Wonderful Electric

Josh writes:

Enough of this crap -- time for some porn! Technoporn, that is.

Dave knows what I'm talking about -- look at him, with his barely legal MP3 players and slutty, slutty PSP accessories -- honest officer, that Home Theatre PC swore it was sixteen! But anyway.

First of all: September?! Can I wait that long? I mean, sure, it may well be a good thing to wait until there's a longer list of titles, and there may have been a firmware update or two by then as well, but seriously -- four months? When I could walk down to ETown Digital and buy an import on my lunch break today? It's a test.

Of course, it's nothing compared to how long I'll have to wait before the new Nseries Nokias are available here at anything close to a reasonable price...

Yes, in cellphone news, Nokia has finally chosen to ditch the "four digits pulled out of our arse" naming scheme for their phones in favour of a series-indicating letter followed by two digits pulled out of their arse. The N90, N91 and N71 -- why those numbers? I'm fairly certain not even they know.

Leaving aside the "iPod-beating" N91 (already discussed by bloggers larger than I), the N90 is the one that interests me. I was attracted to the 6260 and its "flip/twist" form factor when it came out, but figured was a bit too new -- best to wait for the next version to appear, to give them time to iron the kinks out (much like I should have waited for the 6630, which improved on my 6600 in several important ways). The N90 fixes a bunch of the 6260's problems (lack of a screen on the outside for one) and adds a bunch of new features -- hot-swapping memory cards, Carl Zeiss optics, and the fact that it is basically a cellphone transformer. Sweeeet...

People have complained about the size of it (it's basically as big as the digital camera it's trying really hard to be), which doesn't bother me, because A) I carry my phone in my jacket, which has pockets more than big enough to hold it and B) I'm over 25, and can remember when cellphones were the size of cinder blocks. Listening to teenagers whinge about how some bit of plastic that fits in the palm of your hand is "sooooo huuuge" makes me feel old. Then it makes me feel like beating teenagers, which is much better.

Advertorial

Apathy Jack writes:

Observations, gleaned from original research: The number one topic of conversation at strip clubs proper is the dancers themselves. When young guys, and older guys, go to clubs and believe they are chatting up the dancers, they will discuss that dancer’s career. (Interviews conducted between 1999, 2001. Subject sample: patrons, friends, employees, former employees. Possible biases in study: early interviews conducted drunk, in strip clubs). They will ask how long she has been working at the bar, and they will ask what the other customers are like. They will hope that she says “they are weird and creepy and shallow and nothing like you.” Another favourite question is, what do you do other than dancing? Young male students, in particular, are disappointed if dancing turns out to be her full-time job. As if that’s demeaning, somehow. As if now they have nothing in common.

Very few patrons have a strip club experience – they have a meta-experience. They are longing for an out of body experience, not for themselves, but for the dancer. They discuss the dynamics of straddling strangers for money in an abstract way, with the woman sitting exposed on their respective lap. Always, do you enjoy this line of work? Never, are you enjoying this right now?

...

The more observant of you will have noticed that I didn't write that - it is from one of my personal favourite pieces at Dog Biting Men.

Although you'll already know this if you read DBM (as most of you probably do, given how many hits they get in the course of a day...), but just in case: In the National Business Review tomorrow (Friday) is the first column of policial commentary written by Ben Thomas and David W Young.

Well worth a read (the column, I mean - who knows about the rest of the magazine?)the NBR can be purchased from any fine magazine merchant...

Josh to Business Community: Nigga Puh-lease

Josh writes:

I was going to write something of substance on today's front page story, but then I figured, hell, I don't care about my political beliefs or economic ignorance, why should you?

A quick summary of my thoughts, though, since this "business confidence", "perception = reality" bollocks is the closest I have to a pet hate when it comes to things political/economic:

48% pessimism, eh? "Sends a chill", according to the editorial. Look at the graph of business confidence over the last three years*, though, and a few thoughts occur to this particular ignorant lefty:

1. It is, as my father would say, all over the place like a madwoman's shit -- three 30-40 point zigzags over the course of three years? This is not what I would consider symptomatic of a community that knows where its shit is at.


2. Following on from this, the last three times there were big dips in confidence, they rose back up fairly sharpish -- what's different about this one that it's a sign of the apocalypse?


