Friday, November 15, 2013

#20 - The Time Traveler's Guide to the 20th Century

The Time Traveler's Guide to the 20th Century

[Note: This is the opening chapter of a much more comprehensive travel guide. the complete time traveler's guide will be published in approximately 243 years, but it's never too early to sign up on the wait list.]

The 20th century was even more bizarre than you think. It was a preposterous century in which people listened to Mel Torme and The Bee-gees, and blew each other's countries up with alarming regularity.

What's worse is that it didn't have to be this way.

In fact, it wasn't.

The history of the 20th century, everything we have on record, is completely wrong.

Not that the history of the 20th century didn't happen the way it was recorded. It did. It just didn't happen that way when it was actually happening.

Um, let me try to explain this a different way.

Everything we know about the 20th century, all the events that were recorded, are what history was suddenly changed to when a time traveler from the year 2246 landed in Munich, Germany, in 1913 and accidentally altered everything. Her name was Sue Moody, and she committed the one disastrous mistake that all time travelers must avoid; she tripped.

Before she arrived, the 20th century (meaning all 100 years of the 20th century, those before she arrived as well as those after her arrival, if that's not too confusing)unfolded as a quiet but productive time during which war was non-existent. This was no grand scheme. No one worked particularly hard to abolish war. Everyone just suddenly realized, on October 17, 1913 (the day after Sue Moody later arrived) that it was pointless to go around killing people, and that getting drunk was a much better way to spend your time, or making up stories about wrestling wild animals.

The non-existence of war was not the most important difference though, between the real 20th century and the one that it was changed to. In the real 20th century Richard Nixon never became President. In fact he never went into politics. He spent his life working at a church camp in California, where he was in charge of cleaning the shuffle board sticks.

Then sometime in late Spring in the year 2246, Sue Moody turned over the ignition of her solar powered 17-3 Tesla Time-Travel Roadster and set the date for October 16, 1913. she landed in a dark alley in the heart of the city of Munich, walked out to a main street, and tripped over a small child's foot. She fell into a crowd of people, setting off a domino effect which knocked everyone over for a quarter mile. This included Kaiser Wilhelm and his entourage, who had been touring the neighborhood, Vladimir Lenin, who was in town for the holidays (just which holidays we aren't exactly sure), and a 24 year-old gentleman who had just begun growing a funny mustache, and whose friends called him, "Dolphie." He would soon come to prefer the more formal "Adolph," or "Mr. H."

[End note: This is all the author has written at this time. Please check back in a little over 200 years - at which time his writer's block should have worked itself out.]
-Peter Wick
-November 15, 2013

Monday, October 14, 2013

#19. The Peacefulness of The Un-Governed - October, 2013

I have no desire to write a political editorial.

As I write this, though, our government is shut down, and has been for a couple weeks.

While everyone else is clamoring to score points with one argument or another, blaming Republicans, blaming Democrats, I prefer to sit quietly, watch the sunset, and feel the unusual calm of being un-governed.

I have often described my political views by quoting the line from the Groucho Marx song; "Whatever it is, I'm against it."

I think it's a reasonable position to take. It may be the only reasonable position to take on the politics of 2013.

This in no way makes me a Libertarian. I am as firmly against Libertarians as I am against all politicians.

The government shut means that food inspectors are furloughed. Scientists are not getting paid. National Parks are closed. Secret surveillance of our private phone calls has been interrupted.

This is a funny feeling, this state of being un-governed. It's something everyone should experience for a few weeks of their life.

I was reading, this past weekend, about several car-makers' intense desire to manufacture and sell self-driving cars within the next decade.

These cars will deal with traffic, stop for pedestrians, and take you wherever you want to go, all while you sit back and play games on your iPhone.

The stickiest problem these car makers have to solve is; who is responsible when the self-driving car malfunctions, runs up on the sidewalk, causes carnage when it fails to stop at a red light?

The government is getting in on the act. Government regulators will have to determine the safety standards before these machines can take to the road.

The standards will be extremely high. Government safety inspectors are funny people. They don't care what your politics are. they just take safety very seriously.

I think about this whenever I board an airplane. I trust the safety inspectors to have checked my plane thoroughly.

I don't much like government. I don't think the political process should be taken at all seriously, and politicians should always be viewed with suspicion, like mobsters, or salesmen, or CEO's.

