Month: January 2015

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Review: Bury Your Dead

Bury Your Dead
Bury Your Dead by Louise Penny
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This will be a review for people who, like me, have not read Louise Penny before, A friend loaned me a stack of books, including Bury Your Dead, which is itself 6th in a series about Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. Normally, I’d dutifully plow through the earlier books so as to be able to appreciate this one the more. But this time I decided to try an experiment, see if the book stood on its own.

And I’m happy to report that it does. Penny manages to stack four mysteries on top of one another: Who killed Augustin Renaud? Who kidnapped Agent Morin? Did Olivier really kill the Hermit? And just where is Champlain buried? Some of the mysteries are intertwined with one another, but some are not, serving more to thematic support the other mysteries, and help develop Armand Gamache for the reader.

Which is why the book stands on its own. I don’t know what Gamache is like in the earlier books, and maybe I wouldn’t be able to travel with him on his journey of sorrow and shame if I knew him already. Here is man, seemingly, intelligent, thoughtful, and heroic, who is nevertheless all too human and therefore fallible. And what do they say about the mighty when they fall?

But for all that, Bury Your Dead can be taken as just a good cozy who-dun-it. It’s a murder mystery, a history mystery, and book mystery. There’s also a little bit of politics but only a very little if, like me, you’re an apathetic American who can appreciate neither Catholic vs Protestant nor French Canadian versus English. In that sense, the novel’s somewhat exotic, but not too rich to give you a toothache.

I suppose I’ll get around to the earlier Gamache novels eventually. Although I’m tempted to leave my memory of this one intact by not getting to know the younger Chief Inspector more. Perhaps when I’m ready, I’ll try another experiment. As for you who have not read Penny yet: go ahead.

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Grunner and the L’Elf

Postaday for January 24th: Once Upon a Time. Tell us about something that happened to you in real life last week — but write it in the style of a fairy tale.6

All good stories start with “once upon a time,” and this one is no different, except for the first five words, which don’t count, as this opening is nothing more than a lampshade. By happy coincidence, our hero is called Grunner Lampshade, and he was, as our story begins, the saddest hairy bunny bear in the land.65

One day Grunner was running through the streets of Seattle. The sun was shining and the breeze was laughing. But poor Grunner, he didn’t even notice. He was desperately searching for something. And the more he looked, the more he ran. And the more he ran, the more anxious he became. Would he ever find what he was looking for?

There was sweat on poor Grunner’s brow, and a fire in his hair bunny bear chest. But all seemed lost. And then, as he made his way along Roosevelt, just south of 65th street, having spent so much time climbing up from the depths where Harvard ave runs into Eastlake, can you guess what Grunner saw?

Why, it was a Liquor Elf! “Hello!” said the l’elf.

Grunner finally stopped running. The l’elf was dressed in nothing more than a pair of shorts, which for this story we’ll call a loincloth. He smelled of booze. “Hello,” said Grunner, cautiously.

“Can you help me? I am lost,” said the l’elf. “I come from a far away land called Las Angeles. I am here visiting a friend. I went for a run this morning, and now I can’t find my friend’s house!”

Grunner put his hands on his hips. What he didn’t say was, “You smell like booze, Liquor Elf! I bet you just woke up in some stranger’s house after a night of excess and glee.” Instead what Grunner said was, “Okay, I’ll help you. What do you remember?”

The Liquor Elf scratched his curly crown. “Um, 94th and Dayton?”

Grunner smacked his head. “Oh no! That’s three miles from here!”

The Liquor Elf smacked his forehead. “Oh no!”

But then Grunner forgot that he was looking for something, and said, “Well, I guess I can take you there. Come on!” And off they went, running west instead of north like Grunner had been running before.

Up one hill they went, and then down another, and around a green lake (called Greenlake), and then up a very steep hill, until they arrived.

“Here we are!” said Grunner.

“Oh, thank you so much! I never would have find it without you!” the Liquor Elf said. He waved, and disappeared behind a small house.

Grunner went up the hill a little further, to Greenwood. He decided to walk to his house. And you know what? He found what he was looking for! A great big smile, the whole way home.

The end.

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You Don’t Need Kentucky to Have a Derby

Postaday for January 23rd: Easy Fix. Write a post about any topic you wish, but make sure it ends with “And all was right in the world.”

