Architecture Stories: ‘Once Upon a Time’ -Home of the Kool Aid Acid Test & Other Time Travel Stories

Author’s Note–This was written for a San Francisco publication a few years ago. They wanted an interesting way to tell the history of the beautiful Westfeld home and this is what I wrote about a house I loved.

Once upon a time I sat outside a beautiful Gothic Victorian house and leaned carefully against the metal fence. My friend’s cousin lived in this creepy looking home on Fulton Street in San Francisco and I had been dragged along for the trip. While she went into what I called the ‘Addams Family’ house to get some much needed cash, I just sat there and stared at the house.

The ‘Addams Family’ home was really called the Westerfeld House and it was decaying quickly from being the grand place that it once was. The home was initially built for William Westerfeld, a German confectioner and baker in 1895. It was now 1965 and I had run away once again from my grandparent’s in Seattle Washington. I had doubted my sister and I would ever be invited again after my Beatle incidents in 1964 but they had decided to take another chance on me. That was a nothing but a mistake.

I really did like this house and as I sat on the grass I looked up at the sky and wondered what would have happened to me had I lived in it. Apparently after Westerfeld passed away it was sold to John Mahoney, who had built the St. Francis and Palace Hotels after the 1906 earthquake. The house would go through so many changes through the next century it would boggle the mind.

As I drifted off while strips of fog float through the sky I dreamed I was back in 1920.  I watched Harry Houdini night after night in the tower room while he tried to send telepathic messages to his wife across the San Francisco Bay. Houdini quickly vaporized me out of anger and I have now become the mistress of one of Czarist Russians that had bought the home in 1928.

Every night I would dress up in my finest Deco clothing and hang on to my Russian lover arm while he toured the former ballroom and watched the patrons. They had opened a nightclub and he had called it Dark Eyes after the Egyptian kohl that I rimmed around my dark brown eyes. I saw myself smoking from a long black cigarette holder and, all of a sudden, I am pulled into the thick smoke and it is now 1948.

The ballroom of the house has vanished and it has now become an apartment building where jazz music pours out of every room. I am now sitting on a bed listening to John Handy, who is tenderly playing “If We Only Knew”. I watch his lips curl around his saxophone and know they will soon be kissing mine. I am now with child and hopefully will have a boy who will carry on his name.  I begin to go in labour and as I let myself float into the fog of pain I am no longer there – I am now suddenly part of the Calliope Company and hear Tom Wolfe tell me he is going to write a book called “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.”

It’s now 1965 and I am part of the first hippie communities in San Francisco. I spend my days doing LSD and dream of travelling in the psychedelic bus that Tom has talked about, called “Further”. I am told to document whatever I hallucinate about but I cannot seem to hold anything in my hands. My words are gibberish and I see spaceships but I smile because I have passed Ken Kesey’s acid tests. I am no longer part of the Beat Generation, I am now a proud hippie.

As I lay there and watch the strobe lights bounce off the walls I blend into the fluorescent paint in the posters and become part of this decaying giant. A man called Bobby Beausoleil is shaking me and trying to get me to meet his friend Charles Manson. It is now 1967 and instead of the reality of being at Montreal’s World Fair I am having a disagreement with Bobby. Bobby and Anton LeVey are making a film with Kenneth Anger and Mick Jagger is coming to do the music for the film called “Lucifer Rising”.  Bobby is not getting along with Anger and wants me to come with him as he has had enough with the production of the film.

I refuse and Bobby leaves me and runs off to find Manson. I later read in the news that he kills music teacher Gary Hinman on July 27, 1969, and will rot forever in jail for his crime. I am relieved I did not go with him and instead I still live in the house and design posters for the Avalon Ballroom with the Family Dog.  Janis Joplin becomes my friend and I tell her everyday until she dies that she will always have a piece of my heart.

second and third photo- Linda Seccaspina

Continuing to fade in and out of time I see that one day the house will be restored to greatness under the hands a man called Jim Siegel. He will live there with a group of long-time friends and everything will come full circle. Large rain drops wake me up and I shake off the deep sleep as I watch my friend walk down the front stairs. She was unable to get any money so we will walk for 30 minutes until we reach The Fillmore. Hunger can be calmed down with the free apples they give away. I think to myself and realize what day it is. It is Monday; just another manic Monday.

