dumb love

with the trickle of piano keys and my own piss

i sing along

“love dances on window sills and crys upon the shoulders of

highways”


with the drums of soldiers and natives

i sing along

“desire moves on chess tables and pauses in las vegas

chapels”

with the voice of reason and mania

i sing along

“success is a stubborn child living poorly in designer

fashions”


with the touch of my hand

i beg into being a world

where none of what sing

is truth.

the upside to snow

it is a postcard outside. a postcard of the east coast collegiate aesthetic. there is an old building, early eighteen hundreds i guess, all stone masonry, occupied by a frat house and the big snow storm of the season has begun in earnest. a sleepy hollow esque tree curls and bends up into the orange glow of the city night sky. it is a silent night in the city. i imagine LA never sounds this way- they never have quiet weather. earhtquakes are loud, fires are loud, mud is loud. snow is quiet, earnest, humbling- likely to make you miss your family or an old friend, anyone who’d be willing to stay up late and eat doritoes and watch bad TV or play cards while the sky slowly unleashes a quiet cold demon upon the land, and in the morning put on five layers of clothing you drag out of a closet and take sleds or an old trash can lid and build forts outside and throw snowballs or make sculptures and sled down barely visible inclines. then when the light starts to fade and you can’t feel your toes or even your thighs, you stumble through the door, peeling off each layer one by one, hunks of snow dropping off you onto to living room floor and the last one to get changed has to make the tea or hot chocolate for everyone else and you sit in fresh warm comfy clothes, cheeks still ruddy from the cold on the couch sipping hot liquid and feeling altogether alive.

...

there’s a basketball in the bathroom today.
more toys for us to look at in the fading light of day as it streams through the skylight and down on the fake tile bathroom floor.

some days this routine is like a prayer, repeated over and over again
on the lips of a monk with the hopes of raising him up to god,
sometimes succeeding.

we wake, you first, but neither of us ever early enough, yawn in and out
of our minds, our work, our jobs, our clothes, our tub, our house.


some days this routine is like my prayer.

even our kisses upon cheeks, as if our lives goal is to add one more kiss to
the number laid upon the others cheek because one more shall bring new
meaning to the last.

but today there is a basketball in the bathroom, as if the
monotony may thankfully come to end now, since the tub is no hoop.

some days the routine is like the humming of the refridgerator-
maddening once recognized.

old

to have a lullaby sung to you in a night lit room

or to sing a lullaby in a night lit room

to re live that same moment from the other

side of the glass of time

thats what this desire is,


to step from hardwood flooring to

plush throw rugs in long hallways

the whole town hushed in it’s

hushing of itself

that’s what this desire is


the silence of living inside a dream

at night

warm bodies breathing all over

the house



the night a blanket of

memories

not a wall of sound

and aches



to reform this body into

a machine of love and creation

that does not studder at the worlds questions

but is only silent, and smiling.

thats what this desire is.

dead cats

(just a hastily drawn circle)


with cries of kittens ringing in my ears
(they are dying out there
behind a trash can or under a car
i can feel them dying in the cold)

cries like that of a newborn

funny that birth and death may echoe
each other so seriously

and i lay under blankets
with the sound shaking my heart
like a bell shakes after it is rung


with silence in my room
(he is not here to sniffle and
clear his throat and type while
my head on pillow thinks)

silence of an old movie

funny i am miming out the
actions of taking my like seriously

while the emptiness is banging against
this brass bell heart,
doing it’s best to remind me of what is missing.

Halloween

not so funny, how the masks disapear on halloween.

like devils with no defense.


we’ve succesfully torn

ourselves from limb to limb just as others

we’ve known have always wished upon us


not so funny, how we’ve both disapeared

without the tenuous hold of dime store elastic

pulling at the small hairs of our necks and keeping

things together the way they do for children.


we dance for our own ghosts and not for each

other in this attic we call home


maybe this year we can call all our old lives

finally saying “goodbye” to them and a shy


“hello” to one another as we reappear

naked and naked and naked and not so funny in our bed.

five poems i found (and the source of "nightcrawler")

1.

Cut yourself off again
and get even closer to your mothers heart.

You could cry years ago
when life still stood before
us an undefinable fog-

but as the hours and
days and years
become a sure fire plan,

your eyes have dried
your hands ache
and no light emerges

From any part of your voice or eyes.


