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Unusual Tales, Houston, TX (2026)

05/09/2026

She was 22 years old, unknown outside a small Canadian city, when 1 television appearance changed everything. Within 3 years, she became the most recognized woman on the planet. Over 30 years later, the world is still getting her wrong.
Her name is Pamela Anderson.
She was born on July 1, 1967, in Ladysmith, British Columbia, Canada.
A small town. A working-class family. A girl who grew up far from Hollywood, far from cameras, far from anything resembling the life that was coming.
Her father was a furnace repairman. Her mother was a waitress. Money was tight. Life was quiet.
Pamela was shy.
That detail tends to surprise people.
But it is true. She was not the loud, attention-seeking girl the tabloids later invented. She was reserved. She loved animals. She spent her childhood outdoors, in the forests and on the beaches of Vancouver Island.
Then came October 1989.
Pamela is sitting in the stands at a BC Lions Canadian football game in Vancouver. She is 22 years old. She is wearing a Labatt's Blue beer t-shirt.
A cameraman spots her in the crowd and puts her face on the stadium Jumbotron.
60,000 people cheer.
The Labatt's team notices. They offer her a promotional contract on the spot.
Her face begins appearing on beer advertisements across Canada.
A photographer sees the ads.
That photographer has a contact at Pl***oy magazine.
Within months, Pamela Anderson is on the cover.
Her life changes overnight — and it never slows down again.
By 1991, she lands a small recurring role on the television series Home Improvement as the Tool Time girl. It is not a large part. She has maybe 3 or 4 lines per episode.
But 8 million people see her every week.
Then comes the role that turns her into a global phenomenon.

Baywatch.

The show had already been cancelled once by NBC in 1990 due to low ratings. It was revived in syndication and was quietly rebuilding its audience when Pamela joins the cast as C.J. Parker — a lifeguard on the beaches of Los Angeles.
What happens next is almost impossible to explain by normal standards of fame.
Baywatch becomes the most watched television show on Earth.
At its peak in the mid-1990s, the show reaches an estimated 1.1 billion viewers across more than 140 countries every single week.
1.1 billion.
That number is not a typo.
No scripted television show before or since has matched it.
And Pamela Anderson — running on that beach in a red swimsuit — becomes the single most reproduced female image of the entire decade.
Posters. Magazine covers. Merchandise. Newspaper front pages. Television specials.
Her face is everywhere on Earth simultaneously.
Here is what most people don't know about that period: she was working constantly. Baywatch filmed fast and hard. The cast was on that beach in all weather, in the cold Pacific water, doing their own physical work. Pamela did most of her own scenes. She showed up every day.
She was also doing something else entirely in private.
She was reading. Studying philosophy. Writing in journals. Following environmental causes and animal rights activism with genuine passion — not for publicity, but because she had cared about those issues since childhood.
She became one of PETA's most visible advocates in the 1990s, using her platform to fight against fur, animal testing, and factory farming at a time when celebrity activism was far less common than it is today.
The tabloids ignored all of it.
They preferred a different story.
Here's what makes this harder to look at honestly: the 1990s were not kind to women in the public eye — especially women whose looks were considered their primary value.
Pamela Anderson was relentlessly mocked. Her intelligence was dismissed. Her choices were ridiculed. Her private life was treated as public entertainment without her consent.
In 1995, a private videotape recorded during her honeymoon with musician Tommy Lee was stolen from their home and distributed without her permission.
She was 27 years old.
The tape spread across the early internet and was sold commercially — while she fought legally for years to stop it.
The courts gave her almost nothing.
The media treated it as a joke.
She lost that battle in the most public and humiliating way imaginable, with the entire world watching and laughing.
She kept working.
She kept showing up.
She launched her own production company. She wrote novels — actual novels, with co-author. She returned to the stage and screen multiple times across the following decades. She walked runways in Paris and New York. She appeared in theatre productions in London's West End.
In 2023, something shifted.
The Netflix documentary Pamela, a love story and the Hulu series Pam and Tommy brought her story back into public conversation — this time with a very different tone.
People watched with fresh eyes.
And they saw what had always been there: a woman of genuine intelligence, warmth, and resilience who had been laughed at for 30 years for surviving things that should have broken her.
She was not what the 1990s told you she was.
She was never what the 1990s told you she was.
In 2023, she also appeared in the Broadway revival of The Visit — her stage debut — and received reviews that genuinely surprised critics who had never taken her seriously enough to look closely.
She was 55 years old.
She had been in the public eye for more than 3 decades.
And she was still arriving somewhere new.
That is not a comeback.
That is character.
Share this with someone who needs to be reminded that the loudest voices in a room are not always the most accurate — and that the people the world laughs at hardest are sometimes the ones who deserved far better all along.

