The L.A. Dialogue

Two co-workers sit at a bar top and stare up toward flat screen sports highlights. An act that is repeated in millions of dim-lighted, slick-topped bars where patrons play dj and the bartenders’ feet scurry from till to tap to bottle neck. All-the-while conversations are had for no reason and every reason, smiles are wrung with an unburdening ease as the day’s or month’s or year’s concerns are conquered with a rotation of the wrist and the imbibition of the source of relief. These two patrons drink with a quiet satisfaction as another night of waiting on guests at a downtown chain restaurant has ended. The course of their conversation will progress from sparse to winsome to anecdotal and finish absurd. This selection of their dialogue falls somewhere between anecdotal and absurd. Parts of the story, names mostly, have been changed to protect vested parties.

 

“What the hell? Who played this song? I’ll tell you this song, might be in my top five, no top three most hated songs of all time. This song is terrible. It doesn’t make any sense. I could write a better song about this…fucking napkin.”

“Yes, but can you sing it? That helps. And are you marketable? Can some company sell your napkin song by placing the faces of you and your band on the insert of a jewel case, in a shiny magazine advertisement?”

“Well hell yes I’m marketable. I’m real.”

“I don’t care much for this song or band either. That lead singer is a fucking gourd.”

“Interesting trait noun there. Gourd? I don’t know if I’ve ever heard someone called that.”

“It’s fitting.”

“Yeah, I heard he spit blood all over people at a bar in LA. In and out of jail and shit. I got a buddy that works in a bar out there, some like dive bar, and he said they won’t let him in anymore because the last time he got into a fight there, he just started punching himself and going ape-shit.”

“I believe it. I got into a fight with him once.”

“Hahaha. Did you? Did he go all Loco City on you?”

“Yes. Actually, he lived up to his band’s name. I hit him with a pool stick and he kept coming.”

“Haha. He’s Loco City!…Are you being serious?”

“Yes.”

“Was it around here?”

“No it was out in LA. Bar Somewhere.”

“You were at a bar somewhere in LA?”

“No the name of the place was Bar Somewhere. People out there just called it Somewhere’s.

“Somewhere out there, uh?”

“Yeah, look it up.”

“Well I’ll be dammed. What a slogan, ‘If you’re here you’re somewhere.’ Thoughtful.”

“Yeah I got the impression it was a drunk bar.”

“Like this place?”

“Yep. But for Los Angelinos. People that need to get out of the smog.”

“So let me hear it. You got into a fight with the lead singer of one-hit wonder crap band Loco City. Was it an actual bar fight, or one of those I push you and get in your face like I might kiss you and wait for someone to hold me back kind of bar fights?  Let me hear it. I want to hear the story behind it. There’s got to be a story behind it.”

“Yeah. There is…let me butter up a little more with another shot of Rumpies.”

“Of course.”

“Alright, you want the long end of it or the short. The short is I got into a bar fight with the lead singer of Loco City and I broke his nose and he ended up knocked out. But not by me.”

“Go the long way, partner. I got nothing else to do, but watch these same sports highlights again. Let it spill buddy, I need to hear a good yarn.”

“Alright, alright, ok. This is my LA story. I don’t know if I’ve told it all the way through, but here goes.”

“The LA story. I’ve heard about this! They were talking about at work the other day.”

“Maybe, but I never told anyone the whole story. So here you go.

When I was in college, some ten, eleven years ago, I wrote a short story called, “Mr. Hollywood.” It was about this washed-up actor guy I named Christian who returns to his hometown, causes trouble, makes a big mess, blah, blah, blah. Spent a lot of time on it, re-wrote it a bunch. It was my baby for a good while. I loved the thing. Well, I got the story published in this little e-zine journal web site, called Romp, that at the time published unknown writers and you know, sorts of different stuff that the average lit journal or magazine wouldn’t touch; because the story has no moral courage or the protagonist isn’t obstructed by a cleft-lip, Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and childhood emotional trauma as he or she operates a rickshaw through the padded-dirt streets of some Indonesian town. Or a violinist living in Brooklyn who battles with rampant adultery with unknown partners while her husband lays in a coma, or a failed R&B artist turned preacher that doesn’t believe in God, yet only preaches to feel the high of getting a crowd to pay attention to his performance.”

