Oh! Ye of Little Faith!

You thought I was never gonna write about Hawaii or Thing-Fish again, dintcha? Well hahah, the joke's on you, 'cuz although it was over a year ago, here's the next installment!!!!!! When last we left our hero, he was headin' for the Big Island--specifically to the city of Hilo--where he hoped to resolve a rather difficult missing persons case...

The Honolulu coastline rolled up in front of us—its white, geometry seemed hard and sharp after the haziness of the upper atmosphere. It looked just like the city of resorts and nightlife that it is. (So I’ve heard. I partook of nothing but its airport, myself.) It was still bright out, though evening was approaching—according to the clock on my cell phone anyway. Somehow, the whole place looked a little too luxurious—like an icon of arbitrary privilege. Absurdly, I thought of some archetypal huddled mass, eyeing the whole thing with envy and hunger and, probably, with hatred. Stupid? Maybe.

But hey, what about the quaint local folk? An old and unlikely friend—given the wealthiness of his family and the humble middle class orientation of my own— had told about a growing uneasiness in the vicinity of his parents’ Hawaiian vacation home. While no one was exactly uncool, he said, you did sometimes get a vibe. And he mentioned a movement to establish limited Hawaiian sovereignty in certain parts of the islands—sorta like the Native Americans homelands of the continental U.S.

One of the guidebooks I’d read said that although Hawaii’s reputation for the spirit of Aloha is widely deserved, you might, as a non-Hawaiian, occasionally encounter some general dislike. It advised me to avoid being the only non-Hawaiian person in a bar or at a party. Later, I forgot to follow this advice, but I’ll get into that later. I may have been lucky. After I’d returned to Chicago, my guitar teacher told me about a brother-in-law who went bar-hopping in Honolulu. Outside one place, a group of Hawaiian guys approached, asking if he wanted beef. Sure, he sez, thinking he’s stumbled onto an idiosyncratic expression of that legendary Hawaiian hospitality. His new friends proceeded to kick the living snot out of him before returning to their own business.

And that was in Honolulu. Here I was, headed toward Hilo, which my handy guidebook, written by residents of the Big Island, said was about the most unfriendly spot in those parts. I’m here to tell ya, though, that Hilo rocks, no matter what any one says.

The guidebook, by the way, suggested that the idiomatic meaning of the common phrase, “Want beef?” had little to do w/ the ideas formed by my guitar teacher in-law. ‘Tis not an offer of jerky or steak or anythin’ like that, but rather hews more toward that old parlance “What’s yr. beef?” So if someone had asked me, I woulda said, no thank you sir. (I wonder if anyone would’ve refrained from kicking my ass if I had politely demurred. Hmmm… have to field test it sometime.)

Ha ha well… fortunately, I didn’t know about the beating my guitar-teacher’s-brother-in-law took. Nor, during my entire visit, did I notice Hilo’s rumored surliness. Fact, in my experience, almost everyone in Hilo was nicer than people on the mainland. (Except for these 2 women who waited on me in a Burger King, and c’mon, can you expect any different? It’s a lousy job and besides wouldn’t be BK w/o the attitude?) (And holy shit, I’m like turning into a walking advertisement for those assholes, and their food isn’t even any good!)

Yep. My dealings w/ the people of the Big Island suggest that this Aloha stuff really exists! At first, it freaked me out. I mean, OK, generally yr. large mainland cities are exactly as rude and hostile as they’re supposed to be. And I’m from Chicago, which is even more pissy than NYC in my experience, (I spent like ten days there,) where at least people are just confrontational, bravely staring into yr. eyes as they pass you on the street, knocking you to one side. In Chicago, people will run you over, but still refuse to look you in the eye. That used to freak me out too, but now I just expect it.

After I came back from HI, I was so far Aloha-ized that I spent weeks walking around looking everyone in the eye. Unfortunately, these eyes were difficult to meet. All of ‘em were averted to the right or left or to the ground, as their owners stepped willfully on my feet, or grazed me with their bumpers, as I, admittedly stupidly, obeyed the “Walk” signal, & C.

(An aside—after listening to me run on at length about how I hated Chicago for just that reason and would move outta town at the drop of a hat if my P.I. practice weren’t so firmly established, the clerk at the local liquor store laughed. He told me he knew what I meant, but felt that this passive aggressiveness was localized in white neighborhoods on the north side. He said the African American people he knew would look you straight in the eye. I did some experimenting, trying to meet the gaze of African American people in particular. The results were no different. Maybe because I’m white?)

