Last Stop: Tonopah Arizona

I'm still a little shaken up.

I helped Stephen move a television and it's stand downstairs today and though the chore was simplicity itself he insisted on buying me lunch out of gratitude.  

Neither of us really expected what happened next.

Cut to the Chase

There were people in the dining room and none at the bar so we went to the bar.  It was early afternoon and we were catching the shift change between folks who got an early start and were heading out and folks who had worked an early shift and were heading in.  

I had a tuna sub and Stephen had a cheeseburger that made me wish I'd ordered a cheeseburger.  The waitress sat our second round in front of us and we hardly noticed.  There was a car chase on television.  Someone behind me asked if it were O.J. Simpson up to his old tricks again and those of us who remembered that laughed.  

Facts were few and far between.  Someone had stolen a car, fired shots at the police, and was now heading like a bat out of hell out of Arizona.  One newscaster commented on his poor choice of automobile.  Another said the speed of the stolen vehicle was averaging at one hundred miles an hour.  They speculated he was heading to California.

In the interim there were brief clips of fighting in Syria.  Election coverage.  Commercials for prescription medications.  

Stephen and I wondered what was going through this guys mind.  What was his plan?  We said that it was hardly worth the name "car chase" as it was really just the stolen car weaving around traffic on a desert highway.  I excused myself to the restroom and joked that while I was in the can the whole thing would come to a spectacular end and I'd miss it.

When I returned the car had made an unexpected move.  He'd made a u-turn and was now heading down a dirt road.  Again I marveled at what this person must be thinking.  

Just go.  Don't stop.  Keep driving.  Don't let them get you.

The driver passed what looked like two farms, both out in the middle of nowhere.  So far the most exciting part had been the u-turn and now he made a right at stop sign.  I wondered when the helicopter providing the footage would lose it's signal or some producer would call it a lost cause and switch to something else.

And then it happened.

The car stopped and the driver emerged.  I couldn't see much of him, just that he wore an oversize jersey and jeans.  He spent time in the back seat of the car and for a moment I thought maybe there was someone else in the car.  Maybe the person he'd stolen the car from.  They had said all along he'd fired shots at police, so I don't know why I was surprised that he had a gun.  He ran down the dirt road, falling once and rolling in the dust, and took cover behind a bush.  I thought he was planning to shoot it out with the police, but as it turns out, he had another idea. 

He turned the gun on himself and pulled the trigger.  His head moved just slightly, like he'd been pushed.  There was, of course, no sound and as he fell forward they cut away.  Cut to a commercial. 

I'm sure we've all watched clips of horrific happenings and laughed, but in those circumstances you could always tell yourself it wasn't real.  You'd question whether or not it was doctored.  If it got too gross you'd just click it away.  But I saw this over lunch with my friend and I can't shake it.  I can't shake the sheer desperation that he must have felt.  I hated myself for the morbid curiosity that kept me watching.  My God, was this what I wanted to see all along?  

Like this desperate criminal, I just couldn't get away.        

I've been rooting around online and so far the only headline is that there was a televised suicide, the network is being criticized for allowing it out over the air, and one site in particular criticized the footage for being too blurry, can you believe that? 

But I want to know this man's name. 

He Wasn't Talking To You...

I am not a political animal.  I am not informed enough about politics to be one.  I say this cynically, because our media outlets are so flawed that I think it nigh impossible to be truly informed.  

Let me say this now:  If you really think that Fox News is an unbiased and impartial source of information, you are a fool.

Let me also say this:  If you really think that MSNBC and Mother Jones are unbiased and impartial counterpoints to Fox News, you are also a fool.

There are no such thing as facts anymore.  There are simply statistics that, like scripture, can be interpreted and reinterpreted to suit any argument.  There are video clips, sound bytes, and headlines that inspire public debate and all too soon became points of contention for a polarized American public. 

