GRANT MAIERHOFER / SCULPTÉS
In the last ten years, I have become hard of hearing in order to isolate myself from the world. One day I became totally deaf; I was told that times had changed. I have retired here. I help out on Sundays at the parish, as an old curator of a young priest. But this is not enough activity, and I have to keep myself busy. So I thought of going to the edge of the cliffs to talk to the ocean, my old friend. I cannot hear others anymore but I can hear the waves. And I began to sculpt the stone on a daily basis.
— Adolphe Julian Fouéré
A computer that’s got 8% battery life. I just remembered how people once said battery life. The children need their elderberries. Wait did I just vomit everywhere then sleep on the couch. No I was on the bed. My sister cleaned it up. My friend had that nice ceramic bowl and vomited into it and then I went off and did a bunch of shit I regret entirely. Ganon has taken over Hyrule again. Or some shit. I got some Dieter’s tea. Apparently it makes you have to defecate. I’ve got to make an English muffin for my son. We use the plant butter. A large blue blanket upon the floor. I send another draft of this document to the publisher. Probably they’ll say no. Writers really need to learn to live with the fact that this shit probably doesn’t matter, or it doesn’t matter to the extent or in the way they think it matters. Here’s what it is. Here’s exactly what it is. Writing only matters insofar as it allows a person to see the beauty in their every lived day. That’s the most any artist should hope for. I don’t need to perfect something. I don’t need to render the world. I just need to try something, and if it’s something that resonates, or that lets someone look up into the sun and feel O.K., then that’s the entire extent of it. That’s it. It’s a game one can devote one’s life to. No, it’s not. It’s not a game. It’s not what people think it is but it isn’t a game. It’s not terribly serious. It’s the thing with you on the bus ride. The shitty Greyhound bus ride from Milwaukee. Riding it home and then walking home from the station. I brought a book with me. I brought a couple of books with me. I was an asshole to that one kid. Sitting in the bus station I texted him to say fuck off. I’m such an asshole I’ve been such an asshole to people who didn’t deserve it at all. I’m so sorry to those people. That kid I treated like shit before my birthday party. I’m sorry, Mr. B. I can’t remember the last name of the other kid. Was he Mike? He was reading Peter Taylor. The way he talked to me made me uncomfortable I think. I was an asshole to him. I’m sorry Mike. I’m sorry I acted like such an asshole. If you were around I’d be your friend. I’d try to be anyway. I’m really sorry. He wanted to be a rapper, then wanted to be a writer. I though wow that’s stupid. Really though my trajectory was kind of similar. I think wow I’m stupid. It’s a wonderful thing to think that you are stupid, yourself. No better feeling in the world. I’m sorry for being such an asshole. If you need a friend I’ll try and be your friend. Don’t even get me started on all the ways in which I’ve been an asshole. It’s sort of never-ending, I’m ashamed to say. I try now though, even though I can still be an asshole. What can a person do. Really what can a person do in their limited days. Really what can one person ever hope to do in their stupid lived days. Mine eyes have seen the glory of something. My eyes have seen or hath seen the glory of a thing. I see the thing now. Pete Seeger on a boat going down the river. His little red hat. He’s in trouble. He’s in trouble with the government. Mine eyes hath seen the glory of the decorative gourd. A good gourd is hard to hoard. A hoard of gourds impugns the board. The board would be impugned by gourds. I was watching the thing on YouTube. The video of them at the Chateau Marmont. Marmount? Marmont? They went in the pool I think and then filmed his pants dripping in the hallway. Seth Green or Greene was there. Talking. Incessant talking. A list of things you’re no longer allowed to do. Depriving yourself is the one true thing. Drink some tea. Go for a walk. Spend some money on something you don’t need or want. Just to get rid of it. Just to know it’s spent. You’ve spent it. Congratulations. I’m so grateful to you. I’m so glad to know the money has been spent. The bank will let you know. U.S. Bank. A Zelle payment. From your dad. Or he never got to experience Zelle, or possibly he did. A Zelle payment from your mother, and you feel pathetic, and it’s March 27th again. You’ve been sober for fifteen minutes. Congratulations. Weep upon the rotten floor and smell where Gertrude Stein was sitting. Just moments ago. Imagine the warmth of a seat where Gertrude Stein sat. Did she like Hitler? She liked something. Her brother was bald and compelling, or maybe not. Edith Sitwell, sitting somewhere, on Gertrude Stein’s lap, and now imagine the warmth. Would