I have found New Orleans Recipes, a great old cookbook by Mary Moore Bremer. The book I have is the Tenth Edition published in 1944. Unlike most modern cookbooks, this one presents its recipes in a simple way that encourages intuitive cooking. Here is Bremer’s recipe for Shrimp Arnaud.
Six tablespoons of olive oil, two tablespoons of vinegar and one tablespoon of paprika, one half teaspoon of white pepper, one half teaspoon of salt, four tablespoons of Creole mustard, on half heart of celery, chopped fine, one half white onion, chopped fine, and a little chopped parsley.
Mix well. Chill; Serve on cold boiled shrimp, about twelve to a serving.
Enthrone on crisp, chopped lettuce.
Eric's Website
Showing posts with label eric wilder. Show all posts
Showing posts with label eric wilder. Show all posts
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Holdin' Five Aces
In Oklahoma, there is no rule for naming an oil well. Many companies use the name of the mineral owner but there is no law that says you have to. Because of this, the well name is whatever the operator wants to give it and this has resulted in some whimsical monikers through the years.
Toward the end of the last oil boom there was a Kansas operator named Wild Boys Land Cattle and Oil Company, and they were often more whimsical than most companies when it came to naming their wells. Here are some of their well’s names:
Face the Fire #2
Rock Salt Blues #1
Nose to the Wind #1
Slapping Leather #1
Muddy Streets and Dollar Baths #1
Against a Crooked Sky #1
Rawhide #1
Out on Bail #1
It’s Just Crude #1
Saddle Sores #1
Shotgun Rider #1
Fistful of Dollars #1
Shootout in Lake City #2
Having a Few Beers #1
On the Rocks #8-C
Riding Thunder #1
Whiskey Hills #1
Snake Bite #1
Riding into Hell and Back Again #1
Hell Ain’t Ready for Us Yet 2-2
Eatin’ Dust and Drinkin’ Whiskey #1
And my own personal favorite:
Holdin’ Five Aces #1
Oil drillers are generally a superstitious lot and some say it is bad luck to use any name other than the mineral owner. There may be some truth to this superstition as many of the above wells were completed as dry holes.
Maybe, but what I’ve always heard and believe to be true is never, ever name a well after your wife, your mother, your daughter or your girlfriend. Why? I haven’t a clue.
Wilder's Website
Toward the end of the last oil boom there was a Kansas operator named Wild Boys Land Cattle and Oil Company, and they were often more whimsical than most companies when it came to naming their wells. Here are some of their well’s names:
Face the Fire #2
Rock Salt Blues #1
Nose to the Wind #1
Slapping Leather #1
Muddy Streets and Dollar Baths #1
Against a Crooked Sky #1
Rawhide #1
Out on Bail #1
It’s Just Crude #1
Saddle Sores #1
Shotgun Rider #1
Fistful of Dollars #1
Shootout in Lake City #2
Having a Few Beers #1
On the Rocks #8-C
Riding Thunder #1
Whiskey Hills #1
Snake Bite #1
Riding into Hell and Back Again #1
Hell Ain’t Ready for Us Yet 2-2
Eatin’ Dust and Drinkin’ Whiskey #1
And my own personal favorite:
Holdin’ Five Aces #1
Oil drillers are generally a superstitious lot and some say it is bad luck to use any name other than the mineral owner. There may be some truth to this superstition as many of the above wells were completed as dry holes.
Maybe, but what I’ve always heard and believe to be true is never, ever name a well after your wife, your mother, your daughter or your girlfriend. Why? I haven’t a clue.
Wilder's Website
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Cyndi, Sandy and Elvis
I recently wrote about Dave, my friend from whom I bought my first motorcycle. He read the story and emailed me. Dave, now living near Baton Rouge, was my best friend when I worked at Texas Oil and Gas. The rock and roll world of the last oil boom was hell on marriages, including mine and Dave's. Both freshly divorced, we became running buddies and Dave's email reminded me of one of our adventures.
Between us, Dave and I knew practically every female that worked in downtown Oklahoma City. One night, we were talked into escorting six gorgeous oil and gas secretaries to see an Elvis impersonator. Three of the ladies were crazy about the recently departed Elvis. The band, backup singers and Elvis impersonator sounded exactly like Elvis - well, if you'd had a few drinks and were sexually excited because of being the center of attention of six adoring ladies.
