By popular demand, the “just kill me now” Ted Sorensen story referenced in my previous post.
As some of you no doubt know, longtime Kennedy speechwriter, advisor, special counsel and confidant Ted Sorensen passed away recently. I was of course deeply saddened, and immediately thought back to a fateful day back in January of 2004.
Some background: In 2003 and 2004, I spent five exhilarating, exhausting months working my tail off as a volunteer footsoldier in the presidential campaign of General Wesley Clark. Before that, I’d been a dedicated Howard Dean “Deaniac,” but I was also emotionally and philosophically attached to the ultra-liberal stylings of Rep. Dennis K for both, I attended events, bought the shirts, bags, hats and buttons, and donated a ton of cash (I made really good money in those days).
Then General Clark entered the race. Something in me was moved to action by this honest, intelligent, capable man. My colleague (and still good friend) Matt and his then-girlfriend, now-wife Heather were early supporters, my mom was in total agreement with our assessment, and even Michael Moore was on board: this guy was the real thing. A much-decorated four-star general, a Rhodes Scholar and a Democrat (if only recently registered as one, since while in the military he would not register with any party), he could not have stood in starker contrast to George W. Bush. And I could not have been more determined to get the amazingly qualified, charismatic retired general elected.
And so I spent months standing on street corners (in blizzards, no less), knocking on doors, organizing ballot petitioning drives, phone-banking, writing letters, stuffing envelopes, attending countless rallies/fundraisers/Meetups/personal appearances and of course maxing out on donations. I really believed in him. And, as it turned out, so did Ted Sorensen. He had signed on as a campaign surrogate.
So here we are in January, right before the New Hampshire primary. We have one last weekend, one final push, to convince voters after entering the race too late to compete in Iowa. There’s a big rally scheduled, as well as some phone-banking. I have enough US Airways points for a free return flight, so of course I’m on my way up to New Hampshire to do my part. I go online to book my flight, and that’s where it all begins.
Anyone who’s ever booked online knows the drill. You find your preferred flight, and if it’s available, the next step is to choose your seat. Now, I absolutely HATE flying, and my preference is always to pick a seat as close to the front as possible so I can get off this God-forsaken thing, NOW!!! And of course I planned to do the same for this flight… failing, though, to take into account the size of the plane, which turned out to be one of those little commuter things not much bigger than a bus.
I pick my seat, just a couple of rows from the front. The rows have two seats each, and my preferred window seat in that row was taken, but eh, that’s OK. It’s a short flight. I click on my chosen seat and wait. And wait. And wait. “Sorry, an error occurred. Please try your transaction again.” Grrrrrr. It kicks me all the way back to the beginning of the process… find the flight, continue on to choosing your seat. Only this time, my nearly-perfect seat is TAKEN.
OK, now I’m pissed. I have to sit in the back now (and again, in reality, it changed my location by maybe six feet). And as I head to the airport, I have not forgotten the largely imaginary slight. I get on the plane and as I approach my row, I want to see who has the gall to be sitting in my seat. I get to the row and I look. My seat is still empty. But sitting in the window seat… none other than Ted Sorensen.
I’m reeling as I practically crawl back to my assigned seat, knees as weak as jelly, and slump down, head in hands. This is not happening. This cannot be happening. But for a technical difficulty, I would have spent an hour and a half sitting next to Ted Freaking Sorensen. I console myself by reasoning that I wouldn’t have had the guts to speak to him anyway. But still, all I could think was… just kill me now. I managed to steal a few glances, but the next time I saw him, he was on the stage with the rest of the surrogates. I never saw him again in person.
I found out later that his eyesight had been severely hampered by a recent stroke, and so there was every possibility that the person sitting in “my seat” was traveling with him to assist, and by some insane stroke of synchronicity just happened to be booking at the same time as I was, which caused the technical error. But on that day, I was cursing my crappy luck.
So there you have it. My Ted Sorensen Story.
I haven’t blogged in months, because I haven’t had much to say. I attended the “One Nation” rally in DC on Oct. 2, but that did nothing to give me any confidence for what I knew lay ahead…
and dispirited by the predictable results of the midterm elections, I’ve been more reserved than usual.
