Archive for the ‘Journal’ Category

Don’t Panic!

Wednesday, September 28th, 2011
Don't Panic!

From Wikipedia,

Imagine yourself doing something you do pretty much every day. You could be on a trip to the grocery store, or seeing a movie, or eating in a cafeteria. Maybe you’re just walking down the street. Now imagine that you start to feel pressure in your chest, so subtly at first that you don’t notice any onset; after a while it’s just there, and it’s growing. For me, it always starts in the chest. It feels like my lungs are a little bit too small but heavier than normal. “Maybe,” you start to think, “this feeling will go away by itself.” Maybe if you stop thinking about it. But it doesn’t. You can’t stop thinking about it. Quite the opposite in fact — the crushing feeling intensifies and it’s the only thing you can think about. Every breath you take feels shorter than the last, like an invisible boa constrictor is slowly squeezing the normalcy out of you. Breathe out the sanity and mundanity of what you’re doing; breathe in panic, breath by terrifying breath.

Now you start to become acutely aware of how others perceive you. Your breathing becomes shallower and shallower, which must be more and more noticeable to the people around you, which only intensifies your fear and worsens your breathing. It’s a vicious circle that robs you of all clarity. You keep looking from side to side, almost as if you’re expecting to be attacked, as if this horror inside your brain could be made manifest. Your thoughts start bouncing around in your head, all the while orbiting a central nexus of fear and doubt and, well… panic. Each moment brings your thoughts closer and closer to the central black hole about which all your thoughts are swirling. Anything. You’d give anything to escape, to get out, to leave now. By now you’re breathing faster and harder and heavier than you ever do when you’re exercising and exhausted. You feel like shouting, you feel like exploding, you feel like you’re going to die, and being aware of it all makes it so much worse. There is nothing you can do. You feel so stupid and small; you can’t believe you actually thought you had a chance to stop this. So you get out, any way you can. You lie, you run, you flee. And next time you’re facing a similar situation, you might find an excuse to avoid it entirely, because who would want to ever experience that more than once?

This is the best I can do to describe a panic attack. If you’ve never experienced it, you will never be able to understand fully. And you are very, very fortunate.

I remember my first panic attack well. It was in seventh grade, on a field trip, on a bus. It was triggered by my fear of heights. We were coming down from some precipice in Montana (there are a lot of them there), on a trip to Helena or Butte or one of the other major cities. I remember looking out the window and feeling certain that we were going to plunge off the edge. I remember telling myself how stupid that was, and simultaneously not believing a word of it. And I remember my breath starting to get faster and faster, and thinking about how my classmates must be aware of it, and how that made it even worse. And then we were down, and the danger was gone, but the fear wasn’t. I cried into my jacket, and after fifteen minutes or so I could look up. It was horrible, but I had a good friend with me (Josh) who comforted me. That was nice. It’s one of the best things to get you through it. These days, it’s Carrie who gets me through it.

The worst part about panic attacks is that you can never tell they’re going to come until they start. You can’t predict them. You can identify circumstances that increase the chances that one will strike, but there are no guarantees. You could go to the same place at the same time of day with the same circumstances, and one day you’ll be fine and the other day everything will just implode. My attacks hit the hardest during my freshman year of college. I wasn’t really close friends with anybody in my grade who was also attending the University of Montana (most of my friends were in the grade below), and I’m pretty awkward about making friends, so I was very, very alone my first year. Thus, I didn’t have anybody to help me through the attacks, which made them a million times worse.

I also had the cheapest meal plan. So I could only eat once a day, in the cafeteria (called appropriately enough, the Food Zoo), by myself. I always ate dinner there, usually a huge meal because I was so hungry by that time of day. Some days, I was fine. I could go there, eat my fill, and return to my room, to watch Jeopardy and the news. Other days, I could barely make it to my table and eat a few bites before I had to escape. Sometimes, I wouldn’t even finish getting my food because I knew I wouldn’t even be able to start eating. During the mildest of attacks, I could eat enough food to meet my biological needs and could even feel relaxed enough (this is a relative term) to leave my tray in the food disposal area. During the worst attacks, I just left everything where it was. I think this happened at least twice. Sorry, fellow Food Zoo patrons and Food Zoo workers. There really wasn’t anybody sitting there.