“These all sound like great stories. Where can I read them?”

“Truth. Is the word editors use. But what is true, really? What does that mean? Nothing is true in fiction. It’s all made up.”

“You sound bitter. Just tell the story, dear. You’re sidetracking again.”

“Go fuck yourself. So my short story got published, I received a crisp five dollar bill in the mail, and that was that. At the time, my only publishing credit. Nothing else happened from it, the story that is, and I left college, and sometime later moved here to Indianapolis and I’ve been working at the restaurant ever since. I’ve kept up writing from time to time, you know, but this job has kept me fairly busy. There is always work here. Keeps bills paid, you know how it is. Well, a couple years ago I get an email, only email that wasn’t some receipt or spam-“

“Some phony Doctor selling you the secret formula to a bigger penis.”

“Yes! You want to sell a product to a man, to get his attention, one show tits, but two, if you want to get to the core of his soul, just question his penis size. His manhood. That’s how they should sell pickup trucks. Dodge Ram, are you questioning the size of your penis? Dodge Ram.”

“Towing capacity. Wheel base. Penis size.”

“Just 6 and a half inches? Why not a Hemi-powered, quad cab pickup truck.”

“Give the knob a tug, is Ford tough.”

“So the email is from some guy I’ve never heard of, Leonard St. Louis.”

“Sounds made up.”

“It is. The subject of the email is the title of my story, “Mr. Hollywood.” The email says,

‘Dear writer, I read your story online. I dig it. I would like to meet and discuss it. I think it would make a great film. Are you free this week?’ I didn’t give the guy much consideration. Just thought it was some amateur filmmaker in Sheboygan or someplace that wanted to do a short film or student thing, you know. So I email Leo St. Louis back-“

“That’s a dumb name.”

“-and just say, ‘Glad you liked it, I didn’t know it was still available online. I don’t know if we can meet, I live in Indianapolis, and keep a pretty tight schedule. If you have any further questions just respond to this email. Thanks for reading.”

“Tight schedule, eh?”

“I thought it would keep him away.”

“Well how did he get your email in the first place?”

“I wondered that too, but the e-zine or whatever, Romp, asked for an author bio, so when I gave them mine I put so and so writer can be reached at… and I put my email address just in case you know, some dickhead like this guy could get contact me. I don’t know what I was thinking. And the website was still going strong apparently. I don’t know how St. Louis stumbled upon it.”

“What the hell is that guy’s real name?”

“I’ll get to that. So he emails back, maybe an hour later. He says, ‘I’ve booked you a flight to LA tomorrow. My assistant will email you the details. Sure as shit, hour later, I get another email with a one way ticket the next day 8 am nonstop to Los Angeles.”

“Get the fuck out.”

“Yep. I didn’t believe it. I called my dad and told him some guy just bought me a plane ticket to LA to discuss a story I wrote, and he told me, ‘Watch your ass he’s probably after it. But it’s worth a shot, what the hell else you got going for ya?’ So I called in to work, pulled the old death in the family bit and I’d be gone for a couple days.

I mean I enjoy waiting tables and everything, but you can only refill so many water glasses before you wonder if you are capable doing of something else. I had to take the chance.”

“Was it a first class seat?”

“Economy.”

“That should’ve made you cautious.”

“Yeah. One way, too. I need another shot.”

“So you flew to LA?”

“Yep. Get there, land, get off the plane and as I exit the gate, a thick Samoan guy, wearing sunglasses and a suit that is a size or two too small is holding a piece of torn cardboard with my name Sharpied on it. So I think to myself, ‘what he can’t afford a decent piece of paper?’ So I go up to the guy and introduce myself. The guy nods and says something like ‘pleased to greet you’ or ‘piece of shoe glue’ I can’t hear him. Then he just waves me forward like he’s a guard to a weirdo king’s throne.”

“Weirdo king.”

“So I follow this big guy to his car. He parked out in a fucking extended stay lot. He keeps waving me forward again like I’m struggling through a desert pass. I think he’s smirking at me, so I say, “What’s so funny guy?” And he just turns and says something like “You’re sweating through or you’re a betting Jew.” I don’t know. I’ve been in LA 30 minutes now and all I’ve seen is the airport parking lot. Not the trip I thought I’d have. So we get to his car, one of those Chrysler’s that looks like Bentley. And we get on the freeway and go. I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know what the fuck I just got myself into. I could be going to fucking Mars at this point and I wouldn’t be surprised the way this weirdo driver has been acting.

