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Now how the fuck did he know I had a blog?
Had a long night. I wake up this morning and walk around in a daze, wishing like shit that I had a cup of coffee, but too fried to even contemplate making coffee or walking over to the local coffee merchant. And then I see it.
At first, it looks just like a spot of sunlight, right in front of the door, but I know that can't be right, because the door's too far away from the window to be getting any direct sunlight. Besides, there's something wrong with the color. It was too white.
It was an envelope. Apparently, someone had slid it under the door--someone real classy, given the loop of red ribbon (lined with gold colored thread) tied around its unmarked surface.
Like any no-nonsense private eye, Steve Forceman has a lot of enemies. And some of them are clever enough to have, oh, maybe laced an envelope with some deadly biological or chemical agent. So you'll understand if the first thing I did was to don a pair of latex gloves and give the thing a look.
Now I couldn't have a full toxicological screen run on the thing, as I'd pissed off my contact at the FBI. (The regular cops had hated me for a long time already.) We were drunk one night, and I told him he looked like Cher. And he said, like Cher when she was on Sonny & Cher? And I said, no, more like she looked in Silkwood. And he got mad and said to go fuck myself. With relish. And I was gonna ask him where he got that 'with relish' part, because it seemed pretty clever at the time. (It seems pretty dumb now.)
But instead I started to tell him about this secret fantasy I'd always had about doing a three-way with Cher and Gertrude Stein, while Alice B. Toklas watched and jerked off, but he'd already left right after he'd told me to go fuck myself with relish, so instead I told my fantasy to the whole bar. Little Joe, the bartender, wanted to know whether Alice B. Toklas was using her hand to jerk off, because he sorta pictured her using a vibrator or maybe a dildo. And this burntout lady with dyed red hair at the end of the bar wanted to know what positions we'd all be in, but she must've had too much to drink, because she had to go puke before I finished my description. And this guy in a Mark Prior jersey--come to think of it, he could've been Mark Prior--he was that bland and pale and fishy--(and if it was Mark Prior, I'm really pissed that I didn't have the presence of mind to ask him for his autograph, or at least threaten to beat the shit out of him if he landed on the disabled list again anytime in the next, like, 5 years)--well, he wanted to know if maybe Sonny could get in on the action--maybe on the sidelines with Alice B. Toklas or something. And I said that was a stupid idea.
And this old guy, who actually seemed to've waxed his mustache like they used to in the old days, wanted to know if Gertrude Stein would be saying, Don't, pussy. Don't. Don't, please don't. I'll do anything, pussy, but please don't do it. Please don't. Please don't pussy... as Ernest Hemingway claimed he heard her 'pleading and begging' under (presumably) similar circumstances in A Moveable Feast. And if so, this guy wanted to know, whom would she be addressing? Me, Cher, or Alice B. Toklas? And would the stresses fall on 'please' or 'don't' or 'pussy' or what?
And someone else wanted to know who Gertrude Stein was, and when I scornfully replied, You don't know who arguably the greatest voice of modernism in 20th century English literature is, you little piece of shit? he tried to save face by saying that he might not know who Gertrude Stein was, but he sure as shit knew who Alice B. Toklas was. And I said, gimme a break. (I sure do need one). How the fuck can you know who Alice B. Toklas is if you don't know who Gertrude Stein is? Otherwise Alice B. Toklas is, at best, a literary footnote.
And then he really threw me and said that Alice B. Toklas was the main character in The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, which was his favorite book. As everyone knows, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas was written by Gertrude Stein for Chrissake!!!! So I asked him who wrote the goddamned book, since it was his favorite and all. And he said that the copy his beloved Czech grandmother gave him on her bedbug be-ridden deathbed, was missing its cover and frontispiece, and he'd always wondered who'd written the thing, but had never checked, because he wanted to remember the book exactly as his grandmother had given it to him, which meant that, among other things, he must never know who wrote the book, and that I had now ruined it for him.
I was going to mention that avoiding knowledge of the authorial identity of The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas seemed like a peculiarly idiosyncratic way to maintain his memory of the book's original condition, since how did the absence of a page and a cover--that is strictly physical details, which could easily be preserved otherwise--necessitate this ignorance?