So, I am enjoying being un-governed.

Whatever it is, I'm against it.

But I am also against the government being shut down for too much longer.

Being un-governed truly is a peaceful feeling.

It's like that peaceful feeling you have in the airplane, right at that moment you have accepted what's about to happen, seconds before the airplane crashes into the side of the mountain.
-Peter Wick
October 14, 2013

Saturday, September 14, 2013

18. Sep. 2013 - Dog And Pony Show

Note: Key West - the novel; Key West episode One; "One-way Ticket," and Key West episode Two; "Cooking The Books" are all available from Wheelman Press. Coming soon will be Episode Three; "Papy On Trial." The following is a sneak peek


"All rise," the bailiff said mechanically. "The Honorable Ian McCarthur presiding."

"Fine, fine. Sit down, everyone. Jesus!" McCarthur plopped heavily into his own chair and looked out at the room. "Well, Christ Almighty," he said. "The whole damn state of Florida here?"

A stony silence greeted McCarthur from the packed room.

McCarthur looked from one side of the room to the other. Every seat was filled.

The small overhead balcony was also packed. Court room B4 had seldom known so many people.

McCarthur looked at the prosecutor's table. Three men, impeccably dressed in expensive tweed suits, sat smugly, awaiting McCarthur's instructions.

McCarthur turned to his left, to the defendant's table, looked first at Belmont, then moved on to Davis. Finally McCarthur looked directly at Papy.

"Representative Papy," McCarthur said, "You're entertainment. We should move this trial to the Gators football stadium and sell tickets."

Papy lifted his head as if to respond, but McCarthur put a hand up."

"For chris'sake don't talk now. It wouldn't be appropriate. Bailiff, let's get this dog and pony show under way."

The bailiff rose with a piece of paper in his hands.

Papy, sitting stiffly between Davis and Belmont, stared blankly at the floor in front of the defendant's table. His ears tuned out the bailiff as the charges against him were read aloud. All Papy heard was the sound of dozens of pens scratching across notepad paper behind him.

This sound grew in his consciousness. every pen scraping across paper, noting these charges, to be printed in newspapers the following morning, scraping, scraping, louder and louder, until he turned around suddenly, and his eyes met those of Pat Murphy three rows back.

An elbow struck Papy in the ribs. Papy looked down with a start. Davis was whispering.

"Pap! Pap!"


"How do you plead?"

"Oh, uh, why, not guilty!" Papy said loudly.

Davis was looking at him with a note of concern.

"Let the record show that the defendant pleads not guilty," McCarthur barked. "Thank God for that. Otherwise we wouldn't have any fun."

Saturday, July 13, 2013

17. Places On Earth - July, 2013

I live in Los Angeles year-round now. So I have grudgingly accepted that my occasional visits home to Seattle now happen by airplane.

It took five years, but I eventually burned out on the 2-day drive up or down the coast. I did it at least twice a year from 2007 to 2012, when I more or less split my time between the two cities. The drive can be quicker than two days, but when I did it, I stopped too often, shutting off the car to stare out at nature.

There are places along the coast of northern California and southern Oregon where the beauty defies words or descriptions. You have to just stop the car, get out, walk along the beach, take it in as fully as you can, then get back in the car and go, a slightly changed person.

I miss these places.

I have been to lots of places on this little ball we live on. Friends of mine have been to many more places than me, but I've been around a little.

Here in the United States I've been to most of the major cities; New York a few times, Chicago, Denver, Dallas, Houston, Miami, Minneapolis, Indianapolis, Cleveland, Washington, D.C.

I lived in San Francisco for three months when I was 18, attending a small college that left town shortly after I left the college.

I lived in Phoenix, Arizona for a year when I was too young to remember it. I know Phoenix mostly from Summer visits through the rest of my childhood.

I've been to London and Paris, but I have often joked about the fact that while in Paris I ate at McDonald's one day. Some of my friends believe that eating at McDonald's in Paris more or less cancels the trip; you didn't really go.

I have also been to Munich, Germany, Vancouver, Canada, and parts of Mexico and Switzerland.

I have camped in a tent in the woods, and looked down at Times Square from many floors up in a Manhattan hotel room.

Why do I mention all this?

