Wednesday, November 7, 2012

The Squishy Problem

((((the squishy problem - part 1.))))
A vault of selfishness contains original designs on a napkin, complete with coffee rings and powdered sugar. Nearly incomprehensible drawings show the co operative relationship between separate metallic screaming elements, apparitions from the fifties, silver angel hood ornaments picking on the aging chauffeur, both of them like quarreling children enacting a tired maypole dance, all while standing perfectly still in the driveway, in the garage, in line, stiff as a board, man and machine. This is pre double-helix, the kind of dream that wont ring any bells at first review. the timing is disturbing. "This never happened," interrupts an uninvited voice.
(((The squishy problem - part 2.)))))
The mechanics of a living thing at its core plays with electricity and stuff smaller still, vital minerals and metals exchange electrons in a realm vast and indiscernible from outer space, like a nerve ending in a bad tooth emergency, measures uncomfortable and wholly uncouth come into being and enact themselves at conception like a homeless beggar gathering leaves and sticks and bones and skin in a frantic strike against the cold. We have an arrangement, to split our work load and became the living canopy. This is true. Echoes in the fog distort and create forms in the dark, space rewards the bold and wilds unkempt bow and move aside for my fantastic machine. Mary Shelly I love you. I saw a coyote smelling flowers and recognized my brother. I am changed and send a wall of sand into the river with bare feet and watch the organization, the perfection, we all fall down in a symphony of math and magic. "I gots to move" I say to myself in a visible shamble, I need to eat and surf and make love in the grass and smoke strange leaves to ponder the marbles in my head. Music is mine, It's good to be alive. We chose to be here, How could we forget?
(((the squishy problem - part 3. ))))))))
Multiple entities with similar interests have a pup tent shelter cool enough to franchise. What kind of event can be a place with extra gravity? The circus comes to mind. The Ocean however, with time to kill has a stone to polish and the mind to father a fiction still. I get paranoid, could you blame me? Equals meet opposites and contracts get signed, a Napoleon complex is loose and roaming the streets so we found his equal getting loaded downtown and force our way to the place we can get them together to fight. This ain't your ordinary berg, It's a complex planet of its own with a curious trending towards gang violence and squishyness, How gross...Time slows down in the gelatinous goop zones. What a nightmare. I am told its a privilege to tap my feet on solid ground and I try to believe it. In a small town community headline, a midnight staffer got creative. "IT'S ON!" printed in double black taking up half the page. An anti-repugnance campaign got itself underway and like any good revolution the time was right for incestuous riots to break out all over town. Squishy versus Solid, the lines were drawn and denial was free and marching to the tune of a good house cleaning, "whistle that song and wave the new chosen hope you dogs!" comes the call from the television box that all other boxes be judged by. "It sounds like an unvarnished threat to me!" sez the tiny blobular jellyfish man sitting loosely on the bar stool next to me. I say I agree with him to keep him happy (its best to humor a drunk) but he seems to be eyeing the angle of my elbow with suspicion. The poster boy to hang the whole fiasco on is an image hard to shake hands with. A perfect square. Normally a circle takes the square but the liar in us all was left unchallenged for too long. Liars beget liars till the squishy and the fluffy and the funky and the hard proud ground are forced to deal with each other. Secretly on their own they have to admit a similar enthusiasm for seeing Jack released from the his proverbial box. Such an impressive state of affairs is a rolling circus with executions (oddly enough)in the square at the end of every shift. If you are on the outside, the red and yellow tents make a showing of the crowd inside, the fire light makes shadows of the the people sitting in bleachers that dance like unwilling fish that don't know they have just been caught, an aging parking lot is a substitute for something I cant describe. My perceptions of the world are my own and I wont deny my long time allegiance to hot water but a flat rectangular life is what I represent doing stories for the yellow press. a job is a job and a paycheck is a motivator, I try to blend in. The squares sing a song of professionalism and wag their fists at me as I dig around in my pocket for my ticket. All I find is a hole, my money is gone, along with nine quarters a couple of rubber bands and some sand, I turn to go home and almost get trampled, large groups of the recently possessed are bound to trample somebody. I'm glad I got away but feel left out of all that energy that I wont get to see first hand. The poor kids tend to go off and make round kids behind square doors and populate the earth. The joke is on me and it has a sour punchline. The world is full of holes, tents, prisons, stomachs and pockets, we spend our time going through them. ((((B.E.B.
micro photos by Brandon & Julia Bristow, ;)

