VA stats tell us you now have about a 1-in-3  to 1-in-4 chance of developing the disorder.

Sounds melodramatic? Maybe so. It's also a fairly accurate description of hundreds of firefights that have occurred over the past several years.

I haven't spent the first day inside Iraq, but I know a little about violence.  I know what it's like to physically and mentally train for a violent encounter. I could count the total number of shooting incidents I've been involved in on one hand…but I'd need a few more fingers. I understand the physical and psychological consequences of walking into a hailstorm with firearm at the ready and a buddy protecting my "six."

I also know what it's like to walk alone into a pitch-black house or alley, expecting anything but a bullet or a blade… and be unpleasantly surprised. I don't care if it's a jungle, downtown Baghdad, or a Wal-Mart parking lot, all combat carries risks to health, heart and soul. It's the nature of the beast. Combat sticks with a person. Those experiences can also produce profound physical and psychological consequences, the kind that live in your gut long after the political speeches cease and the cheering or jeering crowds disperse. The kind of consequences that can affect individuals, families, and even entire communities for years to come.

The effects of PTSD may surface almost immediately or the problem can lay dormant for years until…Until.  Who's at risk for PTSD? Anyone. Everyone. There's no shame in having the disorder, though it does come with an undeniable professional and social stigma. Most misunderstood maladies carry such stigmas. PTSD is a brain chemistry issue. There's no body armor on earth that can protect you against it. It can impact people who've witnessed or survived almost any type of violent encounter including traffic accidents, tornados and hurricanes, or spouse/child abuse. If a three minute encounter with a tornado can induce PTSD, and it can, imagine what a year inside a combat zone can do.

Folks, our troops are coming home. You'll see veterans in the grocery store, at PTA functions, and the movie theaters. You see them mowing the lawn next door. You'll never know or understand what they saw and experienced in those narrow, smoke-choked, dimly lit corridors, streets, or alleyways. Those experiences are coming home, carried in the hearts and souls of thousands. For many, the memories will eventually fade or be mentally filtered and normalcy ensues. Others won't be so fortunate.  That's when it becomes my problem. Your problem. Our problem.

What can we do? For starters you can practice a little righteous indignation. Act like an American who's had enough of bureaucratic malfeasance and refuses to take this shit another day. Demand the government take responsibility for the troops who've served in harm's way. Demand adequate testing, accurate diagnoses, and aggressive treatment. Demand the "right thing."

Begin by visiting Kevin Keough's page. (His picture is on the top line of my Friend's list.) Doc has listed several sites and organizations that deal with PTSD and other veteran/combat-related issues.

Thanks for your time.

Adventures in the Supermarket Twilight Zone.

(or How Liam Fell into the Rabbit-Hole and Landed In Safeway)

Howdy Pilgrims!

Let's begin today's epic adventure with an emphatic, unqualified statement: All supermarkets are Satan's Spawn.

Under the misleading guise of one-stop shopping, these black holes connect unwary masses with the 3^rd level of Dante's Inferno. The Bermuda Triangle doesn't have squat on your typical neighborhood mega-grocery store. Entire bomber squadrons have disappeared from radar while flying over an A&P, Skaggs, or Brookshire's. I'm convinced most serial killers acquired their proclivity for mayhem only after browsing the frozen food section.

Yes, I know supermarkets afford us a convenient means of shopping. Today's supermarket not only carries food staples, but also automotive essentials, school and office supplies, assorted dry goods, full pharmacies, and photo-processing centers. You have to dig through the car tires and barbeque grills just to find a can of green beans.

I submit that therein lays the problem. Now, listen closely. This eclectic mix of goods and services has distorted Time and Space. The result is a metaphysical worm hole that bores through the stores, altering the flimsy fabric of reality. Walk into a supermarket at the risk of life, limb, and sanity.

My revelation occurred decades ago when I took a part-time job at a neighborhood Safeway. Ten to fifteen hours a week stocking, sacking, helping little old ladies lug cases of Ensure and Miller High Life to their Chrysler New Yorker.  Pretty normal gig, right? Yeah, right.

My third day on the job and I'm sacking up a half dozen bottles of Boones Farm for the local high school guidance counselor (poor guy) when I hear a shriek. I look up just as some guy bolts past the row of registers, and heads for the front door. He's carrying a half-dozen cartons of cigarettes under one arm and a cloth money bag. I also notice the dude bore a striking resemblance to Mr. T-On-Steroids. Picture Godzilla carrying twenty pounds of faux bling  around his shoulders. (He had no neck)

The assistant manager is in semi-hot pursuit, yelling, "Call the police! That guy just robbed us!" (I say semi-hot pursuit as you could sorta, kinda tell the boss didn't really want to catch up to Mr. T-zilla. The fake limp as he clutched his right hamstring was a dead giveaway.)

