The 11th Hour

today is March 31st. It's the last day of the month, which means that at my work everyone is half-panicked and trying to make quota. Traditionally it's the busiest day of the month which pretty much means that nobody takes a lunch break and everyone knows exactly what they'd like to do to get the check they'd like to have.

In spite of this, I have been listening to the Raveonettes and Silver Jews all morning. It is the last day before I will be unable to choose the music I listen to unless it is in my very small infantile collection of Metallica music. I feel like it is my last meal.

It is so comforting to hear the guttural voice of John Fogerty, and the phat beats of Britney's "Gimme More." I am going to miss the sweet harmony of Simon and Garfunkel so much for the next 30 days. This morning I heard Smokey Robinson when I woke up. It was pure bliss.

Last night I played the jukebox and spent at least $10 on artists such as The Secret Machines, The Four Tops, Muse, The Monkees, et al. My spirits were lifted and I became a better person for a fleeting moment. That'll be gone tomorrow morning. If I'm lucky, I'll be in a bar someday and my favorite song in the world, Bernadette, will be playing. If anyone needs to borrow a dollar to play that song, let me know.

Special thanks to Jason Boehme, who came into work today with two Metallica CD's for me. They were packaged beautifully, I wish I had a scanner to show you the cases they were in. Master of Puppets has a CD cover that is Jason's son in a very intimidating Karate mu-mu. Reload features his two children building a snowman. Appropriately, the discs also include the disclaimer: "Metal that will kick your ass!!" Thanks, JB.

So if I appear disheartened, blame my lack of Fiona Apple. If I seem depressed, it's because Elton John was usually there to comfort me. I'll have no George Jones to remind me that everyone hits rock bottom now and then, and no George Michael to inform me that it's okay to let loose and have fun! Imagine life without Kenny Loggins' "The Danger Zone." Soon that will be my lonely reality.

Officially, these are the records I will be listening to (all artists are Metallica):

1. Master of Puppets
2. Reload
3. Self-Titled (The Black Album)
4. Garage, Inc (only disc 1)
5. Metallica Live July 13, 2003 in Orlando, FL
6. Metallica Live Feb 3, 1989 in Austin, TX
7. Metallica Live July 8, 1998 in Cuyahoga, OH
8. Metallica Live May 24, 1986 in Cape Girardeau, MO

Miraculously, Metallica made several live recordings available for free download via their website. It's my wish that readers of this blog also download these tunes for a point of reference for future blog posts.

So goodbye, B52's. So long, Spin Doctors. Ludacris, we had such a great run. I've always loved you, Julian Casablancas (you too, dave grohl. I hope you don't hate me now). Don't worry, Queens of the Stone Age, I promise to listen to "I Wanna Make it Wit Chu" 10 more times today. But I need some space during April.

When money laundering is not enough

Today, I went to church for the first time since Christmas, when I was last in St. Louis. My church has not been up to snuff ever since they sent away the good priests to start news churches in rural TN. They've been replaced with bad priests, an African and an Irish immigrant. I decided to skip Easter this year because last year the Irish priest was seen jumping up and down in the parking lot screaming "He's alive! He's alive!" True story

Anyway, my reason for going was like most people: a general dissatisfication with my current state of affairs. Boos and witty banter just don't carrry the day anymore. So, I thought church could lead me in the right direction. I spent the first half of Mass thinking about how a church would be the perfect vehicle for laundering money. I'm still friends with the third priest they have, and he's pretty liberal. He's the only priest I know who openly bashes republicans and doesn't eat meat (outside of JC of course). I'm sure he'd be down. He could set up some sham position for me like a pew cleaner, while I made my generous donations to the weekly offering.

I then spent the second half of Mass thinking about what would happen when the laundering got out of control, like a Ray Liotta in Goodfellas. I don't really have any interest in selling drugs, just the laundering aspect of it all. This could be problematic. It'd get bad when I'd find myself going up to people in Escalades who look like they didn't go to college, saying, "I swear, I'm no cop."

When the Mass ended, everyone around me looked so peaceful and self-assured. On the other hand, I left confused and still looking for answers. Is laundering in my future? How will I know if it's gotten out of hand? And most importantly, what happens if money laundering is not enough? Maybe, next week's service will bring me some creedence

Something I heard at a bar this week

"I'm going home and I'm going to google the shit out of AC Slater."