The concert was entertaining, further enhanced when one young lady in particular began hitting on me, another on Dave. When we returned to my apartment, Dave and five of the ladies departed while Cyndi (not her real name) came inside with me for a nightcap. Hell, it was two in the morning! We both had our intentions and for the moment I assumed that they were the same.
We were sitting on the floor in front of a fire that I had hastily built in the fireplace and we were groping around on the rug like a couple of boa constrictors in heat when the phone rang. I have waited to say that Cyndi was the girlfriend of a close friend of mine, Mike (not his real name). Mike was married, Cyndi only his girlfriend, and it is safe to say that he had no intentions of ever marrying her. Cyndi and I were both single.
"Have you seen Cyndi?" he asked, she's not at her apartment.
"Maybe," I said, our legs encircled and my hand under her blouse, still clamped on her right breast.
I began to smell a setup when he asked, "Is she at your place?" Cyndi, I suddenly sensed, had used me to make Mike jealous. Still very much engulfed in the throes of extreme passion, I said, "She was here but she just left. I think she’s on her way back to her apartment. You need to go home," I told her after hanging up the phone and zipping up my pants."
"Are you sure about this?" she asked, standing and adjusting her own clothing.
"There's nothing I would like better than spending the night with you but I think we would both regret it."
Cyndi must have agreed because she was gone in less than fifteen minutes, leaving me to contemplate my unexpected predicament. After all these years Mike is still my friend, as is Cyndi, although their relationship ended years ago. I never made it with Cyndi but later I had a little fling with Sandy, one of the other girls that Dave and I took to the concert. How did Dave do that night? I never asked and he never volunteered the story.
http://www.EricWilder.com
Between us, Dave and I knew practically every female that worked in downtown Oklahoma City. One night, we were talked into escorting six gorgeous oil and gas secretaries to see an Elvis impersonator. Three of the ladies were crazy about the recently departed Elvis. The band, backup singers and Elvis impersonator sounded exactly like Elvis - well, if you'd had a few drinks and were sexually excited because of being the center of attention of six adoring ladies.
The concert was entertaining, further enhanced when one young lady in particular began hitting on me, another on Dave. When we returned to my apartment, Dave and five of the ladies departed while Cyndi (not her real name) came inside with me for a nightcap. Hell, it was two in the morning! We both had our intentions and for the moment I assumed that they were the same.
We were sitting on the floor in front of a fire that I had hastily built in the fireplace and we were groping around on the rug like a couple of boa constrictors in heat when the phone rang. I have waited to say that Cyndi was the girlfriend of a close friend of mine, Mike (not his real name). Mike was married, Cyndi only his girlfriend, and it is safe to say that he had no intentions of ever marrying her. Cyndi and I were both single.
"Have you seen Cyndi?" he asked, she's not at her apartment.
"Maybe," I said, our legs encircled and my hand under her blouse, still clamped on her right breast.
I began to smell a setup when he asked, "Is she at your place?" Cyndi, I suddenly sensed, had used me to make Mike jealous. Still very much engulfed in the throes of extreme passion, I said, "She was here but she just left. I think she’s on her way back to her apartment. You need to go home," I told her after hanging up the phone and zipping up my pants."
"Are you sure about this?" she asked, standing and adjusting her own clothing.
"There's nothing I would like better than spending the night with you but I think we would both regret it."
Cyndi must have agreed because she was gone in less than fifteen minutes, leaving me to contemplate my unexpected predicament. After all these years Mike is still my friend, as is Cyndi, although their relationship ended years ago. I never made it with Cyndi but later I had a little fling with Sandy, one of the other girls that Dave and I took to the concert. How did Dave do that night? I never asked and he never volunteered the story.
http://www.EricWilder.com
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Finding value in unexpected places
One of the places that I've always wanted to visit is Spain. Check out this article if you are the same as me.
http://www.marketwatch.com/news/story/best-values-spain-wine-shoes/story.aspx?guid={8957918A-834C-46F2-96EB-F8A390782CCB}&siteid=yahoomy
http://www.ericwilder.com
http://www.marketwatch.com/news/story/best-values-spain-wine-shoes/story.aspx?guid={8957918A-834C-46F2-96EB-F8A390782CCB}&siteid=yahoomy
http://www.ericwilder.com
Friday, May 23, 2008
A Night at the Triple X
I’ve heard it said that the biggest sex organ in the body is the brain. Years ago, I had reason to confirm this statement.