Linda Seccaspina

Images and text; Linda Seccaspina 2016

Want to see more? Come and visit the Lanark County Genealogical Society Facebook page– what’s there? Cool old photos–and lots of things interesting to read.

Information where you can buy all Linda Seccaspina’s books-You can also read Linda in Hometown News

“Six o’clock already I was just in the middle of a dream I was kissin’ Valentino by a crystal blue Italian stream.” -The Bangles

Memories and Tears — In Memory of “Max”

Three years ago I wrote a story about two people that touched my heart in San Francisco. I never seem to have time these days to write about the people and things that affect my inner soul– and I need to take a closer look at this issue, as I truly miss writing about these moments.

Yesterday I received an email from the owner of one of the most beloved dogs I have ever written about called “Max”. In all honesty, “Max” was not his real name, but he, along with all the other memories of the bay area have never left my mind.

The fact that “Max’s” owner took the time to track me down made my heart smile, but, it also made me very homesick for the people and places I once loved. With tears in my eyes I read the following words from his owner:

 

“I’m sorry to say, my Dear Old Pug Boy left here for The Undiscovered Country … from which, ever so very sadly, there is no return … going on two years ago, on Armistice Day, 11 November, of 2014 at the astonishing age of fifteen and a half, his eyesight and hearing as good as the day he was born and full to overflowing of The Ol’ Piss & Vinegar right up until the very, very last; he passed in my arms that morning, very suddenly and very, very quickly, his Poor Old Puggy Heart failing him at last … the cancer never recurred, and that despite his poor prognosis; he beat it clean, five and half years on”.

 

I wept for poor “Max”, and the owner that treated him like gold, knowing how much he missed him.  After all, in the end, it’s not the years in your life that count–it’s the life in your years- and those two lived life to its fullest.

 “Whatever you make of it, my many thanks for your reply; it’s made my day. 🙂  As I said, I had so wanted to write you when I first came across what you’d written about Dear Old “Max”, but I was unable to find an address for you.  I’m pleased that I did, and thank you for the pictures”.

This was a reminder to me to enjoy the little things in life, as one day you will look back and realize they might have been the big things.  But then you stop and think, and realize life is like a wave that goes in an out like the waves I once wrote about and took pictures of at Ocean Beach in San Francisco.

“Max” occupied a big piece of my heart when I wrote about him, and still does today.  I will remember that little pug in his little red wagon and his owner strolling down the Ocean Beach boardwalk forever. Everything in life happens for a reason, but you can’t start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one. In the end, the only regret is the chances we didn’t take– and I think I have taken all those chances– I hope I have.

The tears have not stopped flowing as I write this, but I know that even though I miss my former life- the people that want to stay in your life will always find a way– like yesterday’s email.

Love to the late “Max” and thank you to ‘W’ for taking the time to hunt me down, and for the great love and care you showed “Max” who loved you dearly.

There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I’ve loved them all

 

Related Reading

Mighty Max – Pug Not Down!

 

 

 

Linda’s Dreadful Dark Tales – Fanny Farah Farkentelli

 

Actual picture of Fanny Farah Farkentelli that I bought in San Francisco and now in my home- 

 

Young Fanny Farah Farkentelli was born in San Francisco near Haight Street to a well to do family that had roots in Italy. Her mother made clothing and hats and she made Fanny a fabulous accordion dress for her sixth birthday. Her father who worked for the newspaper took the above picture the night before as they were all going to the Opera House to see Enrico Caruso sing. Fanny loved the dress so much that she wore it to bed after they got home much to the chagrin of her mother. She tossed and turned all night long with dreams of ice cream and arias in her head.

At  5:18 the next morning she woke with a jolt as the whole house was shaking. Fanny ran down the stairs screaming and her parents rushed her outside. Everything was falling around them and all they could do was run up the hill. The earthquake shook and shook some more and finally it stopped. Her father figured the safest place to be was in Golden Gate Park and that is where they ended up staying for months as the city burned to the ground behind them.

Fanny wore the accordion dress for weeks on end, wreaking of smoke. She met Eduardo Di Capua who wrote the melody for O Solo Mio and  lived in the tent beside her. Enrico Caruso had abandoned  his musicians and his 200 suitcases after the earthquake so Eduardo was left to fend for himself. The love for her soiled but still spectacular dress inspired him to teach Fanny the accordion. Fanny did not have much else to do so she played and played until she became the O Solo Mio Queen.

