So my friend's car used to do this thing where it would stop at a light and not go when the light turned green. That wasn't good. So she got this new, cool car, and I'm all oohhing and ahhhing. And then she says, "You'll never guess who LizaLou and I saw." I hadn't a clue. "Spanky, and she was driving a new Accent."
The back story: I was parked in front of this same friend's home eight months ago when a girl rear ended my car.
Her license plate: SPANKY.
My license plate: SKO 966 a.k.a. TRASHED—my poor car.
Perhaps, with the new car her mommy bought her, she also received a personal driver named James so she wouldn't be tempted to go careening down side streets anymore.
A big thanks to LizaLou and YellowDancer for breaking me out of my funk yesterday. I was so tired. Perhaps the drain was emotional as much as physical, or maybe the emotional upset the physical, which caused my intense desire to pull the shades to block out that freakin' bright sun and crawl deep under my duvet, even though sleep refused to visit with me. My thoughts that day were like that sentence, long, jumbled, and hard to read.
Thanks to you two, Benjamin and Sophie may just survive. (And maybe Sophie should be Southern. Say, Benjamin, real slow like.) But hey, even if they don't survive, at least now they won't go down in flames nameless anymore.
Today's snippet comes from YellowDancer21's Witch Hunter Robin FanFic, Libera Me:
A haze swam across his vision suddenly, accompanied by a sense of nausea and he attempted to regain control. He must have been allowing his emotions to affect him physically, which was a weakness he abhorred even more than his weakness in feeling the emotions in the first place... It was both unnerving and damned annoying. He detested this feeling of teetering on the edge of losing control. (You can read more at FanFiction.Net. You know you want to...)
- theCallowQueen
- In the down-hill tumble of life, I'm okay with the scratches and bruises; it's the broken bones that I'm trying to avoid.
Monday, July 26, 2004
Friday, July 23, 2004
news bites
Unfortunate but true headline: "Penis and testicles removed without consent." (Can't imagine the patient saying, "Yeah, okay, doc, just cut 'em off.")
When urologists removed a patient's cancerous bladder, they believed it was an aggressive tumor that had spread, so they took out a couple of other vital organs while they were at it. The penis turned out not to be cancerous. The inevitable malpractice suit that followed was settled out of court for and undisclosed amount. (Sources: WHIP, Contemporary Urology, in press)
COMMENTARY: Last night my aunt told us about a guy with prostate cancer who went to some special hospital in texas for surgery. The surgery, a success, was performed by a robot. My dad says that there was probably a doc remotely controlling the robot from a hospital in a different city. (FYI: my dad is a biomedical engineer at a Midwest hospital and a prostate cancer survivor.)
The Orthodox Union has granted kosher certification to Triaminic cough syrup, the first over-the-counter medication to earn that distinction. Certified products carry an OU designation (not to be confused with Oklahoma University). The Union, which says it's the world's biggest organization determining what's kosher, expects to approve more over-the-counter products.
Novartis, which changed some flavorings to earn kosher status for Triaminic, says that Maalox is next in line and awaiting its kosher moment. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: What's it like to be a Kosher kid with a cold?
The world's longest non-stop airline flight is now one that starts in Singapore and ends in Newark (9,788 miles, 18 hours in the air). Special bonus: You can airdrop your list to Santa as you fly over the North Pole. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: Sign me up, Scotty!
When urologists removed a patient's cancerous bladder, they believed it was an aggressive tumor that had spread, so they took out a couple of other vital organs while they were at it. The penis turned out not to be cancerous. The inevitable malpractice suit that followed was settled out of court for and undisclosed amount. (Sources: WHIP, Contemporary Urology, in press)
COMMENTARY: Last night my aunt told us about a guy with prostate cancer who went to some special hospital in texas for surgery. The surgery, a success, was performed by a robot. My dad says that there was probably a doc remotely controlling the robot from a hospital in a different city. (FYI: my dad is a biomedical engineer at a Midwest hospital and a prostate cancer survivor.)
The Orthodox Union has granted kosher certification to Triaminic cough syrup, the first over-the-counter medication to earn that distinction. Certified products carry an OU designation (not to be confused with Oklahoma University). The Union, which says it's the world's biggest organization determining what's kosher, expects to approve more over-the-counter products.
