We make surprising discoveries about ourselves at the oddest of moments. Life has a way of turning on the lights and beaming the answers to our questions when we're looking the other way. Not the wrong way. Just in a different direction. I know you know the feeling. Like when a poem spills onto the page and only later you read what you've written and the shock of your feelings on paper feels like a jolt of electricity to the heart. Like when a song comes on the radio at the right moment and everything stops because THOSE WORDS were written for you and you know the voice is yours and the story is yours but the lyrics are something you've never heard or sung before. How could it all be? How could this all be?

I haven't heard this song in years. I didn't even know until moments ago the song was sung by Linda Ronstadt. Don't ask me to trace the circuit of how I found this song tonight. What matters is that when I heard it, my heart stopped, my eyes closed, and the years rewound to a place where I thought the words were mine and the song was mine.

I still don't have the answers I seek and the words I want to write are still a work in progress. But sometimes a song falls out of the sky and seeps into the notebook you keep, pages filled with memories and dreams you're going to write about... Some Day. One Day.

And that day is now.



Love will abide, take things in stride
Sounds like good advice but there's no one at my side
And time washes clean love's wounds unseen
That's what someone told me but I don't know what it means.

Cause I've done everything I know to try and make you mine
And I think I'm gonna love you for a long long time

Caught in my fears
Blinking back the tears
I can't say you hurt me when you never let me near
And I never drew one response from you
All the while you fell all over girls you never knew
Cause I've done everything I know to try and make you mine
And I think it's gonna hurt me for a long long time

Wait for the day
You'll go away
Knowing that you warned me of the price I'd have to pay
And life's full of flaws
Who knows the cause?
Living in the memory of a love that never was
Cause I've done everything I know to try and change your mind
and I think I'm gonna miss you for a long long time
Cause I've done everything I know to try and make you mine
And I think I'm gonna love you for a long long time

written by Gary B. White, Universal MCA Music (ASCAP)

This is For You -- and anyone else -- Out There in the world that stops, drops and listens to a song, a poem, a story, the words drawing us in and reminding us of something more than dialogue and setting and plots and lyrics and music to make true connections in the oddest of synapses and crevices.



I should quickly explain the reason why the song "I'll Stop the World and Melt with You" triggered so much Cosmic Thought last night. Cryptic is good for our mss, not our friends. {}



Saturday night. One child out. The younger girl with us. We originally intended to go see WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE but we decided to wait until both girls could see the movie together and with us.



We decided on a lovely Japanese dinner instead. My daughter has been craving for sushi for weeks. It's not my favorite but I Did It For Her. The restaurant was elegant but comfortable and the food was delicious (if you think, like my daughter does, that eel rolls are delicious; I went for the safer selection of chicken teriyaki). Everyone was happy (except for the eels that sacrificed their lives for the happiness of my child).



Driving home last night with our younger daughter in the back seat, we put on our favorite Saturday night radio show: WFUV 90.7 FM, Vin Scelsa's Idiot's Delight. (Nan, I bet you know about Vin since we grew up in same area. Does the name ring a bell? He was part of the 102.7 WNEW-FM late night lineup when Rock Lived at that iconic rock radio station for the important years of our growing up stage.) {}



For reasons I am trying to find out (via Vin Scelsa's message board), at appx 11 pm, Vin played "I'll Stop the World and Melt for You." (I should back up here. When we had the show on earlier in the evening, author Jonathan Lethem was Vin's in-studio guest. We had dinner plans (with the daughter) and then we had an hour to go to the Book Revue-- yes the Book Revue nanmarino came to see Buzz Aldrin a few months ago and shared her book, Neil Armstrong is My Uncle and Other Lies Muscle Man McGinty Told Me, with the world-famous astronaut and the very same Book Revue the world-famous writer Melodye Shore, newport2newport, shared a few special moments with me on her visit to Long Island far too long ago.


Yes, Nan, nanmarino, that's your photo! I hope you don't mind seeing it again!Thank you!

(A special note here to Mary Cronin, maryecronin: I can never leave a bookstore empty-handed. Last night's treasure? Two collections of poetry by Mary Oliver to add to my overstuffed poetry book shelves-- not that I am complaining.)