That’s probably why I got so thin my first year of school. I wasn’t eating that much to begin with, and every once in a while (probably once a week during the worst stretch) I would just skip a meal. One week, there was a three-day stretch when I didn’t eat anything because I couldn’t force myself to because I was so afraid of another attack. This is a key component of Panic Attacks — avoiding the circumstances that trigger them. The second day of that fun stretch, I just left my tray on the buffet line, and ran out the door, and hid behind the bushes trying to catch my breath and stop crying. Probably looked pretty interesting, this big guy breathing hard and crouching in the bushes planted outside the first floor of a dorm. This was about the time I started taking advantage of the free counseling that they offered at the Curry Health Center. It wasn’t just about the panic attacks, I was also working through my awkwardness and shyness. It helped a lot. I cannot stress that enough. Professionals know how to help. Later, I was helped more by having friends nearby. The attacks diminished my second year, and by my last year of school (year six, for those keeping track), I was free of them as a recurring ordeal.

The strangest thing is that I don’t mind being in a crowd if they’re watching me perform. I was in Speech and Debate in high school, and never had a performance-related attack — even at the state meet. I never felt that way in any of the plays I was in, or before or during any of my bands’ shows. The most terrifying attacks are triggered by crowds, but not by audiences. If they’re watching something, even me, then I have no reason to be afraid. That doesn’t make sense, but neither do panic attacks, really.

Large crowds are the only significant trigger I have now. I still get an attack every now and then. Like I said, I can’t predict it. I’ve been fortunate enough not to have one happen in the cafeteria at work, or on the bus, or at a Mariners game or Rat City Roller Girls game. The last one was at the Pacific Science Center, when Carrie and I and some other friends were seeing the Star Wars exhibit. I hadn’t even gotten through the first floor when I knew it was coming. It came on fast, and I had to leave. I was so upset, I didn’t even look at the gift shop. I spent the next 20 minutes sitting on the cement walkway outside the gift shop, slowing my breathing and wondering what the rest of the exhibit was like. By then I’d calmed down enough that I didn’t even look distraught.

It’s gotten really good. The Star Wars episode was the last significant attack I’ve had (I had a minor one while walking to work a couple Fridays ago, but it wasn’t nearly as major as it might have been). I did worry that something might happen when Carrie and I went up the Space Needle, but that was fine, too. All in all, I’m getting better. This has a redoubling effect, because it means I think about the attacks less, which means I worry less, which means I have them less. I wish I could logic myself into this kind of scenario, but it only happens with time and a little luck.

I don’t really tell many people about my panic attacks, because I guess I’m ashamed of them. I’ve written a song or two about it, but in vague enough terms that it probably wasn’t clear unless you were really paying attention. The only people who know for sure are probably Carrie and my parents. I’m trying to change this because I’m trying to fight off the last lingering traces. It’s absolutely terrifying having a panic attack, but having people who care about you enough to help you through it is as close to a cure as there is for me.

Here’s one of those songs I told you about: The Suckers — “A Normal Life”

Counting My Blessings

Tuesday, September 20th, 2011

I’m feeling a bit blue for some complicated, personal reasons. It’s nothing I won’t be able to get over in time with my usual grace and aplomb. It really is a First World Problem. Nevertheless, I find it helpful to count my blessings. Well, blessings is the wrong word, since I don’t believed that anything is blessed. Count my perks? Enumerate the things about my life that I enjoy. We’ll go with that.

I have a loving wife. Somebody who’s there for me, even when I’m being bone-headed or pig-headed or just screwing up. The best part is that she’s my best friend, and I still get many years to find more reasons to love her. And maybe even create a few new lives with, to mold in my own image (stop reading this over my shoulder while I’m writing, darling&hellip)

I have an awesome family. And most of them are nearby. Almost every parent out their believes that their kid is the bee’s knees. I know my parents are. I feel very blessed to have (not-so) randomly wound up with Mom and Dad to raise. Throw in an awesome kid sister and baby brother, and it just sweetens the deal. Plus I have so many other fun, supportive, kind, caring relatives around. Then, I get to count my in-laws, too!

I have a fantastic set of friends. So awesome that they broke into my house on my wedding anniversary to leave Carrie and me a cake. So awesome that they’ll drop what they’re doing to play a few board games or go to the pub. So awesome that they’re willing to lend their singing voices to my latest hare-brained recording projects. So awesome that they let me help them move… well, I’m sure they’ll reciprocate someday when Carrie and I find some other place to live. And I’ve got plenty of opportunities to make new ones, too.