Kyle;

You have been seriously misled, child. I pity you.

I do want to clear the air, first. This is not a competition. However, it is absurd to suggest that Bach implies manliness more than the collection of men who represent Metallica. I intend to prove that definitively here, using some of the research I have been collecting in preparation for our experiment.

First, let's start where we can both agree. The generally-agreed upon model of the culmination of Manly is Clint Eastwood's character "The Man with No Name."

I believe you can find in which composer the most similarities lie:

It is clearly the gentleman with the banjo.

(can J.S. Bach play banjo? no?? Harpsichord, you say? Do you think that's what Wild Bill wants to hear while he's playing poker, or what Doc Holiday listens to while enjoying bourbon? no sir.)

I agree with you, that the ability to reproduce is indeed a quality possessed by top specimens of men. But do not confuse ability with action. James Hetfield is an "UltraMan" and as such prefers to sow his seed in a "non-traditional" fashion: effectively coating the back, bosom, abdomen, face and hair region, but never the birth canal. An UltraMan rarely makes a deposit of something so powerful into the custody of a woman!

Being an UltraMan has some disadvantages, as the men in Metallica are almost too fertile for their own good! They constantly run the risk of impregnating anyone around them.

(This has actually happened twice. The most recent time was when Lars Ulrich was checking his Yahoo! 360 profile and a woman in Australia was checking hers at the same time and became spontaneously pregnant with twins! Several hours later the twins (Duke and Vlad) chewed their way out of their prison and killed each other in a 4 day battle for dominance. The other time was in 1987 where a busboy in McKinney, Texas had to be administered emergency contraceptive after cleaning off a table where James Hetfield had just eaten a raw 68 oz. Porterhouse.)

Bach, on the other hand, not only foolishly claimed all of the children (likely all drama students), but he told his women that he loved them! Oddly enough, all of his children, save 1.5, were of very dark complexion. Let's take a look at some of Bach's ladies:

Ulga Boravinski: Ulga met Johann at the annual Sauerkraut Festival. She thought his rendition of Chopsticks was "majestic." She thoroughly impressed Johann when she won the Hammer Toss and gave him the first place prize: a live goat at the peak of sexuality and tastiness. The first night they met they played the olde tyme version of "Heart and Soul" into the early morning hours.

Gretta Heinsburg: A young temptress who seduced Bach during one of his visits to Berlin. He was powerless to stop her advances, for in addition to her stunning beauty, for years she studied the sexual arts in China. An UltraMan would have resisted and stayed loyal to his bearded wife, however, Johann succumbed to the powers of women and quickly (birthed 5 months after meeting her) had a child with her with ambiguous ethnicity and genitalia.

It's not your fault, Kyle. You're just naive. It's cute, actually. I wish I could still be as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as you.

Moving on. let me fill you in on some Metallica trivia:

• A similar experiment to the one you describe was performed with Metallica songs. Laboratory rats were exposed to "Seek and Destroy" for 24 hours (Released on Kill'em All on July 25th, 1983. It is not a coincidence that this is also known as Black July, when thousands of Sri Lankans were killed in a massacre after the initial spin of Metallica's new cuts). These rats quickly grew mullets and had unconsentual sexual intercourse with WNBA players.
  


• Chuck Norris applied to be the bass player in Metallica but was turned away due to lack of manliness. Lars called him a "pansy." aw dang!



• Metallica has inspired or invented 409 different things, including the barbed wire tattoo, chest hair, the handlebar mustache, beef jerky and scowling.



• J.S. Bach has never won a Grammy. the Grammy score is 1-nil in favor of Metallica.


• Pyrotechnics. Where's Bach at? 'Cause Metallica is bringin' it.
  

Johann Sebastian Bach is a wonderful composer, but he's a dandy. Metallica is a superior representation of Man.

oh, and one more thing...

RE: RE: An Auditory Experiment

Dear Brett,

I read with great disgust your mongoloid response to my brilliant blog post "An Auditory Experiment". So infantile and asinine were the ideas you expressed in that post that for several hours I suspected that you'd started our little experiment a week early!

For your information, I have not listened to Bach for 6 straight months; that is patent nonsense. My recent listening has mostly been limited to Tom Waits, The Flying Burrito Brothers and the Rolling Stones' brilliant album Let It Bleed. I have on occasion listened to a Bach keyboard fugue on YouTube, but nothing to the degree that you've suggested. One more fabrication and I will be contacting my attorney.