Novartis, which changed some flavorings to earn kosher status for Triaminic, says that Maalox is next in line and awaiting its kosher moment. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: What's it like to be a Kosher kid with a cold?
The world's longest non-stop airline flight is now one that starts in Singapore and ends in Newark (9,788 miles, 18 hours in the air). Special bonus: You can airdrop your list to Santa as you fly over the North Pole. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: Sign me up, Scotty!
Thursday, July 22, 2004
povitica
Monday night a friend called me up. "have you finished dinner yet?" he asked.
"Just finished," I replied.
"Good. Then you come on over. We have povitica."
Then there was the clatter of a phone being dropped, a door slamming, and the rumble of an engine as a car pealed out of the parking lot. I don't have to be asked twice!
I know few people know of the wonders of povitica, but for some reason I still receive a shock when someone says, "povitica? What's that?" How could they not know the wonderfulness of povitica? Note: If you ever do eat povitica, it's wonderful if you spread a little butter over the top of you slice and pop it in the microwave for a few seconds. You won't be disappointed!
Oh, what is povitica? It's a Croatian sweet bread. It's kind of like a cinnamon roll, except replace the cinnamon with walnuts or cream cheese and make the bread dough really thin, so the swirls of bread and filling are hairline thin and keep winding round and round like the rings on tree stump. Only it tastes amazing.
My grandma learned to make povitica from her Croatian mother-in-law. And I grew up helping my grandma roll out the dough so that it stretched to cover the entire table. It was so thin you could see though it in some spots to the table underneath. Then we spread on the filling. I believe she altered the traditional walnut recipe and used pecans. This too, we spread super thin. And then we started at a wide end and rolled the dough and filling into a four-foot roll. My grandma then cut the roll in bread pan sized widths. As she placed the rolled dough into the bread pans, I took the two small bits left at either end and filled my own tiny little bread pans. Then we brushed on some sort of buttery glaze on the top.
Mmm...
I need to get that recipe.
but it takes so much work to make povitica. My grandma would only make it once or twice a year. They kept quite well in the deep freezer.
So, imagine my shock when I show up at my friends house for a slice of povitica and find his parents had bought me an entire loaf! It was poppy seed. Very good. But remember that part about it being time and labor intensive to make this bread? That means this stuff ain't cheap.
and they bought it for me because they remembered how much I loved povitica.
My heart.
They've been so good to me. They've welcomed me like family. How do you thank people for that? Maybe you can't.
"Just finished," I replied.
"Good. Then you come on over. We have povitica."
Then there was the clatter of a phone being dropped, a door slamming, and the rumble of an engine as a car pealed out of the parking lot. I don't have to be asked twice!
I know few people know of the wonders of povitica, but for some reason I still receive a shock when someone says, "povitica? What's that?" How could they not know the wonderfulness of povitica? Note: If you ever do eat povitica, it's wonderful if you spread a little butter over the top of you slice and pop it in the microwave for a few seconds. You won't be disappointed!
Oh, what is povitica? It's a Croatian sweet bread. It's kind of like a cinnamon roll, except replace the cinnamon with walnuts or cream cheese and make the bread dough really thin, so the swirls of bread and filling are hairline thin and keep winding round and round like the rings on tree stump. Only it tastes amazing.
My grandma learned to make povitica from her Croatian mother-in-law. And I grew up helping my grandma roll out the dough so that it stretched to cover the entire table. It was so thin you could see though it in some spots to the table underneath. Then we spread on the filling. I believe she altered the traditional walnut recipe and used pecans. This too, we spread super thin. And then we started at a wide end and rolled the dough and filling into a four-foot roll. My grandma then cut the roll in bread pan sized widths. As she placed the rolled dough into the bread pans, I took the two small bits left at either end and filled my own tiny little bread pans. Then we brushed on some sort of buttery glaze on the top.
Mmm...
I need to get that recipe.
but it takes so much work to make povitica. My grandma would only make it once or twice a year. They kept quite well in the deep freezer.
So, imagine my shock when I show up at my friends house for a slice of povitica and find his parents had bought me an entire loaf! It was poppy seed. Very good. But remember that part about it being time and labor intensive to make this bread? That means this stuff ain't cheap.
and they bought it for me because they remembered how much I loved povitica.
My heart.
They've been so good to me. They've welcomed me like family. How do you thank people for that? Maybe you can't.