Jason Edwards bursts out of his front door! He doesn’t even bother closing it behind him! He skips across the porch, down the three steps and into the sunshine, across his lawn and leaps! across the flower bed into the driveway. Runs up the drive way. Arms pumping. Untucked unbuttoned Hawaiin shirt flapping. Look at him go!

He’s to the street! Cuts right, looks for cars. Listen for cars, only hears the pounding of his heart and the wind in his ears. Crosses the street so that he’s running against traffic! If there was any traffic! But there is no traffic! His house is halfway down the block and he’s covered that half!

The cross street is busy! The cross road is at a funny angle, it confuses cars! An opportune pause as two cars turning left try to figure out who should go first! Jason Edwards darts between them! He’s next to the abandoned coffee stand now. And now he’s next to the gas station. And now he’s in the 7-11 parking lot. His feet are slapping the asphalt. He’s pounding right towards the front door.

The guy who works there sees him coming. He’s already ready. He knows what to do. Jason is on fast approach. He pulls up so as to not break through the door’s windows. He hauls the door open. He cuts a sharp right, up the aisle past gun magazines and phone cards and gift cards and miscellaneous car interior supplies. You know, cigarette lighter adapters for phone charges and stuff. He’s at the back wall, where they keep the drinks! The first one’s full of milk products!

And now he shuffles left. He doesn’t bother to turn, just shuffles left. Hands tap the cooler handles, one two three, He’s opening the fourth one! He’s grabbing a 20 oz plastic bottle of Mountain Dew! It’s cold in his hand! He closes the door, the bottle instantly humidifies, his hand is wet! He doesn’t even notice!

Jason Edwards is moving with precision. He’s turning to jet up the back aisle. He makes a left at the coffee machines. He all but leaps forward, all but lands right in front of the frozen burrito selection. There’s so many to choose from. His eyes dart over bean and cheese, cheese and chili, green chile, green bean and cheese. Wait, no, he read that last one wrong! It’s beef and bean! The wrapper is red! He grabs the beef and been frozen burrito in the red wrapper!

But it’s not really frozen! It’s only refrigerated! This bodes well for Jason Edwards. His hand is in his back pocket. How is that possible if he’s carrying a cold refreshing Mountain Dew and frozen  I mean refrigerated but pre-cooked beef and bean burrito! He’s holding them both in one hand! Folks, they’re keeping each other cold! He’s fishing out his wallet.

He’s already been run up at the register. He swipes his credit card as he runs by! He hits the door, hears the register beep the beep of credit card transaction approval! He’s out the door! The guy behind the counter adds his receipt to the stack of receipts he keeps for him in case he ever comes back in a more leisurely fashion!

He’s outside! He’s running across that same parking lot! Past that same gas station and abandoned coffee stand! And now he’s crossing the intersection! Oh my word, there’s no traffic! He’s got half a block to go. The sun is shining off the bald spot on his head. He’s got the Mountain Dew in one hand and the burrito in the other! The burrito is getting warmer! I can’t beleive it! It’s warming up in his hand as he runs!

He’s at the driveway! He turns left and runs down the driveway! He leaps the flowers, goes across the lawn, up the porch steps! His front door still open, has been open this whole time! Can you believe it! He slams the door behind him, darts up the stairs, three steps, eight steps, twelve steps, fifteen! Down the hall to his home office. Bounces off the door frame! Lands in his office chair! And the crowd! Goes! Wild!

Jason Edwards is sitting in his office chair. He chest rises and falls rapidly as he gets his breath. He carefully, almost gingerly, sets his warmed-up burrito and cold Mountain Dew on his desk. Carefully, almost gingerly, opens the Mountain Dew. Cautious against the foam. But there’s no foam. Just that effervescent aaaaaah.

He takes a long, slow pull on the bottle. Tears open the burrito, slides a bit out, takes a massive bite. His mouth is full of beef and bean burrito. He wiggles his work computer’s mouse. His work computer wakes up. After a few seconds, a reminder pops up, telling him he has a conference call. In 5 minutes.

Jason Edwards sits back, relaxes. Takes another swallow of Mountain Dew. Takes another bit of burrito. Wishes he’d written this in past tense. But, that was okay. He’d done what he’d set out to do. Which is all any man can ever hop to do. And all was right in the world.