05/07/2026

When Dawson's Creek premiered on January 20, 1998, The WB was building its identity around young audiences. The teen drama ran 6 seasons and 128 episodes, drawing 5 to 7 million viewers a week. It became one of the defining shows of late-1990s television.
Peil played Evelyn "Grams" Ryan.
On paper, the role was small. A strict, religious grandmother meant to create conflict for her granddaughter's storyline. But something shifted as the series developed.
The character grew.
Writers expanded Grams into one of the show's emotional anchors. They gave her storylines about loss, faith, acceptance, and quiet personal growth. In a series built around teenage drama, the most consistent emotional stability came from a woman in her late 50s and early 60s. She appeared in 74 of the show's 128 episodes — and was the only female actor credited as a regular through all 6 seasons alongside the four young leads.
But the road to that role had been long.
Peil was born in Davenport, Iowa, on June 25, 1940. She trained as an opera singer at Northwestern University. In 1964, she won two of the most prestigious singing competitions in the country, including the Metropolitan Opera National Council Auditions. That win earned her a contract with the Metropolitan Opera National Company, where she toured 72 cities as a leading soprano.
She was a classical artist first.
For decades, she lived inside a different world entirely — opera houses, regional theater, musicals. In 1985, she earned a Tony Award nomination for playing Anna opposite Yul Brynner in the Broadway revival of The King and I. She built a Broadway resume most actresses would dream of.
But television came late.
She did not make her film debut until 1992. Her first television appearance came in 1994, on Law & Order. She was already in her 50s when the screen world finally opened up.
Then Dawson's Creek arrived.
The casting did not fit the usual pattern. Youth-focused networks rarely build recurring roles around women her age. But the writers found something in her — a stillness, a depth earned over decades on stage — that grounded the entire show.
The visibility kept growing.
By the early 2000s, she was familiar to millions of viewers. The show's long syndication life kept Grams alive in living rooms long after the finale aired in May 2003.
And then it happened again.
In 2009, Peil joined The Good Wife as Jackie Florrick, the formidable mother-in-law of the show's lead. She stayed with the series across multiple seasons, all the way to its finale in 2016. A second generation of viewers met her in their 30s and 40s, never realizing she had also raised the grandmother they once watched as teenagers.
In 2017, at 76 years old, she earned her second Tony Award nomination — this time for her role as the Dowager Empress in the Broadway musical Anastasia.
The numbers tell the arc.
Her television breakout came at 57. Her second major recurring role started in her late 60s. Her second Tony nomination came at 76. Decades after most performers slow down, she was still creating roles audiences would remember.
To viewers, Mary Beth Peil was the grandmother whose perspective grounded a show about growing up.
Behind the scenes, she had already lived as an opera soprano, a Broadway leading lady, and a quiet mother raising two children in New Jersey. Television was simply the last room she walked into — and she walked in fully prepared.
In an industry obsessed with youth, her career carries a different truth.
Sometimes the work that defines you in public arrives long after the work that built you in private.
And sometimes, the most powerful presence on screen belongs to the person who waited the longest to arrive.

