Good evening all juxtaposed; all gargantuan; all posed and foreboding. Welcome to another edition of Words From The Midwest.

I suppose I should start off just by talking about what music I’m listening to, as that is the thread that runs through these garbled words and phrases. Right now it’s The Hold Steady’s Teeth Dreams which came out earlier this year. It’s the first time I’ve listened to it. It’s good. Like everything The Hold Steady has ever put out it’s punctuated by Craig Finn’s exceptional lyrical content and The Hold Steady’s goddamn wonderful barband style and yet this album specifically is a bit more direct, if that makes any sense which I’m not sure it does. It’s guitar heavy and guitar driven. But as Track Four plays, I can say most exceptionally that it is a good record. My reviews don’t really go further than saying whether it’s good or bad. I know this. I’m alright with it.

As Hemingway was quoted as saying “write drunk, edit sober” i’m writing drunk. I’ve had some beers. I’m alright with that. I’m not going to edit sober though. I’m going to not edit as is usually my style. Maybe I’ll go back and read it before I post. Maybe not. It doesn’t really matter. No one’s reading this anyway.

To switch gears, I think I want to say straight up that this Ice Bucket Challenge is both a good thing and a bad thing. It’s a good thing that it’s raising awareness and money for ALS, which is a cause that’s close to my heart as my Dad died from Lou Gehrig’s Disease. But it’s also about the most American thing that could be happening. The fact that about a billion people in this world don’t have drinkable water and We as a People have taken to dumping Ice Water on our Heads in a way to show our support of the most under-funded disease there is…It’s a bit ridiculous. It’s ridiculous that we aren’t thinking about the fact that people literally don’t have water. It’s even ridiculous that we’re raising money to fund a disease whose only “cure” is Stem Cells. Maybe the money that has been raised will help. Maybe. And maybe not. But the mere fact that people are talking about ALS is obviously a good thing. That’s something that hasn’t happened. Ever. Literally. So maybe I shouldn’t have anything to say about it.

Maybe.

But whatever. I don’t throw my hat into the ring of any Cause with any amount of goodwill. I just don’t Care maybe? Maybe. But maybe I just think that life is more than playing around with things out of my control. It’s more than ranting about shit that matters and yet doesn’t matter. I’ve said it before, nothing in this world is affecting me living here in Hinge Town. And again, that doesn’t make me feel good but it doesn’t really make me feel bad. It makes me feel a little guilty but fuck it. Whatever. I have to deal with my own shit first. Everyone else’s can be on the periphery of my thought process and it is. It all is. The Wars. The Disease. The Poverty. The Bullshit. It’s all there. It all plagues me. But when it comes down to it, I don’t know what to do about it and I refuse to flood my social media outlets with trite obnoxious nonsense about What Should Be Done about any of it. I have no answers. I have no solutions. And maybe there are no problems. Only Solutions. But I just don’t know. I’m at a loss. I’m clueless.

Stop.

End paragraph.

So to sum up, The Hold Steady is a Great Band. Keep dumping water on your heads if you want to but keep in mind that bucket of water is precious to a number of goddamn children.

Give your money to any number of charities if you feel like it but don’t dump a bucket of water on your head just to feel a part of something beyond yourself. Quietly praise your friends for joining in. Positively be outside of your heads for some time and think about all of the people who have diseases and disorders with no cure. Pretend you have one. Live a day blind. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. But don’t take for granted the things you have that so so so many people don’t. At the very least thank God for the food you eat and the water you Drink.

The end, ya’ll.

Regards,

Michael

Good morning, all fantasied; all wondrous; all coddled and caring. Welcome to another edition of Words From The Midwest.

As usual, I’m listening to music as I write this. I don’t know why I do it. It’s much easier to write in silence. But when it comes to this series, I’m listening to music. And so it is. I’m sure I’ll need to go back and edit this when I’m done.

