Author: Mike Gibbons

Who would have guessed that my daughter’s quest to furnish a new apartment would inadvertently turn me into a porch pirate.

The quest for a new place started a few months ago. Our daughter lives about 40 minutes from us, and it’s nearly an hour drive to and from her classes. And since they are mainly in the evenings, the thought of cutting that drive time in half was appealing. I assume that moving closer to us was a close second?

We began looking at apartments online, narrowing down the ones that she liked and that were affordable. And by “affordable” I mean “affordable.” Such is the life of rental living.

She found a bunch she liked, and my wife and I toured most of them with her. I say “most” because one of us may have missed a tour because Alabama was playing Arkansas at the same time. But I trust their judgment.

Eventually, the perfect apartment was found, and she is set to move in a week or so. She has some stuff to furnish it, but needs some other fundamentals to fill out the decor.

My wife is a member of an online group called Buy Nothing. If you are not familiar with it, it’s a Facebook group unique to your area. You basically give things away on the site. Nothing is for sale. If you have something you are getting rid of, you can post it, and folks can say why they would like to have it. Some posters ask for the best story as to why you should get it. Others do something like ask people to guess a number. It’s a lovely community, and reminds me that social media can actually be pretty swell when we agree to the basic tenet of being a decent human.

Anyhow, my wife had found a couple of items that she said she would like to be considered for, citing our daughter getting a new apartment. The first was a lovely corner shelf that will go nicely into, well, a corner. My son and I went and picked that up off of a porch and it now sits in our garage awaiting installation in her new apartment.

And then the piracy happened. Someone was offering a standing lamp. When my wife was told she could have the lamp, the kind Buy Nothinger messaged her and said she had a few other items that might help our daughter in her new apartment (some towels, silverware, etc.).

My wife gave me the address, and I headed out to get the lamp et al. When I arrived, I saw the lamp and a couple of bags of things on the porch. I got them in my car, headed home, and placed them in the garage, next to their new sibling, the corner shelf.

A few hours later, I was looking for my wife and could not find her. I saw that the door from the laundry room to the garage was open, so I walked outside and saw her there. “Hey…” I said, because I was going to mention something that I have no idea what it is now.

She interrupted, “Hey, did you get some pillows off that porch with the lamp?”

“Uh…I got … the stuff that was there…”

“Yeah, those pillows were from someone else…”

I immediately felt a wave of guilt sweep over me. “I THOUGHT I WAS SUPPOSED TO GET THE EXTRA BAGS!?!?!” I said.

“It’s no big deal,” my wife replied.

“I’LL TAKE THEM BACK RIGHT NOW!”

“Seriously. It’s not a big deal. We can take them back now, or tomorrow. Whenever is fine.”

“I’LL GO NOW!” I said.

I felt terrible that I had inadvertently taken someone else’s package. I grilled my wife on how the exchange went, and asked her to please explain that it was an accident. I am but a simple errand boy with a very strong desire not to take other people’s things.

She again assured me that I was adding way more drama to a simple misunderstanding. I took the pillows back a short while later, and I am hopeful that that intended recipient has gotten them and is enjoying them immensely. And I hope whoever it is knows that exciting journey their new pillows have been on.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

 

Normally, once I transfer wet laundry from the washing machine to the dryer, a fairly straightforward process occurs. The dryer tumbles around, mixing the clothes up while blowing hot air on them. Then, maybe 30 minutes later, voila – dry clothes.

Fun fact: I once read a musing by someone that in theory, there is a possibility, albeit an infinitesimal one, that your clothes could tumble into a perfect folded stack upon the cycle’s conclusion. I have yet to come anywhere close to this, but it does give me a moment of excitement every time I open the door, much like that feeling I get when I look up the winning Powerball number. Oh, that moment of anticipation!

Upon my most recent load of laundry, I went through the usual steps. And when I opened the door of the dryer, I found that (a) they once again had not ended up in a perfectly folded pile and (b) they were still cold and soaking wet.

Now, I am not an appliance repairman, but I can say that when the “dry” part of a “dryer” is not existent, something is a tad off.