That bit of incisive thinking probably would've really pissed him off, because it might be construed as insensitive, but he was already taking a swing at me, so I didn't have time to utter a single word. Instead, I ducked beneath his out-flung arm. (His aim was bad due to his state of inebriation.) And I grabbed a bottle and tried to break it across the bar, like they do in the movies, and then I'd slash at him and stuff like that--not really hurt him, as I didn't want any long term jail time, but, you know, just kind of keep him at bay--maybe even scare him off. But after the second try, the bottle still hadn't broken (which seemed pretty unlikely). Fortunately he passed out at exactly that moment--probably due to the sudden exertion of taking a swing at me after god knows how many hours of sessile boozing.
And Little Joe the bartender told me I'd have to leave because I was too drunk and rowdy. And while he led me to the door, I saw that the woman at the end of the bar had returned from the lavatory and that her hair wasn't dyed--it was a wig. Anyway, I asked her if she'd like to fuck. And she called me an asshole, and she was probably right. I'm not sure.
But so, I couldn't get the tox screen. So I was just gonna try to eyeball the envelope--you know, look for white powder and stuff like that. And maybe give it a good sniff, but from a distance, because if it smelled like almonds, it was cyanide, and if it smelled like oranges, I was about to have a seizure. There might have been the faintest breath of cologne, but otherwise, it didn't smell much at all. So I opened it, taking similar precautions, and found nothing that appeared to be dangerous. Only a crisply folded piece of plain white paper, that, when unfolded bore a bold, flowing script.
In black ink it was, and judging from its layout, it was a poem. Its title was: "So you want a sonnet? Then I will give you a sonnet!" Beneath that, lay the verse itself:
The eagle suffers little birds to sing,
Thus do I bear the poop you do sling;
Poop? Who the hell wrote this thing anyway? And I'm not so sure about that meter. But it continued:
These words are razors aimed at your foul heart,
I hope they do rip and tear it apart;
My sphincter you call tight, but yours is quite loose,
For you love riding the fleshy caboose;
Now that's getting a little personal. But like, how seriously can you take this guy's writing? It didn't hurt me one bit. And notice how he avoids vulgar words, but still uses vulgar metaphors! What a hypocrite and/or prude!
And he's also a homophobe. And like, if you are going to write insensitively about acts of homoeros, at least get your imagery straight. One doesn't ride the caboose, one takes it there. I mean, in there. (Except, to be fair, now that I think about it, his modification of this popular metaphor sorta makes sense. The caboose is in the rear--of the train, I mean. So he's making it like it's in the rear of the receiving party. See?)
But so, here's more:
You find me alluring, or so you do say;
Deep is my dislike of those who are gay;
See? I told you. Homophobic asshole!
In marsh do I lurk, sometimes it is true,
But at least I have a real job, unlike you;
Ha! I knew I saw him in the mud! And I knew he thought I was some kinda bum too.
When Yuletide arrives, your spirits are cheap;
In poop may you drown, a big steamin' heap!
Well, fuck. Was that the problem? I mean, do you tip your building maintenance guy? But, OK, it's a human concern, at least--a personal pain I unintentionally inflicted on the guy. Maybe he's not such a bad building maintenance guy after all! Maybe he just needs a little love...
At least, that's what I thought till I saw the bottom of the page:
"My poetry is better than yours, poophead! And your 'blog' stinks of year old oats and beet paste! Write never of me there again, or else I will cut off all your water! Try and make a poop then! Hahaha!"
I guess I'll have to take his word on that oats and beet paste thing. (He actually wrote out "Hahaha," by the way.) Anyway, I guess I'll make sure to tip the fucker, come the holidays. But he better watch out...
Anyway, that's it till next time. It'll be about Hawaii, I hope, because otherwise, I'm gonna forget everything that happened on my trip. Hope all is well, Sloth. And anybody else who might read this...
Yours Truly, S Forceman, P.I.
See, I would get back to this Hawaii thing. (I will, dammit. That is my blood vow.) However, shit keeps happening. Like first this tagging thing. (Which was cool and all, don't get me wrong. I'm honored to've been tagged.) And then...
My sink was fucked up. No hot water. And while Steve Forceman, P.I. is about as masculine as you can get without exploding into a volcano of semen, testosterone n' beer, he's not, strangely, very mechanically inclined. Well--maybe about some stuff, but not so much plumbing. (Ha ha! "Plumbing.")
