That's What I Want For Christmas

I look on in utter amazement as, had she actually read the previous post regarding Peace On Earth, the Wife says (which she hasn’t said but would) that it wasn’t heartwarming enough.

Apparently the Wife’s heart is a wee bit of coal, as I thought the entire piece absolutely brimmed with the best of mankind’s aspirations.

What does Christmas mean to me then? Well, understand this: I grew up poor, and when you grow up poor Christmas is never about what you wanted, it’s about what you got. I wanted a guitar; I never got it; I came to learn to be happy with what I had.

I remember one Christmas Daddy was out of work. My teenaged brothers and sister took it on themselves to see that we younger ones had presents. Six kids in the family total. I was about 9. Christmas morning, I run to the living room to see what’s in the 2 packages for me. A bag of army men and a box of Life Savers candy. Army men, cool. Had this been a Hallmark Channel movie, I’d have hugged folks and thankfully cried, “Best Christmas ever!” I looked at the Life Savers, I looked at my sister (who’d bought the Life Savers and rather than cover her tracks wrote on the label ‘to Clarence from Deb’), I blinked several times (I remember this) and I remember thinking (because I had just learned what the word meant) If it’s the thought that counts she must have amnesia. Life Savers. I didn’t even particularly like Life Savers. I’d always accidentally eat the butterscotch flavor thinking it was pineapple. Gag!

So I berated her. My sister had kicked my ass on several occasions so it’s not like she cared that I berated her; she’d kick my ass later. But I clearly remember being disappointed in myself that morning. She’d bought for me and my brothers what she could afford. I wasn’t a completely stupid kid, so I realized later that day and even more so in the days immediately after that my sister had sacrificed her own in order to get me something when she didn’t--as a sister or as a person period--have to. In that act of sacrifice was a small request: not to jump up and down and sing her praises, but to acknowledge that she had sacrificed and be genuinely appreciative.

The world has become a very unappreciative, mean place.

The world is a 9 year old child. An entire generation looks befuddled now at the entire concept of sacrifice. They’re even called The Entitlement Generation. Sacrifice is not subtracted from others, it is given to them, this generation of youth. One can almost imagine the entire generation thinking ‘I didn’t ask to be born, you brought me here so treat me as an exalted guest.’

Me, I call them the Hotel Generation, for whom Life comes with room service and tipping (i.e. reciprocity/generosity) is a city in China. They’re the twenty-somethings who laugh when they’re with friends about what their parents got them for Christmas. They view anything outside of what they are immediately prepared to do at that moment as unconscionable work. All praise to the exceptions, but most of y’all, most of y’all ain’t worth Christmas.

…but that’s where the 9 year old kid in me realizes he’s wrong. Me and the Wife watch the Albert Finney version of Scrooge every Christmas Eve. It’s a tired old beat up VHS tape but it brings two people who are very much in love to a pretty place each time. When Finney sings “I hate people!” I think happily, dammit, that’s me! Then it sinks in: that’s me.

People.

“I abhor them,” sings Finney.

But aren’t they what Christmas is all about?

I don’t want to sing that song.

Christ had no interest in gift giving unless it was of the self. Modern man counters, ‘No, it’s the thought that counts.’

Kmart makes Christmas count. Sigh...

Christ had no interest in becoming a cult of personality. All those people bent out of shape over “happy holidays” versus “merry Christmas” should step back a minute and read the bumper sticker on the car that just cut them off for the mall parking space: Jesus Is The Reason For The Season. Which means 'Don't make me a rock star, live by what I represent.' Me, I love the pageantry, camaraderie and excess of “the season” for what it is: a Dionysian orgy of release and redemption. I keep that quite separate from celebrating Christ’s teachings and ways. Same as I celebrate the Buddha’s teachings and ways. I try to live it. Granted I can’t stand most people, but given a choice between me and somebody else running into a burning building to rescue you, you’re better off with me. Trust me.