I went online and did a few searches, hoping for something like “All dryers come with a magic reset switch hidden on the back that will automatically make it work again.” Alas, that hope was quickly dashed like a Powerball search.

What I found was pretty much a general consensus that when dryers decide to die, they die. Our dryer is somewhere between eight and 22 years old, depending on whether you ask me or my wife. Either way, it is in the age range where such an end was probably.

We decided we would start our quest for a new dryer at a nearby home improvement store. We had heard that there were some supply issues in some areas, so we went to scout out what was available. When I got to the dryer section, I was pleased to see there were dozens on display. When I began asking about several of them, I was told that they may or may not be in stock. I asked if I could just take one that was on the floor. Apparently, that is not an option, as leaving them out to taunt customers is apparently a thing.

Eventually, we found a model that fit our needs – it was a decent size and it dried. That’s really all we need. We don’t have a lot of complicated laundry. Fortunately, this model was in stock, and they could deliver it tomorrow.

The employee first asked me if I wanted it delivered to my house or the store. Now, I understand scenarios in which having it delivered to the store would be a better option, such as if you were a contractor getting it for someone else’s home. However, that was certainly not my case. Also, I drive a sedan that very much would not accommodate a driver. So home delivery it is.

She then asked me if I wanted to buy the parts that went with the installation. She said if I bought them there, they would install the dryer free of charge. Once I tallied up the cost of the parts needed and saw it was under $30, I said, “Yeah, I’m gonna take that option right away.” 

Next they asked me if the plug was three or four pronged. I said, “The what now?” 

She asked me what year my house was built. I told her, and she said, “OK, it’s a three prong.” I now know that houses built after 1996 utilize four-prong dryer plugs, a fact that I am guessing I will never have the opportunity to use again.

The next day, the dryer was delivered and installed with nary a hitch. It was a curiously seamless process, devoid of the usual hitches that often come with such a thing. It feels so odds defiant, I feel like Lady Luck is in my corner. I can’t wait to open up the first load of laundry and find them sitting there folded perfectly. Now, time to go buy a lottery ticket…

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

 

I know I have harped in the past about grocery store etiquette. And lest you think that will stop me from doing it again…

I was at the store recently and I was standing in line with a few items at the self check-out line recently. And before you say, “But self check-out lines take jobs away from people!” let me remind you that stores aren’t in the business of providing jobs. I know that sounds counter-intuitive. But they aren’t. They are in the business of making a profit. And they are only going to hire the minimum number of people they need to maximize that profit. It doesn’t matter whether you or I like it. But it’s the rules of the game we play. They’ve realized they can outsource that job to the shoppers, and we will happily do it out of convenience.

That said, I do think anyone using the self check-out should have to first be certified as a qualified self-checker. And I know what you are thinking. What, Mike, are you the only one qualified to determine who can and can’t use the self check-out? And to that I say, sure. I’ll do it. Hire me. I’ll design the test and set the guidelines. I appreciate your faith in me.

The line at this particular store was moving along at its usual pace. As I was the next up, I noticed that the line had started to grow, as the four shoppers at the available check-outs were moving awfully slow. Three had very full carts, which pre-pandemic would have bothered me a lot more, but these days I get why you might want to be the only one touching your groceries. No biggee. I can evolve.

But the fourth? She would have had her permit canceled immediately under my rules.She was letting her child, who was maybe five, scan all the items. Now, you may think, Mike, why would you be such a grinch about a child helping checking out? And to that I say, wow, aren’t you judgy? I had no problem with that. When my kids were little they loved helping me scan out items. So I am all for that, and I await your apology. No, my problem was that she was on a phone call and was bagging one-handed. And bagging very slowly. 

And because she was exceptionally loud, I could hear her side of the conversation, and I could hear that she was not exactly giving instructions to someone who was conducting an emergency surgery. 

At one point, she stopped bagging entirely to engage on what was apparently a very important part of the phone call, one which could not possibly have had the knee-slapping laughs done post check-out.