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Radio Silent Cosmonaut

Postaday for January 22nd: Fireside Chat. What person whom you don’t know very well in real life — it could be a blogger whose writing you enjoy, a friend you just recently made, etc. — would you like to have over for a long chat in which they tell you their life story?

Laika is dressed in a cheap white dress shirt, no tie, a black jacket, black slacks that have flares and have seen better days. Her shoes are scuffed, and her socks are too light for this outfit. A cigarette dangles from one hand, idly, the ash too long, precarious. She sits in a beaten up canvas director’s chair, slouched into it. On her head a fedora with a white band— a generous viewer would say the band matcher her socks. She gazes at me, a half-smirk on her face.

I’m in the other director’s chair, in my tweed and loafers. I’m not stylish; I’m unassuming. My hair’s slicked back, in the style, and my horn-rimmed glasses are frosted so as to not catch the overhead lights. Mark, our camera man, gives me a silent count down- three, two, one go.

“Hello and welcome. With me in the studio today, we have Laika. Hello Laika, it’s good to have you here.”

She ashes, takes a drag, remains slouched. Her voice is gravelly, low, but undeniably feminine. “Thanks man, likewise, likewise.”

“Let’s get right into it, Laika. How old are you.”

She takes a deep breath. “I’m three, going on four. Of course, I was born back in, like 1989, sooo…”

“Right. If you had been born in 89, you’d be, what,” I do some math in my head. “99, 2009, 2019, you’d be-”

“Yep, 26, how about that.”

“But you weren’t actually. Born I mean.”

She takes another drag, smirk, leans forward to put out her cigarette. “No, man, I guess I wasn’t. I’m a, what do you call it. A fantasy.”

“That’s right. You’re the daughter I would have had if I’d been, ah, a little less cautious as a teenager.”

“Yeah man. You know, you got, like, classmates who are grandparents now?”

“Ha! Think of that!”

“Think of that, man.” She pats her pockets for her cigarettes.

“Indeed. So you’re three, going on four. Why that age?”

“You mean, why not 26?” She asks, and peers at me with one eye closed as she lights the cigarette and inhales.

“Yes.”

She shrugs and eases back once more. “You were, what, 17 when you would have had me? Life’s weird, man. But you know what, things work out. Maybe some of the details would be the same, but more or less, the you you are now is the same you you woulda been.”

“Except for those three years.”

“Except for those three years, man. So here I am. Talking to you. Your daughter Laika.”

“Why Laika, do you think? Isn’t that a Russian name?”

“I don’t know. I mean, yeah, it was the name of that dog they sent up into space, the Russians. Sad story, really. She was a stray, and they picked her up, you know, and fed her and trained her and all that. Treated her okay, I guess. Had to get her used to smaller and smaller boxes, since they were going to, you know, launch her into space and stuff. But she was a good little thing, took to the training. Smart. One of the scientists, though, I don’t know. Took her home to play with his kids, just the once. Said he wanted to do something nice for her. I guess that’s sweet.”

“But she died up there, ran out of oxygen, right?”

“No, no,” she shifts around in her chair, switches the cigarette to her other hand. “That’s what they said, but actually there was a problem during the launch, and her, uh, fan broke. She got overheated, died a few hours into it.”

“That’s,” I take off my glasses for effect, rub my eye. “That’s very sad.”

She takes a drag. “Yeah, pretty sad.”

“But, anyway. You probably weren’t named after the first animal in space.”

“Nah, probably not.”

“Another question, Laika— you’re only three years old. Why am I talking to what appears to be a grown-up?”

At this she chuckles. Shows her teeth. She’s got one snaggle-tooth, like the father she would have had if she’d ever been born. “You wanted my life story, man, short as it was. But kids can’t talk, not at that age.”

“And neither can dogs.”

“Nope, neither can dogs.”

I turn to the camera. “Well folks, I want to thank you for sitting down with us today.” I turn to the daughter I never had, never, truthfully, ever came close to having. “And thank you, Laika.”

“My pleasure.”

“Good night.” Mark counts me down, the fade as the credits come up, until I’m not on the screen anymore.

I go find a drink somewhere.

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Morning Meditation

Postaday for January 21st: Two Right Feet. What are the things you need to do within 30 minutes of waking up to ensure your day gets off on the right foot? What happened the last time you didn’t do one of these things?