So I spent this weekend in DC again, as Bobby should have been 85 years old on November 20. The weather was beautiful, and for two days straight, the usual gawking crowds left me strangely alone. Since I discovered the joys of points/miles and the free or discounted trips they provide, I visit his resting place several times a year: on the anniversary of his passing, his birthday, and at least once in between (last year’s extra trip was for Teddy’s memorial/burial)–two visits per trip. It’s where I find my inner peace, my perspective. And I’ve never quite understood why some people come to Arlington National Cemetery and behave as if it’s an amusement park. There’s no respect for the no reason for being there except that the Tourmobile takes them there.
JFK’s gravesite is a favorite spot for tourists and to some extent I can understand that, but then they waddle on over to Bobby’s grave not because they know or care anything about him, but because it’s the next stop on the tour. It’s marked on their map, and so they go. There’s an obvious air of disinterest and apathy around
bored kids being dragged there against their will, foreign tourists, adults who have a vague knowledge that President Kennedy had some brothers, and this was one of them… look, there’s another one over there, that’s next on the map. I listen to the conversations and wonder what kind of vacuum these people grew up in, and why anyone would visit someone’s grave if not to pay respects. “This person died for you,” I want to shout at them. “Have you any idea how much he cared about all of you, and your children–especially your children–and how he knowingly risked his own life for your well-being? How he knew that it was only a matter of time before they got him too, but he did it anyway, because he cared about us that much? Go away, all of you! You are here for all the wrong reasons!”
But I don’t. I just listen to the idle chatter and the ill-informed “factoids” passed on from parent to child (“Mommy, why is his grave just a cross and stone, when his brother’s is so nice with the flame and everything?” “Because he wasn’t the president, so he doesn’t deserve a fancy grave”). I silently, inwardly try to mentally impart to that child that no, that’s not why. It’s because Bobby Kennedy was a humble man, and he wanted a humble grave. Next time, I want to advise the mother, just say “I don’t know.” It’s better than being so horribly, offensively wrong.
This weekend, however, was different. There were the usual crowds of disaffected tourists, but somehow I got an incredible amount of alone-time with him, more than ever. I’ve been a bit unhappy lately, and although I do a lot of talking with the men upstairs on a daily basis, I needed to have a one-on-one. And, miraculously, I was able to. On both days. The vultures descended on Jack as always, and even Teddy, but somehow they let me be for a change. Selfishly, that made me happy. Sorry, Jack and Teddy. But I really needed some time with your brother.
Now, I know he knows all this, because I like to think that once you get up there, you know everything… but still, I had to tell him that we need some help down here. Fast. Everything he worked for, everything he and his brothers lived and died for, is coming apart. This countr back to a time when hatred, racism and selfishness were considered normal and right. The forces of evil are taking over again, and we really need some divine intervention here. Of course I tell him this often, but for some reason I needed to say it in person this time. And I did. Twice. In relative peace.
I also wished him a happy birthday, and hoped they were all enjoying a reunion with the recently-departed Ted Sorensen. Now that he’s gone too, and has the benefit of that “now you know everything” thing, he no doubt knows about My Ted Sorensen Story, one of the biggest “just kill me now” stories of my entire life. One day, people. One day.
Anyway, that’s that. I’ll try to blog more, if anyone cares. And if I have something to say that warrants blogging.
It’s hard to believe it’s been a year since we lost Senator Ted Kennedy, affectionately known to most Democrats as “Uncle Teddy.” I remember that dark day—not entirely unexpected, but still dreaded and not quite believable—as if it was, well, 10 minutes ago.
On the glorious occasion of President Obama’s inauguration, while we were all giddily enjoying the festivities (on TV… but that’s another story for another day, Congressman Weiner), word came down that someone had collapsed and was being taken away by ambulance. Fear, dread and grief gripped my heart when I heard it was Teddy. God, not now. Not today. Just seeing him show up that day, frail as he seemed, had filled me with even more joy and hope than the inauguration itself. I was terrified, I was sick, I broke down in a shaking heap of great, gulping sobs. And there was prayer. Lots of prayer.
Then word started spreading that Sen. Byrd had collapsed as well (as it turned out, from worry over Ted). Good God, what was happening? And why today? I watched in fear and grief, praying that both of these men, who had survived so much and become close friends against all practical odds, would make it through this day. This beautiful, wonderful, historic day that each had taken quite different paths to cherishing.