When we left the store at closing time, Vin was in the middle of a long, musical set. "Stop the World" played. My daughter was electrified. "Love this song!" she told us. "It's on my IPOD. I play it all the time!" I had no idea she knew the song. It was wonderful to be able to sing together. I was sorry we were close to home when the song ended and we had to get inside to let the dog out. I didn't get to hear Vin explain -why- he played the song. Was it a random call or was there a specific meaning behind its selection? (With Vin, you never know.) {}

I told my daughter we would have to rent VALLEY GIRL and watch it together. "Stop the World" always makes me think of Valley Girl and Nicolas Cage as the weird, gothic boyfriend to perky Deborah Foreman's Valley Chick. Used to love that movie and it will be fun to see it again with my daughter. "Stop the World and Melt with You" will forever conjure up images of that last scene as Cage and Foreman drive off into the sunset.



The night is winding down. I was in my office late last night. The house, so hushed and serene and quiet. My favorite part of the day. Alone with my files and keyboard and music.
I turned on the television and flipped around until I stopped at PBS and the movie ADAPTATION. I've always meant to see the movie from start to finish but it's never happened. And there it was with one hour left and there was.. Nicolas Cage, of all people, playing the screenwriter in ADAPTATION. (The scene where Cage's character is abused by STORY'S Robert McKee in the midst of his infamous writing seminar is classic and a must-see for all writers. Now I HAVE to rent two movies: Valley Girl and Adaptation!)



I wanted to know the actors' names in ADAPTATION. I clicked onto its IMDB site and poked around.

Here's where it gets weirdest of all.

I had NO idea ADAPTATION was directed by... Spike Jonze!




How much more breathtakingly wired could this all be?

"Melt the World" segues into Nicholas Cage segues into Adaptation and Nicholas Cage and Spike Jonze segues into WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE directed by Spike Jonze!



It was all just tooooo weird. (Okay so now there are three movies that circled into my life last night: Valley Girl, Adaptation, and Where the Wild Things Are!)

And it was all because of a random moment on a radio station and sweet music that brought together mom, dad and daughter in a moment of sweet harmony.

It's crazy what a song can do, isn't it? {}



"The book has no story. There's no story." (Alright. Make one up.)

...except every word in this story, my story, is true
and even if you didn't live it,
you've felt it
and if you've felt it,
now it's your story, too
and if you didn't write it,
you can read it
and that makes all the difference in the world.
That's the wild thing about writing and reading.
Your stories are true for someone, somewhere.

...and he's frightened.

I'll say it over and over until I'm blue in the face. You can't lie to kids. They are smarter than adults. We have to protect them from the grown-ups because the grown-ups know how to manipulate, trick and deceive. Kids want the truth.

Promise me YOU The Writer will give it to them.

Sharing a sister's dilemma. It's fodder for thought for those who think writing for children is easy.

We want our audience-- today's child-- to relate to our work and words.

How far do we go to connect to how they think and what they say? Are we selling out or reflecting truths?

I know one child does not speak for many or all.

But.

Yesterday, my almost-10 year old niece received an updated/amended invitation to a Halloween gathering at her Very Good Friend's house.

Whether I believe this or not, the Halloween Party mom said she had no idea the girl was printing up this edited invite to give out to friends at school.

The original invite did not include a mandate for choice of costumes.

In this follow-up version, the girl told her friends:

"We are now all going to dress alike.
We are all going to dress as a pimped-out ref."

A...what?

I don't even know for sure what a pimped-out ref IS.

But I think I get the point.

A PIMPED-OUT REF?

One mom read the invitation as she cleared the papers out of her daughter's backpack after school yesterday. A chain of phone calls ensued, one mom calling another to ask what this was all about.

I need to add these ten-year olds all have cell phones and MacBooks and closets bursting with designer jeans. This is not a negative characterization. This is what they are (or have). They're all charming and sweet and curious and lovely, the child you all were once upon a time.

I don't want to sound like an old fuddy-duddy doofus.

But are these the kids that are going to relate to my middle-grade novels? I've searched my characters, and not one of them has ever suggested her friends dress up as pimped-out refs.

I know. I know. If it's authentic and organic to the story, it works. It might date a book but it is reality.

But still. Behind closed doors, I don't know these girls and now I worry they are not going to want to read the books I write. They are probably not going to find a pimped-out ref anywhere between my pages. Does that make me yesterday's news?