“Need a rocket ship for that.”

“We’re on the road maybe twenty minutes? He exits, parks at a warehouse in a half-empty business park. He gets out and opens my door like I just arrived somewhere special. He leads me, again waving me along, inside the warehouse. He never says a word. Inside, it’s just a big empty warehouse.  The driver stops and points to the back wall, where I can see two naked women sitting in director’s chairs, arguing with one another and a guy standing near them watching. Really strange.”

“What?”

“Yep. I look at the driver and he just sticks his thick arm out toward them again and says, “There. Or Take care.” He mumbles so softly I don’t know. So I walk toward them, one of the nude women sees me and like yelps like a little dog, stands, yells at the man and storms off like there is somewhere to storm off to. And I realize as she walks away it is Hattie Lewis.”

“Who is Hattie Lewis? Wait, the mom from “Just Us?” I used to watch that when I was a kid! She’s got to be like 80, now. Get the fuck out.”

“Yeah. She’s probably close to 80. She was naked too. Let that one sit.”

“Wait, didn’t she go crazy and wander around a freeway not so long ago?”

“Yes.”

“Who was the other woman?”

“I have no idea. She was much younger though. Cute girl off the bus. She just sat there in the chair the entire time.”

“This sounds made up.”

“Yeah. So the guy turns around, he’s about six two. Lanky. Black coily hair and those like tortoise shell glasses everyone is wearing to make themselves look like sweater models.

“Coily?”

“It was curly and oily. Anyways it Leo St. Louis.”

“In the flesh!”

“And that’s not his real name. He’s MacArthur Seever.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“I didn’t know who he was either. I had to look him up when I returned home. He directed Star Maker. Big 3-D, novel-based sci-fi epic that tanked in theatres.”

“I never saw that one.”

“Before that he did Some Will Die, Oscar nominated film-

“-I saw that one. That was really good. Ol’ Leo St. Louis did that, uh?”

“Yep.”

“Wrong movie to take a first date. Stylized violence doesn’t do anybody any good. That guy wanted to make a movie from your story? Isn’t there a stockpile of writers with ideas out there?”

“Beats me. I’m a server at a chain restaurant in Indianapolis. What do I know about Los Angeles writers? So I’m there in the warehouse and MacArthur, throws his hands in the air, says, ‘Hey my writer! MacArthur Seever. How was the flight? How was Mr. Goodnight’s driving? Call me Mac.”

“The driver’s name was Mr. Goodnight? Where are you getting these names?”

“Through the brief little chit chat, the off-the-bus gal is just sitting there, naked. And I keep peaking at her, you know –

“-Because she’s naked.”

“Because she’s naked, yes. And Mac notices I’m looking at her, and says, ‘You like what you see? That’s Emilia Jenz, she’s going to be a big star soon. Emilia, come over here and meet my new writer.’ She gets up, barefooted and walks over to us, shakes my hand, says through a little Russian-like accent, ‘Please to meet you. What do you think?’ She then just does like a, a twirl to show off her naked body. I think to myself, I like this very much. But I am speechless and she just smiles at me because she’s knows I’m trying not get a boner. She looks at Mac and says, ‘Are we finished or do you need to see more?’ ‘No more,’ Mac says, snaps his fingers at her, and tells her she can leave. Then she disappears. Mac says to me, ‘17 that one. Real heartbreaker.’

“Why on Earth did he have a naked 80 year old and a naked 17 year old sitting in chairs?”

“I’ll never know.”

“Los Angeles is a weird, weird place. I went there once, Silver Lake area I believe, and got an on-top-of-the-pants handy from a gal during the street festival there. It was during a set from DJ Kal-E. Or it coulda been DJ Franken. How could I know? I’d taken Molly and smoked a hooter the size of a dog’s leg. The gal just walked up to me and started rubbing. I asked her if she wanted to get froggy with me and she walked away. So I thanked her.”

“Why did you ask her to get froggy?”

“I don’t know why I asked her that. Had I known it would’ve made her stop giving me a rubby in the middle of a crowd I wouldn’t have asked her.”

