What Color Is Your Tennis Ball?

Open almost any newspaper, watch a Democratic Presidential debate, or scan a college course catalog and you are sucked into diatribes on white privilege, income inequality, “learned experience,” and reparations, Of course this somehow forgets that this country has moved so far ahead on race relations that it elected a black man as President. Twice. I was told, however, there was still an outpost of oppression flagrantly displaying itself every two weeks in, of all places, Flushing, Queens. Thus off the island of Manhattan I went to take in the US Open tennis tournament.

Let’s face it: tennis, like golf, is a country club sport. Rooted as a pastime for moneyed elites to get a social workout and local bragging rights at Ivy League colleges or country clubs, the sport has never been about, or for, the masses. While boasting the largest tennis stadium in the world, the grounds are hardly a paragon of equity. Sure you can wander the outer courts in the early rounds and see some top-20 players up close and personal. But the only way to see Roger Federer or Serena Williams without binoculars or a $1,500 courtside ticket is to hang onto the practice court fencing and contort your body in unnatural ways. Taking the Number 7 rush hour subway to the tournament is good warm up.

Unlike country clubs, there is no genteel signing the chit for your refreshments, probably because country clubs would be embarrassed at what the Open charges. Moet champagne is available for $25. A glass. Souvenir t-shirts run $48 each. Walking around, my wife casually mentioned that the woman next to us was wearing $900 sneakers. Income inequality in this context is measured by which color Amex you use, with green being a laughable entry-level fob.

Race, in its own way, towers over the place in the form of Arthur Ashe Stadium. It is both monument to and reminder of a black man from the segregated south rising to the greatest professional heights of this very white sport. And yet looking around the fans and the player draws last week, the faces still showed up as nearly all white. The fact remains that the road to tennis fame comes through practice time on courts, coaching, and tournament travel. These things cost money, lots of money, year after year, and that demographic does not skew to the minority community here or abroad. But in this year's first round, one match showed how simply going out and playing, no matter your race or background, can move a crowd and inspire others.

The last of our day session matches featured Russian Anastasia Potapova and American Coco Gauff in Louis Armstrong Stadium. Anastasia, at the age of 18, is one in a long line of taller Russian blonds. Coco is a short but athletic 15 with a youthful face that barely registers that old and, in contrast to the rest of this narrative, 100% black. The stadium has two levels-the bottom for ticket holders where we were sitting without much company and the upper deck open seating. Up top was filled with a line waiting to get in, so even by US Open standards you knew something was going on.

The tennis itself was about what you would expect from two unranked teenagers. Potapova whacked at each shot with all the force she could muster in a style that could be best described as Maria Sharipova without the athletic gifts but all the grunting. Gauff had solid ground strokes, but not yet the power behind them. As the match progressed, Coco’s playmaking and use of the court’s angles showed a more mature understanding of the game within the game. Unforced errors abounded, challenges to line calls frequent, and net play a mere accident of a short baseline return. In cold war fashion, the players split the first two sets, setting up a final set showdown.

It was at this time the lower level started to fill up, and not with usual crowd. Almost every new spectator in the seats was black—some in pairs, a few groups of female friends, and the occasional single straggler. One of these fans was a concession stand grill cook in her chef’s hat and apron. As the last set progressed and the players changed sides, the cook left, walking up the aisle smiling, holding her smart phone tight like a trophy. The final few games were a raucous affair with the crowd cheering on Coco’s every winning shot. Gauff won the match and the place shook with delirious cheers.

It was then I finally I understood why the cook was smiling and didn’t even need to see the end of the match. In a sea of whiteness she saw the future and had its picture on her phone. The future was chirpy, young, and talented. The future had infinite promise. The future was proudly black.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.

I’ll Have A White House, And Make It A Double

With the summer in full swing and a presidential election over a year away, Americans are focused on the annual rituals of playing at the beach, watching bad reality TV, and enjoying a cold beer on a hot afternoon. That is unless you are a Democrat running for President, and then you are taking that beer way too seriously. In fact this may be the first election requiring a 12-step chaser.

