– • david ross macdonald • extras and journal

As a foreigner to San Francisco and the Bay Areas’ many highways and byways I fell victim to an incident while driving east bound on the interstate 80.

I borrowed a car and while blasting out towards the High Sierras I got spooked. On the radio were continued reports on the potential for rioting in the east Bay city of Oakland as a jurys deliberation and verdict on the fate of a white cop who shot an unarmed black man in the back was soon to be handed down. I vividly recall the harrowing images of the post Rodney King verdict and the deeply disturbing  rioting that turned the Watts District into a lawless and lethal war zone in LA.

I took to the overtaking lane but my buddies Volvo wasn’t equal to the task and so while I was gradually getting past the traffic this super-pimped high performance sports Mercedes roared up behind me and sat inches from my Swedish tail. “Man, what a jerk” I thought of the driver in that white stallion of German auto-engineering excellence now hoofing at my tailpipe. I found an opening in the traffic and my gelding limped out of the way and while the merc drew past I patronizingly waved him by loudly and indignantly saying “yeah, yeah … off you go”!

But “off you go” he didn’t.

He drew right up next to me and menacingly lingered by my side at 70 miles an hour. It is amazing how acutely ones peripheral vision is enhanced during moments of self elicited road rage. Without directly looking across I broke into a sweat while the opaque tinted window slowly descended and I could feel his stare and catch the rapid movement of arms at my foolish interstate reckoning. I dared not cast a glance and decreased my speed, looking straight ahead. “Shit!” I uttered to myself.

But he pulled forward, then swung in front of me, slowing me down even more. “This is bad” and I could feel a coldness sweep through my bones, then my face. The four lanes of the interstate 80 don’t take kindly to sub 60 mph road-rage antics and all this while I was furiously constructing the occupants evil intentions, sordid occupation and yes, ethnicity. Had the verdict been delivered and riots now in motion? Was this high rolling crack pimp also high on rocks and ready to roll? He swung across to the other lane so that he could get right by my side as I was penned in by the converging traffic … his other window now rolled down and an arm came out with a hand making the shape of a gun pointing at me.

He slowed down and lingered to my direct right.

I finally turned to look at him with a profound mixture of dread and surrender to my imminent inclusion into the highway homicide statistics roll. He started yelling at me while waving and pointing his finger … blanched with fear it took some time before I could read his lips or comprehend to where he was actually pointing his ‘gun-hand’ …  ” your tire, your tire, you’ve got a flat tire”! he was remonstrating.

The incident wasn’t road rage, it was one of preconceptions, bias, ignorance and fear. I had three more hours of highway driving with trucks and commuters roaring at 70 plus miles an hour ’round my ears. That guy possibly saved my life and all the while I figured he was trying to end it.

To the anonymous guy in the pimped up unicorn bone-white sports Mercedes S550 I cannot thank you enough for saving my boney bacon while also serving my own misguided preconceptions up to me on a platter. Done … done!

‘Deepwater Horizon’

Considering the oxymoronic name for the ruptured oil well head that’s converting the Gulf of Mexico and the southern US coastline into a filthy, tarry sump pit I wondered how the good folks at BP penned the perished platforms moniker. Of course, at that depth in the ocean there is no light, so no horizon could possibly be seen. Pedantic, maybe but IMHO this aptly sums up the myopic petroleum end game for me.

Imagine a pipe pumping oil into an official sized olympic pool … Deepwater Horizon is spewing forth oil like a ruptured spleen into our ocean at a rate that would fill a gold meddle pond every 3 days, easily. (Revision: May 14 - 50,000 barrels a day new estimate … that’s more than 3 olympic pools a day)

Put another way, the 5000 barrels a day that BP is pissing into the waters south of New Orleans is equivalent to what Afghanistan was consuming every day in 2006. Same-Same. (Revision: May 14 - 50,000 barrels a day new estimate … that’s how much oil Australia uses a day)

So, obvious ironies noted, this is a tragic event on so many levels and aside from the glib economic metrics touted by media and economists are we any closer to getting a picture on what this catastrophe equates to us ecologically?

Long answer, no. Short answer, no. But to put it into a terrestrial perspective, if the spill occurred in Melbourne this would be its current extent in May 2010.

Image generated courtesy of: http://paulrademacher.com/oilspill/

This is the bad oil, and there seems to be a lot of it getting splashed around these days towards Baton Rouge.