her salons have smelled a bit like shit? Is James Purdy in attendance? Is he being a monster or a boxer? Yes. Perhaps. Little bits of poison sprinkled on the windowsill for the birds. It's for the birds. That stuff is for the birds. Everybody knows that. Everybody knows that that stuff is just for the birds. Forget it. Skip it. Ignore me. Ignore it. It’s for the birds. It’s for the birders. It’s better than sex. We have a Target now. Not a Super Target. Not an Impenetrable Target. Just a Target, where they’ve got clothes, and other things, that you can buy. You are permitted to buy things. Congratulations. I’m so grateful you’ve learned to use your wallet. Good grace. Good lord. Holy mackerel. Let’s go fishing. What are we supposed to do as people within America. I’m still married to America most you rappers dumped her. Who said that. Lil Ugly Mane said that. What do we make of a figure like that. How do we learn from someone. How do we learn from a person. A person is just a person. A person is only ever going to be just a person. You’ve got to reckon with that. We have to reckon with that as a people. I should clean my computer. I should spruce up my office. I should’ve been something else. I shouldn’t be a writer. Maybe I’m not a writer. Maybe deep down I just don’t believe in the notion of being a writer. Or books. Or stories. Or essays. Or screenplays. Or New York City. Trust me, it’s not worth it. People will make a living. But not you. You won’t make a living. You’ll do something else. Like teaching. You’ll teach. You’ll do kind of a shitty job as a teacher. You’re not very good at teaching. You know that. Deep down you know it, just like you know you’re not really a writer. You’re a phony. You’re a dilletante. You’ve always been one. A dabbler. A dumb dauber. What does that even mean. My paternal grandfather called my father that. He apparently killed himself, sort of. He was a member of the Hemlock Society, I guess. He held me when I was one month old, or so. Then he died. Did he kill himself. I don’t know. My body is a dumbass’s body. A big phony dumbass. Great. I love it. Wonderful. Unbelievable. You’re a shitty person, Grant. You’re a shitty liar. You’re a shitty father and a shitty husband. Even writing this right now, why aren’t you doing something better with your time. You hate yourself which is good and a start. You’ve got to build something out of that though. Building steam with a grain of salt. Driving in your friend’s old Mercedes. The red one that was beaten to shit. Listening to music and smoking and going around the city trying to get laid or do something. Going into the woods. Hiding from things. Going to the mall. Going to that furniture store and filling a little Styrofoam cup with Hydrocodone tablets and coffee. Eating cookies. Sitting there for as long as you could and then maybe seeing a film. Being an asshole. Treating people like shit. And then the intervention, and then more being an asshole, and more treating people like shit. It happens. It keeps happening. Your life keeps happening over and over in front of you until you die. I need to think of something to write… I need to figure out what to write next… I don’t know if I have anything to say… I don’t know if I have anything to contribute…To society… Or to literature… Or to art… What should a person contribute to the world… What should they respond to their world with… A letter… Something nice… Or should they be angry… Should a person in their living be angry… Does it make the most sense to get mad… To get furious… To sit down in your chair and be mad at the whole of the world… Hoax playing in the recycling plant… Gag playing just about anywhere… Who else… It doesn’t matter… That’s the stuff that matters… Hulu, notifications, The New Yorker, The New Yorker, order-update@amazon, Amazon.com, me, Amazon.com, Caffeine, me, Talkspace, me, Outschool, Amazon.com, Carhartt WIP USA… What else… And so again there on the ground where they were putting up the new house did me and my family and cousins or did I and my family and cousins go to flop and jump around there upon the dirt. Or did we slide down the mounds of dirt as the cars of the highway rode hither and yon while we down there mulched and dug our way through the incessant weather. The mental weather of it, and did I spray someone’s name there later. Did I go to walk through the neighborhood later. Did I walk the yellow lab Benny my Benny when he had taken the pills inadvertently taken the pills. I walked him and I called the vet. I called the vet and had to explain the pills. I explained the pills and the vet didn’t know what. I held the dog then my Benny into the night and held him and into the morning I went to the computer on the desk my father’s desk and my mother she screamed out. She knew the dog was dying. She said he’s dying the dog is dying and I came out to find the dog breathing strange breaths. He stiffened up and when my mom went away I pushed