This all came to light from, of all places, Facebook. For those who know me (and surely what doesn’t Facebook know about me by now), I am the least likely target for Democratic fundraisers. But there it was on my timeline, Sen. Kirsten Gillibrand with her hand raised attempting a beer pong throw. Wait, what? The graphic morphs into the question, “Will you give Kirsten $1 if she makes the shot?” and then the final images of her crushing the successful throw. Puzzled at this episode of Senators Behaving Badly I returned to my timeline where yet another ad appeared. This time Gillibrand proclaimed she enjoyed a whiskey at the end of evening, and a one dollar donation gave me the chance to join her for a drink on the campaign trail. Surely this was some sendup for The Real Housewives of Upstate New York. What on earth was going on here? Was this some fake video or Comedy Channel promotion?

Turns out this was all legit. In order for Democratic candidates to advance to the next round of debates, each had to raise money from at least 130,000 people. A donation of at least $1 counts, hence the lowball ask and even lower-quality video production values. Of course if you want to see specialists of asking for a buck at work, just head to the land of presidential candidate and Mayor of New York City Bill DeBlasio. We’ll pause here so you can stop laughing at the notion of the DeBlasio candidacy. Every Manhattan street corner now has a beggar with a paper cup and some tale of woe that asks for a dollar, and the Dems could learn a few things from their hustle.

Since Mark Zuckerberg thought I was the DNC’s best friend, the ads came fast and furious. Corey Booker, sober and somber, put forth something that could only be described as an eight year-old iPhone on a selfie stick. The background was dark and he had that “the-actives-locked-the-pledges-in-the-fraternity-basement-and-turned-out-the-lights” look. Or it could have just been anywhere in Newark. Elizabeth Warren played it straight with routine clips from her campaign and her endless “everything will be free” muttering. In retrospect it could have been Kate McKinnon’s SNL impression instead of the actual Senator as there isn’t much of a difference, especially for a dollar

I had dried out from the junior senator from New York’s binge drinking when Amy Klobuchar popped up. Spouting her I’ll-do-that-for-a-buck rap, she declared the current administration “all foam and no beer.” Apparently the sorority of Delta Drinkya Under is targeting under-24 college bros who take offense to a short pour.

The last of this onslaught came from Joe Biden. Pity poor Joe, the man that Mean Girl Kamala Harris portrayed as just this side of Jim Crow. Of course his fellow party mates had piled on weeks earlier castigating him for associating with segregationists. The segregationists in question were Biden’s fellow US Senators with whom he was trying to negotiate legislation to broaden civil rights that would benefit all people of color, like Kamala Harris. But Joe’s shtick for a buck was simple—he’d send you a sticker. Now that’s something I could get behind. Maybe I’d bump into him on the campaign trail and we’d shake hands, my personal space a touch too encroached. I would invite him to the nearest bar and we’d hoist a beer, glasses clinking. He’d sign my sticker as a souvenir and we’d talk about simpler political times, times when it was morning in America.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.

A Sporting Fourth

At this time of year we look at our country and see fireworks, high-calorie grilled meats, and men in wigs reading script from oversized yellow poster board. In general, our only thoughts across the Atlantic were John McEnroe fighting his own revolutionary war on England’s grassy lawns. Yet this year our country has flipped the narrative and undertaken a full invasion across the pond. The British, as is their wont, have stood up magnificently to the onslaught; Europe, continuing its losing record, has folded without much of a fight. And while there is plenty of happiness, darker signs tinge the celebration.

To start, last week Major League Baseball brought the Montagues and Capulets to London to renew their ancient grudges. Befitting the Globe Theatre, the games were more spectacle than tense drama. Pimm’s cup vendors roamed the stands, politely plying their boozy wares; message boards flashed explanatory notes about the rules that probably made as much sense as reading Chaucer (sober or well-Pimmed). And in a nod to Pride Month, Freddy Mercury won the mascot race, although if the cigar-chomping Winston Churchill had come in first I would have demanded to see if Barry Bonds was under the costume.

But in these contests not of two hours’ traffic the Brits witnessed the death of something great: pitching. And this death wasn’t the spellbinding tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, but rather the farce of A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream’s mechanicals. 50 runs in two games farce. Throw in four errors in the second match and you had maybe the world’s most expensive tee ball exhibition but without the hugs, pizza rolls, and fruit juice boxes for six-year olds afterwards. In other words, MLB could have beamed in a couple of Mets games on the Jumbotron with the same effect and far fewer dollars and pounds.