So as I watch events unfold, I'm sorting my options:

I can:

1. Run to the office and dial 911.
   
2. Continue sacking the wine. (Mr. Guidance Counselor was in dire distress.)
   
3. Follow Mr. T-zilla just in case he needs some assistance to his car.
   

I selected option C. After all, he was carrying alot of cigarettes.

(NOTE: Chasing someone bold enough to rob a supermarket in broad daylight wasn't a good idea then, and it sure isn't a good idea now. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME, KIDS!)

Once in the parking lot, I see our villain running across the parking lot toward a waiting car. Epiphany!  Mr. T-zilla has an accomplice. (I'm a quick study, uh?)

Fortunately, Accomplice Dude was no brighter than Mr. T-zilla. Now, if either culprit had enough sense to stage the getaway car near the store entrance instead of at the far end of the lot, this story would be much, much shorter. Alas, both culprits were several pancakes short of a full stack.

As Mr. T-zilla huffed and puffed across the lot, Karma temporarily overcame the malevolent miasma of the Supermarket Twilight Zone. Just before he reached his getaway ride, one of those blue-haired old ladies pulled onto the lot in an aforementioned Chrysler. Our villain broadsided the New Yorker, smashed the side glass, bounced off, and fell back with arms flailing, cigarettes flying, and disgusted Accomplice Dude cursing.

The New Yorker swerves. I catch the corner of the bumper on the thigh. I immediately figure out that when a two ton automobile engages flesh, that two ton automobile will win with monotonous regularity. (A dazzling display of logic, no? Told you I'm a quick study.)

I recovered from the thigh-bender and turned my attention back to Mr. T-zilla. Ohhh, gotcha' now, you theivin' scoundrel!

Mr. T-zilla, rather nimble for a man of his considerable girth, jumped to his feet just as I closed on him, again. That's also about the time when Karma said, "Time's up. You're on your own."  My boss yells, "He's got a gun!" (Seems the manager's hamstring enjoyed a full recovery as soon as I took the point. The loggerheaded rat! Come to think of it, a pretty smart loggerheaded, rat at that. But I digress. )

Ever have one of those, "You gotta' be kiddin' me!" moments? I'd had one of two in my life, but none ever quite like that. I mean, I'm standing in a near-empty parking lot with a large, angry, gun-totin', chain-smokin', hyena-ugly bipedal reptile. No place to run, no place to hide. Cover-and-concealment is not an option. Funny, but they don't cover this situation in the Safeway employee handbook.

My second thought was a shade to the left of ludicrous. Suddenly, I'm wondering if the hardware store down the street needs some part time help. Swear up a storm and pray for rain, I'm standing there wondering if I can get a job sacking nails. Or nailing sacks. Anything, anything but this.

So there we are. TweedleDum (me) with Mr. T-zilla to my front, and Accomplice Dude somewhere behind me. I don't see a gun, but that really doesn't matter. I'm tired. I'm scared. I'm underpaid. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Mr. T-zilla, meet Mr. Uchi Mata and his associate, Mr. Asphalt Parkinglot. Oh, and here's their little friend, Mr. Kansas City Lateral Restraint. Night, night. Sleep tight! (Google the underscored if you have any questions.) I wish I could say it was all a part of some coordinated, concentrated, super-duper master plan. Not so. It just...happened. (A thank you to Sensei Mark "Coach" Tripp, without whose training influence I wouldn't have known an uchi mata from sushi. But that's another story.)

As T-zilla slipped away into Slumberland, Accomplice Dude decided discretion beat the heck out of jail and drove away. The local constabulary arrived some few minutes later and took T-zilla off my hands. Or rather, they took my forearm from T-zilla's neck. (When you're tired, scared, and underpaid, you forget small details like, "Okay, he's out. You can quit choking his big ugly butt, now.")

I later learned T-zilla had paroled from prison just four days prior to our little encounter. Back on the streets less than 96 hours and already resuming a life of pillage and plunder. He was returned to his former residence sans cigarettes and money bag. Sad. I often wonder how different his life may have been if he'd just stayed away from the Supermarket Twilight Zone

---------------------------------------------------------------

Oh, but there's more! So much more. Alas, additional tales of the Supermarket Twilight Zone must wait for another day.

Safe journeys, pilgrims!

An old friend and fellow pistolero, Dennis Casida, reminded me of the following just this morning. Some of the items below are adages, well-known to old cops and military folk. I've added a couple of extra points just for good measure. Enjoy!

