I ran across something quotable in Ray Bradbury’s novel, “Something Wicked This Way Comes.” It’s another one of his books I’ve never read but which I’m reading now.
“God, how we get our fingers in each other’s clay.” In the novel, it’s about how two friends influence each other.
On the one hand, it’s a seemingly trivial observation about human nature. On the other, it also seems profound because it’s so pervasive. You could reformulate it in any number of ways, e.g., “We’re always getting into each other’s business.”
The response is just as trivial. Mind your own business. Get out of my hair. I wonder how that song “My Way,” done famously by Frank Sinatra, could ever make sense when the reality is that we’re always either getting in each other’s way—or less often, always trying to integrate our approaches to create something better in our lives.
It’s kind of like what a former presidential campaign advisor (Wikipedia and other sources say it was James Carville) said, “It’s the economy, stupid.”
I learned a new slang word from Houston White, the guy who makes that specialty coffee in Minneapolis I blogged about yesterday: Brown Sugar Banana (I’m not a fan, but I admire him just the same). The word is “dope.” That used to be an insult or an illicit drug when I was growing up. Now it means “very good.”
I guess writing, at least for me, is dope.
The further I get in time away from the day I retired from practicing consultation psychiatry, the more I reflect about how I became a psychiatrist. I’m a first-generation doctor in my family, so what follows is one way to write about it.
What has helped me get through life was this writing habit along with a sense of humor. When I was little, I wrote short stories for my mother. I was the “number one son” in the words of my father, which meant only that I was the first born. My younger brother came second only in order of birth. He was the track star. I was the paperboy. Our parents separated early on. Sena and I have been married for 47 years.
I have been writing my whole life. I used a very old typewriter. I wrote poetry for a while, eons ago. Like many aspiring writers, I tried to sell them to publishers. The only publisher I remember ever responding sent me a hand-scrawled note on a small sheet of paper. He told this really short, nearly incoherent story about his son, who had apparently died shortly before. His son had a “tough road.” It wasn’t clear exactly how he died, but I remember wondering whether it was suicide. It was very sad.
In the 1970s, while I was a student at one of the Historically Black Colleges and Universities (Huston-Tillotson College, now a university) in Austin, Texas, I submitted a poem to the school’s annual contest and for entry into the college’s collection, called Habari Gabani (which means “what’s going on” in Swahili). It was rejected. Years later, I finally was able to track down a digital copy of Habari Gani.
Habari Gani from Huston-Tillotson College
Eventually, thank goodness for everyone’s sake, I gave up writing poetry. It was as bad as Vogon poetry. You’ll have to read Douglas Adam’s book “A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” for background on that. The Vogons were extraterrestrials who destroyed Earth in order to build an intergalactic bypass for a hyperspace expressway. Vogon poetry is frightfully bad; it’s the waterboarding torture of literature.
I wrote a short Halloween story for my hometown newspaper contest once. It got honorable mention, but I can’t recall what it was about, thank goodness.
I wrote a feature story in a journalism class taught by a nice old guy who made a long speech to the class about the unfortunate tendency for young writers to use flowery, polysyllabic words in their prose. He made it clear that journalists shouldn’t write like that. Although I didn’t consciously do the opposite to annoy him, I did it anyway. I even tossed the word “Brobdingnagian” in it, which might have referred to some high bluffs somewhere in Iowa. Despite being infested with Vogonisms, my teacher tolerated it, sparing my feelings. I must have passed the course although how I did it remains a mystery.
I wrote and co-edited a book with the chairman of the University of Iowa Healthcare Dept of Psychiatry, Dr. Robert G. Robinson, MD. It was “Psychosomatic Medicine: An Introduction to Consultation-Liaison Psychiatry”. There were several contributors. Many of them were my colleagues. It was published in 2010, and prior to that, I’d written an unpublished manual that I wrote for the residents.
Handbooks of CL PsychiatryHandbook of Psychosomatic Medicine
There wasn’t any humor in either book, because they were supposed to be evidence of scholarly productivity from a clinical track academic psychiatrist. But I used humor and non-scientific verbiage in my lectures, albeit sparingly. I remember one visiting scientist remarked after one of my Grand Rounds presentations, “You are so—poetic” and I detected a faint disparaging note in his tone…probably a reaction to a latent Vogonism. It’s not impossible to monkey-wrench those into a PowerPoint slide or two.
