Dusted

Dusted: Wipe Off The Dust. Here Comes Glass Cleaner...

2011-12-15T01:24:00.000-08:00

Dusted: Wipe Off The Dust. Here Comes Glass Cleaner...: Still haven't posted the final one for this blog, but felt that the following link was one worth sharing with those still waiting for the fi...

Wipe Off The Dust. Here Comes Glass Cleaner...

2011-12-15T01:23:00.000-08:00

Still haven't posted the final one for this blog, but felt that the following link was one worth sharing with those still waiting for the final rim shot. Is it the end of an era? Time to clean off the dust and slip behind a glass partition, older and no wiser and even more broken than before. A duster I know likes to say, ":When in doubt, nut the fuck out." Glass cleaner may just be another way of doing that. There's always another way. It didn't start with the monkey, and, trust me, it's not gonna end there.

Read on.

http://www.starnewsonline.com/article/20111113/ARTICLES/111119868

Dusted: Dusted To Go From Blog To eBook.

2011-11-27T02:32:00.000-08:00

Dusted: Dusted To Go From Blog To eBook.: Does this dust have a future in altruism? We intend to see. It's been a while since we posted anything here on Dusted , and al...

Dusted Gets Booked (No help from Dano)

2011-11-27T02:25:00.000-08:00

Does this dust have a future in altruism? We intend to see.

     It's been a while since we posted anything here on Dusted, and although we apologize for the lapse, we;d also like to make it clear that the lapse has been the result of myriad personal factors that have impacted other areas of our life as well,. But it's the dawn of a new day (or era, if you will), and we hope to publish a final post on this blog by the beginning of the week. After that, our efforts regarding subject matter connected to the dust world will be directed toward the editing and publication of our e-book, also called...what else?....Dusted.
   Writing this blog has not been easy, either publicly or personally, and it's only the compelling sense that it's somehow our obligation (or perhaps destiny) to write it that's kept us on several occasions from just deleting the entire thing in frustration. Dusters aren't the only people with issues out there, and we've been a magnet for dusters and non-dusters with issues of late. The suggestion that we turn what has been an ongoing blog into a one-off book resonated with us right away, not just because it meant that we would be freed from the weekly grind of keeping up with this blog for an indefinite period of time, but because, with any luck, it will allow us to reach those readers who don't follow blogs. Bottom line, it's an idea whose time has come. And we're committed to making sure that Dusted doesn't just end up being another pile of dust. Trust me, where we come from, the one thing that no one needs is another damn pile of dust.
   So, thanks for following us thus far. We hope that you'll continue to support through the publication of our ebook and beyond.

We won't stop until we drop.

Enter The Swan

2011-07-29T21:11:00.000-07:00

It started almost six months ago. The monkey dance, that is. I can't tell you the exact time or place, or what led to those first dangerous steps between my son and his dangerous new partner, but I can tell you about the final moments in this particular stage of the dance. Whether my son and Mr. Monkey will be picking up where they left off is still a question mark, but, for the moment at least, that particular dance card has been cleared and put away.

Strange how even things that you know are bad can seem bearable until someone from outside steps in and yanks off the blinders that have been keeping you from succumbing to a nervous breakdown for six months. I knew my son was depressed, and I knew that was the reason he'd turned to monkey dust. When his Danish girlfriend made the decision to return with their daughter to Copenhagen the previous December, it had been a heart wrenching situation for all of us.

For my son, who had never been the most emotionally stable person to begin with, it precipitated a downward spiral that surpassed anything that I or anyone else who had helped him through his previous drug troubles had ever witnessed before. It was the reason that I moved in with him, the reason that I stayed even after I realized that there were going to be complications that I hadn't anticipated which might (and did) have personal repercussions for me, But I'd never blamed The Girlfriend for any of it. I mean, people do things. Sometimes they do things that make other people unhappy. I was unhappy, my son was unhappy, and as it turned out, The Girlfriend was unhappy, too. But my son's decision to dance with the monkey was completely his own.

