Dylan Bolin

If you’re even remotely self-aware, you have the opportunity to learn something about yourself every day.  For instance, I’ve recently discovered that I am extremely anal as it pertains to laundry.  After much consideration, I’ve decided that it’s a curse.

My wife is quite the opposite.  She can throw a load in the washer and blithely continue on about her day.  Try as I might to respect her technique, after the spin cycle, every moment the damp clothes remain in the idle washer, my anxiety grows more and more severe.  My brain devises a convoluted narrative like:  “Dylan, the clothes are down there in the dark basement, damp and alone.  The wrinkles are beginning to set, Dylan.  If you don’t do something, they’ll be there forever, and, when you put them on, you’ll look like a hobo.  Everyone will know how neglectful you are, Dylan.  Everyone!”  Eventually, I’ll start to pace and whimper, and finally, I’ll cave, bolt down the steps two at a time, move the clothes to the dryer and weep, dabbing at my shameful tears with a Downy dryer sheet.

I don’t know how long the last load was moldering in the washer but, suffice to say, when I pulled it out, it contained leg warmers, acid-wash jeans and a Hypercolors tee shirt.

And my neurosis is even worse with the dryer.  I need to be there when it buzzes.  Sometimes I’ll even arrive before it’s done, in which case I’ll stroke the dryer and speak to it in gentle, soothing tones.

I’ve seen television shows where, during the morning rush, the father opens the dryer door, pulls out a fresh, clean shirt and puts it on.  Preposterous!  If my laundry remains in the dryer overnight, it comes out looking like a child’s paper mâché art project.

Which brings me to another revelation:  I’m afraid of irons.  I’m not afraid of injuring myself or anything, but I am simply clueless when someone puts a hot, hissing chunk of electric metal in my hands.  The few times I’ve tried, I ended up ironing in more wrinkles than I removed.  And my wife will attest to this, I can’t bring myself to let someone else do it for me.  If I have wrinkled shirts, rather than ironing them or asking my wife to, I will gradually move down the shirt line until I find one that isn’t.  I’m not above sporting a pajama top to a restaurant.

I couldn’t tell you the source of this mania, but, if I had to guess, I’d say it’s the result of the many years I spent doing my laundry at laundromats.  I know many people view laundromats as a kind of purgatory, as sexy as a bus station and the sole domain of a certain economic stratum, but, back in the day, I fancied myself something of a Laudro-Master.  I could wash six loads (four of which occupying the double-load machines), dry them wrinkle-free, hang the shirts on hangers and fold the rest in 75 minutes.  Every time.

And I’m beginning to develop a similar science at home.  For instance, when doing multiple loads, I know that for the smoothest, uninterrupted transition between washer, dryer and hanger or dresser, I must let the first load dry for 15-20 minutes before starting the next load in the washer.  If this method is adhered to, there will never be a time when the washer load sits for more than 5 minutes.

For more information about how Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder can benefit you, feel free to drop me a line.  If I don’t get back to you right away, it’s only because I’m re-washing a load that remained in the dryer too long.  (I’ve actually done this.)

-Dylan

Hello, friends.

It’s been a long while since I’ve posted anything, and this post will be slow and laborious because my fingers aren’t working like they used to.  It’s akin to being fairly sedentary in lifestyle and then playing several rigorous games of volleyball at the company picnic.  The next day, in addition to a sunburn that resembles an electric apple, every muscle is brimming with lactic acid and, for three days you hobble around like the Tin Man after going through a car wash.

That’s exactly what my hands are like.  However, interestingly, if you were to place a 4″ paint brush into their stiffened positions, you would find that it fits perfectly.

You see, since my wife and I have owned our house for the last two years, I decided only now, for the first time, to inflict some sort of home improvement on it.  For the last two years, I haven’t been able to shake my renter’s mindset; that being:  “Just don’t touch anything and maybe we’ll get the security deposit back.”  Like the way old Italian ladies will wrap their sofas in cellophane to preserve the fabric regardless of whether or not it was a fabric worth preserving, my motto has been:  “Take only pictures and leave only footprints…and then mop up the footprints.” 