But yep, people in Hilo were nice. Virtually all of them looked me in the eye, started conversations with me or happily answered my own conversational salvos. Hell, they really make that "hang loose" sign at you, when you let them merge into traffic or hold a door for them or sometimes, for no apparent reason at all. It’s like the anti-New York. Unfortunately, it took me most of the trip to master making the hang loose sign. My stress stiffened hands just refused to bend into the appropriate shape. Now of course, they snap in line like nobody’s business, but no one sees me doing it, because they’re too busy averting their eyes like in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

But so like, for me, Honolulu evoked images not just of grass skirts or mai tais, but also of Cuban revolutions, of that very narrow buffer around yr. Jamaican resort, outside of which you might be cut to pieces, (you're told,) and of the general dislike focused toward the U.S. by, oh, pretty much every poor nation in the world. Perfectly understandable, when you consider that you’re sitting there in your vacation khakis—or whatever dumb shit you wear—slurping on some alcoholic confection served to you by a guy who’s working a 12 hour shift for around 50 cents per hour. And of course you wanna isolate yourself from any guilt and attendant liability by pointing out that you’re different, that you have legitimate reasons for being there, (like say, f’rinstance, you’re on a missing persons case chasing down some asshole who was probably guzzling his mai tai or whatever at this very moment,) but of course, you can’t.

Ah but there I go again with my white liberal guilt n' self-pity— in this case throwing in a dash of racist paranoia for flavor. Anyway, if beef was to be had in Honolulu, the only people servin’ it up at the airport worked for food court restaurants. And at some point during my one hour loitering there, I noticed that there were actual native Hawaiians around me! How quaint! No, but seriously, among many of the people, there was a different cast to the features, a different lilt to the speech. Something unique—at least in terms of the urban polyglot-melting-pot with which I am familiar.

I headed over to the inter-island terminal, from whence a lotta commuter flights depart for the other Hawaiian islands. (Duh. Thus the name, right?) By this time, Steve Forceman, P.I. was wiped out. I’m virtually incapable of sleeping whilst in transit of any sort (plane, train, car, horseback, shuttle craft, et. al). I find dozing off in public places to be equally problematic. (Though I used to be a wiz at it in my college courses, frequently and understandably pissing off an instructor or 2.) Paranoia, which is an unfortunate consequence of my profession, doesn't help. Besides, I just get restless when traveling. I don’t know why. So there I sat by my gate. I had about an hour to go.

I’d left my apartment around 5:30 a.m., Chicago time. It was now around 7 p.m. in Hawaii, making that 19 and 1/2 hours ago. I’d run across airport terminals, I’d sat in boarding lounges. I’d sat on planes. Stood in line. Eaten shitty fast food and consumed a whole lotta water and 1 beer. I would’ve hit the bars at that point, were it not for the facts that 1) being that tired, I was afraid I’d fall into an alcoholic coma after the 2^nd drink; and 2) there were no bars in this terminal. There were hardly any restaurants. Does that seem weird? It did to me, but I gotta admit that the inter-island terminal was really, really small— not to mention dead. It felt like a late night hospital waiting room. Come to think of it, I felt the way I usually do when I’m sitting in a late night hospital waiting room—sorta shell-shocked by the long hours and weirdness of the situation.

More soon...

And Now... The First Annual Floggers!!!

FADE IN

We look out across a vast auditorium All of the seats are empty, but the voices of a ROARING CROWD are being piped in through overhead speakers.

A lousy VEGAS-STYLE BAND bleats away in the orchestra pit, whilst a disoriented CHARLIE SHEEN weaves onto the monstrously art-deco type gold-flecked stage. From outta the glaring lights, falling paper streamers and profuse amounts of confetti, he glares w/ bleary eyes—at the camera. And also at you.

CHARLIE: Good evening, ladies & gentlemen. And might I say that you all look so very refined and dignified in your gowns & suits. (Esp. you fellas who’re wearing gowns. Mmm mmm… I sure would like a piece of every 1 a ya!)

I’ve been asked to deal w/ a few preliminaries before we begin the first annual ForceBlog™ Awards Presentation Ceremony…

The “crowd” HOOTS N’ JEERS.