The kid kept scanning items, but eventually ran out of places to put things. After a solid minute of her being on her phone call – as the line behind me both grew and grew restless – her child tugged at her shirt. “Mommy, I don’t have a place to put things…”

Begrudgingly, she resumed her one-handed bagging. After a couple more minutes, the gentleman next to her finished up with his large cart order as expeditiously as he could, paid for his order, grabbed his receipt and moved on. I took that slot, scanned my milk and potato chips, paid and moved on.

I walked past the woman who had been on the phone and saw her digging through her purse looking for her bank card, all the while still on the phone, as if she was surprised at the fact that pulling out a bank car would be part of this transaction.

Now I know you think I sound like an old crank here, but I assure you I offer this column as simply a general suggestion to everyone to maybe take a moment and think about how your actions might affect those around you. And maybe a little consideration for your fellow shopper can be a good thing that can send ripple effects of kindness through the world. Heck, it may even be enough to inspire someone to return their shopping cart to the corral.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

On October 1, I went to a nearby home improvement store. I was going there to find new lights for a new fan we had installed. The lights that came with were a smidge too bright, and so we figured we could get a lower wattage rather than get a sunburn every time we turned on our den light.

It was during this trip I had two very different revelations. First, I had the revelation that I have every time I go to buy light bulbs, in which I channel someone much, much older than I feel and begin complaining about how there are too many light bulb choices, and that it is too hard to tell how bright some of them are.

Why, I remember a simpler time when you got a tiny appliance bulb for the fridge, a 40, 60 or 75 watt white bulb for most of the lights, and a couple of gigantor lights to go in the flood lights outside. Now I don’t know if that time actually did exist, but in my mind it was a very simple and easy time, one when we all carried briefcases and men wore fancy hats and it may have actually been in black and white.

Now, there are aisles of bulbs. There are smart bulbs, which you can change the color of with a voice command. There are bulbs with funky attachment thingees that deviate far from the plain ol’ screw in type that gave us light AND the old “How many X does it take to screw in a light bulb” joke template.

And there are way more ways of measuring the brightness, and I really don’t get a lot of them. The old 40, 60 and 75 watt seemed plenty for me. It was the small, medium and large of light output. 

Eventually, I did what I usually do. I found someone who works there, handed them my current bulb, and said, “Do you have this but in … dimmer?”

In short order I had the dimmer light, which then brings me to my second revelation. As I entered this particular store – remember it was Oct. 1 – I was greeted with a big ol’ winter wonderland. Christmas trees fully lit. Snowmen. A big red mailbox for letters to Santa. A towering polar bear wearing a festive red scarf. Christmas season has kicked off in retail land.

And my revelation – it didn’t bother me. I used to be a purist about the holidays. I love me some Christmas, but I used to be a firm believer that Christmas stuff stays on hold until the day after Thanksgiving. And while I am kinda in that camp loosely for myself, last year was my first time I broke the rule. Not sure if you remember, but 2020 was kind of a long year. So I put up my Christmas lights about a week before Thanksgiving. And it brought me joy. So if others find happiness in it, I say you go be you. 

Personally, I am in Halloween mode for this month. My wife put out our decorations the other day and I love seeing them around the house. And although our kids are now grown, I loved seeing neighborhood kids trick or treating and giving them candy. I also will be putting out my outdoor light that shines on the house with rotating Halloween images that are quite simply just fun.

And when November rolls around, I will up the Halloween decorations, and maybe dip a casual toe in some Christmas here and there. I won’t go all in until Thanksgiving, but I’m also not going not going to begrudge anyone else who does. And if retail outlets find that putting out Christmas stuff early gets ‘em moving off the shelves, hey isn’t that what their whole deal is all about for stores?

I’m just not going to let early Christmas stuff being out be something that bothers me. I’ve got more important things to worry about. Like how to tell how bright a light bulb is. 

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

 

In 1998, my wife and I took a cruise for our honeymoon. As we were getting ready for dinner one night, I was flipping through our very limited television selections available to us. I am not sure of what the dynamics were of 1998 cruise ship television reception, but I do recall it was very limited and very spotty. On this particular night, one of the few stations available to us was a San Diego NBC affiliate. Unsure of the time it was (we were on cruise time, and although we knew dinner was approaching, the greater acceptance of time is an abstract concept on a cruise), we noticed that a new episode of Seinfled was about to air.