Crossing the English Channel and befitting the 75^th anniversary of D-Day, America once again has shown great strength in France in the form of our Women’s National Team. That would be the National Team that plays the non-national sport of metric football, a.k.a. soccer. Their World Cup tournament these past few weeks has rivaled the greatest of military campaigns Europe has ever seen. Defenseless opponents were wiped off the map; tighter games showed the skill, athleticism, and poise of a team on a mission. On Tuesday night Carli Lloyd spent the last 15 minutes of the game taking the ball down the corner, boxing out her opponents like Charles Barkley with a rebound, and killing the clock like a Bond villain. Come to think of it, Ms. Lloyd could transfer those skills to the Knicks. They have plenty of salary cap space left, but it might be a professional demotion as I’m sure Carli likes winning.

Like all great teams, USWNT has taken advantage of the breaks that have come their way. Take England’s inability to convert soccer’s greatest gift…a penalty kick. With the opportunity to tie the game late in regulation, the Lionesses let go a pea shooter of a shot that was deftly corralled by our keeper. This was not, as Winston Churchill would have put it, their finest hour.. Freddy Mercury—dead, alive, or mascot—would have posed a greater scoring chance. Add it to the list of problems Boris Johnson faces when he becomes Prime Minister.

But for all the greatness of this team, the joy of watching them is starting to slip. They’ve become what they were so very much not. They’ve become the men’s team. Not the team that didn’t make the last men’s World Cup, but the bratty Euro players that are so un-American. Time was Abby Wambach would run into an opponent, hit the ground, popped back up, and do it all over again. No muss, no fuss. Mia Hamm scored and ran back to her team’s side of the field, her arms exultant but without theatricality. Then again she scored so often she might have worn herself out celebrating any more. It was a game played by the best who wanted to win, not some tryout for endless Internet memes.  

Now we see a different sort. Megan Rapinoe posing post-goal as the sequel character to a Marvel Avengers movie. Alex Morgan “tea sipping” after scoring against England, which really sounds more like a fight between Meghan Markle and Kate Middleton at a Kensington Palace garden party. Ms. Morgan and the rest of the team falling like dead soldiers at Flanders at the mere wisp of an opponent’s jersey crossing their path. A hard tackle yields the pantomime of grievous harm, only to turn into an immediate sprint charge toward the goal. The announcers charitably call it “selling” a call, but we all know what’s going on, especially in super-slow high-def. The more Fellini the action, the less appealing it is to an American audience. We like our winners, especially the underdogs, but guts and grit rendered with grass stains win hearts.

I’ll be tuning in on Sunday, albeit a little reluctantly, to see USWNT take on the Dutch Orange. So ladies if you want to put on a show, give your regards to Broadway. Otherwise heads down, make those penalty kicks, and finish off a glorious July 4^th weekend for us all.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.

The Incredible, Edible, Problem

There’s an old joke in the restaurant industry, “What’s the difference between a cook and a chef? About $50,000 a year.” Nomenclature and money aside, most people wouldn’t give this a moment’s thought until, that is, the eggs start burning. For unbeknownst to us food consuming mortals, the gods (or at least their lawyers) of food service are in a fight of Olympian proportions over kitchen titles and responsibilities.

This great battle pits Hyatt hotels against their Chicago employees union which, according to the Chicago Tribune, involves litigation over how to stop a kitchen catastrophe. Going back to the chef/cook title, it turns out that in this particular union shop chefs are management and cooks unionized workers. Each has a long menu of exclusive responsibilities, including who takes what food out of an oven. This all came to a head last year when a chef, sensing impending egg burning, pulled out a tray of quiche, thus intervening into a “quiche ‘emergency.’” The cooks took offense to usurping what is normally their job and filed a grievance. Two arbitrators delivered different decisions, and the lawsuits, like appetizers, were served quickly. Personally I side with chefs on this one, as I’ve never been asked if I want my quiche rare, medium, well done, or extra crispy. And in a delicious only-in-Chicago irony, Illinois Governor J.B. Pritzker has vested personal, financial, and political interests on both sides.