I used to write a former blog called The Practical Psychosomaticist, later changed to The Practical CL Psychiatrist when The Academy of Psychosomatic Medicine changed their name back to The Academy of Consult-Liaison Psychiatry back in 2017. I wrote The Practical CL Psychiatrist for a little over 7 years. I stopped, but then missed blogging so much I went back to it in 2019 after only 8 months. I guess I was in withdrawal from writing.
I have to admit that I’ve been mis-hearing some of the lyrics of one of my favorite songs, “Lean on Me” for the past fifty-odd years since Bill Withers wrote it. It stayed on the top of the charts for more than 3 weeks back in 1972. That was a special time in my life; and not an easy one.
Back then, you couldn’t just look up song lyrics or anything else for that matter on the world wide web. It didn’t exist yet. I’ve always been prone to mondegreens and I finally found out that I was hearing something different in the verse:
“Please swallow your pride
if I have things (faith?) you need to borrow
For no one can fill
those of your needs
That you won’t let show”
Just to let you know, I found lyrics in one YouTube that substituted the word “faith” for “things”. Think about that one. I don’t know how to settle it, so if anybody knows which word is right, please comment. Anyway, it’s a little embarrassing and revelatory that I heard “…if I have pain…” instead of “…if I have things (or faith)…” And I never really heard “…That you won’t let show.”
Yet I lived it.
Years later, after I’d finished college, medical school, residency in psychiatry, and had taught residents and medical students at the University of Iowa for a number of years, one of my colleagues, Scott, a brilliant psychologist and writer, stopped by my office one day. This was years ago.
His name is Scott and he suggested that it would be nice to get together sometime soon to catch up. I deferred and I remembered he replied while looking off down the hallway, “I’m 70.” I wonder if he meant he didn’t know how much more time he had left.
Scott and I had taken similar paths in the middle of our careers at Iowa. I wanted to try private practice and left for Madison, Wisconsin. Scott got the same idea and left for a position in Hershey, Pennsylvania. We both regretted it and soon after returned to Iowa. I swallowed my pride and came back because I loved teaching. I think he returned for the same reason. We were both grateful that the UIHC Psychiatry Dept. Chair, Bob Robinson, welcomed both us of back.
Jim’s teaching awardsBooks by Scott and Jim
I touched base with Scott a little while ago. We’re both retired. I was trying to find out how to contact Bob about messages I was getting from the publisher of our consult psychiatry handbook. Neither Scott or I could find out what was going on with Bob, who retired several years ago and moved back East. It turned out he had died. Sometimes we all have sorrow.
Scott is my friend, and I leaned on him a long time ago. I’m unsure if I let it show. I’m 70 and I’m grateful to him.
On that note, I’m finding out that I can’t walk all the way to the mall and back anymore. On the other hand, I can walk about half that distance. It’s about a mile and a half out to the Clear Creek Trail and back. There’s a lot of uphill and downhill stretches along the way. I can manage that.
And Sena bought me a couple of pairs of new shoes that I’m breaking in that will probably be easier on my feet and my calves. They’re Skecher slip-ons, not to be confused with the no hands slip-ins. I’m used to slip-ons. I tried one pair out today, in fact. Before I left, I took a few pictures of Sena’s new garden. As usual, she’s planting new flowers. The dogwood tree looks great. She’s even excited about the wild phlox. I can’t keep track of everything else out there. She makes the beauty out there.
And I lean on her for that.
dogwood treewild phloxeven more flowersflowersmore flowersnew shoes1new shoes2
This is an update to my post from lasts night on Ray Bradbury’s short story, “I See You Never.” My wife, Sena, happened to mention the naturalization process in the U.S. today.
In fact, we both saw the televised naturalization ceremony at the Iowa State Fair of 2024. During that ceremony, 47 children became citizens. In fact, the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services has held a celebratory naturalization ceremony at the Iowa State Fair for at least the last ten years.
There was just such a ceremony last month of 69 immigrants at the University of Northern Iowa.
I had a quick peek at the U.S. citizenship and civics test questions and I’m pretty sure I would have a lot of trouble passing it. I’d probably get shipped back to Mars—which Ray Bradbury wrote a lot about.