They both pulled through. But it was clear that Ted was not long for this world. It was also clear that because of the callous selfishness of politically-motivated obstructionism, he would not live to see his lifelong dream of healthcare for all—as a right, not a privilege—become a reality.
As morbid as it sounds, from then on, the first thing I’d do when I woke up was check the headlines to make sure he was still alive. And, perhaps equally morbid, I kept a stash of Amtrak rewards points reserved for rushing to… wherever, to pay my respects whenever the time came. On the night of August 25, 2009, I went to bed early, a very rare occurrence for me. When I awoke the next morning, I did my usual news check-in to make sure he was still with us. But he wasn’t. Uncle Teddy was gone. Shortly before midnight, he’d passed away. I was devastated. And angry. “Why did God have to do this NOW?” I emailed my mother. “Does He not know how much we NEED Teddy right now? And do NOT tell me He needed him more… He has taken more than enough Kennedys before their time, thank you very much. Heaven is already crowded with them. And I’m sure there’s universal healthcare up there already.” I was not, I’m afraid, even remotely rational.
Over the next few days, an obviously distraught Vicki and the Kennedy family—kind and giving as always—not only made the entire schedule of events public, but embraced and included the public. They took turns on the receiving lines, greeting and thanking the countless thousands who came to pay their respects. I decided I would go to DC on the day Teddy was brought there to be buried at Arlington Cemetery. I’d just been there a few weeks before, and two months before that (visiting Bobby Kennedy’s resting place clears my head and sets me straight when I need some perspective) and had spent some time sitting on the steps of the Russell Senate Building, where Teddy had his office. I sat there hoping against hope that he would one day return. But he wouldn’t, and I was on my way to DC again. The next time I saw that building, the flag flying over it would be at half-staff.
We waited in the blazing sun for the cortege to arrive from Boston to the Capitol. Friends, colleagues, staff, and some family members assembled there on the Capitol steps, also awaiting Ted’s final trip to the place in which he’d spent most of his life, working tirelessly for the American people. Seeing a grieving Sen. Byrd, slumped silently in his wheelchair, was more than I could bear. And the sky above looked like, well, God. When the procession left, the family made sure to drive slowly, windows open, to acknowledge all of us, and as the cortege made its way to his final resting place at Arlington, I realized that if I followed, I’d never see anything, as the burial was private. I walked back to my hotel, and watched the burial on TV.
The next morning, I was one of the first people to visit his grave (which is identical to Bobby’s… a simple white marble marker and white cross), and the floral arrangement with the sash reading “The People’s Senator” made me weep all over again. Then I laughed, thinking, “if I know Teddy, he’s up there bragging to Bobby and Jack about the size of the crowds. And Bobby is reminding him of the funeral train, which Teddy has the good grace to concede.” And I was glad I’d come to pay my respects, and to say goodbye to someone who devoted his life to trying to make mine better. A few months later, I was surprised—although I probably shouldn’t have been—to find in my mailbox a fancy envelope with “Hyannis Port, Massachusetts” as the return address. And in it was an engraved card reading “The family of Senator Edward Moore Kennedy greatly appreciates your kind expression of sympathy.” That’s the Kennedys for you. In my profound grief, I hadn’t even remembered sending a formal expression of sympathy. But they remembered. Because that’s just who they are.
We miss you, Uncle Teddy. It’s been a rough year without you here to kick some necessary a$$. But the idea of you up there—no doubt laughing, singing, drinking and generally carrying on—makes us smile. See you on the other side.
There’s a frightening but hilarious website out there called , which pictures, in glorious living color, all the disgusting things we stuff our faces with. It’s meant to say “all the excuses, all the popular myths… don’t believe the hype. THIS is why you’re fat. BECAUSE YOU EAT THIS CRAP.”
Well, America, this is why you’re unemployed:
Job-hunting, for most of us, has become an exercise in both futility and surrealism. If it’s not an internship, it’s a freelance position with no benefits or a ridiculous hybrid of five totally different jobs… for obscenely low pay.
I saw an ad last night where you are expected to do the layout/design, the editing/writing/proofreading, website maintenance, develop marketing programs and produce the materials, do all the media outreach AND sell advertising space for both print and web. Oh, and not only are you supposed to juggle all of these completely unrelated jobs that require vastly different experience and skill sets, you’re supposed to do it all for $40k.