I don’t know from where I got this idea.  When I was a kid, the focal point of our “living room” was my father’s chair that had been set ablaze one night when he passed out with a lit cigarette.  Despite the damage to the maroon crushed velvet, it went on to serve valiantly for several more years.  Our coffee table was a large, wooden spool that had once been wrapped in wire, and proudly bore the stencil:  “Indiana Electric.”  House cats regularly crept into the walls through any number of gaping holes in the plaster, and would mew through the night like the tortured, yet adorable, spirits of erstwhile occupants.

So I don’t know what possessed me to stain the fence that borders our modest property, but I’m pretty sure I now know what it was like to build the intercontinental railroad…or at least painstakingly treat every tie.  You see, while the lot is modest, the cedar fence surrounding it is Herculean.  I’m sure when it was first built, it was a proud and stately picket rampart that made the 880-square foot ranch home look like Tara from Gone With the Wind.  Since that time, rain and U.V. damage have reduced the fence to a dry, grey skeleton.

And painting/staining has always been something I’ve been fairly good at.  This improvement, as opposed to plumbing, roofing or furnace work, which would likely end very, VERY badly.  When I was younger (old enough to work, but too young to know that I was being exploited), I did a lot of painting, so I was confident that I could restore the fence to it’s former beauty. 

Three days later and I’m not yet half way around…and that’s just the outside.  I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that the “curb appeal” side was only half the battle.  I blame a lack of Saturday morning P.S.A.’s.  And now, I’m also monitoring the weather forecast like I’m planning a Shuttle launch; squinting and searching for an arid window of opportunity whereas before, I could scarcely care less about the weather.  I used to even shut the windows to silence the emergency sirens when they interrupted a Bonanza marathon.  

But I am Captain Ahab and this fence is my Cedar Whale; it may kill me, but years after I’m gone, my story will be required reading for high school sophomores.

-Dylan

I like my beard  From what I’ve managed in the past, it’s the best of the attempts.  And there’s wisdom in facial hair.  My father had a beard and so did Santa.  When I was in high school in the 80’s, I wanted stubble so badly; like the guys in the magazines had.  It was so ruggedly manicured; it said:  “No, I didn’t have time to shave, but I always have time to look goood.”  You know, like George Michael.

Because the Color Me Badd stubble was way out of my league, in the 90’s, I wanted the Grunge facial hair; that “whatever” facial hair.  The untrimmed growth of disillusionment during the largest period of economic growth in our Nation’s history.  Instead, I always looked like I had just lost a fight at a Toad the Wet Sprocket concert. 

The older I got, the more I tried, but my beard never seemed to leave the awkward stage.  Instead of exuding wisdom, the beard begged for sympathy; like I was receiving treatment for something serious.  There were holes where nothing grew, and what did grow never acted like it belonged there.  It was wispy and transient. 

In my 30’s, I took to darkening my goatee with ”Just for Men,” which made me feel artificial and cheap.  It’s one thing to dye your beard because it’s greying, it’s another thing completely when you darken it so people know you have it.

I can live with what I have now.  It will never be so bushy that I’ll look like I might have an encyclopedic knowledge of trains or the circus, but it will also never again be so sparse that I look like I’m working on an obnoxious manifesto.  It’s a little revolutionary and a little home-spun; like a charismatic cult leader on a compound at Pepperidge Farm.

-Dylan

                                        NOTICE!

This Blog is for my friends that do Improv Comedy.  If you don’t do Improv Comedy, please stop reading now.  I warn you; these are fruits you must not taste.

                                             ***

Hello Improv friends,

#1 on today’s agenda:  Enough time has now passed, you may once again take “Bea Arthur” as a suggestion.  Bear in mind, however, that the audience member giving the suggestion likely has never seen anything that Bea Arthur was in, might not know that Bea Arthur has passed, but is probably still trying to impress you by being culturally ironic.

#2:  The Corporate Show.

If you’ve done a corporate show, you know that “Inside Information” is the key to a good show.  If you don’t know what “Inside Information” is, then you should have stopped reading when I told you to! 

Certainly, the mere suggestion of ”Judy the Receptionist” and the lunches that she keeps forgetting in the break room refrigerator will cause so much laughter and delight that the audience will never notice that you haven’t the slightest idea what this particular corporation actually does.  Such is the power of Inside Information. 

Until now…until you see what I have uncovered and decided to share with you for the betterment of all Improv Troupes across the nation.

Simply click on the picture for a full screen shot.

Just thought you’d like to know.