Christmas is about truth. Truth burns away all falsehoods. Takes time sometimes but it does. That’s what all good teachers do; they first reassure us that truth exists, then show us certain truths they themselves have found, then invite us to seek the deeper truth of ourselves. Jesus, during his time, would’ve been exposed to Greek and Roman philosophy, to the ancient teachings of central Asia that traveled southward even through Egypt, to the Koran, to all the precepts of the Jewish faith. And definitely to mid and lower African theology. Whether you adhere to the Son of God part or not, I imagine he would have been a smart man. Would’ve had to have been, because smart men motivate change; stupid men generate chaos. From what I gather he was about benign interior change, so my opinion is stupid men foisted the Bible and the Gospels on cultures at large as political tracts rather than teaching tools because stupid men tend to be greedy and greed needs a cowed populace to feed its coffers. But that’s just me fighting the power. We all know that modern Christmas is a hodge podge of various pagan rites and Judean doctrine; no need to berate the point. Let us not pretend as we move into 2010 (the future!) that Christ is not a minor portion of Christmas in the first place. When Dickens wrote 'A Christmas Carol' he decried Christmas's utter crass commercialism even then, and that was what, 8 centuries ago? (Yes, I know not that long ago, but point is...)

Point is, when I was 9 I saw what I was doing. I realized I was being an ass. I could’ve stayed selfish, and continue even now to be selfish, but truth was Deb had done something cool for me.

I thanked her later that day.

I think she punched me. We were like that.

Christmas, for this Michigan boy, means cold mornings, the smell of a freshly watered tree (kids are master gardeners at Christmastime; the Christmas tree--we didn’t have one when I was 9 but the times we did have a live tree were glorious--as sacred gathering place of the presents, had to be maintained at all costs; we’d argue to see who got to water the tree because that meant getting up close and personal to the boxes and wrappers with your name on them); Christmas means the sound of Ma opening the kitchen curtains that meant it was time to get up; being thought of, because presents--regardless of my snarky adolescent brain--are thoughts one way or another and being thought of means you are appreciated--again, one way or another--in the eyes of another. Christmas is the Wife being thrilled not by a diamond necklace or gold spatula (which she doesn’t want and I wouldn’t buy) but by getting to sleep in and finally coming downstairs decked out in fuzzy robe and slippers with her hair looking crazy. Christmas is Ma, who lives with us, trying her best to sneak in early and get to her presents. We call Ma our Christmas Mouse. Christmas is the nephew cooking up some mac and cheese from his ma’s recipe. Deb died from cancer years ago. I think about her every day. Not always fondly, but we were like that. There were many times I wanted to wring her neck.

Scrooge had a sister in the movie... and a nephew. Christ, as a teacher, shows us parallels.

I loved my sister. I hope my nephew honors her and himself all his days.

Christmas is about truth, and truth, well...

Truth means the world to me.

Peace On Earth And Mercy Mild

I’ve wished Jewish people Merry Christmas; they’ve wished me Happy Hanukkah. No malice, no slight.

I’ve wished white folks a good Kwanzaa, told Buddhists “shalom,” said “Bless you” any number of times to atheists, agnostics and other travelers in the stream. So far nobody’s cried.

I’ve greeted Hindus with Muslim words, I’ve smiled at women in burkas, and even once told an Amish man how do.

All with sincere warmth in my heart.

You can tell me Merry Christmas without worrying whether I celebrate it or not (is buying stuff the same as celebrating it?). The words are coming from a happy, human place. You can say Happy Holidays too; doesn’t bother me a bit. I say thank you because, coming from you to me, that’s a nice thing to say. Plus it came with a smile? Hell, if you can keep it down to just one person saying “Fuck you” with a smile, you’re doing good. I’m a certified heathen but there’s an old lady works in the candy shop in my building who always says “Have a blessed day” to everybody. If I’m an asshole, I stop to explain, assert, and negate her beliefs. I am not that big an asshole. I smile and genuinely say thanks, plus tell her to have a blessed one too. I don’t need to believe in Jehovah Most High to hope for good things for a sweet old lady. Check your definitions, folks. Blessings come in all sizes, shapes, beliefs and colors.

Folks get bent out of shape every year around this time about people saying “Happy Holidays!” Happy Holidays ain’t anti-Christmas. I don’t think Christmas has anything to worry about. As a holiday, I’m pretty sure it’s caught on. Be cool. It’s not even political correctness (which, when I find who coined that annoying bit of fearful drivel, I—-completely against the spirit of peace and good will—-will smack him or her hard enough to release their DNA); “Happy Holidays” just sounds a lot better than “Happy Kwanzmakah!”