Miss C and I were a number but we were beginning to get on each other’s nerves. She was smart and confident but also good looking and blonde. I was simply young and dumb. Even though we worked in the same industry, the biggest attraction we had for each other was sex, pure and simple.
Six months had passed in our relationship and the attraction had begun to wane. Both of us, it seemed, were searching for a way to let the other down easy. My buddy J was in town from Colorado and staying at my house. I was divorced but my ex and I had not yet sold our house. We were taking turns staying there until we found a buyer.
Miss C’s friend Miss A took J with her to one of our favorite bars and Miss C and I were supposed to join them. It was Friday night, Miss C a lease broker who had just returned to town from a week of checking records in Roger Mills County, had been doing her thing during that time, and I mine.
“I just want to go home and go to bed,” she said.
“What about J and Miss C?” I asked.
“They don’t need us,” Miss C said.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s drive over anyway. J can ride back with me and Miss A can take you home.”
“Fine,” she said, “But I’m not staying.”
On the way to the club I caught a whiff of her perfume and suddenly remembered why I liked her so much. We were on 10th street, an area in Oklahoma City populated with strip bars and seedy hole-in-the-walls. About that time we passed a stand-alone x-rated movie theatre.
“Have you ever seen a porn movie?” I asked.
“I’m not ten,” she said.
On a whim I pulled into the parking lot. “Let’s go in.”
Miss C grinned. She was trying to dump me but she had just enough kink left in her to at least consider my offer.
“Come on,” I cajoled. “You don’t have a hair on your ass unless you come with me.”
“Okay, perv,” she said. “You’ll say uncle before me.”
The XXX Theatre was a single-storied building with a very dark lobby. We purchased two tickets from the disinterested ticket puncher that had likely seen it all. The theater was small and dark and smelled like urine. A naked man and an equally clad woman were going at it on the screen.
There were probably ten patrons in the theater and they weren’t people you’d want to call your best friends. Miss C and I found an empty aisle and settled in to watch the movie. The couple on screen was performing every sex act imaginable, complete with grunts, groans, moans and even a few screams.
As I began getting into the flick, I put my hand between Miss C’s legs, groping her most private parts, fully expecting to get slapped. Instead, she began licking my neck. Before long, we both had our jeans pulled down almost to the floor, helplessly locked in the throws of hot, mindless sex, right there in the middle of an x-rated theater, surrounded by perverts with their own pants down. We were suddenly shocked back to reality by a raspy voice.
“You two need to take it outside,” the man from the ticket booth told us. “This is a theater, not a bedroom.”
I don’t know who turned us in but duly chastised, we headed up the dark aisle, buttoning our britches as we went. We were both still hot – hell, I mean my head was cooking off! I was all over Miss C as soon as the doors of my car were shut. She was as hot as me and I’m not sure who was all over whom. We continued, the windows steamed like a sauna when someone tapped on the front window. It was a cop and he was smiling.
“This is no place for what you two are doing. Take it to the house, and I mean now.”
Our ardor had not waned by the time we made it back home and we spent the rest of the night locked in hot passion the like of which I haven’t experienced since. J interrupted our ardor, knocking on the door around two in the morning. I let him in and quickly returned to the bedroom without bothering to listen to the story he was trying to tell me.
Miss C and I broke up shortly after our night of red hot passion. My lust had dissolved, my brain again able to ad two and two and not come up with an answer of five.
http://www.ericwilder.com
Miss C and I were a number but we were beginning to get on each other’s nerves. She was smart and confident but also good looking and blonde. I was simply young and dumb. Even though we worked in the same industry, the biggest attraction we had for each other was sex, pure and simple.
Six months had passed in our relationship and the attraction had begun to wane. Both of us, it seemed, were searching for a way to let the other down easy. My buddy J was in town from Colorado and staying at my house. I was divorced but my ex and I had not yet sold our house. We were taking turns staying there until we found a buyer.
Miss C’s friend Miss A took J with her to one of our favorite bars and Miss C and I were supposed to join them. It was Friday night, Miss C a lease broker who had just returned to town from a week of checking records in Roger Mills County, had been doing her thing during that time, and I mine.
