Friday, July 31, 2009

Stuck to the Chicken's Foot


In the 1960s we had acid rain. I thought it was a good idea. When the rains came, I sat outside and got cold and wet. After a while my lady came out to see what I was doing. I told her I was getting high from the rain. She always wanted to know what I was doing. I told her to enjoy the free high, but she didn’t listen. She went inside when her clothes got damp. When my buzz never came I walked inside and rolled a joint. The green took the wet away.

That was my first lover. I’ve been dumped three times – one wife and two husbands. I realized the problem after I broke up with my woman. I don’t like women. I like men, men like me. It was easy. I was 30 by the time I figured everything out. I found myself a husband and that’s when it started.

I met Herald at a bar in Portland. It was dark in there and it was hard to see anyone. Herald was the first and only guy I talked to at the bar. I asked him the time.

“It’s time for me to get you a drink. What can I get you, handsome?”


“Tall, dark, and all alone? Where’s your special someone?”

“I’m special. Don’t have someone.”

“You are special, those gorgeous eyes and straight teeth.”

“I can hold my breath for four minutes.”

“Fella, I’d believe anything those dimples told me.”

“I did it at the lake when I was seven. Water got in my lungs and someone had to blow life back in me. I was okay. Just turned me slow.

“Guy, I don’t care how slow ya are. Stick with me and I’ll always wait for ya.

Herald and I lived in Vancouver, Washington. We had a good life there. He worked at the paper plant and had a car. On the weekends he taught me how to drive and I even got my license. I drove that car to the liquor store sometimes. It was on the other side of town. On Friday nights we put vodka in water bottles and walked around the park.

My days were good there. Everyday Herald worked and I slept until he came home. We drank in the afternoons, after he’d get off work. On paydays he’d buy a dime bag and we’d laugh and smoke all night. He even taught me how to fish using the worms we found in puddles as bait. Put the hook through the worm’s stomach and then again on the other side of its body. I liked fishing. Sometimes I’d fish as I waited for Herald to come home. If I caught anything I’d cook it for us.

The letter I got from my mom changed everything. She told me to call home. Herald drove me to the pay phone down the street so I could call her. I didn’t have a quarter, I called collect. My brother was getting married, she said. She told me that I had to go home to be in the wedding. Herald wouldn’t let me take the car; he needed it to get to work. It made sense and I didn’t fight with him about it. I hitched hiked across the state to get home. I didn’t mind. I liked riding with strangers. I rode in five cars before I was home.

The first three cars were ordinary. The drivers didn’t talk much. I slept until they told me to get out. The fourth car wasn’t bad. The old lady gave me a stick of gum and had a nice car. The seat had a big cushion and an armrest that felt good. I fell asleep and my gum fell out of my mouth. The lady kicked me out on the interstate. I didn’t mean to spoil her seats. The fifth car was some tree huggers in a van. They had some food and pot. They shared it with me.

I was the best man in the wedding, but I wanted to be a bridesmaid. I smiled and looked happy for the photos. But I didn’t mean it. I couldn’t wait for the wedding to be over. I stayed at my mom’s apartment for a few days after the wedding. That’s when I had my accident.

I met some guys down near the bus station. They’d jump on the back of the milk truck in the morning and ride it up the hill to buy cigarettes. The driver would slow down at the top of the hill and the guys would jump off. Except, the morning I tried it the driver was new. The guy didn’t know to slow down.

I broke my head open. I cracked ribs on the pavement. I lost all the hair on my head. I woke up in the hospital and everyone was yelling.

“Stop yelling!”

“We’re not yelling. You’ve been in an accident and you’re in the recovery room right now. Do you know your name?”

“It’s William.”

“The doctor will be in to check on you soon. Rest until he gets here.”

When the doctor came he said I had a plate in my head and that my ribs would ache for a while. He went on to say that I also had a new disease.

“William, you have a new sickness. It’s a disease called HIV. Have you heard of this?”


“Have you used intravenous drugs?”


“William, have you had sexual interactions with men?”


My mom seemed worried, but I figured everyone was dying. She wrote Herald a letter and told him everything. The accident. HIV. Told him I’d be back soon and not to worry. She didn’t understand. She blamed the needles, the sex – anything she could think of really. I didn’t listen when she started. My mom worried too much.

