To paraphrase the Bard of Avon: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them by founding partners of high-powered law firms.

You guessed it. The New Girl is back, and better than ever. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Much has happened. Events have been veritably piling up, conclusions and paydays arrived at, and the more things change...the more they stay the same.

Yes, despite the talk of the month's continuance, our Big Case has reached its terminus, with bonanza results for the Home Firm. No one on the floor-with the possible exception of the faithful #2 and the impenetrable New Girl-knows exactly how this best-case-scenario settlement got laid like a platinum platter on the dinner table. That said, we're working like dogs to get all the paperwork in order so nothing can interfere with that big-ass check getting cashed and disseminated.

Two billion dollars. Let me rephrase that. TWO BILLION DOLLARS. Let me put it in numerical notation, so you can get a gander at all them zeroes: $2,000,000,000.00. (I agree, adding those final two goose eggs after the decimal point is gilding the lily, but aren't winners allowed a bit of time to gloat?)

Not being in the contracts department, I'm not sure of the figure, but I believe the Home Firm is entitled to a healthy 30% cut of the proceeds for our diligent and occasionally shady legal maneuverings on behalf of the happy, and now substantially wealthier, plaintiffs. Assuming your mathematical skills are on the rusty side, let me do the tabulation for you. Thirty percent of the aforementioned sum...let's see...cross out the hundredths...that leaves us with...oh, yes...

Six hundred millions dollars. Ie. $600,000,000.00. That'll buy a whole hell of a lot of yellow legal pads.

So, anyway. Spirits have been high, even though the word is that for some reason the defendant forking over the 2 billion has been incommunicado and unreachable for the last few days. Like Keyser Soze, poof, he seems to have disappeared. Probably just taking his beloved cash out for one last spin in the Gulfstream before signing it over to the Quee Bee.

Speaking of the Queen Bee, she seems far more sedate than I'd expect, given her recent victory. After these big wins she tends to be even more unbearably supercilious, but this week she's been downright docile. Quite abnormal. Perhaps the lingering trauma of observing the Vampire's brains being blown out onto her office wall has temporarily deactivated her Inner Bitch. We shall see.

We-meaning me-shall also see what happens with the New Girl, now that she's reassumed her place in the little corner cube. My own cube remains right next to hers, so you can be sure I'll be keeping my ears open and my eyes peeled. I know there's something un-kosher going on between her and the Q.B. To quote another fine dramatist: "Attention must be paid."

(Yeah, I took a Theatre History survey course in college. I'm all sorts of well-rounded.)

And so, until next time, I pledge to remain ever vigilant, ever alert, ever watching...your trusty, reliable man on the inside.

Yours, THE SENIOR ASSOCIATE

Posted by at 7:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

After the, shall we say, explosive incident on the premises the other night, said premises were shut down for what seems to be an indeterminate period of time. We were briefed by the valorous #2, who informed us that the Queen Bee had skipped town to collect her thoughts and that we'd be suffering a month's continuance on the Big Case, as the Vampire's grieving cohorts get their departed colleague's house in order.

So, a little vacation. What's a senior associate to do? An impulsive jaunt down to Turks n' Caicos for some sun and perhaps a glimpse of Bruce Willis' latest underage consort? Maybe a quick joyride in the Beemer up I-95 to hand over my hard-earned salary to the Mashantucket Pequot tribe at their reparative Foxwoods compound? A yoga retreat? Methinks not.

Ever curious, I've been doing a bit of pro bono surveillance on our very own New Girl. I can't say I'm proud of my semi-stalkery tactics, but hey, if they're good enough for the United States Gov't., they're good enough for me. (Why cling to a right to privacy anyway, when the open arms of Big Brother are right there, wide open, waiting to envelop you in a smothering embrace?)

After surreptitiously monitoring her arrival and speedy departure the night of the Vampire's self-sacrifice, I wondered what other kind of shared secrets existed between the New Girl and her secret patron. I mean, after all, hadn't she been fired only days before? I know the Queen Bee's methods have always been comparable with black-ops espionage, but this liaison seemed even shadier than usual.