Monday, July 19, 2004
even when i am not new
Last night I read through the journal I kept when I was 14 and 15. Journals should be sealed, burned, locked away, or at least plaster a warning label on the thing.
WARNING: READING CONTENTS MAY STIR UP MEMORIES CAUSING INTENSE EMOTION IN READER, ESPECIALLY IF READER IS ALSO THE WRITER OF THE CONTENTS. KEEP OUT OF THE REACH OF CHILDREN. DO NOT INGEST. FLAMMABLE. CONTACT YOUR ROOMMATE IF YOU FEEL STUPID OR IMMATURE AFTER READING.
I had no idea how much influence my mother had on me. I didn't get along with her when I was a teenager. We had horrible fights. But when I read my journal, my thoughts mimic hers and not my father's. Why?
Why did I worry about the pollution of my mind, body, and soul after watching True Lies? (By the way, that was the first rated R movie I ever watched on VHS. I was 15! My first rated R in-theater movie experience would follow later that year, Dangerous Minds. I told my mom that I saw the Little Princess.)
At 15 I had already decided that I would only date someone who I could see myself marrying. And, of course, at 15, I couldn't picture myself married at all. That was my mother inside my head. That was my youth pastor. That was my timidity. I wanted an excuse to hide. I found it, and then I couldn't be rid of it.
So 10 years of self struggle later (goodness, 10 years. I feel so old). Here I am. I still shy away from opportunities to date. I still expect extremes of all or nothing rather than dealing with the shaky middle ground of uncertainty.
But I've changed, too, of course. Often, I don't give myself credit for how much I've changed. A few weeks ago, I was thinking through some issues of the heart. I rarely share these with my family. I think they may have thought I was a lesbian for awhile because I never dated, never spoke of boys. I'm sure god heard a few prayers on the matter. But I've begun to say a bit more. Maybe I'm just more comfortable with who I am. Maybe I just like to rile up my mother.
Anyway, I said something. Her advice: you should date him. Why not? It's the only way to find out if he could be someone you could spend your life with. I was almost surprised, my mother was pushing me to date, but then she continued: Just be careful not to get too emotionally involved or physical. It's hard to end a relationship after you've become attached like that. There's the mom that I know and love. And no, this isn't just keep-your-legs-crossed advice. The kicker: Don't kiss him.
Date him, but don't kiss him! Great advice from my mom on how to find your true love. Right. This could work. I could see how well tested this advice was. Sure, this could work for my cousin the youth pastor and his wife. (They didn’t kiss until they were engaged.) But, I was having trouble seeing this one working out in my life. I got up the nerve and actually told my mom that if I did date him, I would kiss him. I don't need to date him to get to know him. I already know him. So, it would involve emotional attachment. And, yes, I would kiss him. Geeze, I've entered my mid-20s and my mom's best advice for me is to date but not kiss. I decided that it’d be best to wait to tell her that I don’t think people have one person they’re meant to be with forever. That kind of commitment is a choice. I also decided no to tell my mom that I might not marry and that she might not have grandkids. I'll save that for her birthday or maybe Thanksgiving.
I think I've been going crazy enough not dating and not kissing. I don't think I could date and then not kiss. That's just perverse. I stopped there for my mother's benefit, and I will for yours, too. I must be completely out of my mind to post this, considering the only three people that read this thing know me. Oh well.
My value system was faulty. I put so much value on not doing certain things that I kept myself from experiencing life as fully as I could have. So, today's tie-in are lyrics from one of my favorite songs, F.N.T. by Semisonic.
WARNING: READING CONTENTS MAY STIR UP MEMORIES CAUSING INTENSE EMOTION IN READER, ESPECIALLY IF READER IS ALSO THE WRITER OF THE CONTENTS. KEEP OUT OF THE REACH OF CHILDREN. DO NOT INGEST. FLAMMABLE. CONTACT YOUR ROOMMATE IF YOU FEEL STUPID OR IMMATURE AFTER READING.
I had no idea how much influence my mother had on me. I didn't get along with her when I was a teenager. We had horrible fights. But when I read my journal, my thoughts mimic hers and not my father's. Why?
Why did I worry about the pollution of my mind, body, and soul after watching True Lies? (By the way, that was the first rated R movie I ever watched on VHS. I was 15! My first rated R in-theater movie experience would follow later that year, Dangerous Minds. I told my mom that I saw the Little Princess.)