I left the hospital after the stitches were cut out. I caught a ride back to Vancouver. When I got there the door was locked and my key wasn’t working. I couldn’t get in. Normally the door wasn’t even locked. Herald’s car wasn’t out front either.

I left a note on the door and went to the park for a while. I knew some guys that hung out there. I talked to them for a while. Some of the guys didn’t know me without my hair.

“Did you sell your hair for drugs, man?”

I told them about the accident. They were impressed and a guy gave me a joint. The smoke warmed my broken ribs on the inside. The night passed.
After my body started to ache again, I went home. When I got back, Herald’s car was parked out front. My note was gone. No one answered the door. I kicked. I slammed. I yelled until the complex manager told me to shut the hell up or he was calling the cops. I left.

I lived downtown for a while. I slept under church eve ways. If it got cold I’d go to the library to get warm. I read the pictures in the magazines. I could read, I just didn’t like to. I stole a sharpie from 7-11 and made a sign. I wrote whatever they wanted to hear, “Homeless”, “Jesus loves you”, “Dying” “Will work for food”. I wasn’t aggressive like the other homeless people. I waited. I got the money I needed and it wasn’t hurting anyone.

Once, when I was sitting with my sign collecting pennies, a man stopped. I held out my cup, but he didn’t give me a penny. He told me I was a worthless, lazy, bastard. He told me to get a job.

“Give me one.”

“I can find you some work, if you’ll get off your ass.”

“I’ll work for food.”

“You work for me and you work for money.”

I told him I’d take it. It was minimum wage, but I didn’t care. The job was in Oregon. Told me I’d be picking firewood, which sounded easy. I took it. He gave me a paper with the address and I left that night.

I took a freight train down there. It took several hours, but I didn’t mind. I watched the scenery and rolled cigarettes out of paper and tobacco – thin and tight – just the way I like them. When I got to Medford, Oregon I hopped off and walked. A trucker picked me up as I was walking and I rolled him a couple cigarettes for the ride. I could roll them with one hand without even looking.

When I got there I knocked on my boss’ door. He looked surprised when he saw my face. I guess he didn’t think I’d come, but I did. He told me to go out back and start collecting sticks in the brush. I worked for a while, it was boring, but it didn’t seem to be too hard of work. He sold the wood to campers for their campfires. I never saw any campers though. Someone must have bought the wood because everyday he had me collect more of it.

I worked that job for four months. It was an okay job. I liked being outside in the sun. The bugs got on my nerves sometimes, flies would crawl up my shirt and bite my chest, but the money made it all worth it. I lived with a man and woman I met at one of the bars downtown. They said I could crash on their couch. They were nice enough. We looked through dumpsters at night to try to find anything worth saving. I found a human skull once. The cops thought I was joking when I told them. They told me to stop wasting their time. I left the skull on the police office’s counter and walked home. Three days later I was famous. The front page of the newspaper read, “Homeless man finds Indian skull in dumpster.” But I wasn’t homeless. I had a couch.

I stayed with that couple even after my job ended. I ate leftover food from dumpsters and only spent the money I saved up on tobacco and alcohol. One time I found a jewelry box full of diamonds. The neighbor’s boyfriend threw it away. We heard them yelling the night before. Went to the pawnshop, got $75 bucks for them.

I wrote Herald a letter telling him about my life down in Oregon. I even cut out the newspaper article and sent it to him. He never wrote me back. Maybe he moved? I decided to move on.

I met Ray, my second husband, when I was stealing cans from his apartment complex’s trashcan. He asked me what I was doing and I told him I was getting lunch money.

“If you’re hungry, I have some food.”

“I found some right here.”

“Just come inside, I’ll make you something warm.”

We ate toast with butter and apples in his living room. He didn’t have furniture. The apartment was completely bare except for a few boxes in the corner. We sat on milk crates and talked about the weather. It wasn’t love at first sight, but I liked Ray. Everyday after that I’d search for cans in his dumpster and he’d invite me in. Eventually I didn’t leave.

I liked living with Ray. I didn’t have a job or anything. Ray didn’t mind though. He didn’t have any family. All his friends had left him when he left his wife. I guess he wasn’t picky. I wasn’t either. I liked his company. I taught him how to fish. We had a BBQ. The salmon tasted great.