I've been thinking about our little ball-in-space recently. I like our little ball. It's the right distance from the sun. It has amazing oceans, mountains, deserts, and swamps.

I have never been to Asia, but I read, just this morning, that more than 2 million deaths are caused each year - the majority of them in Asia - by air pollution.

I also read on the NASA website that warming oceans are causing what they called "basal melting;" ice melting underneath the Anarctic ice shelf.

Environmental science is a complex thing, and I do not want to over-simplify things here.

Since I visited the Florida Everglades for the first time this past April, I have been reading up on the science of Everglades devastation and attempted restoration. It's a depressing read.

Two of my friends this weekend are sitting in boats on a lake in Mammoth, California. They are fishing.

I'm jealous of them. I want to be on a boat fishing, far away from these sounds of L.A. traffic outside my window.

Not everyone agrees on issues of pollution, the environment we live in, or the health of our little ball-in-space. And certainly not everyone agrees on how things ought to change going forward.

It is my hope, though, that we can all begin to agree on some basic truths:

-A lake in Mammoth, California, filled with fish, is a beautiful thing.

-The Pacific Ocean, viewed from a cold Oregon beach in October is a beautiful thing.

-An alligator staring up at you from half-submerged eyes, in the Florida Everglades, is a beautiful thing.

This ball we live on is actually pretty small. You can fly all the way around it making only two or three stops. You can orbit it in the Space Station in about an hour and a half.

We have changed our planet. We have to accept that at this point. Welcome to the new reality.

Maybe we can agree that the driving principle going forward should be based on a little bit of love for our fragile little ball-in-space.

Just a thought.
-Peter Wick
July 13, 2013

Saturday, June 15, 2013

16. First Look - "Key West" companion episode number 1.

NOTE: My novel "Key West" - which by the way has been selling more each month than it did the month before - will soon have company. The publisher, Wheelman Press, has requested that I write "Companion Episodes" - short novellas (60-ish pages long) which will at first be published only for Kindle, as we work to turn the whole Key West concept into an HBO-style series (are you listening HBO?)

There will be three companion episodes published later this year. The following is an abbreviated sample from the first, titled "One-Way Ticket."

If you haven't read the novel yet, what you need to know before reading this sample is that it is set in 1951, Key West, Florida. Papy is the local State Representative, and Trumbull the "Dear Cuz" columnist for the Miami Herald who is exposing all of Papy's corruption. These guys really existed. These are fictionalized adaptations of events that took place. Thanks again to Robert Silk, and now also to Tim O'hara for their research and support.
"Have you looked at the brief for Papy's case?" Davis asked, motioning toward the stack of papers on Judge McCarthur's desk.

"I have," McCarthur said. "Good read. It has a lot of plot twists."

"Have you given any thought to how it ends?"

"Davis, let's get one thing straight," said McCathur. "I don't like your boss, Bernie Papy. I think it would be poetic justice, after everything he's done, if he went down for puting a damn bill in some milk-toasts palm in the State Assembly building."

"Careful, your honor," Davis said soberly. "You're in danger of passing judgement before the trial begins."

"I'm not passing any kind of judgement. I'm sitting here having a bowl of soup, chatting informally with you. Passing judgement is what I do when I'm wearing a robe."

"Your honor," Davis said, shifting forward in his seat. "This is all a horrible misunderstanding. This trial is a sham."

"Not yet it isn't," McCarthur said. "But you'd better hope it becomes one. Judging from the mysterious disappearance of the FBI's star witness, this uh, this uh, Police Chief, Martins, it would seem maybe we are headed in that direction."

Davis was quiet for a moment, looking at the judge contemplatively.

"Dismiss the case," Davis said.

The judge did not respond right away. He picked up the bottle of wine from his desk and read the label again. "This is nice wine, Davis," he said. "I know Papy paid well for it." He set the bottle down and looked at Davis. "The case will move forward. Papy will have to make things look better than they do right now."

"Meaning what?" Davis asked.

"I want to retire well," the judge said. "Next year. Papy is guilty, sure as the nose on your face. Now I don't know what happened to this vanishing police chief. I don't want to know. What I'm saying is, Papy has to win in court, or at least appear to win in court. It has to look good."

The faintest trace of a smile played across Davis's mouth. He stood up.

"Thanks for your time, your Honor," he said.