Back home, we often watched Thursday night TV with our friends, watching Friends, the underappreciated Just Shoot Me, Seinfeld, and whatever forgettable show such as Veronica’s Closet that filled out that two-hour block.

We decided we would go ahead and watch Seinfeld before dinner, a bit of a tribute to our crew back home. Turns out, we were the only ones of the crew watching. When we got home a week later, we found out a storm had knocked power out of most of the area, and none of our friends saw the show. And this being pre-internet, there was no way to see it until it came out on VHS many months later. (Kids, ask your parents what this VHS thing is.)

Obviously, things have changed now with how we consume television. But one thing has started to creep back in, and my wife and I have both decided we absolutely love it. We love the weekly drop of a show that many are doing now. I first got experience with it with the Marvel and Star Wars universes, universes my wife is perfectly fine with existing, but has no interest in being a part of.

But when The Mandalorian, Loki, Wandavision and Captain America and the Winter Soldier rolled out, it was pretty amazing to have to wait until Friday to see the next episode. My kids expressed frustration at first, but then started to get on board with the excitement of the build up and the anticipation. We would talk about the show the week prior and give our guesses at what would happen, and then love trading texts and phone calls when the new episode finally dropped.

Lest you think we are purists, my wife and I have both binge watched shows. And we greedily consumed them all at once, sidling up to the trough and just gulping down episodes of Peaky Binders or Marvelous Miss Maisel or the first season of Bosch. 

But we all kept coming back to the fact that there is something about waiting, about consuming at the same time (essentially), and not having to avoid social media for a week to avoid spoilers.

Currently, we have two shows that we are loving watching as they release episodes weekly. We are fully on board with Ted Lasso, like everyone else on the planet, and can’t wait until every Friday to see a new one. Our second go-to show is Only Murders in the Building, starring Martin Short, Steve Martin and Selena Gomez, and that checks our Tuesday night viewing schedule off perfectly.

(Confession time: We also have a Sunday, Wednesday and Thursday weekly show we watch, but it’s our guilty pleasure Big Brother, which will soon end, and we will replace it with Survivor. We’re not proud of it. Don’t judge us.)

It’s nice to have a few regularly scheduled retreats on each night we can spend together doing what we enjoy – kicking back and enjoying some escapism together. Also, important to note, this is about all of the television we watch. We also do other things that involve things such as the outdoors and other people.

So my point (I think there’s one!?!?!) is that I am glad the pendulum is swinging back to shows not releasing all the episodes at once, and instead bringing us along for the season-long ride. And what technology has done is ensure that a single thunderstorm doesn’t completely eliminate your chance to watch at all. And if that’s not a crowning achievement of technology after 23 years, I don’t know what is.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

 

I think it’s safe to say my daughter’s 21st birthday was magical.

People celebrate 21st birthdays in myriad ways. Often, that involves heading out to adult establishments and embracing their newfound 21-year-oldness. And a hangover the next day.

My daughter, however, has for years said she wanted to do her 21st birthday at Disney, with us.

We are fortunate that we have been able to go to Disney quite a few times over my kids’ lives. We used to take vacations down there, with cousins and grandparents and such, and it became a staple of their childhood.

And it has been her most magical place on the planet. We were thankful that our daughter (a) wanted to celebrate her birthday there and (b) wanted to celebrate it with us. So we were happy to oblige. (Side note: Disney is kinda the favorite place of my wife and me, so the obligation was a pretty easy sell.)

We arrived at Disney a day prior to her birthday. This gave us some time to game up for the big 2-1 day we would celebrate. We went to Downtown Springs for dinner. Disney Springs is an outdoor shopping and dining area that has some really cool stuff to see. We milled about at the stores down there, mainly window shopping. Side note – there is a Levi’s store in Disney Springs. I am not sure why you would go to Disney and say, “You know what I need? Some new Levi’s.” But what do I know?