My decision to stick around even after he started showing signs of dust aggression was my own as well. Open any newspaper or spend half a second on the internet, and you can read about incident after incident in which a duster has gone beserker on the drug. Tales of men with machetes, women with hatchets, teenagers with guns and a sudden inclination to push a fellow teenager out of a window abound. In the city where I've been residing these past six months, a duster met an untimely demise just a couple of weeks ago when his "friend" got pissed off over some dust issue and shoved him out of a second story window. Witnesses say that the victim seemed to be all right, that he was already starting to get up when his "friend" (I just have to include those quotation marks) came out of the building and helped him back inside. No reason to call an ambulance, the witnesses decided. So they left, leaving the victim to breathe his last on his...wait for it..."friend's" couch.

The stories get even crazier, the death-by-dust twists even more grotesque. In another incident that took place here in the city where I currently reside, a duster arrested after running into traffic (literally) died within an hour of his arrest from what local news sources implied were complications related to his dust intake on a day on which temperatures soared to 100 plus. But dusters and a few others know the real story. I got it from the friend of a brother of a cop. The dead duster got that way after becoming so enraged that he reached down and tore his balls out of his scrotum, and then hurled them across the room.

Makes you cringe, doesn't it? It should also make you wonder at the repercussions of using a drug that can somehow drive a man to rip off his own balls. Never mind the woman who, only a few weeks ago, starred in her own personal mug shot after tearing out the bathroom plumbing to barricade the bathroom door in an effort to keep out the people who were after her. The twist is that there were no people after her, the bathroom was in her neighbor's house, and she didn't have their permission to be there. In a related twist, I know that woman, and if you had told me six months ago that she would be arrested for doing something like that, well...you know. Because she's really a pretty nice person. Definitely not the kind of person you'd ever imagine ripping out bathroom plumbing. Because that must be hard to do, right? And she's not Wonder Woman. She wears Celine Dion Perfume, for chrissakes.

My son has never come close to tearing off his own genitalia or ripping someone's bathroom radiator out of the wall (not sure it was actually the radiator, so don't quote me). But in the last few weeks, he's turned into someone who might be able to do both of those things and perhaps even a few more. It started with the name calling. I couldn't open my mouth or even walk into a room that he was in without him shooting me an look of almost diabolical hatred and hissing, "Shut the fuck up, up cunt" or "Get out of my face, bitch." The epithets became so frequent and so common that I stopped hearing them. Well, at least most of the time. There were some occasions on which, feeling bad about some unrelated matter, a random "Fuck off, bitch" would send me on a crying jag that would last for hours. This would infuriate my son even more. "Oh, boo, hoo," he'd sneer at me. "Poor me. Boo hoo."

Not sure where his anger came from. But it didn't go into hiding when his friends came over to the flat. I tried to be pleasant to them. Even the most strung-out, bruise-ridden junkie could count on a semi-civil greeting from me (unless he was one of the two of three I'd banned from the flat, in which case, I had a few choice invectives of my own to spew. Knowing that my son did dust didn't mean I had to put up with actual junkies, I'd tell them. It felt weird, telling a junkie to his face that he was a junkie. Weirdest part was that I was too damn naive to realize that junkies aren't necessarily born looking like cadavers in T-shirts. And that "junkie" sometimes describes people you love.

Until last week, my son's rages and personally directed rants were just part of the fabric that made up our life in one uncomfortable little corner of the dust world. My worries about him have been at critical mass for some time now and I've somehow learned to live with the pressure. But then The Girlfriend came back.

(End of Part One)

Trust No One, Disbelieve Everything You See

2011-07-22T08:05:00.000-07:00

When a duster runs out of stuff and starts jonesing for more, he or she can often be seen induging in a little game known in this particula a packet of dust could have been dropped and might still be extant. The guy who coined the term "dumpster diving" has a way with words and a keen insight into the duster mind because when a duster is really jonesing, that duster is shameless in pursuit of the hallowed prize. If the situation's really bad, reality and fantasy start to merge, and the duster starts seeing dust everywhere. A jonesing duster walked into my kitchen last week and went directly to the washing machine on the lid of which someone had scattered some powdered laundry detergent. He got really excited.

"Man, there's a lot of dust here," he said.

He sounded like a kid walking into the Manhattan Toys R Us for the very first time. I almost hated to tell him it was just Arm & Hammer laundry detergent. I don't know if he'll ever be that excited about anything ever again.

I could have asked him. The dusters who come here tell me a lot of things about themselves. They do it for a couple of reasons. They know that I'm not going to turn them in or judge them, and they know that I'm interested in what makes them do what they do.