So, like, I put in a call to the building management office, & yonder rides Titus, our building super. Titus is a gentlemen of Eastern European extraction--judging by his accent (and Steve Forceman's limited ability to identify it). (Or maybe he's Roman--I mean, dig that name.) A distinguished figure is he, with salt n' pepper hair, a spiffy white shirt (complete with his emblazoned name) that is never less than dazzling--like, if you look at it, you will see nought but prismatic spots for several minutes--dark, ruddy type complexion and soulful brown eyes. I'd fuck him in a NY minute. Fuck that. I'd fuck him in a NY second. Fuck that. I'd fuck him in a NY nanosecond. Fuck that... well, you get the idea.
Anyway, I get the sense that Titus doesn't like me. There's a sourness that creeps into his demeanor when he's dealing with me. And no, I'm not making this up. Nor am I paranoid. I've seen him with others, and he seems, like, substantially more congenial. My intuition is that he dislikes me because I keep odd hours. (And as ol' Steve Forceman is a P.I. who must live and die by his wits, you better believe his powers of intuition are a little more than formidable.)
I think that he thinks that that means I'm some sort of unemployed slacker sort of fellow, and that's flat out horseshit, as I work harder than whatsisface cleaning the Aegean stables. (What the hell was that guy's name anyway? And why do I have an easier time remembering the name of the Aegean stables? Hmmm...)
So he comes to my place and dismantles the whole sink, while I'm trying to type up some really riveting stuff about Hawaii that can be posted at my blog, and he just totally ruined the mood. Who'd've thought of it? TItus? Ruin the mood? I told ya already, that guy is nothing but pure eros.
But still, so he ruined the mood, and then had the audacity to bitch at me for washing coffee grounds down my garbage disposal. I mean, what the fuck's a garbage disposal for, anyway? Last time I checked, it was for the disposal of garbage. I think.
He really pissed me off, Titus.
Titus.
Titus licks his mother's pussy. Titus ricks his brother's kussy. Titus likes men in little leather panties. He likes to fondle their packages and bathe in his own sperm. Titus will eat a flower right off the end of yr. dick. And for today, at least, Titus is controlling my life.
Titus reeks of goat milk. Titus peeks at rote kilts. Titus Titus Titus. Tight ass tight ass tight ass. Titus, don't smite us! (Or bite us, for that matter.) Titus, light us a ciggy wiggy. Titus might as well go back to Serbia (or whatever fine nation he hales from). Titus should write book blurbies.
I bet Titus eats cat feces. I bet Titus bleats bat pieces. He fucks 'em and sucks 'em for fun and for sport. He chucks them and mucks them, Oh! how he cavorts!
Titus is an ancient Greek philosopher, greater than Plato or Aristotle, but this is not known, because all of his works were lost in a fire at Halicarnassus ca. 300 B.C. That's when he's not being a handyman, obviously.
Titus lurks amongst cats tails and mud, at the edge of the marsh and pond. Clutching dirt thing, Titus waits.
Titus has a head cold. And syphilis.
Titus wants to love you down. (Even if it takes all night.) Titus gwines ter shove you down. Ooohh you make him feel so tight. Titus pukes up miles of back road. Titus inhales an entire tank of oxygen in one gasp. Then he lights a cigarette and explodes. Then he eats an orange sherbet push up in the backyard of the house where I was born. Titus feels nothing but scorn. Titus has bad corns.
So you understand my dilemma.
More about Hawaii soon...
So here are the five people I tagged (see entry Beware: It Could Happen to You! below):
Eric
Jaime Adrian
Jackson West
Lorelei
pup
Here's hoping they don't mind me linking to them. (If any of you read this and want me to unlink you, just let me know. Apologies, if necessary, in advance.)
Meanwhile, here's another image of Hawaii. That's the international observatories atop Mauna Kea. It's not a post card. Really. I was there. It was ass cold. More about it later...
Steve Forceman has left the building. Except he's still typing this shit, so he must still be here somewhere. And he's no freakin' Elvis, while we're on the subject. Which, while unfortunate in some respects, is arguably good in others--like, for instance, (but not limited to) the fact that he's not dead. (But what's fucked up either way is how he's referring to himself in the 3rd person.) Whatever. I/he am/is gone...
