NNAOPP June 2013 Update

On Father's Day weekend Judy and I attended the 40th annual Conklin Classic, my 17th appearance.  It began in 1973 when Fred Conklin, then a recent Coe College graduate (Cedar Rapids, IA), invited a few of his fraternity brothers (Lambda Chi Alpha) living in the Chicago area to get together for a golfing weekend.  Over time, fraternity brothers started coming from as far away as Seattle, Washington, DC, Long Island, Scottsdale, Minneapolis, Knoxville, and Des Moines. The event has been held every year since in a variety of venues, mostly in the upper Midwest.

After a few years, kids started arriving, and the Conklin became a family event, with golf continuing as the draw that kept the group gathering year after year.  Now some of those kids, who earlier earned dollars for delivering beers to the perpetual poker players, have returned as young adults.  Eight of the twenty-four golfers at this year's Classic were sons, daughters, and sons-in-laws of founding members. 

The opening line in one of their fraternity songs that is sung a the drop of a hat, is, "We're all good fellows.  Each one the other's friend, and we'll be good fellows until our days shall end."  And it's true.  They are a bunch of very good fellows.  It was my good fortune to gain access to this delightful group through my brother Bill, a Coe College LXA.  I continued to be re-invited, largely due to my willingness to throw money into the "closest to the pin" contests knowing full well my odds of winning are roughly equal to getting lucky with Cheryl Tiegs.  Bill and I have consistently filled the "D" slots in the four-man team selections, owing to the modesty of our skills.

Like any group of people in their mid to late 60's, most everyone has experienced their share of triumphs and tragedies.  Four of the regulars have passed away, including Fred's son Brian who died while still in his young twenties of cystic fibrosis.  Sky and Big Ed both died unexpectedly of heart attacks, and Pete's wife, Carol, died of lung cancer, having never smoked a day in her life.  All passed at way too young an age, and they were honored at this year's event in a funny and poignant video prepared by the crew's resident wit.

There are few stories that haven't already been heard more than a few times.  But they are still funny and fun when told crisply and with gusto.  One of my favorites follows:

Mary Ann is one of the kindest, gentlest people I've ever met.  She's petite, very pretty, uncommonly quiet, and possesses a winning smile and calm disposition.  Keep these characteristics in mind as the story unfolds.

Mary Ann was 7-months pregnant with their second child.  She and Don had just returned from a Sunday dinner at her Mom's house, and she was not happy.  From her telling, Don made no attempt to disguise his ennui at having to waste a perfectly good Sunday afternoon with his mother-in-law.  Few words were exchanged during the Arctic ride home. When they returned to their small abode, Mary Ann angrily tossed her purse onto a hallway table knocking the lamp it held onto the floor, and then stormed into their bedroom.

Don had replaced the lamp and said, "You're lucky that lamp still works.  You could have broken it."  Then he walked out the front door en route to his second job.

Mary Ann had changed into a nightgown for comfort, but she was still steaming.  She came out the front door and onto the porch so attired, with the lamp in her hand.  Mid-way to his car, Don turned to see the bronze beacon flying his way, tossed by his mightily peeved 105-lb wife.  And he heard her exclaim.

"See if it works now!"

Don wisely returned to the house to make amends.

We had all heard the story many times, but laughed as heartily on this telling as we had upon the first.   Don and Mary Ann's marriage survived this episode and continue living happily ever after in Appleton, WI, and they recently celebrated the arrival of their first great grandchild.  Mary Ann noted that Don is still a work in progress and occasionally requires some coaching.

I received over 40 responses from faithful readers to last month's request for comments on the "Nude Nuns" title.  All but three replied with something to the effect, "Stick with Nude Nuns, it's part of the book's limited charm."  Two said, "Change the name."  One said, "Move on to something new.  Get a life."  I'll noodle on this.

And that's the news from here.