Fanny learned as much as she could in the tent city from Eduardo and when they returned to their old home she played on the steps. The house was still a wee bit crooked so Fanny would forever  play her accordion on a slant. She won hundreds of contests and was sought after from far and wide. Fanny never married until one day in 1939 she  met Franco Faranoucci, another accordion player at The New York’s Worlds Fair. They fell in love at first sight and were now billed as a duet. They were called The Fabulous Faranouci’s and they toured with The Flying Willenda’s.

Fanny and Franco would play their accordions while The Flying Willenda’s did their high wire act. They would play strong slow loud music while the audience gasped at the daredevil stunts. During the finale of the show Fannie would break into her crowd-pleasing song of O Solo Mio. How many times over the years did Fanny play that popular Italian song? On the back of the above picture of Fanny Farkentelli Faranoucci there are over ten thousand, three hundred and forty seven marks. One for each and every time she played O Solo Mio.

Also read-

 

My Greatest Summer Show on Earth!

 

 

 

Me and Sophia and my accordian dress

Dedicated to my Weekend Protesting Hippie Generation — Nothing Changes Does it?

All Photos by Linda Seccaspina and dedicated to Kevin Army. In memory of when we covered the OCCUPY protests in 2011 in San Francisco and Oakland.:(

For some strange reason one morning I had instant memories of my teenage years as a weekend hippie. No one in my family was allowed to become a full time one, according to my father; so the weekend had to do.

It began one day in 1966 sitting at the Riviera Cafe with my friends after school, and listening to The Buffalo Springfield’s new song, “For What It’s Worth”. Everybody in that café instantly came together and sang the song at full volume until each note was over. It was a huge turning point in my life about standing up for what I believed in.

I respect everyone’s opinion, as this world would be pretty boring if we all thought the same thing but I have always proudly beaten my own drum. The Byrds were a huge influence on me, and I still remember my father complaining that if he ever saw me wear the same style glasses Roger McGuinn wore that there would be trouble.

Throughout my life, if people said go left, I always went right – and go right I did the next day – to the store to buy those glasses. Of course I was wearing them as soon as I left the store, and who drove down the street but my father, beeping his horn and shaking his fist at me because I had defied him.

He got over it though, just like he got over the bell bottoms as I don’t think he really had a choice. He was horrified when he saw a few people wear the flared pants and told our neighbor that his daughters would only wear those things over his dead body. Of course, that weekend I hauled my 10 year old sister with me on the bus to Montreal, where we each got a pair at Eaton’s department store. I figured if she got a pair he would be only half as mad.

They were made from a heavy backed acrylic fabric and such a gaudy Kelly green that we both looked like Gumby. I have no idea what the backing was but every time I got warm and removed the pants some of the backing became part of my skin.

During the summer, my friends and I took the bus to Montreal and would hand out flowers for peace at the Place Ville Marie plaza every weekend. People would come up to the girl with the flowers in her hair and ask if I was from San Francisco. I would just smile from ear to ear as that was the highest compliment anyone could give me.

Of course more protests came my way, or I somehow fell into them by accident. In 1969 Sir George Williams University (Concordia University) in Montreal was the home of the largest student riot in Canadian history.

Beginning on January 29, over 400 students occupied the university’s computer lab. The occupation was sparked by the university’s mishandling of racism allegations against a professor at the school. Fed up with the administration, the students left the meeting and occupied the university computer lab on the ninth floor of the Henry F. Hall Building.

Most of the occupation was quite peaceful without the involvement of the police, while negotiations with the administration were going on. The lab was not damaged, except for the several million computer punch cards that were sent fluttering to the street below, like confetti.

The occupation continued until February 11 th when negotiations broke down and riot police were called in. Then a fire broke out in the computer lab, forcing the occupiers out of the building. Ninety-seven of them were arrested and my father sighed with relief that I was not one of them.

The computer lab was destroyed, resulting in over $2 million dollars in damage. I was outside the building a good deal of the time with a sign, and when the smoke started pouring out of the windows I started to cheer. Cheer? Oh my!