“Froggy? That was your line? She was already touching you, at the least, attempting to touch your penis. And froggy is the word you try to further her along with?”

“No! It wasn’t that. I think the Lewis diagram of ecstasy looks like a little one legged-frog. I thought it was common knowledge at the time. I didn’t want to flat-out ask her if she wanted to do ecstasy with me.  I was trying to be cool about it. What do I know?”

“You didn’t want to ask the girl, whom you’d never met, who was giving you an old-fashioned, old-fashioned style during a street DJ show if she wanted to take ecstasy? She was probably already taking ecstasy.”

“This did not occur to me at the time. When have I ever had a woman rub me on the outside of my pants, before? Uh? It was all new to me. I was just trying to, you know, be hip. It was 2009 already. I was livin’ in the future. Back to your story.”

“I’m standing there with Mac and I hear an echo of high heels as Hattie Lewis walks right past us and gives him the bird and says, ‘This was simply ludicrous. Find yourself another old broad.’ She’s wearing like this summer dress kind of thing with a big hat, and she just strolls out the door. Mac looks at me and goes, ‘So you hungry?’

“Ha! Nice segue.”

“So we go to a Subway.”

“Ha! Subway, ay? I don’t like Subway. Poor spokesman. I get it Jared, you used to be fat. It’s a slap in the face to all fat people. Society treats them like smokers. The food sucks too. What did he get?”

“What does it matter?”

“Details, bro. What did super-director get to eat? Ham and cheese? Tuna salad? Chicken Teriyaki.”

“I don’t remember. Mr. Goodnight got a foot-long meatball. And another one for later.”

“There’s the detail.”

“Yeah. We’re sitting there and Mac pulls out a checkbook and asks me how much I want for the rights to my story, Mr. Hollywood.”

“Just like that? Pullin’ out the pocketbook and the ink pen for a buy out?”

“Just like that. And I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t know what the story is worth or what he is willing to pay or the going rate for 4,000 words. So I tell him ten grand.”

“Why ten grand?”

“First number that came to my head. I don’t know. Ten grand seemed like a good number. A real number. Damned if he didn’t write a check for ten grand right there.”

“Boom! Ten thousand dollar payday! Who still carries around a checkbook?”

“Yep. Then he asks me what I want to do next, so I tell him I want to go to a bank. And he laughs at me.”

“Did his check bounce?”

“No. No. It was legit. I had ten grand in my checking account the next day. I was audited a year later though and now owe the IRS.”

“They take and take and take. What more can you give?”

“On our way to the bank there was a jam on the freeway. But it’s not gridlock, it’s the middle of a Tuesday and Mac and Goodnight are like, “Eh it’s no big deal. This is L.A.” So cars are moving slowly, like how they might around an accident. Well, turns out every one is slowing down because Hattie Lewis is in the middle of the fucking freeway, wearing the heels, her slip and that big hat. Goodnight slams on the brakes, turns around and just looks at Mac.”

“Wait. So you mean to tell me you were there when Hattie Lewis went berserk? There’s a video of it.”

“I wouldn’t say berserk. She just mildly and temporarily lost track of herself due to a predisposed medical condition. She’s prone to episodes of dementia due to hypothyroidism.  That’s what I was told, anyways. And there’s more than one video of it.”

“Let me look one up here.”

“Let’s get another shot in.”

“Holy shit! That’s you? That is you! You’re wearing that same stupid hat!”

“Yes. And that’s Goodnight.”

“Ha! In the viral flesh! He’s a big one.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going on here? Is she twirling?”

“Yes. She was dancing with the wind, she said.”

“There are the cops.”

“Yeah. There’s a news helicopter up there too. It’s a thing now at this point.”

“Why does the video stop there?”

“Goodnight grabbed the guy’s phone. Stuck it in his pocket and stared at him with his arms crossed. It was funny, looking back. The guy was acting like a bitch. ‘You can’t do that, man. First Amendment.’ He kept saying over and over like he was a phony journalist.”

“I remember seeing this news copter video on the local news. That’s you then? What are you saying to the cop? Where’s St. Louis in all this?”