I have a job I love. I like what I do for a living, and am compensated fairly for it. I like the people I work with, and look forward to seeing them each morning. I get to write software for a living; that’s pretty cool. And it’s used by lots of people every day. I don’t work unreasonable hours and I don’t have an inhumane boss and I don’t have a dehumanizing commute. I have a say in what happens day-to-day.

I have a hobby that keeps me interested. I love listening to music and making it. If I get tired of playing or if I get blisters on my fingers, I can listen to records for a while. There is a nearly endless supply of the stuff to keep my ears occupied, and there’s a nearly limitless wellspring of creative energy inside me to keep me occupied for the rest of my life. This is also something I’ll be able to pass on to my kids someday, and that’s something to be excited about, too.

I live in an awesome city. Aside from marrying Carrie, moving to Seattle was probably the best idea I’ve ever had. I love living here. There’s so much to do, so many people to meet, and so many sees to see everything. Want to touch the ocean? The sound’s right here. Want to get away from the buildings and commune with nature? Half an hour to the east. Want to see a show? Pick from hundreds. Want to go to a bar? Close your eyes and turn in a random direction. The only thing I’d change is the luck of our baseball team, and even then I’d have to think about it. It’s kind of nice having underdogs to root for. Plus there isn’t anywhere else to go but up, really.

I live in a free country. Sure, I’m not satisfied with everything that happens. I really hate that civilians in other countries are killed in the name of my safety and security. I really hate that we won’t grow up as a country and allow loving, consenting adults to marry whoever they want. I really hate the bickering and infighting that I have to be exposed to in order to participate in politics. But aside from those complaints, it’s a nice place to live. And these things give me something to work toward to make my country even better.

I have my health. And it’s getting better every day. I’m eating right, and exercising, and I have no major complications or history of medical problems.

I’m satisfied with my place in this universe. It’s just staggering, really, the odds against me being here. And I don’t need a personal deity to make sense of it all. I’ve got a nearly boundless sense of wonder about the universe, and adding some supernatural factor just cheapens the experience for me. Instead, I believe in love and curiosity and peace, and that’s enough for me. I don’t have much time here, cosmically speaking. But that’s okay, because I can still do so much over this little chunk of life that my parents have given me.

I have a strong desire to make things better. Not just for myself. For everyone I know and love. I’m paid enough that I can spare some of what I earn for helping others, and believe I can really make a difference this way. I’ve got the urge to improve myself too, which means I am improving myself, bit by bit. I’m becoming a better husband, brother/sister/son, friend, coder, musician, Seattle resident, and passenger on Spaceship Earth one day at a time, slowly but significantly.

Not everybody has as much to be thankful for as I do. When I think about things this way, my silly little sadnesses feel a lot less significant. That’s the whole point.

On Charity

Tuesday, August 23rd, 2011

Tonight Carrie and I went to a Reddit Board Game Night on Capitol Hill. Apparently there was a power outage, so the place it was going to be at, B&O Espresso, was closed for the evening. The gaming got moved to Caffé Vita at the last minute, so it was a tinier, more intimate crowd. Unfortunately, we’d already parked once and it was Capitol Hill, Hades of Parking, so we had to walk a fair distance to get to the coffee shop. It was worth it, though — we played Elixer and Cosmic Encounter, and everybody had a blast.

Things wrapped up around 10:30 or so, and we packed up our games and took our leave. Since the venue had been moved, we had quite a ways to walk to our car (don’t get me started on the horrendous parking in Capitol Hill; we’d be here all night!). A few blocks down Pike we were stopped by a disheveled-looking young woman. She looked about twenty to twenty-five years of age.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. “My car is out of gas and my purse was stolen, and I need to get back to Bellevue. Could you give me a few dollars for gas money?”

I’d heard about this type of scam before. The best grifts depend on either greed or compassion, two opposite sides of the same shiny coin. What cold and indifferent monster wouldn’t want to help out in this situation? We’ve all run out of gas or nervously eyed the needle hovering over the “E”, so it’s a common enough vector for attack. You simply play on the victim’s own fear. Throw in the fact that you don’t have the money to buy a couple of gallons, and you can play on the victim’s sympathies, too. Who could resist such a sob story?