At 15 I had already decided that I would only date someone who I could see myself marrying. And, of course, at 15, I couldn't picture myself married at all. That was my mother inside my head. That was my youth pastor. That was my timidity. I wanted an excuse to hide. I found it, and then I couldn't be rid of it.
So 10 years of self struggle later (goodness, 10 years. I feel so old). Here I am. I still shy away from opportunities to date. I still expect extremes of all or nothing rather than dealing with the shaky middle ground of uncertainty.
But I've changed, too, of course. Often, I don't give myself credit for how much I've changed. A few weeks ago, I was thinking through some issues of the heart. I rarely share these with my family. I think they may have thought I was a lesbian for awhile because I never dated, never spoke of boys. I'm sure god heard a few prayers on the matter. But I've begun to say a bit more. Maybe I'm just more comfortable with who I am. Maybe I just like to rile up my mother.
Anyway, I said something. Her advice: you should date him. Why not? It's the only way to find out if he could be someone you could spend your life with. I was almost surprised, my mother was pushing me to date, but then she continued: Just be careful not to get too emotionally involved or physical. It's hard to end a relationship after you've become attached like that. There's the mom that I know and love. And no, this isn't just keep-your-legs-crossed advice. The kicker: Don't kiss him.
Date him, but don't kiss him! Great advice from my mom on how to find your true love. Right. This could work. I could see how well tested this advice was. Sure, this could work for my cousin the youth pastor and his wife. (They didn’t kiss until they were engaged.) But, I was having trouble seeing this one working out in my life. I got up the nerve and actually told my mom that if I did date him, I would kiss him. I don't need to date him to get to know him. I already know him. So, it would involve emotional attachment. And, yes, I would kiss him. Geeze, I've entered my mid-20s and my mom's best advice for me is to date but not kiss. I decided that it’d be best to wait to tell her that I don’t think people have one person they’re meant to be with forever. That kind of commitment is a choice. I also decided no to tell my mom that I might not marry and that she might not have grandkids. I'll save that for her birthday or maybe Thanksgiving.
I think I've been going crazy enough not dating and not kissing. I don't think I could date and then not kiss. That's just perverse. I stopped there for my mother's benefit, and I will for yours, too. I must be completely out of my mind to post this, considering the only three people that read this thing know me. Oh well.
My value system was faulty. I put so much value on not doing certain things that I kept myself from experiencing life as fully as I could have. So, today's tie-in are lyrics from one of my favorite songs, F.N.T. by Semisonic.
Fascinating new thing
Get beside me
I want you to love me
I'm surprised that you've never been told before
That you're lovely and you're perfect
And that somebody wants you
I'm surprised that you've never been told before
That you're priceless yeah you're precious
Even when you are not new
I'm surprised that you've never been told before
That you're priceless yeah you're holy
Even when you are not new
Friday, July 09, 2004
son of a bush
It's my new phrase, though my mother musn't hear me use it.
There's been a snow storm in my little salmon-colored cubicle! Actually, I've just become a huge paper slob. I have reference papers, job jackets, and final reads scattered and piled on my overflowing desk. My only option: on to the floor. My chair is encircled in a fan of white. Besides, sitting on the floor is a good way to break up the day and resist conforming to the professional identity.
My phone rang, I thought it was the veterinarian I had just gotten off the phone with.
"Good afternoon, this is [me]," I said.
"Hellooo [yooou]," replied a fakely deep voice. Weird. "It's [your ex]," he continued.
My thoughts: Why are you calling me at work? Hello: e-mail, my cell phone.
"Hey, what's up," I said in a semifake cheerful voice.
There's been a snow storm in my little salmon-colored cubicle! Actually, I've just become a huge paper slob. I have reference papers, job jackets, and final reads scattered and piled on my overflowing desk. My only option: on to the floor. My chair is encircled in a fan of white. Besides, sitting on the floor is a good way to break up the day and resist conforming to the professional identity.
My phone rang, I thought it was the veterinarian I had just gotten off the phone with.
"Good afternoon, this is [me]," I said.
"Hellooo [yooou]," replied a fakely deep voice. Weird. "It's [your ex]," he continued.