The naturalization process isn’t easy. Under federal law, you have to live here in the U.S. at least five years as a lawful permanent resident to be eligible for naturalization, three years if you’re the spouse of a U.S. citizen. You have to learn the language. Many other countries have a similar naturalization process.
There’s no exact number of the USCIS naturalization ceremonies per year, but 818,500 took part in 2024.
Many of those who go through the naturalization process think it’s unfair for others to bypass it by getting into the country by other means.
So, I guess that’s the other side of the short story—the one Ray Bradbury probably didn’t write.
I know that what I’m writing here this evening is going to sound foolishly sentimental and maybe even a little spooky, but I was struck by this weird experience I had tonight. It was just a little odd and too fortuitous. I’m not going to talk at any length about the politics of it, just the strangeness.
We have these two books by Ray Bradbury, and when I was a kid, I loved his science fiction stories. I read many of them, but never like the one I read tonight.
The way this started was I was looking for something to do. I thought about watching old reruns of The Red Green Show on YouTube, which always struck me as funny when I watched them long ago. I still do, but couldn’t get into it tonight.
I turned on the TV and flipped through the channels which, as always, were reruns. I was not even interested in the X-Files reruns and I’m a fan. And I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing any more in-your-face commercials about total body deodorant.
So, I picked up the hefty paperback of a big collection of a hundred of Ray Bradbury’s short stories, entitled oddly enough, “Bradbury Stories.” I just opened up the book with no particular story in mind and it fell open right to one I’d never read before, “I See you Never.”
It’s all of 3 pages long and it’s about a Mexican immigrant named Mr. Ramirez. He’s been brought by the police to the front door of the rooming house where he’s been living on a temporary visa, which has been revoked. He’s just there to say goodbye to his landlady. He’s being deported and has this sad conversation with her on the doorstep. He just keeps telling her in broken English, “I see you never.” The landlady, Mrs. O’Brian (no accident she has an Irish name, of course) just says repeatedly that he’s been a good tenant and that she’s sorry. Then he leaves with the police. She goes back inside and can’t finish her dinner with her family and realizes she’ll never see Mr. Ramirez again.
There’s a much better summary and analysis than mine written by a professional reviewer. This story was published back in 1947 and is set in the historical context of post WWII America.
I hate politics, and I’m not going to say anything specific about how this little story struck me with its irony given what’s going on this country right now. I was just looking for a little science fiction distraction and instead got irony. I didn’t go looking for this and I’ll be brutally frank—I actively avoid political news and I hate like hell to get reminded of it every day. All I did was open a damn book. I wish I had never seen this story.
I guess maybe that’s what I get for my avoidant approach to certain things. How’s that for a Mental Health Awareness month event?
So, I have to hurry up and get these 3 photos posted for today because it’s getting pretty late. Recall the Iowa Healthiest State Initiative calendar along with my photos to share:
Chrysler Building New York CityBluebirds at the fountainMindfulness letter and Snippets book by Gordon Strayer
The images are important features of events in my life or my sense of humor.
I’m a birdwatcher and many different species of birds visited the fountain. The fountain attracted bluebirds who splashed and even swam in it. That fountain was very heavy. We couldn’t leave it out all winter. In the fall I had to lift the bowls off and move them somewhere else. Moving them entailed lifting them onto bags of mulch so as to reduce the work of hefting them a small distance at a time. The birds were beautiful to watch.
The letter was a class assignment our Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) teacher had us write at the beginning of the class. After we graduated, she mailed us those letters shortly thereafter. We were to write something connected with what we thought we had gained or what we thought might happen after taking the MBSR class. The book might seem out of place, and while I can’t talk much about Gordon Strayer, I did meet him and read his book (which is now long gone; probably lost in a move). I admired him. I don’t think he feared death.
The Chrysler Building reminds me of the Men in Black (MIB) 3 movie, and I included it because my sense of humor is very important to me. In the movie, Agent J and Jeffrey Price have this funny conversation about time travel back to an era that was not the greatest for black people. I know because I lived through it. Agent J is about to use the time travel device which involves jumping off a tall building (it’s a “time jump!”). Agent J is preparing to travel back in time to M.I.B.’s early days in 1969 to stop an alien from assassinating his friend Agent K and changing history. They have this short conversation:
Jeffrey Price: Do not lose that time device or you will be stuck in 1969! It wasn’t the best time for your people. I’m just saying. It’s like a lot cooler now.