The Soda

On a recent trip to Las Vegas Nevada, observations jumped out and begged for written attention. Sometimes though, you are compelled to pet the runt of the litter, something a little less overt. Being surrounded by opulence and false bravado is like riding the Tilt o' Whirl, the smear of color and sound sharpen one's focus on pivot points and the big bolts near the heart of the contraption. Eyeballing the low center of gravity needed to hold it's mooring with it's arbiters In human form, moving with purpose and dedication like ticks moving slowly to the host's softer portions. I was waiting for the second race of the Breeder's Cup at Santa Anita to get under way in the belly of the Palms Hotel, I checked my phone and realized two conflicting thoughts. One, it's sixteen minutes to post and two, it's way too early to have a beer. The betting room is standing room only and I immediately cave in to my inner flight response and shuffle outside to shed some crowd-induced claustrophobia, not being a smoker you are faced with a funny feeling, standing still. People going hurriedly in or dragging painfully out looking like the recently exhumed while clutching their free promotional red hats. What an incredible mark, I think to me self. Long gone are the days of chalking your whales on the back, nowadays they simply set up a table and we stand in line for half an hour to wear our sucker status proud as a peacock through the casino for all to see. The barkers have grown up and peer down through the smoky black spider eyes in the ceiling. After losing twenty two dollars in the first race, and I am still somehow having myself a good time here, and bravo! to our hotel for such a delicate robbery, it reminds me of the vampire bats feeding off of horses with pain killer spit to get the job done stealthily. Splendid! Fully satisfied that I am being ripped off by the best in the business (excluding the government) I turn to head back in for more abuse, but not before noticing another person standing in the sun and seeming as equally still and indifferent as myself. A bum. A person of the lower leisure class with the perfect demeanor to slide right in, nearly unnoticed. Thinking nothing of it, I went back in myself and found a nice place to watch the race, a wall with a flat granite top to rest my elbows and racing form, someplace solid to hole up for the storm, to pray on my five dollars to win, to root for magic forces and hopefully not be tapped out before lunch. Having an eye for the unusual, I noticed a round white table with an untouched glass of dark soda filled with ice with at least 5 minutes of condensation making a small pond at its base, sitting there full to the brim and lonesome with two newspapers and a racing guide all huddled together, abandoned and equally as unattended as the two half pulled out chairs. This was a scene in itself because all the seats were taken leaving the latecomers like myself to stand against the walls and edges close enough to see the screens to the left of collage football and directly under a giant blonde with huge tits showing how to shake a martini. She was muted thank god, but distracting for sure. By the time I got my eyes back to the dark soda table to consider the open seat, to my surprise now sat the guy from outside, the bum from off the street and what perfect timing it was. He now held the once lonely soda like a proud papa looking intensely at his inherited racing digest sitting confidently with such an Oscar worthy performance I had to be amused. So good in fact was his portrait of a thirsty gambler that I thought for a second that I was mistaken and this was indeed his seat, his dark soda and by obvious extension, his important papers. The tell? His eyes darted left and then right, the hallmark of vaudevillian criminals everywhere. He lacked a pencil thin mustache to twist, but his cover was totally blown by those coyote eyes, however, he received no notice from the staff and was given the moment savor his victory. I was full of petty envy over the seat and table and was struck with the Marx brothers grace and fluidity that put him there before any of us and tipped my mental hat his way, "well played sir." My race had nearly gotten off to a start without me, so with a rush or rookie gamblers adrenaline I focused my attention on the smaller screen under the giant martini shaking tits and watched my chosen pony swing wide and lose all hope in the back stretch. Bam! Just like that, another five bucks down the tubes, the grand total of twenty seven dollars lost before lunch, these figures added themselves up in my head auto-poetically and most quickly triangulated the time of day with the bleak contrast of future destitution. "So this is what Kenny Rogers was talking about" but I still wasn't sure how to proceed. I know! I need a beer, the cure all, hey it's Vegas I tell myself, I can have a beer in the a.m. if I damn well want one and upon this epiphany I noticed the empty table. He was gone and so was at least one of the papers, but most importantly the dark soda full of ice was gone too. He was out there some where, a winner with a free soda and a fresh newspaper. The only non fool on the floor. Between races, the other losers and me pour out into the place going different directions. I was stuck on the soda. The lost and lonely dark soda full of ice found love and attention in the form of a streetwise antihero, a bum flying under the radar, sliding right in here and going up against the best in the business, getting the only empty seats and leaving the scene unscathed and refreshed. In my own style I flagged down a waitress for a cold green Heineken, leaving her something close to a tip and taking time to register her absolutely blank expression. With a certain amount of resignation, I began making my way sheepishly to the back of the long line to get what I had earned. A free red hat from the Palms hotel to wear like a peacock, walking around in Las Vegas, Nevada. (((B.E.B.))))