"And don't draw attention to yourself," McCarthur said. "The last thing I need is some damn reporter letting everyone know you visited me."


Dear Cuz;
Sometimes there is a diference between what you know and what you can prove.

Papy lives somewhere in the dark corners of that difference.

I might know that Papy is as rotten as a week-old fish carcass, but if I can't prove it, Papy wins.

So, there are some things I know that I cannot say.

I would just like Papy to know that, from where I sit, the stench of rotten fish is wafting wind-ward. The fish carcass smells old, putrid, and no amount of cash, no backroom deals, no strong-arm tactics, can make a rotten fish smell sweet.

It stinks.

So far, I cannot say exactly where the rotten fish smell is coming from, but I intend to sniff it out.

-Peter Wick, June 15, 2013

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

#15 - I Am Not A Bank Robber - May, 2013

It's been a few years, but for some reason I kept the three business cards in my wallet.

The business cards are; Officer Brian Thomas, Seattle Police Department; Lieutenant Peter J. Celms of the University Of Washington Police; and Patrol Seargent T. Pratt-Wieberg, also of the UW Police.

It had started like any other day. I was walking casually down Roosevelt in Seattle's University District, lost in thought (I am always lost in thought, sometimes I appear to be lost in thought when I am actually only half-awake, but the two states are similar enough that I maintain my claim that I am always lost in thought).

As I walked into the Fedex Kinko's on 45th I noticed a Police car pulling up behind me. Then another Police car. Then two more.

An officer pushed the Kinko's door open and said, "Excuse me, sir, please step outside."

Unsure who they were talking to, I paid no attention and stepped up to a self-serve copy machine.

"Sir! You! Please step outside now!"

I looked in the direction of the voice and realized that several cops were staring directly at me. I twisted my face sideways, trying to process what was happening, and stepped toward them.

"Hands out of your pockets!" The Officer yelled. "What's in your pocket? Remove your hand slowly!"

"Yeah," I said, sarcasm creeping into my voice. "It's papers. I don't think they're loaded."

None of the cops seemed to appreciate my sarcasm. This was difficult to accept. As a sometimes-stand-up-comedian, I am always reading those around me to see whether something is going over well. This wasn't going over well.

At this point in the story I should point out - for those who don't really know me - that I can be a little, well, let's call it "mouthy," at times. I can talk my way into trouble. Sometimes words, attitude, just sort of slip out.

"What did I do?" I asked, innocently enough, until I followed it with, "Was it something cool? I'd like to know."

"We'll be asking the questions," the lead officer said."

"No," I said, "Actually I'll be asking lots of questions, too."

"Up against the wall!"

The officer began patting me down, and asked me to empty my pockets slowly. It was at this point that I noticed that several of the officers were UW Police, a band of sorry misfits, in training with the County Sherrif's Department. I tried to hold back the comment, but I couldn't. It spilled out of my mouth before I could catch it.

"Oh my god," I said, "You're not even a real cop!"

A moment of what you can only call "tension" followed, as several offices battled the urge to attack me.

Finally the lead officer (a 'real' cop) got off his walkie talkie and apologized to me. I did not match the description of the bank robber as closely as first thought.

The officer explained that they were looking for a man with brown hair, blue jeans, and a white jacket.

"Hey, maybe you shouldn't have wasted all your time on a guy with blond hair, sweats, and a grey jacket," I said.

An awkward silence followed.

I looked at the army of police cars circling me, and the ten or so officers.

"Maybe some of you should have gone up these alleys looking for the guy," I said. "He's probably gotten away by now."

And as the officers surrounding me fought mightily with their own urges to pummel me into small pieces, I realized that now might be a good time to stop talking.

If I had said anything more, a crime would have happened that day, and the person who committed the crime might have gotten away with it, because those with him would have backed him up. Of course I would never know the outcome of the case. I would have been beaten senseless by fake officers coming at me from all directions
-Peter Wick
May 15, 2013

Monday, April 15, 2013

14. To Brit Or Not To Brit - April, 2013

For as long as I can remember, I have struggled with conflicting emotions about the British DNA coursing through my blood.

Through different branches of my Mother's ancestry, my family is from two different parts of England; Dover in the south, and York, in the middle.