2.

I have a neon heart that
flickers in the night

adds to the chorus of noises
disguised as the city light

but which pulses to the beat
of blood, of my blood

not the whistle of the train
or to rush hours flood

it glows with the good intentions
of a fireplace
and the wisdom
of a lightbulb dangled above the face.



3.

From time to time I have heard my own heart cracking.

(It doesn’t ever really break because I won’t let it.)

It’s never one strong blow
inflicting damage

but a slow pain

like someone dropping one OED
on my chest at a time

(and at first the weight is hardly noticeable, but it builds
incrementally until)



4.



The wildwood boys’ chain’s glint in this nearly unlit club.
What light there is reflects off the mirror panelled walls,
bringing out how unlike the seventies reality truly is.

And, all I can do in my self-conciousness at wandering into
this club in an old t-shirt and dirty jeans while girls dance on
the bar in heels that make them three inches taller than the
truth, is stare at the cute bartenders lower back as her shirt
slides up when she bends over to grab a bottle of Malibu or
leans across the bar to hug another familiar new jersey nightcrawler's face.


5.


I was at a party playing a drinking game and overheard some ex-famous band manager say to his companion, “Their game is like poetry.”

I hate guys like him. washed up and looking for art in everything.
Life doesn’t chase poetry, or art or music-
those things chase life, since it is usually far more poetic than anything
I will ever write.

This is what I thought, then stood on one foot and bent down, picked up a paper bag with my teeth and tumbled drunkenly onto the hardwood floor.

women i've kissed

the women i’ve kissed
are a strange lot-

they still live in the depths of my body like
geologic layers

their sexual memory returning in spring when everything is sprouting

messy and filthy and wet

the first was love. the horrid kind where you can’t remember whose shirt belonged to who first

and everyday you want to climb inside them and sleep forever.

she pulled me to her while her boyfriend watched too stunned to stop her. her mouth was the unforgiving beauty of the grand canyon. red red red the kind of red that turns hearts to dust.
i stopped her out of embarassment for myself, and the eyes of her boyfriend disentegrating in front of us.

i wish she’d never stopped. i wish i’d kicked him out of the house, and everyone else who lay about drinking. i wish i’d kicked them all out and drowned myself in her paper white skin and the smell of fabric softener that emanated from her at all times.
i got a second chance years later. a boy was with us and all of us half naked after two bottles of gin. i opened my lips and took her nipple in my mouth and closed my eyes just as the phone rang. i never should have answered the phone.

i had been sick and sober for a few weeks and in recovery from the bronchitis bought several forties and drank them with a girlfriend and a cute boy on her bedroom floor. i went to the bathroom and when i returned and opened the door i saw them all over each other on the floor, his cock already out and her mouth around it. i went back to the bathroom only to be summoned by them. i found myself entangled with them, her hands deep inside me. i never kissed either one of them.

there was a night when i stood in a city park, on the ledge of a dry fountain, a law student with wild hair and eyes like a lion’s in the hunt stood with me. ritilin and beer were driving us closer as my boyfriend stood away from us watching like a patient guard. she kissed me hard and pulled at my shirt, my bare nipples begging at her in the cold air.

she whispered to me later while we dressed and brushed grass from our torsos that she wanted me the right way, in a bed, and i too still want it. clean white sheets and her hair everywhere and to have her closer than close to me, to hold her face and kiss her slowly and softly, so slowly that we both forget how much life can hurt.

in oregon it was an older woman, going through a divorce, playing mother to the town. i never let her mother me and it drew her closer and in more need of me than i expected. it was in her own house full of twentysomethings with no home and no job, throwing the weeks months and years away on booze and drugs and convincing themselves of this and that- she was passing out drunk in living room- both of us high from some bands stash of coke- and i took her upstairs, layed her down, brought her water. she looked up at me, asked me to stay. i lay down, held her lightly. i didn’t think anything while my mind raced from the cocaine and hoped she was passing out pleasantly next to me. i thought of my boyfriend at home, probably worried and unsure of where i was. she pulled me to her. i was resistant, unsure of where i was. i detangled from her quickly enough. the combined smells of weed and incense in her room still lives for me in that moment- her lips stinging of cheap wine and the metallic taste of cocaine.

sometimes i retrace my movements, wondering why i’d stopped her.
but i know why.

the first time was love.

thepriceofoil

thepriceofoil
Originally uploaded by jumper cables.

