Tricia, thank you for your kind note regarding your sale on rubber bands and the price discounts you allude to … as long as I purchase more than 500 pounds of rubber bands. Back in the summer of `84, my friend Joe Bob and I shared an apartment at 38th and Guadalupe. We had just moved to Austin and we wanted to be near campus. Mission accomplished. We were right across the street from the campus of the Austin State Hospital, which provided (and still does) psychiatric services for a 38 county region in Central Texas. We didn’t know it when we moved in, but some of our neighbors were outpatients of the campus across the street, which made for some really colorful memories. If you can imagine it Tricia, when we signed the lease Joe Bob and I believed we would spend our days lounging around the pool playing quarters with bikini-clad coeds. You see, despite the complete lack of corroborating evidence, we were incorrigible optimists. That’s why a few months later when the air conditioner (?) began to roar like a freight train and the swimming pool became a shallow green slime pit that qualified for EPA Superfund money, Joe Bob and I didn’t send a tersely worded letter to the apartment manager or contact the Texas Apartment Association. No, we took our lemons and made lemonade. How? By killing cockroaches. You see Tricia, not only were those apartments full of mental patients, broke foreigners, and hay chewing rubes like me and Joe Bob, they were also full of thousands, possibly millions of cockroaches. Whenever we turned out the lights our apartment became a veritable cockroach Woodstock. If we turned the lights back on, cockroaches would either freeze or scatter. We kept them busy like that for a while until the day Joe Bob brought home a box of rubber bands from his temp job. That night while finishing off our favored $1.29 six-packs of Texas Pride (you had to drink 4 so that the last two were palatable), we discovered that a well-shot rubber band could actually kill a cockroach. For the remainder of that lease we forgot about bikini-clad coeds and spent our nights drinking shitty beer and shooting cockroaches with rubber bands, which is why Tricia, I can’t buy your rubber bands. These days just looking at a box of rubber bands makes me all watery-eyed and sentimental. I’m sure you can understand and I wish you well in your business endeavors.