Monday, July 5, 2010

A Place to Eat - A Project

Been a little while since I've posted, but that's because I've been busy with projects. One of which was refinishing the breakfast nook table and chairs. The look The Wife and I were going for was a driftwood nautical type feel. So let's get started.

First was sanding the table.

Once that was done we applied an exterior transparent deck stain to the table top.

Then The Wife painted the base a rich white.

Then I sealed the table top with a self-leveling clear coat.

Next were the chairs.

The spindles and the details on the legs made these a bit of a pain.

I used a red primer on the chairs because...

You guessed it, the chairs were to be red.

For some reason The Wife has this notion that because I came from a trailer park in Homestead that I have mad graffiti skills and therefor can use spray paint on anything.
So after 12 cans of paint (seriously, 12 cans) the set was complete.

Gotta say, it was a lot of work but did come out pretty good. I think investing in an airless sprayer might be a good idea for future projects though. I'm not so sure I can afford to lose anymore braincells huff'n all that paint.

Friday, April 23, 2010

The Box of Stuff

It had happened again. This time it was while we were cleaning out our closet when Ana came across the old cardboard box. I had a pile of old t-shirts that I was deciding which would stay and which would become rags when I heard her cry. I turned and saw her on the floor with the box between her legs. The flaps hung open to reveal its stale contents; a jewelry box, a wristwatch, some papers, some books, and other personal belongings. She held a yellowed newspaper clipping in one hand and an eccentric jade necklace in the other.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered while tears gently rolled down her checks.

I stood silent for probably too long. I never knew what to say. Finally I knelt down in front of her “Honey, it’s okay I know it is hard.”

“Every time I think it will get easier; this time I won’t cry. But it still hurts so much.” Her silent cry turned to sobs “Why does he get to live? Why doesn’t he have to pay for what he did?”

“I don’t know,” I said solemnly and reached over and rubbed her shoulder. “Come on, let’s put this stuff away.”

She nodded slightly as she sniffled and together we put the things back in the box, last being the article that detailed her parent’s tragic end.

Every time this happened I would get a burning inside of me. My poor lovely wife forced to deal with such a horrible experience at such an early age. And the man responsible for her parent’s death lived his life as though nothing ever happened. It was fifteen years ago, my wife was nine, when he killed them. I guess back then they weren’t too sharp on handling drunk drivers. My would-be in-laws were coming back from a formal dinner party when that waste of flesh slammed into them. Of course the drunk goes unscathed while the victims are zipped up and towed away in bags.


I tell you it was a strange feeling, almost like a literal switch being flipped. My mind began to work out a plan. More and more the intricate details became clearer as the days went on. I found my work was not getting done as I focused more on my plan. My solution to the box of stuff. Then the day came.

Ana thought I was away on business and I told work there were personal issues that needed to be handled so I needed a week off. Both were only half-lies. I left Atlanta and drove nonstop to Chicago. I only had a week at best so I could not spare a single minute.

He was easy enough to find and I began to watch him. People are such creatures of habit and he was no different. In only three days his routine was detailed in the notepad I kept in the seat beside me. She was absolutely right; he lived his life as though nothing had ever happened. As if he was not responsible for the murder of her parents. He had a wife and child, but the bottle was still more important to him. Drinks after work seemed to be the norm so it was quite easy to snatch him up leaving the bar. I merely hid in the backseat and right before he turned the ignition I laid the tire iron across the back of his head.

I think it took him a minute to understand what was happening as he looked at me with a glazed look through the windshield. His slow blink turned to eyes wide open when he tried to reach for the back of his head and realized he couldn’t. He looked down at the silvery globs where his hands should be on the steering wheel. He jerked frantically against the duct tape, but I had used practically a whole role on his hands alone. Yelling was not an option for the same reason he couldn’t move his hands, feet, or body. I managed to buy plenty of the tape on sale as a handy man special.

After a few minutes of enjoying his struggle, I came around from the front of the car to his window. He jerked away when I reached for his face and sounded off with muted screams. I grabbed his hair with one gloved hand to hold his head still and ripped the strip of tape from his mouth. Instantly he began to yell for help.

“Go ahead, scream and yell all you want,” I told him as I balled the piece of tape up then flicked it at his face.