I got sick six or seven months after Ray and I started living together. I thought it was the flu at first. My whole body ached. I couldn’t move. Ray tried to take care of me, but nothing helped. I wasn’t getting better. Ray convinced me to go to the doctor. He helped me walk to the bus stop and waited with me at the free clinic. I don’t remember that day very well. When I woke up in a hospital bed a few days later the doctor told me that I had a weakened immune system. I didn’t know what that meant, I felt better though. Ray wasn’t around. I figured he must have gotten bored and gone home. I got asked the questions again,

“Have you used needles to get high?”


“Have you had sex with men?”


“William, are you aware of the status of your sexual health? According to our tests, your blood tests positive for HIV/AIDS. This means your immune system is weakened and your body isn’t able to fight off sickness.

“I know.”

I fell back asleep after that. I dreamt about Ray and Herald and my life with them back when it wasn’t so complicated. When I woke up I pulled the needles out of my arm, got dressed, and walked out. I wanted to go see Ray, show him that I was better. I caught the bus home and was surprised at how different our apartment was. The entire place smelled like bleach, it was spotless. Ray wasn’t home so I sat on the floor and waited. I was asleep by the time he got home.

“What are you doing here?!”

“I got better. The doctors let me go”

“You don’t belong here. This is my place.”

“Ray, what are you talking about? Are you drunk?”

“Don’t get up. Don’t touch me!”

“Ray, what’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you Ray?”

“There isn’t anything wrong with me, you are sick! The doctors said you’re dying and
I’m not ready to.”

“I’m fine, Ray. Look at me, I’m fine”

“You’re not fine. Get out and give me your key.”

“What? You’re crazy.”

“Get out!”

I threw the key at Ray’s head, but missed and the key bounced off the wall. I was homeless. I went to get my old job back, but my boss wasn’t home. I sat downtown for a while and decided to catch a bus. I wanted to go home.

I took the Greyhound. I told the lady sitting next to me my best joke,

“Why did the frog cross the road?”

“I donno? Why?”

“Because it was stuck to the chicken’s foot.”

She didn’t laugh. I did, even though it was my own joke. I lived with my mom again for a while. I got the flu off and on. I didn’t have any more boyfriends, girlfriends, wives, whatever they were. I lived with my mom. It was good enough for me.

I worked sometimes. The lady across the street paid me to mow her lawn. I did it sometimes when I wasn’t feeling sick. The doctors gave me some medicine -- it didn’t work. I used my own. Bought it downtown from the guys I knew. Being home wasn’t so bad. I learned to love home again and I didn’t miss anyone.

I sent Herald a letter. I didn’t hear back for a while. I figured he moved or died or just hated me. He wrote back a couple months later. He had HIV too. He was real bad. Said he changed the locks when he found out. Didn’t want me to catch his gay germs.

I wrote him another letter saying I wasn’t scared. Gay is gay and I wasn’t going to turn any gayer because of him. He didn’t write me back. The postman returned my letter to me. I didn’t send anymore letters.

My ex-wife lived in the same town as my mother. I didn’t know her anymore. I didn’t even know where she lived. She showed up at my mom’s apartment one day. I guess the guys downtown told her I was around. A baby girl was with her. She was three. She didn’t knock, she yelled my name from the doorstep until I came to the door. All the windows were open, she only had to say it three times.

“What are you doing here?”

“See this William?”

“What am I looking at?”

“You’re lookin’ at your property.”


“William, you helped make this. Now you gotta take care of your business”

I had a daughter named Anna. I tried to help her mom take care of her. When my ex-wife got sick I watched Anna. My ex-wife had it too. But it wasn’t enough. They took her away and gave her to a foster family. She had it worse than the rest of us. AIDS had taken over her body. She couldn’t do much. Her infection was old and had eaten her body from the inside out. She saw Christmas a few more times and then left.

I don’t know where I got the germs. None of us knew. My ex-wife never told me how she got it. We lived. We died. It didn’t matter. We were connected, my lovers and me. The same creature was running around our bodies. I saw the doctor sometimes. He told me the same thing, you’re dying. Everyone is dying.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Monday, September 8, 2008

Man Work

I've spent the last week at my parents' house helping my dad put a new roof on their guest house. I could never be a roofer, the entire process is too labor intensive for me. Yesterday we used flat shovels to tear off the old, moss-covered, cedar shingles. This, of course, caused many blisters to grow on my fingers and also covered me in a nice coat of dust. My complection turned several shades darker, proving, once again, that spay-on tans are a waste of money (rubbing dirt on your skin is free and is all nat-URAL). I have a new respect for roofers -- they're not just high school drop-outs, they are HARD WORKING high school drop-outs.