It’s not that I’m afraid of hard work, mind you, or that I’m a “that’s not in my job description!” type. NOT AT ALL. The point is that it’s becoming increasingly hard to be qualified for a job, because they’re lumping relatively disparate jobs together now… you think “yay, I can do that!” and then get hit with an unrelated set of requirements/qualifications that have never had anything to do with that job, so these skills just aren’t in your skill set or on your résumé—nor can you, in your broke, unemployed state, afford to learn them. Editors are now expected to be web developers, too. I was actually contacted for a job that required me to be the communications coordinator… and the IT dept. Write press releases, update website content, work with the media… oh, and develop applications and maintain the servers/network/computers, too.
What bothers me the most, believe it or not? The political implications of this. The general perception is that unemployment is up because President Obama and the Democrats have destroyed the economy to the point where there are NO JOBS.
But that’s not true. There ARE jobs. Companies ARE hiring. They’re just not hiring full-time employees with salaries and benefits. Interns and freelancers get no benefits and are not counted as employees (not to mention that a lot of people are freelancing and still collecting partial Unemployment because of how little Unemployment pays…), part-time jobs pay hardly more than minimum wage and offer no benefits, and many people are unable to support their families on the low salaries now being offered for the few real jobs out there.
The unemployment picture is being manipulated by companies taking advantage of the situation. They’re still getting all their work done, but it’s being done for little or nothing by a combination of interns, freelancers, part-timers, a few new hires doing three jobs for the price of one, and current employees taking on the extra work of their laid-off colleagues… for no extra pay. So the companies are still fattening up their bottom line, but for the average out-of-work American who can’t afford to work for little or nothing–and who just isn’t qualified to do three completely unrelated jobs at once–the situation remains bleak.
Don’t believe the hype.
MINI SQUIRREL UNDERPANTS
Product Description
Are you sick and tired of squirrels running naked in the trees around your house? Have you had to hide your children’s eyes when a tiny furry streaker crosses the sidewalk in front of you? We’ve got the answer, Squirrel Underpants! Each pair of tiny briefs has a 3″ (7.6 cm) waist and is made of 100% cotton. Also good for hamsters, frogs and gerbils.
Get your squirrel underpants !!
Poor Don Draper. The once-debonair, sophisticated and unfailingly inscrutable rogue has now been reduced to a self-hating dog who just can’t help sniffing at everyone’s crotch. He appears to be suffering from some bizarre strain of libido Tourette’s, physically unable to be within six feet of a female without hitting on her.
Take, for example, the barely-legal niece of his erstwhile wife, Anna. On a detour from his planned trip to Acapulco, Don–who is now once again Dick–pops in to spend some time with Anna, the one person in the world he treats with true deference and respect, and the one person who never, ever judges him. He finds her with a broken leg, and meets her ornery sister Patty and nubile young niece Stephanie (hands up, those who didn’t see what was coming the second she appeared onscreen. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?).
A discussion about bringing the kids out west to meet “Aunt” Anna leads to an interesting confession with regard to Betty, “I could tell the minute she saw who I really was, she’d never want to look at me again. Which is why I never told her.” Um, actually, if you’d told her to begin with, you wouldn’t be who and where you are today, moron. A gutless guttersnipe in a sharp suit.
“Dick” takes Anna and Stephanie out for a night on the town, where he puts the inevitable, now-awkward Don Draper moves on the young girl… who stops him dead in his tracks
&Down, boy... DOWN!!&
with the news that Anna (unbeknownst to her) has terminal cancer. Anna awakens to find him, restless after a sleepless night, impotently repainting her damp-damaged wall. He wants to tell her she’s dying, he wants to pay for fancy doctors, but… A confrontation with sister Patty over Anna’s care–and filling her in on the gravity of her situation–ends with an inadvertent but tidy summation of where he now stands in Anna’s life as well: “You’re just a man, in a room, with a checkbook.” (And in this case, a paintbrush.)
Meanwhile, Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce’s man in a room with a checkbook, Lane Pryce, is yelling at our Joanie, who simply wants to take a few days off in January to be with her heretofore useless husband (who now has a use… he fixes
up a nasty cut on her hand). A mixup over “forgive me” flowers sent to both Joan and his estranged wife leads to the first laugh-out-loud line of the season when Don, back from his aborted trip to Acapulco, convinces the down-in-the-dumps Lane to paint the town red with him. Reading out a list of movies (I voted for The Guns of August, but Don apparently “hates August”), Don hits upon Send Me No Flowers… to which Lane comically holds up a “stop” hand and forcefully replies “NO!” I rolled. (A Godzilla flick won out in the end.)