Linus said it best; we all know Christmas is run by a big Eastern syndicate. Kmart, I believe, ran television ads this year saying “Make Christmas Count”…by buying crap at Kmart. To me, that’s way more offensive than somebody saying “Happy Holidays.” I was at Walmart a couple nights ago (penance) and heard some shriveled biddy snap back at the haggard clerk who—-per Walmart’s cheerful mandate (and, y’know, when you hear those words coming out of the mouth of somebody who really didn’t want to say shit to you in the first place, THAT is annoying, but still not worth getting bent out of shape)—-mumbled out “haff holday”, “No, Merry Christmas!” And true to Walmart’s rigorous training, the clerk didn’t give a fuck. He kept right on working.

By God, that’s an American!

It’s not like he told the old lady (Ok, she wasn’t that old, but—-public service announcement-—my lighter people: tanning booths are not your friends. Seriously)—-he didn’t tell the old lady to worship Satan or anything (which I would have done considering she looked like the devil’s concubine with her wild hair and disheveled clothing; those emails about “the people of Walmart” don’t circulate for nothin’), but she immediately felt the need to load it, cock it, aim it and shoot at him.

“Merry Christmas” as epithet. God bless us, every one.

Here then, for all you “diversity” nutjobs, December observances; the rest of you, Merry Freaking Christmas, God Bless America (and nowhere else), Feliz Navidad with valid green card, and somebody kick Rush Limbaugh (and Bill O’Reilly) in the nuts…’cause it’s necessary. Amen. If you're offended, my name is Glenn Beck. That's g-l-e-n-n...

12-6 - St. Nicholas Day (International) –for those who really, truly need to grow up. Everybody knows there’s no such thing as a saint. Why, our current Pope did some things in his youth…

12-8 - Bodhi Day - Buddha's Enlightenment (Buddhist) –because ain’t no party like an enlightenment party, ‘cause enlightenment party don’t stop

12-12 - Hanukkah (Jewish) –the traditional season of buttah; Barbra Streisand’s gotta eat

12-12 - Virgin of Guadalupe (Mexico) –blessed madonna sought by spring break frat boys everywhere

12-13 - Santa Lucia Day (Sweden) –looks Spanish but it’s pronounced “Santa Loo-SEEEYA Day, ya ya”

12-16 - Ashura (Islamic, Muslim) –No freaking idea (from the Wikipedia entry)

12-16 thru 25 - Las Posadas (Mexico) –if it means what it sounds like to my ear, and they’re offering it up for over a solid week, I. Am. There.

12-18 - Al Hijra - Muslim New Year –and nemesis to Godzilla

12-25 - Christmas (Christian, Roman Catholic, International) –us. Period. Deal with it.

12-26 - Boxing Day (Canada, United Kingdom) –wtf?

12-26 - Kwanzaa (African-American - Dec. 26, 2009 - Jan 1, 2010) –See again: Wikipedia

Then there’s the “New Year”, and there are like 12 million different dates that it falls on that Americans (and lesser Americans, like other countries and stuff) really should pass a world amendment that January 1st now and forever marks it so we can all get our party on at one single time. Can you imagine everybody in the world partying on December 31st? And they need to sync their clocks with ours; New Year's falls at midnight, dammit. If it's 2:17pm where you are, deal with it. Let's take a moment to imagine that precious introspective rush to get laid.

The orgasmic joy alone would bring about world peace for a good twenty minutes.

So in the spirit of all that is good, let us be gracious as we receive in this season of giving.

Happy Christmas, John Lennon, wherever you are.

The Road To Geezerville

I used to have a big fro. Even bigger when ma pressed it out. Looked like a dandelion puff as a kid. Now I’ve got a figure 8 mown by Smurfs at the crown and forehead. If I bend over at night and light hits it people panic at large cat’s eyes.

But geezerville doesn’t start with losing it.

Geezerville starts with getting it.

The new growth. Hair loss is no big deal till you realize you’re not losing it, it’s just sucking in through your scalp and coming out somewhere else, apparently going through bleach by-products because it comes out white. Bleach or fear, but as it seems to happen mostly at night when I’m dreaming about Pam Grier’s loofah, I lean toward the internal bleach theory. The gray hairs in my nose I was cool with till they started looking like an albino caterpillar cowering in there. But what immediately got me and pushed me on my grown-up tricycle ride toward Geezerville were the damned hairs coming out my ears. Why in the hell at 43 am I growing antlers out my ears?! There is no physiological reason for a virile man to grow hairs not only sticking out of but standing proudly upon the upper edges of his ears. None whatsoever. They serve no purpose beyond letting people know this is an old fuck. Nobody needs to know that I’m an old fuck till I’m an old fuck…which I’m not! My long term memory might be Windows but my short term memory is still a Mac. I’m mature. I clearly remember not having hairs coming out of my ears.

