Category Archives: Uncategorized

Quarantine myself?

No need to tell me twice



I had been hearing it for days, maybe more than a week – Self-Quarantine.

At first it was nothing more than a worst-case-scenario, fear mongering, perhaps. Then, one day, I was given the OK to work from home for the next week.

A week.

It was during the first few days of that respite from the daily NJ commute that the decree was made from the Pork Roll capital of the world (Trenton, NJ) – ‘Stay home, stay inside, no contact with others (and stfu about it!).

Wait, are you saying what I think you’re saying? (Whaddayamean…). I was like, no f-ing way! Stay home? Don’t go out in public? Avoid contact with other humans, including face-to-face conversation???

Hells yes, I will!

8 pm curfew? And the liquor stores are still open! This gets better and better. Never in all my days have I ever been more willing to comply with NJ state law.

You’re damn right I’ll stay home. With my libation and tobacco. Don’t call me, I’ll call you. Better yet, text me. Don’t wait for a reply.

I’m thankful for the time I get to spend outside, while the woods are waking up. I get to cut/stack firewood and watch spring bloom, sprout and blossom all around.

I think Roger Waters said it best –

Sitting in a bunker here behind my wall
Waiting for the worms to come…

In perfect isolation here behind my wall
Waiting for the worms to come

Oh, wait. Here they are, under this log…

(Pink Floyd/The Wall/Waiting for the Worms)

I have mice in my attic

Yo, Birdwell. I’m in your attic, eating your pink fiberglass insulation.


No, it is not meant to be a whimsical description of my general mental health, even if an accurate one.

I live with a cat. A cat of barn-cat lineage. The cat slumbers peacefully at my side, oblivious to the mouse sounds. Apparently he is off duty for the night. It might be time to review the Birdwell-Cat contract. You (Cat) will receive a warm place to sleep, food, water, occasional ear scratches and an indoor shitter (that I, the Birdwell, will clean for you). In exchange you will kill mice.

Seems fairly straightforward to me.

But I have mice in my attic.

I can hear them whooping it up, as I sit and write. It’s quiet when I write, so I hear their every scamper, chew and tail swipe. Each toast they make to the dry, warm, pink fiberglass insulated home they have gnawed out for themselves travels through the walls enough to make me consider going up there and moving some stuff around, if for nothing more than to disrupt their revelry.

But still, I have mice in my attic.

I own no less than a dozen mouse traps, all of which are deployed in and around my compound, including the attic.
Over one winter season I caught eleven mice and one mole. I have caught small birds, a toad and a garter snake in my mouse traps. I have consulted others in the catching of mice, even the ‘smarter’ ones that have survived a trap or two.

Even so, mice in my attic.

I have poisoned mice living in my yard equipment, sniped them with my BB gun and slingshot, used their nests to start a campfire and even juggled three (white) mice at Walt’s House of Horrors.

No matter. Mice. In my attic.

My traps are baited with peanut butter, one of the all around best baits. It smells good, tastes good and has a slight amount of stickiness ideal for holding a small rodent in place for the split second it takes for the SNAP!

Nope. Mice. Attic.

Unwelcome rodents taking up quarters with no intention of doing any good. Maybe a short glass of whisky will take my mind off of them. Or, at least to join in their celebration. On the way to the bar I might even poke the cat, just to bring his attention to the mice.

In the attic.

What a Douche_bag…

Do you realize how vulgar that is?

The above title and subtitle were taken from a dialog between my wife and I, a few years back. I was admonishing someone who had wronged me (pro’ly while driving) and wifey responded. I still repeat both phrases to myself, at random times. It always give me a chuckle.

The term ‘Douche_bag’ is about as New Jersey as a taylor ham and egg sandwich.

Here in the NJ/NY Metropolitan area we are not known for our patience or politeness. Not by a long shot. Nor will we ever score high on our defensive driving skills or our ability to give others the benefit of a doubt.

No. Offense and blind accusations are the norm in these parts.

There are a lot of people who fit the loose definition of a douche_bag around here.

A lot.

I say ‘loose’ because we are not talking about a feminine hygene product here, we’re talking about people’s behavior and as such any number of words, deeds, looks, glances, real or imagined slights; questionable driving, parking or other motor vehicle skils; general disposition and/or impatience can get you slapped with the ‘douche_bag’ tag.

I recall hanging out with some friends from the South and describing someone from my past as a ‘douche_bag’.