Spinning this morning is Beulah’s Handsome Western States. I don’t know it as well as I should but Beulah is one of those bands I tend to put on when I don’t feel like listening to Okkervil River or Bright Eyes or Neil Young or something. They’re a good band, Beulah. I believe they’re yet another extension of the Elephant 6 collective which is a group of bands that formed in the mid-90s and which dealt heavily with 60s inspired pop and psychedilia. The Apples in Stereo, Neutral Milk Hotel, Of Montreal and Olivia Tremor Control are just a few examples of the expansive collective. Every six months or so I go into a phase where I listen to nothing but Elephant 6 and at least the last few times I’ve found other bands connected to it. As the whole, it’s responsible for some of the best indie rock of the last twenty years. Without it we at least wouldn’t have such brilliant artistic statements like In The Aeroplane Over The Sea for one, and The Gay Parade is pretty much the Sgt Pepper of indie rock. Not to mention The Apples’ Her Wallpaper Reverie which is one of my go-to albums to listen to in full.

I’m feeling a bit of the old ADD at the moment so I’ve changed the music to Elvis Costello’s King Of America which is another one of those records I should know a lot better than I do. I guess when it comes to Elvis, I generally turn on My Aim Is True which I know front to back. What a hell of a freshman release. Insane.

Now it’s Marshall Crenshaw.

Yesterday what was brought to my attention was a new song by Ezra Furman about the Ferguson police murder of Michael Brown.

Now, I will say that recently I’ve pretty much distracted myself from the news media, mostly because I generally get my news from The Daily Show and The Colbert Report and they’ve been on hiatus for the past two weeks. But this story specifically has caught my attention and has shown pretty clearly that we as a Country are dangerously close to living in a police state. The militarization of local police forces is ridiculous in so many ways I can’t begin to state. And the force and attitude of nearly every officer who has shown up on social media is absurdly close to psychotic. I watched a video of a cop pointing an automatic rifle of some kind directly at protesters and say quite plainly “I am going to fucking kill you.” First of all, this shouldn’t be on the tongue of anyone ever but that’s not the world we live in and it seems that with everything that’s happening in the world right now, from Iraq and Israel to Syria to the streets of fucking Missouri, it’s where people in power go to first. “I’m going to fucking kill you.” What an absolute drag that these people exist at all.

But what do I wish upon them? Clarity. Enlightenment. Empathy. Common Sense. Etcetera.

But oh well, I think. It’s not like my daily life here in Hinge Town is any different, considering. And that doesn’t make me feel safe. It makes me feel guilty. At least I’m poor. Poverty is very humbling.

I’ve turned on Islands. Have you heard of them? It’s the band that formed out of the ashes of The Unicorns. And right now, go somewhere and listen to The Unicorns. Cool as hell, in so many words.

I think I’ll leave you there. GoodLuck and GodBless and all that. I hope your weekend is passable.

Regards,

Michael

Hello all followers, all gentrified persons, all positively fourth streets. Welcome to another edition of Words From The Midwest.

As I’m sitting here writing this, I am pouring sweat. Not because I’ve done anything remotely physical today (although I did go for a long walk) but because it’s fucking hot out. Muggy, humid bullshit weather. It’s days like these I sit and wonder why I always look forward to the summer during winter. I mean, I hate the winter, don’t get me wrong, but my clothes and style and overall temperament is well suited for colder temperatures. Clearly the best season is autumn. Clearly.

I’ve had a pretty excellent few days, if you must know. But last night I drank too much so today has been a complete and utter wash spent sleeping and laying around and generally feeling like garbage. But oh well, you might say. Yes, oh well.

I’m listening to Okkervil River like usual. They are, in my not-so-humble opinion, the greatest band in the world today. I first heard them some seven years ago, right around the time The Stage Names came out. I’ve written before about how when I first listened to it I inexplicably put it back on the shelf for close to a year and when I finally gave it another chance I completely fell in love. Will Sheff is one of the five best lyricists alive and he – along with Conor Oberst and Damien Rice – pretty much taught me how to sing. His voice isn’t fantastic and yet it’s brilliant in its simplicity. He himself has written that when he started out he had problems with pitch. I had the same problem and sometimes still do but what his voice taught me was that your soul escapes through singing and if you put enough of yourself into how you do it you’re bound to impress at least yourself, eventually. And eventually he became a damn fine singer and front man. It doesn’t hurt that he and his band are perfectly organised and their arrangements never disappoint. In fact, they’re usually goddamn perfect.

I digress.

I got a new hat a few days ago. I’m not sure if I told you that. It’s blue and red and has a block C on the front. I think it’s for Cleveland but it just as well might be for Cincinnati.