I clearly remember not needing the morning ritual of clipping thick gray nose hairs. There were never wild eyebrow strands that grew four inches and left welts on my face in the wind. I didn’t need to do foot stretches before stepping out of bed for fear of breaking my heel bone.

It wasn’t that long ago that I was virile. Really.

There’s a new TV show called “Men of A Certain Age”. I taped it but haven’t watched it. I might not ever watch it. There’s enough happening in life that I don’t need extra things depressing me. I taped it thinking I’d get some sense of community, that the Club of the Aged would welcome me in its understanding arms. Then I said no. I am not old. This is not denial. Hell, the gray hairs are all over my face. The pudge is stuck tighter than superglue. I might be on the road to Geezerville…but I ain’t the mayor of the city yet. The certain age I’m at doesn’t jibe with what’s happening to my body. I’m wearing bifocals, ma! One day I could see up close; the next day I was squinting. Let me put ??? here ‘cause that ain’t right! Caterpillars up my nose, antlers out my ears, and now I’m Mr. Magoo?! Practically overnight?!! I. Say. Thee. Nay.

Am I that cliché of the guy the hot chicks call “sir”? I have no interest in vapid 20-somethings, but what if Susan Sarandon calls me? Am I supposed to interact with her as a peer rather than the young dude fawning over her hotness? And what about crotchety-ness? I was always crotchety but I was young with my crotch. The Road to Geezerville hardens crotch; makes it annoying rather than endearing. Young crotch, endearing; old crotch, not so much.

As a tangent, sex—-while it could mean muscle spasms, butt cheek locks or other errant cramps—-never meant worrying about throwing a back out.

…Big… honking… sigh…

I’m on the Road to Geezerville without warning and apparently without brakes. What is it they say about aging gracefully? They never say it with albino caterpillars nestled in their nostrils.

Of that I’m for damn sure.

But hey, I gotta do what I do, right? Snip ‘em, curl ‘em, pluck ‘em, manage it in the eyes of hot chicks and the Lord. Hottest chick is the Wife, right? She doesn’t want some old dude leering at her through the shower curtain. Even though the Wife is older than me she will always be hotter. She deserves to be peeped at through the shower curtain.

Since I’m going blind it helps that I have a clear shower curtain.

The lesson, my friends: work with what you’ve got. No off ramps on the road to geezerville. The best you can hope for is a helluva view to help pass the time in a rather pleasing, soapy fashion. The Wife shaves the gray off the back of my neck then goes all PG-13 or even R on me. This means my tricycle is tricked out with red and blue streamers and flame decals. When I spin out I might tumble Arte Johnson style (wiki “Laugh In” you young fucks) but I’m still--here, today, now--cool.

Maybe my caterpillars will turn into bee-yootiful butterflys.

Had My Damn Wheaties Today

“There is no escape. We are drowning in words. The blogs are fogging up the world. They are everywhere, in text, sound and video, a whirling dervish of yak yak, an endless buffet of opinions, hawking concepts, beliefs, convictions, perceptions, speculations. Nothing goes unsaid or unwritten. Silence has been defeated by technology. Reflection has given way to immediacy. Say or write everything on your mind. Edit nothing. We have become a world of monologists.” – Warren Adler, author of The War of The Roses, from the author’s website.

Blogs. Been noted the word sounds like something hawked up during a cold or dropped from some animal’s digestive tract. I thought they were relatively new, but then I remembered reading Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card, a science fiction novel written in the early eighties when kids had to physically walk to the neighborhood video store for porn. The internet was more a novelty than a given for most then, most of us being rather poor. (History repeats!) Dial-up for us was exclusively for phone calls. Ender’s Game featured two young geniuses who pretty much changed the course of world politics via the anonymity of the internet; as in blogs. Card didn’t call it that, because they weren’t as popularly established then, but looking back—like all good fiction, science or otherwise—prescience is the novel’s gift to us: the Valentine children, using computer identities, were effectively discoursing blogs to influence public opinion and, in turn, world policy. There was a rakishness to their blogs: who were they; where were they? Secrecy infused their words with power. Their blogs were a chess game, a conversation with the world, dangerously flirtatious and intoxicating. And analytical.