Not that I don't get pissed off a lot. I lost my car because a duster drove it without permission last week, and I'm still so upset about it, that I can't even give time to the situation in this blog because it will destroy my ability to focus on anything else. But most of the time the things I get pissed off about are things like discovering money or other semi-valuables missing from my space (a jonesing duster is just like any other junkie, so hide anything you can't do without) and excessive tweaking. Allow me to explain.

Saturday night, there were a few people here, several of them on dust, all of them known to me. But one of them was a little less known to me than the others and seemed a little more like the kind of people with whom I used to associate. He was closer to my age, too, and we shared a few more reference points. So we spent some time talking, seemingly in a normal fashion, until he started doing the "window thing"---rising up suddenly from his chair and stalking slowly over to the window and pushing aside the curtain to get a clear view of the darkened street.

"I don't believe it," he said. "There's a fuckin' cop right across the street."

"Well, it's a good thing you're not on anything," I said. "Good job."

"Are you kidding? I'm fucking rolling," he said. "I booted up about half an hour ago."

"Here in this flat?" I half-screamed at him. "Goddamn it, I don't allow that. (My son) knows that. No one boots up in this flat."

He wasn't listening. All he cared about was the cop he thought was watching him from across the street.

"Oh, this is great. There's a DEA right across from the cop on the corner. Man, I don't believe this!"

Before I could say anything, he ran into my son's room and told the other dusters that they were being staked out by cops and DEAs. Then he ran outside to get a closer look at the situation. He returned a good five minutes later, wild-eyed, as he explained that cops and DEAs had planted themselves at strategic points all up and down the street. It started with the cop and the DEA at the corner. But then there was a guy who had been standing outside a house three doors down from us for a really long time. Yeah, he had a dog with him, but the dog was just standing there, too. And there was a black Subaru that kept going by (there are how many black Subarus in any given city?), and another man who looked hard at the living room window of our flat as he walked past it.

"Why would they be staking this place out?" I asked. "Wouldn't they be going after the big people? The distributors?"

"Shit's illegal now," a helpful duster explained. "Cops want to make examples of people."

That freaked me out. I told everyone they had to leave, and if they had any of their stupid shit with them, they had better make sure it left, too. But the dusters were too scared to leave. They started looking out the window, three of them at once, staring and pointing, and debating whether the shadow next to a streetlamp was the shadow of the streetlamp, or the shadow of someone they couldn't see. Then someone noticed that the guy with the dog was no longer there. That seemed ominous, too. But the worst thing was that a kid they all knew, who seemed like he could be a narc, had come by earlier and asked if anyone had seen his bike. That was clearly suspicious. After all, he could have asked anyone about his bike, but he chose them.

"Look, just go. I want you all to go," I said. "I have to work. I have to write."

My son said that it was his flat and not up to me to tell people they had to go. Instead, they all went back into his room and locked the door so that I couldn't come in. A few seconds later, there was a knock on the kitchen door. I froze. The police? The DEA? What should I tell them? Should I--

"Hey, Ma, it's me! Let me in!"

It was the dust bunny who had been hanging around our house since July 4th, but who had drifted into other spheres of late. She had come to ask if I could lend her some shoes. Again. I asked her what had happened to the flip flops I had given her a dollar to buy at the Dollar Tree. She told me that she'd been with some people and they'd done some dust and they thought a cop was chasing them. So they ran.

"But it was a taxi," she explained.

That hadn't kept her flip flops from falling off. And now it was up to me to replace them. But I wasn't feeling like Mary Poppins at the moment. I told her that I was out of shoes that I could give away. But she was welcome to ask my son if he had anything. She declined, saying that the two of them weren't getting along because he had sided with someone who had called her a rat.

"What did you rat about?" I asked.

"I didn't rat about anything," she replied, a little peevishly. "This guy who saw me and your son walking to L-- Street told him I was a rat. But there was no reason for him to say that. I don't know what his problem is, Everybody is just fucking tweaking these days."

"Yeah, I noticed that," I said. "Maybe they should all just stop doing that crap. What a thought, huh?"

"Well, I haven't done it for a while," she said.

She showed me her arms, The bruises were almost gone. Just as I was about to praise her, she shrugged.

"Last time I did it was last night at (a friend's) house," she said. "But then someone called and said they'd seen a cop circling the street in an unmarked so we got scared and flushed everything."