"A GOOD BUSINESS MAN IS ANTICIPATING THE RISING COST OF OIL IN OHIO"

salesevent

salesevent
Originally uploaded by jumper cables.

title: theoretical response to anyone requesting me to sell out


"I JUST HAPPEN TO HAVING A WORLDWIDE SALES EVENT"

truckinglife

truckinglife
Originally uploaded by jumper cables.

"SOMEHWERE THERE'S A MAN DELIVERING VALENTINES TO EVERYONE'S WIFE BUT HIS OWN"

paintingtruths

paintingtruths
Originally uploaded by jumper cables.

"IF PAINTING THINGS MADE THEM TRUE
I'D PAINT GOOD CREDIT AND PATRICK INTO MY VIEW"

the speed of light

death is a strange thing to for me to be worrying about at my age, but it also seems to be hovering all around. no one is dying (that i know of) or has died recently in my life, except a few years ago my Mema passed. I'm 25 and I work in a chain restaurant packed to the gills with children at all times and I have a nephew who will be one year old soon. Maybe this is just a strange twist on "the biological clock" phenomenon that is happening to me- but it's true that when I see these kids I see my own mortality and that of everyone around me. They are new little orbs of existence reminding me that I am already heading onto the slippery slope toward old age. But it could also be my neverending debt that's got me envisioning the finality of all things alive. This world feels like a star we see in the night sky that is already dead, except the light hasn't finished reaching us.

Either way, I like kids a lot more than I used to. I always seem to be able to make them smile when I take their orders. There was a time when I was younger and less sober when my eyes could make them turn their faces into their mothers chest. That doens't happen anymore. Maybe this feeling of mortality is just the feeling of being alive.

Gun For Fernando

the preceeding audio post is one of the hot ass songs off patricks album that he just finished resocrding. the recording as it sounds on your computer kinda blows since i had to record it through my phone to get audio on here (too impatient to figure out another way to post it... if anyone has any suggestions let me know since i want to give the song its due). in anycase, the song is damn hot. please listen past the shitty quality... and enjoy.

sixteen tons

i am fascinated by economics. i have never actually taken a course in economics. I've watched public television at 3 in the morning and found myself glued to the television as it pans through factories and displays graphs while a man voices over explanations and various economic theories. i've also investigated the relationship between the first and thrid worlds, economically that is, and how the whole dysfunctional relationship continues to exist. economic histories love to simplify the past century or so with the communist vs. capitalist idea, which has a convenience to it but also does not bother to re-evaluate the events which took place after the thoeries were voiced. everyone likes too say "oh yeah, communism was a great IDEA, but look at the reality", but the same could easily be said about capitalism. we have a series of corporations which limit the public market by paying the government to pass legislature to help them make more money. that is hardly a definition of less government- it is a worse big brother than the government could be on its own because it is literally owned by the elite class.

american capitalism's market economy has created a feudalism more noticeable now as the major industries and jobs which kept this country fed with chickens in pots, have competed each other out of the country in order to meet "market demands" for cheap stuff. what is left is an elite class which grows richer and smaller off of the trash it pays people in third world countries to make to sell to us, and in the meantime the same elite class is lending us money to buy it.

meanwhile, cities like cleveland and philadelphia, pittsburgh and detroit, and the rest of the third and fourth rate cities in this country, are finding themselves with no real reason to exist. no industry, no small to midsize companies to house, no exports, nothing they create to sell, to harvest, to pay anyone to do. there are twenty and thirty somethings looking around baffled, wondering where their city has gone, where the people have gone, why places like the flats are a shell, the ghettoes growing, the city government apathetic and stagnant, even careless. there is nothing there, the companies have picked up and left, downsized, re-organized, decided to just pay those 5 guys you knew in highschool to keep the system up and fire the thousands of workers they once had, and are now money making machines with nothing to offer to the world.

this sounds a little dark. but i swear some days all i see is this country dying, and see others, like india, with their eyes deadset on our achilles heel as they sit quietly and watch while they sharpen their economic tools.