Well, it turns out I can. One of the first things I developed after moving into Seattle was a calloused sense of sympathy for people asking for money on the street. When you work downtown it’s not really a choice, unless you want to give cash for dubious causes every single day. This was especially true for me, as I got on my bus at Third and James, which was absolutely crawling with folk asking for handouts. I want to emphasize that I’m only unyielding to those who ask me for money and money alone. I’m just too skeptical to believe that you need a few bucks for the bus, or to buy some food. In fact, this skepticism led me to my stock response for such inquiries. “I don’t carry cash,” I say (I don’t), “but I can buy you what you need.” If they’re asking for money for food, I’ll offer to buy them a sandwich. If they want money for bus fare, I offer to swipe my Orca Card for them on the bus of their choice. Every time I’ve been approached downtown this way and I’ve offered to buy my solicitor what they need, they’ve turned me down.

So at this point I told this poor young woman that I didn’t have any cash, but I could buy her gas. If you are being scammed and things go this way, the grifter usually makes an excuse and bails out quickly, if not gracefully. But not this particular woman. “I’ll need to go get some gas cans from my friend,” she told us. This to me seems to be either her exit line or her please-don’t-inconvenience-me-I’m-already-out-of-gas line, but before we could start down either path she ran off across the street and disappeared into the shadows of the night growing from the QFC. Carrie and I waited around a while, board game boxes rumbling as we shifted them in our hands. We waited partially out of politeness and partially out of genuine concern. Carrie was becoming nervous that she was getting her “friend”, a 6-foot-3 rogue with an anchor tattoo, an eye patch, and grapefruit-sized biceps. Afterwards she told me that she was facing the opposite direction to me to get my back. It makes me feel better to know I wasn’t the only skeptical person involved.

[I’d like to make a digression and tell a related story from many years ago, right after Carrie and I started dating. We were crossing the footbridge from campus in Missoula to the Albertson’s on Broadway. This bridge was a notorious hangout for vagrants and vagabonds. As we stepped off the bridge, a man approached on a low-riding bicycle. He swerved from side to side in loping, teetering undulations. Each unsure turn brought him closer and closer to one of the concrete barriers lining either side of the bridge’s approach until with a sickrning thud he crashed into one and collapsed in a heap, bike on top. Carrie wanted to stop and help but I was convinced it was some sort of scheme and wanted to leave him there. It’s a good thing I listened and we stopped; he was really hurt. We called an ambulance and Carrie with her CNA training tended to his wounds. I had been certain that it was something they cooked up to elicit sympathy. I’m an optimist on paper but am pretty cynical when it comes to human interaction. Luckily he got the attention he needed, but it turned out he had Hepatitis C, so that was a little scary.]

After a short delay the young woman came running back with a gas can in each hand. She’d either called my bluff or she really needed the help. I was a little shocked because I didn’t expect to see her again. She met up with us on the corner, the light to cross the street the other way was mercifully short, and we headed to the Shell station to fill what she had brought. They must have been 1.5 – 2 gallon cans, because as I was filling them she told me to only put four dollars’ worth of gas into each can (which honestly is enough to get you across Lake Washington and back home in Bellevue). She thanked us two or three times as the cans were filling, then as I handed them to her. With some final words of gratitude she waked off with her eight dollars’ worth of gasoline, presumably to her exhausted car, and we turned back north on Broadway, the way we’d been going. It hadn’t taken more than five minutes.

Now usually I would have been feeling pretty good about all this. I’ve convinced myself that she really did need it. Maybe her purse wasn’t stolen, maybe she was destitute, or maybe she had misplaced it. Maybe she wasn’t trying to get back to Bellevue and she just needed it to get to work in the morning (or school, or wherever). But I’m pretty sure she wasn’t after a couple gallons of free gas. What would she do, re-sell it? Who would buy that? Weighing what I know, it looked as if we’d helped someone in need.