on his chest hard several times hoping maybe I could kick his heart back into gear, but he was dead. And did I put on my jeans and walk the corpse of the dog out past my father’s pool and out the gate the white gate and dig a grave for that Benny my Benny next to the dog we’d buried only two weeks before, Jessie my Jessie. And so into the ground went the dog and perhaps that night was when I stayed up all the night and spraypainted my own body and kept it secret from the world and stayed up watching Pasolini’s Trilogy of Life late into the night and I felt a peace wash over me when I went up into the bright shining morning and drank the good hot coffee and began the slow business of putting my life back into its present shape. I watch the YouTube channel. I get anxious about a book I’ve written. I get depressed about another book I’ve written. I abandon the MMPI project. I pick it up again. I’m trying. I’m trying to get some work done. I don’t know if I’ve been repeating myself. I read from Zimzum. I eat poorly. It’s Friday! Wonderful! The greatest day in the week! Or is it Thursday. Who is your morning. The coffee is made upon the stove. I abandon the screenplay I was trying to write. I pick it up again. I want to quit writing. I think about it every morning. Someone gruffer than me would say “so quit, fuckface!” but that’s not exactly the situation. Maybe it is. Maybe I want it to not be the situation, exactly. It’s Friday! Someone somewhere said something about something I said and it hurt my feelings bad. I check the university website to see if my classes for the fall have been updated yet. I get anxiety about the solidity of my position. I worry I’ll be fired for something, anything. It’s Friday! A glob of goo upon the guitar. The dumb guitar being taken apart. A guitar being taken apart with a screen. Justice Yeldham. He’s rubbing a piece of broken glass against his lips. It’s making me feel sick. I feel sick. I feel so sick. I keep looking. He’s a dad. He’s a dad in Australia. Is it Australia? I’m not sure. I love him. He’s so great. He looks so great. He looks like Peter Brötzmann did the first time I saw him. The greatest trick Chloë Sevigny ever pulled was adding an umlaut to her name. Who am I and what am I doing. Why am I sitting on the floor on the carpet in the video store again. They’re closing down. I’m protesting their closing down. There must have been such an abrupt drop. In customers. Sudden, and massive. Good lord, it’s too much to even consider. Please good sweet lord it’s too much to even consider. This project will falter, and fail. I will never be a successful writer. I will never be a real writer. I will dawdle like this upon the floor in protest of the dumb thing. Someone drove their car into the building. I went out at night. I drove around at night. All I do is drive around at night. Keep the world somewhere. Listen to Tanya Tucker. Listen to whoever else. I had the visceral reaction to Molloy. I had a seasick reaction to it. I went out at night into the cold winter night and went out to the pier after reading the whole of Molloy in one evening and I felt so exhilarated. I met someone on the train. I met someone else on the train. I rode the train all around. I felt so anxious, and depressed. Looking back I wonder if I was happy. I think I was but I wasn’t. This is something the brain will do to a person. The brain will tell the person something was different, so it was better. It was never better. This is just the usual horse shit a brain will do to a person. I rode the train around and got very anxious. I shaved my head. I wore boots and a bomber jacket and got scared someone would think I was a skinhead, the bad kind. I went home. I changed my clothes, I think, but I don’t know if I did anything else. I hid out in the movies like Jim Carroll. I could’ve thought about the colors of a word. Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo. All hail Buffalo, the almighty buffalo, and the Bills. Both the Bills and the Bills, let’s not discriminate. These are the Daves I know. I’m lying on the floor within your apartment again. I close the curtain with my feet and then the room starts to wise up or is it raze. A good body, I never raced. The rooms of your youth. When does your youth stop. Something’s tapping against the shower’s curtain. It’s a bug, or an animal. When does a bug cease to be an animal. The dream of a ridiculous man. But are you reading the best translation. Pevear and whomsoever else. The married couple. I went by the bookstore today and I bought their translation there. What a wonderful thing to be a married couple who translates literature for a living. What a noble pursuit. One person said once that translated literature almost doesn’t seem worth it. Six men getting sick six times. The monkey in the chair being interrogated by the filmmaker. Of course translated literature is worth it. How foolish that I ever considered the rightness