Battling these ancestral branches are a Scottish branch and German one. Come to think of it, maybe it was the Scots and the Germans who separately moved from their own countries to York. Anyway, they all eventually left England for America, and here we are.

On my Father's side was his Father, a seafairing Norwegian who, by himself at 18, took a ship from Norway to Liverpool, England, another ship across the ocean to Montreal, a train across the American continent to Seattle, and within a couple months was in Alaska on a fishing boat.

My Father's Mother was also from Norway, but when she researched her own ancestry, became ebarrassingly distraught to discover a Jewish branch of the family.

For the record I want to reconcile my Grandmother's WASP and Jewish mixture. I embrace it...Mazel Tov!

The reason I am writing this, though, is to try to put my maternal British heritage into some sort of perspective.

As someone prone toward the creative arts, I have sometimes felt a strong identification with my British DNA.

Shakespeare wrote my favorite piece of writing. Charlie Dickens knocked off a few good yarns. And I would rather watch a British detecetive show than an American one any day of the week.

These pro-Brit feelings are on one side of the coin. On the other side - and this is where the problems arise - must be the Scottish part of me, unable to shake the "Trainspotting" line about Brits being 'wankers.'

Or maybe it is just my rebellious American side.

Several years ago, when my sister was studying at Leeds University in England, we began corresponding about the discovery that we apparently qualified for a British Coat-of-Arms.

It was fun for a while. we brainstormed and discussed Coat-of-Arms themes (a family of teachers, writers, and amateur athletes ought to inspire some interesting design ideas).
then something happened inside of me. Deep in the middle of this process of pursuing a British Coat-of-Arms, I woke up one morning and said, "You know what, screw the British! Screw their pretentious Coat-of-Arms bull----" (ryhmes with baseball mitt). And the idea died as quickly as it had been born.

So, now I ask myself, what's it going to be? Do I embrace the legacy of literature, theater, and culture? Or do I reject the questionble legacy of Empire, exploitation, and unintended political comedy? (And someone please tell me - what is the point of a 'royal family' in the 21st century?)

The only British politicians I have ever had any respect for were characters portrayed by Monty Python.

So, if someone can tell me who is currently the head of the Ministry Of Silly Walks, then maybe we have something to talk about.

Peter Wick
April 13, 2013

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

13. Bob Dylan's Dentist - March, 2013

Living in Los Angeles comes with its own unique brand of surprises.

You never know where the latest bizarre celebrity story is going to come from.

I was sitting in a dentist chair recently, leaning back the way only a dentist chair can force you to lean back. I was looking up at the ceiling waiting for the dentist to begin poking around in my mouth, when I overheard a conversation about Bob Dylan's teeth.

The two dentists in the office were ignoring me. They were talking about their favorite music. They seemd to agree on classic rock. I felt a strong impulse to jump into the conversation and suggest that classic rock is great, but try giving something more recent a fighting chance; the grunge era perhaps, or hip hop from ten years ago (pre-Jimmy-Fallon era Roots, Talib Kweli, Jurassic 5). I stayed silent, though.

As I listened, I realized that dentists have a different take, even on music, than the rest of us.

One of the dentists, it turn out, has a colleague in town who pokes around inside Bob Dylan's mouth.

"Oh, the stories," the first dentist said.


"Bob Dylan comes in wih his 'handler,' head down. He never looks you in the eye. Apparently he is completely unable to communicate on any kind of normal level."

"Really! huh," said the second dentist

I lost interest when they started talking about Bob Dylan's periodontal issues.

I wish I had not overheard the story.

On one level I am always aware that celebrities are real, living breathing people, with the same physical limitations as the rest of us, but somehow it feels slightly wrong to listen to, say, "Knocking on Heaven's Door," and suddenly become overwelmed with concern about the man's gums.

I suppose that's better than listening to the cover version by Guns And Roses, though.

Somehow I just assume Axel Rose's mouth is a disaster area.

Next up? I have to schedule an eye appointment. I don't have a regular eye Doctor in Los Angeles, so I'm free to try somewhere new.

Where will I likely hear stories about Johnny Depp? I just have a feeling that guy's as blind as a bat.