Chuck

May Update

NNAOPP Update

May 2013

A few weeks ago I encountered a lady I hold in high regard.  A month earlier she asked me to participate in an event.  It was a request I was reluctant to grant for reasons of no interest to anyone, so I stalled and mumbled rather than give a definitive answer.  She greeted me warmly then said, "You were crawfishing on me about that program weren't you?"  Up to that moment I had not heard crawfishing used as a verb, and I complimented her on her wordsmithing.  Then we proceeded to tell each other our favorite crawfishing stories.  Here's mine:

In our younger days we regularly participated in our annual company canoe trip held on the North Fork of the White River south of Ava, MO, aka county seat of Booger County, just north of the Arkansas line.   It was a family event, and we would always include our little ones.   One year when Ben was about 7 and Lucy was 12, we were floating down the river and stopped at a gravel bar to wait for our group to re-form.  Ben was playing on the riverbank and trying to pick up crawdads.  He would get one, then it would wriggle out of his hands.  Lucy would have nothing to do with the little critters.  To allay her concerns I picked one up at its waist and held it up for the kids to investigate.  They looked on with curiosity.

The crawdad's pincers were frantically trying to find a target, and Lucy sagely commented, "That would really hurt if it pinched you."

Then in one of the top ten dumbest things I'd done up to that point in time, I assured her there was nothing to worry about.  I told her, "Don't worry, their little pincers are lined with velvet pads, just like the inside of a jewelry box."  I held my index finger close to demonstrate their limited range of attack.  Whereupon the creature clamped down on the proffered digit, and it was assuredly not a velvet padded pinch.  I yelped in an unmanly fashion and flicked my assailant as far as I could throw it.

Other than Ben's recurring nightmares about killer crabs, the incident was a small price to pay in exchange for a lasting family memory.  "Yes, Dad was indeed a moron."

Last week we helped Lucy get all the kids bathed and ready for bed after 4-year old granddaughter Waverly's first tee-ball practice.  Waverly was in her pj's, and I told her I would read her one book before bedtime.  Predictably, she selected a compendium just slightly shorter than Dr. Zhivago.    She snuggled beside me and halted me before I began.  Then she launched into the following soliloquy:  "Papa, I've got bad news to share with you.  Did you know that my great, great, great, great, great, great, (the little tyke is a gifted staller), great, great, great, great, great grandmother is dead?  She was even older than you."  Ouch!

I shared this little vignette with Lucy, and she lent some context.  Apparently Lucy had recently introduced Waverly to the concept of ancestors, including those who might have traveled west in covered wagons.

Last night I ran into a friend who is an independent movie producer.  He asked me how the book sales were going, and I told him they had slowed to a trickle.  He comforted me by noting, "The book racket is a bitch. Movies are a hard sell, but nothing compared to books."  I told him I was considering re-releasing the book with a new title eliminating the reference to Nude Nuns, about which I've received a bit of negative feedback.  He said, "No, that's a waste of time.  What you really need to do is change your name.  It's your extreme nobodyism that's killing you.  I believe John Updike is available.  He's dead and can't sue."

I'm thinking something a little more exotic might work.  That's the news from here.

Boris Pasternak

p.s.  In spite of my friend's advice, I am still contemplating re-releasing the book with a new title sans the reference to nude nuns.  I'd welcome any ideas you might have.  If I subsequently use your suggestion, it's good for your choice of a free lunch, a round of golf, or a pledge from me to leave you alone for a year

April Update

NNAOPP Update

April 2013

A few weeks ago I was riding my bike back to our condo on a sunny day after shopping at the Sunday morning farmer's market.  I stopped at a roadside lemonade stand operated by three kids.  I made my purchase and chatted with the two fourth grade boys and the five-year-old sister of one of the boys.

I know their ages because the little girl asked me to guess hers.  I offered, "Seven", and she said, "No you silly! I'm only five!"  I then asked them to guess my age, and they eagerly examined my facial features and said, "42." I'm sure it would have been bad form to adopt them at that time, but that is what passed through my mind.  I told them my real age, and one of the boys said, "I wouldn't mind being old someday, just not too soon."  I thought to myself that the lad is wise beyond his years.

He asked me what I did for a living and then said, "No, wait! Let me guess."  Apparently business was slow, and it appeared to be a good day for making guesses.  He opined, "I'll bet you're an audio engineer, and you work in a studio."  He continued, "Did you know they have a contest for whoever invents the best tasting potato chip flavor?  And do you know what won?  Waffles! Can you imagine that?  The prize was one million dollars.  That's what I want to be when I grow up."  Another Clark Griswold in the making.