CHARLIE fakes a genial smile, but the ugliness in his eyes never wavers.

CHARLIE: Aww, don’t boo like that… I promise ya, we’ll get to the good stuff in just a sec… The newly reformed for about the 50^th time Guns n’ Roses are back stage waiting to entertain you w/ their brand new polka arrangements!

He waits for laughter, but even the canned audience greets his remarks w/ stony silence. He glares some more, weaving around a bit.

CHARLIE: First of all, I’ve been asked (by Steve Forceman himself!!!) to apologize for recent delays of technical, logistical and spiritual natures. Of late, chaos has ruled these parts, but, as we speak, that wild beast is being hogtied and things oughta be runnin’ ship-shape like, w/ Swedish cuckoo clock-like precision before ya know it.

(Hey! You! Heckler! Shut the fuck up before I come down there n’ core ya a new asshole. Do you know who I am?????

I’ll grant ya, the above paragraph sounds pretty outta character for me, pale, bestubbled, thoroughly drug-addled Charlie Sheen, but ya gotta understand, I didn’t write my own copy. I’m just readin’ the teleprompter up here. But with pizzazz.

So just you watch it, fucker!)

Second, being as the Floggers™ are determined solely by audience voting, we would, of course like to thank all of you for your participation! (Except for that asshole in the fourth row… You just watch yerself fucker!)

Third, the cutoff date for nominees was in late May, which means that anything from the Michael Barrett entry—that little pussy—will not be eligible for this program, but’ll have to wait to the next time around—if and when there is a next time.

Finally, and don’t ask me why I’m saying this, as I assure you I am real and not part of some website where hypertext links could be provided. (This is all too fucking weird. I need a drink.) But apparently we’ll link to each of these the first time they come up, but in an attempt not to annoy you or me, we’ll otherwise leave ‘em be…

And now, w/o further ado, let’s get down n’ dirty n’ start w/ those awards!!!

In the category of Longest Entry, the winner is the monolithic "A World of Good" at 5007 words. (It may surprise you to know that “The Tragical Blistery Tour” was not even close to being the longest entry. It just felt that way.) On the downside, the embarrassingly earnest "Cage Match: Peter Cottontail vs. Ema Saiko!!!" of July 07/04 was generally agreed to be a good entry but overlong to the point of losing 97.6569% of its projected audience. (3134 words.)

The winner of the Shortest Entry award is “srgtse.” (Unless you wanna count only the non-audio part of May 24/04's untitled post. Doing so would create a tie.)

Not counting the title, it’s a 0 word post!!! So until the management can come up w/ some way to achieve a negative word count, (the idea of which raises shuddersome quantum physics laden associations,) it's pretty well guaranteed to keep its title!

At this juncture, he leans over and PUKES into the orchestra pit, which is, mercifully, unoccupied. He then reels back to center stage and burps.

I think we all know what the winner of the Best Prepositional Phrase award is! I think we all know the winner here: “about him,” which was taken from “The Enduring Shtick.” The voting was unanimous, a real landslide! The judges woulda started checking the ballot boxes for stuffery had it not occurred to them that prepositional phrases are most likely incapable of reaching a ballot box, much less stuffing one, and like who the hell would do it on their behalf???

My 8th grade English teacher was the kinda autocratic asshole who not only made us diagram endless bunches of sentences but also would reprimand you by making you write out lists of prepositions. The number of repetitions was determined by how bad you fucked up—and this was highly subjective as the old fruit once forced me to write alla the prepositions out 500 times because the guy next to me was talking during class!

I hadda beat the shit outta him, and then 'cuz they were afraid to face me fair n' square like men, ('tho I 'twas only 12 years old,) my dad and my talentless brother Emilio (when was the last time you saw him in a movie, huh?) threw a butterfly net over me and poked me repeatedly with cattle prods till I calmed down n' shut up so they could take me home from school and discipline me by throwing a 1 lb. bagga Valium down my throat and washing it down w/ a fifth of lighter fluid 'cuz that's the way uh-huh uh-huh I liked it! (And still do like it, 'tho now I need a 5 lb. bag a Librium washed down w/ gallon jug of napalm, but then I'm older n' bigger so that's only to be expected, right?)