A comedian believes them to be a gay couple, until the two ladies whose services Don has purchased for the evening show up. This is a curious scenario, the usually-secretive Don exposing this part of his life to anyone, let alone a partner in his agency. His self-loathing is clearly in overdrive now, and heading for a crash. A soused Lane–who grabbed a large hunk of beef and held it to his crotch, bellowing, in the restaurant–accompanies Don and his “lady friend” (one must wonder if he had her do her slappy thang right there on the couch while Lane and his sweetie were ensconced in the bedroom) back to Don’s place, where the requisite activity takes place. The next morning, a sheepish but grateful Lane thanks him, and insists on paying for the night’s “distraction.” Don accepts the money and finds himself, once again, just “a man, in a room, with a checkbook.”
I need to be encouraged. Reminded. Bullied. Whatever.
The Mets finally beat the Phillies.
Yayyyyyy! My/our former nemesis Jeff “Frenchy” Francoeur came through with a big bomb to save the day for Johan, who has been totally ripped off this season for more victories than I can count. For that alone, Frenchy finally receives my full support. Which of course means he won’t be here much longer. heh
So I am trying to figure out how best to get a job. All the classes/seminars I’ve been attending haven’t gotten me anywhere yet. The NYS Dept. of Labor won’t pay for any training because I don’t have a degree (gee, that makes sense!), and they also can’t find me a job because my résumé doesn’t have any admin skills on it. Um, no. It doesn’t. And a secretary’s résumé doesn’t have any editing, writing or graphic design skills on it. Perhaps the two jobs have totally different skill sets? Ya think?
Anyway, I’m looking around, considering a career change, and apparently there’s an AARP training grant program for workers over 40. Hold on… over 40?!
I didn’t realize I was already AARP material. It’s kind of depressing, but if they can help, I’ll take it. Plus, I admired the stance they took in the battle over healthcare reform. They lost a lot of [largely ill-informed] members, but they didn’t back down. If I had $16 lying around, I’d join them (my research also revealed that you can actually join as an “associate” if you’re under 50!). I’ll call them and see wassup with this program. Chances are there’s no money left, or I won’t qualify, or I’m in the wrong profession, or any other of the myriad brick walls I’ve slammed into since I got laid off and was assured that there were so many resources out there for me to take advantage of.
In news of TEH AWESOME variety, I got myself a new checking account that I don’t need. But it came with 25,000 airline miles, which can be transferred to Amtrak, where they magically become free train trips to DC and free accompanying hotel stays. THIS I NEEDED.
Looking forward to Mad Men tomorrow. Hope someone shows up to yap about it with me.
Wow. That is SO not cool.
(Image courtesy of
Ah, Mad Men. So glad it’s back. Even though the formerly suave and impeccable Don Draper is now a pathetic sleaze of a drunk (and an ugly drunk, at that).
Last night, our anti-hero was busy playing a sort of Lothario Whack-a-Mole with every female who crossed his pickled path… yes, that’s how far he’s fallen. He makes a pass at everything that moves, pretty much. And more often than not now, he’s getting blown off. The tables have turned. After years of looking down on Roger for such behavior, Don has become Roger. And it’s not pretty. Even the new kid at the agency (Peggy’s partner) is referring to Don as “pathetic.” Speaking of which, Peggy is playing the role of “virgin” with her new boyfriend, who thinks bringing her cookies should gain him access to her boudoir. The less said on this entire thing, the better.
Meanwhile, back at Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce, Freddy Rumsen has reappeared, bringing with him a $2 million Pond’s Cold Cream account from his apparently former employer, JWT… an account that followed him out the door courtesy of his “fraternity” with the client (later revealed to be AA). Nice to see him back, but I’d like to see Sal or Ken Cosgrove burst through that door next week. Funny how they wanted no part of Freddy until he dangled $2 million in front of them. Also an attractive female marketing expert, who of course immediately catches Don’s eye, has everyone participate in a focus group… with a reward of cookies (is there nothing people won’t do for cookies?), which everyone scrambles to accept in exchange for all their personal details. Don, not surprisingly, has no intention of doing so, pretends to have an appointment, and runs out.