Out of Context

Candidate Mitt Romney was heavily criticized for statements he made at a fundraiser.  None would have known of these statements had they not been caught on video and placed online.  One of the sources of the video was Mother Jones, by all accounts a "liberal" publication.  I mention this just to be fair and unbiased.  I have heard that a spot at this particular fundraiser cost around fifty thousand dollars a plate, but who knows, it could have been more or less.  Either way this was not a rally or public function, nowhere you or I could afford to be.  I watched several different versions of the video and it was hardly the criminally offensive rant I expected.  At least I wasn't offended.  He stated his estimation of the American voting public, particularly this forty seven percent that he, admittedly, isn't concerned about.  

Despite the controversy, Romney has never really apologized, only saying that his words were "inelegant" and hoping that he wished whoever posted the video would post all of it.  Taken in it's entirety, what he said wasn't so bad.  At least that's what he says.  

The point is, how would any of us heard anything of this had the video not been taken and then leaked?  Why did what Candidate Romney say at this function sound so little like what he says to the American public at large?  He called his words "inelegant", but a better word might be "unrehearsed".

I don't know about you, but if I paid thousands upon thousands of dollars in support of a candidate, I wouldn't want the same old rhetoric I could hear on television for free.  Romney was putting on a show for those assembled, telling them what they wanted to hear.  He told them about Americans who saw their basic comforts as "entitlements" and scorned them for it.  Like a magician at a kids birthday party, he performed.

By the time a politicians rhetoric gets down here to us, it's so homogenized and watered down as to render it completely meaningless.  The bulk of what either the President or Romney say is virtually indistinguishable.  Fifty thousand dollars, however, buys you a plate of food and an earful of what a  candidate really thinks about the people voting for him or for his opponent.    

Now, don't get on your left-wing high horse just yet.  Any day now another video will leak, one from another fundraising billion dollar buffet, only this time the President will be caught on tape, making "inelegant" statements.  It's just how things work these days, and I bet I know which network will premiere it when it does surface.  

Like I said, it didn't offend me, but the leaked Romney video kind of made the guy look like an asshole.  There, I said it.  But the big lesson I took from the whole thing was this:  Since when do you have to pay through the nose to keep from getting smoke blown up your ass?

My apologies on using the word "ass" twice there at the end.  I hope it doesn't undermine my message.   

And me?  I'm voting for Donald Duck.

           

ZARDOZ SPEAKS TO YOU!

"Good?  Bad?  I'm the guy with the gun."  Sean Connery as Zed the Exterminator in "Zardoz"

I first became aware of the film "Zardoz" (directed by John Boorman in 1974) while reading a book on cult films in the basement section of the library at the campus of the Universtiy of Richmond.  To call a movie a "cult film" is sometimes a polite way of saying it's an incomprehensible piece of garbage, and this book turned me on to several movies, some of which I loved and others that I didn't like at all.  Some time later my grandmother gave me (for Easter, no less) a book on the films of Sean Connery, who starred in "Zardoz", and that book included more information about and pictures from this weird and wonderful film.

It wasn't until years later that I actually got to see the movie, and when I did I watched it with my mother.  This was awkward, as a lot of the female cast walk around topless for no good reason whatsoever.  Mom insisted that the movie was funny for all the wrong reasons and that Sean Connery must have been going through some kind of midlife drug phase crisis when he agreed to star in it.  I've seen it more than half a dozen times since.  

Yesterday "Zardoz" was the featured film for Sunday Dinner Family Movie Night and it was a roaring success.  Everyone who didn't fall asleep before it was over agreed that it was enjoyable, or at the very least interesting.  I purchased snacks in anticipation of what I jokingly referred to as "Zardozmas", but we ended up eating dinner late and the snacks will have to serve a later function.  I was going to make chili cheese dip which, like the script for "Zardoz", seems like a good idea at the time but comes back to haunt you in ways you didn't expect.  

As much as I'd love to write a long, in-depth, scene-by-scene review of this movie, I won't subject you to that.  I will, however, challenge you to seek this movie out and watch it.  Watch it with friends and loved ones so you can make fun of it.  "Zardoz" brings families together.