Oh yes. I have moved into Cliche Territory. But no one loves a good Jewish Mother joke as much as... a Jewish Mother.

This is a guilt-free post. My first and last. Guilt is my middle name. It's in the DNA.

Yes, I've been neglecting you, Live Journal. But that doesn't mean I don't love you.

Okay. I am guilty. Live Journal has allowed my wings to stretch and my words to soar. Why do we always hurt the ones we love best?

Yes. It's true. As much as Twitter and Facebook have become integral facets of our writers' community, I will always think of Live Journal as my child. And a Jewish mother will never turn her back on a child. You can never do anything wrong. It's our fault you went crazy, robbed a bank, cheated in school, cut your beautiful hair into that unattractive mullet, got a ticket for talking on the cell phone while driving (because of course you were talking to your mother at the time, darling, blame it on me).

And so now I will tell you All that Is True: Live Journal, you are my favorite child. DON'T TELL YOUR SISTER! May G-d Strike me dead if she ever finds out! ;>

If Guilt is a foreign object to you, if nothing ruffles your feathers-- how do you live like that? I have no idea-- let me invite you into the Twitteleh world. This is what Jewish Guilt feels like: Don't worry about me. I'll be all right. That's right. You don't have to call your mother. Don't write. I'll live. I don't want to obligate you.

But let me ask you before you run off to be with your, sniff, new little friends:

Are you hungry? Can I get you something? You're schvitzing. Are you hot? Here. Sit closer to the air-conditioner. I'll sweat. It's all right. I'm your mother. What? You're cold? I don't need my three sweaters. You do. Put them on right now. Over my dead body will I let you shiver. Tired? Sit down so I can rub your toes. Take a nap. I'll watch the kids. Better you should rest. You don't want circles under your eyes, do you? So tell me: Is there anything I did right today?

I'll be back. I'm JoNoWriting!

May you find joy in your every dream



...and may some of those dreams end up as books on shelves with YOUR name on the spine!

Happy Birthday, saputnam! (with great thanks to newport2newport for always remembering to remember her friends) {} {} {}

-Pamela, still reflecting on the inner peace found in my recent Cape Cod journey and sorting out the emotions I carried home in my heart

Picture book author looking to share booth this Sat.@ popular Harlem Book Fair. http://www.qbr.com/
Interested? Know someone who would be? Looks like a great promotional and selling event.

Please E-me: Writer Ross at g mail dot com

As the hours of this day passed, it troubled me that as hard as I tried not to get pulled into the vortex of death's calling card, I could not avoid the siren's call of sorrow.

It's the fear of death that compels so many of us to create, to make a lasting impression, to make the art we love and make it matter.

And yes, when someone young dies, we cry "Oh gone too soon. Gone too soon."

I'll just cry that Someone is Gone. I don't even love that my little girls are no longer little girls. Childhood: gone too soon. And confession time: I miss my childhood, too. I didn't know there would be endings then. I don't like knowing that now. I don't want this to ever end.

Life: Gone Too Soon.

Found this clip-- a lovely montage of Michael Jackson's life-- produced for BET but never aired.

Feel it.

So many people in this world I'll never know
So many states I've yet to see
Do you ever worry time will slip away before you get to do it all?
I do.
I carry a notebook
and carry the faces and places of where I've been with me
I try to remember it all
and even if no one else gets to know their stories
at least, for that one moment, I feel a connection
I step outside myself
and see there's more to life than all I think I know
Yes,
I'm searching for connections
on this ribbon of highway
Words are not photographs
I can't paint you
I can't capture your image
but I can write what I see in you
and who I think you are
I hope that's enough
I hope someone out there is going to remember
I once existed
I hope someone out there is thinking,
if only for an instant,
Hey.
What about... her?
I wonder what she's thinking?
Do you ever wonder if people care
about your life?
And will you matter
One Day?
You do.
You do.

Tweeting my Own Horn (Something I rarely do, so humor me)

I participated in an innovative editor-author chat yesterday on TWITTER. I was not the editor. I was not the author. I was a face in the twittering crowd. I had not heard of the book before the Twitter Chat announcements.