“Mac stayed in the car. He said it could ruin his career if people found out he left Hattie Lewis alone. Apparently he checked her out of an extended care facility and just let her go when she stormed out of the warehouse. That’s why Goodnight and I got out to get her. Weird L.A.”

“Great title! Weird L.A.”

“Yeah. I’m sure I’m not the first one to say that. I’m just telling the cop she’s my grandmother. And Hattie, God she’s a pro, just went along with it. She threw her arms around me like a little girl happy to see me. The cop asked me if she needed to go a hospital and before I could say no, Goodnight mumbles something to the cop that sounds like, ‘Just leave us alone bruiser’ or ‘just let us eat snow cones loser.’ I don’t know. I could never understand him. The cop stares at him like he wants to pop him, then stares at me, and says, ‘Just who are you two? We need to get this sorted out and get her off the freeway.’ Hattie, without missing a beat says, ‘This handsome man is my grandson.’ The cop says, ‘Is that so?’ And then she says, ‘It is so you racist pig, now let us go on our way and you should concern yourself with stopping that madman! Stop staring at your radio! Buy ‘em retail and sell ‘em wholesale!’”

“That’s the craziest fucking statement I’ve ever heard.”

“Dude, my eyes went wide. I was honestly scared. I’ve always been able to find humor in most situations. I couldn’t find it then.”

“Now you can.”

“Certainly. It’s hilarious now, looking back. Goodnight standing there with his arms crossed and that’s guy’s phone in his pocket. When the cops came that phony journalist guy started whining to them about his phone. At one point he said, ‘C’mon make him give it back.’ The only time I could understand Goodnight when I was out there, the only word I could clearly hear, was when he handed the phone back, and looked at the guy and said, ‘Twerp.’

“The ambulance shows up?”

“Yeah we just walked away. Got back in the Chrysler and drove away. Just a couple of guys trying to help. Mac’s career was never affected, least I know of. Hattie never remembered anything. Just a news story that faded away.”

“Fuck an A.”

“Yeah. And this is just past lunch, motherfucker. There’s a whole ‘nother part of the day for shit to happen. Ah listen to me. I’m getting drunk. I’ll tell you the rest of it tomorrow.”

“Nah nah nah, big dog. Finish the story. You got into a fight with a one hit wonder. I want to hear it.”

“Blah blah blah, what do you wanna hear? Lead singer of Loco City and I got into a bar scuffle. Blah.”

“That’s what I want to hear, big dog! Tell me the rest of the cotton-pickin’ story!”

“Yeah. Right. Sure. Guy. Well, after the freeway incident we went to a studio. I don’t know which one. Goodnight sits in the driver’s seat and eats his other foot-long. I get out to smoke a cigarette, my first of the day, and a guy on a golf cart zips by, stops and yells at me to put it out. I flip him the bird and he pulls that cart around and gets out in a huff and points a walkie-talkie in my face like it’s a weapon. ‘State law.’ He screeches.

“Stupid law.”

“And I’m still smoking, you know defiantly, one hand on my cigarette and the other with my middle finger high, hey man fuck you I need this smoke shoo off pal. Mac comes over and says, ‘Hey Gary what’s the problem?’ ’Oh hey Mr. Seever sir,’ says the walkie-talkie guy, “I was just informing your friend here that is against California law to smoke in public and on this premises.’ ‘It is,’ Mac says. ‘Gary they been working you hard?’ ‘Oh yeah, I’ve been closing in on overtime now month straight. Union don’t know. Short-handed since Juan died.’ ‘You hungry?’ Mac asks him. ‘Goodnight give him half of that sub.’ Goodnight launched the sub like a football into his belly. I’ve never seen a submarine sandwich thrown so quick. ‘Take a break,’ Mac says to him and the guy, Gary I suppose, thanks him and drives his golf cart away.”

“I thought Gary was the Loco City guy. Is Gary the Loco City guy?”

“No. His name is Carter Yontz. I know because he filed a lawsuit against me. I was served by a sweaty looking guy while I was at work. Yontz claimed he can never sing, ‘sing’ again. Sued me for about as much money as I’ve made in my entire life. And I’m talking like all the money I’ve ever made, including when my parents gave me an allowance. The guy’s bonkers.”

“That guy ain’t a singer.”

“He’s a poorly tattooed Fred Durst.”

“One hit blunder.”

“One shithead blunder.”