My thoughts: Why are you calling me at work? Hello: e-mail, my cell phone.
"Hey, what's up," I said in a semifake cheerful voice.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
my paper blanket
My life is paper chaos. I've decided that paper is to blame for everything that’s off kilter in my life. Paper is my security blanket. They’re my reference, though I can rarely find what I need. My books are a source of escape. My journals and writings are the crazy insides of my brain splurted out on paper.
So, needless to say, I have a crazy obsession with books and papers, and I am extremely protective and private with them. Last week I brought home two boxes of books that I'd left at my parents house for safe keeping when I moved. I was heartbroken. Half of the books, my precious books, the pages are mildewed and warped. I'm sorry Nietzsche, Elliott, and Uncle Remus; I've failed you. I didn’t fight hard enough to save you from being moved to the basement.
Then, I got a call from my mother. I was in the middle of a crazy, hectic day at work.
“Hi, how’ve you been? Are you busy? I'm sorry we didn’t get much of a chance to talk on Sunday.” she said.
What’s the point, mom? Get to the freakin’ point, I thought, but replied, “Yeah, Mom, I'm really busy right now. What's up?”
“Would you be able to come by the house after work and go through some of the stuff on the back porch?” I think she could hear the cogs in my brain working to find a way out. Then she threw the punch, “I left the windows on the back porch open last night during the storm. I tried to soak up as much of the water as I could …”
I'm sure she said more. All I was thinking, my papers! My work! Most of my stuff that my mom had relegated to the back porch was of little importance to me. But there was one box that I cared about. It had my papers, stories, and writings from my teen years. My first story on the school newspaper. My first fiction writings. The work that I was proud of.
My dad was there when I got home. Mom wasn’t, and for her safety, that was a very good thing. I went to survey the wreckage, it wasn’t horrible, the papers are warped and the ink has run on some, but on the whole it was OK. I thought I could forgive my mom for pushing my belongings to the far corners where she wouldn’t want hers. Then, I saw my high school journal. It wasn’t wet. It wasn’t damaged. But it was out. Three important notes: I'm very private with my writings, my mom’s a bit nosey, and our relationship in high school was far from good. She would not like what is written in there; I'm afraid to even look to see what is written in there.
Back in the house, I saw that my mom has been “rearranging” some of my other belongings, belongings that I had already arranged in logically in boxes. Did I mention that I'm extremely private with my writings and belongings?
“That’s it,” I said to my dad. “Everything goes in my car.” And with that my dad and I loaded whatever of mine we could find into my car and his truck. My dad is amazing. He puts up with so much from my mother and me. Thanks, dad, for all your help.
No, I didn't have room for it all in my apartment. Yes, my ultra-clean roomie could become very annoyed with me. But I no longer cared. My possessions are now fully in my possession, and out of my mother’s range. She can now find something else to blame the clutter on. Sorry, Dad, you’re next.
My roommate and I unpacked box after box of books. I had forgotten just how many books I own. (I have even more, my favorite childhood books wait safely in my dad’s closet.) After unpacking: categorizing and grouping! I'm sick; I love organizing, and over organizing.
Sorry for the rant; I'd just forgotten how much I love my books. I used to be a crazy reader. I read as if I had a hardcore addiction to the ink fumes. What happened?
Today’s tie-in quotes are from the Read or Die OVA:
Nancy aka Ms. Deep: In real life, love takes a different course than from books. What do you think? A love that you want with no future or a love that you don’t mind with a future … Which one is better?”
Yomiko aka The Paper: “I have an answer for the question you asked earlier. Umm … I think true love is much more wonderful. Although there may be painful things, no matter what kind of love it is, you can be the heroine.”
So, needless to say, I have a crazy obsession with books and papers, and I am extremely protective and private with them. Last week I brought home two boxes of books that I'd left at my parents house for safe keeping when I moved. I was heartbroken. Half of the books, my precious books, the pages are mildewed and warped. I'm sorry Nietzsche, Elliott, and Uncle Remus; I've failed you. I didn’t fight hard enough to save you from being moved to the basement.
Then, I got a call from my mother. I was in the middle of a crazy, hectic day at work.
“Hi, how’ve you been? Are you busy? I'm sorry we didn’t get much of a chance to talk on Sunday.” she said.