He looked at me and continued to scream for help. His head jerked side to side looking for help while he screamed. But there was no one around. I was quite proud of myself having found this spot in a strange place on so little sleep. There were no lights on this particular part of the tracks. And his Lincoln fit nicely across them.

I stood with my arms folded and my eyebrows raised and waited patiently until finally he stopped screaming.

“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled.

I slowly shook my head, “In your position, do you think it is best to yell at me?”

His head dropped and he took a deep breath. Without looking up he asked, “What is it you want?”

“I want you to die,” I said nonchalant.

His head jerked around “Why? What did I ever do to you?”

“You are the stone in the pond and I am one of your ripples.”

“What the hell is that suppose to mean?”

“About fifteen years ago you killed a man and a woman.”

At first he looked at me with his face scrunched up, like I was talking in some foreign language, but then his eyes opened. “That was an accident!”

I stepped toward the car and kicked the driver door. “Accident? You chose to drink and drive! How is that an accident?” He just stared at me with his mouth hanging open. “You killed my wife’s parents. You stole her childhood. It is something she has to live with, something she has to deal with everyday. It is something that I have to deal with because it hurts her so.”

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not,” I chuckled. “If you were sorry you wouldn’t still be drinking and driving. If you were sorry you might have come to her and apologized for what you did, begged for forgiveness.” I could feel a vibration under my foot as I stood on the steel rail. I looked at my watch. “No, you’re not sorry, but you’re about to be,” I said as I turned and looked down the track.

We were both silent long enough to hear the rumbling and clanking of the train.

“Please don’t do this! I’ll do anything! I have a wife and son!” he yelled and tears started rolling down his face.

“Oh, you cry now when it’s you who is looking death face on. Did you cry for them? Did you cry for the little girl whose life you changed forever?”

I slowly backed away from the car and watched him begin to thrash against the tape. I looked down the tracks and saw it closing in. The massive serpent of metal wasn’t moving terribly fast, but it rumbled ahead quick enough. When I looked back I was shocked to see that he actually got a hand free. My heart pounded and I kept snapping my attention from the train to the car. Then he got his other hand free. The train was closer. Now his torso. The damn train wasn’t moving fast enough. I inched toward the car not sure what to do. I looked back for him, but he wasn’t there. Franticly I looked around for him and stepped toward the car. There I saw his back jostling as he worked to get his feet free. I was only a couple steps away from the car. Every part of my body throbbed as my heart jolted in my chest. Everything was happening in slow motion, especially the train.

His head popped up and he gave me a look of disdain; he had gotten his feet free. My eyes shot open and my jaw dropped. As he turned for the door the blast from the horn sounded causing me to jerk and snap my attention to the foreboding beast. The brake screeched as the train, deceptively quick, was upon us. Something that big doesn’t seem to move that fast, but it did. Over the horn and the breaks I could hear the horrific sound of him screaming. He had managed to get the door open, but that was all when the train collided with the car and him between the two. Being so close to the impact I stumbled backwards and fell. I stared as the train pushed the wreckage down the tracks creating a wake of sparks, then the car ignited. Once the train and the squeal of the brakes came to a halt I shuddered and began to run.


When I returned home I couldn’t sleep. Any moment I didn’t preoccupy my mind the images and the sound of his scream would fill my head. Every time the phone rang, every unexpected knock on the door I would start to sweat. I waited for word to come to Ana from her friends or distant relatives about his demise, but no one seemed to care. Truth was she really didn’t have anybody. I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to tell her, partly because I couldn’t stand to carry this burden by myself any longer, but mostly because I did it for her. I wanted her to know how much I loved her. It was at dinner weeks later that I finally broke down.

“Baby, you’re not eating your dinner. Do you still feel bad?” she asked as she twirled the spaghetti onto her fork.

She looked so sweet and innocent. Her shoulder length curls draped the sides of her soft face. Her round green eyes were set perfectly in her porcelain skin. I couldn’t help but crack a smile as I looked at her.

She sheepishly smiled back “What?”

“I don’t tell you enough how beautiful you are.”

She smiled big then looked down at her plate and shook her head “You are being silly.”

“Really, you are my world. You mean so much to me and I would do anything to make you happy.” I took a deep breath “I would even kill for you.”

She looked at me sideways “That’s a strange thing to say. Most people would say die for you.”