I think I’ll stop there as I really just want to keep writing about Okkervil River and really you should stop reading this immediately and go get The Stage Names and The Stand Ins and The Silver Gymnasium. And once you listen to those delve into the rest of their catalogue. It’s brilliant.

Word.

Regards,

Michael

Greetings from the desk of The Supposed So; the chic, undeniably inadept voice of the warm but bewildered temperaments. As I sit here – on my back porch – I am filled with the feeling of regret that I smoked the rest of my cigarettes already and don’t have anything to replace them with but nicotine gum and The Patch. Even now, I am ferociously chewing and chewing and still no relief. And to make matters worse, I can smell one being burned from the next yard. Maybe I’ll bum one.

I can’t do it.

I do it far too often.

At any rate, welcome to the fifth installment of Words From The Midwest. I am at least enjoying The Champagne of Beers as I type this and – sip – the mixture of the mint/tobacco taste of the gum and the frothy, degenerative bubbly that is Miller High Life is making me a little sick to my stomach. But no matter. I plunge ahead.

I’m listening to Elf Power right now but don’t have too much to say about it. Its pleasing, sixties, pseudo-psychedelic Pop is the only thing I can stomach on this frail Sunday Evening. I had a good day. That much should be said.

But I’m also slightly bored as I write this and am comforted only by the knowledge that tomorrow is another day of being at Camp and hanging with one of – well, some of – my favorite people in this city. Nay, this world. Tomorrow night will see the same with even different people and I couldn’t be more pleased.

For the past couple hours I’ve been reading Hunter Thompson’s collective works for Rolling Stone Magazine and I’m not sure I need to tell you that it is truly some of the most inspired writing ever penned. His riffing on everything from the Nixon Resignation and Watergate to meeting and conversing with Jimmy Carter when he was still a nobody ex-Governor from Georgia is truly making it so this night without cigarettes is slightly more bearable.

One of my sisters is coming in from Maine on Wednesday. The other is coming in from California on Friday. Thus, it will be a goddamn awesome week to cap off my birthday which was just about as good as a regular-old-birthday can be. I’m twenty-six now. Feels good.

I’ve switched the music to The Faces because I don’t know Elf Power well enough to completely ignore it as I write this. And I know The Faces pretty fuckin’ well. Not as well as I know The Beatles and not even close, really, but I love The Faces and I’ve already stated that they’re probably the best straight up Rock and Roll band to ever have been formed and, hell, probably ever will be formed. Dirty garage rock with a folk twist at times, I goddamn love The Faces and Rod Stewart in general until he turned into fuckin’ Barry Manilow (sic) and started making music only middle-aged Mothers could ever truly enjoy hearing.

Cindy Incidentally makes me want to get as drunk as possible and scream the lyrics from the top of a picnic table that might as well be the one in my backyard but seeing as how it is the Sabbath and the Jesuit Volunteers that live beneath me are having a Community Meeting next door, singing it quietly under my breath will have to suffice.

Hell, I’ve paused it by now anyway.

Chewing and chewing and chewing, I wish I had a cigarette.

I think that’ll be all from my desk this evening. I hope you enjoy the beginning of your workweek. Hell, I don’t have one of those and you’ll have to forgive me for saying it. To quote Bill Hicks, “You know what the best part of my job is? I don’t have a boss.”

Envy me? Nah. You probably have more money than I do.

Sincerely,

Michael

Good morning, all fantastic, all hungry, all plain and tall. Welcome to the fourth installment of my three hundred and sixty five part series, Words From The Midwest.

It’s possible I could be over or under estimating how many of these things I’ll do. Maybe I’ll go until I don’t know the roman numerals anymore. Maybe I’ll just look it up. We’ll have to wait and see.

Today is my birthday. Number twenty-six. As I’ve stated, I think it’ll be a good year for me. I have a book and an album coming out soon and then another album coming out after that, I’m writing two novels and they’re both coming along quite nicely. Yes, I think twenty-six will be a good year.

Last night was splendid. I and a group of former Jesuit Volunteers and general friends in the neighborhood greeted the new Volunteers, shared a meal together and then sat around the fire sharing jokes and stories and generally enjoying each other’s company. I couldn’t be more excited to have these new faces around.

Currently, I’m listening to Big Star’s album Third/Sister Lovers, one of my most favorite albums ever recorded. I used to have Third on vinyl. I wore out the grooves. If you’ve never heard the song O Dana, I very much recommend you looking it up. It’s one of the best songs ever put to tape.