We should strive for this in the real world.

“We have become a world of monologists.” Talking loud or talking fast. Blowing a good smoke. But saying nothing. And I specifically say talking, not writing, when it comes to blogs, because they are meant to be intimate conversations. They are the words we wish we’d said to a captive audience. “Reflection,” Mr. Adler again, “has given way to immediacy.” A well-written letter, anachronistically, transports the mind of both writer and reader to a far more intimate space than twenty breathlessly blithe, spurious toss-offs about absolutely nothing. Seinfeld made “nothing” funny for a while. Mass production makes it annoying.

But here’s the argument that proliferation is merely the democratization of technology, and technology is—at its core—the utilization and dissemination of information. We’re throwing the doors wide and letting loose the dogs of blog. Of opinion. Not of discourse, because it’s all one-sided; there are no questions asked. Not really. It is a ‘look what I can do’ world, because anything you can do I can do too. Even if I can’t. Writing, for example. Anybody can do it. But they can’t. Not as extreme as parenting, nowhere near as important, but significant as an example. The art of writing is dead. The act of writing thrives. One letter off throws the world into a tizzy (meaning the ‘r’ instead of the ‘c’—I’ll let folks catch up). Some blogs toss out meaningless facts. Some blogs toss out meaningless opinions. The politically bent will drone statistics that one pitiable reader out of ten thousand will ever care to verify. Statistics are meaningless unless humanity is attached to them. Statistics have not prevented our species from generating a universe of woe. I’ll make up a statistic now, and it’s as valid as any: ninety percent of what you and I see and read is trash. How does that feel in your heart of hearts? About right, ninety percent? In one eye, out the other? The act of writing is merely to fill up space and divert the reader’s attention. The art of writing, though, requires complete, full attention. It requires editing. It can be done on the fly but most often it’s an old man wandering streets remembering things, not a yuppie with a water bottle strapped into a tiny papoose on his back and the knowledge of precisely how to measure his heart rate. The act of writing is calculation. The art is more organically planned. I need you to analyze and synthesize, hypothethize and correct. Germinate. Take pen to paper, write down an idea, then think it through. I want to look you in the eye, and you me, and we see one another. With both eyes. Yes? In two eyes, through two lobes of brain (it’s a wonder we’re not falling over, our species working off one lopsided lobe or other), multiplied into four. This ceases to be a monologue, because, in effect, I am not alone. You are in my mind. Pop culture references have their value when used judiciously and lucidly. My mind to your mind. Vulcan mind meld.

I am not here alone and have no interest in hearing the constant sound of my own voice.

Put another way, the sound of one hand clapping is a blog performed with one hand typing. You don’t want to know what the other hand is doing.

Sex and blogs? Same meld analogy. I’m about to say something deserving of another pop culture reference. Blogs are furiously masturbatory. Search your feelings; you know this to be true. Much like the Valentine children, the internet allows free run to any avatar we care to be. We can lotion up one hand while fantasizing that our words, once read, will excite and titillate the most closed minds to transports of greatness. I can be the Amazing Kreskin, Dr. Cornell West, James Bond and Santa Claus all in one, pleasuring mental g-spots like the fingers on Wilt Chamberlain’s hand. Fantasy and masturbation are fun in small doses, but to truly get the freak requires an able partner, and by able is meant a ready willingness to smak it up, flip it and rub thoughts down. Communication is sex. Anyone who’s brought a woman to orgasm knows that sex requires an attention span sensitive to detail and nuance. Blogs, generally speaking, aren’t intended for deep penetration. But they can be. Slow, hopeful strokes from subtly changing directions. Sex is about keeping hope alive. Blogs, then, should be about keeping the lines of communication open.

Blogs…are parted thighs. My (imaginary) pen…

But you say, is it necessarily a bad thing that we are awash in a rising tide of populist words? The elite have masturbated while we stood as valets to hand them cleansing cloths long enough? I’m not sure here. My gut says we should all strive to be elite (potentially making us all elite and thus right back where we started). I would rather everyone see themselves elite on merit than willfully stupid on indulgence, which is just a few letters away from indolence.