ALSO! I just realized that tear (as in the water that trickles down your cheeks when you're sad) and tear (as in a pulling apart action) use the same spelling. AH, way to go Russell.

**The picture doesn't accurately capture the blisters. Just take my word for it**

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Grandpa's funeral

My grandfather died a couple weeks ago. He was 91 years old and very sick. I played fiddle and read this story at the funeral.

Grandpa Bee

When there was no one else to watch us kids grandpa would look after us. He’d let us kids eat bowls of vanilla ice cream for breakfast and taught us how to make toasted cheese sandwiches:

“If you kids want gilled cheese just toast the bread in the toaster and melt the cheese in the microwave. It’s just like grandma’s,” he’d say. We tried it, but it definitely tasted different then the grilled cheese sandwiches that gram normally made.

On warm afternoon grandpa and I would check on the honeybees. His blue ranger pickup truck, which he never drove over 25 mph, would rattle on our trip to the beehives. The bees loved grandpa and they never stung him even though he refused to wear the white beekeeping gloves. The bees merely rested upon his large course hands and, after realizing whom they belonged to, would fly away to find more flowers. I was terrified of being stung. Grandpa realized my uneasiness and a mesh covered hat and long thick gloves were purchased to cure my fear. Before my first beekeeping lesson grandpa lowered the tailgate of his truck and I sat as he showed me the proper way to wear my bee-keeping suit,

“Gosh darn things. What are these strings for? Tie it around your waste like that. Yeah, sit still while I fasten it. This new hat ain’t worth nothin’.” Orange pieces of bailing twine were rescued from behind the seat and grandpa tied them around my ankles to keep the bees from crawling up my legs. Gunner, grandpa's Australian shepherd, was left tied to the truck as we tended to the hives.

Grandpa grinned as we pushed the rocks off each hive and lifted the lids. The buzzing grew louder and bees swarmed around our heads wondering who was disturbing their busy day of collecting pollen. As we examined the bees more closely grandpa taught me about each member of the hard working bee family:

“See Russell. Them with the yellow balls on their legs are pollen collectors. Bees fly miles a day to get pollen. The ones standing outside are guarding the hive. There! see that one, it’s a scoutin’ bee….” Grandpa’s excitement grew as we got closer to the center of the hive where the queen bee and her helpers lived:

“They’re all working hard for her. See Russell. Their fate depends on her and she depends on them. They all need each other, they’re family.” After spending a few hours looking after the bees grandpa helped me remove my bee-suit and we drove back to his house for a dinner made by grandma. He smoked his pipe on the way home, which filled the cab with sweet tobacco smoke.

“Russell, that is the best bee beehive we’ve ever had.”

Since growing up I’ve realized that the my family works a lot like the bees grandpa and I took care of when I was a teenager.

We have many jobs. We are fisherman, teachers, receptionists, bankers, writers, farmers, fathers, mothers, daughters, and sons. But, more than anything, we are the members of the same family and we need each other. Grandpa was the one who taught us how to depend on each other and, while he isn’t around anymore to be the center of our clan, we will continue to work together as a family. I loved my grandfather and whenever I see a bee I will remember him and laugh. Even though grandpa and I spent hours taking care of the honeybees, we never harvested a drop of honey.

**This story may not mean anything to strangers, but it was appropiate for my grandfather's funeral.**

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Broken Happy Face = Sad Face

A piece of history broke last week. My yellow smiley face bowl, after holding countless servings of cereal, broke in my dishwasher during the rinse cycle. It cracked loudly while I was in the midst of a monotonous reading assignment. This, of course, was reason enough to put down my book for a quick inspection (I'll use any excuse to momentarily hide from my homework).

As soon as the door was lowered I was confronted with the bad news: broken yellow pottery. My smug friend would no longer keep me company as I ate my morning milk covered flakes. I whispered, "man down" as I removed the sharp pieces of ceramic and put them into the trash can. The other soapy dishes remained silent, too scared to say their condolences.