As to your "manliness theory", you may interested to learn that J.S. Bach fathered over 20 children that we know of with multiple women. The gentleman wasn't exactly shooting blanks, my friend. James Hetfield only has three children, two of which are rumored to be test tube babies.

You may also be interested to learn of an experiment that was conducted several years ago in which a tiny baby daffodil was exposed to the music of J.S. Bach for a period of 3 months. The result of the experiment speaks for itself:



J.S. Bach was a master at the art of counterpoint. As a musician, I'm sure you know that counterpoint is "the relationship between two or more voices that are independent in contour and rhythm, and interdependent in harmony". In layman's terms, Bach would write a melody, then decide that a single melody wasn't manly enough, so he would write another melody over the top of the original. But he wasn't stopping there - nay, his testicles were far too large for that. The fucking guy wrote four (four!!??) melodies that overlapped into one beautiful segue of testosterone-driven gonadal genius.

In a (most likely futile) effort to pry open your eyes to this beacon of masculinity, I have included a typical day in the life of Johann Sebastian Bach:

6:00 - wake up, consume bowl of grits and whiskey
7:00 - verbally abuse the maid/concubine for spilling the contents of his snuff box on his harpsichord
7:45 - kill and consume an antelope while mentally composing a Partita for violin
9:00 - scratch balls with left hand while playing monotonic scales with his right
10:00 - chew tobacco; spit
10:20 - beat 10 of his children
noon - eat a pig
1:00 - grow a mustache
2:00 - construct a clavichord out of the entrails of a vulture and an old rotting log
3:00 - attend a performance of his composition Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G Major; afterwards strangle the cellist for botching a note during the 2nd movement
6:00 - eat a cow
7:00 - rape a cow
8:00 - beat his other 10 children
10:00 - kick a horse
11:00 - climb a mountain; urinate off the summit
midnight - sleep on a cold hard slab of rock


yours in anger,

Kyle

Scene from St. Louis Nightlife

Scene: The Morgan Street Brewery on the Landing. My friends and I are quite inebriated and standing in line for the unisex bathroom.

Mad fly honeys approach. Two of them, significantly, are Asian. I am obsessed with Asian chicks. I decide that I must charm them.

The mad fly Asian honeys, using their wily Pacific charm, ask to go ahead of us. They assure us that they will not take long. There is general acquiescence among my group.

In an attempt to establish rapport, I ask the girls to confirm the fact that they aren't planning to use the toilet for defecation. Their responses run from "ewww" to "gross" to "girls don't poop -duh".

In an effort to rebut their last statement, I remind the honeys of a video called Two Girls One Cup. For those unaware of this video, it strongly suggests that girls do, in fact, poop.


The honeys respond with utter disgust at my wit. They eye me as if I am one of the inbred rapists from the movie Deliverance (in retrospect, maybe I should have commented on their "purdy mouths" and demanded that they "squeal like a pig".)

After using the restroom, they quickly retreat to a distance that leaves them physically unable to fellate me.

They win.

RE: An Auditory Experiment

I need to put my two cents in.



[blogger's note: there are several posts which will be coming soon, and I'm sure that our eager readers have been waiting for; including an update on the wrestling event, running in the St. Paddy's Day race, and other casual observations. HOWEVER, with this experiment being on a deadline, it's priority has been increased and has even resulted in me preparing for it during work hours.]

Concerning the April 2008 experiment that Kyle and I are conducting on ourselves, where he and I listen to nothing but Johann Sebastian Bach and Metallica, respectively, I would like to let everyone know where I stand before this all gets going. As I keep a journal of next month here on this blog, this might be my only related post where I am still in my right mind.

First, let me say that I am not a Metallica fan. I do not own any of their music, nor do I know much about their catalogue of music, other than I thought "Enter Sandman" was pretty badass when I was in junior high.

Kyle has listened to Bach on purpose in the past 6 months. Advantage Kyle. Bach represents the pinnacle of culture, while Metallica [might] represent the ugly underbelly.

However, a co-worker let me in on a secret: Metallica has a record where they play with an orchestra (culture?) and a record of cover tunes. Advantage Brett.