“Oh, and I would die for you, but that would be easier comparatively. There is something I have to tell you.”

“You are starting to scare me.”

“You know the man that killed your parents?”

“Stop, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“No listen. I didn’t go away on business.”

“Don’t tell me this! I don’t want to hear this.”

“I found him and I killed him.”

A loud clank rang out as she slammed her fork into her plate. “Stop it! Why would you say something like that? I don’t think this is funny!”

“Baby, listen, I know how much he hurt you. I couldn’t bear to see you get so upset every time you looked into that box of stuff. You were right, he deserved to die.”

“Shut up!” she screamed and jumped from her seat. The chair fell back and crashed onto the floor and she ran out of the room.

She was face down on the bed sobbing when I found her in our room.

“I did it for you. I love you!” I plead.

“Go away!” came a muffled yell from behind one of the pillows.

I placed his driver license on the bed and pulled the door shut as I left. While I was cleaning the dishes I heard her scream. It was much like his right before the train hit.


The silence in the house was probably the hardest thing to take. Ana refused to even look at me. Whenever I was home she found refuge in another part of the house. I wondered when she would leave and where would she go. She led a sheltered life and was very shy. Despite her beauty she had never been in a relationship before ours. The grandmother that raised her had passed away a little over a year ago and the family she did have were so distant, either physically or emotionally, she was basically alone. And though I hoped she would realize there was no where for her to go, even more so I hoped that she would realize all I had done was out of love. Even when I threw that box of stuff in the trash.

It all came down to that damn box of aged reminders. Every time she looked in that box it tore her apart. Every time she was hurt by it, it hurt me. That damn box of stuff was the reason I had done what I had done. That night was the first time in six months she spoke to me. It was also the last.

“David, where is my box?” she screamed from the closet.

When I stepped into the doorway she was tearing the clothes off the racks. “Baby,” I paused as she slowly turned to look at me. “I had to get rid of it.”

She dropped to her knees and shrieked, “No!”

“Ana, don’t you see, it was that box of stuff that was tearing us apart” I said and knelt down in the pile of clothes beside her.

She held her face in her hands and wept.

I tried to stroke her hair, but she smacked my hand away “I can’t live here anymore,” she sobbed as she ran out of the closet.

Tears began to tickle my cheeks as I hoped that day would never come, but by the end of the night she was gone. I cried so hard I felt sick and threw-up in the shower. I just sat on the floor and let the water beat on me.


I’d been alone in the house for almost two years and why it took me so long to find her book behind the nightstand I’ll never know. She must have knocked it off when she left so hastily that night. But I did and in it what I found shocked me even more. Tucked almost halfway through the paperback romance were his driver’s license and a folded piece of paper. The book tucked under my arm dropped to the floor. The unfolded piece of paper revealed an Internet search of the name Richard Bateman, the man who had killed her parents and subsequently I had killed. Or so I thought.

I ran down the stairs and into the study. My fingers couldn’t type fast enough, but I found the archived article. As I read it I discovered that Mr. Bateman had managed to dive out of the way of the train at the very last second. When he was found at the site of the burning wreckage he was unconscious. He remained at the hospital in a coma for almost a month before he came out of it. Apparently he had no memory of the events that night or how and why he was parked on the tracks.

I couldn’t believe what I just read. I held the paper up with a shaky hand and my eyes darted around it. The article was written one month and one week after I had returned from Chicago. At the upper right of the paper was the print date; one week after the article was written. One day after I told Ana I had killed him.

She had known he was alive. She had known the whole time, yet she never said a word. Why? Why would she not tell me? All I ever did was love her. The only reason I did what I thought I did was for her. Yet, she couldn’t forgive me.

I folded the piece of paper up and slipped the license in one of the folds. The stairs creaked under my feet as I made my way back to the bedroom. I picked up the little novel and rubbed my thumb across the embossed cover and couldn’t help but smile as I looked at it. Every time Ana would start reading a new one she would make it a point to claim herself to be the voluptuous female character and me as the rugged male. I sighed as those happy days were long gone now.

Once in the closet I parted the hanging clothes to reveal a wooden chest. I turned through the dial on the lock and gave it tug. The lid opened with a squeak and I tucked the book into a little gap amongst the various items. I looked over to the right side of the chest and saw the smooth white orb. I lifted it up and looked deep into the sockets. In my head I could still see her green eyes set in her soft skin.