"sixteen tons and what do you get, another day older and deeper in debt.
st. peter dont you call me cuz i can't go, i owe my soul to the company store."

johnny cash.

needless to say

the genius that i am i figured out a way to get more photos uploaded. (free, i might add)
anything else forthcoming will primarily be paintings. i'm sick of staring at my past lives.

filthywoman

filthywoman
Originally uploaded by jumper cables.

a disturbing glimpse into the interior life of a blogger.
this was the upstairs loft room of our freezing cold carriage house. some squirrels had made homes for themselves in the ceiling and walls of the place and we could hear them breathing heavy and squirreling around in there in the middle of the night. i was alone in the house the first time i heard it and i thought an animal had somehow gotten in the kitchen 'cause it was so loud. i sat in the corner of this room holding a shoe for defense purposes for like an hour. i've got the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.

church sign

church sign
Originally uploaded by jumper cables.

i can't remember what it said. i was more compelled by the scene than the words. something about god loving me.

thecoffeepot

thecoffeepot
Originally uploaded by jumper cables.

an historic tourist attraction somehwere on rte 30 in pennsylvania. they don't sell coffee.

to Mr. Anonymous

christ almighty you blog readers and a demanding f***ing lot!
i have just posted a bunch of photos since your lucky i have a weakness for demanding people.
be warned however that flickr has now banned me from uploading anymore for the rest of the month...
so if anyone out there is upset, blame Mr. Anonymous.

riverside crane

riverside crane
Originally uploaded by night crawler.

atlantic city pier

atlantic city pier
Originally uploaded by night crawler.

more freighters

more freighters
Originally uploaded by night crawler.

the captains always blow the big moaning horn whe they're coming up the river from lake erie, so i always know to grab my camera and head to the riverside.

atlantic city dawn

atlantic city dawn
Originally uploaded by night crawler.

new years day.
we'd worked a catering gig together in philly on new years and made squat. we got out at nearly 4am and on a strange ritilin addled whim (don't ask) we jumped on a bus to atlantic city and made it to the beach as the sun rose. we doubled our money that day and ate like a king and queen at an applebees before sleeping on the bus home.

Capitals.

didn't some dude get tackled on the capitol steps yesterday? i think i halfway heard on the radio that he had cyanide in some suitcases- enough to kill everyone in the building. but i was quite lost somewhere around euclid heights when i thought i heard this so i could have it all twisted around.

but this post is completely unrelated to current events, and as a general rule, so is this blog.

i read some craigslist thing (i guess i should link CL now, especially since i, like everyone else attached to their computer via an umbilical cord, is addicted to it) where a woman was bitching ad nauseum about people who don't capitalize letters in emails.
so if any of you "readers" are irritated by this behavior of mine, i'm afraid your shit out of luck, cuz i don't give a rats ass about capitals, but for all of you "FBI Agents" who were wondering, i do however care a great deal about capitols.

Dry Docked

Dry Docked
Originally uploaded by night crawler.

there was/is a bar in cape may, new jersey ironically called the Dry Dock.

walking around all these fancy privately owned sail boats, what i really saw was dollar signs. i think this is why i changed my mind about painting them and have gone with semi-trucks instead (a picture of which work in progress soon to be posted.) (and finished products too...as soon as i finish them)

on your mark...

i found work. the past week or so i've been in training at a "red robin" in a strip mall in avon. training for jobs has always been paramount to a root canal for me, or worse pain than what i imagine giving birth is like. it eats away at my soul. i met patrick in training for a job at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. flirting with him managed to cast all the wretched hours spent in conference rooms watching computer screen projections of ancient computer programs in a romantic ambient light which made the whole thing bearable.

the red robin training had none of the epic qualities of the museum training. me and a mother of two sat in the walkin which held all the napkins and kids cups reading through a manual as thick as my wrist, taking written tests on exact amounts of parsley used to top a bowl of southwest rodeo chicken illegal alien linguini and taking turns rolling our eyes at our trainer who was younger than both of us.

on the final day, holding two stopwatches he watched as we punched orders into the computer system, took his time stopping the time when we were done and then painstakingly went through the orders to insure it was all perfect. we both failed the first time. we were both so angry and humiliated that he aquiesced to letting us take it over right away, mainly because he knew there was a chance we'd beat the crap out of him if he didn't.

so tomorrow i finally get money in my pocket. real earned money.

it's hard to think about where my life is right now. it's too bizarre. i've racked up some insane resume items in the past few years and yet a 20 yr old with a stopwatch has the power to decide my economic fate.

i'm gonna go paint.