On her birthday, we got up bright and early – and I mean, really, early, and sorta bright – for the day she had carved out for her 21st. Our plans: Hit Epcot. Start the day with the Frozen ride. Go to the Mexico Pavilion for margaritas so she could get carded for the first time. Ride Soarin’. And Test Track. And on and on and on.

I learned this during this trip: Disney parks don’t actually open when they say they open. We arrived at the parks each day about 45 minutes before the park officially opened. Thanks to my daughter’s keen planning and intel, we were near the front of the entrance when they started letting people in before opening time. We targeted the rides we wanted to make sure we did, and we beelined it to those first, usually walking right on before the lines got above an hour.

We were at Epcot plenty early, and probably 15 people deep in a big line of folks. By the time they let us in, there were WAY more people behind us. Off to Frozen.

We pretty much walked on the Frozen ride, and it’s hard to convey what a special feeling it is to see your 21-year-old daughter become a kid again, beaming from ear to ear at every step. When we left Frozen, we followed the agenda and headed to Mexico. We walked into the tequila bar, and ordered our drinks. The bartender asked for my daughter’s ID. When he looked at it, he looked back at her, handed it back, and announced to the entire bar that it was her 21st birthday. The rather crowded bar cheered and toasted her, which, yeah, was kinda fun.

Over the course of our visit, we hit all the parks – Epcot, Animal Kingdom, Hollywood Studios and, of course, Magic Kingdom. We walked more than 50 miles. We braved a few rainstorms, as is the Orlando summer way. We rode every ride we could have wanted to, some twice. But most of all, we had a great time as a family.

When we went to the parks when the kids were younger, it was a lot tougher. We had to deal with kids in strollers. With naptimes. With hungry kids needing snacks. 

It was kinda awesome going with my kids now that they are adults. Disney was always a magical place when they were little. But it’s pretty cool to realize that magic lives on. Happy birthday, Allie.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

 

A neighbor contacted me recently about some bees she had in her yard. They had taken up in a bird box right outside of her back door. When she took her dog out in the mornings, the dog, a delightfully adorable pup named Scarlet, would try and catch the bees. The bees would also harass my neighbor, as if she was invading their home. My neighbor has lived here longer than I have, which is pushing eight years. And Google tells me bees live about a month, so safe to say she was there first.

My son and I came over to check out the situation and see how we could help. She had already determined they were not honeybees, so there was not a lot of interest from beekeepers in relocating, which is understandable. My dad took up beekeeping a few years ago, and I can fairly safely assure you that if I showed up with a hive of bumble bees and said, “You want these?” he would say, “You know I have honey bees, right?”

 The bees were coming and going from the hole of a wooden bird box mounted on a post. We assessed the situation, and decided this was an easy solution.

1. I would plug a funnel we have at the house, and jam it in the hole.
2. Parker would lift the bird house off of the post. 
3. We would walk the bees to some nearby woods and set the box on the ground. 
4. I would remove the funnel. 
5. We would run. Fast.

Step one went off perfect. I jammed the funnel in the hole. The bees inside got loud and angry, which was to be suspected. On to step 2. As my son approached the bird bos, he said, “DAD! There’s a hole on the back, too!”

The very angry bees began streaming out of the birdhouse. My neighbor wisely retreated inside her screened-in porch. Parker and I fast forwarded to step five. We ran. Fast. In retrospect, we probably should have followed her lead and gone into the porch. But we were trying to stick to the plan.

We decided we needed to come back at night after the bees had chilled out a bit. Slight problem: My wingman had plans to go out into the woods with some friends and look for critters. No problem, I told him. “Just leave me your snorkel mask.” 

My son had just returned from a snorkeling trip, and had a new mask and snorkel. I figured I could cobble together a secure outfit, and cover my face as well. Ideally, I would have gotten one of my dad’s beekeeping suits, but that was 2.5 hours away, so not really a huge help.