I say that about a lot of songs, though, I admit.

I will be going over to my sister and brother-in-law’s soon for a day of family time and a delicious birthday dinner. I think I told you about that before. I won’t go into it again.

Big Star has shuffled to Julian Casablancas’ first solo album, Phrazes For The Young. I’ve never before listened to it but I do love The Strokes (he is the lead singer).

Not much more to say today. I hope you have a good My Birthday day.

Godbless.

Michael

Hello internet. Welcome to the third installment of Words From The Midwest, my ongoing blog series in which I will write and write about anything and everything my mind wonders about as it wanders about.

Currently, I’m listening to Marshall Crenshaw’s Definitive Pop Collection which is a collection of songs by the great Marshall Crenshaw. I rarely dig anthology type greatest hits packages but this is all I could find by him on the internet or at my local library. It’s as good a collection as can be found, however, and allmusic gives it a four and a half star rating. And I concur.

Cynical Girl has just come on. I heard it for the first time not too long ago and it has quickly become one of my favorite songs of all time. It’s like if Buddy Holly and Phil Spector had a baby of Power Pop perfection.

“I’ll be lost in love and having some fun with my cynical girl who has no use for the real world.”

One hell of a chorus.

I am, as usual, sitting on my back porch as I write this, looking out on the wall which separates my yard from the neighbors’. It’s covered in ivy and thus reminds me of Wrigley Field. I’ve never been to Wrigley Field. I’d love to go someday.

Last night I went to the brand new bar which has opened up in my part of Ohio City which has been dubbed Hinge Town. The bar is called The Jukebox. It will have an ever-revolving jukebox filled with some of the best music you could think of. Soon, with every drink you buy, you’ll receive tokens for the Jukebox, making it so there is always good music playing and, if you’re a frequent bar-hopper, you know that this is as rare a commodity as there is in this day and age. Last night it was on free play so I chose two songs, one by Dr. Dog and one by Mos Def, so you can gather that not only is there nothing but good music but there’s also quite the eclectic mix.

This evening, I will be getting new neighbors. The entire downstairs of my building is dedicated to housing the Jesuit Volunteer Corps of Cleveland and today marks the first day of a new group. Last year’s group was pretty fantastic although I didn’t get to know them as well as I could have and should have. Perhaps this year will be different. I’m certainly in a much better place, mentally, than I was a year ago when I moved back to Cleveland. But I’ve been over all that.

Tomorrow is my twenty-sixth birthday. I’ve already gotten a couple gift certificates, one to Beat Jar Juice Bar and one to Rising Star Coffee, my two favorite places around. I’ve already spent almost all of both of them. So worth it.

I also got a new pair of Chuck Taylors from one of my sisters and, tomorrow, I’m going over to another one of my sister’s house for bratwurst and macaroni salad and probably some beers and hang out time. It should be a great birthday.

Sunday I’m going to go out to visit the camp which I grew up at and used to work at. It’s called Camp Christopher, it’s in Bath, Ohio, and it is my favorite place in the world. My parents met there, both my Dad and my Grandpa used to be Director there, and I worked there on and off for seven years. I miss it from time to time and it’s always good to go out to visit.

I’m also going Monday with my good friend Abbey.

I suppose I’ll leave it there as there’s not too much else to say this afternoon other than I hope you enjoy your weekend and don’t get so drunk that you get sick. And if you do, just make sure it’s in a toilet or a trashcan.

Goodbye for now.

Michael

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen; brothers and sisters; vibrations in the mind of the one true God whose name is Love.

What an opening, huh? I stole it from Bill Hicks’ HBO special, One Night Stand. And while we’re on the topic of Bill Hicks, I sincerely recommend you go on youtube right now and watch anything and everything you can find concerning the late, great comedian. The man was a brilliant social critic, satirist, musician, and comic’s comic and most definitely one of the greatest standups of all time. He was taken far too early, at the age of thirty two, by pancreatic cancer. I have a mild obsession with him that materializes every few months or so with me listening, first and foremost, to the album Rant In E-Minor which is easily one of the most replayable comedy albums ever made. It’s long and loaded with gems. Check it out.