“I just want to go home and go to bed,” she said.
“What about J and Miss C?” I asked.
“They don’t need us,” Miss C said.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s drive over anyway. J can ride back with me and Miss A can take you home.”
“Fine,” she said, “But I’m not staying.”
On the way to the club I caught a whiff of her perfume and suddenly remembered why I liked her so much. We were on 10th street, an area in Oklahoma City populated with strip bars and seedy hole-in-the-walls. About that time we passed a stand-alone x-rated movie theatre.
“Have you ever seen a porn movie?” I asked.
“I’m not ten,” she said.
On a whim I pulled into the parking lot. “Let’s go in.”
Miss C grinned. She was trying to dump me but she had just enough kink left in her to at least consider my offer.
“Come on,” I cajoled. “You don’t have a hair on your ass unless you come with me.”
“Okay, perv,” she said. “You’ll say uncle before me.”
The XXX Theatre was a single-storied building with a very dark lobby. We purchased two tickets from the disinterested ticket puncher that had likely seen it all. The theater was small and dark and smelled like urine. A naked man and an equally clad woman were going at it on the screen.
There were probably ten patrons in the theater and they weren’t people you’d want to call your best friends. Miss C and I found an empty aisle and settled in to watch the movie. The couple on screen was performing every sex act imaginable, complete with grunts, groans, moans and even a few screams.
As I began getting into the flick, I put my hand between Miss C’s legs, groping her most private parts, fully expecting to get slapped. Instead, she began licking my neck. Before long, we both had our jeans pulled down almost to the floor, helplessly locked in the throws of hot, mindless sex, right there in the middle of an x-rated theater, surrounded by perverts with their own pants down. We were suddenly shocked back to reality by a raspy voice.
“You two need to take it outside,” the man from the ticket booth told us. “This is a theater, not a bedroom.”
I don’t know who turned us in but duly chastised, we headed up the dark aisle, buttoning our britches as we went. We were both still hot – hell, I mean my head was cooking off! I was all over Miss C as soon as the doors of my car were shut. She was as hot as me and I’m not sure who was all over whom. We continued, the windows steamed like a sauna when someone tapped on the front window. It was a cop and he was smiling.
“This is no place for what you two are doing. Take it to the house, and I mean now.”
Our ardor had not waned by the time we made it back home and we spent the rest of the night locked in hot passion the like of which I haven’t experienced since. J interrupted our ardor, knocking on the door around two in the morning. I let him in and quickly returned to the bedroom without bothering to listen to the story he was trying to tell me.
Miss C and I broke up shortly after our night of red hot passion. My lust had dissolved, my brain again able to ad two and two and not come up with an answer of five.
http://www.ericwilder.com
Monday, May 19, 2008
Edmond Storm Hawk
Here is a pic of an Oklahoma hawk, flying at night in the wake of an impending storm.
The Same Mistake Twice
The domestic oil industry is populated by many types of people, both male and female, but it is safe to say that none of them could ever remotely be considered saints. During my tenure in the business, I have met many of its denizens but the most colorful of all was a person named Harold (not his real name). Harold, an OJT geophysist that had found a billion (I'm not exaggerating!) barrel oil field in Nigeria for Mobil Oil. He was quite seriously, one of smartest persons I have ever met. Unfortunately, he had a larcenous side.
Anne and I had a company in bankruptcy when Harold showed up on our doorstep, his own oil Company and 1600 acre Texas ranch in foreclosure. He parked his old Mercury (the only vehicle he had left) in our driveway and proceeded to move into our spare bedroom where he stayed for about two months.
During the time that he lived with us, Harold drank every drop of liquor in the house, became engaged to a woman he somehow met in the interim, and talked to our creditor's committee, telling them we were incompetent and needed to be removed as debtors-in-possession. When I heard what he had done, I hung him out the second story window by his heel, threatening to let go.
"I don't really care how you treat people that you don't know, but Anne and I are your friends. You shouldn't treat us like marks."
My actions must have had an effect because Harold never again treated me, or Anne, like a mark. He did talk the owner of an OKC mud company into starting an oil company and hiring him as president. The long-time mud company owner died a pauper after Harold had sucked off every penny he had.