I told my son this week, that if I was younger I still would be protesting something wherever they needed me. But his mother is old now, and if she gets up in the morning and something doesn’t ache or sound broken, it’s a good day. I can’t remember what happened two hours ago but ask me to sing “For What It’s Worth,” by The Buffalo Springfield from 1966, and I can still remember every word. Nothing really changes does it?

Peace out!

All Photos by Linda Seccaspina

Why I will Never Write a Book like The Death of a President

Photo- John and Judy Manchester  in the Haight (San Francisco) that day with me in February

 

Written in 2012.. and missing my life and the people I once knew and will never forget.

It must be February because fellow writer Luminous Muse (John Manchester) and his Musette are back in the Bay area for their annual visit. The three of us get along so well that we were asked to leave a local sushi restaurant yesterday because they needed to close after the afternoon lunch. Last year I thought I knew everything I needed to know about John and Judy, but I didn’t. I came home after the delightful outing and told Steve that John’s father had written some sort of book about President Kennedy. Steve gave me one of his looks and asked me if I knew who his father was.
In the next five minutes I was told that John’s father was William Manchester who had written “The Death of a President”. The book was published in 1967 by Harper and Row and became one the great American Classics. Seeing that my likes consist of celebrities, Madonna, and Sweet Valley High I brushed it all off. All I knew was that the Muse and his Musette were great people and we could discuss the world of writing and the hamburger chain IN N’ Out Burger like Olympic champions.

 

 

William and John Manchester —Baltimore, 1954

 

Last week John wrote a blog about his father and how he spent 95% of his time locked away writing. For 15 hours a day, 7 days a week he conducted over 1000 interviews to write a book about the assassination of John F. Kennedy. I read the blog three times, rolled my chair back, and started to think.

For the last six months my daily outings into the world have consisted of an 11 block walk to the Post Office and then back home to sit in front of my laptop the rest of the day. I will never be William Manchester, but I am very persistent in my goals. I begin at 7 am and sometimes finish around 8 pm. Let’s face it– I am almost 61 years old (65-2017) and time is of the essence if I want to get anything published.  I wondered if I too was becoming obsessed. Could a gal that grew up in the Eastern Townships of Quebec and lives in rural Lanark County, Ontario ever make a difference?

Everyone says they want to become a writer, but to be a real writer you have to dig in and write every single day and put up with lots of criticism and rejection.  A month ago I hooked up with my literary doppelganger called Elizabeth C who owns the site Crabbygolightly (now closed 2017) which is simply pop news with a snap.

E.C., as she is fondly known is one smart cookie who has worked as a senior producer for Oprah, a reporter covering news, politics, trend stories and features for several daily newspapers and, most recently, for Time. Again friends thought I was nuts and over-extending myself– and why on earth would I want to write about celebrities?

I knew from the word go that Ms. Elizabeth was not going to put up with bad writing and I could learn how to write entertaining information in a short span of words. Writing for her is very similar to newspaper writing. Did I add more literary obsession to my day I asked myself? Was I going to end up going mad like Poe and end up writing about ravens?

 

 

 

Am I obsessed in my work ethic like William Manchester? Am I a writer now? Of course not; even with 6 published books– I will forever be a blogger and will never become even close to becoming a great writer like William Manchester– but I do know one thing. I have figured out that I can tell stories with my words just like the people that sat around the pickle barrel a long time ago and I am quite content with that.

John Manchester is a real writer and his words made a difference to me—and that my friends is what it is all about in the very end;  to be able to write well enough to make a difference in someone’s life.

Everything else is just icing on the cake.

Update 2017- Nothing has changed LOL

Related Reading

Lunch with Linda in the Haight- John Manchester

 

Only the Ocean and You — Photo Blog — Cliff House

Please play while viewing pictures

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Old Cliff House

New Cliff House

 

All photos by Linda Seccaspina 2014

A former classmate of mine Bob Bromby just posted a poem I wrote in Grade VI on Facebook. I had to post it here.. Thanks!

A poem I wrote for the school annual in 1961..

Happy Birthday Jean Paul Gaultier – Fashion Photos from the Heart

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to be continued….

 

 

 

It’s a big year for Jean Paul Gaultier. In addition to celebrating his 60th birthday on Aoril24, he is the subject of subject of a massive museum retrospective, The Fashion World of Jean Paul Gaultier: From the Sidewalk to the Catwalk, which is currently on tour and it’s final stop is in San Francisco’s de Young Museum until August.