-Dylan

“The ones that I admire most/The Father, Son and Holy Ghost/Took the last train for the coast/The day the Danny…died.”

I feel bad for Danny because my local Fox affiliate has been eulogizing him all night.  It won’t be the same around the American Idol dinner table next week, and, a month from now, some fans will still be weeping spontaneously and insisting that the rest of us keep his room exactly as it is.  But he’s actually going to be okay…better than okay.  So cheer up, people.  It’s not like the Packers lost.

And did you know that Danny was actually competing for network viewership with another Wisconsinite last night.  On N.B.C.’s Biggest Loser, the Fox Valley’s own Kristen celebrated her 167-pound weight loss.  (She didn’t lose it all last night, although that would be an awesome show to watch.  “Tonight!  12 overweight contestants compete!  Who can lose the most weight in two hours!  By any means necessary!”  I guarantee, for $500,000, someone would saw off a leg.) 

Anyway, she didn’t win, either.

And I’m not one of those cynics that claims that “Danny Mania” was “stupid.”  Gokey Day and Idol’s coverage did a lot for Milwaukee.  Not the least of which was showing America that Milwaukee is more than beer and Jeffrey Dahmer.

Besides, I know what it is to get hooked on a reality show.  I watched Biggest Loser from the beginning and, every week, I sat riveted to the screen, watching obese, everyday people somehow find the strength to slay the dragons that made them what they are and, at the same time, slowly shed layers of self-loathing and resignation.  Meanwhile, I enjoyed a bag of Taco Bell.

It’s not like I rooted for Kristen, though.  I don’t know that I rooted for anyone.  Rooting for one person’s weight loss over another’s seems strange to me.  I guess I was rooting for everyone…like a cheerleader at a Montessori school. 

The winner was a woman named Helen.  She wasn’t from Wisconsin, but she was from Michigan; the two Midwestern states that are most often confused for one another by people from outside the Midwest.  Helen lost A LOT of weight.  She was 48 years old and lost 140 pounds.  This is Helen:

photo: Chris Haston/NBC

If you’re anything like me, you winced a little.  But, watching the show, she seemed so happy that each time they showed her, I winced a little less.  And I’m genuinely happy for her.  However, on her way to a quarter of a million dollars, she appears to have sped right past her ideal weight.  I mean, she wants to be on magazine covers, not U.N.I.C.E.F. commercials, right?

But her weight loss wasn’t the most dramatic of the night.  That prize went to Jerry, a 64-year-old, who lost just under half of his starting body weight, at home, after he was eliminated in Week 2.  He’s not pictured here out of respect to you, the reader, because, to me, it appeared as if his at-home method was simply premature decomposition.  Honestly, he was a sticker on his driver’s license away from being a Body Worlds exhibit.

Like I said, I don’t begrudge anyone who participated in “Danny Mania,” but Fox Valley Kristen’s accomplishment was pretty impressive, too…albeit pitchy, Dawg.

-Dylan

Recently, my wife and her friend took a vacation to New Orleans.  When she returned, she brought back two bricks of Community Coffee.

Now, folks, I’m something of a coffee aficionado, by which I mean I drink a lot of it.  I’m not a coffee snob; I’ll just as happily guzzle a cup of $.99 gas station coffee as I will a cup of Kopi Luwak. 

What’s that you say?  You’ve never heard of Kopi Luwak?  That’s probably because you can’t afford it.  A pound of Kopi Luwak costs between $100 and $600 American.  Why so much?  Because the coffee berry, along with insects, small mammals, small reptiles, the eggs of nesting birds and other fruit, also happens to be the normal diet of the Asian Palm Civet, a cat-sized mammal, similar to a streamlined raccoon, native to South-east Asia and southern China.

The Asian Palm Civet eats the coffee berries, but the bean inside (the one we grind up) is not digested.  Kopi Luwak beans are harvested from the feces of the Asian Palm Civet.  It is believed that the enzymes from the civet’s stomach break down the proteins that give coffee its bitter taste.  The beans are then only lightly roasted as not to disturb the “complex flavors” that result. 

Needless to say, Asian Palm Civet poop is fairly rare which makes it valuable, ergo the premium price.  It’s probably also very expensive because of what went into the early Research and Development phase.  How much animal poop did they have to pick through before they found a nugget that didn’t taste like…well…poop when they combined it with hot water?  I highly doubt that they got it right the first time. 