My wrist vibrates at 5:00am. I get up and go to the bathroom. I stumble into my office. I turn on the computer. I open up the Uniqlock website, and turn off the monitor. The Uniqlock wesbite plays a series of simple songs that are each exactly 60 one-second beats long. I sit myself on my meditation stool.

For the first minute, I breath in and out to the beat of the song. The next minute I breath in for two beats, out for two. Then the threes, the fours, and so on. I prefer starting a new minute with inhalation, so, on minute four, I actually do 4 threes first, so that I can end with exhalation.

60 can be evenly divided by each number, one through six. But not seven. So I breathe in and out for seven beats until the song ends, then finish the last seven with an extra breath. Effectively, this is an eight-breath count, and I continue with eights, which ends evenly right on the end of a song.

If you’re doing the math, that’s 7*8+8*8=120.

A similar bit of adjusting is needed for the 9th, 10th, and 11th minute. 9*6=54, +10*6=114, +11*6 = 180.

12 divides evenly into 60, so that’s easy. 5 of those. But 13 and 14 do not. So, on the 13th minute, I do a 12 first. Then 4 complete 13s,and 4 complete 14s.

And finally, 4 breaths of 15 seconds each.

Counting all of this out can somewhat keep my from thinking about things, but I’ve got so used to it, I can more or less do it without concentrating. So my thoughts can wander. But the goal is to shed myself of all judgment, which includes castigating myself for having thoughts. I let them flow however they want, and if it occurs to me, I push them away.

I don’t do this morning meditation 100% of the time, but most of the time. Days when I don’t do it aren’t necessarily worse— but the more days in a row I can do this, the easier it is to wake up. And if I think of it, and have meditation to look forward to, I tend to fall asleep easier the night before, too.

Its just 15 minutes, requires no skill, and doesn’t come with any expectations.

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Review: The Spellman Files

The Spellman Files
The Spellman Files by Lisa Lutz
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I’ve got this problem where I don’t read enough books by non-white non-mail authors. This, despite the fact that two of my all-time favorites are Percival Everett and Hillary Mantel. However, when it comes to (so-called) genre fiction, I don’t wander enough. But can you blame me? A friend loaned me The Spellman Files, and this is what it says on the back of the book: “She’s part Bridget Jones, part Columbo.” Another blurb gushes: “Isabel Spellman… the love child of Dirty Harry and Harriet the Spy.” Those quotes come from USA Today and People, by the way.

You see, that’s my complaint a(my lame-ass excuse if you’re being critical). A few blurbs clearly written to intrigue what the publishers feel are female readers. That’s an insult to women, if you ask me, but let’s move on. This is supposed to be a review. I’m here to tel you that The Spellman Files is nothing like Bridget Jones, Columbo, Dirty Harry, or Harriet the Spy. “Jason Bourne is part James Bond, part Good Will Hunting.” You see how ridiculous that sounds.

I read the book anyway. Thank goodness. A lot of fun, but pretty tense in places. I think it’s supposed to be considered funny, and while there are some characters that make you grin, for the most part it’s sort of dark. The Spellman Files takes the whole dysfunctional family trope and exploits it to the nth degree. But it doesn’t come across as cliché’d or trite. If anything, this is a coming-of-age novel for character who comes-of-age in her late 20s.

I say “novel” but it’s not really a novel. There’s a loose over-arching plot, but it’s stop-gapped with what amounts to short stories, which themselves are sometimes not plotted at all, but are just long character studies. The book’s title has “Files” in it afterall, which sets the right tone. Me, I like that sort of thing. I’d read more of that sort of thing if it became it’s own subgenre.

Altogether, this is a good read, and I’ll be reading the sequels, which I think is praise enough. As for non-white non-male “genre” authors, I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t read blurbs.

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Selfies, Helicopters, Chicken Wings

Postaday for January 20th: A Moment in Time. What was the last picture you took? Tell us the story behind it. (No story behind the photo? Make one up, or choose the last picture you took that had one.)

The last picture I took was a selfie. I was heading out the door, and I was thinking how I hadn’t posted anything in Instagram for a while. Then I got my reflection the mirror. I was wearing mirrored sunglasses and a hoody. That, along with my full beard, and I looked like a real ne’er do well. So I snapped the shot, in anticipation of messing around with it later.