What’s the point, mom? Get to the freakin’ point, I thought, but replied, “Yeah, Mom, I'm really busy right now. What's up?”
“Would you be able to come by the house after work and go through some of the stuff on the back porch?” I think she could hear the cogs in my brain working to find a way out. Then she threw the punch, “I left the windows on the back porch open last night during the storm. I tried to soak up as much of the water as I could …”
I'm sure she said more. All I was thinking, my papers! My work! Most of my stuff that my mom had relegated to the back porch was of little importance to me. But there was one box that I cared about. It had my papers, stories, and writings from my teen years. My first story on the school newspaper. My first fiction writings. The work that I was proud of.
My dad was there when I got home. Mom wasn’t, and for her safety, that was a very good thing. I went to survey the wreckage, it wasn’t horrible, the papers are warped and the ink has run on some, but on the whole it was OK. I thought I could forgive my mom for pushing my belongings to the far corners where she wouldn’t want hers. Then, I saw my high school journal. It wasn’t wet. It wasn’t damaged. But it was out. Three important notes: I'm very private with my writings, my mom’s a bit nosey, and our relationship in high school was far from good. She would not like what is written in there; I'm afraid to even look to see what is written in there.
Back in the house, I saw that my mom has been “rearranging” some of my other belongings, belongings that I had already arranged in logically in boxes. Did I mention that I'm extremely private with my writings and belongings?
“That’s it,” I said to my dad. “Everything goes in my car.” And with that my dad and I loaded whatever of mine we could find into my car and his truck. My dad is amazing. He puts up with so much from my mother and me. Thanks, dad, for all your help.
No, I didn't have room for it all in my apartment. Yes, my ultra-clean roomie could become very annoyed with me. But I no longer cared. My possessions are now fully in my possession, and out of my mother’s range. She can now find something else to blame the clutter on. Sorry, Dad, you’re next.
My roommate and I unpacked box after box of books. I had forgotten just how many books I own. (I have even more, my favorite childhood books wait safely in my dad’s closet.) After unpacking: categorizing and grouping! I'm sick; I love organizing, and over organizing.
Sorry for the rant; I'd just forgotten how much I love my books. I used to be a crazy reader. I read as if I had a hardcore addiction to the ink fumes. What happened?
Today’s tie-in quotes are from the Read or Die OVA:
Nancy aka Ms. Deep: In real life, love takes a different course than from books. What do you think? A love that you want with no future or a love that you don’t mind with a future … Which one is better?”
Yomiko aka The Paper: “I have an answer for the question you asked earlier. Umm … I think true love is much more wonderful. Although there may be painful things, no matter what kind of love it is, you can be the heroine.”
Friday, July 02, 2004
legitimate, lucrative work
I’m pretty sure there's a law about it somewhere.
I can't get a hold of any sources. Without experts to quote, I have no articles that I can finish.
At lunch a co-worker reminded me that we had Monday off work.
I knew this. It’s written on my calendar. Yet, I’d forgotten, making Monday now like a gift.
I have no plans. Nothing is expected of me. I have nothing that I must do, no task that I must accomplish, no one whom I’m expected to see.
I can sleep in. I can write. I can laze around.
But first: birthday, dancing, dim sum, fireworks, another birthday, and then more fireworks.
"Did you hear the queen died? Died last night...the poor bitch," says Nev in Nine Dead Gay Guys, a movie I hadn't expected to watch, a movie I didn't know even existed until I knocked on my neighbor-friends’ door last night. It’s about two guys from Dublin trying to make booze money in London. And it’s surprisingly funny.
I can't get a hold of any sources. Without experts to quote, I have no articles that I can finish.
At lunch a co-worker reminded me that we had Monday off work.
I knew this. It’s written on my calendar. Yet, I’d forgotten, making Monday now like a gift.
I have no plans. Nothing is expected of me. I have nothing that I must do, no task that I must accomplish, no one whom I’m expected to see.
I can sleep in. I can write. I can laze around.
But first: birthday, dancing, dim sum, fireworks, another birthday, and then more fireworks.
"Did you hear the queen died? Died last night...the poor bitch," says Nev in Nine Dead Gay Guys, a movie I hadn't expected to watch, a movie I didn't know even existed until I knocked on my neighbor-friends’ door last night. It’s about two guys from Dublin trying to make booze money in London. And it’s surprisingly funny.
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