  
*I would rather be your friend, or at least, enjoy a peaceful co-existence. However, if neither notion appeals to you, I am prepared to be a capable and efficient enemy.  So, let's be friends. It'll save some wear and tear on your body and help preserve my ammo supply.

*This is the First Law of Combat:  The purpose of fighting is to win.

There is no possible victory in defense. Defense merely postpones the inevitable.

*The sword is more important than the shield. Resolve and skill are more
important than either.

*The ultimate weapon is the brain.  All else is supplemental.

*As John Steinbeck once said:  Don't pick a fight with an old man.  If he is too old to fight, he'll just kill you.

*If you find yourself in a fair fight,  your tactics suck.

*I carry a gun 'cause a cop is too heavy. 

*When in danger and "seconds" count, the cops are usually just "minutes" away. Remember this as you formulate your response to the threat.

*A reporter interviewed a Texas Ranger for a human interest piece  The reporter recognized the Ranger's Colt Model 1911 sidearm and asked, "Why do you carry a .45?" 

The Ranger replied, "Because they don't make a .46, and a shotgun won't fit my holster." 

*An armed man will kill an unarmed man with monotonous regularity. 
              

*Beware the man who only has one gun. He probably knows how to use it."
          

And Finally:

*I was once asked by a lady visiting if I kept guns in my home.

I said that I did, indeed.

She said "Well, I certainly hope they aren't loaded!"

Tonight, I watched a rerun of Remember the Titans. For the record, it's a really nice "feel good" movie set in 1971 amidst the turbulence of school desegregation. The story revolves around the merger of two high schools, one black, one white, and the coming together of an entire community as it rallied around the athletes. The kids, despite racial barriers and much fear, managed to go undefeated in football with a perfect 13-0, and a Virginia state championship.

And, for the record, the movie, while fundementally accurate, is rife with Hollywood exaggerations and outright fabrications. Of course, this shouldn't detract from the story's messages; that racial bias is usually predicated on gross misunderstandings about cultural differences. And that those differences can usually be resolved to everyone's mutual benefit provided those involved possess the 'nads and wherewithal to make it happen.

To borrow an old cliche, the story resonates with me on several levels. You see, my hometown went through a similar experience during the late Sixties and early Seventies. Though, unlike the situation described in "Remember the Titans," our desegregation didn't involve two high schools. It directly involved six schools less than five miles apart, one of which was the largest school in the state at the time. It indirectly involved another handful of all-white schools situated just outside the desegregation zone. The result was four year period of "on again-off again" Klan actions, school and bus burnings, physical assaults, National Guard-enforced curfews, neighborhood guerilla warfare, and general havoc.

I've often thought about telling the story of that period, as seen through the eyes of a teen and young adult. But I've always found some excuse to delay or avoid the task. And it would be a task. It's damn sure not a feell-good tale. Despite the current spin of area politicians and various community leaders, the city never fully recovered from that period. To this day, race relations in that area still suck like the proverbial Hoover with no meaningful relief in the immediate forecast.

For several years the city finished first or second in the categories of per capita homicide and rape  for US cities under 100,000 population. (Source-Rand Corporation and the FBI Crime Index). The largest area employer is the state penal system with six correctional facilites within a 35 mile radius. Not coincidentally, it's the same county where I began my law enforcement career. As of this morning, Dec. 29th, the 2007 murder count stands at 19...in a town of just over 50,000. At the time of desgregation, the town's population was 66,000. "White Flight" and urban sprawl put the city''s growth potential into reverse forevermore. And please keep in mind, I'm not blaming desegregation. I'm blaming the inane reactions of a group of frightened and angry people.

Maybe it's a story worth the telling. Then again, maybe not. I might make it through the entire tale over a period of several weeks. Or, I might not write another entry on the subject. We'll see where the spirit moves me and go from there.

Thanks for stopping by.

Liam

Well met, pilgrims!

Recently, I met a new MySpace friend, "Rock Against Child Pornography. (RACP)."   It was my good fortune to have tripped over them in the great expanse of cyber space.

RACP is an awareness group consisting of musicians and others, working to raise the profile of this horrendous crime against children.

It was a timely encounter in that several MySpace folk have recently been engaged in a fascinating discussion about "wolves and sheepdogs" in Dr. Kevin Keough's MySpace blog. Sheepdogs (educators, cops, firefighters, medical pros, and many private citizens) have long held a protective affinity for children, a group with few natural defenses against the sexual predator. The problem of child exploitation is one of staggering proportions. It spans the globe with a mind-numbing, intricate network, supported technically and financially by a clandestine army of like-minded sexual deviants.