Let me say, though, that I believe in this experiment. I am whole-heartedly on board to be listening to Metallica for an entire month, soaking in the thrash-rock melodies and the raspy, angry vocals. I will know every lyric to every song, and make sure to take a dose of Metallica several times daily. I also would like to become an expert on the band, and you'll be sure to find me on the Metallica wikipedia page on the morn of April 1st.

However, there are some pressing issues that are concerning me:

1. Metallica is probably the most un-downloadable band in the history of the world, due to their cat fight with Napster. I must acquire all of my music before 4/1/08, and that means I'll probably have to spend a bunch of cash on Metallica. This is exactly what they wanted when they went after Napster. To capitalize on scientific experiments such as this one.
   

2. Sauerwein, I propose a new rule: to those not familiar with our experiment, we are not allowed to explain why we have chosen that music to listen to. Example:
   
   

   Mad fly honey: "Are you listening to Bach/Metallica? Why?"
   Suggested Response: "Because Bach/Metallica RULES!!"

3. Imagine this: A young vixen meets me somewhere in town. As she gets in my vehicle and turns on the music, she hears "Four Horsemen" playing on the stereo (which was obviously playing when I had pulled up alone). As a matter of fact, the only music found in my vehicle are recordings by Metallica. Back at my place, we sip on Boone's Farm and hear "One" to set the mood. When the timing is right, I put on "Nothing Else Matters" and things start heating up. At the most passionate moment all I can hear is James Hetfield singing "Don't Tread on Me."
   Is this acceptable??

4. How far will this go? Can we end the experiment halfway through (similar to the Stanford Prison Experiment) in the case that I start wearing Metallica Merchandise? Buying Metallica gear? Tattoos? Bedsheets (see #3)? Who will be the judge?

5. I want to wake up every morning with my clock radio screaming at me "GIVE ME FUEL, GIVE ME FIRE, GIVE ME THAT WHICH I DESIRE!" I also expect to see the biggest gains in my workouts during April 2008.

Reader, be wary! Although he didn't lie, Kyle misled you somewhat on what happens to a person who listens to nothing but Metallica. All of the symptoms he described in his hypothesis are indeed hazards associated with an endeavor like this one, but they are unlikely (except the loss of intelligence, that's pretty much real). The bulk of these symptoms, if they occur, do so as a side effect of one of the greatest miracles of Metallica:

I will become much more manly.

Look up "testosterone-fueled thrash metal" in the dictionary. If Metallica's insignia isn't the definition, then throw away your dictionary and buy a real one. Would you fight a Metallica fan? um...no way. Even if you could get him off of his Harley, the denim and beard is a powerful defense. not to mention that when Joe Metallica says he's going to "crack skulls," he's serious because he did it in the mosh pit at the Summer Sanitarium Tour in 1999.

It's making me want to arm-wrestle or hang sheet rock just thinking about it.

How many Bach fans have ever been in a mosh pit? Not to mention that there has never been a single case of a woman being so moved by J.S. Bach's tunes to show her mammary glands to onlookers. Sorry, Kyle, Bach has never stirred loins like good 'ole fashioned heavy metal guitar wankery; and Metallica is the king of it.

This is the alpha male dominance that allows only a Metallica Fan to be a heavy drug user while scalping hippies for the same reason.

Between the dates of April 1, 2008 and March 1, 2008, if anyone asks me what kind of music I listen to, or who my favorite band is, my reply will be simple:

"I'm a Metallica Man, through and through."

Watch out, Sauerwein! Even though your sweet little Bach has the ability to give you nice skin and significantly increase the size of your member (amazing!), I will become more masculine with every listen to "Master of Puppets." My primal urges will be invigorated, and accordingly my knowledge of battle tactics will improve with every spin of "Kill 'em All."

Will I be reduced to a brain-dead, Confederate Flag-waving idiot at the end of this? Maybe. But I'll be able to kill an deer from a moving ATV, build a motorcycle from scrap metal, and field dress roadkill.

This is a spiritual awakening, and Metallica is my Messiah.

An Auditory Experiment

VS.

Just today, my roommate Brett and I decided to perform an experiment (inspired by something Chuck Klosterman wrote and those experiments about the effects of heavy metal on plants).

For the month of April, Brett will listen exclusively to the rock band Metallica.