I haven’t even looked at since, cause life, being busy, etc.

Before that, the last picture I took was with my DSLR, but only because it has a zoom lens. (Technically, it’s not actually a “zoom” lens since it only goes up to 200mm— but it gets closer than my other lens, and better than the digital zoom on my phone). There was a helicopter flying above our house, and I could see it through our skylight.

The story is that some ne’re-do-well decided it would be a good idea to empty his revolver, firing six shots and who knows what. I’ll let you down now— no one was shot at, no one was hurt, and no one was caught.

But at the time, I and a bunch of other people called the police, and they, apparently swarmed. This included a helicopter, which I took a picture of, like I said.

FULL CHEAT MODE— given that I am writing this on May 7th and back-posting, perhaps what I should do is write about the last photograph I took as of January 20th.

It appears that the last photo taken at that point was some chicken wings on a plate. Made ‘em myself. And by “made ‘em” I mean I went to the grocery store, bought a box of pre-cooked frozen wings, heated them up, and drank beer while watching the NFL playoffs.

I live in Seattle, so you know how THAT story ends.

Hello, happiness! # nflplayoffs

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on

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Robert Palmer Never Took Ephedrine

Postaday for January 19th: Re-springing Your Step. Tell us about the last experience you had that left you feeling fresh, energized, and rejuvenated. What was it that had such a positive effect on you?

So this one time I had a really bad head cold. Or flu or pneumonia or some crazy illness. Could have been rickets for all I know. Please send me a Vine that describes what the hell rickets is. Is that the one from not eating limes? I don’t know.

At the time I lived about half a mile away from the mall, as the crows flies. Unfortunately for me, the crow flies over a highway and a community college. If I wanted to go to the mall, I had to walk a mile or so.

On that day, I did. Stuffed nose, fever, congestion, body aches. My eyes felt like they were full of hot sand. My hands felt puffy. My lower back hurt. I put on jeans and a shirt and another shirt and a sweater and a scarf and a hat. I think I may have passed out for a few minutes when I tried to put on my thick socks.

And then I stepped out into the rain. More of an irritating drizzle, really. I trudged my way to the mall. That day, if I recall, I’d decided to see if going south first and then north was the same distance as walking north first. For the record: it wasn’t. It was longer. And there were more hills.

But I made it to the mall and wandered around until I remembered WHY I was there (to eat lunch) and WHERE the food court was (the south end. This mall has only one hall, so finding things is a simple as walking from one end to other).

Before I ate, I stopped at GNC and bought some pills. These were, specifically, weight loss pills. Back then there were legal. Then they were made illegal because some idiot swallowed a bottle of them, drank a half a case of beer, got into a car wreck, and died. They blamed the pills. Not the alcohol, not the blunt-force trauma to his head. The pills. Later, they legalized them again, but the damage was done, and no one sells them anymore.

But back then they did and I got some and took the recommended dosage. I had taken them before, knew what the dosage was, and had no intention of taking too many. I went to lunch, tacos, I think.

Then I got bored and decided to walk home. Here’s the thing— those pills? They do something to histamines. I don’t know what it is. They’re not anti-histamines per se, but let me tell you something— halfway home, they kicked in.

Every ache and pain went away. My nose cleared up. My eyes cleared up. I had a bounce in my step. I got home, and fired up the Playstation. Played Dance Dance Revolutions for hours. Sweated all that sickness out of myself.

And that’s its. There’s no moral to this story, no ironic ending. I sometimes miss those pills, but not too often. The last time I can remember feeling fresh, energized, and rejuvenated was in 2005.

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Sing Us a Song, You’re The Writer Man

Postaday for January 18th: Pleased to Meet You. Write a post in which the protagonists of two different books or movies meet for the first time. How do they react to each other? Do they get along?

It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday. Paul, the real estate novelist, is pounding away at his keyboard, furiously. He knows better than to used adverbs like “furiously,” but he can’t help it. He hasn’t sold a house in several months. Or were it years. Music, ignored, pours out of speakers on either side of his computer screen. 20 plus years of collected MP3, and iTune set on random. He hears none of it.