But let’s take a moment to talk about that opening. What does it mean to be a vibration in the mind of God? Well, let us first agree that there is a God. Let that be the prerequisite agreement in this, albeit already a tad pretentious, completely valid and substantial discussion. There is a God. But perhaps not in the way you’re thinking and perhaps not even in the way you were brought up to believe. God is not an old man in the clouds. I think this much can be said. No, I believe – as did Bill Hicks – that we are all one consciousness; that God is the entire being of Earth, its galaxy, and its Universe and, likewise, each and every living organism in said Universe is a part of God.

Perhaps that’s too broad.

Maybe we should focus on the Human Race.

If we as a people are all one consciousness, we, as Bill Hicks said, experience each other subjectively. I’m in your movie, you’re in mine, etcetera. As people, we have the ability for empathy, which is the single most important part of life. That, even as we are each living our lives separately from each other, we are able to, to put it in cliched terms, walk a mile in another’s shoes. As our lives are lead, we may even begin to realize the importance of empathy in terms of karma as we glide across the path toward enlightenment. Participating, we all are, in the lives of others as we pull from the Collective Unconscious.

This is God. He lives in conversation and music and literature. Speaking for myself, God is the space between the notes. He is the smell of fresh cut grass in the Summertime. He is the shimmering surface of a pond. He is the rays of the sun through the clouds. He is life. He is death. And yet, He isn’t He. He is Me. He is We. He is Us.

Life is just a dream. There is no such thing as death. We are the imagination of ourselves. Perhaps there is free will. Perhaps we are all living a predetermined script, with each choice as merely a stepping stone toward an already-thought-of future self.

This is what one of the novels I’m working on is really all about. I know I told you about it in my last post. It is about a man who has died who finds himself alone in a cave on the side of a mountain with nothing but a typewriter and three reams of paper, trying to figure out whether he is in Heaven or Hell. Early on in the story, he is met by a disembodied voice who seeks to explain to him his purpose on the plane of existence on which he has found himself.

It is a deep and convoluted and, yes, a bit of a pretentious concept. But I enjoy riffing philosophically and there isn’t really anything remotely wrong with a bit of mental masturbation here and there.

In other news, I’m smoking a Zig Zag Cigarello and couldn’t be wishing any harder for a real tobacco cigarette. A Pall Mall Red would be excellent. An American Spirit Black would be superb. But at least I have something to smoke.

Currently, I’m listening to Rod Stewart’s An Old Raincoat Won’t Ever Let You Down, which is one of my favorite albums of all time. It is my opinion that Rod Stewart from nineteen sixty-nine through nineteen seventy-six, including his time fronting The Faces, could very well be the greatest straight up Rock and Roll ever put to tape. The Faces were better than The Rolling Stones. And I’ll say it until the day I die.

Recently, I trimmed my beard all the way down to stubble but left my mustache as it was. I think I’m going to leave it this way until the mustache is just too damn long.

I’m wearing my favorite outfit.

I wore it yesterday as well

I’m barefoot in my backyard, sitting at a red picnic table.

It is a goddamn beautiful day outside. Not too hot. Not too cold.

As I’m typing, Blind Prayer has come on. It is one of the best songs ever. Look it up.

I’ll leave you here as I’m going to go back inside to roll another cigarette.

I hope you tune in next time for another edition of Words From The Midwest.

Sincerely,

Michael

In this, my first post in the ongoing series I will entitle, “Words From The Midwest” I will first mention, briefly, that the midwest should really be called the mideast. It’s simple logic and geographical correctness which fuels this belief. I mean, really. There’s nothing western about the midwest except that it’s just west of the east. Though I suppose that at some point in the history of this great* nation, the midwest was, indeed, the most west and so I suppose, on some level, I can get behind it being called the midwest today. But, honestly, it is a misnomer in this, the year of Our Lord, two thousand and fourteen.

As it is, I’m writing to you from my back porch. It is a beautiful day in Cleveland, with not a cloud in the sky, a slight breeze, and the sound of The Beatles’ “Revolver” escaping from my computer speakers. The sound quality is less than exceptional but the songs are familiar and I know all the words to every song on the album even though, as with every time I listen to it, I have skipped “Yellow Submarine” because no one needs to hear that song too often after they’ve passed from adolescence and into adulthood. I don’t hate it. But it isn’t very good. It’s a goddamn novelty song, really. So it goes.