Saturday, October 27, 2012

A walk in the woods// photo of Hobbit Camp by ((B.E.B.))
The forest is a system that truly works and it’s barely understood. The smug, the uninspired and the closed off dullards suffer from Stockholm syndrome with their captors running hot and greedy like a virus in your laptop with a sniffer program compiling weaknesses and circling the water hole. Replicate and move, a thousand times over. Divide and conquer, a million years and counting. Destroy, create and destroy in a vacuum of no choosing, my god man, the captors are us. The Twilight Zone and Soylent Green got hitched and had a province. Truth or consequences was always a great town, a great place to do business. The mayor is on the make and very interested in the movements of his own shadow. The chaotic thrashing in this opera is intolerable. You need to go outside. You have to go outside. It’s incredibly hot in here and the walls are closing in. What will it take to put a bit in the mouth of a river so wide as my raging life? Any good construction worker will tell you, “We're working on it.” ((B.E.B.

Thursday, October 18, 2012


((photo by B.E.B.))
Someone less inclined to polarizing obfuscations hath put into motion a quizzical, shoulder shrugging, eye roll, toward a gray piece of fiction with the gravity to become a ..thing //chtzz.. Being versus non being The ability to snap into focus an image as concrete as the forces acting upward upon a busy mans the street... I repeat .. Being versus non-being. //fizz... I've been here before. A familiar dish. The plain spaghetti... Caveat free and smug about it. The words themselves hold to their impression like a lead brick. The opposition being me.. Has the will to fire up the smelter and go to work. The air gets thick and secrecy becomes key. This kind of mental work is better done in silence. Like the blacksmith or the watchmaker the results must manifest themselves in purchase. Day one.czz// Persona. //. Unopposed and running mouth first into the maze of misfortune with plenty of expression. Religion by yoga instructors by physics teachers and men with mustaches alike. All convinced by the spell that binds them. Existence is futile. There exists a fence in a field. High quality two strand topped with barbed wire. The grass is my focus more so than the being /non being fence proposed throughout my paradoxical youth. czz//... Here... Here the grass is unquestionably greener. The blacksmith and the watchmaker would run me out of town for this kind if inquiry. Treason for sure.... A hanging offense to the Sunday man.// To be or not to be. // No. // To see or not to see. // No still. But what? fzzt. tT.// We are bought and sold by the currency of our personage and the lie persists through birth and death. The enemy of your enemy is your friend on this desert plain. The truth is a contortionist that pleads in unnatural directions. Surely our minds must break. This is the work of a stupid stupid man. And so the echo goes for I have broken ranks and disturbed the silence that holds me and folds me into the person I seem to me. Obfuscation and plain spaghetti and dodging the question. Looking for trouble a lone white blood cell challenged the body itself. "By the time you read this I will be dead" he says while scanning the crowd for interest. A good host always has ice on the ready... One hand hangs lifelessly on the land we call the other side and it's ghost has an errand to run. Stepping over the line again and again and the sound is something of a heart murmur. I might pass out. I might wake up. I might take these bolt cutters on a cutting spree and plant some seeds of malcontent wherever some mind is fertile and brave. Again the price is high for those without humor. The grace period for putting the world together is nearly over and no it's not fair. It never was. What was good was a game and it had to be enough. Enterprising young souls make victory knots in a little fabric of their own. Who am I to challenge them. Thus is the war of words that plagues my mind and it makes me want a third thing to be true. A hyper being to stand and clank the glass of attention. The silence informs me to turn on all the lights and lock the door. These ghosts and me and the late night T.V. B.E.B.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