I get notices from the Iowa legislators about how great it is that I’m getting to be an old fart. An Iowa senator even reminded me: “Check your driver’s license to see if it’s time to renew!”
That’s one of the few things I’m up to “speed” on—see what I did there?
Other things remind me that I’m getting older. I walk slower. I can make several miles by walking out to the mall, walking up and down inside, and walking back. I made 5 miles yesterday.
Here’s the thing; I don’t powerwalk and, for the first time, I made a couple of stops along the way to rest. I’ve never done that before. Part of the reason is that, early this spring I had a bout of painful shin splints and calf cramps which took me a week to recover from. I wrote a very long blog post about that.
This time, before I set out for home, I was sitting inside and watching people outside. The bench I sat on faces the parking lot and a street runs along just outside of it. There’s a crosswalk visible from my bench.
As I gazed out at the parking lot, I saw one blue SUV with the two doors on the driver’s side wide open, making it impossible for anyone to park in the lane next to it. One elderly gentleman wearing a cap sat shotgun and appeared to be napping. A few minutes later, a woman with an unsteady gait made her way out to the car. She moved slowly and a few times I though she might topple over. She didn’t look very old, and she might have been younger than me, but not by much. She got in the back seat behind the napping man. The two side doors remained open.
A few minutes later, an old man with a wheeled walker came out of the mall and started to cross the street. He would push the walker forward a couple of inches at a time and then sort of drag his legs a couple of steps forward. He pushed the walker forward a couple of inches, and shuffled a couple of steps behind it; that’s the way he went. As I watched him, I wondered if I was going to have to hurry out there to help because I thought he might fall any second.
I actually took my eyes off him for a few minutes and when I looked back, I couldn’t see him in the crosswalk anymore. I figured he made it across, but then I noticed that the SUV was still sitting there and both driver’s side doors were still open. I peered around the crosswalk—and he was still scraping along, inching forward a few inches at a time. Drivers would have to either wait or back up and find another route.
He just kept creeping along. I think it took him all of 15 minutes just to get to the SUV, a distance that could have been measured linearly as not much more than 20 yards or so.
I remember wondering where and who the driver was. There were two seats left and I thought “No way is he the driver!” The driver must have still been in the mall somewhere.
As I sat there, the old man inched over to the SUV and finally made it. I almost could have taken a nap during the whole journey, but I’m not quite that old yet.
Then he opened the driver’s side back side door—and shoved his walker in the back seat! There was now only the driver’s seat open, and still no driver in sight.
And finally—the old guy got in the driver’s seat! He pulled up his trousers, started the SUV, backed carefully out of the parking lane and cruised smoothly out of the parking lot and away to who knows where, maybe a dance hall.
After I recovered from incredulity, I walked back home. I sat down to rest once before trying to across the street where, a month ago I had a sudden attack of calf cramps which nearly stopped me in the middle of the crossing. At that time, I had to hobble over to a bench and massage the cramps before heading the rest of the way home.
This time, as cars waited for me to get across, I could feel the cramps starting again but I slowed down instead of trying to trot across. I thought, “They’ll just have to wait.” No cramps this time.
Maybe that’s one of the reasons the state legislators send out cards and certificates to seniors. We help teach patience to others. You’re welcome.
Today is designated Earth Day although there is such a thing as Earth Month. Among the several trees Sena planted in our back yard trees are a few that we hope exemplify the Earth Day theme, which is Our Power, Our Planet.
One of them is a dogwood, which we’re hoping will bloom soon. Dogwoods represent joy and rebirth. There are a couple of crab apple trees, a red jewel and a perfect purple. Crab apple trees represent love and all are very special to Sena and me.
Love, joy, and rebirth. They can all be linked to power, which can be the power of will. The will to respect the planet also implies respecting each other. Practicing humility can be a kind of power.
The power to be still and listen to each other can make us more open to change.