3. Now, as I say, I don't follow these matters too closely, but my understanding is that the economy's doing quite nicely, thank you, and has been for the last three years, while the business community has oscillated between "we're fucked" and "we're really fucked". Again, as a layman, the impression one gets is that these darlings of the right don't know their arses from their elbows.

Jack recently opined that a good way to become right wing is through repeated exposure to lefties -- I'd say the reverse is true, too.

* Not included in the online version of the article, but made available here though the magicks of modern technology.

Tastes like icecream.

RSJS writes:

Slurping up that salty white Bluff gold.

The Herald - hopelessly naive or a giggling quietly to itself over a polite journalistic erection?

"Mine."

Josh writes:

From Big King
Originally uploaded by Brain Stab.

In the last two days I've stood on the top of two hills in Auckland, and have come to two realizations. The first is that it can get bloody windy on the top of North Head; the second is that thousands of years of human conflict do make sense from a certain perspective.

I can imagine a person standing atop a hill like those I did, looking out at the vista stretching forth in all directions and thinking:

"Mine."

I understand "mine" -- I've always understood "mine", it's just that with me it generally applies to cars and consumer electronics. Not, for instance, vast tracts of land. There's something primordial going there, I assume, but I've never fully tapped into it; certainly never to the extent that I did on the top of Big King, staring out at the city I've called home my entire life for the second time in my immediate history. Of course, there's a difference between the "mine" you feel towards something that's already yours, and the "mine" you feel towards something you really, really want to be yours...

It's always seemed bizarre to me, the sheer volume of lives wasted and destroyed over what amounts to lines on a map. (I could claim that Anzac Day has brought such thinking into sharp relief for me, but I'm pretty sure the timing is just coincidence.) Maybe living on an island nation has something to do with that -- when your nearest neighbours are a fairly serious swim away, you tend to take for granted that the flag you go to bed under will be the same when you wake up.

Nevertheless, I always equated the heavy centuries of atrocity and counter-atrocity that have unfurled as a result of some thick-necked bastard looking at his neighbour's patch with "mine" in his eyes to Aunty Doreen refusing to talk to Cousin Denise because of What She Said About Our Ron At The Wedding. I still do, but I at least feel closer to the root cause now. It's in me, as it turns out, which means (since I'm nothing special) that it's in you too.

So stay away from my fucking PlayStation.

The Eleventh (and Penultimate) New Sermon of the Neo-Catholic Church

That Morthos Stare writes:

I have heard the sound of madness.

Have you ever either been so ill or, conversely, so excited and vital that attempts to sleep extend almost indefinitely? You have been forbidden the grace of rest; your stupor or energy are to be wasted in a state not quite life and not quite the lesser death. When denied sleep, denied rest, your mind processes information, it connects and tags every sound and image, all because your mind cannot, will not, rest. It is something which, given extended duration, will take a stable mind and rend it for all it is is worth.

For me this pseudo-madness has a noise, a signature sound that, experienced in any way, drives me to utter distraction. Until today I did not know what that noise was.

Now I do.

The sound of my madness is pink noise.

My madness is not the voices of psychosis, but the knowledge of every other voice that is not my own. My madness is the external world imposed upon my solitude, the sound of others when I would rather you be silent.

My madness is the madness of crowds.

For my madness is you.

Another glass of Chardonnay, Mr Guevara?

Apathy Jack writes:

... or Why I’m Not Much Of An Activist Anymore

I’m tired these days. Every so often, I get in a mood to change the world, but before too long, the crushing weight of realism forces me back in front of the television.

When you think about it, it's no wonder that we failed so miserably in the world-changing stakes. I found a chant sheet from my activism days recently. One of our chants actually started with "One two three and a bit..." for fucks sake. And then they got really bad.

I remember the old student activist group I belonged to: Trust fund babies who had their fees paid for them, protesting that the common student couldn't afford uni. That's true, but I was one of three people in the whole organisation that actually had one of the student loans we were railing so vehemently against. Another one was my brother.

Another group I used to belong to had, as an official position in it's national structure, a Maori representative. In the entire national body, we did not have a single Maori member - nor, from my little research on the matter, had we ever. A pack of honky hippies paying lip service and then going out armed with little more than "One two three and a bit."