Anyway, my 8th grade English teacher was all into prepositional phrases, obviously. I even bet he fucked 'em. Yep. Fucked a phrase. That's what I bet. 'Tho my shrink has told me on numerous occasions that that is not only physically impossible, but kinda a pathologically weird notion. We're gonna work on it next time I'm in rehab, which'll prob. be pretty qwik, 'cuz I think I had too much to dream last night. And smoke. And shoot. And ingest.

But anyway, even my 8th grade English teacher wouldn't stuff a ballot box for a prepositional phrase, because—and I think we can all agree on this one—that would be stupid.)

Hey, fuck you! I'm not readin' the copy 'cuz it's duller than Denise Richards intellect! (And I oughta know! Believe me! No matter how hot a chick is, it gets lame having to explain to her every night that the sun'll come back up tomorrow, that it hasn't disappeared forever, so she needn't cry like a hyena... I know—the expression is "laff like a hyena"—but I'm guessing it sounds pretty much the same and after this is over I'm gonna prove it by climbing the wall of some zoo and going straight to the hyena habitat and kicking one of those ugly curs right in his grapes. And if that doesn't make him cry, I'll make him watch the last 20 minutes or so of Wall Street. That always makes me cry like a—well forget it.)

Hey wait! Don’t you pull the plug on me, you asshole Forceman! I’ll kill you!

The lights slowly FADE, but Sheen continues to vent his dark, dark rage until Cubs catcher MICHAEL BARRETT, currently on the DL so he can receive scrotal surgery, charges him. Barrett tries to beat the shit out of Sheen, who kicks Barrett in his deflated grapes, but suddenly they look into each other’s smoldering eyes, tear off their clothes, attach razor blades to their dicksand start FUCKING! Blood goes a’spurtin’ all ove the place.

FLYING MONKEYS, just like the ones in WIZARD OF OZ glide outta the shadows and CRAP on the 2 lovebirds. The crowd breaks into a ROAR, which then FADES to nothing, along with the lights.

Ah shit! I was hoping Barrett would shut that fuck up by kicking the crap outta him, but apparently he lost his edge when he lost his foreskin. But I guess things worked out this way too. At least we can go on w/o further interruptions from that Sheen asshole. I mean, 2 pages over one prepositional phrase? Fuck!

OK, we’re just about outta time, so I’ll just motor through the rest of these. Here goes…

Best Adaptation of a Title - "Journey: Departure," which is taken from the band and album of the same names, respectively. Honorable mention goes to "The Enduring Shtick," which rips off the Flannery O’Connor story, "The Enduring Chill."

Best Original Title – “Grazin’ in the Meadow.” Honorable mention goes to the deeply avant-garde “srgtse.”

The Lewis Carroll Award for Best Original Word – “srgtse,” the word/entry that came closest to sweeping the language categories.

The Noah Webster Prize for Best Pre-Existing Word – From the entry “I Saw God and/Or the Reputation,” “cackleberry” wins the day. (Man, there are a lotta weird fuckin’ words out there!)

Best Prepositional Phrase – I think we all know the winner here: “about him,” which was taken from “The Enduring Shtick.”

The Elizabeth Elmore Award for the Most Awkwardest Moment &/or Most Incomprehensible Sentence or Phrase Appearing in an Entry That Was Written by Me (Steve Forceman, P.I., the Author) for and Entry That Was in this Blog – There were many candidates here, and I’m not sure the winner, from, “The Enduring Shtick,” is the worst. It is damn bad ‘tho: “As Gaines rotates the artists to see where they best fit, Ghastly illustrates his hand at a horror story or two.” Obviously that illustrating hand is a big part of the problem. (Graham Ingels? M.C. Escher? Whassa difference?)

Here’s another just plain lousy one from the same entry: “His vision that elevated the often-simple stories he illustrated to the level of a pervasive myth—a universal vision of his culture’s obsessions & fears that, nevertheless, bore his unique, personal stamp.” Uh. Right.

Most Troubling Moment of Anger – The entire entry “You Just Might Be a Macrocosmos.” A tad excessive & maybe bordering on psychotic. Therapy, buddy. Therapy! Special mention must go to the White Stripes reference found in “Out w/ the Old, In w/ the Older, & Older.” I don’t really even have anything against the White Stripes, in particular.