“For such a tough looking dude, that song is pretty soft.”

“Probably why he picks fights with strangers.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“Why did you fight him?”

“Oh. Right.  So we went to Bar Somewhere to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

“The day’s events? I don’t know. I sold my story to him, he sold it to a production company. Celebrate. Plus, it’s early afternoon. Catch some happy hour drinks. Goodnight drops us off and waits in the car, he doesn’t drink.”

“Sure likes to eat.”

“Anyways, we belly up to the bar. It’s got this dive-y feel to it. A place with a reach-in full of Lone Star and Schlitz. I haven’t had a drink all day, so I put a couple Dewar’s and ice down pretty quick. Mac drinks tequila and Coors and he’s had a couple just as quick. Turns out he’s a drinker too, so we pop a couple shots. He likes Drambuie, I like Rumple Minze.”

“Ah it was love at first liqueur.”

“After a while, two painfully cute girls come up to us. Heidi and Amy.”

“Hookers no doubt.”

“Every cute girl that wants to get into movies becomes a hooker, in a way.”

“Went out to L.A. once and suddenly he’s a Hollywood sage.”

“Heidi and Amy knew Mac, knew that he likes young talent in his movies. Some Will Die had that scene with the dressing room.”

“Unrealistic.”

“They were all over him. And since I was with him, they were all over me. It was great. We were shooting pool, flirting, having a good time. I felt like I was in Duchovny’s L.A. At that point, I was Randy Newman. I love L.A!”

“Paid and laid! Mr. Hollywood!”

“At some point, I can’t remember when exactly, I noticed this tattooed guy in a wife-beater and chinos, drinking and staring, I mean glaring at us. Like we were a couple of dudes that may have bullied him in high school or something. He’s just, piercing stares man. And I’m buttered, you know. It’s five or six in the afternoon, and I’m eight or nine drinks in, you know what I’m saying?”

“Yes I do.”

“I go to Mac and point to the guy, like what’s up with this motherfucker and the guy jumps out of his stool, like runs over to me and squares up. Calls me Opie. Or Opie Dopie or something.”

“You don’t look a thing like Opie. Or an Opie.”

“Yeah. So he shoves me a couple times, Mac grabs him and is like ‘C’mon man, knock it off,’ Loco City swings at him, misses, and in a drunk moment of precision I’ll never recapture, I flip a pool stick in my hands and smack ol’ Carter Yontz with the butt end right across the head. Snap! The motherfucker turns around like I just flicked his ears and swings at me. Maybe five six times? Misses each one. I’m just backing up, you know? Just whiff, whiff, whiff man. Mac comes in and grabs him again and as he does, I stick Loco City right in the nose. Crunched it. Sounded like someone eating a kettle-cooked potato chip. Blood’s fucking everywhere. It’s flowing out of him. I got it on my shirt, my face my hand. And I’m like wait a minute. This is serious now. I don’t want his blood on me. Doesn’t faze him. He horse kicks Mac in the dick and runs at me again. I’m shocked, at this point. I think he’s on bath salts or N-Bomb or some other crazy China-made drug that makes Americans want to eat faces, so I roll over a pool table, I don’t know why, he jumps up on it and screams, ‘Bonzai motherfucker!’ I whip a three-ball at him, it misses and someone screams and glass shatters. Loco City jumps from the pool table and from out of fucking nowhere Mr. Goodnight clothes-lines him. Just creams him. I started laughing, Yontz is knocked out cold, blank as a board, his face is a blood mask. Mac limps over, leans down and yells, “Goodnight, motherfucker!”

“Hence the moniker.”

“And that’s the story.”

“Huh. That’s it? What did you do that night?”

“Got the hell outta that bar and checked into a LaQuinta by the airport. Bought a plane ticket to leave the next day.”

“That’s it? What about those two hookers at the bar that were getting close?”

“Oh. Yeah they were hookers. Escorts. Mac paid them to stay with me that night. But, we just watched HBO. I think they left when I fell asleep. They didn’t want to get intimate on account of all of Loco City’s blood I had encountered. Had to get tested when I came home. Fuck that guy.”

“I don’t believe a word of that story. You should turn it into a screenplay.”

 

photo credit: stevelyon <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/15779944@N00/9066252968″>LA River</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s