Anyway, I got to thinking about Harold after my story about the Carousel Lounge in Shreveport. Harold, Anne and I had an adventure at the Carousel Lounge in New Orleans, at the Monteleone Hotel - an adventure instigated by Harold. Never drink at a rotating bar, is a rule that I had lived by for years, only to violate it some twenty years later.
http://www.ericwilder.com
Anne and I had a company in bankruptcy when Harold showed up on our doorstep, his own oil Company and 1600 acre Texas ranch in foreclosure. He parked his old Mercury (the only vehicle he had left) in our driveway and proceeded to move into our spare bedroom where he stayed for about two months.
During the time that he lived with us, Harold drank every drop of liquor in the house, became engaged to a woman he somehow met in the interim, and talked to our creditor's committee, telling them we were incompetent and needed to be removed as debtors-in-possession. When I heard what he had done, I hung him out the second story window by his heel, threatening to let go.
"I don't really care how you treat people that you don't know, but Anne and I are your friends. You shouldn't treat us like marks."
My actions must have had an effect because Harold never again treated me, or Anne, like a mark. He did talk the owner of an OKC mud company into starting an oil company and hiring him as president. The long-time mud company owner died a pauper after Harold had sucked off every penny he had.
Anyway, I got to thinking about Harold after my story about the Carousel Lounge in Shreveport. Harold, Anne and I had an adventure at the Carousel Lounge in New Orleans, at the Monteleone Hotel - an adventure instigated by Harold. Never drink at a rotating bar, is a rule that I had lived by for years, only to violate it some twenty years later.
http://www.ericwilder.com
Monday, February 25, 2008
Buck McDivit Revisited
The protagonist of my first novel, Ghost of a Chance, was Oklahoma cowboy detective Buck McDivit. A mysterious lake in east Texas was the backdrop for the novel that highlighted lost Confederate gold, Indian artifacts, the ghost of a girl, and murder. I’m presently working on a sequel to Ghost of a Chance, this time with the action occurring in Oklahoma.
The working title of my new book is Panther Stalking and the story involves modern-day cattle rustling, a compound populated by female pagans, and of course, murder. I’m about twenty thousand words into the novel.
Before starting on Panther Stalking I wrote a Buck McDivit short story to reintroduce myself to a character that I haven’t visited in almost three years. Prairie Thunder plants McDivit back in his home turf of central Oklahoma. Moonlighting as an assistant medical examiner, McDivit helps investigate the death of an American Indian artist. The story leads him to Oklahoma City’s historic Paseo District.
Anyone who read Ghost of a Chance and is interested in reconnecting with Buck McDivit is invited to visit my website http://www.ericwilder.com . Sign my list and I will email you the short story in PDF format.
Monday, February 11, 2008
No Better Place on Earth
I served in Vietnam from July, 1970 until September, 1971. As a draftee, it was not a place I chose to be but I met many wonderful people during my tour. It is also impossible to spend fourteen months of total hell. There were moments of total hell but most of the time was almost normal, some moments even fun. Tonight I was remembering an event I still can't believe, even after all these years. To say that I had fun is a lie because my rear end was puckered the entire time. The event took place almost four decades ago, at the non-com club in Bien Hoa.
I spent the first six months of my tour in the boonies as an infantry foot soldier. I've told the story of getting poked in the eye with a bamboo limb. Recuperating in Song Be - relative civilization compared to where I had been - I played chess and became close friends with the company clerk of Headquarters Company. When a position as a clerk-typist came open, I was offered the job. I didn't have to be asked twice if I was interested.
A time came when I was asked to fill in as Battalion Courier for a soldier on R & R. Long before the days of personal computers, the courier physically transported a satchel of papers and documents from our outpost in Song Be to the main headquarters in Bien Hoa. I was a spec 4, the equivalent of a corporal but not considered a NCO. A friend that I will call Sergeant Brown was going to Bien Hoa at the same time and wanted me to accompany him to the NCO club later that night.
"A hell of a place," he told me, "With the best steaks, beer and whiskey in Nam."
"But I'm not an NCO. I'll get in trouble."
"No one knows you in Bien Hoa. I got sergeant's stripes for you. Tonight you're going to be an E-5 sergeant."