It is August the sixth, three days from August the ninth, which is the day I will turn twenty-six. I’m looking forward to it. I believe the back half of my twenties shall be infinitely better than my early twenties and, while I’m on the subject of age, I believe my thirties will be my best decade.

If you don’t know, I’m a writer and a musician. To date, I have written three novellas – all of which are semi-autobiographical – and a collection of poetry from my previous writing series, which is entitled “Good Morning, Good Afternoon, and Good Evening.” That series is over with, hence my beginning this series which, as I’ve already said, and which you can gather from the heading of this post, is entitled “Words From The Midwest.” I’m excited about this one just as I was excited about the last one. But that one is over. Finished. History. Zilched.

As this is the first in a series, it will undoubtedly be a good bit longer than those which follow, in that I am taking the time to introduce you to myself and my work. My work is extensive and, in addition to my published works, I have written and released ten albums of original material, as well as a collection of forty-some-odd covers of some of my favorite songs which I recorded over the past three years. A good bit of them are butcher-jobs, but, as I have taken to releasing my almost-every whim since two thousand and eleven, they are available to download for free via my Bandcamp page (thesupposedso.bandcamp.com).

And so there you have it. Ten albums and three books are now available to read or listen to for free. Check the links on the right of this page if you’re curious.

My next release will be a combination book and tape. The book is around one hundred and fifteen pages and chronicles my time living on the streets of Portland, Oregon, which I did for about a month in two thousand and thirteen. The book is also about two songwriters writing and recording an album and, thus, as you read, you every so often run into the lyrics to a song. It is my hope that, as people read, they will listen along to the music. This is my hope.

The music is better than the book. So it goes.

So here we are, brought together by the internet. It is my hope that you are doing quite well. I’m just about as good as I can be, these days. Although these days I’m missing a good amount of people who have left my life. But I will say that, as with nearly everything in this life, it was good enough while it lasted with each and every one of them. If you’re reading this and I haven’t seen you in a while, know that I think of you often and wish you nothing but the best in this life. Although, if you’re reading this, I am taking this opportunity to tell you to please fuck off slightly. You know who you are unless you don’t, in which case, I’ll refer you to my previous statement of goodwill.

I enjoy people. I enjoy thrifting. I enjoy music. And I enjoy good solid television. I’ve been watching Seinfeld these past couple months. I’d only ever seen it in reruns although I do recall seeing the very last episode ever when it originally aired on NBC. I don’t need to tell you of its brilliance. This has been well documented.

I also like movies sometimes but I often don’t have the attention span to watch one all at once. This is only a slight problem in my opinion.

Recently I’ve also been watching Getting Doug With High which I won’t describe simply because all it is is comics smoking weed and talking, although I suppose that’s as good a description as anything. I hope to be on that show sometime and if you’re reading this and care that I enjoy marijuana from time to time, I offer you my sincere apologies. But it should be legal everywhere. This is my opinion. It is also a cold hard fact.

It’s interesting to me, as I’m getting back to talking about my work, that I have done so much over the past three years, all things considered. In two thousand and twelve, I was diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder which is characterized by intense, full blown mania and psychosis. I have experienced both of these things in the past two years and have spent time in the hospital for treatment two different times. I have also struggled with crippling depression for as long as I can remember although it should be noted that both my depression and my mania have subsided almost entirely since I have been medicated. It’s kind of a bummer to me that I will be on some form of medication for the rest of my life. I’ve recently been researching alternative forms of therapy as I am wholly against the Pharmaceutical Conglomerate and Big Business in general. But at least I don’t have to give my own money to these bastards. No, my medication is completely covered by my insurance. God willing, this continues.

As I sit here, I am overwhelmed by the sound of a lawn mower some yards away.

To conclude these rambles, I’ll let you know that I am currently writing two different novels, one a coming-of-age type story and one about a man who has died and who is trying to figure out whether he’s in Heaven or Hell. Spoiler alert, he’s in neither. Or both.

I have also just finished writing what will become my twelfth album. It is entitled “Dad’s Typewriter” which is also the future name of a band I will eventually form.

I hope you have and have had what amounts to a glorious Wednesday. As Summer winds down, take the time to enjoy the blue of the sky and the green of the grass as August takes hold and leads us, ever-so-gradually, into September.

I hope you tune in next time for more Words From The Midwest.

Regards,

Michael