Everything I Need to Know in Life I Learned by Watching ZARDOZ

Most people are hesitant to watch Zardoz because Sean Connery runs around in it dressed like this.

Laugh all you want, but this look actually inspired kind of a trend in the realm of comic books.  Kind of a science fiction fetish wear look that you don't see much of these days.

Exhibit A:  Marvel Comics hero Killraven.

Exhibit B:  Superman villain Vartox

      

From Zardoz, I learned that you can't be pulled in by a bunch of flashy theatrics.  We live in a very image-centric society these days, and sometimes people might put up a good front, but in actuality be much less than what they seem.  

For example:  

If the figure above told me to do something, I'd damn well do it.  A giant floating head of stone is a pretty far-out thing to encounter any day of the week.  But...

What if the big stone head was just a front for this guy?  I wouldn't buy a can of green beans from this weirdo.  

From Zardoz I learned that life is full of little indignities.  You lose a big promotion to a lesser qualified co-worker.  Your significant other leaves you for someone else.  You give a big presentation, and only at the end of it do you realize your fly was down.  An effeminate blonde man in silky pajamas wants to inspect your teeth and you can't do anything to stop him because he has telekinetic powers.  You just have to accept these things, realize they have nothing to do with your worth as a human being, and move on.  

From Zardoz I learned that sometimes, no matter how much you want to, you just cannot get out of a bad situation.  Sometimes it's a bad relationship, sometimes it's a dead-end job.  Sometimes fear of the unknown stops you, sometimes it's a force field, but whatever the situation or the stress you feel, you are powerless to simply walk away.

I learned many valuable lessons from this movie, and can only begin to share them with you now.  

From Zardoz I learned that there is indeed someone in the drivers seat, and it sure as hell isn't you.  I learned that you cannot trust the wealthy or any kind of elitist.  Sometimes even intellectuals are too smart for their own damn good.  I learned that you can trust some women, but not all of them, and that even if a woman refers to you as a beast and insists that you be executed every chance she gets, it doesn't mean she doesn't find you desirable, and that while she may form a posse and try to run you down with a horse, this might all be part of some complex mating ritual that you just don't understand and you should just go with it.  

I learned that sometimes, you just have to follow a creative spirit wherever it might lead.  Who gives a damn what everyone thinks?  Maybe the public at large won't get it, but someone will, and they'll be grateful to you forever for what you created. 

I am grateful for Zardoz. 

Director John Boorman, star Sean Connery, and in the background actress Charlotte Rampling, who is HOT.

The Charmer

The Charmer

It was only when Simon met a woman immune to his charms that he could really be himself.  This happened with more frequency as he grew older.  Long ago he'd accepted that even the greatest athlete has a peak and that, once it had been reached, everything else was a slow decline.  

It was this knowledge that made Simon such a charmer.  He seemed to understand that failure was more likely than ever these days, and so went about pursuing romantic entanglements with a measured detachment.    He didn't seem to care, and while this attitude wasn't irresistible to all, it kept him in the game.  

Amber wasn't impressed.  Simon knew this right away and made a kind of peace with it.  There were no other attractive unattached women at the pub on this particular Friday night and Simon had picked her right away.  His first few passes were successful, the usual preliminaries being the exchange of names and Simon complimenting her appearance, in this case a lovely black strapless dress which Amber wore very well.  Right away Simon made her laugh.  This was always a good sign but, again, Simon knew that she wasn't impressed.  Rather than back away and drink alone, Simon did something he had begun doing now, here on the down side of his peak.  He simply made polite conversation with a woman, not as a prelude to sex, but for the simple pleasure of meeting someone new and getting to know them.

Amber asked where he was from, and Simon said "No place special".  Amber thought this an attempt at being mysterious and told him so, but Simon shook his head.  "No mystery."  he said.  