He will listen to Metallica while driving in his vehicle. He will listen to Metallica while engaged in coital pleasures. He will listen to Metallica while defecating.

If Brett should die in a car accident in April 2008, the last thing he will ever hear is the thumping beats of Lars Ulrich's drums hammering under James Hetfield's guttural growls (perfectly complemented, of course, by the snakelike bass lines of Ron McGovney, Cliff Burton, Jason Newstead, or Robert Trujillo).

This will go on until May 1.

Simultaneously, I will perform the same experiment, only I will listen exclusively to the Baroque composer Johann Sebastian Bach.

I will listen to Bach while running. I will listen to Bach while engaged in autoerotic activities. If I am suddenly possessed by a case of road rage, I will be forced to ram the other driver off the road to the contrapuntal strains of Bach's Fugue No. 4 in C-Sharp Minor.

Furthermore (and I am making this up as I go along), we are each required to read a biography of our artist during the month of April. Our subsequent book reports will be published on this blog.

Rules
1. the Honor System is in force.

2. music selections that are beyond our free will do not count against us. For example, if (hypothetically, of course) Ramsey frequents a bar in the month of April, he is allowed to listen whatever jukebox selection is playing; however, should he enter a selection, it is absolutely required that the artist be Metallica.

*note: the fact that Brett is also in a band complicates this somewhat. I've ultimately decided that Brett is also allowed to play drums for his band. However, for the purposes of this experiment I strongly suggest that the Hibernauts morph into a Metallica tribute band for one month.

3. Situations where Brett and I are listening to music together must be divided up equally, by day.

4. All music must be purchased by April 1. This creates an interesting dilemma: how many Metallica albums does Brett need to buy to get him through a month? How much J.S. Bach do I need to fill an entire month? To my knowledge, Brett currently owns zero Metallica albums and I own a mere pittance of one J.S. Bach CD (The Best Of Bach, which was purchased at Wal-Mart on a whim).


Hypothesis:

Brett and I are both middle-class white males in our mid-twenties. We share similar body types and somewhat similar lifestyles. We are both above average in health. We eat balanced diets. To my knowledge, each of us are free from all major sexually transmitted diseases.

I propose the following hypothesis: that on May 1, 2008, after 30 consecutive days of listening to Metallica, Brett Ramsey will be transformed into a Faulknerian idiot man-child: a quivering, twitching mass of hunchbacked retardation. I, on the other hand, will resemble Nietzsche's Übermensch : tall, strong-backed, and bursting with vigorous health, energy, and vitality. My smile will light up the room. Brett will be unable to open his mouth without spewing green mucus-vomit all over himself.

By May 1, I will average one solid fibrous bowel movement per day. On the contrary, Brett Ramsey's fecal activities will be constant and resemble the Asian tsunamis of 2004.

To the right is a picture of Brett Ramsey's digestive system reacting to his brazen attempt to eat a small cup of rice for breakfast.

The honeys that I consort with will be, in general, mad fly. They will possess large, hyperactive mammary glands. They will have wide, child-bearing hips. Their youthful, unlined skin will suggest many years of reproductive potential.

On the other hand, the only honeys that Brett will manage to obtain will be, I'm afraid, quite wack. They may even have big arms.

I also hypothesize that after 30 days of Metallica, Brett Ramsey will become a total fucking mouth-breather.



Below I have included theoretical pictures of the May 1 versions of Brett Ramsey and myself.



Brett Ramsey's posture has deteriorated significantly.








As you can see, after 30 days of listening to the melodies of J.S. Bach, I show a marked improvement in physical size, muscle tone, and pubic plumage. Most significantly, my phallic length has increased tenfold.




We will begin posting updates on our conditions in April, provided that Ramsey retains enough hand-eye coordination and functional intelligence to even operate a computer.




Hopefully, we can all learn something from this. Let it begin.

Spiders

I killed a spider at work a couple weeks ago. It was hanging over this woman's desk and she started freaking out. Being the nearest male in the vicinity, I took action. I grabbed a tissue and squashed the hell out of the spider.

I've probably fought 100 spiders in my life. My record? 100-0. I've never even come close to losing a fight against a spider. My dominance is uncanny. I've never trained as a fighter. I'm not especially big or strong. I haven't even been in a fistfight since 5th grade. Yet spiders are unable to defeat me.