We made it to the club that night. It was dark, smoky and loud, a Vietnamese rock band playing on stage. We ate our steaks and we're well into our second whiskey when who was to suddenly appear but my worst nightmare. It was E-8 Sergeant Roper (I will call him). Sergeant Roper was big, easily three-hundred pounds, and he was black - a little scary for a southern boy that had never known many blacks, much less ones in authority. I had never seen him smile. Totally frightened of the man, I once witnessed him take away a live grenade from a drugged sky trooper that was threatening to blow up an officer's hooch. To say that my heart was in my throat was an understatement and I fully expected to spend the rest of my tour locked in the infamous Long Binh Jail.
I waited for the other shoe to fall. Instead, he asked, "How are you tonight Sergeant Wilder?"
When I noticed the man standing behind him, I realized why I wasn't already in handcuffs. It was our company commander, Captain Ahab (I will call him). Officers, like enlisted men, are also unwelcome in an NCO club. Captain Ahab, white like me, was wearing sergeant stripes - he was an E5. That night I was his equal, Sergeant Brown his superior.
Sergeants Roper and Ahab joined us and we all proceeded to drink, listen to the band and even exchange a few pleasantries along the way. I fully expected to be court martialed the following day, as I'm sure did Sergeant Brown. Instead, nothing was ever said of the incident and we never again acknowledged even a passing hint that we may have consorted illicitly.
Years have passed and I still wonder about the incident. Why had I taken the chance of being court martialed to visit a place where I shouldn't be? Moreover, why had a Captain, the company commander, taken the same chance? The answer surely has to be that there is a deeply buried need in all of us to visit that one place, at least just once, from which we are forbidden to enter. It's a location where everyone is equal. Most of us never visit but there is surely no better place on earth.
http://www.ericwilder.com
I spent the first six months of my tour in the boonies as an infantry foot soldier. I've told the story of getting poked in the eye with a bamboo limb. Recuperating in Song Be - relative civilization compared to where I had been - I played chess and became close friends with the company clerk of Headquarters Company. When a position as a clerk-typist came open, I was offered the job. I didn't have to be asked twice if I was interested.
A time came when I was asked to fill in as Battalion Courier for a soldier on R & R. Long before the days of personal computers, the courier physically transported a satchel of papers and documents from our outpost in Song Be to the main headquarters in Bien Hoa. I was a spec 4, the equivalent of a corporal but not considered a NCO. A friend that I will call Sergeant Brown was going to Bien Hoa at the same time and wanted me to accompany him to the NCO club later that night.
"A hell of a place," he told me, "With the best steaks, beer and whiskey in Nam."
"But I'm not an NCO. I'll get in trouble."
"No one knows you in Bien Hoa. I got sergeant's stripes for you. Tonight you're going to be an E-5 sergeant."
We made it to the club that night. It was dark, smoky and loud, a Vietnamese rock band playing on stage. We ate our steaks and we're well into our second whiskey when who was to suddenly appear but my worst nightmare. It was E-8 Sergeant Roper (I will call him). Sergeant Roper was big, easily three-hundred pounds, and he was black - a little scary for a southern boy that had never known many blacks, much less ones in authority. I had never seen him smile. Totally frightened of the man, I once witnessed him take away a live grenade from a drugged sky trooper that was threatening to blow up an officer's hooch. To say that my heart was in my throat was an understatement and I fully expected to spend the rest of my tour locked in the infamous Long Binh Jail.
I waited for the other shoe to fall. Instead, he asked, "How are you tonight Sergeant Wilder?"
When I noticed the man standing behind him, I realized why I wasn't already in handcuffs. It was our company commander, Captain Ahab (I will call him). Officers, like enlisted men, are also unwelcome in an NCO club. Captain Ahab, white like me, was wearing sergeant stripes - he was an E5. That night I was his equal, Sergeant Brown his superior.
Sergeants Roper and Ahab joined us and we all proceeded to drink, listen to the band and even exchange a few pleasantries along the way. I fully expected to be court martialed the following day, as I'm sure did Sergeant Brown. Instead, nothing was ever said of the incident and we never again acknowledged even a passing hint that we may have consorted illicitly.
Years have passed and I still wonder about the incident. Why had I taken the chance of being court martialed to visit a place where I shouldn't be? Moreover, why had a Captain, the company commander, taken the same chance? The answer surely has to be that there is a deeply buried need in all of us to visit that one place, at least just once, from which we are forbidden to enter. It's a location where everyone is equal. Most of us never visit but there is surely no better place on earth.
http://www.ericwilder.com
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