When I was young, my grandmother would spend the mornings in her housecoat. By late morning, she'd settle into the soft chairs of her dining room table. To her right, there would always be a Pabst Blue Ribbon. To her left, an ash tray and a pack of Pall Malls. She'd crack open her beer and take a long draw from her cigarette before waving it in the air, punctuating this phrase with her fingers pointed in our direction:
"Now let me tell you something. . . "