I went into my bedroom and dug out a pair of old sneakers I never wear. She didn't think they were "pretty enough", but I told her that beggars were not permitted to be choosers and bade her good-night. Then I sat down to write, hoping that the sneakers would buy me at least a few solid hours of writing time before another cab driver went monkey on the dust bunny again.

Dusted: Trust No One, Disbelieve Everything You See

2011-07-19T09:14:00.000-07:00

Dusted: Trust No One, Disbelieve Everything You See: " When a duster runs out of stuff and starts jonesing for more, he or she can often be seen induging in a little game know..."

Dusted: Instant Nightmare

2011-07-14T17:00:00.000-07:00

Dusted: Instant Nightmare: "First, an apology. Apparently, the post I published last night is unreadable. That is, when people click on the link, it just goes to the b..."

Dusted: Duster Love

2011-07-12T20:59:00.000-07:00

Dusted: Duster Love: " Short one tonight. The sketchy nature of recent nights continues with nearby dusters convinced that there is 'something goin..."

Dusted: Instant Nightmare

2011-07-10T22:31:00.000-07:00

Dusted: Instant Nightmare: "First, an apology. Apparently, the post I published last night is unreadable. That is, when people click on the link, it just goes to the b..."

Dusted: Instant Nightmare

2011-07-10T21:06:00.000-07:00

Dusted: Instant Nightmare: "First, an apology. Apparently, the post I published last night is unreadable. That is, when people click on the link, it just goes to the b..."

Instant Nightmare

2011-07-10T20:43:00.000-07:00

First, an apology. Apparently, the post I published last night is unreadable. That is, when people click on the link, it just goes to the blog introduction. So, it's do over time. And it's gonna have to be a quick one because I have another deadline. But don't worry. I remember what I wrote. Besides, it's still happening.

See, people are going crazy from monkey dust. I don't just mean in the larger "new scourge of society" sense. I mean in the, "here, right now, even as we speak" sense. It started when the dust bunny who hangs around our house got hauled into the hospital on Fourth of July night after the police received a call that a girl was walking around the streets "acting like she was on monkey dust," I guess that means she seemed to be "out of it." She says that she was out of it because she snorted some dust from a new batch known as "Instant Nightmare."

Dusters often refer to their drug as "instant paranoia" in general, but "Instant Nightmare", I'm told, is an actual brand name, as it were. When you take "regular" monkey dust, if there is such a thing, the feeling is supposed to be a mixture of the euphoric high you get from Escstacy and the speedy sensation that comes from amphetamines, with a little hallucinogenic effect thrown in. But when you snort or inject Instant Nightmare, all hell breaks loose. The shadow people that dusters see on a regular basis turn into four-dimensional beings that look like ninjas, or thugs, or cops who are almost always chasing the duster. Which is the reason a lot of dusters call the cops on themselves. It's merely an effort to save themselves from death by ninja or some even worse fate. And it doesn't end there. All manner of other weirdness can also overtake the duster's mind. On the day that the dust bunny I know ended up in the hospital, one line of "Instant Nightmare" was enough to make her "nut out."
"I did one line at eight o' clock in the morning, and I was still fucking high ten hours later," she told me. "Your son and I were afraid to leave the freakin' house. We were just tweakin' out so bad. Then we thought that because it was July 4th, we should go and be outside. So we went to the store to buy a pizza, but we couldn't figure out the money, so we left, and I told him, 'We are not going anywhere else. We're just going home because everyone can fucking tell we're high.'"
She thinks it would have been worse if she had booted up, but she knew better than to do that because she had taken the same batch of dust before and knew the distortions that were to come. So, why did she do it again at all? Because it's fun, she told me.
But that was all a week ago, when monkey dust was still legal in this state. Because it was, the dust bunny was tweaking less than she might be if she were in the same situation now. However, she was still having a hard time with her inability to navigate the simple trek home. She and my son got separated at some point, and it got dark, and it took the dust bunny an hour to travel the three blocks back from the store to our flat. Then, later, there was an altercation at the flat, a complicated argument that had to do with one dust bunny accusing another of stealing, and the dust bunny who's been hanging around our flat marched off angrily into the dark streets where she soon met up with the police.
"They told me that because dust was legal, all they could do was take me to the hospital," she said. "They asked me if I wanted to go, and I was, like, 'what the fuck? Why the hell not?' So, I let them take me, and there was this guy there who was on the same thing, and he was screaming in the next room because he thought people were trying to kill him."
The dust bunny didn't think people were trying to kill her, but my son thought people were after him. I found that out when I returned home late that night, and he told me that there was a guy outside who was looking for him. I believed him because, in all probability, there could have been a guy outside looking for him. I was almost afraid to walk the dog, but she wasn't about to let me tweak out on her, so I took her out armed with a cell phone and a Swiss Army knife. Only ended up using one. But I didn't sleep much that night. This not sleeping thing is great for writing, but it's playing havoc with my hair. I mean that. The last several months seem to be reflected in the fact that my once sleek, shiny, dark hair has become limp and sort of tired-looking. The rest of my body is working all right, or can fake it. But my hair is aghast.