The only problem is that I lied. I was carrying cash. Enough of it in varying bills to give her what she needed, to the dollar. Now I’m usually a proponent of telling the truth, even if it’s unpleasant. But I always lie about not having cash whenever I offer my stock response to requests on the street. I could have a hundred dollars in my wallet, or a single one dollar bill. I’ll always say I don’t have any and offer to buy what they need. I started thinking about this as we walked the half-mile or so to where we’d parked our car. I can only offer one defense: my concern for our safety. After all, we may have grown up in Montana but we still know better than to blindly dig cash out of our wallets for anybody who asks. Things turned out okay, regardless. If I’d given her cash and she was a meth head then it wouldn’t have done any good. I can think of very few detrimental things she could do with the gas (okay, I suppose that’s not true. She could use it to burn down a building, for example). It’s not like she could have fenced at most three dollars’ worth of gasoline, though.

This is what it takes. In the best case, we helped a hapless if irresponsible woman get back home. In the worst case, we helped her drive to that next party. Either way I’m okay with it. When another human being asks, you’ve just got to help, whatever way you can.

Montana, a Fond Farewell

Tuesday, July 20th, 2010

I wanted to start off with my first memory of Montana, but I honestly can’t recall. That’s not to say the state is dull and boring, just that my first imperssion came when I was nine or ten years old, and it wasn’t all that impressive. If it didn’t involve dinosaurs or Ninja Turtles or outer space, I probably wasn’t interested. Back then it was all just forests and mountains and miles of highway from the backseat.

So in all honesty the first thing I remember about Montana is not wanting to move there. I’d lived a decade in Washington, and had friends and family there that I liked. There was snow in the winter and enough heat in the summer to dry off after a run through some sprinklers just by lying on the pavement. What about this remote state (a million miles or more to my preadolescent mind) so excited my parents? I had no say since I was just a kid and half the time I didn’t know that sometimes the things ‘for my own good’ really were.

Thank goodness I moved at a fairly young age. It was harder on my siblings when they changed states while in high school. We easily make friends when we’re not teenagers; as teenagers we find it easier to make enemies. Luckily I was still young enough (and without obvious flaws) to make friends. I did it twice, in fact, since we went first to Billings and only two years later to Corvallis.

Having moved back to Washington, I often consider how things would have been different if I’d never left the state. My two greatest passions sprouted in Montana: computers and music. Who’s to say that things would be the same if I’d gone to Wa-Hi instead of Corvallis High? Obviously I can thank my dad for helping me grow to like technology, but my interest in music may never have taken root without the friends I had in Montana. Without Chris and Josh rocking out to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana, would I have ever taken a keen interest in music, or picked up a guitar, or started learning about music theory? It’s hard to say. Maybe if I’d stayed in Washington, I’d be into music, but I’d have come into it via country and western, instead of rock and punk.

Montana embraced openness like no place I’d ever been. The sky was big and wide, and so was the friendliness. I knew several families who never locked their houses at night. The people there have an independent streak a mile wide and it shows through, in the libertarian sensibilities of the electorate and the bohemian tendencies of the music community. I’d like to think that warmth of the state rubbed off on me, if not some of the conservative political views.

So many things about my life would be different if I’d never lived in Montana. Probably the thing I’m most thankful for is my wife, but the list goes on. I made so many friends there, in high school and at college. Childhood friends and friends made later in life are subtly different. As kids you most often make friends due to convenience of location, or preschool class assignment, or other, more superficial factors. We can’t judge personalities as children. Friendships made later in life tend to stand the test of time, having been made due to strong personalities or shared interests. Most of mine fit the latter categorization. I can remember my childhood friends’ names and one or two quirks of their personalities, but not much else. I have a feeling that forty years from now, I’ll still be able to tell you many of my college friends’ favorite songs.

It was a complex and difficult decision to leave, but we saw the chance and had to take it. Our move to Washington isn’t necessarily final; we may be back some day. My parents are considering retiring there, and my wife thinks it’s a good place to raise kids. It’s got a lot going for it. In my own biased opinion I think I turned out fine. When I drive to Walla Walla for a visit I have a certain set of nostalgic steps that must be followed. These include stopping for ice cream to help battle the vicious summer heat of eastern Washington, and listening to Tom Petty. In time, I’m sure I’ll cobble together a similar set of rules for going back to Montana.

If It’s Too Good to Be True…

Friday, October 16th, 2009

Eating lunch today, I found my yogurt flavor is “Blackberry and Açaí.” Not knowing what the hell açaí is, I looked it up on Wikipedia. It’s a berry, but also a big dietary supplement component. According to the article:

“Marketers of these products… make unverified claims that açaí provides increased energy levels, improved sexual performance, improved digestion, detoxification, high fiber content, improved skin appearance, improved heart health, improved sleep, and reduction of cholesterol levels.”