Even Kieren Perkins in his prime wouldn’t have been able to out swim such an expanding black tide and I’ll be first to choke on that dry and chalky pill of hypocrisy and hazard to add …

Deepwater Horizon sucks … big time.

Now here’s a question for you.

Should we pay money for art?

I’ve been thinking this one over a bit lately given the recent proliferation of freeconomics on the web and I am searching for answers.

Maybe you can help?

So for the sake of argument let’s start at an art gallery opening that you happen to stumble upon while cruising some hip part of town, you nudge your buddy and say “hey, let’s check that out, free wine!”. I’ve done that more than once and I am sure there are serial gallery creepers out there just trawling openings for the free booze (mainly other artists, musos and actors).

However, on this particular occasion you see a canvas hanging on the wall and you just love it, LOVE it. It speaks to you in ways no words ever could, it’s texture, colour and composition just gets right under your skin, it’s strange, unique, inexplicable and vivid, words fail you. What happens next?, well maybe that doesn’t matter, you see, you just love it and that is a priceless moment of art appreciation, totally free. This visual feast is an unencumbered gift directly from the artists heart to you. Nice. But you pay $500, you meet the painter and start telling all your friends about it and are burning for the 3 weeks you got to wait before you can hang the damn thing in your room.

So at the visceral level, you are paying nothing for art, art is free because art is an expression-experience and not a purchasable commodity. The purpose of art is to move your spirit in unexpected ways, humanity manifest and for everything else “there’s Mastercard”. So the only reason you paid the 500 bucks was so that you could OWN it, and enjoy it in the privacy of your dwelling at the exclusion of all but you and your homies. Sure you could argue that you also bought it to support the artist, but I hazard to guess that you’re not running a charity here but if you are, I could send you a list as long as my filemaker-pro “find all songwriters” query result outputs for you to run your eye over if you’d like, it’s a long list. Chances are, if it’s not your nieces 1st year ink blotch landscapes then if you don’t love it then most probably all cash stays in your pocket, right?

You could easily switch up this experience with a music venue, street corner busker or hearing THAT song for the first time on your sweethearts car stereo. A song, becomes THAT song and then instantly YOUR song and all for free while you stood there with your mouth agape listening. You might have walked on, flipped a quarter or been powerless in stopping yourself from buying the CD. Nice, again.

So where am I going with this? Well, unlike a painting that hangs in a gallery or now in your living room as your objet d’amour a music track is like a virus that can replicate and spread itself throughout the digital universe of iThings. That MP3 is an untameable, irretrievable and serpentine little bastard and for all intents and purposes, free as a bird, a fait accompli.

From my reasoning thus far, the economics of a recording artist appears to be vanishing as quickly as the nasty merlot at the exhibition opening.

So why am I spending the equivalent of 2 years rent on making that next album!? I’m glad you asked.

It’s a question that I am hearing more and more these days from my muso buddies with the global financial downturn-slamdunk and all. With all the media and pop marketing gurus saying the same thing, “if you love your content, set it free” what’s a guy to do? This is not the same as scoffing “if you can’t make money from art why bother making it?” which is a question reserved purely for those chewing on the blue pill. Look, there is nothing worse than a whining musician lamenting the busted ways of a world gone wrong with tanking CD sales while drowning in a sea of proto-talent that extends as far as the bandwidth can see. I don’t consider myself that type of guy, but what’s the deal? What’s the deal?, the new deal, you know how last weeks deal was the old deal, right? oh, you missed that blog, geez, social networking is so yesterbyte , huh?, this afternoons tweet-ference on micro-monitizationism and longtail nechenomics was sooo boring, it went on for minutes, talk about stonehenge, they even had a rep from a record label! no i’m not kidding, brb.

Being facetious here doesn’t help my cause (much) and every cynical pessimist will profess to be a realist but the ‘what’s the deal’ question remains, if art is free, then as an artist what’s left to ethically monetize and how does one sustain that to a level that allows for the usual subset of humble social aspirations. “You could sell some t-shirts and buttons at the gig” your friend says while scratching their chin earnestly or “how about you get your music on the telly?” mum asks as if it’s some grocery item you inexplicably left off your list last time you shopped.