While this minutia of collective bargaining may not make much difference to your brunch plate, I am reminded of what happens when eggs go very, very wrong. In college, our fraternity’s Saturday breakfast/lunch was mostly reheated leftovers from the past week and something vaguely greasy to sop up Friday night’s remaining alcohol. Occasionally a sober brother stepped up to make something from scratch, and thus “Chef” Mark whipped up scrambled eggs that morning. Mark knew his way around food, and was happy to tell us as such whenever we asked. And even if we didn’t. But instead of the usual flavorings of salt, pepper, or maybe a dash of cheese, he chose a heretofore unused additive—beer.

Predictable to everyone but its creator, these “Oeufs á la Old Style” were a disaster. Coming down the steps to the dining room, our nostrils were met with the aroma of soured, long-fermented hops. And not the hops beer makers show in long panning shots of some Bavarian hillside. Think industrial agriculture at its most grinding and chemical. Finally gazing upon the curds we saw a two-toned mess-one half yellow and the other jet black, a seeming color tribute to our Big10 Conference rival Iowa Hawkeyes. I vaguely remember it tasting like a football field. After a rainy game. But what were we to do, call for help? It might have gone something like this:

“Hello this is 911, Operator 584, what is your emergency”

“One of the brothers burned the house’s eggs.”

“I’m sorry, did you say that your hen house is on fire and your brother is burned.”

“Oh no. Sorry. One of the fraternity members scorched our breakfast.”

“Sir, is this a police, fire, or medical emergency?”

“Do you have a culinary division? We may be losing a Michelin star here.”

“Sir, let me give you some cook’s advice. Toast some bread, fry some bacon, and slap it all together with your eggs. Because if I’m sending anyone to your place, it’s the cops to lock your stupid French butt up.”

So where are we in this great egg dilemma? Should diners settle for singed quiche in solidarity with the common man working the oven in the fight against capitalist exploitation? Does management have the last say about how to deliver the perfect high-cholesterol meal? I will leave this all to lawyers, courts, and union negotiation. All I know is that you can’t burn eggs, throw it in a pie pastry, and call it quiche. Real men don’t eat that.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.

The China Syndrome

The email arrived, cheery in its encouragement. “Just keep writing,” it said. So came some relief from my friend Bill who actually gets paid to write an opinion column. I had bemoaned to him the state of commentary, most problematically the dearth of topics fresh for new insight. Who needs yet another piece on, take your choice, college campus “safe spaces,” the De Blasio explosion of street vagrants, anything to do with Washington, D.C. politics, or the unfairness that is Tom Brady existence? And then, quite suddenly, the universe provided an answer from the most unlikely of sources, U.S. Senator Charles Schumer.

For those unfamiliar with the modus operandi of New York’s senior U.S. Senator, “Chuck” Schumer has raised his Sunday morning press conference to a near-religious level. Knowing the battalion of bored reporters and cameramen working the weekend graveyard shift desperately need a story, Chuck has, for the past few decades, taken it upon himself to provide weekly copy and video to the fourth estate right around communion time. The ensuing day’s coverage gives him a bounty of free media coverage that is the envy of every politician in the tristate area. The topics are indistinguishable from week to week; the script generally follows some “crisis” that his office has spent “a considerable amount of time researching” with a solution involving expending billions of federal dollars and hiring plenty of unionized employees to “fix” the issue. Yet recently Schumer came up with an idea that, unbelievably, combined high comedy with a touch of Trumpian paranoia.

“Given what we know about how cyberwarfare works…the Department of Commerce must give the green light and thoroughly check any proposals or work China’s CRRC [the firm making subway cars] does on behalf of the New York subway system,” quoth The Senator. His press release then adds ominously, “This kind of national security responsibility is just so big, and so complex, that the MTA [the folks who kind of run the subways]…should not have to foot the burden of going at it alone to assess whether or not CRRC’s low bids for work, and current contracts across the country, are part of some larger strategy. We just cannot be too careful here…”

Yes, it has actual syntax and proper punctuation, but otherwise is undistinguishable from a Trump tweet. Add that weird “Shhhhhyyna” pronunciation and you could hear it from The Donald himself. And the subject, a contract for new subway cars, is almost as petty.