~Unusual Tales

05/07/2026

The audience saw Amanda Woodward. Sharp. Magnetic. The character who rewired an entire show. The system saw something else. A late addition that could flip a failing product without changing who held the value.
Two different outcomes. One performance. One structure.
Melrose Place premiered on Fox in July 1992. The first season struggled. The creator himself admitted the show could not define itself. Ratings were soft. Cancellation was on the table. Then Heather Locklear walked in for Season 2 as Amanda Woodward, an advertising executive who climbed by any means available. The show transformed almost overnight.
Her co-stars later said it plainly. They were close to being canceled until she arrived. The show's creator said she could not say hello without an agenda. That intensity became the engine. The show ran another 6 seasons. It produced 226 episodes. It crossed borders. It built decades of replay value.
She showed up every episode. She raised the stakes. She reset the war between characters. She carried the cover of Rolling Stone. She earned 4 consecutive Golden Globe nominations. She became the face people remembered when they remembered the show at all.
But here is the quiet part most viewers never think about.
Prime-time soaps make money in layers. There is the original broadcast. Then advertising. Then international licensing. Then syndication. Then home video. Then streaming rights, decades later. Each layer multiplies the value of the original product. Each layer keeps generating revenue long after the cameras stop rolling.
A performer is paid for the broadcast layer. The deeper layers belong to the studio and the network. That is how the business has worked for decades. Spelling Television produced Melrose Place. Fox aired it. The studio held the asset. The actor held a paycheck.
This is not a story about one woman being treated unfairly. It is the standard structure of network television. It applied to almost every breakout star of that era. The system was built long before any of them showed up.
But the contradiction is still worth seeing.
A performer transformed a struggling series into a global brand. The brand multiplied in value across decades. The performer did not multiply with it. The audience saw dominance on screen. The structure quietly enforced a different hierarchy off screen.
Breakout power can revive a show. It cannot rewrite a contract that was signed before the breakout happened. The system absorbs what works. It scales it. It keeps the upside above.
She was not just a co-lead. She was the trigger. The trigger that forced the system to accelerate without ever handing over control of what that acceleration created.
The industry did not overlook her. It expanded around her impact. It built a longer life for the show because of her. It moved her from guest star to billed lead. It paid her well. But it kept the asset.
The narrative says she made Melrose Place a hit. The structure shows the system owned what that hit became.
This is the lesson hidden inside almost every breakout story in entertainment, sports, and music. Talent revives the product. Talent rarely owns the product. The people who understand this early in their careers negotiate differently. The people who understand it late often carry quiet regret.
Visibility is not equity. Influence is not ownership. A performance that saves a show is not the same as a contract that shares in it.
The ones who learn this can still build. The ones who don't keep saving things they will never get back.

~Unusual Tales

05/07/2026

Twenty years ago, Anne Hathaway played Andy Sachs, the wide-eyed assistant in The Devil Wears Prada. The film became one of the most quoted comedies of its generation. When Disney announced a sequel two decades later, with Meryl Streep, Emily Blunt, and Stanley Tucci all returning, the world held its breath. The film cost roughly $100 million to produce. The pressure was enormous.
But what happened on set was something the cameras did not capture.
During filming of one fashion scene, Hathaway looked around and noticed the models cast for the moment were all extremely thin. She had grown up in Hollywood. She knew exactly what that look had cost women in the fashion industry for decades. She had also been on the receiving end of that same culture herself when she was a younger actress.
So she walked up to the producers and asked one simple question. She did not demand. She did not accuse. She just asked, "Don't you think this scene would be stronger if we had a more inclusive approach to sizing?"
The producers paused. They looked up. According to Hathaway, they were embarrassed they had not noticed it themselves. They told her they had been so locked into the rhythm of production that they had simply gone with the flow. Within two hours, more models with a wider range of body types had been brought to set. The scene was filmed with everyone there.
That should have been the end of the story.
But when Meryl Streep mentioned the moment in a Harper's Bazaar interview, social media took the story and twisted it. Posts began circulating claiming that Hathaway had gotten models fired. The narrative spread fast because it fit a stereotype people already wanted to believe — actresses bullying models, Hollywood pushing fashion around, one woman costing other women their jobs.
None of it was true.
On April 27, 2026, Hathaway went on Good Morning America and shut the rumor down. She said directly, "There's a little misinformation getting out there right now that people were fired because of the size inclusivity, and that just didn't happen. Nobody lost their jobs. In fact, it created more jobs."
She did not get angry. She did not name the people spreading the rumor. She just told the truth, calmly and quickly, before the story could harden into a permanent lie.
That is the part most people missed.
In an industry where silence is often the safest career move, Hathaway chose to speak the moment the story started to twist. She did not let a kind gesture get rewritten as a cruel one. She did not let other women's careers be used as a weapon against her name. She simply set the record straight and moved on.
The lesson sits quietly inside the whole story. Real change does not always come from a speech or a manifesto. Sometimes it comes from one person noticing something in a room, asking one polite question, and giving the people in charge a chance to do the right thing. And when the world tries to rewrite that small kindness into something ugly, the answer is not to fight back with louder noise. The answer is to tell the truth clearly, once, and let the truth carry itself.
Anne Hathaway did not start a revolution. She did something rarer. She paid attention, she spoke up gently, and she refused to let a good moment be twisted into a bad one.
That is what quiet courage actually looks like.