CAPTN

CAPTN
Originally uploaded by night crawler.

I wish this were my funny little boat.

Flickr

This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.

blackclair

blackclair
Originally uploaded by night crawler.

the captain of this freighter opened his window and hollered down at me, who stood staring upward on the edge of the dock holding the camera, "watch where your goin!"

megalomania

megalomania
Originally uploaded by night crawler.

patrick loving himself in front of a very frozen lake erie not so long ago.

megalomania

megalomania
Originally uploaded by night crawler.

me, looking cranky. it was in philly after all.

AC

AC
Originally uploaded by night crawler.

the famous "good doctor" on the left and patrick (aka louie) on the right in atlantic city. i was there too, just holding the camera. i got pav hooked on roulette.

boat painting

ship1
Originally uploaded by night crawler.

i figured i show you what the bleepin hell i was blabbering about

paintin'

i've been painting boats with a seriousness which belies my usual careless aesthetic. off and on in my life i have had some notoriety for being lazy or just plain stubborn, and not without due cause. however, these paintings are a whole new animal, and one that i'm not unfamiliar with. it's the first time i have used photographs as reference in YEARS and even when i did it was rare. i have generaly always painted straight from life or used created imagery straight from concept and imagination. the resulting paintings were sometimes genius and sometimes trash. it really is very hard to invent a painting from nothing, and my stubborn need to do so in such a compulsive manner over the years seems to be paying off in the form of just being quick to know what i want to do with the subject and what context to place it in.

basically, in painting from a photograph, i am not painting THE photograph and truly no have allegiance to the photographs reality, but instead i am using it as a very basic reference for detail of the subject matter, and also as a way of discovering subject matter. i have been taking photos of the landscapes and modes of transportations that i love and translating them into the paintings i want to make of them.

it's important to note that this would be impossible to do at the rate and cost (nothing) that i am without my digital camera and computer. and printer. i've taken to driving around holding my camera, trying to catch a plane landing at the airport when it's hovering eerily close over the highway, the back end of a school bus as it's just turning out of view on the road, csx trains going 15 miles an hour with a mile long stretch of back-hoes in the midst of it's grey train cars.

i've been using text in my paintings for years now, and more seriously so in the past two, and suddenly i find myself hesitant to do so.
it's not that i am hesitant to destroy any aspect of what is beautiful or sublime about them (because in fact I WANT to) but more that i haven't yet nailed down the specific subjects of them. they all have a subject in a general sense- clearly industry and travel in the sense of movement, but they're individual subjects have yet to make themselves apparent to me.

i'm sure i'll figure it out. i'll let you know when i do.

this blog is really out of character with everything else. but you'll live.

Flickr

This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.

relative

I got a call last night from my cousin Chris just as I was working on the last blog. It was 2am here and 2am there. He's in cincinatti. I hesitate to say "lives". He's homeless and generally in and out of prison. He first started calling me when we were still in philly. The doc and I were coming back from a bar downtown when patrick texted his phone and said for us to come home right away, that my cousin needed to talk to me.

I have a lot of cousins. A lot of crazy ones too. I hadn't spoken to chris in years, not since I took him to play miniature golf and bought him a slice of pizza for his eighteenth birthday a few years back when I lived at the jersey shore. I didn't even speak to him when he showed up to visit my grandmother on her deathbed. No one did. He spent the whole time sleeping on the sand dunes and skating in town, probably getting high with our other cousin closer to his age. So he was really and truly the last cousin I thought would be calling me at 1am with an urgent need to talk to me.

He was drunk that night, talking about suicide, living on the streets, his girlfriend who'd lost his baby, how he was going to jail soon. It was fight. Over some girl at a party and the cops showed up. Cincinatti is not a nice town. Philly has it's ghetto, but Cincinatti is one. Christopher has been running and living on the streets since he was fifteen. His mother is a drunk and he never new his dad. sound like a bad movie. His sisters for some reason have fared better. Their darkness manifests itelf in ways more acceptable in society. Apathy, self-hatred, bad relationships, self sacrifice, sluttiness. Christopher though, since he was a kid, has always raged. When we were kids I used to play with him sometimes, sensing in a weird way how much of an outsider he imagined he was. I used to play video games with him or go rollerblading.

When he called that night this is what he talked about, at length. How he always appreciated what I did for him. it took me a moment to remember, and then another to register that having a 13 yr old girl go to the arcade with him was one of his best memories of childhood.