From my direct experience and from the tour scars of my compadres the humble coin is out there on the road, the only place where the face-to-face exchange of art exists for a musician, and for all intents and purposes it’s free because it’s performance art (hey, you might have to pay a few bucks for the right to go through some doors and sit at a bar or buy a CD if you want). Cormac McCarthy once wrote a book about a road, and when I saw the movie, Viggo Mortensen looked not unlike most touring singer-songwriters after a stretch of house concerts, bombed club dates, cash sucking music conferences, fried engine blocks and deeper fried truck stop shash. To all you touring musicians out there, we salute us!

So, I ask you the question … do you feel, like I do, that art is free and if so what’s the new deal?

Just click on the gift box above to open/download the MP3

The MP3 above is free, free as a bird, it’s a tune by Bob Dylan I tracked, I once played drums for the guy while sound checking, that’s a story for another time … tomorrow is such a longtime … enjoy.

Please leave your comment below, I will read them all.

It’s kind of easy to read too much into things these days.

Recently I was walking down a street in Melbourne admiring a 2010 Toyota Prius parked beneath a tall gum tree.

Gleaming in all it’s hybrid and aerodynamic beauty I remarked to myself “those silvery lines and duco finish look exactly like my Macbook Pro”. That metallic brushed but lustrous aluminium patina makes any object appear more like an ingot of impossible value than a pimped up email machine, urban runaround or even an electric toaster for that matter. It seems that most iObjects come in this colour nowadays.

But something was amiss.

As I approached Toyotas flagship of eco-responsibility there was a strange creaking and crackling sound and then, in front of my very eyes, with me not more than ten feet away from the futuristic silvery battery mobile that the shading gum tree decided to drop one of it’s branches directly onto the cars’ hood and roof … crash!

The Prius was bitch-slapped by a eucalypt.

Eco-irony is now a word.

The in-flight magazine, that glossy wet kiss to conspicuous consumption coos from its snug back-seat pocket right in front of me. It’s directly under my nose. Nestled between the laminated and unread safety procedures card and the equally unused sick bag (where chewing gum goes to die). This tome of untold frequent flyer riches and blatant status enlargement aids has a smell that I loath and yet cannot resist. Like a fart in a crowded elevator that no-one wants to smell but instinctively  must test, this glossy stench is like some barometric measurement of a confined groups social health and our limbic selves just can’t help but to suck it up.

I reach forward and it slithers effortlessly like a sheened serpent onto my lap and I admire the 100 megapixel Hasselblad cover shot of the uber-couple after-nooning within a Tuscany grapevine draped courtyard. Casual, clean and understated linen apparel with just a hint of side-burn grey for him and half obscured Rolex glint for her creates the desired consumer reorientation guaranteed by some advertising agency-engineered Euro Dorian aesthetic. “This magazine is gonna make me fucking rich !” my reptilian centers assure me, I mean, look at me, I am already on the flying steel bird and like neophytes pilfering the New Rich antipodes I am sitting in my aero-blue nylon blend pew in the upright position with tray table stowed holding the Good Book that’s gonna save me. I turn the pages and disappear.

Later … this plane cabin reminds me of my undergrad Skinner Box days and a laboratory rat named Keanu. Operant Conditioning Tutorial Question 1: Is the randomness of reinforcement through infrequent travelling turning middle-class-rodents-in-coach into high-end consumer crack addicts?

Later on … looking around some more …  laboratory rats in a mile-high-peep-show buckled in low and tight with our trousers down and wallets out  … somewhere, someone in a lab coat and clip board is taking notes on my eye dwell times and sympathetic nervous system metrics as I flick through the consumer porn.

The cabin pressure tweaks and our combined decent is assured.

I wonder who will complete my Sudoku?

Alongside a quiet country railway track my ten year old mother Jill walked with her father Frank. The war had just finished and times in the small country town of Millicent five hundred miles west of Melbourne must have been humbly comfortable at best for the family of a dentist. Their ambling stroll along those tracks may well have been a binding ritual for the pair however the purpose of this excursion was for the company of a different yet vitally warming companion, coal.

Like some glistening, black easter egg the occasional vitreous block would reward the sharp and searching eye of a child and the brittle little prize excitedly seized and stowed into a hessian sack carried by my grandfather. The best place to find these nuggets was where the coal carriages jogged through the switches and turns nudging the occasional crumb to spill to the ground amongst the weeds and gravel that hug the sleepers. These orphaned small loaves, once spirited home, were placed around the fringe of the open evening fire to warm and dry and bask expectantly like christmas presents. Coal is patient, she keeps her secret for millions of years but once gingerly nestled amongst her burning brothers she eagerly recounts a most distant past with the unwrapping of her magical and confessional gift, heat.