It's not just the dusters with whom I have close relationships who are tweaking out, either. In dust bunny words, "everyone is tweaking the hell out on this nightmare shit that's going around." It always comes down to paranoia, it seems. One young woman we know, whose father was visiting, found his gun and thought that people were trying to kill her for reasons that actually made sense, but which didn't happen to be true. She took off into the night, pounding on neighbors' doors, looking for a place to hide, until someone called the police. But she was gone before the police got there, and it's been almost a full day, and no one has seen or heard from her. Her father said that she's already jumped out of one second story window while on the same batch of dust. He's worried sick, of course.

Now that the stuff is illegal, the dusters are even more paranoid about cops. I know one duster who was convinced her father was wearing a wire and made him take off his shirt before she would talk to him. Some dusters see police cars following them down the street when there are no cars there at all. And of course there are the ones who get so tweaked out that they do things like hide in the bushes all night long because they're afraid to walk six blocks home for fear the cops will drive by and somehow know that they're on dust. I know of two people in the dust world who were arrested this weekend. Both of them are big time dusters, but both were arrested on completely unrelated charges. Their rigs are still safe and unseized at home. It'll give them something to shoot for when they get out. (Pun intended.)

I'm just getting tired of always checking through the window before I answer a knock on the door. I know which faces to look out for, but I see them too often, and it always takes me a moment before I can figure out what to say. I favor, "Get the hell out of here and leave us the hell alone", but my son tells me to just "be chill" about it. Lately, though, with the nightmare epidemic, there have been some serious issues which have given the "be careful who you let in" attitude even more important to maintain. I pushed an electric organ and a trunk up against my front door tonight just in case someone tweaks out enough to come here and give me a hard time. I won't go into the details. Can't say just anything in a blog. But suffice to say, there's one duster out there who has more to worry about than tweaking out over shadow people or cops. He has me. You just don't mess with someone's mother/grandmother. Not even in the dust world.

Dusted: Dusted: Instant Nightmare

2011-07-10T16:26:00.000-07:00

Dusted: Dusted: Instant Nightmare: "Dusted: Instant Nightmare : ' It was crazy in this corner of the dust world last night. As quiet as it's been of late, last night remin..."

Dusted: Instant Nightmare

2011-07-09T10:56:00.000-07:00

Dusted: Instant Nightmare: " It was crazy in this corner of the dust world last night. As quiet as it's been of late, last night reminded me of all the reasons I h..."

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2011-07-07T23:03:00.000-07:00

Facebook (28)

Dusted: Dust Bunny Angst

2011-07-07T11:06:00.000-07:00

Dusted: Dust Bunny Angst: " It was quiet in the dust world last night. At least here in this tiny corner of it, this flat where the dust bunny from last week ..."