of this position. I have my dieter’s tea. I play Zelda with my daughter, whose name is not Persephone. I drink my stupid things in the bath too late at night. Tomorrow I’ll try letting my students read for a bit of the class period. I want a perfect body. I don’t know whether I want a male’s body. I don’t know if the male’s body can reach the kind of perfection I’m interested in, though it probably can in terms of an androgynous male. Who are the androgynous males. What do their bodies look like? Are they comfortable in their bodies. There are some. I think I see an ideal of human beauty in the female body more often. That image though that Dostoevsky liked of Christ pulled down from the cross is not bad. I would look sort of thin and lanky that way if I didn’t eat the way I eat. I’m trying to eat a different way and it isn’t easy. I’m on Weight Watchers. The fact that I’m on a train with a suitcase full of documents. The fact that I’m at war in Afghanistan. I’m in the desert in Afghanistan and my blood sugar is low. I lied to the Army about my type one diabetes. They would’ve known immediately. They never let me into the army. I’ve never been to Afghanistan. Why would I lie about that. Isn’t that sort of fucked up to lie about. I always wanted to though. To join up. To go to war. I couldn’t though. Maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to if I could’ve. It’s 12:34, you’ve got to make a wish. You’ve got to make another sigil. You’ve got to kneel down on the ground. Don’t look at the clock until 1:00 PM. Everybody knows that. I looked at 12:35 which is bad luck. Fuck, I did it again. Fuck. I put my body in the seat and wait for morning’s light. I sit upon the log within the forest and I look out over the misty landscape. I feel lucky to have this place. I retreat to this place. I go up into the misty landscape there in the morning and feel my breathing become more and more significant. I’m just sitting there grading on my computer. That’s all I’m doing. I’m grading. I’m not doing a great job grading. I don’t do a great job with it. Greating. No. No way. The light up there in the morning is like Pollock. Both Pollocks. Donald. Jackson. Good morning. I sit there and I’m grading. My body is grading things. I give good grades. I give everybody a good grade. I don’t like to give a negative grade. Someone has a bandana on. I wore a hat into Dakotah’s house. Someone said I looked like a skinhead. I had a blue mohawk. Dakotah had a massive device for ingesting drugs. I did it. I bought some beer. Put on that Shyne CD. No. That’s the cool blue. Thank you Forrest. Is this your name? Is that your name? Is he hiding there. Let’s listen to Aesop Rock and play some video games. Let’s try some of your mother’s cigarettes. A Newport short cigarette. I inhale too deeply, and look at the filter, and it’s red. I show it to my friends in this house in the daytime. They can’t believe it. Was I bleeding? Was I bleeding from my throat? I’m not sure. I’m not certain. Now I feel discomfort about how I’ve put things. I don’t know if I should change them. My thumb is hurting. I’m sitting on the log in the forest. I’ve ingested drugs and my friend is laughing at me. I’m on the floor. I have a blue mohawk. I have a hat on. I take the hat off. They’re playing pool. That one kid wants to fight me. Someone stands up for me. I’m fucked up. I can’t fight like this. I’m grateful that guy stood up for me. I had a dream last night about my old best friend. I went to rehab and we weren’t really friends anymore. That’s probably my fault. I’m listening to an interview with the writer David Foster Wallace, done in San Francisco. In 2004. He did some things in his life that are bad. I’ve realized lately that you have to look within yourself in these situations and decide for yourself. I would listen to someone talk to me who was a murderer. I would read a book by a murderer. I don’t think doing something horrible ruins your chances of ever being able to write or communicate effectively or interestingly. This is just my position on the matter. I understand other positions on the matter. A white guy behaving badly. I get how this is a stupid thing to even have to think about. This has been my way of processing things, I guess. I need more money. I don’t have enough money. I’m so broke. I don’t get paid well to teach. I’m trying to make do. My father died and I received some life insurance money from his passing. If I hadn’t received that I couldn’t be just teaching. I’d need to work somewhere else. Two places. Or one place, that paid more. I don’t know what to say. I’m trying to figure out what I should say. I brought two unpeeled bananas with me into my car this morning because I didn’t want to have to throw the peels someplace. I remember eating one but I don’t remember starting the second one. I haven’t found it. I don’t know where it is. I fashion an eyeless ogle. A wonderful morning within the shitplanet. I’ve