“Why didn’t you tell me? You knew all along he lived. It didn’t have to be like this, but you had to know I would never let you go.”

When I said I would kill for Ana I guess in the end that included her. I caressed her smooth skull and placed it ever so gently in its place. I closed and locked the lid, then put away my own box of stuff.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Death's Touch

I set my book down - the spine creased open - and peered into the shoe box for my new found friend. The small blue jay was on its side, motionless amongst the torn paper. I sighed and picked up the box and sat down with it on my lap. I can’t say that I was surprised the little bird didn’t make it. It’s as if this place kills everything that enters.

Out the corner of my eye it caught my attention while walking the yard. At first I thought it was trash of some sort. The frail thing was huddled in a corner by one of the benches in the yard. I crouched down to get a better look and he just quivered. His bright blue feathers with a soft grey haze from the baby down were out of place amongst the dirt and concrete. A survey of the area yielded no nest. The shy creature was hesitant at first, but seemed to appreciate the warmth of my cupped hands.

The guards have stray cats they feed and no doubt the little guy was easy prey and would have made a nice morsel. I didn’t want that to happen so I took the chance. At this point what could they do to me?

Once back in my room I slipped my hand into my coat pocket and gently pulled him out. Trading him from hand to hand I eased my coat off. Then I cupped him against my chest while I caressed his feathers. He settled in and closed his eyes and I felt the corners of my mouth arch upward. It was the first time in a long time that I had smiled.

Not putting the bird down, I held sheets of paper up to my mouth and tore them into strips. I emptied out a little box and brushed the shredded paper into it. Then I settled him in. He closed his eyes and went to sleep; his body rocking slightly with each little breath. I tried to ignore him in hopes he would rest, but couldn’t help glancing into the box every so often. I wasn’t really sure what I would do with the bird, but then again I really wasn’t sure of much lately.

I have been in this place for so long and yet can’t figure out why it is I am still here. They laugh and joke I will never leave this place. Sounds about right; twenty years so far. I’ve seen them come and go. The ones with the keys walk out; the others are carried away in black bags.

South of here is a college town full of life. Young adults having fun while setting up their futures. Here there is no future. Even further south is Mickey’s house where children laugh and sing; bonding with their parents. This place parents come to watch their children die. This is Starke, Florida. This is death row.

Do they deserve to die? These men are responsible for some of the most heinous and brutal crimes known. They were the grim reapers for mothers, fathers, and children. Do they deserve to die? Of course they do.

Do I deserve to die? I won’t lie, I am no angel; I have killed my share of men. But the ones that I killed were the ones that deserved it. But I guess we all have to go some time and now is as good a time as any.

I lifted the frail remains out of the box and cupped it to my chest once more and pet him. He was probably sick or maybe injured from a fall. This time there was no response to my touch. Or was this the response?

The bird rested in the box and the box on the floor. I sat back, took a deep breath, and rubbed my hand over my freshly shaven scalp. My once thick hair was another casualty of my sentence. I laced my hands together and rested my elbows on my knees. I looked up and around the small and dismal room. The uniform they gave me hung from me no longer fitting like it used to. Not much appetite when you know death is looming over your shoulder.

I was reading when I heard the taps of heels slow approaching. With every other tap there was the jingle of keys that bounced against the guard’s waist. And with each jingle I cringed. The footsteps and jingle stopped in front of my door; time for one less reaper in the world. I closed my eyes and inhaled deep when there were three hard raps.

“Yes,” I said.

A guard probably half my age opened the door. “Lieutenant Masterson, they are ready.”

I nodded. “Who is it this time?”

The young guard looked down at his clipboard “Umm… looks like Speary.”

“He the one that killed the little girl?”


“Is his family here?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What about the little girl’s.”

“Yes, they are already seated.”

My body jerked as my lungs convulsed and a hoarse cough found its way out of my clenched jaw.

“Sir, are you all right?”

He stood silent as I held my hand up, gathered myself, and then nodded. After another deep breath I closed the book, and stood up. I read the title “Living with Cancer” and tossed the book onto my desk. I was pretty sure my book should be titled “Dying with Cancer”.