I spent the next day tracking the New Girl's movements. Leaving her charming upper west side apartment building in the afternoon, making various errandy stops, returning to the apartment and leaving once again in what seemed like a state of discomfiture. Walking quickly, agitated, emotional. I followed her downtown, to the Home Office, and waited outside. When she emerged, she was carrying a blue gym bag (I'm calling it a "gym bag," though it could easily quality as a small duffel.)

From there, it was back uptown…to the Queen Bee's digs. Again, I waited outside. An hour or so later, the New Girl reappeared, led by the Queen Bee, who handed her a set of keys and departed the scene in her sleek black Caddy, most likely en route to thought-collecting. A few minutes later the New Girl took a lap around the block with the house mutt, and then she was in for the evening.

Around midnight, the Queen Bee's bratty kid made a quick trip in and out with a backpack. After that, it was quiet for quite a while. I nodded off for a bit, but woke up in time to see the doorman (creepy) let in a dark-haired man, well-dressed (also creepy), in the early morning light. Fifteen minutes later, the New Girl comes running out, in that same green overcoat, covered in blood.

(And I also remember this: right before the New Girl ran out, another car pulled up with two men in it. One, tall with a mustache, got out and started toward the lobby door. That was when the New Girl made her sanguinary dash. The 'Stache beat a retreat to the car and it peeled away. A surfeit of sinister-looking visitors at the Queen Bee's pad.)

I thought of following the New Girl, but I stayed put. Watched as the creepy doorman made a call. Watched as ten minutes later a few workmen showed up and were escorted inside. Watched as they came back down a couple hours later with a rolled-up carpet.

What was inside?

Posted by at 6:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

For today's blog entry, I'd planned something whimsical, something snoopy and harmless. You see, as I mentioned last time, I've been staying late at the office, finishing work, sometimes even sleeping head-on-desk for a few hours before the sun comes up. My girlfriend's been haranguing me about how little time I've been able to spend with her. Oh. Wait. That's right. I don't have a girlfriend.

So, the other night, when I was here at the home office all by my lonesome, I did a little walk-through of the Queen Bee's workspace (we have an open-portal policy here at work, meaning our cubicles/compartments/corners have no locks on their doors). I snapped a few shots, for your pleasure and edification.

Here's the general overview of her well-appointed-yet-tastefully-spare space, and please note the time on the desk clock (11:17pm):

Here, a closer look at the desktop, including the unladylike sludge remaining in Her Morning Chalice and the ominous, dagger-like letter-opener:

Someone, please explain this to me. I know it's "art," but it makes my head feel like a splitting cube. Points to anyone who can properly identify its provenance, because I surely can't:

Then, to properly complement the impeccable, measured, angularity of the office and its contents, the Queen Bee brings a little nature into her environment. But, being the Queen Bee, she must obviously bend nature to her will. Hence, the bonsai:

See? Whimsical, lighthearted, lovely. But then again, there's this:

That is what happened last night. While I was in my compartment, door unlocked, presence unknown. I heard it happen. I'd been working, peeked out as I noticed the Vampire come in. Their voices were low, pleasant, and I barely paid attention. Then there was an explosion. I froze, didn't move, couldn't move. I knew I couldn't say anything. She couldn't know I was there.

I waited, silent, and listened as she made a phone call. To whom, I couldn't make out. A half-hour or so later, The New Girl showed up. A few minutes later, she left again. Why wasn't the Queen Bee calling the police?

I heard her walk toward the ladies'. I crept up the hallway, into her office, and saw the blood spatter. I don't know why, but I snapped that picture. It was terrifying. And I had no idea what had happened. Did she kill him? Did he kill himself? I wasn't going to stick around to ask. I took off down the stairs before she came out of the bathroom.

I went home, showered, watched a little New York 1, and came back to work. By this time the police were everywhere. And me, I kept my mouth shut. For the time being, at least...

Posted by at 11:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

I am the last one here tonight. Everyone else has gone home. It's not because I'm particularly diligent. Or methodical. Actually, I'm kind of slow. Or maybe I just prefer to savor the extremely fulfilling and enriching work entrusted to me. Pro bono work, no less. Pro bono work inherited from The New Girl, no less less.

(Just between you and me: I don't see the upside of pro bono. But then again, I don't have a charitable bone in my body. People often ask me: "But didn't you go into the law to help people?" I always answer: "Of course. Rich people." And yet here I am, irony fully appreciated, working for one of the world's foremost plaintiffs' attorneys. There is a God, and he is a vengeful one.)