Anyway, the claim to fame of Community Coffee is its infusion of chicory.  I will confess that when my wife told me this, I had no idea what chicory was, but it sounded hearty and robust.  At the very least, it was representative of New Orleans which automatically made the drinker world-wise and cosmopolitan.

In an attempt to flagrantly display my savior faire, at a recent family gathering, I subtly let slip to my mother-in-law that we were in possession of this amazing coffee.  What made it so amazing?  Why the chicory, of course.

“Doesn’t chicory grow by the side of the road?” she said.

“Well…um.  Does it?” I replied.

“I think it does.”

“Huh.  Well, whaddya know.”

So, later, I looked it up and, sure enough, chicory grows as a wild plant along the road side in Europe, the United States and Australia.  It’s also known as “blue sailors,” succory and coffeeweed.  So why would a coffee company add such a pedestrian plant to their product?  Well, I looked that up, too.

Turns out it came from a coffee shortage during the Civil War.  New Orleansians managed to extend their coffee supply by adding the ground and roasted root of the endive plant (chicory).

If only they had gone straight to the animal feces, today Community Coffee would be rolling in it; both poop and money.  The good news is that it’s never too late.  Surely there’s an animal out there whose digestive tract is perfect for the next great coffee.  I’m going to start with my dog.  Crappuccinos all around!

-Dylan

I recently experienced a situation that very nearly turned me into “The Cranky Guy Who’s Overprotective of His Lawn.”  And as you know, from there, it’s a short, Calcium-deficient slouch into the old man who enjoys a Brandy Old Fashioned Sweet during Wheel of Fortune but can’t make it to Matlock because he’s just so tired.  In order to understand this neighborhood turf war, a little exposition is in order. 

My wife and I live on the corner of a fairly busy intersection that’s controlled by a stoplight.  For this reason, my wife and I are serenaded nightly by cars with sub-woofers that cost twice as much as the actual car.  Thanks to new city ordinances, I could report them to the police who would then send them a ticket, but honestly, I have no moral ground to stand on.  You see, while the kids seem to like the lower frequencies and heavy bass, I, myself enjoy a lot of high end and treble.  That’s why I tricked out my Ford Focus with a new device called an Ultra-Tweeter.  When I take the lady out cruising, we pull over, pop the trunk and crank up that ultra-tweeter.  Sure some low-rent sound systems like to rattle the windows of the houses they pass with the sub-woofer, but my ultra-tweeter makes their pets explode.  But I digress. 

The point is that I live in a high traffic area.  As you also probably well know, we’re at the very beginning of Rummage Sale Season, which is a bizarre ritual in and of itself.  When you think about it, a rummage sale is really just you publicly divorcing your possessions.   You’re saying to the neighborhood:  “I purchased these items with the best intentions.  We had some amazing times, but it’s just not working out.” 

So that’s already awkward, and on the other side of the transaction is me, hungrily eyeing your cast-offs.  It’s not good enough for you, but maybe it’s good enough for me?  Aside from seventy-five cents, what passes between you and I when I buy that creepy cat clock with the rolling eyes and the pendulum tail?  Judgment?  A whiff of Class Envy?  Maybe I’ll try to salvage some self respect by talking you down to fifty cents.  How does that feel?  How does it feel for me to further devalue that which you’ve already devalued?  Do you feel violated by my negotiations?  Is it like me saying:  “All right, I’ll take the creepy cat clock with the rolling eyes and the pendulum tail for seventy-five cents, but I want you to throw in the ice cube trays…and an evening with your wife.” 

Rummage sales are full of these toxic, unspoken status games.  Personally, that’s why I prefer to donate and shop at thrift stores.  All of the transactions occur under the glorious, tax-deductible cloak of anonymity.  So, that being said, you can probably see where I’m going with this. 

Recently, after anally mowing my lawn, (by which I mean, I was anal about mowing my lawn; I didn’t mow my lawn with my anus) a Honda S.U.V. pulled up beside my house.  A man in his late thirties, early forties got out, walked to the freshly manicured lawn by the stoplight, dug a hole and pounded in a Neon Green sign advertising his rummage sale.  Then, he hopped back into his car and drove off. 