the Wolf Spider

photo by Haden Spiders. Last month I got bit by a Wolf Spider, the one in the picture above to be exact and the name doesn't disappoint. Normally spiders don’t impress us much and we are used to escorting the garden variety off the premises like some good natured drunk that needs to go home. Every year it’s the same thing, summer heat gets replaced with Halloween chill virtually overnight and within twenty four hours the spiders decide to be roomies. Big deal. We see it coming, check the weather stripping on the doors and push in the screens a little bit tighter, no need for chemicals, napalming my own home would produce an irony far too large for me to swallow. Death by the big C via Dow Chemical just because I was escared of some little bitty spiders? Out of the question. But. .After being attacked! I have a slightly less bohemian view of these things Walking full gate and barefoot towards the bathroom through our bedroom I received what felt like a hot lava injection into my pinky toe! I did a sideways Curly shuffle if you can picture that. I was sure it was a nightmare monster scorpion from Clash of the Titans (1981) and called everyone in on the search. Searing pain is an exactly perfect word for the feeling. And there it is!.... a small spider...really? trying to hold ground on the edge of a blanket that only a Sesame street character could blend into. The perp, suspect number one, I took the lamp of the table, took off the shade and held it down close so my Son could get a clear picture of it so we could Google it later, (you gotta Google it, right.) We noticed there were tiny drops of blood on the blanket that squirted out of my toe when he/she bit me, double checking my foot, sure enough there were two tiny puncture marks on the side of my thumping red toe. This spider was hardly the size of a fifty cent piece and kind of neat looking if I wasn’t holding a grudge. When I moved my hand by the floor it perked up and looked like it was ready for battle even stepping foreword a bit. SQUISH… fuck him. My house. Last night I threw something off my back in the middle of the night and my wife reported knocking a bug off of her face too and we were independently too tired to bother turning on the lights to see what it was.. Time to look around. Coffee in hand my morning bug hunt revealed two! Not one, but two! full sized Wolf Spiders patrolling the house. One was boldly walking up the stairs standing out clear as day on the white wall and the other? You guessed it..............By the bed. . I wonder where I can buy some Napalm? B.E.B.

Monday, October 15, 2012

light switch lives

(I meant to post this six or eight weeks ago) 

Light switch lives peel off like vapor trails or dreams you can't hold onto in the morning. 
Super fun is what I'm talking about here... My motorcycle that is... Texas tea. 

Just yesterday I heard that Wynonna Judd's husband and drummer "cactus" Moser had gotten into a motorcycle crash and had his left leg amputated above the knee. Well great. Not to be selfish but I was all geared up for a ride myself and these things have a way at finding their way into ones ears at the worst moments. A certain resentment perks up. Trying not to let the news creep in and rattle my enthusiasm I set out for an all day deal with a bottle of cold water and forty bucks. 

Across hwy 49 through Mariposa and down to the peach trees and almonds of the central valley of California. my cousin has decided to get in on the ride and its a good thing. He has the back roads down to a science. So after a quick stop at his place for lunch he lead us out to skirt around the main roads through places where dogs and tractors outnumber cars three to one. Horses and bulls and out of commission bridges have a place here and you get the sense a condominium at this local might simply self implode under moral obligation. Business plans get written with sticks in the dirt if you know the right people. A good hot day to be alive and riding your motorbike. Meeting up with uncle G, we headed out toward Orestimba creek. A dead end, the road turns to dirt here and if we had bolt cutters we could open up the gate and get all the way to the coast. This is old Cali, there's history here you can smell it, It is a place where where the western world saw fit to run the California Aqua Duct straight through some sacred Indian hills, the European thought process is a marvel and its stands out in a crowd when you consider the consistency alone. No remorse, Its fuck you all the time.  Odd that nearly every doorstep has a mat that reads "welcome."  Is that supposed to be funny?  Rusty barbed wire comes closer to the truth in our Roman Pirate society, so why not embrace it. Set up a perimeter. "Be who you is" right out in the open so the rest of us don't accidentally buy the house next door.  Anyway, after a bummer history lesson to remind me how things really get done round here, the three of us get back to rolling our Honda's through the empty back roads.