Bonne Fete ma cher “enfant terrible!”

 

 

 

 Linda Secaspina 2012

The lighting was not camera friendly and we could not use a flash. Les Batards!! “:)

 

I Had a Stroke – I Didn’t Break My Leg!

This past May Milwaukee resident Marion Warbleton had a mild stroke and her ten-minute bus ride turned into hours because she couldn’t remember where she was. Not one single person noticed and it wasn’t until a replacement bus driver boarded the bus that someone finally got help for Warbleton.

“After I got on the bus, I couldn’t remember what happened after that,” Marion told the local NBC news.

According to MCTS transportation spokeswoman Jacqueline Janz, Ms. Warbleton didn’t show any visible signs of distress on the busy bus route that would have alerted the driver, or the many other passengers, to request assistance. If she had a heart attack someone would have immediately called 911 but a stroke is silent – it’s a heart attack on your brain.

In August I wrote about having a TIA and how I chose to deal with the aftermath by myself. I do not suggest anyone handle things the way I did but today I realized why some do not believe I had a stroke. Standing in line for an estate sale I told the woman next to me that I had to sit down as I recently had a stroke. She looked at me curiously and said that I didn’t look like I had a stroke and that just ticked me off.

If I had broken my leg no one would have questioned why I needed to sit but because they can’t visually see my medical condition they just don’t understand. Since my stroke I can’t be trusted to use public transportation as everything is now in 3D and I have to think carefully about things I used to do at the drop of a hat. Loud noises frighten me to a panic level and frustration is at an all time high. I understand why Canada suspends your drivers license after a stroke, because if I have trouble getting from Point A to Point B I am a danger to anyone on the road.
I saw my friend Kevin Army (whose family has a history of strokes) two days ago and he said after 15 minutes he noticed me struggle to form sentences and there was slurring on certain letters.

I have the type of personality that should never have a stroke as I worry about everything. For someone to say I should change my 61 year behaviour is nuts because that is easier said than done. Most of the time when I am out in the world now it feels like everyone is on the other side of a clear plexiglass and I am looking in. I keep changing my avatar on Facebook just to make sure I am still here and reassure myself I don’t look any differently. Every few hours I say my full name over and over as I know if my tongue feels thick and I can’t pronounce my name I have had another TIA.

 

When I had the stroke I didn’t have a headache or any other documented stroke warnings; but I couldn’t say my name and typing with my right hand was out of the question. It took me 4 days to get my right hand to learn how to type again, my outgoing emails to friends were a mess and I posted old blogs for a few days. If I had lost my ability to speak and write I have no idea what I would have done, cursive writing is still a chore but that doesn’t bother me.

Last week at Fort Mason in San Francisco I watched two swimmers swim from the Aquatic Park to Crissy Field. They stopped at the pier and talked to me for 15 minutes about the joy of swimming in such a great body of water. One of the swimmers laughed and told me how free he felt and the coldness of the water made all his senses feel alive again. I stood there with tears in my eyes and wished I too could be in the bay swimming along with them. It’s one thing to have complete fear of water like I do, but some how it all outweighs the feeling I crave to feel alive again.

 

So each day I now look at their photos and dream of swimming in the San Francisco Bay. My mind keeps telling me that once I complete that swim, my fears and mental disablements will completely disappear. After a stroke you turn into a different person and behaviours and emotions change because the brain has been injured. Some days I am depressed, very angry and get frustrated attempting to blog as it’s more difficult. Each day feels like I am being sucked into a strong current much like I would encounter if I made that swim in the bay. Swimmers have to think their way out of turbulent waters and I do too with each word I type and say.

 

(Linda swimming in the bay by Sheila Smigel)

San Francisco swimmer Jeff Gunderson was quoted in The San Francisco Chronicle that when he gets into the water it’s a challenge, but he makes that swim mornings, evenings and sometime during his lunch break. Gunderson’s best advice are the words of San Francisco icon Walt Stack:

“Start slow, taper off.”

 

Those are hard words for someone like me to understand but I’m going to have to attempt that life skill if I’m going to get out of this never-ending current and feel alive again. After all you only live once, and some days I feel like I’m drowning.

 

Dedicated to Lisa Crandall who encouraged me to write this for everyone who had a stroke and those that just don’t get it.