He was in an expansive mood so he went on to tell me that his Mom was a writer, and then quickly listed her many titles.  I told them that strange as it might seem, I too was a writer.  They inquired further, and I told them that I had just completed a draft of a children's book aimed at kids age 3-6 called The Little Magic Princess Girl.  I told them it was about a little girl who could swim in the sea like a tuna fish and flitter in the sky like a chickadee and who lived on Sanibel Island.  The 5-year-old appeared genuinely interested and said, "I think I would like that book." 

Now that my market research is complete, I may just proceed with this new venture and engage the services of an illustrator.  I bid adieu to the little tykes and pedaled out of their lives forever.

It's tick season at the farm, so I've taken a new precaution against the noxious critters based on an article sent by a friend indicating they most often invade your personhood from the ground.  I tuck my pants leg into my socks then wrap the seam with duct tape with the adhesive side out.   Clearly style points are conceded with this arrangement as my pants legs blouse out well above the top of my boot offering a look few nonpareil nerds could match.  My bowleggedness was helpful in keeping my ankles from sticking together.

I drove into Lawrence so attired along with my Big Smith bib overalls, Red Wing steel toed work boots, and Stihl day-glo ball cap to buy fuel.  As I entered the front door of the store to pay, I received a friendly and polite nod from a pretty young lady who was passing the other way.  Then, her gaze strayed downward towards my duct taped fashioned knickers, and her demeanor changed to an uncomfortable, pitiable glare, and she quickened her pace away from me.  All I was lacking was an aluminum foil hat.

I just returned from an NNAOPP speaking engagement at the Springfield (MO) chapter of Mature Learners, hosted by my alma mater, Drury College.  I didn't exactly know what to expect, but it seemed fairly certain that Mature Learners is a euphemism for really old people.  Much to my surprise, I surveyed the audience and found most of them younger than I, indicating a need on my part to recalibrate my thinking about the definition of really old.  The event went reasonably well, and I sold 13 copies and received an invitation to return to speak at a local book club.

Sales are now at 1,233, and I'm still plugging away.  Thanks again to all of you who wrote a kind word on www.goodreads.com and for your indulgence as I continue my shameless huckstering.  

March Update

March 2013

My sister Sally came to visit us in Florida last week.  She's an adventuresome gal and can always be counted on to get us out of our routines.  One of her many passions is to bathe in the multitude of hot springs scattered throughout the country, and she possesses a two-volume guide to such spas. 

So we trekked to nearby North Port, FL and went swimming in the Warm Mineral Springs National Park.  The park lore maintains that it is the original Fountain of Youth discovered by Ponce de Leon in 1521 prior to his untimely death from a poison dart launched by the Calusa Indians near the now-named Charlotte Harbor.

We soaked and swam in the 87-degree geothermically-warmed waters that tumble out of a 3-acre, 240' deep sinkhole.  We quickly observed that we were in a minority as English speakers.  We were accompanied by a bevy of hefty, hirsute Russian women, although they could just have easily been Estonians.  Eye candy they were not, but they were mighty fine floaters.

While waiting for Sally and Judy as we were preparing to leave, I overheard a couple of older (as defined by being more wrinkly than me) ladies comparing notes.  One of them exclaimed,  "I've been coming here for years, and I'm convinced this really works."  After a quick glance I can pretty well attest that it doesn't, although I uncharacteristically kept my thoughts to myself.  I left in as wizened a condition as when I arrived.  Maybe it requires multiple treatments.

I just returned from banjo camp with a heavily-reinforced dose of humility.  It's amazing how many unheralded, yet phenomenal banjo players inhabit our fair land.  On the plus side, I find that my left pinkie is getting stronger and can now stretch four frets from the index.  This is my version of progress.

I was visiting with a woman on a flight back to KC, and saw an opening to huckster my book, when she stopped me in mid-sentence and said,  "Do you know John Richmond?"

I said, "Of course, there's a chapter in the book called Albany John, and that's none other than John Richmond?"

She said, "I'm from Albany, MO, and I've heard of that book.  I'll give it a look."

If only I were doing as well in New York, but alas I'm not.

A few weeks ago I read an article in the WSJ about a self-published science-fiction novel Wool that went viral and subsequently sold hundreds of thousands of electronic copies.  Publishers are now bidding for the rights for a paper version. The author noted that the key to getting exposure was an accumulation of positive reviews posted on http://www.goodreads.com.  The book received over a thousand reviews with an average rating of 4.8 (on a scale of 5). 