Perhaps Schumer imagines a nefarious plot out of a Hollywood action film. With the clack of the tracks in the background, the camera bounces and sways with the passengers, a mass oblivious to the impending danger while focused on their phones or maybe even reading a paper. A quick cut focuses on a single finger hovering over a keyboard, a blinking curser next to the word “Execute?” on the background screen. The slow-motion digit descends with a telltale “click” and we are thrown back to the straphangers looking around as the lights flicker and then, with a screech of metal and sparks flying, the train comes to an emergency stop. Bodies crash into each other. A faint announcement comes over the intercom, mostly unintelligible and sounding, well, like Chinese. New Yorkers start swearing like New Yorkers.

Welcome to Tuesday’s commute. Or pretty much any day ending in “Y.” Clearly Chuck doesn’t take the subway on a regular basis or he would realize this apocalyptic vision is the average ride. The threat isn’t a theoretical foreign intervention, the threat is the very real MTA.

And at the basest level, what national security problem is there? Somehow I doubt Chinese President Xi wants to hack and find out how many times I swipe my fare card, or that Foreign Minister Wang is secretly slowing down trains so that Yankees fans are late to the game. In fact, a little Chinese authority might not be such a bad thing for the subway system. Holding the doors open and delaying service? Off to detention camp. Deface a subway car with graffiti? Off to detention camp. Jump a turnstile to avoid the fare? You get the idea. And in the end, when it comes to faceless bureaucracies that are answerable to nobody, there isn’t much difference between China and the MTA.

So Senator Schumer, if you really want to improve the subways, ask the people who actually ride it every day. But be careful, the answers may get so nuclear hot they bore a hole through the earth’s crust to the other side of the planet. The original China Syndrome.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.

Easter Lessons From My Muslim Cab Driver

Under any other circumstance, the cab driver pantomiming the recoil of a double-handled machine gun would induce extreme panic. His hands were definitely not at ten and two; more like the clock was about to expire on our earthly time.

For over 20 years Easter has meant a trip to the Washington, DC area for services and celebrations with my mother. Our favorite church is opposite the White House, and for two decades the pastor provided great insight and reflection upon the meaning of the passion, crucifixion, and rising from the dead of Jesus Christ. While I can’t speak for the rest of the congregation, we also looked forward to his insights on two secular, but no less religious, topics. As a UNC graduate, and with Easter often falling during the final four, our minister had very strong opinions about college hoops and how good should triumph over evil. To nobody’s surprise, Duke never made it as an example of good. And the start of the baseball season always brought out lessons about hope and eternal opportunity. As he was a lifelong Baltimore Orioles fan, the congregation definitely could see our minister as a man whose faith has been sorely tested.

Which brings us back to our overly-demonstrative taxi operator.

As with many large American cities, driving a cab in our nation’s capital is primarily a job manned by immigrants. On this bright Easter morning, Muhammad cheerfully picked us up and started speeding toward our church destination. Perhaps inspired by the miracle of empty traffic lanes, he started asking where we from, what brought us into town, and other cabbie chit chat. Returning the favor, we found out that Muhammad was from “a town outside of Kabul” which, geographically, meant little to us beyond “Kabul.” This being a few years after 9/11, the conversation then naturally turned to his experience with practicing Islam under the Taliban. It was at this point that our driver’s workable English morphed into charades while also going well over the speed limit on an otherwise deserted George Washington Parkway.

“Rat-a-tat-tat” he voiced, while simultaneously mimicking the gun recoil with both his arms. “They just beat it into you. All the time.” My mother and I nodded, simultaneously murmuring a sympathetic “Mmmm.” “I just want to pray, not be told how by Taliban.” Again, something we could all agree upon. With this triumvirate in agreement on the nature of peaceable assembly and practicing of religion, Muhammad managed to release his imaginary gun and return his hands to the very real steering wheel. Relaxing his demeanor and pressure on the gas pedal, he casually turned his head and asked, “So tell me about this Jesus and this Easter thing.”

Oh my.