Executive Editor Nancy Mercado of ROARING BROOK PRESS and debut novelist Nan Marino (NEIL ARMSTRONG IS MY UNCLE AND OTHER LIES MUSCLE MAN McGINTY TOLD ME, pubbed by Roaring Brook, May 2009) talked business and books over the wires-- and invited anyone within twittering range to tune in, turn on and Twitter the morning away with them.

After the chat, journalist/reporter Karen Springen contacted me via e-mail-- unbeknownst to me, she followed the chat and read my Twitter comments-- and invited me to share my thoughts with her for her upcoming article in Publishers Weekly and their Children's Bookshelf.

Journalists have ways of making me talk. I like being interviewed. (Second time in a year. As if I had something to say that mattered. Hah. See The Class of 2K8 Blog for an intellectually stimulating interview with one Very Aspiring Writer. Cough phlegm ahem.)
;>

So there it is. I'm in the box. I've been quoted. Again. What's next? Could Bartlett's be far behind?

Curtain up, light the lights...
Read on: http://www.publishersweekly.com/article/CA6664354.html

And the Beat Goes On

One word leads to another. One action, one reaction.

Writers watching out for one another, creating ripples of notoriety, passing the pipe, re-tweeting information and articles and moments that matter. Thanks to author, poet, screenwriter, and renowned blogger Gregory Pincus for making this world a whole lot brighter for this writer tonight-a. {} (And no, that is not to be cataloged one day in The Collected Poems of Pamela Ross.)

Here's Greg's professional blog--THE HAPPY ACCIDENT -- devoted to the Power of Positive Social Media on the Wonderful World Wide Web.
What's that address again? (I feel like a voiceover actress on a radio commercial, but as any totally shameful, self-serving writer knows: repetition works!): http://www.thehappyaccident.net/chatting-and-happy-accidents/

The Take-Away, or as your teachers once asked: And what did we learn today?

Don't be afraid to reach out to fellow creative spirits on the web. You give, you get, you listen, you learn, you buy, you sell, you write, they read. One need not be a Socialist to be social. It does pay to connect dots. Hands across the water and all that.

Remember when you thought your 45 rpms would last forever?
Don't be afraid to turn the page of history, uh-huh.

From TALKING POINTS MEMO tonight, an inspiring essay penned by M.J. Rosenberg:

"On Sunday night Pete Seeger's 90th birthday was celebrated with a concert at Madison Square Garden.

It was great. Bruce Springsteen, Dave Matthews, Ben Harper, Richie Havens, Joan Baez, Billy Bragg, Rufus Wainwright, Arlo Guthrie, and a dozen or two other headliners performed.

And Pete Seeger, of course.

But here's the amazing thing. In my life, I have never been to a concert (let alone a lefty concert) at which the name of the President of the United States was cheered. At previous concerts I've been to over the decades, the names of Kennedy, Johnson, Carter or Clinton were no more likely to be cheered than those of Reagan or Bush.

I mean, who cheers Presidents at concerts? Traditionally, names of Presidents go unmentioned. Or they are booed.

Springsteen said that he never saw Seeger more happy than at Obama's inauguration, noting that Seeger saw Obama's ascendancy as proof that he, Seeger, had "outlived the bastards."

One more thing. The 30,000 people in the audience wildly cheered a letter from Obama saluting Seeger.

Two incredible things there. One, a President salutes a life-long radical (and also has him perform at his inauguration). Two, an audience of aging hippies and 20-somethings goes nuts every time the President is mentioned.

I can't believe I've lived to see the day.

Happy Birthday, Pete Seeger. The America of your music may be in the process of being born."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And in the end, what keeps audiences listening but a true voice with a story to tell.
All the writing classes in the world will tell you that.
When will we ever learn?
Unplug your voice.
Write in the raw.
It's just you and all those words in the air. Words longing to mean something to someone.

It's not easy to write the truth. It's not easy to sing the truth.
But when you can, you do it. Some are born to do this. Some can learn. If you want it, you can dream it. Oh Yes You Can.
Even if it takes you 90 years.

Three cheers For You.

You know it. You know that moment when you are in the zone and the words are so hot you can barely touch them as they fly out of your brain and melt the keyboard as you engraven them onto the screen. You're not G-d and you're not writing The Ten Commandments but you may as well be Moses weeping at the foot of the Burning Bush as a power you never knew you had writes words you never knew you knew.