~Unusual Tales

05/07/2026

In 1989, When Harry Met Sally was not just a hit. It was a blueprint. The famous deli scene was not a happy accident. Rob Reiner pushed for take after take. Nora Ephron sharpened every line of dialogue. But the choice that turned a clever scene into a cultural earthquake belonged to Meg Ryan. She went all in. No vanity. No hedging. No safe version. That fearless take made her a star overnight.
The film cost only $16 million. It earned around $93 million in North America and roughly $100 million more overseas. Studios saw the numbers and saw something even more valuable. They saw a formula.
Then came Sleepless in Seattle in 1993, which earned $227 million worldwide. Then You've Got Mail in 1998, which earned more than $250 million. Same warmth. Same vulnerability. Same Meg. Different scripts. By the early 2000s, she was commanding $15 million per picture for Proof of Life and Kate & Leopold, sitting at the same salary table as the action stars.
But the real currency was not money. It was predictability. If Meg Ryan smiled on a poster, studios could forecast opening weekends with frightening accuracy. That is when the trap closed.
Hollywood did not see range. It saw a repeatable product. The relatable woman. The safe emotional bet. The system scaled her up and quietly fenced her in.
In 2003, she walked straight through the fence.
She signed onto In the Cut, a dark and explicit psychological thriller directed by Oscar winner Jane Campion. There was no charm. No safety net. No happy ending. It was not a pivot. It was a refusal.
The reaction was brutal. Critics did not treat it as a creative risk. They treated it as a fall. Audiences gave it an F on CinemaScore. The film made under $24 million worldwide. The same industry that paid her $15 million per picture quietly recalculated her market value almost overnight.
At the same time, her private life became a headline. Her relationship with Russell Crowe during the filming of Proof of Life collided publicly with her marriage to Dennis Quaid. Tabloids shifted her image from America's sweetheart to something harder to sell. She has said the marriage was already in trouble before that, but the public narrative had already taken over.
That shift mattered more than any single film. Because her entire economic value rested on audience trust in one specific persona. Once that crack appeared, no studio fought to repair it. They simply moved on to the next bankable face.
Meg Ryan did not lose her talent. She lost alignment with the system that profited from her. So she stepped back. Fewer roles. More control. In 2015, she directed Ithaca and stepped behind the camera. In 2023, she returned with What Happens Later, a film she wrote, directed, and starred in.
The deli scene made her indispensable. Trying to outgrow it made her expendable.
That is the contract Hollywood never puts in writing. You can build the system, but the moment you stop feeding it exactly what it expects, it quietly replaces you with someone who will.
The lesson is bigger than one actress. Every industry has its deli scenes. Every system rewards repetition and punishes reinvention. The artists who survive are not the ones who play it safe. They are the ones who decide that owning their story is worth more than feeding a machine.