Clearly the price of divine intervention at 60 MPH was God having a good laugh at my explanation of His Son. Sunday school had been many decades ago, and my less-than-daring twice-a-year church attendance meant I was still good with most of the popular hymns—liturgical instruction was going to be a big stretch. But if the man asked, I would reply, and so I gave the holy highlights of Jesus (Immaculate Conception, miracles, crucifixion, resurrection, absolving of sins). Muhammad took this all in, carefully considering this scant but heartfelt mini-ministry. “That was very interesting.” he concluded. “Thank you very much.” He seemed genuinely appreciative, perhaps even a little bit better informed. Equally clear was that professional Episcopalian missionaries had no fear of losing their jobs to me.

Despite some absurdity, surely this was an example of the day’s message of peace and love. What could be better than three people spanning half the globe hurtling along inside a steel and glass chariot discussing faith and God? For as my mother and I paid our fare and left the cab, Muhammad provided the final word—the simple wishing to us of a “Happy Easter.”

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Taxing State Of Mind

It’s April 1^st, which means tax filing day is near. I, for one, intend to celebrate until the 15^th and no, my accountant did not find a huge refund. We need to party now, because next year the crush of new taxes Albany has enacted will be an Excedrin-proof fiscal hangover.

First up is a new way to pick our pockets every time we shop. Next year the state is banning the use of plastic shopping bags, save a few, carefully constructed exceptions from the well-lobbied interests. Ostensibly this is all to save the environment, what with Flipper choking on Ziplocs and all. If you want to actually carry your groceries out of the store, counties have the “option” of a five-cent-a-paper-bag tax. Since taxing is the same as breathing in New York, we all know there isn’t a local body that can resist “free” money.

All of this activism is meant for us to walk around in lockstep with our reusable shopping bags dangling off our shoulders, virtue signaling our green bona fides. Perhaps those bags should also include a copy of Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book of Quotations so we can all get into the collective spirit. Of course, there are plenty of unintended consequences of this new movement. New Yorkers already recycle plastic bags in the form or trash can liners and garbage bags. The irony is that in order to throw out your trash we will have to buy plastic garbage bags, thus literally paying a tax on top of another tax.

Next is the vaunted “Congestion Pricing” tax, picking motorists’ pockets every time they want to drive south of 60^th Street in Manhattan. Every store that stocks daily necessities (including garbage bags), every restaurant, and every landlord will pass on the costs for deliveries south of this urban Mason-Dixon line. On top of that, I fear love may feel squeeze as well. Many remember the Seinfeld episode where Elaine, faced with a shortage of her favorite contraceptives, had to determine if intimacy would be “sponge worthy.” Similarly, dating may now be “Congestion Pricing” worthy—is pursuing that gal or guy “on the other side” worth paying a tax over and over again? Think Capulets and Montagues needing an EZ Pass.

And who is supposed to benefit? None other than the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, “operator” of the city’s subways and buses, as well as the commuter railroads. To those who use the MTA, operating is more of a euphemism—not working on time and in filth is more accurate. The projected $15 Billion that drivers, star-crossed lovers and otherwise regular folk alike, will cough up is supposed to help the MTA fix up its decrepit infrastructure. Does anyone believe this? Not a chance.

The MTA and I share the same birth year, and over 53 years I haven’t shoveled dirt and put down miles of new railroad track, but the MTA isn’t much further ahead on this account either. Four years ago they opened a mile-long connection between Times Square and the now-opened Dubai-on-the-River Hudson Yards development. Of course, anyone who can own or rent an apartment in Hudson Yards doesn’t take the subway, they take an Uber. An Uber which, as of the first of this year, has a $2.75 tax added for every ride. A block from my apartment the Second Avenue subway finally opened—a mile-and-a-half long and on the drawing boards since the end of WWII. Now the MTA gave this a try in ’70’s, but like many things from that decade, it failed miserably. They also set a record cost at $2.5 Billion per mile, four times as much as a similar project in socialist paradise Paris. Not to be outdone, at some very undetermined point in the future, work will finish on a tunnel connecting the Long Island Rail Road between Penn and Grand Central Stations, with an estimated cost of $3.5 Billion per mile. With the subway, bus, and rail fares going up in a three weeks, only an April Fool would think that any amount of money will change things.

Maybe we all need to take a deep breath and relax, and Albany has been talking about helping us with this by legalizing marijuana. While (excise and sales tax) whiskey is my solution, many see this either as natural progress or overdue social justice. But you can be sure on one thing—everyone sees plenty of tax dollars in every joint.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.