The reason why I've had The New Girl's workload dropped in my lap is because The New Girl appears to have punched her timecard for the very last time. I was in the elevator bank, chatting up Bridget the Paralegal, when the Queen Bee went all Harvey Weinstein on her the other morning. The New Girl emerged from the Queen Bee's den, dropped a file on the desk at reception, and walked straight out the door. To her credit, she didn't look like she'd been through a blood-letting at all, as most of the Q.B.'s tongue-lashing victims do, all ashen and trembling and on the brink of mental disintegration. The New Girl looked tough. In all honesty, it was kind of arousing.

Also aroused, however, was my curiosity. About what was in that file. I may be slow, but I ain't dumb, and my Spider Sense told me that whatever was contained therein had something (or everything) to do with The New Girl's quick release.

I bid adieu to the fair Bridget and hovered around reception, pretending to bang out a few e-mails on my BlackBerry. Susan, the woman who works the desk, is notorious for never abandoning her post; she's the living embodiment of sedentary. I would have to play this just right. I walked up to her, perfectly casual, and asked a perfectly unnecessary question: "Has the mail come in yet?" As she wet her lips to answer, I leaned my elbow atop the divider between us and expertly knocked a bowl of mints from its perch. Down they went, spilling in a multicolored clatter onto the floor. She looked at me like the idiot she already thought I was, and bent down to gather them up. "Let me help you," says I, maneuvering around the desk and kneeling beside her. I picked up a couple token mints, and then crept my hand up to tilt open the front of The New Girl's file. I was only able to get a quick look at the top of its contents before Susan huffed out an irritable "I can manage this on my own, thankyouverymuch." I stood and slyly tipped the file closed, mumbled my apology and beat my retreat.

I saw something, though. A photograph. Of a pudgy, grey-haired gentleman. And a few key words: Florida, S.E.C., Moore. Watkins.

Incriminating? Or another dead end? If The New Girl was fired over it, we may have to assume the latter. But you know what they say about what happens when you assume things, don't you?

Well, don't you?

Posted by at 10:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

There have always been a lot of stories about Uncle Pete.

Few outside the Home Firm are aware of Uncle Pete's existence. He's an older gentleman who "works" here, but in what full and particular capacity, no one's really sure. I know he's on the payroll, but his job description defies any easy exegesis. He remains an enigma, albeit a deceptively good-natured one. (My first week here he left one of those miniature Hershey's bars on my desk every day. Hershey's, Hershey's Special Dark, Mr. Goodbar, and Krackel. I've always been a Special Dark man myself, and you may read into that whatever you like.)

Everyone's got a notion about Uncle Pete, but no one thus far has come up with any concrete evidence to support his or her conjectures. First of all, there's been no confirmation as to whose uncle he is. The obvious guess would be that he's related to the Queen Bee herself, but nobody's ever come up with the documentation or oral testimony to prove it. It could be that the "Uncle" derives solely from his aforementioned good-natured and avuncular disposition. Personally, I think it's an ironic sobriquet. Because I believe that the sunny surface could very well belie a dark and quite possibly sociopathic secret heart.

Here's why: the rumor about Uncle Pete to which I give the most credence is the following. Back in 1944, when he must've been in his teens, Pete—not an Uncle at this point—drops out of high school and tries to join the war effort. He's nearsighted and he's got flat feet, though, so he gets 4F-ed by his Military Entrance Processing Station. Pete's crushed, but he knows a guy who knows a guy who shines the shoes of William "Wild Bill" Donovan, grand poobah of the O.S.S. (direct antecedent of our beloved Central Intelligence Agency). Someone at intake takes pity on poor Pete, they sign the boy up, and send him off to China to help train the resistance fighters trying to stanch the red flow of Mao's godless army. While in China, he immerses himself in The Way of the Southern Fist, mastering a variety of martial arts, including Wing Chun, Nine Temple, Eighteen Kicks, White Eyebrow, White Crane, and Wudang Shaolin. Remaining on dispatch in the Orient after the war, he becomes expert in the usage of traditional Chinese weapons, such as the double-sword, double straight-sword, double hook-sword, nine-section whip, rope-dart, and chained hammer. When he finally returns to the States, he's retained by the C.I.A. as a world-class assassin, renowned for his ability to kill a man without leaving any superficial wounds. Tell me, does this man look like a cold-blooded state-sponsored murderer to you?