He's a brilliant skateboarder. It's really true. He's had offers for amateur deals left and right over the past few years and he's turned them all down in favor of jobs in grocery stores and borger joints. It sickens me.

A friend of mine came to visit me a few years ago, around the same time I had bought him pizza and golf, and she said she spied him skating around town. She's lived in philly for years and known skaters forever like anyone of our generation. She said he looked glorious. fluid and beautiful, pulling some strange trick as he crossed the avenue.

so he called last night as he has called many times since that first night. He's out of jail now, on probation. He says he stopped smoking pot. Only drinks. Tells me stories about how he used to smoke crack about a year and a half ago. tells me about the tent he stole from someones basement and was sleeping in the cemetery with it. said he had a dream he had pitched the tent on the railroad tracks and could hear the train coming. he woke up hearing the train in the distance, but had tore the tent down in his sleep with fear.

He's been breaking into houses more and more to eat and steal necessary things. he said sometimes his mom lets him sleep at her house. last night was one of those times.

the good doctor

the good doctor is back in the UK.

I met him ages ago it seems now, but in truth it was only this past August. He came cruising through the propped open door of the bar I worked at in Philadelphia. Intermezzo Cafe it was called. A glorified coffee shop, really, and I was the glorified barista. We had a full bar, and on the weekends I had complete control of the place. I could close or stay open at will. As a business the place was a mess. My boss was an all out lunatic who drank several red bulls and several espresso's a day and was an ex-proffesional ballet dancer with a 22 yr old fiance and no talent for entrepreneurship. In anycase, certain nights I had free reign. Patrick usually sat at the bar and drank and screwed around on my computer. I had regulars. When I say regulars, I don't mean people whose face and order you recognize, but people whose lives I became inextricably involved with by being their bartender. Sometimes they were there when I got to work and didn't leave until I did. It became normal for me that two friends/regulars and I would be the only ones in the place at eleven and they'd say "close! come get a beer!" and I would.

So thats how it became not so strange for me to befriend, genuinely, a guy who waltzed the door of my place of employ.

It was humid in that jungle way that it gets in Philadelphia. The air conditioner at intermezzo was constantly giving out so half the time at night I'd have the door propped open. Pav came careening through the door holding, i'm not kidding you, hundreds of dollars up in the air. He was shouting something or other at the TV, which was always on CNN, and something about Britain had appeared. He stood at the bar waving hundreds of American dollars at the Brits on TV. I was laughing so hard, and Pav was so engrossed in his ridiculous display, that it took me a few moments to convince him just how bad an idea it was to go waving money around in a bar like that.

He'd gotten kicked out of the Irish bar down the street, I soon learned. Some rude words were exchanged between him and an irish bartender there who'd "supposedly" started the whole thing. The good doctor can be a bit stubborn.

Pav was in Philly as part of an ongoing process to get a medical residency in pathology in the states. Sometimes he'd drink and study for medical licensing stuff at the bar. Mostly though he just made friends. A few weeks later he returned to the UK with plans to come back to the states soon. Which he did, in November as I remember. He stayed in a bed and breakfast in West Philly which was hosing him for money. By then I'd quit working at intermezzo and was trying to get through the last semester of school.

We hung out with him often and our friendship with him grew. He'd brought us Bells' Irish whiskey and Chocolate from the UK. He went back to the UK again and this time when he returned in February, it was agreed he stay at the carraige house we lived in on the north edge of Philly. He cleaned a lot.

The first few weeks were a little rocky. Patrick and I were accustomed to prancing about the kitchen in our underwear int he mornings and walking straight out of the bathroom buck naked and holding a towel. In retrospect it was good for us to be socialized again. We have a tendency to hibernate to a degree detrimental to our sanity.

He cooked lots of curry and bought a case of beer everyday which we often sat around our room at night drinking and carrying on.
Patrick and I needed out of Philly pretty badly though. Debt was piling and jobs were dwindling. Pav always offered to help us but some things are best taken care of on your own. So we told him the lot of us were heading to cleveland for a change of scenery and crash at my mothers. He didn't care.

so he stayed here with us, flirting with my mother, putting dishes in the dishwasher.

He went to chicago two weeks ago to accept his residency and is now back in the UK taking care of paperwork.

He'll be back though. Soon enough.