~Unusual Tales

05/07/2026

His name was Anthony Edwards. And his choice stunned Hollywood.
When ER dominated the late 1990s, it was not just a hit. It was a ratings powerhouse, regularly ranking in the Top 5 and pulling 30 to 40 million viewers every week at its peak. Edwards had played Dr. Mark Greene since the very first episode in 1994. He was the calm, steady heart of the show. The doctor who held the emergency room together. The face millions of Americans tuned in to see every Thursday night.
Then NBC made him an offer no one in his position had ever received.
In 1999, the network signed him to a 3-year deal worth $35 million. That worked out to about $530,000 per episode. It made him the highest-paid actor on television at the time, beating out nearly every star in the industry. For most actors, that kind of money ends the conversation forever.
But after 8 seasons, Anthony Edwards quietly made up his mind.
He was leaving.
Not because of a feud. Not because of a scandal. Not because of a better offer. He was tired. Network television demanded 22 to 24 episodes a year. Long shooting days. Endless schedules. Years tied to Los Angeles. He had a wife and four children. And he had spent nearly a decade with his family building their lives around his shooting calendar.
In 2001, he told the Associated Press something that stayed with people. He said it had been "eight years of my family working around my schedule."
That was the real reason.
Not money. Not fame. Time.
His final episode aired on May 9, 2002. It was called "On the Beach." Dr. Mark Greene, dying of a brain tumor, takes his rebellious teenage daughter to Hawaii to reconnect before he is gone. There are no big medical emergencies. No dramatic surgeries. Just a father trying to teach his daughter the things he never had the time to say.
In one of the most quoted scenes in television history, he tells her:
"Be generous. Be generous with your time, with your love, with your life."
Then he sings "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" softly to his baby daughter Ella as she sleeps. He dies peacefully in his sleep with the song still playing.
Millions of viewers watched it live. Millions cried. Two decades later, fans still call it one of the most heartbreaking episodes of television ever made. It earned an Emmy nomination for writing and remains a landmark moment in TV history.
But the most powerful part was not on screen.
It was the choice Anthony Edwards made off it.
By stepping away after Season 8, he turned down the chance to keep collecting one of the highest paychecks in the industry. ER would go on to run 15 seasons and 331 episodes. He could have stayed. He could have negotiated again. He could have become one of the wealthiest TV actors of all time.
He chose his family instead.
And he did not jump straight into another show. He did not chase another network deal. He stepped back from full-time television, took on selective film and directing work, and built a quieter life around the people he loved most.
Years later, looking back, he never expressed regret.
The numbers tell the scale of what he gave up. 8 seasons. 181 episodes. A $35 million contract. The respect of an entire industry. A farewell episode watched by tens of millions of viewers.
To audiences, Anthony Edwards was the doctor who held the emergency room together. The man with the calm voice and the kind eyes. The face that made America feel safe on a Thursday night.
But behind the cameras, he was something more rare.
He was a man who knew the difference between what the world calls success and what actually matters.
In an industry built on holding on, on fighting for one more contract, one more season, one more headline, Anthony Edwards did the opposite.
He let go.
Not because he had to. Because he wanted to be there. Present. Awake. Available. For the people who would still be there long after the cameras stopped rolling.
He walked away from the biggest paycheck of his career because he understood something most people learn far too late.
You can always earn more money.
You can never earn more time.

~Unusual Tales

05/06/2026

Charlene Tilton wasn't hired to carry Dallas. Lucy Ewing was supposed to be background chaos. The wild teenage granddaughter. The troublemaker who creates problems for the adults to solve.
Then the audience locked onto her.
Impulsive marriages. A kidnapping. A divorce. A pregnancy and an abortion that shocked television in 1982. Lucy wasn't just drama. She was the storyline younger viewers followed week after week. Charlene Tilton went from unknown teenager to magazine covers, talk shows, and global recognition. She pulled in audiences that the oil wars and boardroom fights alone could not reach.
She became the show's volatility.
And volatility has a shelf life.
By the mid-1980s, the focus of Dallas was shifting. The series was moving deeper into power politics, corporate battles, and the long war over Ewing Oil. The personal chaos that made Lucy compelling started to feel less central to where the writers were taking the show.
So the show made a decision.
At the end of season 8 in 1985, Lucy Ewing was written out. Reports at the time were mixed. Some said it was a creative decision by the studio. Some said the actress chose to leave. Larry Hagman, who played J.R., was reportedly disappointed and later helped bring her back. But the deeper truth was hard to ignore.
The show kept going.
The focus moved back to J.R., Bobby, and the empire. The ratings stayed strong. The brand of Dallas became less about youthful drama and more about the slow, ruthless business of family power.
Charlene Tilton returned later, in 1988, and again in 1990. Then guest appearances. Short arcs. Familiar face, controlled usage. She even came back for the 2012 TNT revival to honor the show's legacy. The industry didn't reject her. It redefined her. From engine to accessory.
Here is the part that's hard to say out loud.
Charlene Tilton didn't lose her talent. She didn't lose her audience. She was simply repositioned once her kind of energy stopped fitting what the show wanted to sell. Youthful chaos built attention. Corporate power sustained it. The system chose what looked sustainable.
After Dallas, the pattern held for many of her co-stars too. Visibility without dominance. Recognition without control. The same actress who once drove headlines became someone the industry could use in smaller, safer doses.
Dallas still reruns around the world.
Lucy Ewing still causes chaos on screen.
The energy still works.
But the show's legacy isn't built around her, and that quiet fact reveals something bigger than one career.
If you bring volatility that pulls in attention, the system will use it.
If that volatility stops fitting the long-term plan, the system will move on without it.
Charlene Tilton lived through something American television repeats over and over again, in show after show, decade after decade.
You can be the reason people start watching.
And still not be the reason the system decides to keep going.
That's not cruelty. That's not failure. That's just how big machines work when the spotlight becomes a business.
The lesson isn't sad. It's clarifying.
Know what you bring. Know how long it fits. And never confuse being useful to a system with being protected by it.