While I own many bowls, this particular piece of dishware had sentimental value. A few years ago, while living in college dorms, I frequently searched the dumpsters for any reusable items. While most would consider dumpster diving to be a bit unorthodox, I, on the other hand, found the entire process exciting. Lifting the lid and jumping into a dumpster full of unknown and possibly reusable items always seemed like a worthwhile way to spend the evening. One lucky night I found a box that not only held my smiley face bowl, but also: 14 new AA batters, a working computer mouse, clothespins, hangers, and two coffee mugs. Finding these objects put me on an instant dumpster-high that lasted three days.

My dumpster diving habits stopped as I've become more finically stable. But, if anyone is looking for free dishes, I'd highly recommend rummaging through your local dumpsters. :)

Saturday, June 21, 2008

My Mother's Chicks.

My mom called me as I was driving home for the Thanksgiving Holiday.

"Russell! I need chicks!"

"whhaaa? chicks??"

"Yes, chicks. I need eight of them. I've called all the farm stores in Mt. Vernon and they have 'em. Eight Barred Rock chicks. I've reserved them for ya to pick up.""

"Mom, you can't reserve chicks."

"When you're driving through Mt. Vernon just pick them up. You know I can't buy them here on the island."

"I don't think I have time. I'll miss my ferry."

"Russell, just go get the chicks. Or else I'll take your tuition away!"

"Okay. Bye mom"

I picked up the eight Barred Rock chicks mom had researved; however, just to spite her, I also bought three extra chicks. One Polish chick and two Aracunas chicks. Not only will these three chicks stand out against mom's original army of eight, but in a few more months, once the chicks start laying eggs, mom will realize the butt of my joke: Polish and Aracunas chickens lay green and blue eggs. They're the "easter egg" laying chickens. HAHAHA...and mom hates eating colored eggs.

The photo above is the Polish chick who is now half grown. You can just see her eye under her hat of feathers.*

Friday, June 6, 2008

Sleep is for losers (and little girls)!

Dead week is over (thank Buddha) and I'm about to start finals' week. So far I'm not too stressed out. Life is good and it's the weekend! I have a lot to accomplish in the next few days: two finals and a five page paper. The paper should be cake, but I am worried about my Middle English literature final. I only got a "C" on the mid-term, which means I need to do well on the final to save my grade (it's pretty much a life or death situation). I can't wait for the quarter to be over. Sadly I don't get much of a summer, I start summer quarter June 24th.

The picture was taken in the middle of dead week after not sleeping for 48 hours.*

Thursday, June 5, 2008

This is Washington

As you can tell...we're expecting a little rain. What's new?

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Person Essay: Uncle Bob Roberts

Uncle Bob Roberts
Whenever my car thumps over railroad tracks my mind jolts to a night fourteen years ago. The few memories that I have from elementary school are cloudy, but the night Uncle Bob Roberts told me about his migration from Washington State to California by railroad is still fresh in my mind. In his old-timers language Uncle Bob Roberts told me this story:

“I was 16 when The Great Depression kicked me out of my parents’ house. There was no food in the kitchen, no work, no school, so I got the hell out of town. Jesus, there was no other place to go, so I headed to California. I walked the rail for three days, slept under Douglas trees and ate boiled nettles when I could find them. Trains only ran this far north weekly and fare was expensive -- money wasn’t given away like it is nowadays. I walked because that’s all a man could do. I walked.”

“The fourth day I could hear the steady beast chugging up the steel. Hot damn, it was music to my ears. I knew that taking the train down to California was the only way I’d eat again and I wasn’t going to miss it. When an opportunity presents itself you gotta grab onto the horns and see what happens. I didn’t want the engineers to see me so I waited in the woods till the locomotive passed. Moments later I jumped for my life right into the open door of a freight car. BAM! I was home free.”

“I spent a week in that damned freight car. It was full of others who were also catching a ride down to California. We became a real family, sharing bits of food and stories as we sat and waited. We rode in that car until the air smelled sweet of peaches and decided it was time to jump back into the real world. I picked and ate peaches everyday for the next four months until even my sweat was peach juice.”

Uncle Bob Roberts died when I was 13 and I cried at his funeral. Between salty tears I read his obituary fully expecting to see some mention of his life during the depression. I was surprised when there were no references of California or the trains. In fact, according the piece of paper in front of me, Uncle Bob Roberts was born in 1925, which made him too young to remember anything about The Depression. The obituary called him “a great story teller” and “a real character”. However, there was no mention of him being a great liar.