Yeah. I think so too.

Forty-five years later, after countless slaughters, Pete hangs up his double hook-sword, and leaves the assassination biz. Or does he? He goes to work on a freelance basis for the Queen Bee, who's just hanging out her shingle at the time. BUT WHAT DOES HE DO FOR HER? I asked him once: "What is it that you do around here, exactly?" He smiled that enigmatic smile, the same one you see in the photograph above, and he said:

"Ah...you know, kid. I clean up the occasional mess."

Indeed.

Posted by at 1:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I brought my SONY DSC-N2 (that's 10.1 mega-pixels for you tech fetishists) with me to work today. Allow me to clarify. I didn't bring it to work on purpose; I had it on my person so as to document for insurance the tragic body damage done to my beloved 2007 BMW Z4 Coupe 3.0si (starting at $40,400, god knows how many mega-pixels). Maybe I'm not tipping those idiots at the garage well enough, but they've got to be more solicitous in their care of my baby. That car is all I've got. Which is sad, but true.

So anyway, having the camera on the premises, I thought I'd do a little candid photo-blogging and present you faithful readers with a few snapshots of essential Home Firm personnel. Here, then, are some of the Queen Bee's loyal drones...



This is Wes Toobin. Don't be fooled by the mild-mannered appearance: Wes Toobin is a shark. His jaws can crush you, he relishes the scent of blood, and his mastery of civil tort law is unparalleled in the legal world. Toobin reminds me of Tim Robbins, who also has a "bin" in his surname. Aside from the Great and Underappreciated #2, Toobs has been with the Queen Bee the longest. Like his brother Jeffrey ( who's on staff at The New Yorker), Toobin is a Harvard Law man and was an editor of the Review there. My only criticism: lose the ovals. Toobs could use some power frames.



The doyenne of the secretarial pool, Kathleen O'Connor could very well be my favorite Home Firm employee. She's talking here to Frank C. Williams, my fellow senior associate. Kathleen wears green the entire week in which St. Patrick's Day falls. She has four sons, she's been married for 35 years, and to the best of my knowledge has no perceptible flaws. Which makes me think she's hiding something. Some ignominious past. Maybe she's a Sinn Fein operative, a former trained assassin for the I.R.A. who had to go underground in America. But I could care less as long as she keeps bringing me soda bread on Fridays.



The aforementioned Frank C. Williams. I don't know what the "C." stands for. Probably nothing, because the man himself doesn't stand for much either. Frank's one of the most opportunistic bastards I've ever known. But, in all fairness, maybe that's just sour grapes. Maybe I'm a little jealous. Frank and I were the same class at law school (not Harvard), were hired at the same time by the Queen Bee, and he's got a better office than I do. He's also got his own secretary, whereas I have to share one with The New Girl. Note: Frank has the most overpowering handshake I've ever experienced, which he deploys alpha-dog style whenever he feels like making someone feel like an emasculated bitch.



There are about eight paralegals on the floor. Five of them are women. I've asked out four of them; been shot down four times. Here are the excuses: "I have a boyfriend," (Carla) "I don't date the office," (Melinda) "I'm on medication that prevents me from going out at night," (Kiko) "I have a boyfriend" (Lauren). Bridget, pictured above, is the fifth and most recent paralegal hiree. I haven't asked her out yet, but as you can tell from the photograph, it's clear she finds me charming. Behind that look of irritation and borderline disgust on her face lies a deep reservoir of affection and incipient longing for yours truly. I have an instinct for these things. Bridget and I: we are star cross'd. Eat your heart out, New Girl. And Carla and Melinda and Kiko and Lauren.

That's all the time we have today, boys and girls. Got to help prepare the A-Team for the Stallion's deposition...

Posted by at 9:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

There is such a thing as graciousness. I have heard it exists. Along with civility, appreciation, gratitude. But to this I testify:

There is no graciousness in the Queen Bee's workplace.