Cows, my friends, chew cud.

Technology has indeed killed silence. Bludgeoned it, to be precise, and the examples are too obvious to go into, except I will mention the internet and its gatekeepers. AOL used to be somewhat neutral in its stupidity. News was where it needed to be and entertainment was where it needed to be, neither in any actual depth and often not entirely accurate, but easily ignorable. Not so anymore. AOL now revels in its stupidity. News and entertainment are now composed of little more than juvenile blogs within blogs, gushing about this or outraging about that. A more vapid accumulation of electricity would be hard to find.

And I have no plans to look.

Like all candy, vapidity has its place, separate and after the meal, not mixed in so thoroughly that it becomes an integral part of dinner. Ignorance is not bliss and noise is not conversation. I agree with Mr. Adler, but the genie’s out of the bottle. Words and life stories and memoirs and daily accounts and update postings and fraternalia, genitalia, errata and suspicion. There are too many cell phones. There are too many televisions. There are too many cars. There are too many ill-used computers. There are way too many useless things being foisted on us, consuming the most valuable resource available, time, and returning absolutely nothing. (I’m reminded of recently watching the movie 300.) Recall your own instance realizing that you’d just lost time you will never get back allowing someone to sell you snake oil.

But that’s what we get when we have too many people with too many opportunities to hold us hostage with the mundane. Not that the mundane can’t be fascinating, because, unless you’re God, everything is mundane. But that’s where the art comes in. Art takes the foot you’ve looked at and washed every day of your life and turns it into a step that could just determine the direction of the rest of your life. Nothing mundane about that. That’s called universal.

Here I am. Blogging. Irony is the new cereal of the Ages.

What does that mean?

You tell me.

It’s quiet enough in my mind that I’ll hear. But only talk if you’ve got something to say. Dress in your best avatar.

Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.

Happiness Is Never Taking A 4-Iron To The Head

A quick note, if I may, to supermodels: guys don’t get you, and by guys I mean all men, and by get I mean you don’t pay us any attention. You are out of our league. Even for the rich, famous and handsome, and especially for the rich, famous and doofy. So please understand that marrying us activates the “Kid In A Candy Shop” syndrome whereby men, particularly the rich doofy kind, realize wide-eyed that if they got one, they just might get another! (As opposed to “I got one, be happy and tithe.”) And if they don’t get caught, the “Hell Yeah!” syndrome kicks in whereby greedy doofs go for broke and try to snarf down as much super poon as possible. Unless you’re David Bowie (born with a mutated Cool factor) no man is equipped to handle waking up everyday and seeing Iman pause by floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun framing her tousled hair and caressing her through the gauzy haze of her unfastened linen wrap. As a man myself I’ll admit to the fantasy: supermodels get lonely too, and maybe—-just maybe—-all Naomi Campbell needs is a Hi from a sincere guy, a guy like me, to calm, settle and complete her.

Reality: no.

Would Tiger Woods have gotten his wife if he wasn’t “Tiger Woods”? Don’t be stupid. But because he is Tiger Woods and not “Tiger Woods” he cheated clumsily and stupidly. (Additional side note: there is no other way to cheat; you will get caught you ignint general sonavumbitch.) The kid in a candy store syndrome.

Supermodels: Marrying men does not lead to happiness. Out of what?—a quadrillion billion humans who have lived on this earth maybe a hundred men have been out of women’s league, any woman, whereas that number gets inverted as concerns women to men. Go Sapphic and save the hassle. There’s an island here in Detroit with sufficient acreage. Procreation is highly overrated, and I can start planting wheat now. I’m sensitive that way.

Don’t thank me.

The syndrome also applies to actresses, athletes, caterers, tricks, hoes, Avon representatives, groupies and best friends’ hot moms.

Ridiculously-gorgeous, it’s Belle Isle or me. I have studied under the tutelage of the Dalai Bowie (I know all the words to ‘Let’s Dance’ and have belted the song ‘John, I’m Only Dancing’ quite loudly on several occasions), therefore I am cool. You will never swing a golf club at my head. I’m prepared to calm, settle and complete you. I'll need up to 4 of you. It'll take about 3 to restrain the Wife.

Call me.