This performance IS that moment for me. Maybe I can't put it into words any better than I've tried. But I can =show= you how it feels when I am one with the page and the words and the characters and the story and the moment and the music and the whole flipping universe.

at the ninth minute into the song, you just know Bruce and Roy on the piano are not IN their bodies, oh they are so somewhere else...

Is it my eyes telling me something I already know ("You need glasses, babe") or did the fonts of the Live Journal entries change on your screen too?

Is it time call tech support... or Lenscrafters?

From the fascinating documentary I watched tonight on a late broadcast of AMERICAN MASTERS on PBS:

The art music of Philip Glass. He had me at the Cyclone-- one of his beloved Coney Island pastimes. For me, the Cyclone was like a mythic King Kong beating his chest at the top of the Empire State Building. I feared and cherished the vision of the iconic roller coaster that was a part of my childhood horizon. Its presence is integral to the Brooklyn landscape of my imagination. I could not imagine the beach and Surf Avenue and the Boardwalk and my memories without its existence. While Coney Island may be a tourist attraction today, to me it has always been a piece of my puzzle, my map, my DNA. When I drive through or around the city, I still see the World Trade Center where it should be, long after its corporal body fell to the ground.

When I was too young to know better, I let myself be persuaded to take my first ride on the Cyclone. Maybe I was promised a reward for my acquiescence-- like a ride on the Wonder Wheel or Carousel. Those were the rides I adored and went on time and again. All pleasure. No pain.

The Cyclone requires faith and release of control. Once you're strapped in and the horrific ascent up to the apex of the coaster begins, you're in and there's no turning back. (Even as I write these words, my stomach flip-flops remembering what it felt like to be locked in that seat.) Internally, I felt ashamed of my panic. Like a baby with separation anxieties. I wanted to conquer the fear and so I caved in, strapped in, and I took that ride.



I have never screamed so silently before or since. It's April 2009 and The Cyclone Lives. It has to. Without it, Coney Island would breathe its last breath. It IS Coney Island-- but I am very content to stand on the street and let others scream for me. That's music to my ears.

Here's a sample of the ride that killed the joys of roller coasting for me forever (with the sweet bonus of experiencing the ride with the master composer). I'd rather be..er... writing than riding.



Glass said music is not something he creates but, rather, hears. He just writes it down. The notes are out there.

Creativity is turned upside down in his art: Music should be seen, images should be heard.

I like that.

I do not like roller coasters.

Former Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky on Monday's LEONARD LOPATE show on WNYC this afternoon. Tune in at 12:00 noon on your good old-fashioned radio (820 AM here in NY) or stream the show live here:
http://www.wnyc.org/shows/lopate/episodes/2009/03/30
http://www.wnyc.org/shows/lopate/episodes/2009/03/30/segments/127389

If you're reading this too late to listen to the live show, you can access Leonard Lopate's daily segment archives at the links above.

Isn't it ironic? I was just talking about Poetry and Performance this morning and now... this. I swear sometimes I think I've picked the wrong business and need to set up a Psychic Friends' Service. All of the coincidences I suffer gladly day-after-day have to mean something, don't they?

I think I'v found my Saavy! Yoohoo, Ingrid Law! Can a non-13 yr old find a saavy later in life?-- and do I know how to scumble it wisely?

Talk Naturally:
edited to add: From WNYC, a few minutes of the radio interview, recorded for our viewing pleasure:

Where I'm Coming From:

I can't say exactly what made me click on John Lundberg's blog on today's HUFFINGTON POST. Maybe it was an e-mail alert that Lundberg had uploaded a new blog. Maybe I was reading the Sunday New York Times Arts and Leisure section and something caught my eye about new movies and word of the upcoming release of HOWL, a movie starring James Franco as a young Allen Ginsberg and the obscenity trial brought in the U.S. after the poem's publication.

Or maybe it was the Google search that blipped from HOWL to Ginsberg to (how? how? I can't remember!) writing ABOUT music to watching a clip from the Colbert show with his guest, music essayist and blogger Carl Wilson (http://www.zoilus.com/) talking about his love-hate affair with Celine Dion's music in his book LET'S TALK ABOUT LOVE: A Journey to the End of Taste (pubbed in the 33 1/3 series by CONTINUUM BOOKS (and yes, they've already pubbed a Bruce Springsteen title, darn it).