One of my favorite out-of-context lines is the relevance one of Anthrax's lyrics has always had for me in terms of the political activists I hung with:

Difficult for me to get a grip on what you mean
When you stick your fingers in your ears and create another scene
You always step into the traps set perfect in your path
Busy going crazy over whose knife's in your back.

We were trying to change the world, but the main argument seemed to be that our parents had given us everything we had ever wanted, so the po' folk should be given the same treatment. Any questioning of the party line was met with reactions that were either the metaphorical equivalent, or – and I’m not kidding here - the actual occurrence of, activists sticking their fingers in their ears and walking out of the room to avoid the argument. The Marxists were so busy fighting the Trotskyists who were so busy fighting the Maoists that the Capitalists just wandered past the scuffle and sat in the throne.

But hell, since my days as an activist, I've always maintained that the best way to turn someone into a right winger is to expose them to left wingers for long enough. I would rather have lunatic left wingers in charge than lunatic right wingers, but I'd rather have sensible right wingers in charge than the lunatic left. I am a left winger, and I will always be a socialist at heart, but the left wing is just too myopic and delusional to properly run the world.

Defeatest, I know, but that's what comes from being defeated.

I wonder what's on television...

Squeal, piggies.

RSJS writes:

How Rob Robinson’s day is going, according to Granny Herald*:

“Once again - could it get any worse - his force was embroiled in a scandal”.

“No police officers have yet been stood down from duty, pending disciplinary and criminal investigations, but Mr Robinson said yesterday that some might need to consider whether they should stay.”“Mr Robinson said some of the emails had been sent to police from external sources, and criminal inquiries might be extended to other agencies”

“They were glum, disbelieving, eyes cast down, saying nothing as they waited for Mr Robinson and his assistant commissioners to arrive. Standing behind a lectern, he tried to be positive. The police had found the problem, as part of an internal review of police culture, and they were dealing with it. There would be no shirking of individual accountability, and no excuses. The behaviour of those who spread the pornography was abhorrent and some might face charges”

People are bringing out the big guns from their pocket thesauruses to hammer a few coppers having some smut on their PCs. Depending which page you turn to on the Herald, this porn is either videos taking up 20% of the police storage capacity (defined as what we don’t know, but by the sound of things the 10 thousand-odd flatfeet have smaller hard drives than my cellphone) or 5000 images across their vast blue-sparking Robocop system. 200-plus officers are implicated, painted red as sin and in the dock awaiting the Bitchsmeller pursuivant . You know what, in the 3 days I’ve had my iPod its collected over 7000 pornographic images. Digitised filth clings to every computer on the damned planet like toilet-paper to a foreskin, and in the age of smut-spam we sometimes don’t even solicit said gape-flap goodness… This is why after hammering the Pope’s ring and (if you believe the fringe media high on mushrooms and jonesing for a spot of mockery) tapped his egg head with a silver hammer to make sure the gooey caramel centre had finally dribbled into his cassock, they burned his laptop and had altar boys eat the ashes. Now whatever grotty art photography John Paul Ringo George had is filtering through the digestive tracts of angelic wee lambs and will probably end up on Ratzinger’s wrinkled cock. But that is a story for another time.

The point is, people are getting very excite about the copper-top Playboy fun. One dire statement read:

“They were messages opened, stored and sent on for others to look at - more than once. They were of explicit sex acts, and showed genitalia”

I would like to see pornography that lacked nuts and guts myself, maybe some of that spinning-eye of balloon-rubbing stuff. But our boys in blue are a simple lot and presumably like a bit of gash-gazing after a hard night’s graft. Ooer missus, and even a shot of bestiality – I’m guessing dogsex, or maybe a horse? Or even the infamous arse-eels…

The point is, the plod have thus far this year been hammered for photographs of officers in balaclavas, for driving Herr Prime Minister up the country, and for not replying to 111 calls. Too busy looking at porn, ho ho, says the radio this morning. The rock FM, I think. I don’t know, some unfunny satin-jacket clowns I use to motivate me to wake up and get the fuck away from my alarm clock.