I had some swell Labor Day plans. I was going to take the Jitney out to a friend-of-a-friend's Goldman Sachs Sugar Daddy's spread in Sagaponack, dip my toes in the chilly Atlantic, enjoy the summer's last fleeting breezes and maybe try to hit on a Glamour staffer or two. (Alyssa Shelasky, if you're reading this: call me.)

Those plans, however-like an ill-fated schooner skating the rocky shoals of the Long Island Sound-were scuttled. The Q.B., as is her prerogative, pre-empted the holiday and kept her insect minions droning on at their desks.

Disappointed as I was, it did seem there was good cause for the laboring on Labor Day. Turns out the New Girl's prevaricating future sister-in-law actually provided some legitimate case momentum. From the ashes of her useless testimony, a phoenix has risen. A phoenix with Italianate nomenclature.

The dish is that Sis-in-Law blew her deposition with misinformation spoon-fed by this Italian Stallion, who she'd been in the habit of riding (I know, I know. I just transmogrified "phoenix" into "stallion." Bear with me…no pun intended.) Wherefore the misinformation? Well, well: therein lies the rub. The Queen Bee wants to know who put the Stallion up to Subornation of Perjury, which according to Federal Sentencing Guidelines is not exactly what we'd call un-felonious. Under 18 U.S.C.A. § 1622, a person convicted of said offense may be fined $2,000 and sentenced to up to five years in prison. Two grand is chump change, of course, but hopefully the thought of a half-decade in the clink will inspire the Stallion to sign up for Team Q.B. If not, no doubt we'll subpoena him as a hostile.

So anyway, progress.

And in other news, the fair Greta Van Susteren has asked our fearless leader to make another appearance on her fine program On The Record, with the Vampire as her formidable foil this time. It's always a kick to see the boss lady on the tube-
neverminding the fact that she's on Fox, a media conglom whose political bent I overlook because of their deep commitment to The Simpsons-even though she devolves into a raging bitch the week prior to taping. Or, I should say, an even bigger raging bitch.

(And is it me, or is there something undeniably fetching about G.V.S.? I would've hit that way back in the O.J. era, long before the facelift and blepharoplasty. Mmmmm, Greta.)

Posted by at 11:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

He's baaaa-aaaaaaaack.

That's right, after a month or so of wandering about in the wilderness-foraging for berry smoothies and sustaining himself only with the finest raw fish his favorite sushi chef could provide-the home office's prodigal son, the incomparable #2, has returned.

Particulars are sketchy, but a couple credible details have emerged:

1. #2 was offered a big ol' tasty package from the Chopshop uptown, something like a cool mil base a year and untold dividends from reaping equity-partner-profit-sharing points. Plus, a name on the megafirm door, which would have made Mrs. #2 so very, very proud.
   
2. The clients in the Big Case, apparently not very happy with the Queen Bee's prosecution of their rights and pursuit of their restitution, gave her a vote of no-confidence and opted to throw the ball to #2, very much in clover at this point.

And yet, at the end of the day, what happens? #2 ends up right back where he started, in the very same dinky office down the hall from the Queen Bee's corner spread. She fires him-for no good reason, except for it being, perhaps, that time of month-he gets a job offer that any sane practitioner of the law would lop a limb off for, and he still comes crawling back to the Center for Co-Dependence and Underappreciation. #2 just can't take enough of the Queen Bee's #2.

(Note: when I say "that time of month," I don't mean to imply the clichéd euphemism for the fairer sex's menstrual cycle. Being at the far end of the menopausal spectrum, I'd be surprised if the Queen Bee's river was still a-flowing. When we say "that time of the month" around here, it generally refers to the phase when the gibbous moon is waxing, and odds are that someone on the home team is about to get their walking papers. Who knows why. Some have speculated that the Queen Bee has tendencies toward lycanthropy, but I think that's a little farfetched. Who sees werewolves in the city these days?)

So #2 comes back, and he brings the clients back with him. Everything in its right place, except we're just as screwed as we were before. The Queen Bee gets what she wants, but at what expense?

Posted by at 4:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

So last month we settled a case for $150 million. According to the standard recovery agreement, that means that the firm should receive a cut of approximately one-third of the settlement. That's $50 mil, people. Now, I know a dollar doesn't go as far as it once did, but I haven't seen evidence of that influx in any way around the office. No bonuses, no beautification, no bonny flower arrangements. Which makes me worry...