Goodreads is a great place to see what others are reading and to share your favorites.  Odd as it may seem, NNAOPP has now been rated by four readers, all giving it five stars.  Any kind words or ratings you might post would be greatly appreciated.

Sales are now at 1,206 (I had to add the comma to make it look like a larger number).  I remain unsuccessful at finding an agent, but I got a call from my brother saying neighbors of friends of his wife's sister's hairdresser really enjoyed the book.  This development keeps me going.

Warmly,

Chuck

Mardi Gras 2013

Mardi Gras 2013

Below is a photo of our crew of antediluvian Mardi Gras regulars as we emerged from dinner Saturday night at Arnaud's.  I had arrived directly from the airport accounting for the presence of my luggage.  The young lady who took the photo queried, "What's in the suitcase gramps?  Oxygen?" Having been suitably humbled, we were off and running.

 

 

Earlier that afternoon, the TSA-driver's-license-checking-guy at the airport glanced up at me, and said in a dull monotone, "It appears you are who you are." As I passed, I muttered, "It would certainly be a bitch if I weren't."

My flight arrived at Louis Armstrong Airport about 20 minutes early, which was pleasing.  I caught a cab with no wait, so all was going well until my knuckleheaded cab driver dropped me off 8 blocks distant from Arnaud's.  I knew he missed the correct turn when we passed the Super Dome on my left rather than on my right.  Worse, I was on the wrong side of Canal Street, which at that very moment was hosting the Endymion parade that follows a horseshoe shaped route through the central business district. I was in the middle of the horseshoe.  The parade's path was lined by steel barricades behind which throngs of humanity were stacked 10+ deep.  I called my host, now situated comfortably at the bar at Arnaud's, to describe my dilemma.  As the crow flies I was about 200 yards from my destination, but I was no crow.  He comforted me by noting, "You're screwed.  Endymion is a huge parade that goes on forever. Definitely avoid going upstream, as that will take you to some very bad parts of town."

I navigated downstream with the flow of the parade, pulling my roller bag and was quickly reminded why we never go to parades.  A few times I tried to get up to the barriers, but people wouldn't give an inch. I spotted a lady on a ladder and asked if she knew of any crossing points.  She told me of such a spot about 1/2 mile farther away from my destination, and I was off. The sidewalk afforded but one lane of traffic, so it was slow going. The lady was correct, and I found the intersection where the police let people scurry across at 30-minute intervals.  I waited patiently until the allotted time, crossed through the tuba section of the LSU band, and eventually made my way across Canal into the French Quarter.

The detour around the parade cost me over an hour and added a couple of miles of hiking through a stew of beads, confetti, spilt beer, and Lord knows what human detritus, but I finally arrived at Arnaud's, an elegant oasis of civility where I was cordially greeted by friends and the highly professional staff. 

Charles, the maitre de extraordinaire, came to the table to take our drink orders and then returned with lagniappe he had personally prepared to take the edge off our appetites while we enjoyed our beverages.  The dish he presented was a generous portion of chilled shrimp, cut into small pieces, blended with chopped, crisp yellow bell peppers, parsley, cilantro, olive oil, salt and pepper.  The simple dish comprised of fresh ingredients was ever so tasty.  Unpleasant thoughts of the previous hour's adventure receded quickly.

After dinner we headed to Patrick's Bar Vin, a very elegant wine bar recently opened by our eponymous friend.  Patrick greeted us warmly, brought us a fine bottle of wine and introduced us to some interesting people, including a travel writer who was checking out his place.  She was overwhelmingly unimpressed when I told her of my own meager efforts with the pen and expressed nary a molecule of interest in NNAOPP.  She haughtily explained, as though speaking to an auditorium full of rapt listeners, "Everyone says they want to be a travel writer, but it's like saying, 'I want to be a movie star.' You'll get over it." 

We returned to our quarters in the Quarter around 1 pm and were pleasantly surprised to observe swarms of young people out at that hour.  I encountered two college-aged couples from the NYC area who were sitting on our doorstep.  We chatted for a bit, and one of the guys said, "You'll never guess what I do for a living?" and he was right.  He then told me he was a professional pickler, which prompted me to share with him my ancient past life as a pickle magnate wannabe with the DeGraffenreid Pickle Company.  It's truly a small world when pickle(d) people can come together.