taken my bath. I’ve washed behind my eyes. I’m a skull. I can’t wait for football season to end. Thank god for basketball. I hate to see the sports. Give me a bit more gum with my steak. Hello and welcome to this Fuddrucker’s there are many others like it but this one is yours. Join the military so as to shoot yourself in the forehead. Good another gun. I was worried there wouldn’t be enough guns. Another Perrier sure. I meet Dave for an anxious conversation at Starbucks, or Einstein’s. I’m not sure about these apostrophes. He told me we needed to talk. I liked my time in graduate school. I got to write about Darby Larson. He’s still one of my favorite writers. I wonder what he’s doing lately. I sit in the atrium with a bunch of candy. I teach and a student takes over the class and I’m relieved. I’m bereaved. A little spot upon the ground where I have buried father. I’m in the mud of it now. My hands and feet are in the mud of it. The basketball courts. The mud hike. A rap battle as a teenager is a source of great pride. Where did I hide all the stupid shit I’ve done. Good. Matt Berninger singing “England” in the rain in my hometown and my sister Chloe tells me about it. She texts me. She’s worried about me when she finds out Whitney Houston has died. Pusha T using that image of her bathroom sink on Daytona’s cover remains my favorite artistic gesture of the twenty-first century. I would take that over every breath of Damien Hirst. I would take that over the banana. It’s the perfect artwork. It’s the sequel to American Psycho we’ve all wanted so desperately in our complete disinterest as to whether a sequel like that would ever happen. What the fuck is this guy talking about. Don’t worry about how much gas a fuckin’ car has. It can run on pure hardcore adrenaline. I like to watch the video performances of Oka Takeshi on YouTube. Matthew Roberson said once that YouTube had taken over for TV. It’s true. Oka Takeshi or Takeshi Oka will play covers of lots of good songs on a guitar. I find them moving to witness. I find them highly comestible. I like to sit there and imagine that my life could be like that. I don’t want to write any new songs. I’m content to play part of these other songs. Pay attention or don’t. I probably have a job. That’s the downside. Probably I can’t make a living doing this. You would hope. You’d definitely hope for that. I’m so grateful to be able to watch them. People say the world is in the worst shape it’s ever been in. That hasn’t been my experience of things. People love to talk. Geniuses love to talk. They love to slack line. They love being little pieces of shit. I buy the bleached shorts. I can’t wait for them to arrive. What’s my UK size? I have no idea. How would I know that. How could I possibly know that. What I leave you here is my Zimzum. I’ve got a little bit of Zimzum left over from the leather jacket performance. Leather Jacket is a good band name for the Zimzum performance. Our Zimzum, who Art in Zimzum, por favor my Zimzum cut my heart from my body to feed the Zimzum. Oh for fuck’s sake. Or for fuck sake. Or for fucks sake. Oh for crying in the beer. They leave me at the restaurant. I get homesick bad. Zimzum can’t help me. I’m such a pussy. I’m such a Zimzum, a coward. I’m such the worst for wear. I’m worse for wear. I’m worst for where. Zimzum your malicious little face. Goodnight Irene. Cleanup on aisle five. Leadbelly killed somebody. Woody Guthrie is someone. A dumb guitar. Great an Ampeg another dumb guitar. I would’ve told myself to do away with the little limb or system in which I tried to fabricate a me. I would’ve been failing there. I would’ve been at the salon. I would’ve been within the room and shitting. My body would’ve been shitting there. A wonderful opportunity there, to be shitting there. I’m so grateful I was attacked. I’m so grateful I got pummeled. I don’t know myself much really now anymore. I’m interested in the worst you’ve got. Gimme the worst you’ve got. I can’t wait to ingest the worst you’ve got. Another documentary about a home. Another hole. A body through which to burn oneself. A bathroom in which to work for Mister Trumbo. His name spelled out like that. The government narc. Wonderful, just fantastic. How long have I got to think it over. Wet brain. Divine inversion. The body of Christ pulled down from the cross. I’ve got a meeting in twenty-five minutes. I’m so excited for it now. I’ve got some work to do. Dear Mister Zimzum. Hello. Hello and hello. I’m shitting now. My body is there within the bathroom there. I have a great regret. I did a thing that I regret. I don’t know how to move forward from this thing. I wish I knew but I do not know how to move forward with this thing. Knowing this thing about myself. I don’t know exactly what it was but I’m afraid I hurt a person. Not physically. Just, you know, whatever else. I did a bad thing. How is a person supposed to go forward from a bad thing. I was realizing that