A marked silence fell about the room.
“Really?” Drawled one of guests. “You mean they looked like one, or they clean feminine…”
“Wait a sec, dude.” I interrupted. “I don’t know what one looks like, nor am I broaching the subject of cleanliness ‘down under’ as it were. I’m simply stating how this person was acting.”
“So he was squishy, spurting warm water and smell…”
“Stop. I beg of you. I think we’re experiencing some kind of a disconnect here. Maybe it’s a Mason-Dixon dialect issue or perhaps the term ‘douche_bag has fallen out of the vernacular.”

“It’s a Jersey thing.” My friend, who relocated from up here to down there, explained, much to the relief of everyone. “He means ‘an impolite, self-centered, rude asshole.”

“Ohhhh…” Serveral others exclaimed. “Now I get it.”

I wasn’t so sure. But what I did understand was that folks down South tend to use much kinder words to describe their antagonists than we here in the Tri-state area. Then again, they might not have the same density of douche_bags per square mile as we do.

#douche_bag (Say it out loud, like this: ‘hashtag douche bag’).

The underscore?
Funny you should ask.
I was partaking in a week-long computer class with a friend of mine. At the time we threw the term ‘douche bag’ around quite freely, as mates ’round these parts tend to do.

The instructor was emphasing, at length, the fact that the underscore character ( _ ) was (and still is) an acceptable character to use in your password.
“Butter_dish, coffee_cup, drive_way…” He illustrated needlessly, including the word ‘underscore’ in his lesson.
I looked at my friend and said, (once again in my life, louder than was appropriate), “Douche_bag.”
It actually brought the class to a halt. Not only was the instructor looking at me, but a good deal of my classmates were, as well.
“What?” Said I, not sure if I had violated the rules of politeness (there were only guys in the room). “He’s my friend.”
“Do you always talk to your friend like that?” Someone queried.
“Yeah.” Both my friend and I replied at the same time. “Don’t you?”

And ever since that day, when I key, type or otherwise spell ‘douche_bag’ I insert the underscore character. It’s sort of a tip of the hat, if you will, to that friend and that time.

Again, typical Jersey guy stuff.

Your atypical douche_bag has a lot in common with your garden variety asshole in that they are only concerned with themselves. But I think a douche_bag is more narcissistic than an asshole. (or maybe it’s the other way around?)

Douche_bags are somewhat blind to others, they can only see as far as their own needs. Assholes know what they’re doing and do it anyway. Douche_bags can’t see beyond their own immediate selves. Assholes do things out of malice.


Neither tag is desireable, to say the least, but we have all worn the hat (asshat). Wrongly accussed or not, people throw both terms around quite freely. So you shouldn’t be too greatly offended when one or the other is hurled at you, although that is easier said than done. No one likes to be called either.

There is, however, a certain solace in calling someone else a douche_bag. Not much, but enough to take the edge off of whatever offense you have suffered. Just slightly.

I have also noticed that when I call someone else a douche_bag. I say it with a noted measure of disgust in my tone, which must harken back to the feminie hygene reference.

How vulgar, indeed.

Whadayamean, whadayamean?

Say it fast, it sounds funny.

Broken down this is a quintessentially Jersey response to someone asking “What do you mean?” (phonetically – Whadayamean?). It is the natural reply someone would give when they don’t quite understand what is being told to them.

To which you, or the person being queried responds, in exasperation, ‘Whaddayamean, ‘whaddaymean?’?!
Because you (or the person doing the explaining) can’t, at that moment, understand why there is a lack understanding on the receiving end (neccessitating yet another explaination).

It is a result of not understanding why the other person doesn’t understand or why they are asking (perhaps in exasperation themselves) ‘whaddaymean?’ Because you, yourself, don’t understand their lack of understanding.

It’s all very clear.

(follow the punctuation, folks. It is very telling).

Person1: Then, if you see the light on the VPN connector is still lit and connected, disconnect it.
Person2: Whaddaymean?
Person1: Whaddaymean, ‘whaddayamean?’?! If the connector is connected, disconnect it. Simple as that.
Person2: Oh. Got it.

The Russians did what?

Virst, push rock. Then I vill crack you vith my Swiffer!

The Russian curling team was charged with doping. This sounded so bizarre to me that I had to do some research.

And comment, of course.

Russians at the Olympics and cheating go together like mac and cheese. Like politicians and lying. We all know the Russians cheat. They’ve been doing it for years. We don’t even question it any longer, it’s a given. Did the Russians’ cheat this year? Does a bear crap in the woods?