OK something came up that's immediate. It has little to do with Thing-Fish and pretty much nothing to do with my trip to Hawaii, (which I will get back to within a week or so). But I have to deal with it here.
I'm here to tell you that there is a vast, sinister internet conspiracy goin' on. It dictates that if you maintain a blog, you may be tagged. If you are, and you're willing to play, here's what you're supposed to do:
1) At your blog, present a list of ten songs that you have been diggin' lately.
2) Then tag five more people.
Thanks to Jarrod for tagging me. Following his example, I'm cheating by adding an extra song:
Where Eagles Dare - The Misfits
Mary of Silence - Mazzy Star
Cocaine Blues - Johnny Cash
Gimme a Pigfoot - Bessie Smith
A Pox on You - Silver Apples
You Crummy - Lee "Scratch" Perry
Philosophy of the World - The Shaggs
Welfare Love - Kool Keith
White Blur 2 - Aphex Twin
A Cosmic Telephone - Kali Bahlu
Louie Louie - The Stooges (Hands down, the best version
of this song ever.)
I don't know many other people who maintain a blog. So I just kind of hunted down some blogs that sounded interesting. I'm off to tag their owners now and will list them here presently.
Thanks for playing...
So there I was, Sloth: driving endlessly across the big island of Hawaii, listening to Frank Zappa’s Thing-Fish, the only CD I had.
You may ask yourself how I ended up stuck with Thing-Fish as my only travel music. The fact of the matter is, it wasn’t my only travel music. I had my iPod, complete with radio transmitter, but the Hawaiian airwaves were surprisingly populated, and the Belkin radio transmitter’s reception is a little spotty. Driving around trying to listen to the thing meant an almost constant trip around the dial, which was not only annoying but hazardous as well, as I was traveling solo, and it’s hard to drive while you’re staring at the radio.
You may ask yourself why, if I had the iPod, I’d bothered to bring a CD copy of Thing-Fish in the first place. (It wasn’t the only CD I had brought with me from Chicago. I had a 3 CD box set of very late period Gary Numan stuff, but I could not, for the life of me, work up the will to listen to. ‘Matter of fact, though emblazoned with Gary’s intense, silently imploring face, it never once made it into my rental car. And despite the fact that I pretty much always have some shit playing, the rental car was the only place where I listened to music on this trip.) The truth is, I hadn’t decided if I even wanted Thing-Fish in my iTunes library, let alone on my iPod, where space is at a premium. (I have the big one, but the fucking thing is still almost full. An armageddon of b-list music is at hand, but I’m staving it off till the last possible minute. You never know when b-list stuff might find a new connection to you and thus leap to a-status, or vise versa.) On this trip, I’d decided, Thing-Fish and I were going to have it out. One way or another, we were going to come to at least a general understanding of where we stood in relation to each other. For reasons other than limited space, I didn’t wanna let this album sit in my library, unless I was sure it belonged there. And I wasn’t.
(The Gary Numan set was there for the same purpose, though there the question of whether or not to include it in my library had more to do with the relatively simple question of had Gary Numan’s declined so much at that point that none of it was worth salvaging? Imagine slogging through 3 CDs of bad to mediocre Gary Numan, and you may understand why I stuck with the more difficult Thing-Fish problem.)
You may ask yourself why I am so ambivalent about Thing-Fish, and, life being notoriously short, why I was wasting my time thinking about it. It isn’t as though there isn’t enough other music, good and bad, to keep me occupied for several lifetimes. Well, see, the thing is, whatever else you want to say about it, Thing-Fish is a major piece of work by an important musical artist. Now, some of you may quibble with one part or the other of that statement. I know that a lot of Zappa enthusiasts don’t give much thought to Thing-Fish. They are disappointed by the way in which it casts a handful of mostly older Zappa songs into new arrangements that are then used as a backdrop for the album’s story. I have less of a problem with this, as I don’t feel that he arbitrarily threw the stuff together. I feel like he choose the material for a reason—placing it in a new context in which it could stand out in a new relationship to the narrative, which in turn is rendered more powerful thanks to the music. It’s like a bas-relief type thing.