 Uncle G has fixed up grandpas old 77 Hondamatic and it was nice to hear the engine sounding so good. This is the very same bike Grandpa used to give all us kids rides on way back when. Grandpa was good at making it a fun outing.  He might say. Wh a d d a y a thinks up over there? ....And veer off the paved road onto dirt and just as soon abandon the dirt and head across the grassy foothills of squaw valley through cows and bulls making it as close to an Indiana Jones adventure as possible in my eyes, The best sort of memories a kid could have. When we got old enough to ride ourselves he trusted us with his bikes and gave us pointers like. " always stay a little bit scared of this bike and you won't get over confident and crash"  I have met folks that have scrunched their face at me when I passed on this bit of cowboy wisdom.  Some of whom have since come off of their bikes where as my cousin, my uncle and myself have not. ( knock on Formica! ) Just sayin'. Time is a mediator.  
 I think it's the word "scared"... Dudes don't want to hear it, we are too cool for school.
Trying to keep a kid from crashing puts you into the position of vocalizing the proper mind set for safe riding.  What does a shotgun wielding cowboy say to a 15 year old kid to keep him from busting his head open? Exactly. I might just as easily pass it on in this way. You need to pay serious attention to what you and everything else is doing in order to stay safe, and keep the speed down. But put this way, minds will wander and "yea yea yea I know" creeps in. I feel I am beating a dead horse here but wouldn't it be cool if this advise saved someone's life? Like all good advise it's a cross trainer and works on lots of levels at once. Stay a little nervous and stay alive. One percent will do. The meek might inherit the earth but I submit that the mellow inherit the road.
Back to the near present...last night in fact.
It had gotten dark and after parting ways I had a good distance ahead of me to get back home.  Up to Mariposa and back across hwy 49 the altitude pops you up into the cool clean mountain air. The headlight behind me is a phantom. Ha it's the moon and in August it will sit on your shoulder like a spirit guide. The Star's are out and come all the way down to the ground. I could smell flowers and death and cedars in the same minute. The water from a creek hits your senses a half mile before you cross it and when you do, you are forced to see the bugs and bats and this stream as one in the same. They rip on by like the sheets being pulled suddenly off of your bed. In a Doppler shift instant, new thoughts  accumulate on the front end, compress and get replaced with new stimuli. the memory of the moment drag's a bit at a rate approaching profound but managing to hover mostly in a zone more b e s t l y referred to as "stupid fun." 
By the time I arrive and drop it into first gear to grind up my long dirt and gravel driveway I feel like the miles have coaxed out something very Zen. A big brass knocker pounding out Buddha consciousness to the beat of my little blue Honda's inline four. Together, they have teamed up on my selves and their impressions of our ghosts, our world and the resilience in the mix that sustains a man suspended in the present. Its not hard to attach meanings and unusual attention to these ordinary moments as I turn off the fuel switch and close the garage, the cooling engine ticking away fades out to reveal a chorus of crickets and frogs singing their hearts out. I might be pleased as punch if I let it feel supernatural...and I do. 
post script // My thoughts go out to Mr. Moser and family, (a man I've never met)  I hope to see you out riding again and pounding those skins real soon. Keep on keeping on.   
sincerely, B.E.B.   ships log August 22, 2012

Monday, October 8, 2012

Muddy Water

                                                               (photo by B.E.Bristow)