The forecast was for rain on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, but fortunately it was warm on Sunday, with no rain.  We were joined on the balcony by KC friends of one of our crew, including two young couples in their 30's.  The ladies quickly established themselves as cunningly skilled bead for boob traders.  Our efforts paled in comparison, so we just stood back and let our attractive guests work their magic.

After observing nine Mardi Gras's one would think you've pretty well seen it all.  Not so.  Mid-afternoon we saw two young ladies promenading beneath our balcony attired only in G-strings and a few strokes of body paint, one of whom was eight months pregnant.  This undoubtedly served as a useful anatomy lesson for the children present.

We paid close attention to a large black man apparently costumed to look like a menacing, homeless man with disheveled clothing.  His hair appeared to have been styled with electric-chair-juice, and he held a sign saying, "Shitty Advice $1."  This is truly a testament to absolute truth in advertising.

On Sunday, after a stroll around the Quarter, I returned by walking past our balcony and observed that Patrick was visiting along with a large, dark haired woman I didn't recognize.  When I entered the apartment I realized it was our transgender acquaintance.  She greeted me warmly as I walked out on the balcony and said, "Remember me?"

"Of course."  And she gave me a big hug, indicating she hadn't read my book.  Since she is substantially bigger, younger, and stronger than I, she might have first thrashed me and then thrown my bloodied carcass off the balcony in repayment for my unkind portrayal.  I almost felt badly after her gracious greeting, but quickly recovered.  As they were leaving, Patrick, the mischievous scamp, suggested he might share his copy of NNAOPP with his companion, insuring a future, unpleasant encounter.

We dined at Mr. B's Bistro on Sunday night and were served by a remarkably enthusiastic server, Len.  In addition to enjoying a fabulous meal, perhaps even better than the night before at Arnaud's, Len regaled us with funny tales all told with enthusiasm.

The evangelists were out in full force preaching to the accumulation of sinners.  Fortunately, they weren't using microphones and weren't too much of a distraction.  I did notice one noteworthy addition to their banners listing the various classes of miscreants who are doomed to eternal damnation.  This year, church gossips were added to masturbators, fornicators, adulterers, abortionists, Muslims, Catholics, Baptists, and a lengthy list bound to include most everyone.

From our balcony I espied a woman dressed (using the term loosely) as a nun.  She wore a standard wimple and veil covering her head, but was topless with small painted black crosses serving as tiny pasties.  I ordinarily don't take photos, but would have made an exception in this case, as I was thinking this would make a perfect posting for my blog www.nudenuns.blogspot.com.  The site would no longer disappoint the porn seekers from the United Arab Emirates who occasionally visit.  Sadly, she was walking briskly, and I didn't get a chance to capture the moment.

On MG afternoon I took my normal stroll around the French Quarter taking in the sites, sounds, and smells.  I kept running into a guy with an elaborate costume dressed like the Pope.  He made himself noticed by flipping people the bird, and greeted all passersby who glanced at him with a non-Pope-like, "f___off."  One guy shouted at him, "I thought you retired."  Predictably the Pope replied, "f___off." 

We went to Patrick's Bar Vin every evening before and after dinner for fellowship.  Before packing it in on Lundi Gras evening we walked by Pat O'Brien's and stopped to admire the work product coming out of the body-painting kiosk across the street.  I chatted with a pretty young lady who was rightfully proud of her unclad, but painted, torso.  She told us that she was a member of the KOE (Krewe of Elvis) and was eagerly looking forward to their upcoming parade.  She said, "Look for me, I'll be dressed like Elvis." From our vantage point we could see the naked back of a whale-sized woman in the process of being artistically altered.  In an uncharacteristic display of cattiness, I asked the young lady, "Do you think they charge more for circus-tent-sized paint jobs?" 

She said, "That's my Mom!"  And it was.

Is this a great country or what?

Chuck

Charles A. Wells, Jr.