They talked of Amber's marriage, which had ended last year.  Her ex-husband was a gynecologist, one that had been carrying on examinations outside the office with several of his patients.  Amber was still a little hurt by the betrayal.  

Simon never knew how to handle a woman talking about a former mate.  Was he supposed to join in if she started bashing her ex?  Simon was no moralist and, truth be told, a cheater himself.  He let her vent, making small comments along the way to lighten the mood.  After she'd finished, she told Simon that she felt better having talked about it, and Simon was glad.

Simon ordered another round for the two of them.  The evening was going better than either of them had anticipated.  Down at the end of a bar two young people were kissing.  Both were drunk and were making quite a spectacle of themselves.  Amber rolled her eyes and Simon laughed.  Deep inside, he envied the young man.  He'd been watching the couple out of the corner of his eye for a while.  They hadn't arrived together tonight.  The girl had come with friends and the young man had come alone, and despite the protests of the friends with which she'd arrived, one of them calling him "a loser" and insisting that tonight was a "girl's night out", she abandoned the friends and was now making out with the loser at the bar.  The night was going pretty well for them too.  Sure they were hooking up, but who's to say that it wouldn't turn into something lasting?  Simon laughed again.  Amber wanted in on the joke and Simon told her the love story of the exhibitionists down the bar.  Amber said the only potentially lasting thing to come out of that relationship would be an illegitimate child.  

Closing time was coming soon and Simon was faced with a predicament.  Could he reach down deep and pull off a miracle?  He was thinking of things in sports terms more and more these days.  Though not a big sports fan it made sense to think of himself in this way.  It was, after all, a game.  He had been playing it for a very long time, and Simon only rarely stopped to think of just what he'd won or lost.  

The truth was that the game was all in Simon's mind.  There was no winning and no losing.  There was just Simon, and whatever happened would happen regardless of how he felt about it.  Amber was an attractive woman and funny and Simon had enjoyed her company.  If she wouldn't sleep with him, where was the shame in that?  He hadn't lost any game.  He'd written the rule book, built the stadium, sewn the uniforms all by himself.  The game was stupid and Simon didn't want to play it anymore. It was time to retire his jersey.

Amber said that it was getting late and spoke of something important she had to do the next day.  Simon volunteered to walk her to her car after they'd both paid their checks.  Usually, this was part of the game, but now Simon did it because he felt it the gentlemanly thing to do.  He felt good, like he'd just read a self help book and had made a plan to change his life for the better.  At her car, Amber kissed Simon on the cheek.  A soft and tender kiss, her lips barely brushing his skin, and Simon, of course, felt himself getting an erection.  She said, "Simon, you are a very charming man."  Simon thanked her, and really meant it.  

PAUL STERLING MUST DIE!

Bond, James Bond

Ian Fleming, author of the James Bond novels, only rarely and in very vague ways described to readers just what his fictional secret agent looked like.  In "Casino Royale", femme fatale Vepser Lynd describes him as looking something like Hoagy Carmichael, shown on the right.  Not a bad looking man, certainly, but not the sex magnet of legend that we've all come to know.  Fleming once said that he first hit upon James Bond as a character on his wedding night.  He married late in life and found himself genuinely nervous, even panicked, at the thought of losing his bachelor freedom and so to calm himself as well as steel himself to the prospect of marriage, he invented a new and more confident persona.  One that wasn't afraid.  It was that persona, he said, that became James Bond.  There are many examples of fictional characters that aren't described in great physical detail.  Raymond Chandler's private eye Philip Marlowe is rarely described outside of the color of his suit or women telling him he's a handsome brute, and if you read any amount of spy or private eye paperbacks, most will leave the looks of the hero a blank slate.  

In most cases, I think this is done so that the bald,  potbellied or homely reader can more easily insert himself into the fantasy world that this type of fiction so readily provides.  If the hero is described as handsome, muscular, with a full head of hair, etc. it might be harder to fit into his shoes and enjoy the goings-on.  If he isn't described at all, then you become him, and his triumphs and trials are your own.  