On that note, because I can’t go for long without joking around, I should retell the story about me and the walking dead meditation. About 13 years ago, I had an even more serious case of not listening to others than I do now, if you can believe that. It eventually led to my choosing to take the Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) class ( see this current University of Iowa mindfulness essay). I wrote an essay for the Gold Foundation and it’s still available (I updated the links):
How I left the walking dead for the walking dead meditation (August 13, 2014)
About a year or so later, I bought Jon Kabat-Zinn’s book on Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR), Full Catastrophe Living, because I was dimly aware of the burden of stress weighing on me as a consulting psychiatrist in an academic medical center. I didn’t get much out of Kabat-Zinn’s book on my first read. But then in 2012 I started getting feedback from colleagues and trainees indicating they noticed I was edgy, even angry, and it was time for a change.
Until then, I’d barely noticed the problem. Like most physicians, I had driven on autopilot from medical school onward. I had called myself “passionate” and “direct.” I had argued there were plenty of problems with the “system” that would frustrate any doctor. I had thought to myself that something had to change, but I never thought it was me.
After reflecting on the feedback from my colleagues and students, I enrolled in our university’s 8 week group MBSRprogram. Our teacher debunked myths about mindfulness, one of which is that it involves tuning out stress by relaxing. In reality, mindfulness actually entails tuning in to what hurts as well as what soothes. I was glad to learn that mindfulness is not about passivity.
But I kept thinking of Kabat-Zinn’s book, in which he described a form of meditation called “crazy walking.” It involved class members all walking very quickly, sometimes with their eyes closed, even backwards, and crashing into each other like billiard balls. I hoped our instructor would not make me “crazy walk” because it sounded so—crazy. I dreaded crazy walking so intensely that I considered not attending the 6-hour retreat where it might occur.
We didn’t do crazy walking. Instead, we did what’s called the “walking meditation.” Imagine a very slow and deliberate gait, paying minute attention to each footfall—so much so that we were often off balance, close to crashing into each other like billiard balls.
I prefer to call this exercise the “walking dead meditation” because it bore a strong resemblance to the way zombies move. One member of the class mentioned it when we were finally permitted to speak (except for the last 20 minutes or so, the retreat had to be conducted in utter silence). It turned out we had all noticed the same thing!
Before MBSR, I was like the walking dead. I was on autopilot — going through the motions, resisting inevitable frustrations, avoiding unstoppable feelings, always lost in the story of injustices perpetrated by others and the health care system.
In practicing mindfulness, I began noticing when my brow and my gut were knotted, and why. Just paying attention helped me change from simply reacting to pressures to responding more skillfully, including the systems challenges which contribute to burnout. About halfway through the program, I noticed that the metaphor connecting flexibility in floor yoga to flexibility in solving real life problems worked.
Others noticed the change in me. My professional and personal relationships became less strained. My students learned from my un-mindfulness as well as my mindfulness, a contrast that would not have existed without MBSR.
As my instructor had forewarned, it was easy for me to say I didn’t have time to practice meditation. I had to make the time for it, and I value the practice so much that I’ll keep on making the time. I will probably never again do the walking dead meditation.
Today we gather to reward a sort of irony. We reward this quality of humanism by giving special recognition to those who might wonder why we make this special effort. Those we honor in this fashion are often abashed and puzzled. They often don’t appear to be making any special effort at being compassionate, respectful, honest, and empathic. And rewards in society are frequently reserved for those who appear to be intensely competitive, even driven.
There is an irony inherent in giving special recognition to those who are not seeking self-aggrandizement. For these, altruism is its own reward. This is often learned only after many years—but our honorees are young. They learned the reward of giving, of service, of sacrifice. The irony is that after one has given up the self in order to give back to others (family, patients, society), after all the ultimate reward—some duty for one to accept thanks in a tangible way remains.
One may ask, why do this? One answer might be that we water what we want to grow. We say to the honorees that we know that what we cherish and respect here today—was not natural for you. You are always giving up something to gain and regain this measure of equanimity, altruism, trust. You mourn the loss privately and no one can deny that to grieve is to suffer.
But what others see is how well you choose.
Leonard Tow awardGetting the pinOn my lapel; in my heart
I’m still practicing mindfulness-more or less. Nobody’s perfect. We hope the dogwood tree blooms soon.
We listened to the Big Mo Blues Show last night on KCCK radio 88.3. It was recorded and we noticed that he sounded younger for some reason. Once he remarked that things were difficult because of having to “shelter in place.” The format of the show was different from usual.