The past is the past and its entirely true with the only exception being that it isn't. The past is a rudder that propels us to the here and now, be it however misguided, cutting loose ones attention to thine own circular rowing has benefits that fall into the "Run Forest run!" category. Proponents of similar leanings say things like "Everything happens for a reason" with an upturned fish hook grin that hardly masks the scars behind their headlamps. With this quote, I am forced to agree wholeheartedly but the salt in the sauce is a fact that burns up snails of hope in your head. The "Reasons" the everything's are happening for, is a wake cut from the same barnacle addled rudder we have been dragging through the lake of the living since birth. By all means, Get Zen and focus. Make the efforts and shellack the hell out of the vessel you possess. Shout out the prayers of potential earnings in double time and put it all behind a big kick drum miked up close without a compressor. But please , please, don't shit a shitter. The intentions behind your actions equate the profile of someone running scared, and don't you know it calls the wolves in like the cry of a wounded deer. I grew up with Marlin Perkins God damn it! What the savanna calls for is a jeep with a sturdy top and a fast assistant to tease the wildlife. Well, driving a dull stick home I might feel the urge to say "its all good" and well... it is, when we distance ourselves enough from our natures, our past and the urges in the present to be free and clear of the pesky knowledge that allows us to repeat our mistakes "on purpose" if you will. I revel most glowingly in the predicaments of the deeply religious as they seem driven to misdeeds by invisible forces with the prepossessed look of bewilderment pasted to one of at least two faces. Fooling God is a hot, full time day job. We filled out the application during an old school vodka black out and we've been sweating it out in the wheelhouse of our non scientific souls with great effect ever since. Our minds play with a silicone putty called reason and it runs like the bar scene in The Shining. Phrases and quotations cascade through time like plaque in your aorta urging the willing masses to wander into the water like water buffalo crossing the muddy river. I think they know the water is full of crocs, they just put it in a mental perspective that relieves the brand of stress that knowledge puts on the mind. It wrinkles our foreheads and slows our knee jerk, instinctual, reaction times just enough to become lunch at some other interval. Hmm these things are a weight aren't they? And the grey areas of thought seem intent on ruining the view in spite of their maple syrup quality. how much is it worth? The aesthetics of life I mean. To be on the sidelines with a 44 ounce soda or fleeing on foot from a pack of wild hyenas or police or lawyers. You pick your battles man and we don't fool anybody when we deny our role in it all. The phrase to rule them all is, "you reap what you sow" a quote among quotes and an impenetrable bit of verbiage at that. Its the kind of thing grandpa says and it puts a creepy silence into an otherwise happening dinner party. The truth is heavy, like lead. No fun on long trips like the one sober guy at the bash. The all seeing eye on the back of the dollar bill presents itself as some thing wholly other because we can't handle the truth. The sayings will persist like a necessarily marbled piece of our ancient RNA. Ease of use and flawless deny-ability clauses written right in there in bold type, no approval needed, no paper trail will ever exist. Thought processes like these are backed by the whole of human endeavor so come on in, the water is fine. I'm sure those crocs have all gone on holiday.  
Honestly,  B.

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Saved by the Bike! 2012

Its been a long while since I been down this road and the proof is in the pass words. Yup, the internet is a jealous beast, when you ignore her she keeps your things, calls all her girlfriends and locks the front door.
I had to sleep on the porch and beg Google to reconsider my citizenship in the land of oohs and aahs.
So far I'm O.K. with only a small twitch to show for the stress. The kind that makes you wonder if people think you are winking at them. Well, after a couple of ear surgeries (time to pay the piper for all those surf days I ditched school and work and weddings for) I have my hearing back in full High Def stereo and a new lease on life. You see, the "ear years" as I am beginning to call them, have been both destructive and trans-formative with regards to being forced  into "dry dock" in two critical facets. Music and Surfing. A binary system for sanity, suspending my affectations and natural animal demeanor in such a way as not to be sussed for the angry monster one becomes when the purpose for living gets the quick drop and a short stop...well there we are. all fucked up and in serious need of a boost other than alcohol.  During this time in purgatory slung between situations I was roaming home from work with my one working ear focused sadly out the window when I happened upon a bike for sale. Not a Schwinn or a huffy or anything so healthy but a blue and chrome 1980 Honda CB 900 custom with the inline four and four gorgeous chrome pipes angled in such a way that makes grown men slam their truck into reverse and spit gravel at some poor bastards strawberry stand in order to see it up close. This was it. My bike and me make a beautiful team and it might sound ridiculous to those who don't ride motorbikes but my new focus was just what the doctor ordered. Its not all about curves and revs either. Lots of the time its just routine maintenance, its time in the garage focused on a singularity that makes all the difference.  I was able to quit surfing and music with this bike as my crutch and we went all over the Sierra like a boy and his dog. Cut to the present, I'm back. I have been in the studio again recording with Eric from the Skeleton Brains band and the new song is called "Mary Magdilinium" its not out yet, might be in a few days we shall see. ( it will be on just search for the song name or Brandon Earl Bristow and it will show up, ( it will be free ). . . . as for surfing, the doctor has given me the "all clear" to hit the water so I feel like a dog with too many tennis balls, what to do first? I dunno, but its good to be off the leash and set free in the park. Lots to do including dusting off the old computers and updating my digital self. Really?.. who cares? .....Right!  but "So What" is something other than just a great song!  It's a stale thought process and I wont be bogged down now. until next time, same bat time, same bat channel.
Peace, B.B.

Vegetarian Bikers!