In the two cases listed above, Bond and Marlowe, I think that the hero was a kind of vehicle for the author.  They didn't describe the hero because they felt they were the hero.  They were living out fantasies on paper.  Of course, the dearth of description allows the reader to latch on more easily, as stated above, and this, I think, is why Fleming and Chandler are still in print today.

It was thinking all of this up yesterday that I decided that Paul Sterling must die.  Not a physical death, but be wadded up and thrown in a wastebasket, pending a serious overhaul.

It won't be easy, but over the course of the next few months I am going to come up with a new Paul Sterling.  Admittedly, there's some good stuff there.  An unpolished diamond with a lot of potential.  But by the time I'm finished, Paul Sterling will have greater adventures, more meaningful romances, and win fortunes undreamed of by the slob he is now.  

Stay tuned.  

"I Remember Mom"

Every writer has his shtick.  Themes and characters and life-altering events to which they return constantly.  I guess that it could be said that a good writer is one that, despite having his or her "bag of tricks", can compel you to revisit with them these central ideas.

Without a doubt, the biggest even of my life was the loss of my mother.  Losing my father was no easier, and I would never be so petty as to rank one above the other, but it just so happens that I was particularly close to my mother.  She fought a long battle with illness and I was with her every step of the way and so now my memories of her become more than simple recollections of a woman that I loved but the recollections of a journey toward the bittersweet end of that woman's life.  A journey that we took together.  

This will be the first of several postings on her and on this journey.

The Empty Spaces

If you see me walking around and I seem lost it's because I'm looking for her in places where she'd been.  I went a few days ago to the hardware store where she'd worked.  I expected her to be there.  She, of course, wasn't, but if everything in the store was just as it was when last I saw it, why did I not see her there standing behind the counter?  You cannot, to my satisfaction, explain to me what death is and what that process really means.  All I know of death is that people who once were here are here no longer and I can't find them no matter where I look.

My mother never understood why I would chuckle a little whenever she'd get upset with me and call me a son of a bitch.  She rarely got upset with me.  Not as much as she had a right to, certainly.  I daresay she should have been more upset with me and more often, but when she did get upset she'd call me a son of a bitch and I'd chuckle.

My mother would listen to me drone on about comic books and movies and all kinds of meaningless things and never once did she tell me what I loved in life was silly and she never seemed disinterested.  

We would watch television together.  This wasn't typical television viewing and we would talk during the movie and make fun of it.  We'd watch kung fu movies we rented and westerns and anything that tickled our fancy.  One of our favorites was a movie from the 30's called "The Half-Naked Truth" and there was a song in it we really liked.  Here it is. 

It's the only version of it I could find online and you have to kind of wait for the song, but Mom and I walked around the house singing this to each other for years.  It was one of a million private little in jokes you have to spend a lifetime with someone to accrue.  

My mother could draw beautifully.  I saw things she had drawn, but only ever saw her draw once.  When she died we found bags from dollar stores filled with sketchbooks and colored pencils, none of which she ever got the chance to use.  Sometimes I wondered if Mom had regrets in life, and that maybe all along she wanted to be an artist and couldn't because of her family obligations.  I feel a little better about it now.  After our journey together I know that while she may have had regrets she wouldn't have traded anything in her life, especially her family, for any career as an artist.

My mother couldn't sing to save her life.  My sister can sing and she loved that.  She's listen to Betsy at choir concerts and smile, not only proud of her talented daughter, but satisfied that there was, after all, a little justice in this world. 

The entire time she was sick, my mother never complained.  Not once.  

If I sit in a quiet room and there is nothing to distract me, I think of her.  I miss her.  I miss my father, but in different ways.  There are living people I can't see and I miss them, too.  It's only now, having lost so much and not having had a real home of my own in years that I understand why my mother held on to her family so tightly.  

My mother called me "Buddy" or "Pauly".  I just called her "Mom".  