“Well, let’s get this done then,” I said as I brushed past him. He stood trying to peer into the little box. “It’s a blue jay.”

“Is it alive?”

“No, he’s dead. As dead as me.”

He looked at me with a scrunched up face on his canted head. I just shook my head and walked on to pull the switch on another one. Another one closer to my own.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

In Search of Snow

The idea was to take the girls up to North Carolina for a nice family getaway. And hopefully find snow since the girls have never seen it.
We intended on hitting the Charleston, SC area to see a childhood friend of mine on the way up which took longer than it should have since we had tire problems pretty much until we got out of Florida (4 hours in delays did not make for much joy).
We made it to Pete and Jenn's and had a nice dinner, evening, and breakfast then departed for the Glass Mountain Tree House cabin we were to be staying at in Fairview outside of Asheville.
We made good time and were early so we decided to check out Chimney Rock. It's a crazy winding drive up, but did deliver the first bit of snow for the girls.
Considering it was just a pile in parking lot we hoped we could do better. The views up top were awesome so of course I snapped some shots.

After that we ate at the Riverwatch Deli and Grill then headed to the cabin. By then it had started to get dark and we were guided by the GPS I borrowed from my folks. You either love those things or you hate them; I'll explain later.
According to the female voice with a British accent we arrived at destination on the left. It was so dark the only thing I could see was a service road to the left. Or at least I thought it was a service road. Apparently all the snow melting left the driveway muddied and torn up. After plowing the Volvo station wagon through the troughs of mud we got stuck on the ascent to the house.
After a bit of spinning the wheels and even more profanity I threw it in park and we lugged our bags up to the cabin. Inside I fought to get a fire going then we settled in for the night in hopes of getting a better handle on our situation.
The morning revealed a temp of 31 degrees and the ground was frozen. Mud puddles on the driveway were turned to blocks of ice. I was actually pretty happy with our chances of getting out since the ground was so hard. Here's the drive:

Monkey and Peanut waned to hike up the back of the property and we found a bit of that white stuff:

We decided to head into Asheville and check out an indie book store called Malaprops. Neat place, the kind you want to support so we bought a few books and a coffee mug.
As the wife and I were looking over a few more books Peanut came up to me and said "This is what we do all the time." Then she handed me this fridge magnet:

I in turn tell the wife what she said and handed it to her. We both started laughing.
What Peanut was referring to was this:

Then Peanut says "Actually, I guess that's what Grampy (my dad) always does since it is wrong."
This of course leads to tears rolling down the wife and my faces. My dad can't get his arms to bend around to make the face Peanut does, so he just makes the OK signs and holds them up.
After a good hard laugh we headed out into downtown Asheville and enjoyed all the architecture.

The day was going great and got better when the owner called the wife to inform her he was having a truck drop of some gravel and he was headed over to the cabin with his tractor to repair the drive.

The next day we headed up into the mountains to do some tubing which was great for the girls, but a bit cold since there was a slight rain. After getting a bit wet and cold we headed back into town for some Starbucks.
The wife punches in Starbucks into the GPS and we proceed as directed. The British lady tells us to turn right. The British lady tells us to go left. As we head in the directions by order of the Queen we pass a Starbucks on the right. We scratch our heads but continue only to discover that apparently the British don't know the difference between Starbucks and Bank of America.
As the trip goes on the damn GPS gives us poor direction, telling us to enter the wrong way down a one way street, and never giving us the proper coordinates of Starbucks.
In a fit I decide to take matters into my own (not like the Pope picture). Having driven by Starbucks several times I had a pretty good idea of where I was going. This contradicted the directions of the British lady and she starts getting snippy with me yelling "Recalculating, recalculating!" like I'm some kind of loser on The Weakest Link. Coffee in hand we headed back to the cabin.
The rest of the trip went well and I'll leave you with some of the waterfall pics we took at Looking Glass Falls. I think I found a place to retire...