Photo of TIA- Google

All other photos- Linda Seccaspina

EmileeeeeeMcPheeeeee- Diana Ani Stokley of Grafix to Go

J. Peterman Foodie Thoughts about Food Trucks

San Francisco- Thursday, March 31st.

I stand on the metal stairs that slowly move towards the beckoning blue sky. I can smell the food from the gourmet food truck vendors from Off the Grid. They gather at the Civic Centre every Thursday to become an extravaganza of food or an all out hipster pig fest whichever one chooses.

“Oh for the love of God man tell me what they are cooking!”- Deconstructed J. Peterman

                                   Curbside Coffee

I smell coffee filling the air making me want to sip it slowly so I might possibly go back to the office, hunker down and work. They hand me a warm chocolate croissant and a steaming soup bowl of coffee. Luscious cups of hot Vietnamese coffee are sold only on Thursdays.

 “It will always be Burma to me Elaine.” – J Peterson.

Natalie from distant Rhode Island and Denise from not so far away San Jose have come for the Sweet Potatoe Tater Tots. Alas the Vietnamese truck has “tottered out” and they have succumbed instead to an Asian Asade from Kung Fu Tacos. Seasons strips of succulent steak garnished with tender green cilantro and carrots topped with and Asian spicy salsa.

Natalie is staying at a hostel now and maybe never go back to Rhode Island after this.  Now that she has discovered you can find food links on the internet the world is her oyster.

“Beware the seductive lure of the yam yam”- J Peterman

The Rib Whip

Jennifer and Kurt from the East Bay are chowing down on ribs from a pork spa that are dripping with BBQ sauce. Just the smell alone will never let them forget about this day.

Kurt spoke softly, or was it just whispers of wind in my ears?

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget those ribs–ahhh. And most of all, I will never, forget today. Just the two of us, and we surrendered to temptation. And it was pretty damn good!” –Deconstructed J Peterman

                     

                      3 Sum Eats with Chef Ryan Scott

I smell the Deep fried Mac n Cheese egg rolls that are deconstructed (whatever that means) like little crazy chunks of love.  Rice Krispie Fried Chicken, Philly Cheese steak Dumplings and sandwiches the size of your fist make me wonder if Chef Ryan Scott is  really alive or just a master chef from times gone by.

“And if you’re undead I will find out about that too!”- J. Peterman

Kung Fu Tacos

The tacos are a tad smaller than usual but I wanted to savor every lingering bite. The veggies were tenderly marinated with onions and shitake mushrooms.  The chicken was scrumptious and the roast duck quacked its way into my heart.  Topped with a tangy curdling Asian salsa made you wonder if it was too good to be true!

“I fear my orgasm from food has left me unable to move Elaine” –   Deconstructed J. Peterson

        Oui Oui Macaron

Unfortunately I got there a little too late and some of the flavours were already gone. I managed to get a Red Velvet one to tease my taste buds. A soft crisp shell and moist chocolate chewy filling with tiny morsels of semi sweet chocolate on the shell.

Delicious unique flavors like: Salted Carmel and Almond Earl Grey Ganache lets me  dream of days of sitting by the sea sipping tea on a blanket with a Fabio look alike.

“Do you know Elaine what happens to a butter-based frosting after six decades in a poorly ventilated English basement?”- J. Peterman

Off the Grid

Delightful, delicious yet definitely not a “hipster” function.

Sweet Judy!

I cannot detect one ounce of pretension in their eyes. This food congregation is hip with nothing but great music to soothe their souls. Huge lines and comforting food from all around the world without leaving the block  made these  iPad wonder childen and myself smile.

“Then, in the distance, I heard the trucks. I began running as fast as I could. Fortunately, I was wearing my Italian cap toe oxfords. Sophisticated yet different; nothing to make a huge fuss about. Rich dark brown calfskin leather. Matching leather vent. Men’s whole and half sizes 7 through 13. Price: $135.00.

The food from Off the Grid? Priceless!”- J. Peterson deconstructed.

Text and Images: Linda Seccaspina 2011

“Creative” Quotes by J. Peterman from Seinfeld

Off The Grid on Facebook

Should Cows and Smart Cars be Tipped? – Zoomer

 

Should Cows and Smart Cars be Tipped? – Zoomer.