I geared up. In the middle of a South Carolina summer setting record heat indices, I donned blue jeans, thick socks, boots, a sweatshirt, a floppy hat, and, as the cherry on top, a mask. The snorkel was also still attached, because I could not get it out of the plastic connector. I opted not to use the snorkel, as the last thing I needed was an angry bee taking a direct tube into my mouth.

I decided the best bet would be to get a big trash bag, sneak up on them, and throw the bag over the bird box. I could then lift the bird box off the post and relocate them to the woods. Then I could fast forward to step 5, and run. Fast.

It all went to plan. I covered the box and lifted it off the post, clasping it tightly to keep the bees contained. As I walked down the street to the nearby woods, a big black trash bag buzzing with anger, I thought to myself, I really hope no neighbors see me. And I REALLY hope no potential neighbors are making an evening drive through the neighborhood to see what it looks like at night. Because I can assure you it is not usually a guy dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt and snorkel gear while also carrying a bag of buzzing, angry bees.

I was able to set the bird box down and get it free of the bag (and run, of course). I came back the next day, and they had abandoned the box, hopefully to find a new home, albeit one away from folks’ homes.

I’m glad I was able to get them out of her yard so that she and Scarlet can enjoy it again. And I am hopeful these bees go off and do their bee things elsewhere and live long and prosperous bee lives. Even if it is only for a month.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

 

I think it’s time to admit that we are collectively in denial. I don’t want to shame anyone here, but the bottom line is we have to be honest with ourselves about our sizes. We are simply not as small as we think we are.

I am talking, of course, about vehicles, and the need for the owners of said vehicles to park in spots in parking garages marked for compact cars, which they certainly are not driving.

I made this recent observation when my wife and I went out. We were heading into a parking garage, and I did the most sensible thing, which was to stop and let her off at the ticket booth before entering. To anyone on the outside, it probably looked like we were having a fight and she was done with me. In actuality, my wife gets exceptionally car sick, in particular when going in circles in a parking garage, and I was actually doing her a big favor. 

She knew full well that I was going to be driving to most likely the top floor of the garage to park my car. I drive to the top because I drive what is somewhere in the range of a compact and a full-sized sedan. But I also know that the first few floors of the garage will not have any spaces anymore, for a couple of reasons.

The first is that, duh, they fill up first. And we were there at 2:30 in the afternoon. The second is that people often park their cars in spots that are too small, often designated by signs that say “Compact cars only.”

Side note: In writing this column, I learned that the classification for a compact car is one that has between 100 and 109 cubic feet of combined passenger and cargo volume. That means absolutely nothing to me, so I checked out width and length. Turns out that according to government standards, the maximum width is 70.5 inches, and the maximum length is 175.3 inches. Now I don’t know about you, but I have no clue the length and width of my car, much less the cubic feet of volume. Turns out I am over in two of the three.

But even if my car is on the line, it’s pretty clear that my car will have to snug up pretty tight to my car neighbors to park in those spots. So up to the top I head, where I can find a nice, easy spot to pull into. Maybe I’ll take a moment to enjoy the view, and then celebrate getting some steps in on my descent down. (Elevator back up, though. I’m not crazy.)

But, hoo boy, do some folks simply not care that their cars are not designed to fit in those spaces. Well, I guess I shouldn’t say cars. My car could probably fit in plenty of them, were they open. I’m talking about vans, SUVs and trucks. 

They are most certainly not within the government guidelines. And I get that some folks might say that they don’t need guidelines to tell them where they can park their vehicle. And I would agree with you most times. Except…

If you walk through any parking garage, you will see a lot of people who not only deny the direction of the guidelines, they straight up deny the geometry of what they are dealing with.

The vehicles simply don’t fit in the spots. Folks just pull on in, completely cool with the fact that they have essentially taken up two – and sometimes with even bigger vehicles, three – spots to park their ride.

I really don’t want to chalk this up to people being selfish and awful, so I consider today’s column a gentle friendly reminder to perhaps check and see when you see a spot that says “Compact cars only.” It’s not a challenge. And it’s not a disrespect to you. It just means the spot is a little smaller than your big, fine ride is suited for. Come on up to the top with me. You’ll get your steps in. And the view is great.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.