       

  

What Makes Grass Grow Up Instead of Down?

In keeping with my fear of questionnaires, I grow very uncomfortable when people ask me about my spirituality, or to which faith group I belong.  Being asked whether or not I believe in God is no big deal, I do, but as for specifics, I find it hard to articulate just what it is I believe beyond the existence of a higher power.  I read quite a bit on the occult and on modern Paganism as well as older texts on world mythology and sacred writings from various groups and for the past few months I have had a really hard time focusing on anything in particular.  I'm not sure at what point I turned my back on a God that helps you out when you need it, but despite the trials of the past few years, I rarely prayed and instead sought strength from other sources.  It occurred to me some time ago that perhaps I might become a minister of some kind.  I eulogized both of my parents and felt I did a respectable job of it, but saying that I want to be a minister is a lot like saying I want to be an athlete and still being unsure of what sport I want to play.  In short, I felt an urge to help people and to talk to them.  To offer whatever comfort I could when the going got rough and to celebrate their good fortune.  As I've said, Humility has been my hallmark of late, and if this minister idea never comes into being it will be because I don't feel that I could ever be expert enough in the tenets of a particular faith to become a proponent of them, and I don't feel morally strong enough to live any kind of a completely circumspect life.  If it's one thing I don't want to be it's a hypocrite.  I don't want to be a hellion, either, but I wouldn't want to give someone substance abuse counseling while I had a hangover.  The following are bits and pieces on the common theme of the magic and mundane in daily life.

Gluttony

A woman came into the store looking for raspberry ketone.  We were sold out, as some television doctor had recommended it on his program, and I told her so, adding that we received new stock daily and should have more very soon.  She went on about what a wonderful thing the television doctor said this ketone was, and how much life her life would improve once she had it.  She said that one would have to eat several pounds of raspberries to get the amount of ketone they would get from one dosage of this miracle supplement.  "I couldn't eat that many raspberries." she said.  I was bored with her and her story at this point.  I said "I don't know, have you ever tried to eat that many raspberries?"  She straightened right up at this comment, turned her nose up into the air and said "Young man, that would be gluttony.  A sin." and she turned and walked away.  Later that afternoon I decided to have lunch at the chinese buffet and who should I see there but this woman, sinning her fool head off.

Tending the Fire

I was sitting around a nice warm fire on a cold night with good friends.  The fire was dying a little, but our desire to stay outside, enjoying one anothers company and conversation hadn't diminished a bit.  One friend told another to see about maybe raising a little wind to keep the fire going.  Being the obliging sort, the friend of whom the request was made stood and walked back a bit from the fire.  He took a knife from his belt and stood with his arms raised.  He was speaking, but I couldn't hear what he was saying.  He rocked back and forth and his eyes closed.  He threw the knife into the ground just at the outside of the fire pit.  In a moment a wind picked up, the fire grew, and we sat there lit by it's warmth long into the night.    

Cat-whispering

I'm not a cat person, but I imagine this is okay with most cats, as I've always felt that they have an inherent prejudice against me as well.  I doubt that when cats gather for midnight reveries that any of them look at one another and say, "You know, I'm really a person cat.  I just love people."  I've been living with two cats for a few weeks and for a while they were just something to trip over.  I'd pet them and their owners would hold them and tell them how cute they were but, really, it did nothing for me.  Last night, however, I made peace with one of my new housemates.  She sat looking at me through the window and for the first time I stopped and looked at her.  You know how a cats eyes can look at night when the light catches them just so?  How they can glow in an otherworldly fashion?  It's unnerving but her eyes looked like that for a while.  It thought it looked really pretty and when I came inside I petted the cat and told her so.  She said "Thank you".