As far as Zappa the important artist goes, well, a lotta people, both prominent and not, would beg to differ. Lester Bangs, who I greatly admire, went so far as to pretty much hate Zappa, as did, Bangs’s hero, the wise man Lou Reed. (Who, ironically, was chosen to induct Zappa into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.) I’m not gonna go into my reasons for respecting Zappa, because we’ll never get to the matters at hand, if I do. (Besides, though he’s kinda cerebral, a lot of my admiration for Zappa is intuitive, emotional, etc.) Just suffice it to say that, while he ain’t no Pablo Picasso or Miles Davis, he is, I believe important.
So on the one hand, I had problems with Thing-Fish. On the other, I recognized its potential value. And that was a pain in the ass. In fact, it was such a pain in the ass that if circumstance hadn’t pushed me to work this matter out, I might’ve just given up.
You may ask yourself just what the fuck I was doing in Hawaii in the first place, and along with that you may ask yourself the corollary question: if I was in Hawaii, why was I on the big island? At least, that’s what a lot of people have asked me since I got back. That’s unfortunate, because the big island is amazing. As long as I live, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the time I spent there. I’m told it doesn’t have the resorts that Oahu or Maui have. (In that respect, I throw people off even further when I tell them that I stayed in the Hilo area—all the way across the island from Kona, where its most prominent resorts are .) But OK, I’m not answering the question. And this one, at least, has a simple answer: I was on a job. A missing person case that got pretty messy, but professional ethics forbid from saying much about it.
A less than comprehensive list of things that I have obsessed over during the course of my life: the phrasing of the preceding clause; the ubiquitousness of Brian Dennehy in the American cinema of the 80s; the assholery of Lou Reed, Ariel Sharon, DW Griffith—arguable father of cinema or not—and (regrettably—because he helped bring ya a lot of great modern literature that might otherwise be lost in the ether, like The Wasteland and Ulysses,) Ezra Pound—I’m not gonna get into Hitler, Stalin & C., because it sorta goes without saying that they are way worse; (besides which, I think our whole culture is obsessed with them;) the writing of Thomas Pynchon, (I stole the word “assholery” from him, by the way;) Bon Jovi, bon fires, bon bons, and bon mots; the indentation at the center of a woman’s throat; Hitchcock’s Vertigo, Ford’s The Searchers, and Ray’s In a Lonely Place; (I have this whole theory that links ‘em up as each film intentionally calls into question the validity of a major cinematic icon’s shtick—Jimmy Stewart, John Wayne, and Humphrey Bogart respectively;) the tragic life and death of Dana Plato; the moral problems posed by the murder of Jeffery Dahmer; (my initial response when I heard about it: “Good;” along with everyone else who knew me at the time, I was disturbed by this bit of vehemence, but it just came out of my mouth—sorta like this one time when someone asked me how I could like Burger King more than McDonalds, and I unconsciously answered, “It just tastes better” —how’s that for disturbing?) cockroaches; my inability to reconcile myself to Buddhism; (it seems very cool and all, but I have problems with that whole self negation thing;) smelly, crappy doody; smoking cigarettes; (it took me approximately 57,326 attempts before I finally quit;) the Chicago Cubs—my most unhealthy obsession; (I tell ya, any day now, I’m gonna have an aneurysm over their fumbling seemingly Keystone Kop inspired take on the game of baseball—Why do I take it seriously? Year after year, why do I care? Someone please make it stop! I’m sick sick sick sick!!!) And, as any sensitive reader of this chronicle knows, most preponderantly, prominently, eternally, longingly, George Clooney’s ass (q.v. the prior entry (The Point) of Diminishing Returns).
And more recently, Zappa’s “rock musical” Thing-Fish. I’m calling it a rock musical, not just as a means of dodging associations with that most bloated, silly artifact of the bloated, silly musical style we call “classic rock,” (another fucking stupid label, while we’re on the subject,) the “rock opera.” (I freakin’ loathe Tommy—am in fact, with a few exceptions, not particularly fond of The Who. I mean, at least The Wall is so pompous and narcissistic that it’s unintentionally funny.) See, it’s a play within a play in which a married couple attend a performance of a Broadway musical that eventually draws them in, both literally—they’re kidnapped by members of the cast—and figuratively: while maintaining their role as audience, the also enter the reality of the production they’re watching, becoming characters on more than one level. If that makes any sense. If sense can be made of Thing-Fish, perhaps it can only be sensed. (Thank you, King Missile.)