Through my window, I stared at the sign and was suddenly overwhelmed with white-hot anger.  At the same time, I didn’t know if the anger was justified.  Did this guy just dig a hole in my lawn?  Who does he think he is?  But it’s between the sidewalk and the curb; is that my lawn?  I thought I remembered someone saying that it belonged to the City.  But they don’t mow it; I do, and I’m responsible for shoveling the sidewalks, so it must be my property, right?  Then does that mean that I own the stoplight?  No, I’m pretty sure that belongs to the City.  Otherwise I’d have to decorate it somehow, you know, make it my own.  At the time, I didn’t have the answers to any of these questions, but what I did next seemed appropriate whatever the situation. 

If this was my grass, it would seem I’ve purchased land that is premium space for rummage sale advertising.  If a private company wanted to put a sign on my lawn, you can bet I’d charge them.  So at the very least, this guy owes me a percentage of the rummage sale take.  But what if it belongs to the City?  No problem, I’ll just stop mowing it.  Why should I have to make the spot for his sign look like the fifth fairway at Whistling Straits?  Hell, let it grow.  Let him try to pound his sign into a South Vietnamese rice paddy and see how much traffic he gets. 

You see, I figured either way, whether it was my patch of grass or the City’s, the guy probably should have asked, right?  Since he didn’t, I figured if he thought nothing of pounding a sign in front of my house, he wouldn’t mind if I put one in front of his.  If only I had his address.  Wait a minute…isn’t his sign telling people just that?  It was perfect.  Not only did I have his address, but on Sunday afternoon I could show up and ask for my cut of the profit. 

Now, I didn’t want the sign to be too mean, but I wanted to make a point, so after many possibilities I decided on a sign reading:  “The Powdered Pole Gentlemen’s Club No Cover Weekdays Before 3PM.”  I was giddy with anticipation.  Not only was I getting revenge, but it was clever revenge at that.  I jumped into my car, cranked up the ultra-tweeter and was off. 

As I approached the address, my plan encountered its first snag.  There were children playing out front next door to the man’s house.  If I was going to plant a sign reading “The Powdered Pole Gentlemen’s Club” next to some kids, someone was going to have to explain what it meant, and I certainly didn’t want it to be me. 

As I drove home, my sign still in the back seat, unsullied by my victim’s lawn, I began to wonder if I was just being a jerk about this thing.  Nevertheless, I wanted to know what the City of Milwaukee had to say.  As luck would have it, you can contact the City of Milwaukee, and I was amazed to learn what I did. 

If you own a home, you can do whatever you want with the land between your home and the sidewalk.  The land between the sidewalk and the curb is the property of the D.N.R.’s Division of Forestry.  I know!  The Division of Forestry!  Doesn’t that sound like there should be more owls?  Like all over the city, the narrow strip between the sidewalk and the curb is some kind of National Park with wildlife tight-roping around in perfect grids. 

But here’s the thing:  While it’s owned by the Division of Forestry, it is to be maintained by the property owner, so we still have to mow it.  And according to the City of Milwaukee, signs are not allowed.  So there it was.  I was instantly justified in removing the Neon Green sign in front of my house.  But something else happened, too.  The minute I learned that I could take it down, suddenly, I didn’t want to.  Perhaps the gesture just didn’t seem as revolutionary.  Besides, if the Division of Forestry owns the land, and they want the signs gone, let them send Smokey the Bear.  Only he can prevent rummage sale signs. 

And here’s an interesting fact that I learned from the Division of Forestry website:  The tree with the largest circumference of any in the entire state of Wisconsin is located in the City of West Allis, which means, any day now, they’ll turn it into a bar.

-Dylan

Friends, I’ve always made it a point to continue learning as an adult.  And what’s great about learning as an adult is that your free to choose what it is you want to learn.  The downside is, just because your interested in something does not necessarily mean that that something is interested in you. 

For instance, I’m interested in having someone leave a box of money on my lawn every Monday while I do little more than launch M&M’s from my belly button into my mouth for eight hours a day.  Thus far, nobody’s offered to help me realize this dream.  But you can’t have it if you don’t ask, right?  

Well, there is one interest that had been on my mind for some time, and recently, I decided to pursue that interest.  That is how I came to know the Milwaukee Westside Harlequin Rugby Club.  While I had never played, I fell in love withthe game of Rugby back in 2003 when I began watching that year’s Rugby World Cup, and I knew from that moment that I wanted to give it a try. 