Lucky Strike–which is now only 69% of the SCDP billings, counting Pond’s–is back in town, with the arrogant Lee Garner (whose own fumbled pass, as you may recall, was responsible for our Sal’s firing) as obnoxious as ever. Roger invites him to the Christmas party, which is supposed to be an exercise in austerity but is hastily upgraded by Roger, with Joan’s ever-efficient help, to a wild hootenanny when Garner unexpectedly agrees to attend. It won’t do to have your only big client think you’re too poor to have a big holiday shindig! Freddy–busy playing AA sponsor to his friend at Pond’s, who unwisely went to lunch with Roger–doesn’t show up to play Santa, making for one of the most uncomfortable scenes in the show’s history… Garner forcing agency partner Roger to put on the red suit and dance like a puppet on a string, with all the men similarly forced to sit on his lap and take pictures with the new Polaroid camera just gifted to Garner. At least Sal said no to being screwed by this guy, but we all know where that landed Sal, and Roger doesn’t want to join him there.
Don of course makes a(nother unsuccessful) pass at the aforementioned attractive female marketing expert–who didn’t buy the “I have an appointment” excuse–before he leaves the party, goes home and realizes he’s forgotten his keys. After banging on the door of the initially interested young nurse he struck out with earlier, he calls his secretary–who cried over Don’s kids’ letter to Santa and happily went shopping to fulfull it–to bring him his keys, before turning to the bottle once more. The secretary first repels his alcohol-fueled advances, but decides to give in anyway. The next morning, Don being Don, he acts like it never happened, instead rejecting her hopeful perkiness and handing her a cash holiday bonus… but although $100 was a lot of money to a secretary in those days, to her it clearly feels like money left on the dresser (little does she know…), and she hastily hides it and goes about her business. Don, in keeping with his current preference, is paying her to go away.
Oh, and Betty’s creepy young stalker, Glenn, is back, only this time Sally (who seems to have lost her lisp) is the object of his juvenile delinquent affections. He trashes the Draper/Francis house to scare them into moving. Sally is OK with this, as he left her bedroom intact… and a little pink bracelet on her pillow.
The main theme of this episode seemed to be that everyone has a price. Whether it’s cookies, a big account (either acquiring or retaining), an envelope of cash or a friendship bracelet, people will accept just about indignity in exchange for a reward. Don’s reward, it seems, is being left alone. And he is inviting all manner of indignities to achieve it.
Twitter’s down for maintenance, so what else is a night owl to do but start a blog? Hopefully I’ll find some more interesting things to say, but for now… hi! Welcome! Talk to me!
Today’s big news: Chelsea Clinton got married. The Mets didn’t make any moves at the trade deadline (the freakin’ Yankees sure stocked up, though. For a change. *smirk*) but won tonight anyway in dramatic fashion. And it’s finally not 600 degrees in New York City. I’d forgotten what that’s like.
I’ve been “between jobs” since March, and have gone crazy trying to learn all sorts of mad skillz (like, um, blog software) to make myself more attractive to prospective employers. It’s amazing what an editing job entails these days… everything from page design to web content management
to good old Microsoft Office. I’ve gone to classes and seminars to learn InDesign, PowerPoint, Excel (still can’t grasp that one…), WordPress, HTML Email Marketing/Constant Contact, Dreamweaver/HTML/CSS (not quite there yet) and even Windows/PC, since I’ve been exclusively on Mac forever. Anything to get back in the workforce. My head is about to explode from all the stuff I’ve been trying to cram into it.
But it’s tough out there, because most jobs have now become “internships,” and the few salaried jo doing five jobs for what amounts to minimum wage. It is, as they say, a buyer’s market. And anyone who really thinks the unemployed don’t want to work–that we’d rather collect a paltry unemployment check than have a well-paying job–doesn’t live in the real world. Not only does unemployment come with a loss of pride and identity, but I’m kind of fond of eating… and I miss doing it on a regular basis, y’know?
So to all of you out there in the same boat, I will cross everything I have two of for you, in hopes that you find, in a sea of uncertainty, that elusive tiny ripple of hope… a job that allows you to pay the bills and regain your dignity.
Recent Posts
Awesome links
NY: It’s the Ballbusting Capital of the World
2010 Weaver}