from William S. Burroughs recently. I thought fuck him Joan Vollmer. Joan Vollmer Joan Vollmer. He said he’d never have become a writer were it not for his apparently accidental shooting of his wife Joan Vollmer. I thought fuck him. I don’t care. Then recently I realized how special that made writing. Writing could give you a means of dealing with having accidentally murdered your wife, or possibly it wasn’t even entirely accidental, or at least it was careless. Did I already write about this in this manuscript. I might’ve. I’m not sure. It’s powerful, though. It helps me to empathize with him and with her more. Writing gave this person in this awful situation that’s entirely impossible to process a way of processing it. That’s incredibly powerful. I didn’t shoot anybody. I didn’t murder anybody. I’ve done shit I don’t feel good about but I know that at least. So maybe I can write. Maybe writing can continue to help me. Maybe that’s good. Maybe I don’t even need to publish it, or if I do, maybe I don’t need to be afraid anymore. Maybe. Once on the internet someone who is more famous than I’ll ever be made fun of me. This has happened a couple of times actually. It felt shitty. I was right, though. It still felt shitty. What can a person do on the internet. There is nothing that a person can hope to do upon the internet. It’s just shit. It’s just your shitty life. It’s just every shitty life around. There are shitty lives all over the place. Today my students clapped. Today someone vindicated what I’d said. It’s about the CIA. It’s about this misconception that the CIA funded artwork during the Cold War. This isn’t the thing people think it is. People think that Jackson Pollock was pulled into CIA offices and told how to paint. Really all it was was the CIA giving some money to places that supported the arts, to try and highlight American art in the face of funding being given to Russian art. If you think about it, this was actually amazing. Try getting money as a contemporary artist. Nothing doing. Try getting support for your book about the rainforest. Nothing doing. At one time in history the CIA gave money to artists, and we don’t want to think about the world as it is, so we assume it’s some conspiracy. People are so stupid, and so am I. Someone else said something about MFA programs. Go fuck yourself. People will do what they can do. If someone does something, we shouldn’t just assume they’re naïve idiots who don’t want to put the real work in. Stop talking. Yes I’m sure it’s just that everybody isn’t as smart as you. I saw your piece in the New Yorker, really compelling stuff. Let’s just assume that some mother who quit her job to get an MFA is a giant idiot and doesn’t want to put the real work in. Do you actually look at the things you write. Do you understand anything that doesn’t happen in New York City. Do you even care to. Yes I’m sure it’s just the CIA and nobody is as smart as you. And book critics. Don’t get me started on book critics. The famous ones I mean. The ones who make money from it. These people who can’t be bothered to look at a book that doesn’t have a massive promotional budget and campaign behind it. You’re the fucking critics. It’s your job to explore art in the world. And you can’t be bothered to read anything without a massive promotional budget and campaign behind it? Seriously? Do your fucking job. The writers the real writers are lucky to make a couple hundred dollars a year, and you book critics can’t be bothered to sometimes do them a kindness. Jesus Christ. It’s just too much. I hope you enjoy your stupid money. Buy some cigarettes. Wow I can’t handle how cool you are. Oh wow smoking a cigarette that’s so impressive. Get a life. My language would’ve had to be the thing. Every fuckup. Every mistake. A klansman burning in the forest. Burn the klansmen in the forest. Burn the forest ground. Burn the woods. Burn the lights. An idea for a boy. An idea for a sense of things where they now are upon the ground. A bottle filled with two maybe three smaller bottles of green tea. He’s drinking green tea again. He’s drinking dieter’s tea. It’s having an effect on his bowels. It’s having an effect on his body. His body there within the room upon the ground. A little light. A nice morning in the mountains of Germany, swimming in the water in the sun, with your friend the drunk, and a sense of alcoholism not really existing then. A body thusly upon the ground, my fandom for the old loser’s Instagram. There he presents himself. There his life is shone. No. Shown. It is thus. It is shone. It is the light shone upon his life shown. I am within the classroom at the university with my body there pathetic there. Hello and yes he says it now and he wakes up in the morning and he talks to his wife about her work working on the TV show she’s writing the TV show it’s a beautiful thing to witness and he will check the mail eventually.
Grant Maierhofer is a writer from America.