-Peter Wick
March 13, 2013

Thursday, February 14, 2013

12. Facebook, pt. 2, or Life in the Woods - February, 2013

"Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes." -Henry David Thoreau

A little more than a year ago, in the first installment of Simple Displeasures, I compared dropping off of Facebook to Thoreau's move to Walden Pond in the 1840's. He lived alone, grew his own food, and enjoyed the peace and quiet of solitude.

Thoreau stayed at Walden Pond for two years before moving back in with civilization.

The book Walden is his permanent record of those two years.

I stayed off Facebook for one year.

I wonder if Thoreau felt the same sense of guilt that I feel; a need to justify my return to civilization, a slight embarrassment when explaining it to my other anti-Facebook friends.

I will admit that I enjoy being in touch with friends who I don't see in person, but I still distrust the Facebook Corporation every bit as much as Thoreau distrusted 1840's civilization.

I have also been surprised to discover that a growing number of my real friends have also been turning against Facebook. Several of them have either deactivated their Facebook accounts or they simply don't log in anymore.

Before you gang up on me and call out my comparison, I am aware that on the surface, dropping off of Facebook seems nothing at all like moving to the woods.

In fact, I also have a deep secretive impulse to someday ACTUALLY move to the woods, without a computer, cell phone, car, television, radio, ipad, or any other gadget invented since 1850. All I would need are a collection of books (you remenmber those things? those bulky contraptions made of paper?) It's true. I might do it.

I won't last two years, like Thoreau did, but two months like that sounds deliciously quiet and peaceful to me.

This is the sad state of anti-social behavior in the 21st century; two months without social media is an eternity.

And even the guy who threatens to drop everything and move to the woods is now back on Facebook.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." -Thoreau

Peter Wick
February 14, 2013

Saturday, January 12, 2013

11. Preview of "Key West" - The novel - January, 2013

In early 2007 my frend Robby - Robert Silk - sent me a magazine article he wrote titled, "Wanna Bet?" It explored the history of illegal gambling in Key West Florida. I liked the article, and began talking to Robby about expanding the idea further. Before I knew it Robby was sending me additional research, and a whole world of 1950 guys-wearing-hats began grabbing ahold of me.

Stephen Trumbull and Bernie Papy were real people, a journalist and a corrupt politician, repsectively. Papy was a State Representative, but he ran Key West the way Al Capone ran Chicago two decades earlier. Trumbull wrote a column for the Miami Herald. They didn't like each other much.

Finally I have written the story up as a novel, and below is an excerpt from it. It begins with "Dear Cuz." That was Trumbull's column. He always began with, "Dear Cuz."

"Dear Cuz;
When a sharp blade cuts into you, it is quick, cold. You barely realize what is happening at first. It cuts clean, surgically. The pain almost begins with a question mark.

When a dull blade cuts into you, like the one Papy's goons used on me, it saws into you like a rusty kitchen knife. There is no question what is happening, because the pain is crude and dirty."

Trumbull was groaning and writhing on Eva's bed. She was wrapping a large bandage around his naked torso.

It was the next morning. He didn't remember coming inside, but he remembered the last few minutes before passing out.

"Hold still. You're making it bleed more," Eva said.

"Don't tell me to hold still," he said nastily.

She wasn't going to complain about his mood. "Lay back," she said.

"Don't - Aaaagh!" He dropped his head as she pressed the bandage onto the wound.

"Lie down. Relax. I have to clean the wound."

"Alright, alright," he said. He leaned back in fits and starts, stopping with each shot of pain, and moving again when it was tolerable.

Eva dabbed his wound like a professional. She had seen blood before. She didn't like it, but they both knew Trumbull was in good hands. "You're lucky," she said. "They didn't cut too deep."


"You're alive. That's lucky."

Trumbull looked at her. "They chose to let me live," he said. "They wanted to prove something. They were just making a point - Aaagh!"

"Relax," she said, folding blood stained bandages. She put the bandages in a pile at the foot of the bed.

Trumbull's head was on the pillow now, and he spoke while looking straight overhead at the ceiling. "They figured I'd be a walking message, bandaged up, scared."

"Are you scared?" Eva asked.

"Are you?"

"Yes," she said.

The novel "Key West" will be available, first as an E-Book at by January 20th, 2013, (probably a couple days before, actually) and then in paperback a week and a half after that.

I want to thank Wheelman Press for publishing it, and Integrity Artists Management for arranging the details.

-Peter Wick
January 12, 2013