Commrade Svishchev (the head cheese of Russky curling) said it was possible that an athlete’s food or drink had been spiked with meldonium and suggested that rival Russian athletes or Russia’s political enemies could be responsible.

What are you trying to say, exactly? That the Russian figure skating team was jealous of the curling team and slipped them a mickey when they weren’t looking?

Yeah, we’re not buying it.

I don’t wish to offend anyone, least of all the American Curling teams (Congratulations!), but I just don’t think this needs to be an Olympic sport. I will say that, unlike the many versions of figure skating I have to suffer through, I do like that that this game is judged on a point basis, as opposed to the opinions of several judges from other countries that may, or may not, like us.

But the notion of a curler having to ‘bulk up’ is a tough sell. Seems to me that the curling folks are the only Olympic team that can excel at their chosen sport while still sporting a beer gut. (and that right there might be reason enough for me to try out).

The Russian coach tried to defend his team by saying that pushing the polished rock over the slick ice and sweeping the slick ice with the Swiffer are actually hard work. By training hard and working out it is somehow made easier.

And I bet wearing those sneakers is difficult, as well.

I have done a lot of sweeping in my time – floors, decks, driveways, patios – and, although not my favorite chore, I certainly have not much more than worked up light sweat. And then only on a hot summer day.

So, again, no sale.

Is winning a medal at the Olympics really so important to a country that they need to resort to illegal tactics to get an unfair advantage? If the answer is yes, then put more time into training your people. The games are about fair play and sportsmanship. No one cares about you flaunting the size of your rocks…or your Swiffer.

The Bee Zoofer

Necessity is the mother of invention.


The yellow zap icon indicates where the entrance to the hive is


And what a mother it can be.

I try to keep the compound safe for myself and others. I am watchful for hazards and remediate them as quickly as possible. I was sizing up this big arborvitae that needed some trimming when I noticed a yellow-jacket hive beneath the lower branches.

As I have mentioned elsewhere in this blog, (Bumbles) I dislike flying, stinging insects. Judging by the location of the nest, I could easily see myself getting stung (perhaps multiple times) while mindlessly cutting the grass. Or worse, one of my children or grandchildren suffering the same.

Yikes. No bueno.

I began with standard eradication methods – soaking the entrance hole with a couple of gallons of water-based insecticide. After a few days I could see that wasn’t having the desired effect. Not enough bees were contacting the poison and the leaf litter was sponging up the deadly liquid before it reached the core of the nest.

How could I ambush (bushwhack) the little bastards on their entrance/exit without standing there all damn day?

Enter The Bee Zoofer. (patent pending).

The Bee Zoofer  is a shop vacuum set strategically at the entrance to the bee hive. As each individual bee either exits and tries to take flight, or hovers in for a landing, it gets caught in the suction and…zzz-ZZOOOF! gets sucked into the vacuum. Neat, clean and effortless. The captured bees are bounced around violently inside the vacuum drum, which I believe kills them quickly. To be sure, however, I leave the vacuum alone for a few days before emptying it out, just to be certain.

The most difficult part of deploying the Bee Zoofer is the proper placement of the business end. You need to place the nozzle right beside the entrance hole. That can be a touchy proposition with the rapid comings and goings of an active hive. Once in place, however, you just press the ‘ON’ button and walk away. Of course, it is entertaining enough to watch, for a little while.

Initially, I left the Bee Zoofer running for about 3 hours. Activity in and around the nest certainly slowed down, but the next day it was back to pre-Zoofer levels. I then ran the Zoofer for two sessions of 2 hours each (to allow the shop vac to cool down). Again, activity slowed to nill.

My aim was to reduce the population of bees until the hive could no longer support itself and collapse. Surely any bees that were left are coming back to an empty nest. I could picture their reaction –

But that wasn’t the case. Either the hive was much larger than I thought, or bee reproduction was ramped up to meet demand. So I turned on the Bee Zoofer and procured a long pole and proceeded to poke at the nest from afar. This produced the desired effect of an attack, which also put many more bees into the suction flow. (Full disclosure – I got stung once, on my arm. Aparantly one of the little bastards avoided getting sucked in and went on a large, circular hunt that ended with me. That is what you get from farking with a bee hive).