That made me wonder if the show was recorded sometime during the Covid pandemic. I’ve been listening to Big Mo for a long time. John Heim, aka Big Mo, been doing the Friday Blues show since about 2005, according to one news story. Another KCCK legend, Bob DeForest, has been doing the Saturday night blues show for over 30 years now.
John Heim, aka Big Mo is still going strong. I think I’ve been listening to his show for about as long as he’s been doing it. He has come back strong since an accidental fall in 2018 in which he sustained a neck injury which led to a long rehab stint. But he’s back.
There have been interesting additions over time, like the Shout-Outs, the Concert Calendar, the Bodega Bay Weather Report, the Big Mo Pod Show in which he and producer Noah on Saturday discuss the music selections he made on Friday. The comedy bits have also been interesting, like MayRee’s hand-battered catfish (It’s better because it’s battered!).
Last night, we heard a couple of songs which we both liked. One of them was “She Don’t Live Around Here” by Samantha Fish. I heard it for the first time on the Big Mo Blues Show and just about every time I hear it, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I’ve read that music will do that sometimes, although I can’t remember getting that sensation before.
We both liked Delbert McClinton’s rendition of “I’ve Got Dreams to Remember.” He’s had a huge career. Sena asked me if he’s still alive and I foolishly guessed that he died. Nope, he’s 84 years old and evidently still going strong.
I have a personal top ten songs, most of which I’ve heard on the Big Mo Blues Show. They’re not in any particular order. A few of them I like mainly because of the artist’s voice, like Samantha Fish and James Carr.
“She Don’t Live Around Here” Samantha Fish
“The Dark End of the Street” James Carr
“Everyday Will Be Like a Holiday” William Bell or Eric Clapton
“Lean On Me” Bill Withers or Keb Mo
“Mockingbird” Larkin Poe
“I’ve Got Dreams to Remember” Delbert McClinton (written by Otis Redding)
“You Were Never Mine” Delbert McClinton or Janiva Magness
“A Change is Gonna Come” Sam Cooke
“Over The Rainbow and What a Wonderful World” medley Israel Kamakawiwo’ole
“You Can’t Teach An Old Dog New Tricks” Seasick Steve
Lately, Big Mo has played Larkin Poe’s “Mockingbird” a fair number of times. I think one interpretation of it is that people’s sense of their identity tends to evolve over time. At different times in your life, you’ll take on a new voice, so to speak, which fits with the idea of the many songs the imitative Mockingbird sings.
Some songs I like because of the message, like “Lean On Me,” or “A Change is Gonna Come.” And I like the song “You Can’t Teach An Old Dog New Tricks” just because I identify with it. I realized that runs counter to the theme of many songs, which are often about change: people change, the times they are a’changing, and the like. So, my top ten song list will probably change, too.
Well, thank you very much, State Representative Adam Zabner, for recognizing me as an old fart as you prefer to call it, which is fine with me.
I received a similar honor several years ago, from State Representative Dave Jacoby, who was much more prolix in his remarks on my certificate.
A long time ago, I kept a blog when I was a consulting psychiatrist in the University of Iowa Health Care Dept of Psychiatry. I used to mention occasionally that someday those who recognized my greatness would raise a statue of playdoh to me in the Quad.
Funny thing is I don’t know if the Quad even exists anymore. I supposed the statue could be raised (and perhaps later razed when people finally catch on) somewhere else, in a place much more prominent given my eminence, possibly at the state house in Des Moines or outside Pagliai’s Pizza here in Iowa City at least.
I’ll admit frankly, age does bring with it some of the usual markers: deepening wrinkles, receding hairline, fading memory and the like. There are some advantages, such as the tendency to joke and tell little stories of the distant past (chariot races and so on). This helps to bore younger persons enough for them to move out of line at the ice cream shop so that I can move up.
And I still exercise vigorously, lifting the salt and pepper shakers, crossing and uncrossing my legs on the ottoman, walking back and forth between the chair and the fridge, and power napping.
Seriously, I’m still juggling, which I took up about two and a half years ago. I exercise but not too much. A while ago I had an issue with my quads getting so big they were flopping over my knees so I had to cut back a little.
I don’t know that I’ll get many more certificates of senility from the Iowa House of Representatives. That makes it even more important for somebody to get to work with all possible speed on my playdoh statue.
Go Retire Psychiatrist 