Slow down. It just came to me. I chanced upon Carl Wilson's blog after a separate Google hit directed me to a YOUTUBE clip of actor James Franco talking on the Red Carpet about the book Franco was reading and loving: Yes, it was Carl Wilson's LET'S TALK ABOUT LOVE which I am SO going to buy when I have a few extra shekels; the completist in me will also have to dig in and pick up the Bruce Springsteen title which seems to be more about the BORN IN THE USA album/tour than about Bruce.

(I should also note here that in a great confluence of great worlds colliding, great actor James Franco-- have you seen him in MILK? Oh my g-d-- is the son of children's author Betsy Franco. I also learned from one of the Google hits that James Franco is taking creative writing courses at my alma mater, NYU.)

Deep breath.

Talk about following the bouncing ball! That was one long and winding road to get to what I'm really thinking about tonight but as I've mentioned time and again, half the beauty of blogging is understanding why you started writing that certain random something. It may not always make sense but when it does, I admit the connections and directions a mind travels is a wondrous thing to behold.

So. Turn the page. The journey continues. (Just see if AAA could make a better TripTik than me.) ;>

And the Beat Goes On.

Prose. Poetry. Pulse. Though not the first to get there, The Beatniks famously brought music and speech together, making jazz out of words and words out of jazz.

Makes me wish I could be a Beat Chick. Who knows. Maybe. One day.

I can't write music but I hear it. I hear it in everything I write. Even if I never intend those words to be read outloud, I don't think I can help but write with the rhythm I hear tracking in my brain.

Now would be a good time to play songs from my favorite Dylan album: BLOOD ON THE TRACKS. (Favorite song: YOU'RE A BIG GIRL NOW.) Because even if the stories I write seem confessional and drenched in real-life blood, they're not necessarily MY confessional or MY blood-- but they are the character's confessions and dripped in the blood of her voice. Think how many times has someone in your family asked you: "Did this really happen?" as if to ask you to pinpoint the date and time in your life the "fiction" you write about took place, as if all diary entries were based in reality, as if everything you write is true. No. Get it. That's why it's called art. Writing. Creativity. It happened. To Someone. Someone YOU made up from some artificial bubble that burst one day and turned into a real-life character with a real-life story to tell. If it's on the page, it's real. Play it as it lays.

Producer and composer David Amram worked with Jack Kerouac and together the made stories sing. (And what editor hasn't urged a writer to make her words sing?)

Even if the only music is in your head.

And if you take nothing else away from this jazzy, hip-hop slop of improvised thoughts today, listen to the advice offered by David Amram, speaking for the Beat Voices of another generation: Flush away people who tell you your art is hopeless. Family and friends may love you but if they tell you to the dream is not worth pursuing, you're hanging out with the wrong people. {}

Yeah, baby. That.


Dylan and Ginsberg hanging out at Jack Kerouac's grave

So much loss and pain and fear Out There
You have to find strength to love your art even when the lights are low and the joys are rare
Find beauty in those slivers of light, those intensely personal, small moments of glee.

I worry time is slipping away and all I want to write will never see life on a page
And in the end, what will matter of what I write? What will be important? The words I did say or did NOT say?

"The light that was in your eyes has gone away"

There's only one carnival of life... and this is your Last Carnival.

Will this be you one day soon:
Future You: "We walked 15 miles for a new book. Yes. The kind with a decorative cover. And real paper that curls in the heat. And we liked it!"

Present You: Call me corny as Kansas in August. You can't wrap your arm around a download. I treasure the words within and I'll follow them anywhere (sure, even into an e-reader) but There is Nothing Like A Book, Nothing in the World. There is Nothing you Can Claim that is Anything Like a Book.

From today's Penny Arcade

are days we celebrate with lovely friends. No need to wait for birthdays to share the love. But just in case he's out there, reading Live Journal and not solving scientific equations to save the world, here's wishing a Very Happy, Very Lucky Day to my March 6th Compadre and Happy Birthday Boy, docstymie Jeff.

Here's wishing you a "sloppy, but not too sloppy" day filled with love, luck and lots of laughs. Here's a little something from the Boss and The Ross. {} Something to kick this March 6th into gear. Go on. Open your present!

You, too. Yes, that means you. Dance Party!