The Gutter Zoofer


Once a year I turn my attention to cleaning out the gutters on the house. I usually do this by scooping up the old leaves, dead bugs, particulate matter the roof sloughed off and other crap with a gloved hand and bagging it. It takes much longer than I would like.

This year I set my mind to finding a better way. Somehow I managed to put two-and-two together and cast a thoughtful eye towards my trusty leaf blower. The leaf blower is by no means a one trick pony. It moves a lot of air with little to no effort. I have used it to flush varmints out of the drainage pipe, antogonize groundhogs in their holes and dry paint. I have also used it to get a hot fire going faster than you can say ‘what the fark is he going to do with that?’

At first, I blew out the gutters that were within my easy reach. However, there exists a second level that I have not ever cleaned out becuase it is above my head. There also does not exist a safe method for me to get up to the second story gutters around the house and as such, the accumulation of afore mentioned crap had built up to the point where grass was growing in the gutter.

When grass is growing in your gutters, mi amigos, it’s time to clean them out.

If you have ever purchased a new leaf blower you will notice that most come with a bag and attachments for SUCKING leaves up (as opposed to BLOWING them. As such, the leaf blower is a device that both sucks and blows). I have never used that feature, although I should look into it for some of those tight spots around the shrubs.

One of the attachments is a big curved tube, almost half of an oval. It reminds me of a large wind instument – tuba or saxaphone.

My initial thinking was that if it fit (somehow) for sucking, then maybe it will also fit on the business end for blowing.

Well, not exactly the fit I that I needed. Enter the purple duck tape. Now, before I have to listen to a whole chorus of caterwalling about the proper termination of DUCT vs. DUCK tape let me say this: DUCT tape is silver. It is made by one or two companies and has been around for a long time. DUCK tape comes in many, many colors and was born out of the mispronounciation of DUCT tape by the unenlightened. More on that at another time. This was purple DUCK tape and it did the job nicely – that being holding the black hunk of curved tubing onto the end of the leaf blower and thus turning it into –

The Gutter Zoofer (patent pending).

I clambered out onto the roof, fired up the engine and went to work.

The first thing that I noticed was that it worked well. The second thing I noticed (becasue I am very observant) was that it would have been good to outfit myself with goggles – and a face mask and a hat. The Gutter Zoofer moved a lot of crap, very efficiently, but it moved it ontop of me.

However, I had the gutters cleaned inside of 10 minutes and I didn’t have to perform any hight challenging theatrics or unsafe ladder tricks.

Good until next year.

The {{{ping}}} of DEATH

An anecdote from the debris strewn shoulder of the information highway.

Well, maybe from the roadcrew who works on the info hightway. Either way, this will be a tale of digirati that those of you versed in the use of command line tools, open ports, internet access and hackers et al may well identify with.

For those of you not so versed, I will put things into laymens terms as only I can.

‘Ping’, in the computer world, is a utility (tool, command) that checks to see if another computer is online and responding. You can equate it to shouting “Hey!” at someone down the hallway and them saying “Yo!” in reply. It always struck me as sort of an echo-like term, sort of an electronic equivalent of that sound the sonar makes in submarine movies. {{{ping}}}

Also, understand that connecting a computer to the internet these days is a lot safer and easier than it was, even a few years ago. Today, your Internet Service Provider (ISP, Comcast, cablevision, Sprint, AT&T, etc.) provide some level of security and monitoring to prevent malicious folk from running amok (roughshod) about the place and causing mahem, chaos, discontent, aggrivation, irreveerance, indigestion, agita, hair loss, irritable bowel syndrome… you get the picture.

But back when I was under the tutilage of the Dingo, things were still fairly unprotected. Not unlike a drunken hot tub party in the 80’s and we all know where that went.

The Dingo and I were fast getting a new office online, when our network monitoring application notified us that someone was scanning our ports. (Intruder Alert!) A port scan is an application the gropes the router in all of its errogenous zones looking for a way inside the network. That is to say, trying the doors and windows to see if anything was unlocked so that the malferous could enter and cause mahem, chaos, discontent, aggrivation…you get it, right?

Our first inclination was to shut down the router and force this jamoke to find other, easier fish to fry. But that would also blow all of our people in the office off the wire and that would create more people who would be experiencing the aforementioned bodily discomfort, which would then result in them projectile vomiting those ills upon us.

No bueno.

But me, being the Birdwell and all, thought differently. What could we do in the way of a counter-attack, I queried.