But first a glimpse into my personal history with Thing-Fish: in times of yore, when I was but a humble undergrad, I started checking out Zappa. My hometown radio was pretty meat n’ potatoes, and none of my friends or older relatives had any Zappa in their record collections that I could steal or at least listen to a whole lot. Thus I’d had little prior exposure to him, but when it comes to music, I dig around a lot, for better or worse.
(Sometimes I worry that my record collection’s going to absorb me in some Twilight Zonian way, so I’d become, like, a sentient CD or some shit Rod Serling would come up with. Serling rules! by the way. Or maybe I could be more like a sentient mp3 file—that’d be more of the moment—though I’d make it an AAC file, cuz I like Macs better. And I could be trapped in my iPod that some callous asshole like me would carry, thus enacting the sort of karmic cycle you usually find on The Twilight Zone—or in a more straightforward way, in EC comics. Or maybe I could end up like an endlessly replicating self at some music sharing site. And then, like, I could get loose all over the internet and become omnipotent and smack all of civilization ‘neath my digital heel, sorta like that guy in Lawnmower Man . Or maybe not.)
So like, there I am, hungry for more music. And I’m away from home for the first time, and I’m meeting all these people and reading all this stuff—some of it (and them) describing music I’ve never heard of or have, but only in a cursory sort of way. And pretty soon, I’m running around chasing after this motley assortment of records and CDs. And somewhere in there was Zappa.
I don’t know why I started with Joe’s Garage, his 1979 rock opera. (This time, in a tongue-in-cheek way, the term fits.) As Zappa’s music goes, it’s a bit anomalous. He rarely worked in narrative terms—frequently, he didn’t even work in traditional songs—but here you had a three-act epic, in which our dystopian society (maybe it’s in the near future, but Frank never says so,) censors all music. It is stupid. It is profound. I loved it.
And it’s way more accessible than Thing-Fish, which I chased down after finding out that it was another rock musical/opera/whatever “starring” most of the cast of Joe’s Garage. Eagerly did I throw it into my CD player. 80 or so minutes later, after I had consumed both parts of this two-disc set, I was stunned. (OK, I wasn’t nonverbal. I didn’t have a concussion or anything like that. ) And I wasn’t just put off by the way in which Thing-Fish betrayed my expectations. I was put off by it. I don’t even think I was thinking of Joe’s Garage much, if at all. I was trying to figure out what the fuck this was, with all of its stereotyping of African Americans, women and gay men, in all of its absurd and truly perverse sexual abuse—not to mention its vicious ridicule of Broadway musicals and its (?sarcastic?) paranoid references to government-engineered disease. What was Zappa saying? I mean, while not all Zappa is topical, Joe’s Garage certainly was, and with all of its arguably offensive cultural baggage, Thing-Fish had to be as well. Didn’t it? I mean, you don’t roll all of this stuff out in the service of a gag. Do you? And if you do, haven’t you maybe crossed some sort of moral line, if not, at least, the boundaries of good taste?
Welp. That’s a question we’ll have to consider in the next entry, because in the interest of updating in a more timely fashion, I’m going to do things differently. In case you haven’t noticed, I tend to write in very long chunks. What’s more, I’m pretty obsessive when it comes to editing. Taken together, all of this means that it takes me a long time to finish anything. Thus the infrequent updating.
As far as writing about the complicated and interlocking subjects of my struggles with Thing-Fish and my trip to Hawaii, it would take forever to do things this way. Fortunately, the trip, at least, can be broken into distinct pieces. Thing-Fish is another matter, but I think my ideas about it can be made to fit into a more episodic approach. So more episodic it shall be. That way, I’ll be able to update much more frequently—I hope. Maybe once a week!
(Woo hoo! I know a lot of people are able to update a couple of times a week. But if you want the highly polished product you’re used to getting from Steve Forceman, you’re just gonna have to accept this time frame. Anyway, it’ll be faster than normal, for what it’s worth.)
That’ll make for shorter entries, and it may take some things a few entries to resolve themselves, but I think it’ll work. We’ll see. Anyway, Sloth, and whoever else may be reading, I’ll be back soon. Really. With pictures too! (I'm finally figuring out the finer points of this blogging thing! See image above: of me snorkeling! I took it myself! How about that!) Seriously! Bye for now! Really! Take care! Etc. etc. etc!!!!!!!!!!