Most Arousing Moment – Clearly the paean to Elizabeth Elmore found in “I Saw God &/or The Reputation must take the cake. (Sighhhhhhhh… Elizabeth…) Still, that bit of necrophilliac bestiality, appearing in “(The Point of Diminishing Returns,” which features yr. old pal the Roadkill Raccoon deserves an honorable mention. Take a bow, Roadie! You’ve come a long way, baby.

Most Boring Entry – You’d think it would be one of those I-am-not-dead-I-will-update-soon would win here, but the Velvet Underground vivisection, “The Tragical Blistery Tour” surprises us again. This time w/ an actual win.

Drunkest Entry- New Year’s Eve just seems to bring out the dipsomaniacal misanthropy n’ self pity in me: “Out w/ the Old…” is the winner, and the runner-up is “Bad Rubbish.” Always good to feel yr. best! Or something.

Most Coked-out Moment – Aside from overt references to the stuff—e.g. moments in “Diminishing Returns” and “Grazin’ in the Meadow,” but I’m sure there are others—I apparently write under the influence of the stuff. I mean, how else can you explain the rambling anecdotes w/in anecdotes setup that prevails in this blog? As its title suggests, the nadir of alla this, and the award winner is “Fear n’ Loathing n’ Hunger in Las Vegas: A Tale of 2 Dawbers.” (To anyone who wants to point to the William Katt biz found in “Ice Capades” and “My Super-Speed 16,” I would remind you that the upper in question there came in pill form!)

Best Moment that Seems to've Been Induced by Hallucinogenic Drugs – Again w/ the drugs. I mean, how else can you explain the human hieroglyphic n’ cuneiform biz found in “Grazin’ in the Meadow?” (Actually ‘tho my 2 friends really are like that. I just exaggerated a bit. But you’re the one’s who voted, so there we are.)

Most Laughably Pompous Moment- There are so many of them that it’s hard to keep track! The voting was so widely split that there was no clear winner. But in “A World of Good,” I helpfully labeled a moment of pompous windbaggery: “If, as a simple fan, I could tell Liz one thing, I would express my honest regret that she’s steering her ship this way, because I think it’s dangerously close to scuttling itself on some reef of mediocrity. (Not like that last metaphor, which was so laughably pompous and muddled that I had to leave it in. )” (‘Course you never would’ve found that in that overlong entry if I wasn’t mentioning it now.) I declare it to be the de facto winner!

The Ovid Prize for Transformation of a Human Being into an Object – This shit really does come up a great deal. Not sure what it means, but in terms of the award… Survey says… the Shellie Long’s metamorphosis into a piece of paper, as portrayed in “Ice Capades!” (The Silly Putty/smothering bit was yet another bit of viciousness against a celebrity. Talk about issues!)

Best Oral Sex- It might’ve been in bad taste, but in terms of oral sex is it not ever so? I’m speaking, of course, of my blowing of a Hassidic rabbi, as portrayed in “Diminishing Returns,” an entry that is quickly emerging as the Entry to Beat. The runner-up is my run-in w/ Princess Lintguard, which appeared in “Bad Rubbish.”

Best Sodomy- Wow! Here’s another instance of their being too many entries to even count! Still, the voting was less split in this case, w/ 2 nominees standing out in particular. The winner was Harold Washington’s Star Trek fantasy in “Full Frontal Stupidity.” The Roadie the Raccoon’s show stopping appearance in “Diminishing Returns” earns another honorable mention nod here as well.

Best Scatology- Oddly there just hasn’t been a lotta that hereabouts. I apologize for this oversight and promise to increase the excremental yield of future entries! I’m so ashamed! Still, the winner is the study of my friend P’s battle w/diarrhea, as portrayed in “The Enduring Shtick.”

Best Necromancy- The walking dead have been a very important part of this chronicle, I’m sure you would agree. (Me and my Italian zombie movies…) So I’m glad to honor the cadaver who best represented members of his decaying group: JIMMY STEWART! Harold Washington comes in as a distant second, which has led to tears and ugly scenes, I can tell ya! (Both bodies showed up in “Full Frontal Stupidity,” BTW.)

Best Necrophilia AND Best Bestiality- Would you believe that Roadie the Raccoon scored both of these as well? The guy’s unstoppable! Better quit bowin’ roadie! Yr. exposed spine is looking a little worse for wear!