Dust Bunny Angst

2011-07-07T10:59:00.000-07:00

It was quiet in the dust world last night.
At least here in this tiny corner of it, this flat where the dust bunny from last week is still hanging around, coming to me intermittently with confessions of angst over certain elements of the dust-fueled world in which she lives. Last time we talked, she told me how she got into "the dust." She's from a small town almost a hundred miles west of here, one of those little "Hickville, USA" places that exist all across this country, with a couple of stores, a gas station and a church with a perpetual "Welcome" sign out front. But it wasn't small town life that drove her toward the dust, she told me. It was her mother.
"My mother took my son," she said. "I had him just after I got out of high school, and I was living at home for a while, but then I moved in with my boyfriend, and there were drugs and stuff, and she called DHS and took him."
I told her that I didn't think that people, even mothers, could just "take" other people's children. She said that her mother was able to do it because she lied and said her daughter was on drugs, when, in fact, at the time, she was just into smoking a little of bit of pot occasionally and getting drunk if someone happened to stop by with a bottle of Fire Ice 101 or something.
"I just don't want you to think that I'm some kind of druggie or something," she said. "I mean, the first time I even heard about dust was just, like, two months ago. I was at this guy's house, just hanging out, not there to get high or anything, and this other guy comes over and he had, like, a forty bag of dust and he asked me if I wanted to get fucked up. I almost didn't do it because I'm scared of speed and shit like that. But sometimes I just get, I don't know, really depressed about not having my son, and I just do shit to feel better."
She knew she was in trouble the minute she picked up the foil, she confessed. It was "pure shit", not like the shit some people claim is pure, but really isn't. This dust was so good, she insisted, that she was able to remain high for ten hours without having to "walk the dog" again. And she didn't see any of the weird hallucinations that she sometimes sees when she smokes inferior dust. It was just a good feeling...like riding a unicorn, if there really were unicorns.
As she shared this little snippet of her drug-taking history with me, we were sitting on my leather couch, and she was smoking a Marlboro cigarette that she'd found on the floor of my son's room. She was leaving a lot of lag time between drags, though, and I was having a hard time focusing on her pain because I was afraid that the ash from her cigarette was going to drop onto my leather couch cushion and leave a burn mark. That didn't seem to bother her in the least. She just went on talking in this dull, flat, monochromatic voice that seemed to reflect her appearance: older than her years, sallow-skinned, empty-eyed, sad and shadowed and gray.
Still, as dust bunnies go, she was at least relatively polite. She offered to help me clean up around the house, which, she pointed out, definitely needed it.
"But I know you're a writer, so I can understand that," she said, as though it made sense. "And I don't want you to think that I'm just hanging around here so I can get high."
I let her sweep the floor and put some clothes away. Later, when I told a friend about it, she asked me how I had dared to let some random drugged out girl touch my things, which she could easily steal and sell for money to buy more drugs. I told her that I didn't know. Mostly, I said, it was because the floor really did need sweeping and I didn't think that she'd be able to get much money for a pile of my old clothes anyway.
I suppose, if you don't live with it every day, it would seem strange, all of these random girls and young men who come in and out of this house, under the guise of being my son's friends, but in reality as members of a not very exclusive club that nevertheless charges a very high membership fee. Of all the people who come here, it's the girls who interest me the most, probably because their socialization and biological temperament impels them to seek me out and attempt to win my friendship. Even the ones who eventually end up stealing from me. One of the early ones, who I met long before I'd had occasion to learn much about dust, actually sat and consoled me when I found out that my ex-husband's gargoyle of a girlfriend had arranged a holiday schedule that would interfere with my own plans for spending time with my adult daughter and high school age son, who doesn't live with me, over the holidays. On hearing the news, I was overcome with a depression almost as severe as the one that immobilized me when he first left me a year and a half ago to be with the gargoyle, and I sat down at my computer and cried while the people visiting my son went about their business, seemingly oblivious to my distress. Finally, this girl came out of my son's room, leaned over my chair, and rubbed my back, saying, "Your husband's a jerk. I haven't known you very long, but I can tell that you're a very special person who deserves better." Then she went away again. And I cried even harder because a girl with arms covered with bruises from needles and a waist with the circumference of a celery stick (another dust plus, as one particularly witty dust bunny would be wont to say) thought that I was special. That's depression.
It's also sad. Because not two weeks later, the same girl returned to our flat and tried to rob my son at knife point, ordering him to give her "all your shit." He was never in any real danger, of course, because she was maybe a foot taller than Tinkerbell and the knife was just a little penknife I'd seen her use to scrape dust residue off the sides of plates so that she could form it into lines for snorting. But in the ensuing struggle over control of the flat door, a mirror was broken and I became, for the first time since I'd learned about the dust, afraid for my safety. I had always been afraid for my son's----ever since he took his first step as a baby and I realized that it was the first of many that would take him farther and farther away from me.
It's getting on to late afternoon now. I have to do more than think about dust bunnies and their problems. But I won't be missing anything because there's sure to be at least one of them here waiting for me when I get back.

Dusted

2011-07-06T22:20:00.001-07:00

And so it begins.