I knew children lied to adults all the time, yet, I didn’t think adults were allowed to lie to children. It didn’t seem possible, the man who I had spent my entire childhood looking up to didn’t even exist. He was purely an imagination that lived only in my head. The Uncle Bob Roberts that I knew was a man created by Bob Roberts himself.

After his death I wondered what the real Bob Roberts was like. My parents said he lived in Bellingham for most of his life and drank too much in the evenings until he passed out. This description didn’t match the man that I knew and I had a hard time believing truth. The stories that I had grown up listening to gave me hope and inspired me to push through even the hardest times. The truth wasn’t as fun as the stories Uncle Bob Roberts had told me and it didn’t give me the same feelings of adventure.

My mind eventually created two men named Uncle Bob Roberts. One man, the one that I rarely think about, lived in Bellingham and drank himself into a coma every night. My real uncle is a man who jumped trains and picked peaches until his fingers bled.

**This is an essay I wrote for one of my classes. The assignment was to write a two page coming of age story. It's a little bit choppy in the middle section (not to mention cheesy), but I still sort of like it.**

Friday, May 30, 2008


Aaron, Yayoi, and I are in the midst of hanging out. Later we're going downtown to paint the town red or maybe shades of blue.

White people have big noses for one pick!

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Weekend Love

I should be writing an analysis on the Middle English play called The Second Shepherds' Pageant, but I'm not in the mood to think critically. Today hasn't been a good day. It's been the opposite of a good day and I just need a few moments to clear my head. Alas, my first blog post.

This last weekend was insanely fun. Friday night Lupe unexpectedly barged into my apartment and kidnaped me away from my homework. We jumped into her car and raced down to the park to photograph the setting sun. I was pretty satisfied with the images I captured, yet, I'd have to admit that the views from the park made it impossible to take a bad shot. I love spending evenings at the beach. It reminds me of the old days when every night was a campfire on the beach with hot dogs, s'mores, and skinny dipping. Sometimes I miss living on an island.

Saturday afternoon was spent constructing Yayoi's new dresser. Anyone who has ever attempted to assemble furniture knows the frustration Aaron and I felt as we tried to understand the misleading instructions. We were a few short steps away from completion when we realized the instruction manuel had FAILED to indicated how to install the back panels. Unfortuently we had to undo the entire dresser to properly install these panels. This caused Aaron and I to say a few choice words, but we both became happy again when Yayoi promised to buy us a drink at our favorite bar.

The bar was crowded and we ended up waiting 45 minutes for a table; however, the night looked up when Yayoi offered to buy us dinner along with our drinks. The food was delicious, the company was spot on, and we all had too much alcohol. If I learned anything from this experience it was to: always help Yayoi assemble her furniture. After dinner we staggered down the street and bought ice cream. I think the ice cream shop is cursed because every time I go there something unusual happens. This time a teenage girl attempted to steal the glass tip jar. Of course this caused a huge ruckus (the other customers fought the jar away from her and held her down until the cops came) and made us anxious to go home. The rest of the night was spent at Yayoi and Aaron's house dancing, writing, and acting completely foolish.

The next morning I received a phone call from Ali who invited me over to see her new apartment. Ali can't stand being away from me, her new apartment (conveniently) is within walking distance from my studio. Somehow, maybe with the help of the bargain gods, Ali is always able to find insane deals on merchandise. Her entire apartment is furnished with a large variety of sale items. And, what's even more outstanding, all of these items match and are of high quality. Her apartment may be fancy, but I sort of like my second hand furniture (thank Buddha my apartment's bug problem has been taken care of). The picture to the left is Ali sitting on her new stool that ironically enough is called an Alison Stool. I'm happy she's living nearby, it allows me to stalk her without wasting gas.

After checking out Ali's new digs - I'd have to say she has an incredible apartment - we went to McDonald's for lunch. I don't normally eat at Mickey D's, but I enjoyed my burger and french fries. I love the taste of grease and hormones in the afternoon.

The rest of my weekend was forgettable. The pictures are proof that I'm getting uglier in my old age (maybe it's the facial hair?). I think that Yayoi and I need to continue our workouts with Billy Blank. Apparently "Billy can change your body in just seven days". Yeah, seven days of Hell, his workouts are extreme. Billy always leaves me feeling sore and used. Is that normal?