Coal was once alive. Coal is born of million-year old swamps. Coal is the immortal embodiment  of leaves, branches, fallen logs and other dissembling organic matter that came to rest in the marshy and tannin rich waters of prehistoric waterlogged forests and deltas millions of years ago. Coal is epoch old solar power stored perfectly and exquisitely for a near eternity.

Coal is the messenger from our ancient sun and we burn it like books on a Copenhagen Kristallnacht. We cast it into distant and unseen furnaces with zero regard for what it is, where it came from, how long it took to be created and what are the deeper ramifications of exhausting this ‘cheap’ energy source.

Cheap well, just like a Walmart air mattress, cheaper ain’t necessarily better.

So, I got to thinking … and got out the back of my trusty envelope.

I read that Australians now own the largest homes in the world, 215 square meters, double the size of our British forbears, some kind of payback for shipping us off to ‘Terra Nullius’ as convicts I imagine. Anyways, on average each home requires about 10 tonnes of coal to boil water that turns a big wheel that makes Thomas Edison’s corporate prodigy happy while simultaneously heating, cooling and fully entertaining us with reality TV every year.

I made some very conservative approximations about the formation of coal via photosynthesis and considered the thought experiment on how much prehistoric solar energy an average home consumes by burning coal.

Now, by using the north facing slope of your average home (40 square meters) to either have solar panels or conversely to ‘grow’ coal here’s what I came up with. A home that uses coal fired power-stations for electricity uses at least 250 years of pre-historic solar energy EVERY year. The same roof with solar panels would produce about 9 000 kWh of electricity a year, which is on average about how much that same home would consume.

One of Oscar Wilde’s rippers goes, “the cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing”. I believe that my grandfather and his daughter knew the value of those little fiery solar gifts freed from the coal trains during a frugal time when the world wrestled with the cost of a world at war and the trains of Auschwitz. What question do you ask of a system that puts a cost on carbon but not a value on humanity?

I find myself on a far and remote western fringe of Winnipeg standing outside the Shoppers Drugmart beside Walmart. Pretty spot.

While standing before this contusion of capitalism bandaged with pre-fab concrete compresses with a hemorrhaging tourniquet for a car-park I idly note that the brisk trade of crap-from-China ensures that the only spare space left to park is in the handicap zone directly in front of me. That is until this meat-headed jerk in a black Ford ‘Leviathan’ pickup truck swings into the blue rectangled oasis.

“Some people”! I utter to myself in disgust.

Readying for a throw-down I mentally rehearse my insults and assurances that folks in Canada are less likely to pull a hand gun on you. The truck door swings open and I take one step forward with a piece of my mind readied for this meat head. Suddenly his collapsable wheel chair drops into view from beneath the door and this young guy  expertly manoeuvres down to his wheels as if performing the iron-cross on the rings with olympian flair. I am ashamed and stand there with mouth agape.

He turns, pushes and rolls a few feet my way when out of the blue a sedan careens by and almost runs him over! Using skill, power and quick wits he expertly evades disaster, he then turns, rolls my way and looks me directly in the eye and exclaims … “some people”!

•

Now, ever had someone explain earnestly to you at a party that “things happen for a reason” while tediously regaling you about the challenging yet enlightening time they contracted Giardia while back-packing through northern India? Well my guts tell me that fairness is an abstraction clumsily conferred by parents upon their children and I wouldn’t use the word karma in a conversation with a guy who lost his legs in a diving accident. So while I stood there shamed in the shadow of Walmart I am also at a loss to illuminate why he has wheels for legs and I don’t. All I can do is bear humbling witness to his hardship and his triumph and entertain the selfish hope that this would never happen to me and that his courage augers inspiration and a call to compassion.

Some people.

Umalali, Alejandro Escovedo, Luluc and Jah Youssouf are impossible to spell on your mobile phone using predictive text and so probably make them TWITTER hostile and thus consequently perfect for my tastes, IMHO.