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Fathers of Daughters - Part One

One of my greatest accomplishments in life is being the father of two wonderful daughters. Monkey turned nine in October and Peanut will be seven tomorrow. My experience is vast and very narrow all at once. My wife has commented several times that it takes a special man to be the father of daughters. Something I have always prided myself on. I am a good father. I love my girls very much. I look at my counterparts without girls and laugh inside knowing that they are missing out on something special.
As of late there has been a change in the air. Monkey, a usually loving and happy girl, has been very emotional. She cries at the slightest criticism and seems to toy with a sort of depression from time to time.
My fatherly response of “Come on, suck it up and let’s go” doesn’t have the typical reaction of a “I know you’re right” smile and us moving on. Now it seems to be lost in translation or makes the matter worse.
There are whispers of hormones developing and it being age appropriate. That is fine, that is the way life is. But then there is talk that this is just the beginning.
The beginning of the end.
That is of me being the awesome dad. My little girl still loves me and gives a mighty mean bear hug. But to be perfectly honest I’m scared.
Not scared of the changes that my girls will go through. Scared that I will not be able to adjust to them.
Last night she lost it over nothing and I found myself scratching my head. This is not me. I am easily adaptable and quick on my feet. But not last night.
It got my mind wandering as to what the future will hold and how the father who was always there wanting to help, may now be hiding in the corner. I don’t want to be that guy, but I’m scared. And it hurts.
It kills me inside to think that I might fail at something so important.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Christmas Photo Fun

It's Christmas in Florida, not exactly a winter wonderland. In fact the mercury didn't dip below 70 degrees for Christmas and its eve. So I decided to have a little fun taking pictures of a few decorations and ornaments...

I didn't use the flash on any of these shots, just turned up the ISO to 800.

Also, I used a tripod and the timer setting on the camera. This eliminated any blur.

For these last couple I used a technique called bokeh. I focused in on a figurine and had the tree in the background. Using a quick paper cut-out over the lens created the heart shape effect on the lights.

Friday, December 11, 2009

Pay the man!

“Pay the man!” That’s what Deion Sanders said in reference to Joshua Cribbs performance in the first half of the Cleveland/Pittsburgh games last night.
“He’s only making $600,000 a year. Pay the man!”
For some reason that statement didn’t sit well with me as I brushed my teeth and watched the halftime report on NFL Network. I’m sure Cribbs is one darn good athlete, heck he's been on my fantasy team several times. He can run and throw and catch and puts up decent stats. I don’t want to take anything away from the young man. Sure there is the question of his contract with the Browns.
But Neon Deion Sanders on the other hand? I actually found him to be an entertaining analyst for the NFL. Sure his insight isn’t the greatest (He claimed my Dolphins would be fighting for the first round pick this year, yet they are actually fighting to get into the playoffs), but he is entertaining. That is up until that comment last night. Is this really what he thinks the fans want to hear? That some player making six figures deserves more?
Maybe Deion should step out of his mansion in Texas and take a look at the world around him. Maybe he should step into the local unemployment office and look at the people who would be happy to make $600,000 over the next 20 years. Maybe Deion, and his like, need to step away from their compounds and enter the gates of the Dallas/Fort Worth National Cemetery and stand by while a mother and her children lay to rest a husband/father who sacrificed his life for $34,000 and a belief in freedom.
Now I know that we have to be cool and have our little catch phrases and maybe this year’s phase is “Pay the man!” And I might have dismissed this as Neon Deion trying to flash once more, but at the end of the report Marshall Faulk jumped in and used the phase asking Deion “Who hasn’t paid the man?” I think Faulk is a pretty darn good analyst and I usually enjoy his perspective on the game. But to join in and ask the question as a form of entertaining the American public was ludicrous.
Maybe this is just a sign that the NFL truly doesn’t understand the fans who make football the sport it is in America.
Or maybe it is America spitting in its own eye. Sports players continue to make hundreds of thousands if not millions of dollars while the men and women of our armed forces make considerably less.
This, of course, is nothing new. The argument of movie stars and athletes riches versus the salaries that cops, nurses, teachers, and firefighters make has been made before. And it has bothered me before as well, but I guess I just never heard an athlete come out and say that an organization needs to “pay the man” because he’s only making over half a million dollars a year.
I guess what I’d like to see is if anyone is getting paid around here it is the American public in the form of respect. Pay some respect Deion and retire that ridiculous phrase and don’t rub in the fact that somebody who isn’t fighting to make minimum wage to put food on the table for his/her children makes $600,000 and should get more because he can entertain. Don’t ask America to pity Cribbs for making 12 times the median income.
Pay some respect!