It's really pretty impressive when you consider a few facts:
1. spiders have 8 legs, while I have merely 2.
2. spiders can spin webs. I am unable to do so.
3. spiders are known predators, while I buy my food at Shop 'n Save

It all comes down to a few small advantages that I exploit:
1. I am bigger than spiders
--I stand nearly 6'1 and weigh 190 pounds. Most spiders I fight are less than two inches in diameter. Their weight I can only guess at, but let's assume for practical purposes that it's less than mine. This gives me a tremendous advantage. I am able to use my 72 inch wingspan to keep the spider at bay. In addition, I can hold a spider down with my bodyweight, and in the process crush most of its internal organs.
2. I am quicker than spiders
--Were I to race a spider in a 100 yard dash, I believe you would find me winning fairly easily. In addition, I have quicker reflexes than spiders (honed from years of playing table tennis).
3. I am stronger than spiders
--I lift weights and do bodyweight exercises 3 times per week. I do full-body workouts that focus on stamina and explosiveness as well as strength. This allows me to pick up spiders and control them. My strength allows me to occasionally throw them or crush them. My strength advantage is a huge benefit when battling spiders.
4. I am more intelligent than spiders
--I have a college degree, which allows me to formulate advanced strategies and tactics before I engage in combat. Spiders, on the other hand, are quite foolish. Most of my fights are won mentally before they even begin. For example, let's examine my latest fight with a spider. As previously noted, I defeated the spider by crushing him in less than 10 seconds. My intelligence and college degree allowed me to quickly devise a plan: I grabbed a tissue so I wouldn't get any spider guts on my hands, took 3 quick steps toward the spider, and crushed his body between my tissue covered fingers. I think you'll have to agree that my strategy was far superior than the spider's strategy of "hanging there like a stupid insect".

Entourage Needed

After much meditation and quiet contemplation I have discovered the source of the eternal bleakness of my soul.

I lack an entourage.

In a city as hip and happening as St. Louis, the lack of an entourage is comparable to the lack of one or more appendages in the jungle. Without an entourage, one will quickly be eaten alive in the wild (i.e Club Buca) and unable to spread his genes through mating.

I have not mated for many moons.

Therefore, I seek an entourage. More specifically, I seek persons to fill the following roles:

Hype Man
The Hype Man is responsible for hyping me. For example, when I enter a room, my Hype Man's job will be to state, loudly, that "Kyle S is inside the house, you all".

My Hype Man is also responsible for giving me mad props for anything I do that is remotely admirable.

In addition, whenever I verbally punk a gentleman, my Hype Man must place his left hand over his mouth and make a gang signal with his right hand. While performing these actions, my Hype Man must make a noise that sounds like "ohhhh, damn son".

Furthermore, whenever I defeat a foe at hand-to-hand combat, my Hype Man must inform my fallen victim that he has, in fact, been whupped yo.

Lastly, if Lou Dobbs attacks my position on NAFTA, my Hype Man must clearly and succinctly state my current views on the issue.








Muscle
The Muscle is responsible for dispatching punks and foes that I randomly encounter. The Muscle has several requirements: they must wear sunglasses at all times, they must be able to deadlift over 700 lbs, and they must have criminal records. Most importantly, they must at all times sport stoic expressions while folding their arms across their chests.

The Muscle is required to create situations such as the one pictured at a minimum of 3 times per night.

If I am verbally assaulted by a player-hater, the Muscle is responsible for breaking the offender's fibula into many pieces. Depending on the severity of the insult, the Muscle may also be required to assault the said offender's metatarsals.




Cut Man
My Cut Man is responsible for the prevention and treatment of any cuts that I may sustain.

The Cut Man must be over 60 years. He must have a trashy tattoo on his forearm. He is also required to smell like onions and wear sleazy silk shirts.

That's about it, as far as that goes.

Sound Man
My Sound Man is responsible for providing the proper beats (i.e. phat beats) for specific occasions. If, for example, I am engaged in a rap battle with a young upstart, my Sound Man must spin the correct beats. If I am embroiled in coitus with a mad fly honey, my Sound Man must provide the proper beats to complement the rhythm of my monkey-thrusting.

Should I frequent an establishment that already provides the necessary phat beats, my Sound Man must wait outside.





Please send your resume/references to ksauerwein@charter.net.