Yeah … That sounds legit. It also whitens your teeth and makes people like you by altering your pheromones! People who sell this stuff prey upon people, but they quickly run into a problem: as soon as their product becomes the next big thing, others decide to hop on the bandwagon and start hawking the crap, too. Pretty soon, they have to keep adding supposed health benefits to ‘get ahead’ of the other guys, and you wind up with a list so long it puts snake oil salesmen to shame. I’m pretty sure most reasonable people can smell the bull, but obviously enough people are wooed by all the promises to keep some of these shysters in business.

It was a pretty tasty cup of yogurt. Still, it was surprising to see some Google Ads-worthy product featured on a big-league company like Yoplait’s product.

Let It Snow! (early)

Friday, October 9th, 2009

Holy cow! I’m used to snow in Montana, especially earlier than you’d expect, but the earliest I remember seeing it was about a week before Halloween. Usually it’s merely a few light flakes here and there. Imagine my surprise this morning when I was eating breakfast and thought the pattern thrown on our lawn by the porch light was a bit too bright and white. I looked out the window and — sure enough! — there was a blanket of snow covering everything.

I grabbed some quick pictures after the sun came up because I wanted to try Carrie’s camera at full size (so very close to 8 megapixels). I think they came out okay. These were taken during our rush to work, so I didn’t try to do anything artsy. I just wanted to capture the moment. And what a moment! I’m going to have fun shoveling tonight…

Click the thumbnails below for a bigger view. I’ve also included links to the huge (about 3 MB) full-size images.

Cut-Off Point

Thursday, August 6th, 2009

I’ve moved this blog from its 6-year (!) home at to my own domain. I’m running the blog on WordPress now, and it has some features and options for customization that Blogger’s hosted account simply lacked. I’ve gone through and done a cursory tagging and categorization of old pages, but anything before this post will not be as shiny as newer content.

I also had to do some thinking about what exactly I want this blog to present. Going through my old posts, it was clear that the me from six years ago was very different from the me of today. As this blog is part of my website, which I present as part of my professional face, I’ve decided to bowdlerize some of the early entries. I took a lot of frankly emo content that was probably uninteresting to read anyway (well, more uninteresting than this blog’s standard, anyway!). I realize this material offers a glimpse into how I became the person I am today, but I have changed a lot since then. Some of the earlier content is more private than I would have admitted. I have also excised some of the self-righteous political rants, as well as some posts full of ‘offensive’ language and some content that paints my early-college character in a… less-than-stellar light.

In any case, since this stuff was posted on the web for years, it’s probably accessible somewhere. I realize I can’t pull a CIA-black-marker on my past, but I can try! What I censored wasn’t terrible; it was personal and often immature, and I’d like to present a better face to the world. So don’t think of this as a re-writing of my past, think of it as a promise to make future content even better.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Saturday, November 20th, 2004

The big 21… I went to Albertson’s to buy something to wet my whistle and didn’t even get carded! Totally…. anticlimactic.

The Homework… She Never Ends!

Thursday, November 4th, 2004

Current Listening: Tom Waits – “Calliope” (Blood Money)


Just finished reading The Return. It’s about the fifth book about genocide that I’ve read this semester. Now I have to write a one-page response. Three-page paper on Flogging Molly due Friday. Philosophy paper due Friday, too.

Weekend? Paaaart-aaay.

I’m glad I have something to think about besides politics.

The Flogging Molly Show

Monday, October 18th, 2004

It’s gonna be a good show when your glasses are destroyed. That’s what happened to me about ten minutes into the set. Some fellow concertgoer accidentally knocked ’em from my nogging, and though Carrie, some really nice guy, and I tried parting the sea of bodies and looking for about five seconds, they were gone for good.

Creepily, the glasses managed to get back to me. Toward the end of the set we were standing around the concession stand, where things were less crazy, and Carrie found them on the floor, sans lenses and beat to crap.

I liked the opening acts, especially the Briggs. I wanted to get their CD, but didn’t notice that their merch table was separate from the Flogging Molly / Street Dogs table. So I got Savin Hill by the Street Dogs. It’s okay, but some of the songs sound the same.

On the way back, we got three dozen Krispy Kreme donuts. Sugary Heaven.