Passage into Froghood

If you'll notice, on stormy nights on certain back roads, frogs will begin to congregate in the roadway.  I'm sure a biologist could explain just why  this happens, but I have my own theory.  I believe that this is a rite of passage for the young frogs of the frog tribe.  When the storm begins, the frog elders gather together the initiates and off they go to the road and in order to become fully accepted into frog society, the initiates must cross the road and return.  It is a test of courage, as frogs probably know all too well the danger of being smeared onto the pavement by passing cars and trucks.  At the end of the ceremony, the newly initiated frogs are welcomed fully into the frog tribe and gain all the privileges of adult froghood, for example, they can now choose a bride, own property, and vote.  Each initiation ceremony is ended with a celebration of the honored dead.  They shall not be forgotten.  

Courage

While a student in community college, I had a professor pose a question to the class for which I devised a very bright answer.  He asked what the difference was between folklore, mythology, and religion.  My answer was this:  "If your priest or pastor tells you the story, it's religion, if your grandparents tell you, it's folklore, and if your teacher or professor tells you, it's mythology."  I attributed this thought to Joseph Campbell, and for all I know he may have said something like it at some point, but the fact is I lacked the courage and confidence to submit this as my own idea.  I thought by attributing it to someone so much smarter than myself it would be more readily accepted.  I don't know why I do that sometimes.  

    

  

How To Drink to Excess

People have often asked me while I was throwing up or peeing in bushes or on lampposts outside bars: "Gosh, Paul... How do you DO it?"  My usual response is to tell them to mind their own damn business.  It may not have sounded quite like that, but I assure you that's what I was trying to say.  In the way of apology and as a public service I offer this blog and with it my heartfelt wish that all of you can someday be that wasted right along with me.

How to Drink to Excess, or How to Turn "A Few" into "Too Many"

The journey of a thousand miles, as the old saying goes, begins with a single step.  The beginning of the path to inebriation, however, is a bit more complicated.  One must be totally prepared to totally accept becoming totally wrecked.  If you consider that most of us really do go through life with a little angel on one shoulder and a little devil on the other, you must take the angel and place him in a drawer somewhere, hand the keys to the devil and say "let's have a good time."  This is a little schizophrenic, I know, but do whatever you have to do to eliminate any doubt in your mind that getting drunk is what you most want out of life at this very moment.

I find it's good practice to skip lunch.  By all means,enjoy a nice, modest breakfast, but when you finally sit down to drink (optimal start time is early afternoon) see to it that you have eaten as little as possible.  If you get peckish, just remember, sacrifice is the cornerstone of civilization.

Begin with mixed drinks.  I can almost convince myself a bloody mary is a healthy alternative to something with soda in it, but I leave the choice of drink to you.  Find one that you not only like, but one that has a fun name to say when you order it.  Some of the more apprehensive among you may be saying "Well, Gee, Paul, I don't know" and to you I say two things:  Stop being such a stick in the mud, and trust me, I've done this before.  I suggest three, but you know your tolerance better than I.  You know what, screw it, go ahead and have three.

Now, order some food!  You see, I wasn't going to leave you hanging.  The food will counteract the mixed drinks and give you your second wind.  Depending upon the quality of the service at your designated watering hole, coincide your order of food with your last order for a mixed drink.  When the food arrives, switch to beer.  As the old poem goes:  "Liquor then beer, you're in the clear", however "Beer before liquor, you're gonna puke your guts out".  Remember that you just might puke your guts out anyway and not to beat yourself up too much about it.

The beer stage is by far the longest stage in the process.  Think of yourself as a space shuttle, or a several stage rocket.  This is that touch-and-go period when you're trying to leave the earths atmosphere and anything could go wrong.  You might lose momentum, so perseverance is key.  Switching bars might become necessary.  You might have to ignore several calls from your significant other or you might remember that you work early the next day, but I repeat: DO NOT LOSE MOMENTUM!  You've started this thing and you're going to see it through.  Find out what beer is on special, stick with it, and as a rule I like to buy other people beers.  They may not reciprocate tonight, but you're planting seeds that will grown into free beer trees down the road.

I'd like to illustrate for you the next stage, but this is where the process grows fuzzy, even in my mind.