Best Homage – You all sure dug “Diminishing Returns,” didn’t you? Its Belmondo tribute is an easy winner, ‘tho both the Graham Ingels eulogy found in “The Enduring Shtick” and the gratitude expressed to Ema Saiko both deserve a nod.

Best Guest Star – Surprisingly, the winner of this award is not Roadie the Raccoon. (Mostly ‘cuz I got bored and cheated him outta winning. I mean, fuck, what’d he do? Fuck alla ya or just buy you gifts or what?) Nope, the winner is that soulful pigeon from “Cage Match.” Not surprisingly, the winner was not Harold Washington—despite his embarrassing attempts at ballot-box stuffing. Poor Harold, that boring fucker. Always a bridesmaid and never a bride. I’ll leave him w/ what little dignity he still possesses and move to…

The Phantom Zone Prize for Best Villain – This one goes to that poetry-poppin' maintenance man Titus. (Recently defrocked, I might add, as bldg. super. He's still livin' here 'tho and will apparently be working part time on the heating and cooling system. Why that remains so important to him when he's willing to let everything else go I do not know. The real question is, does he suck or does he blow? Meanwhile the Number 2 spot (huhuhuh “Number 2”) goes to that asshole Peter Cottontail for his titular appearance (hahaha! “Tit!”) in “Cage Match…” (And BTW, the entry was written well before I saw Donnie Darko.

And finally, the Big Ones:

Best Line - I wasn't sure what was gonna win this one. I wasn't even sure it should be in here. And finally, I'm not sure about the winner, which comes from "A Tale of 2 Dawbers" - and I quote: "Did Steve-O think he could conjure up his reader's expectations of the devil and then expect him/her not to be pissed off when he gives 'em some immediately bitchslappable Walkin' Dude? (I walk a lot. What's so scary about that?)" I think the part in parentheses is supposed to be the good part, according to the voters. I guess.

This bit from "Macrocosmos" also netted some votes - re: Nicholas Cage & Jeff Foxworthy, uh, co-roasting a show together: "There goes Jeff! There goes Nick! There's yr. circular ecosystem."

Worst Overall Entry – And it’s our first tie! “I Am a Lameass” and “I Am Still a Lameass” share the prize—‘tho personally I found ‘em pretty engaging & feel that people are cutting some of the other ones too much slack. Whatever. No accounting for taste.

And…drum roll please…

The winner of the Best Overall Entry award is "(The Point of) Diminishing Returns. Honorable mention goes to "Cage Match: Peter Cottontail vs. Ema Saiko!!!" Hardly surprising at this point, is it? And remember—that’s what the voters said. Me? I liked “srgtse” the best.

Whew! Glad that’s outta the way! Bet you are too! (Even if you are imaginary.) Before I letcha go for another 2 years, a final word or 2:

"Couldn't sleep last night. Bad stomach. Wicked thunderstorm. Existential angst."

With that somewhat whiny opening, and the sensitive consideration of Puppet Master: The Legacy that followed, this chronicle hit the ground runnin'. And it's been runnin' ever since. (Albeit very irregularly).

The year was 2004. Hairstyles, popular entertainments and modes of dress were all different. (I'm sure we're all hidin' photos of ourselves clad in low-ridin' midriff-bearin' jeans from our grandkids. Disrespectful little snots! Just wait'll they have children of their own!)

A contentious presidential election loomed before us (How did I vote in that one? Well, I wrote in my cat for prez. and my dog for vice-prez., if you must know. I figured they had about as much chance of winning as The Really Rottens have of ever sweeping the Laff-a-Lympics. But with a few million more votes our ticket might've secured matching funds for 2008. You apathetic bastards. Think what your votes could've meant!) Yep. It was a different world.

And It's a Dreary World Gentlemen has changed with the times. I'm sure you would agree that it's grown and developed into something beautiful and wondrous—like a humble caterpillar in its chrysalis.

And there can only be further wonders on the horizon. Like maybe an entry that compares and contrasts the semiotics of belly button lint, the cultural significance of the lesbian vampires found in Hammer horror films and what they might mean to today's GLBT community. (I prefer a plain old BLT myself. Hyuh hu hyuk hyuk! Hilarious!)

Here's to 2 and 1/2 more years! I hope you'll make some of the journey with me. I promise to do my share of the driving and to kick in some money for gas. See ya soon! (Really—I mean it... soon...)