The substance of these seemingly anagrammatically named artists that I gloriously witnessed (in person, actually there, youtubeless, surrounded by other humans) performing at the Calgary Folk Festival last week is as indisputable as is your probable unawareness of their existence. Go figure, how could such beautiful and substantive music slip under our collectively networked full time online radars?

I mean, I am constantly being reminded on my travels during after-party-small-talk and by the self-digesting media that “the world is a small place”. With all these networks of TWITTER, GoogleCHAT,Myspace, Facebook, Skype, email and the worldwide web keeping us informed and safe aren’t we all being brought “closer together”? If the glossy backlit airport terminal advertising panels are anything to go by all I need (providing I have high speed broadband) for a fulfilling, meaningful and connected life is some quasi motivational guru catch phrase that distils the essence of a Tiger Woods 3 iron swing and the sleek black reflective lines of a Lexus Hybrid. But I digress. I am guilty of the same geographically ignorant and glib remark during a conversation I shared with the unforgettable songwriter and blues guitarist Chris Smither.

The conversation went along the lines of us making some random connection resulting in our having a friend in common to which I goofily(*) remarked “huh, the world is such a small place” to which the insight-ready Smither instantly retorted in eloquent southern drawl “but as my daddy used to say ‘I wouldn’t want to have to paint it!’”.

So here’s my hunch. Drawing upon the wisdom of Chris Smither’s father, a George Bernard Shaw quote “The minority is sometimes right; the majority always wrong” and my own mothers observation that “The more something is advertised the less it is needed” I commit Disney sacrilege and propose that “it’s not such a small world after all”.

Maybe the world just appears small because this is what the communication medium of our age brings to bear upon our elite psyche and the fact that the minority of humanity with broadband aren’t dodging bullets or going hungry nor are they hanging out with the majority of humanity that is. If George Bernard Shaw was around today maybe he would tweak his own quote along the lines of “The minority is sometimes self righteous; the majority always wronged”.

TWITTER me that as I could do with a distraction from the irony that George Orwell tipped off the capitalist think-tanks who then reverse engineered his ‘1984′ so that instead of the state allowing no privacy for its citizens, we subjects now willingly surrender it as a seemingly harmless and entertaining adjunct to consumer convenience and it’s nemesis, terrorism.

Our society would be consumed by irony if it didn’t have such an appetite for it.

But I digress, the reason for this post is for some fun, tasty, free and brisk picking and irish whistling that I recorded with Ormond Waters to one of my tunes “Tammys Jig” .. please enjoy and share with impunity as no one is watching you, I hope.

tammys-jig-duet-1

(*)Goofy is the subordinate lapdog to the Disney Inc. icon Mickey Mouse who in turn is the cute and innocent mousy personification of the western consumer capitalism ideal, IMHO.

Thank you to all of you folks who came to the Wesley Anne show last week thank you so much for making for a wonderful nights music and sorry for those who couldn’t get in as it was sold out!

I forgot to do the raffle draw on the night so here is Rae Howell doing the honors:

AND THE WINNER IS:

if this is your card … drop me an email for your prize .. which is a collection of music from Rae Howell and Mel Robinson who played with me on the night on vibraphone and cello.

All the best , DRM

So I am playing to the barflies at this open mic in Melbourne, it is late and I am gazing beyond the casually disinterested drinkers to the TV set above the cigarette machine. The tube never sleeps in bars, they hard wire the power into the wall, there are no controls on the face panel for the punters to screw with … there is a remote, but that lives in the managers safe along with the hash and girly magazines. I see that the medico-drama HOUSE is playing and I am cruelly reminded that tonight was supposed to be the most important night of my musical career. What happened?

Well, weeks prior to this bitter and empty open mic night I received, completely and utterly out of the blue, an email and contract from the good folks at NBC/Universal in LA who make the afore mentioned series HOUSE. I couldn’t believe it. They had somehow discovered my version of Waltzing Matilda on Youtube or iTunes and wanted to place it in the show. Fantastic! Couldn’t be better, but it was. They didn’t just want to place a 5 second instrumental sound-bite during a fade-out, they wanted to place the music and song beneath the finale episode closing montage that ran for two and half bloody minutes, incredible!

Once I had established that this wasn’t some elaborate hoax perpetrated by my high-school-hater, one thing led to another. Late night international phone calls, transfers of hi resolution audio files to the video editing suites in LA, back and forth of contracts, copyright and licensing issues resolved, and everyone was very happy and this was my magical mystery ticket and ride to musical infinity and beyond. Show airs Wednesday May 20, 9:30pm.