Well, reply-eth the Dingo, we don’t have any contra-attack applications readily available, but if we did we could simply send him a ‘ping-storm’.

“Ping-storm, eh?” I retorted. “Like if we just kept pinging him until his machine was overwhelmed?”

“Precisely. We call it…the Ping of Death.”








I liked the sound of that.

“And what if we were to just do that very thing ‘long-hand’, like from a few different computers in-house?”

I was met with a perculiar look that conveyed to me that I might be on to something.

Dingo obtained the IP address of the attacker as I went about garnering all of the available pc’s that were not being used. I came up with 3 – mine, Dingo’s and a spare. Then I went about opening a command line (DOS prompt) multiple times and pinged the offending address – 27 separate instances on each machine. We knew we had driven off our attacker when his response times slowed to a crawl, then died all together.

You lose, thanks for trying.








It would be the same as you walking into a room with 81 people in it and saying “Hello, I’m the Birdwell’s minion, how are you?”, waiting for a reply, shaking that person’s hand and then saying, “Nice to meet you, talk to you again soon” to each person as quickly as possible all the while sampling hors d’ovres, sipping champagne, watching the clock and keeping a hacky-sack aloft (because that is what your pc is doing, or something like that). Your head would esplode and you would likely need to wash you hands.

What we had done was overwhelmed this bongo player’s machine to the point where it could not process – anything – anymore. At least until he performed a hard reboot. And by ‘hard’ I mean pull the plug. The three finger salute (Ctrl+Alt+Fark You) would not work because the computer could no longer process imput from the keyboard, it was way too busy responding to pings.  But by that time we had notified the ISP of the offending address this chucklehead was coming from and had him black listed.

Black listed. It’s as bad as it sounds. It means that the ISP knows you are up to no good and then trains a watchful eye on your digital ass.

I took a great deal of satisfaction in it, to be honest. It is not often one gets to stick an electronic boot up some deserved netizen’s porthole.

I am the Birdwell, Network Mutha, and you, whoever the fark you were, are not.




‘Cause I’m the tax man

and you are not.

Who was the jackass who decided (and approved) putting a check box on our federal tax forms stating: Check here if you would like to contribute $3 to the Presidential Election Campaign?

What is that, some kind of bad joke?

Fleece us for every thing you and your cronies can think of, then ask if we, out of the goodness of our hearts and pockets, would like to flip you another $3? I would be insulted, if it wasn’t so incredulous.

Wait, back up a sec; I am insulted.  So screw you and your election campaign, as well as the horse you rode in on.

I blinded them…with TAXES!

First, why the hell should I contribute to anyone’s election fund?  Who is contributing to my election (retirement) fund? You want me to help you out? Buy a few copies of my book. (Oh, that’s right; I will be helping you out, with the tax on each sale. GFY.)

Second, if you have decided to be a politician, fund your own election, dirt bag. Anyone running for president of the US has plenty of money of their own to do so. You don’t need mine, I assure you. (Here, have another 3 dollars out of my pocket so you can go to Washington and learn how to take many more dollars from me).

This is nothing more than another angle to play one side against the other.
Oh please, let me give another $3 so we can beat the godforsaken – fill in the political party of your angst here – in the next election.

I realize that you are well aware of this, but just so that I can blabber at the wall, let me spell it out.

You tax the dollars I earn in my paycheck, before they even hit my hand.
You tax the dollars that I spend.
You tax the dollars that I save.
You tax the dollars that I earn on my savings. (that one fact alone is dispicable).
You tax my income tax refund. (in the rare instance that I actually get one).
You tax just about everything I purchase.
You tax the roads I drive.
You tax the gas that fuels my car.
You tax the food I purchase to feed my family.

You tax the land I live on.
You tax the house that I live in.
You tax the fuel that heats my home.
You tax the electricity that lights my home.

You tax my health care insurance.
You tax me if I die.
You tax the spot where I am planted into the ground.
In the wonderful state of New Jersey, you tax me if I try to leave. (nice job, asshats).
You even tax me (by way of a service charge) if I file my taxes electronically! The very method that reduces the cost of their collection.

About the only thing you don’t tax me for is when I relieve myself…oh, wait. Toilet paper is taxed. So you’ve got that covered as well.

Can you hear me now, Birdwell?








But you want me to give you another $3, for the President’s Election Campaign.  Haven’t I already done that, about a dozen different times as listed above?