His fingers are sore. He doesn’t care. His back is sore. He doesn’t even feel it. Words pop up in staccato as his slow word processor tries to keep up with his rat-a-tat keyboard stabbing. But Paul’s eyes are in between keyboard and screen. He’s composing. He’s decomposing.

A knock on his door. Paul writes, “he gets up and answers it.”

Light from the hallway haloes a figure in an evening gown, crowned in roses. She says, “What am I doing here?”

Paul’s eyes adjust to the light. A woman, mid-twenties, sandy-blond here, chubby cheeks, bright eyes. Half a smile on her face. She looks confused but not uncomfortable. She looks real but not substantial. Paul tries to concentrate. Glances back at the computer screen.

“Um,” he says. He half turns, half points at his computer. “Um,” he says again.

She brushes past him. “My name’s Heather, right?” she says. And walks past him. She sits down on a huge overstuffed chair. Her sash reads “Miss Rhode Island” which becomes unreadable when she sits.

“Uh, yes. That is, no.” Paul says “Your name’s actually Cheryl.” He walks back into the room, sits on his computer chair, glances at his screen, focuses on the part where he’s written “Cheryl Frasier.”

“Frasier,” she says, and smiles. “Oh, that’s a nice name.”

Paul smiles back. “Thanks! I mean, well, it’s your name. I like it too.” He looks at her for a moment or two. He never had time for a wife. Most Saturdays at nine finds him in bar, talking to Davy, who’s still in the Navy, and has been since 1973.

“1973?” She says. “That’s two years before I was born!”

Paul gives her a quizzical look. He doesn’t like that he’s used a trite phrase like “quizzical look,” but at least it’s better than “he looked at her quizzically.” He turns to the keyboard. How did she—

“Ooh, what’s this song?” she says, jumping up and leaning over his back. She smells like flowers, sweet, yellow, and just a hint of something else… he can edit that in later, maybe.

Paul reaches for the mouse to show her the song is Burning Down the House by The Talking Heads. Before he can click away from the word processor, She giggles. “Burning Down the House,” she says. “I was ten when that song came out.”

Paul spins the chair to face her. She smiles down at him, the look on her eyes enveloping, trusting. He says “Well, Heather Burns was 10 when this song came out. You would have been somewhere between 7 and 13.”

She sits in his lap. Puts her arms around him. “I think I like you.”

Paul rest his head on the “Miss” of her sash. They hum along to the rest of the song together. Then the writer stops before the next song comes on, because he’s afraid of what it might mean for them.

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Review: No Safety in Numbers

No Safety in Numbers
No Safety in Numbers by Dayna Lorentz
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

Remember a few months ago when Slate sparked a minor controversy among book lovers? That article about Young Adult fiction, and why adults who read it are lazy and stupid? You can probably guess which side of the debate I was on: pro read-whatever-you-want. Read Harry Potter, read Hunger Games; hell, read Twilight if you want to.

So here’s me, a copy of No Easy Way Out in my hands, thanks to a friend who gave me a stack of books to read. This was a ‘thanks’ and a returned favor for when I gave her a stack of books during her pregnancy. But wait—No Easy Way Out is a sequel. I’d better read the first book in the series, No Safety in Numbers. (Grabbed it from the local library.)

I’m telling you all of this because I want no one to think I am judging that friend of mine in the least when I say, wow, No Safety in Numbers is terrible.

It’s not the plot: a bunch of people trapped in a mall that’s been quarantined by the national guard. I’m fine with the main characters: mostly teens. Government conspiracy? Count me in. Chaos and the slow decay of humanity? Check.

But the writing. Implausible situations, very hard to swallow. Inaccuracies that were laugh-out-loud funny. And the word-choice- ugh. The word “butt” occurs more often than can be justified. This reads less like a YA novel and more like a teenager’s fever-fantasy. I’m all for adults writing things that teens can relate to, but I’m not for writing in what one assumes is the idiotic manner in which teens think.

Because they don’t. Stereotypically, on TV and in movies, teens are histrionic and aloof at the same time. IN real-life, not so much. Me, I expect more from narration. No one witnesses murder and mass death with that kind of casual, almost flippant attitude.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: the reason we adults like Young Adult novels now and again is because when it’s written well, the only thing that makes it YA is, usually, the characters. But when YA is written this poorly, it’s not fit for anyone of any age.

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