It seemed too good to be true… and it was. What happened?

Well, I don’t know. Somewhere, high up in the chain of Universal command the NBC powers that be decided a splash of the Rolling Stones’ ‘As Tears Go By’ was the perfect fit for the poignant conclusion to the series. Right. So, just like that my golden Willy Wonker chocolate bar ticket to Universal stardom is snatched from my fumbling fingers by the most fickle and fateful of warm LA breezes and I can only watch in bewildered astonishment as it wafts and shimmers it’s glinting, taunting and mocking way down through the alleyways of Hollywood boulevard and across the smoggy LA valley through the outdoor workout gym on Venice Beach and into the high bacteria count of the Malibu surf. It smelt of Cohen brothers cruelty, it tasted like crow pie but I was having seconds and thirds.

There’s a proverb out there that says something about eggs hatching but it escapes me as I am playing to the barflies at this open mic in Melbourne, it is late and I am gazing beyond the … 

Bela Flak! With Simmo on Banjo

Just click on the gift box above to open/download the MP3

post leonard cohen concert … took it back to my hotel room and recorded an old tune of mine ’til i’m gone’ …

Just click on the gift box above to open/download the MP3

… feel free to share these gift MP3’s that i am recording in various hotel rooms and posting from the road … peace & respect, DRM

took the greyhound from nashville to memphis. i was by far the skinniest and whitest plank on this old dog of a carriage which, by the sheen of the frayed leather-look bench seating had done some serious southern state miles. jammed in there amongst the restless, low coined and no doubt hard done by folks, a rasping voice over my left shoulder was eager to “get the f. out of nashville” this was met by hallelujah’d agreement all round.  the bus was so grim and bloated that i distracted myself by composing fictional biographies and epitaphs for each and every seemingly miserable, bewildered and misplaced soul aboard, mine included.

jackson station is the halfway stop. out the window i see a white 13 seater van pull up with  darkened windows. this is the type of van that bands often rent and i have more than once spent time at a greyhound station picking up merch too pricey to fedex. i took an interest. waited for a tour manager to step out of that van and stroll into the receiving office to pick up 300 disks and a couple boxes of merch while the drummer and bass player have a smoke. instead, out strode a ‘correctional facility’ officer who unlocked the van doors. out filed 9 young skinny black kids with matching tracksuit pants and t-shirts with a small plastic bag of belongings in one hand.

instead of a pick up, this was a drop off.

released at the closest greyhound station. your first taste of freedom is at a place where at best you will make your way back to a friend or family down in mobile with the provided travel pass or at worst get a taste for the old life down by that abandoned platform.

Welcome! Here is your free Christmas MP3 download gift. Enjoy and Thank You!

While working on new music for my 2009 release I wanted to record something especially for those folks who have purchased my music and supported my art. But what to record?

As a young kid some of my earliest recollections of music came from my father who was a gigging jazz pianist and trumpeter at the time. The music of Louis Armstrong and Fats Waller often filled the music room, so I’ve chosen a song of that era made famous by Old ‘Satchmo’.

Recorded late one snowy December night in a small cosy house in western Ontario, here is my interpretation of ‘What a Wonderful World’.

Just click on the gift box above to open the MP3 for you to then save and enjoy!

All the very best, DRM

Leave a comment to let me what you think. Here you will also find the beginnings of my blog which you can RSS or email subscribe to.

To gift someone special with my music, the buttons in the right column will make it so.

i don’t get it. i’m on tour and in the airport washroom and the suit next to me takes a leak and then walks straight back out into the world without washing his hands!
i don’t care how immaculately hygienic he believes his tackle to be, i for one don’t want to be closing the deal shaking hands with his proxy schlong monkey grip. sure, i could imagine a slight unwillingness to wash your hands when in one of those horror truck stop latrines with no soap, a broken hand dryer, the exit door has a wet handle and i don’t want to touch anything, but come on! we’re in the international lounge, there are no doors, two types of soap, hand dryer, paper towels and even a hand sanitizer gel dispenser for extra paranoid measure.

you know, i get the feeling that the next pandemic ain’t gonna come from some guy who sucks rooster beaks but from some internationally traveling business cock who would rather smear his groin nasties all over innocent folks then order the McFries for finger licking goodness…