I understand fully that it takes a lot of money to run a country and tax dollars are what fund our way of life. But there are more and more people every day, so your tax base goes up, every day. Yet there is never anything in the way of relief for us. Instead, you spend your days devising ways to keep yourselves in office, playing smoke and mirror games to keep our eyes off of your wrongdoings and finding even more ways to bilk us out of our hard earned dollars.

It goes way beyond greed and insult. I’d say immoral, but that is a regular part of your day. This is like duping the poor kid down the block, who is a little slow; out of the pocket change he made delivering newspapers.

Before I give you another dollar of my hard earned cash, put a dollar onto my bottom line. Till then, you could save some money by removing that line from the tax form.

No thanks, Bruce

The following is a re-worked piece I originally posted in 2009, when Bruce Springsteen came out publically in support of Barak Obama.

Then, as now, Springsteen, and a lot of other celebrities, made their party affiliation and discontent for the opposing party known in no uncertain terms.

Then, as now, I feel that I should make my disdain for such rhetoric known. I also want it known that the following is spread thick with sarcasm. I will also state that I am a fan of Springsteen’s music, NOT his (or anyone else’s) political stance.

Bruce Springsteen has come out publicly against supporting Donald Trump and if I am going to listen to anyone tell me who to support or not, politically, it’s going to be Springsteen.

Put aside for the moment that Trump was elected President by the same system that elected every previous president in recent memory. And, like every previous election, the losing party cries FOUL, whines endlessly and looks for ways to discredit the other.

As most of you know, I hold nearly all politicians in disdain, party loyalty not withstanding.  This election, like every previous election that I have participated in, I had to decide between two despicable people, whose negative marks far outweighed any good.

But, as a loyal, patriotic American, one must vote and when it is time to vote, who better to listen to than a wildly successful rock star or high priced celebrity?  I mean, you could listen to Meryl Streep, Oprah, the douche-bag Kanye West, or any one of a number of other wealthy mouthpieces instruct you in the proper way to cast your vote, because you, an educated, working, middle class, taxed to f-ing death commoner couldn’t possibly make up your own mind.

Of course not.  But Springsteen, the Boss, well, shiate.  How can you argue with him?  After all, who better to have a finger on the pulse of the hard working, blue collar, middle class than one who writes and warbles about such things in a down to earth, gravely voice – and wearing faded jeans, no less?  Ignore the fact that he has raked in so much money that he can afford to buy up every house, farm and plot of land around his home in Colts Neck, NJ, where real estate prices rival that of any other you can think of, including Beverly Hills, CA.

And that, dear readers, constitutes political savvy in my book.

Who among us has the time or stomach to navigate the pile of spin-doctored bullshiate being thrown at us continuously?  We are too busy, strung out on the wire, getting our backs burned, facts learned, in the darkness on the edge of town, or some rattlesnake speedway, looking for two tickets on that ghost city bus, all the while dodging the skeletons of burned out Chevrolet’s ‘neath Abram’s bridge.

It’s the working life, I tell you, just the working life, for us born in America, in our home town, while we wait on the rising. (or is it the Reisling? I think we would be better off waiting for that).

Ok, enough.  Now, Bruce (I include the word ‘boss’ in my list of ‘4-letter words’), I appreciate your wanting to stand up and lead us towards the promised land and all, thanks, but no thanks.  I feel that after 40+ years of listening to the same rhetoric spouting from the same pundit about the same issues and watching absolutely nothing change for the better, that I am fully qualified to make up my own mind.  And you could do us all a favor by conveying this message to your celebi-friends.  Save us all some time and yourselves some breath.

To be fair, should you, yourself, decide to run for office, you would have my vote. This is more due to my disgust with the ruling elite than it is with your political posture.  By the same token, I feel that I could do a better job than any of those idiots running at the mouth on the nightly news, but that’s just me.

In conclusion, I would say that, when the night’s quiet, and you don’t care anymore, and your eyes are tired, and there’s someone at your door
(let them in, for pete’s sake)
and you realize you wanna to let gooooooo-ooooooooooooo.  And the weak lies, and cold walls you embrace eat at your insides, and leave you face to face with streets of fiiiiiiirrrrre.

(hands down my favorite Springsteen song, and one of the best lead guitar breaks in rock).

You know, that’s not what I thought you were saying, all these years.  It must be that south Jersey accent thing, or a north Jersey hearing issue.  Thankfully the Internet and your website have set my @ss straight.

(man, I could use a cold beer right about now)

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