Rugby has yet to catch on in the U.S. like it has in the rest of the world, but take my word for it, it’s only a matter of time.

Rugby began in an English town named, oddly enough, Rugby.  Legend has it that, in 1823, a student at Rugby school by the name of William Webb Ellis was playing soccer with some other boys.  He then picked up the ball and began running with it, and, in doing so created an entirely new game called Rugby.  Coincidentally, he was also the first child diagnosed with ADD.   Whether or not the legend is true, England did use it to claim the game as their own in the same way that we decide who gets to ride shotgun; by calling it. 

While I didn’t know it at the time, in the Wisconsin Rugby Union, the Milwaukee Westside Harlequins is a Division II team.  Joining a Division II rugby team to learn the game from zero, is a bit like joining the Navy Seals just to get a little exercise.

At first, the game of rugby can appear as barely controlled chaos, especially to the football-trained eye of Americans.  When describing the game to the average American, the minute you mention the 22-meter line, you can see their eyes glaze over, but it’s really quite simple once you learn a few of the laws and a little vocabulary. 

First of all, a meter is basically a yard.  In football, you score a touchdown by crossing the goal line.  In rugby you score a try by placing the ball across the try line.  That didn’t make a lot of sense to me either.  It seems to me that all the “trying” occurs well before the try line.  The try line should be called the “Hey, looky there, you finally made it!” line.  But the American football term, “touchdown” actually came from Rugby in that, upon crossing the try line, the ball carrier must touch the ball down on the ground before a try is awarded. 

In American football the ball or the ball carrier goes “out of bounds.”  In Rugby it/he goes “into touch.”   You’d think it would go “out of touch,” but the phrase “out of touch” is reserved for 37 year old rookies that try to play with a Division II Rugby club.

I showed up at the first day of Harlequin practice dressed in the shirt of the New Zealand national team and matching shorts, shoes and socks to show everyone that I knew a thing or two about the game.  When more and more guys showed up in grass stained sweats and tee shirts, I started to feel like a picture in a catalog.  It was like showing up to a poker game dressed as the Jack of Diamonds.

And then we started to run.  Eager to participate, I ran like Forest Gump.  That’s when I learned the first rule of Rugby, if you’re in front of the ball, you’re out of play.  So I eased off the throttle and promptly went from out of play to in the way.

Practice after practice came and went, and each time I was slightly less clueless than the practice before.  I could tell that, based on my technique, the only position that the coaches would ever consider me for was “injured reserve,” but they never let on.  What I never let on was, while I’m pretty healthy, when God gave me my knees, it must have been during His ceramic phase, and in my late thirties, I don’t think that they’re going to improve anytime soon. 

But despite my unwilling body, my experience with the Milwaukee Westside Harlequins has made me a bigger fan of Rugby than I ever thought possible.  In my opinion, Rugby is the greatest team sport there is.  When a player has the ball, 14 other players literally have his back.  And I say “his,” but Rugby is far from an exclusive boy’s club.  There are some excellent women’s rugby clubs in the area as well, Milwaukee Scylla to name one, and, in the field of women’s High School Rugby, Divine Savior Holy Angels (D.S.H.A.) is one of the best (if not THE best) in the nation.  But this year, the Milwaukee Westside Harlequins are taking a run at it.

In a recent trip to Grand Rapids, Michigan, they defeated their Milwaukee rivals, the Black & White, and were named co-champions along with the Indianapolis Impalas.  Both teams will represent the Midwest Rugby Union in the Men’s Division II National Championship.  The Milwaukee Westside Harlequins’ first match is on May 18th versus the Tampa Krewe in Columbia, South Carolina. 

While the Harlequins will be representing Milwaukee, Wisconsin on the national stage, rugby is a club sport and all the funds to get them there and lodge them while they’re there must be raised by the club itself.  If you are interested in helping by making a donation of any size, you can visit the Milwaukee Westside Harlequins website.  Also, if you’re a business, large or small, and would like your logo or website branded to their uniforms in exchange for a little traveling cash, you can do that, too.  In fact, the boys are so amped up for this tournament, that you might even be able to convince them to tattoo your logo onto their actual bodies (specific location on a sliding pay scale).

Go get ‘em, Quins!

-Dylan