Where has the money gone?

Don't get me wrong: I'm certainly not suggesting that the Queen Bee is hoarding the proceeds or adding a wing to her Hamptons manse. The Queen Bee, for all her shifty legal tactics and Machiavellian gameswomanship, is generally on the up-and-up when it comes to matters financial.

What worries me is that the money is only going to stanch the raging flood of expenses gushing forth from the Big Case. We're hemorrhaging operating costs and failing to replenish the coffers with anything resembling income. That's because it seems the Queen Bee has deposited every one of her eggs into the Big Case basket. She's got the full payroll working single-mindedly on it-no supplementary casework, no pro bono, nothing. So, it's sink or swim.

Unfortunately, at the present moment, it feels like we're trying to tread water with 75 lb. weights attached to our lower extremities. We sink, and we continue to sink. Yesterday our best-and, currently, only-hope of a bombshell witness exploded into a million little blonde freckly pieces at her regrettable deposition, when the Vampire, our dark adversary, shredded her credibility to tatters. I wonder how this will reflect on the New Girl, as it was the New Girl herself who reeled this perjured train wreck in. Depends, I guess, on how charitable the Queen Bee is feeling, or whether or not a scapegoat is necessary. Either way, I'm sure the New Girl's walking on eggshells.

For now, though (as Sinatra might say), we're nowheresville, baby. That once-scorned, long-gone $100 million settlement offer now seems like pie in the sky. It may be time to start sending the ol' C.V. around again...

Posted by at 6:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I am writing this from the Queen Bee's apartment. The Queen Bee's apartment is nice. Let me rephrase that:

The Queen Bee's apartment is extraordinary.

I suppose I should clarify that I am not at the Queen Bee's extraordinary, massive, confrontationally tasteful quarters on a social call. I was not invited over to share a civilized repast-as some of the favored underlings occasionally are-but rather am here on these extraordinary premises for an equally extraordinary reason.

A bomb threat. Well, that's not entirely accurate. A bomb threat would've been more comforting. Instead of a bomb threat, we got a bomb. A real live grenade.

Yes, we were the recent recipients of a pretty volatile piece of mail. Well, "we" weren't. The Queen Bee herself was. Imagine her surprise, opening an innocent-seeming package, expecting something pleasant-like a set of napkin-holders, or a tin of expensive Belgian chocolates, or a sex toy-and finding an army-issue hand-held explosive device. The kind of device that, when detonated, sends shrapnel flying in all directions, resulting in a "casualty radius" of 30-45 meters.

(I've been doing some research on grenades, can you tell? Thank you, Wikipedia. By the way, did you know that the word "grenade" is derived from the Old French "pome-grenate," ie. the fruit? It was so named because the shrapnel pellets that exploded outward, shredding all flesh in sight, reminded soldiers of the seeds of a pomegranate. Isn't that sweet?)

So, the office was evacuated by heroic ATF agents, and we weren't given a few days off (as I hoped we might), but instead re-congregated here, at Queen Bee Central. There are worse places to set up a temp office, to be sure. And when no one's looking I've been sneaking around the joint, doing a little illicit reconnaissance of my own. Check out these surveillance shots:


Some nice family pics.


Some weird family art.


A view from the balcony.

(Unfortunately, I never got the opportunity to infiltrate the master bedroom. I would've liked to rifle through a few of those drawers, see what she and the Silver Fox have in there. Does she wear thongs? Does she hide a Pocket Rocket underneath her skivvies?)

In the meantime, there's been much powwowing on the down-low about the source of the unwanted parcel. Who could it have been? In case you're wondering, it wasn't me. I'm self-destructive, remember? I don't lash out so much as lash in. But given the Queen Bee's talent for alienation and aptitude for making enemies, it could have come from anyone in a long roster of possible suspects. Is it current events or ancient history? Someone smarting from the $150 million settlement a month back? Someone holding a grudge from a decade ago? Her ex-husband? Or maybe just a distraction from our friends over at Denninger/Phillips? Who knows?

For now, though, I'm going to raid the Queen Bee's pantry. See what kind of provisions she keeps in her hive...

Posted by at 4:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)