3317 W. 68th Street

Shawnee Mission, KS 66208

816 289-1924

cbjwells@sprynet.com

Author of: Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People

Now available in all ebook formats at:  http://www.smashwords.com/b/96530

and in print and Kindle format at  http://www.amazon.com

Follow my blog at: http://www.nudenuns.blogspot.com

Available at:

  Rainy Day Books, 2706 W. 53rd Street, Fairway, KS

  The Raven Bookstore, 8 East 7th, Lawrence, KS

  Architectural Salvage, 2045 Broadway, Kansas City, MO

  Sanibel Island Bookshop, 1571 Periwinkle, Sanibel, FL

  Twisted Sisters Eclectic Gifts and Floral, Albany, MO

  Bruce Smith Drug Store, Prairie Village, KS 

Banjo destiny

NNAOPP Update

January 2013

I regret having to report that I've once again delayed my yacht order, as Christmas sales of NNAOPP were insufficient to warrant proceeding with this ostentatious aspiration.  However, the New Year has offered a glimmer of hope for untold riches, but from a new and unexpected direction.

This past weekend we arrived in Sanibel, FL.  We were going to meet friends in Naples for dinner, so Judy planned to stop at a Wal-Mart Super Center to provision.  Her instructions were precise and brusque, "I need an hour, don't bother me."  So I decided to take my banjo along for a little practice session.  I found an isolated spot in the huge parking lot, pulled my treasured Ome open back out of the car, and contentedly plucked away.  Amazingly, I collected $2.25 from passersby who threw dollar bills and coins into my case.  The first coin tosser caught me by surprise, but I thanked him. Once the case was salted, others seemed to just follow suit. Next time I won't shave and will skip the Naples dining attire and go with more of a Bo Jangles look, adding even more luster to my nascent career in the arts.

Mardi Gras is coming soon, so I'm now faced with a conundrum:  Dare I dress in bedraggled garb, sit on a pickle barrel, and pluck like there is no tomorrow in the hope of earning funds sufficient for one Hurricane?  Or should I stand on our balcony at Royal and St. Peter, drink a cold bottle of Abita, and shower future Miss Alabamas with beads?  Hmmm?

I'm still waiting anxiously from word from the NYC book agent.  The good news is that I didn't immediately receive a rejection letter.  Sales of NNAOPP are now at 1,190. If you encounter a wizened man playing banjo on a nearby street corner, throw him a few coins.

May nothing but good tidings come your way in 2013.

Warmest regards,

Chuck

Merry Christmas

NNAOPP Christmas 2012

Merry Christmas To All,

Before this picture was taken, Granddaughter Waverly told her Mom, "I will go, but I won't sit on his lap, and I don't want him to hug me."  Finn was perplexed, but went along with the Norman Rockwell drill that American parents have imposed upon their children for generations.  Charlie, however, chose to articulate his feelings with bold action.

Waverly, 3, Finn, 2, (red shirt) and Charlie, 2, (green pants) Coulson.

We're fortunate to live about one mile from Lucy, Fred, and their little ones and to be able to be a part of their lives.  After being thanked by Fred for a recent babysitting tour of duty, I replied, "No need to thank us.  Your kids are the most interesting people I know.  It's a great pleasure to spend time with them.  I'd do this even if you didn't ply us with wine."

After our Milford Track - NNAOPP update one reader responded with the admonition, "You are beyond shameless.  My Amway neighbors are rank amateurs in contrast!"  Another thoughtful reader noted, "If you have any self-respect, any at all, even just a smidgen, you must lose that gay knit cap covering your head in those photos.  Surely a more comely covering can be found."  Thanks to all who take the time to read my endless stream of drivel and respond in kind.

A new friend with a background in publishing told me, "Selling 1,185 books out of the 'trunk of your car' is fairly impressive, but you need a publisher if you want your book to reach a wider audience.  But it's also true that you need an agent in order to have any chance at finding a real publisher."  He gave me the names of two literary agents that I will be contacting.   I'll keep you posted as the saga continues.

I hope the year has been good to everyone and that the joy of the Christmas season finds a home in your heart.  Like most everyone with a few years under our belts, we've experienced the loss of loved ones, and many of those near and dear are afflicted with serious and limiting health issues.  My heart aches for those who are suffering and in need.  My Christmas wish for all is that you find the strength to manage life's burdens and savor the many wonders that surround us. May the New Year bring good health and a good cheer.

Merry Christmas to all my Christian friends.  Happy Hanukah to my Jewish friends.   And to my agnostic and atheist friends, I hope you enjoy the non-sectarian-winter-holiday-featuring-excessive-gift-exchanges.

Chuck