So on one hand, we have the minutiae of police life raked over the coals, snapshots of computer systems to troll through all CSI and forensically in search of boobies (hooray!), calculations on whether they’d have to hit 88 miles per hour and travel back in time to get the Big Boss Lady to a rugger bugger match, presumably rummaging through sock-encrusted lockers to find dumb-arse Polaroids of peelers in beanies, and every single thing that is found becomes a NATIONAL SCANDAL and the chief of police must APOLOGISE and the government HARRUMPHS and the public wring their hands and wail like stabbed virgins with SHIVS IN THEIR SPINES and rattle their jewellery in the front rows and are aghast, aghast I say at the deplorable acts of these officers. Said hand-wringers I imagine also lick their dogs and shoot chickens in the eye with bleach-filled Super Soakers as Janola’s cheaper than Viagra to get that much-needed wife-beating wood up. And doubtless cheat on their taxes when they’re not writing letters to the editor. And I’m betting a lot of them wonder why their children look more like Manu the Milkman than their pasty-white father. Fucksticks.

Ironically these point-scoring arse-investigating brown-finger-waving Dudley Do-rights, backed by the more anarchic of the media who didn’t like Officer Friendly’s truncheon tricks at CHOGM when they were doing sociology degrees and those stoned politicos waking and baking and trying to change the world so they can toke deeply from their human-skull bong without fear of cavity searches, have another axe to grind.

This is he response-time axe.

For police are like some kind of uniformed orgasm to these people. Perfect at the right moment, but bloody annoying when you’re trying to park your car on yellow lines, or steal a candy bar discretely. Imagine Timmy the Example-boy swiping a Starburst lollipop, grape if he’s smart, and just as he reaches the dairy door WHAM, Officer Cavitysearch appears before him and declares him nicked. Or, same scenario, Timmy at the door and with a shudder and a gasp he’s blissfully coating the inside of his briefs with sticky wallpaper paste and thinking idly about stealing cigarettes. He then curls up and has a flatulent nap while the store-owner beats him for shoplifting and leaking semen on his chequered floor right beside the rack of potato chips. The filthy monkey.

And while for the most part people don’t like the idea of hitting 140kph in their car and shooting a load of spunk into their slacks (okay, some do do that for fun but they’re sick boy-racers in need of a severe head-slappy, little grease-skinned wannabe 2 Fat 2 Furious zombies in love with N2O and man-cock) we love the idea of Constable Jim clapping the handcuffs on some dastardly wallet-swiping villain in a stripey shirt and wee domino mask. Hell, that’s a perfect time for a sigh and a cigarette, n’est-ce pas? Police can be great stress relievers…

But they don’t, like so many of my ex-partners, come on cue. The infamous Piha pretty-girl case with the POSSIBLY NAKED (God the press loved that fact) girly roaming the wilds of Piha before vanishing like Kaiser Sose. Or the families who live atop wind-swept mountains and wonder why the police don’t helicopter in to pat their hands and make them tea. And today, sandwiched between the PORN HORROR SCANDAL SHOCK MINGE POLICE TRUNCHEON SALAMI XXX debacle (which looks like the last Mpeg I dragged off eDonkey, and sadly had too many balloons, not enough genitalia) articles, was a tale of some poor hick in Northland who the police asked for assistance due to them having no manpower in the region.

Said cuntknuckle claimed:

"I didn't want to look like I was knocking the police. "It's a resourcing issue. Policing has to change and that's a management issue." Mr Russell said he had lost about $500,000 worth of stock and property through crime. The Government needed to address rural policing”

Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. Resourcing, eh? Does oo need a bit of resourcing? Awwwwww…. For the love of the Virgin Mary’s unsullied-but-most-likely-poorly-groomed minge people, who the FUCK is going to join the police force under this regime of PC bullshit and daily carrot-nosed duck-weighing nut-juggling witch hunts? I haven’t got the Tiger-Woods balls to join up, and nowadays anyone thinking of the force will be labelled a misogynistic porn-addicted slacker in an IRA balaclava before they even reach basic training. Why would anyone want the hassle? And if they make it through to join the ranks, they know they’ll be reviled by the same pathetic pernickety grubbers who shuttle between bemoaning these devilish porn-mongers and howling like air-raid banshees when their Volvo is dinged by parties unknown and no-one gets the chair.

We are vilifying our police on the same pages we whinge that there aren’t enough of them. What next, complaining about the ever-broadening legions of crack-brained criminals while also bemoaning their lack as prison warders are being laid off? Waging a media war on the bogeyman of Pee while lamenting its absence when you need to finish an article by the paper’s deadline?