~Unusual Tales

05/05/2026

The man at the desk that day was Dr. Irving Finkel, a curator at the British Museum and one of the very few people alive who can sight-read cuneiform, the wedge-shaped writing of ancient Mesopotamia. He had translated thousands of clay tablets in his career. Contracts. Prayers. Grocery lists. Lullabies. Magic spells. He was, by all accounts, a man who had earned the right to be hard to surprise.
The visitor was Douglas Simmonds. His father, Leonard, had served with the RAF in the Near East at the end of the Second World War and brought home a small bag of antiquities. Douglas had inherited the collection and wanted Finkel to take a look.
Finkel picked up one tablet. He read the first line. Then the second. Then the third.
"Wall, wall! Reed wall, reed wall! Atra-hasis…"
These are the famous opening lines of the Babylonian Flood Story. Finkel asked, almost shaking, if he could keep the tablet to translate. Douglas politely refused and walked out of the museum with it in his bag.
Finkel waited. One year. Five years. Ten years.
It was not until 2009, twenty-four years later, that Douglas finally agreed to bring the tablet back for proper study. By then, he had even had it professionally fired so it would not crumble. Finkel locked himself in his office with a lamp, a lens, and a freshly sharpened pencil.
What he found was not just a story.
It was a manual.
The Babylonian god Enki, sympathetic to humanity, was telling a man named Atra-hasis exactly how to build a boat to survive a coming flood. Materials. Quantities. Dimensions. Methods. Sixty lines of practical Bronze Age shipbuilding instructions, written down between 1900 and 1700 BCE — almost 4,000 years ago.
But here was the part that stopped Finkel cold.
The boat was round.
It was a giant Mesopotamian coracle, a basket-shaped river craft of the kind people in southern Iraq still used until the 1970s. The instructions called for palm-fibre rope, wooden ribs, and hot bitumen to seal the hull. The base was about 3,600 square metres, roughly two-thirds the size of a football field, with walls about 6 metres high.
Then, near the bottom of the tablet, came the line that truly shocked the scholarly world.
The instruction for the animals.
"Two by two."
For centuries, those three words had been considered a unique signature of the Book of Genesis. A phrase printed on every children's book, every Sunday school illustration, every Hollywood Noah film. They turned out to be a fixed Babylonian phrase already a thousand years old when the Hebrew authors of Genesis began writing.
When Finkel published his findings in 2014 in the book "The Ark Before Noah," the response was enormous. But he wanted to know one more thing.
Did the ancient instructions actually work?
So he helped build the boat. A team of about 40 traditional craftsmen in Kerala, India, spent six months constructing a roughly one-fifth scale replica, following the recipe in the clay. Palm-fibre rope. Wooden ribs. Hot bitumen.
When they pushed it into the water, it floated.
It also leaked, and a small pump was used to manage the seepage. Finkel himself was honest about the limits. He said he was "107 percent convinced" no real ark ever existed at full scale. The Babylonians, he explained, did not have the wood-splicing technology to build the real thing. But the design, the principle, the engineering memory of how to make a giant basket float on rising water — that was real. That was four thousand years old. And it worked.
Mesopotamian, Hebrew, Greek, Hindu, Chinese — civilisations across thousands of miles and thousands of years all carried different versions of the same memory. The rains came. The rivers rose. Someone built something that floated. And someone else lived to tell the story.
The Ark Tablet itself is small enough to hold in one hand. It is privately owned and rarely on public display. Most people will never see it.
But for four thousand years, in a piece of dried Iraqi clay, the answer to one of the oldest questions humans have ever asked sat quietly waiting.
How do we survive when everything is lost?
We make something that floats. We bring what we love. We help each other into the boat.
And we tell the story afterwards, so the next time the water rises, somebody else will know what to do.

~Unusual Tales

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