Sound like an exaggeration? According to federal law enforcement and agencies like The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, child internet porn is a MULTI-BILLION dollar industry. This dollar figure doesn't even factor in the underground magazine market and video industries

.

The graph below chronicles the work of Project Predator, a joint effort led by Immigration and Customs Enforcement, and involves numerous other state and local law enforcement agencies. An impressive body of work for 12 months, perhaps... until one considers the full scope of this problem. The cases below do not include the hundreds of cases handled independently by various local, county, state, and other **federal police agencies. (**i.e. FBI ) Nor do they reflect the thousands of cases worked each year by international multi-jurisdictional task forces.

Advocacy groups like RACP play a significant role in drawing attention to issues such as child exploitation. I would ask that you make a stand on behalf of our children, and support this effort or another like it. Your actions could result in the single most important contribution to the safety and well-being of a child.

Thanks for your time.

Liam

 'The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.'- Edmund Burke

Contact info

Child Exploitation and Obscenity Section
Criminal Division
U.S. Department of Justice
1331 F Street NW, 6th Floor
Washington DC 20004
Phone: 202-514-5780
www.usdoj.gov/criminal/ceos/
The Child Exploitation and Obscenity Section (CEOS) of the Criminal Division, U.S. Department of Justice, has supervisory responsibility for Federal statutes covering obscenity, child exploitation, child sexual abuse, activities under the Mann Act, sex tourism, missing and abducted children, and child support recovery.

Innocent Images National Initiative
Federal Bureau of Investigation
www.fbi.gov/hq/cid/cac/innocent.htm
The Innocent Images National Initiative (IINI), a component of the FBI's Cyber Crimes Program, is an intelligence-driven, proactive, multi-agency investigative initiative to combat the proliferation of child pornography/child sexual exploitation facilitated by an online computer.

ICE Cyber Crimes Center
U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement
Toll-free: 1-866-DHS-2ICE
/www.ice.gov/graphics/investigations/services/cyberbranch.htm

U.S. Postal Inspection Service
Inspection Service Operations Support Group
222 S. Riverside Plaza, Suite 1250
Chicago, IL 60606-6100
www.usps.com/postalinspectors/kid-porn.htm

For additional support agencies and statistical information, see:

http://vachss.com/help_text/report_child_porn.html

 2007 Criminal Cases

It's occurred to me, and not for the first time, many of my MySpace friends don't run in the same circles. The beauty of MySpace is the onion-layer effect. Peel away one layer of friends and find an entirely different circle waiting on you.

So tonight, I'll begin peeling away some of the layers and introduce you to some fine people you may have missed thus far. Some are MySpace old timers, while others are newly come to the Land of Oz. Please stop in and introduce yourself to these people. You'll be glad you did. And stay tuned over the next couple of weeks and I'll introduce you to many more of the great people I've met through MySpace. (If for any reason the links don't work for you, shoot me a message and I'll try to correct the problem.)

Dr. Kevin Keough (aka Doc) is one of my newer friends. As some of you may know, Doc Keough is a psychologist and long-time martial artist. 

Recently, Doc wrote several blogs regarding the warrior mentality and the mysterious male-female relationship. Some very thought-provoking material.  The exchanges between Doc and his constant readers are worth the price of admission. Highly recommneded so come early and stay late.

Speaking of thought-provoking, stop by and meet Lori. I've known Lori for a number of years as both a fellow writer, martial artist, and trusted friend. You never know what she's cooking up, but it's usually something fun, and always intelligent.

Maxwell Payne is another newcomer to MySpace. A fellow writer, Max displays a quick, dry wit. I like his style and choice of subject matter, and I think many of you will, too.

One of the funniest folk I've encountered to date is Clint. But don't let his raucous sense of humor fool you. Clint is an old soul with some keen insights. Warnng: Don't drink coffee while reading his posts.

Nitemareseraph is a south Alabama product and all-around great guy. I usually go to him for movie reviews and he hasn't steered me wrong, yet. And he owes me a beer-and-seafood dinner. Or maybe I owe him one. Damn, I can't remember. Regardless, one of these days I'm going to show up in Mobile and one of us will spring for dinner.

Last but not least is Maggie West. She's an excellent non-fiction writer with a milewide streak of humor. Her interests are varied and you never know what to expect from her blogs. Well, allow me to amend that. You can always expect "smart" and "funny."

That's it for tonight. Stop in as time allows and say hello. And remember, look for future blogs in which I'll provide you with links to other MySpace friends.

Next up:

Jamie Mason, Dave Bean, Marc MacYoung, Nate, and Tsuki

Until next time, safe journeys!

Liam