The only thing I wonder is: Is this deliberate? Is it politically-sponsored to engender a complete collapse of our policing system to allow sweeping changes? Or is it corporate, with the intent of ushering in rentacops to replace the government’s toy soldiers, bringing in Coke-sponsored street soldiers gunning for Pepsi drinkers and P Heads with equal vigour and answering to nothing but the mighty dollar? Why the hell is this happening? What utopia do we think we are creating, or is no-one looking past the glee of watching a grand old institution fall apart under the weight of the slings and arrows of those too cowardly to put their arses on the line? HOW DARE you scrutticks make me side with a bunch of Maglite-wielding knobgobblers with blue tits on their heads? You can tell that I hold society in low regard when I’m on the side of the thin blue whine…

God I hate you people. I’m going to go off and hug a detective. Nyah.

*All quotes taken from the NZ Herald website 22/4/05.

Apathy Jack writes:

In the name of not whining so much, I’m going to write something positive. If you only come here to laugh at my pain, you may as well have the next five minutes off...

I’m going to write about why I like my friend Wonko.

Of course there’s the stuff about him being a good bloke and pleasant company and all, but here is something to illustrate what a decent chap he is...

First off all, we have to flash back to my university days, before I even met him.

When I was nineteen, I was like a lot of second year Uni students – a dick.

I had fallen into the activism scene, and had adopted the commensurate class-hypersensitivity and hatred of the bourgeois that comes with Second-Year-Socialist Syndrome. Fortunately, living in the Whitest Suburb In New Zealand™, I had more than enough targets for my newfound vitriol.

One of the biggest targets of my ire was a chap from the church I belonged to at the time. Rupert, we’ll call him.

Now, lets be clear – I was a dick who took every opportunity to rail against my own social class, and really was quite humourless with it. However, a young radical couldn’t ask for much better a target than Rupert.

Rupert’s parents were, if not obscenely wealthy, then at least in the higher order of very well off. Rupert lived in a nice house and drove a good car, both of which had been paid for by his parents. He worked a few days a week at a factory they owned, getting paid more than most of the full-time employees, and still received the odd stipend when the need arose.

Of course, being of upper-middle class stock myself, this by itself did not damn him. What made him so reprehensible in my eyes (and remember – I was bringing to bear the sort of passion you can only arouse when you are a nineteen year old self-loathing whitey who has just discovered the cliff notes on Marxism) was that he didn’t have any concept of money as something that some people didn’t have.

Case in point: Another student in the congregation was complaining that her rattletrap car was breaking down, but most of this month’s allotted loan money had already gone on necessities, so she wasn’t sure what she was going to do.

Rupert mused on her situation, saying that he didn’t get why she just didn’t buy a new car. And that’s the thing, he was telling the truth: He genuinely didn’t get why that wasn’t a viable option.

Hell, to this day I maintain that Rupert was worthy of some level of scorn. Perhaps not as much as I began to openly pour on him, but you know...

I guess that after a while all of my various taunts, rants and general antipathy must have started getting to Rupert, because one night he tried to buy me off.

Sounds far more dramatic that it really was, so let me explain: An outing for the younger types of the congregation, and we stopped off for dinner at McDonalds. (How’s that for being a paragon of socialist revolution: A church trip to McDonalds. I’m Che Guevara, me.) Digging deep into my ragged pockets for the evening’s fiver, I dropped it on the floor, probably spilling sundry protest leaflets and copies of The Communist Manifesto at the same time...

As I bent down to pick it up, Rupert performed some manner of remarkably unballetic move in attempting to substitute my five dollar note for a twenty that he produced from seemingly nowhere.

When I asked him exactly what he was doing, he made the sort of face my grandmother used to make when she’d sneak me lollies before dinner, and said something about me just keeping the twenty. I don’t exactly remember his exact words, but to this day I remember his “wink wink don’t tell Mum” tone.

Well, young Castro that I was, this enraged me. He was trying to salve his conscience by giving me money. As if throwing cash at me would mean that there weren’t poor people anymore. If I would shut up about the fact that not everyone was born with a silver spoon, then he wouldn’t have to have his face rubbed in it anymore. This is what his sort always did – ignored the problem. They didn’t want to face the unpleasant underside of the capitalist dream that paid for the Chardonnay they drank on their yachts.

Hell, even aside from revolutionary ideals, I remember feeling distinctly insulted at the implication that I would accept such a payment.

Even these days that memory makes me realise that Rupert was kind of a dick, even if I was one too.

Flash forward a few years, and I was one of the actual poor: Unemployed, paying $125 in rent every week, but only bludging $124 off Work and Income.

Some friends and I were at Waiwera, queuing to pay the entrance fee. Wonko, who happened to be standing with me as I searched my pockets for loose change, matter-of-factly told me that he was paying for me to get in. When I protested, he said simply “I have a job, and you don’t. I’m paying today.”

As we shuffled toward the hot pools, I found myself for the first time in years flashing back to the McDonald’s episode, and comparing the two.

The essence was not in Wonko’s words, which were far blunter than Rupert’s “just slip it in your pocket before anyone sees and we’ll say no more about it” equivocation, but in his straightforward tone, as if it was a foregone conclusion. This was not someone trying to clumsily bribe me into easing their conscience, it was a tiny little gesture by a friend. It was the easiest thing in the world for him to do, so he did it. Which sounds eminently sensible, but not many people make that leap.

Rupert was trying to get me off his back, maybe to massage his aching upper-class guilt, or just to heal an annoying pain in his ass. He genuinely seemed to think that he was doing the right thing by throwing money at someone who hated him for having too much money.

My mate Wonko was being just that – My mate.

Sitting in the hot pools, I decided that when I got a job and had some money to spare, I owed Wonko a drink.


Of course, there’s a coda to this story:

Years later, in a bar, and I remember my promise to myself vis Wonko’s drink. I remind him of the time at Waiwera, and explain why he’s getting a drink out of me. I pull out my wallet, and ask him what he’d like.

He tells me to put my wallet away, and says that if I want to pay him back for what he did, then the next time I saw someone who could use a hand, I should give it to them.


I mean, come on. How can you not like that guy?

Fear and Loathing in the Service Industry

Josh writes:

At least I can laugh about it. Sometimes I have to pull my lips into a rictus grin, peel my tongue off the roof of my mouth and punch myself in the solar plexus, but a laugh is a laugh.

Some people make a point of reading The Lord of the Rings once a year; I read True Porn Clerk Stories. I've mentioned Ali Davis' long-discontinued journal* before, but I really must emphasize that it is the best thing you'll read online. Good, honest human drama, as Ms. Davis recounts her experiences with the regulars, the addicts, the freaks, the "two and a half people" she drove out of the store, all while offering insightful analysis of why people do the bizarre (and perfectly normal) things they do. And she talks about porn a lot -- tee hee hee!

Makes me nostalgic for my time in retail**, where the most I had to put up with was the occasional Generic Asshole. In three years there, the number of problem customers I encountered I could count on one hand, and even then the problems paled in comparison to coming into contact with another's coagulating fluids.

The worst customers tended to be flustered mothers shopping with kids, and they all went down to the women's or kids' section, so I almost never bore the brunt. I do recall one woman who interpreted "sorry, you can't return kids' clothes here -- the folks at the kidswear counter might be able to help you" as "fuck off, bitch -- not my problem" and reacted accordingly (when what I actually meant was "you're probably not going to be able to return that at all, but I'll fob you off on the kidswear manager who I know is at the counter right now so I don't have to turn you down myself, and hey, she might even bend the rules for you.")

There was the one guy who actually made a member of staff cry, but A) she was only 16 and B) he was quite obviously not right in the head. Not actually dangerous, but impaired enough to make his social interactions trying.

Or the mother who repeatedly swore at her young children (and I mean swore at them -- I don't believe adults should say "fuck" in the presence of their children, let alone at them) and clipped them around the ear with more force and less justification than I would consider appropriate. What do you do? "Lay your hands on that child one more time and I'll call the police, you horrible excuse for a mother," I thought silently as I sold her stuff and got her out of the range of my conscience as quickly as possible.

All in all, though, a fairly pedestrian foray into the service of the Dirty Public. Sometimes I find myself wishing I'd led a more messed-up existence, so I'd have more to write about. Then I read True Porn Clerk Stories, and tell myself to shut the fuck up.



* "Journals" are what we had before blogs, back when petrol cost a five doubloons a firkin and you could leave your doors unlocked at night without being throat-raped by Johnny Foreigner in your beds.

** Menswear counter, Farmers St. Lukes, operator ID 128, and that's all you Commie bastards are getting from me.