Depending upon the night of the week and where you go there may be karaoke or dancing.  Don't let any extracurricular nonsense distract you from your primary objective but, by all means, if you can do it and drink at the same time, feel free.  Just remember that you didn't wake up this morning looking forward to singing "Sweet Caroline" to a bunch of rowdy drunks.  You came to get smashed.  Focus. 

A word on shots.  Depending upon how drunk you want to become, and at this point you won't remember your goal inebriation level and will just have to wing it, someone will bring up the notion of shots.  It will probably be you.  One of my tricks of the trade is to insist that everyone do a shot, even the person that is shaking his head no because that's all he can manage at this point.  Someone is bound to poop out on you and not take their shot.  It happens.  Not everyone is as committed as you.  Looking on the bright side, that's another shot for you!  It's important to maintain positivity, as no one likes a sad drunk.

Congratulations!  You're smashed!  I knew you could do it.  

Now, you might throw up.  You might wet the bed, get into an argument with a loved one or a total stranger, you might even become involved with the local authorities, but even in the dingiest drunk tank in town, you can hold your head up high and say "I did it.  Or did I?  I don't remember."  Fuzzy recollection is a natural side effect and you shouldn't let it worry you.

ADDENDUM:  The Demon Hangover

If you're under twenty-five you can skip this part.  Just drink a big glass of water and take two Tylenol before you pass out and you'll be fine.  As for the rest of us, the best way to deal with a hangover is to not do anything at all.  I mean don't do jack squat.  Lay around all day.  Eat something greasy and fattening.  I find Hardees and a milkshake of some kind is best.  This way, you can tell yourself that you're not hung over at all, you just feel nasty because you ate a bunch of greasy fattening food.  

As for those of us who cannot manage to do nothing and find themselves faced with chores, work, or life in general in the face of a hangover, well, what can I say?  Suffer through it.  You're the one who wanted to go out and get drunk last night.

The Merits of Gothic Sleaze

I read a few blogs written about music.  In particular, I read blogs written about specific bands, and found that they all took a surprisingly defensive stance.  

I don't mean yours, man, I read that one and I thought it was cool.

The writer would name the band, give tedious biographical information, some would even give album by album and even track by track reviews and then... Defensively begin to counter any and every argument made about how much this particular band sucks.  The writer would tell you that an album sucked not because of the band but a neglectful producer, that while the A-Side may have been a hit, you really should listen to the B-Side, because it's way better, and if only people had heard of this band, they would take over the known universe.

I'm not a music critic, nor an art critic in general and only know what I like, so my first music blog will take the form a grade school book report, or a "What I did during summer vacation" essay.  Simple reportage.

TYPE O NEGATIVE SUCKS

All I knew about Type O Negative was that the lead singer had vampire teeth.  I'd heard a bit of music here and there, seen a video or two, and for years I just called them "that Vampire Band".  Later I found out the lead singer was named Peter Steele and that he was once in Playgirl magazine.  He also died a couple years ago.  As a group, they focused on death, and on sex.  I discovered them at a time in my life when I actually had a pretty good and satisfying sex life and my parents were both dying, so perhaps you have to be in that kind of mindset to really "get" them.  This would explain their rather limited appeal.

Goth types seem to have a reputation for being very somber and serious.  Every once in a while I'll pick up and issue of "Gothic Beauty" magazine and admire the way-out fashions of that scene and invariably there's an editorial of some kind in which someone bemoans a misconception of the Goth community.  It was in an issue of this magazine that I read Type O Negative described as "Gothic Sleaze", also reading that what really makes you Gothic is your sense of humor.

Type O Negative released albums called "Origin of the Feces" and "Slow, Deep, and Hard".  I think that's funny.  They have songs with titles like "Everything Dies", "Everyone I Love is Dead", and "Requiem for a Soulless Man".  I think that's pretty funny, too.  

They did slow and morbid versions of "Cinnamon Girl" and "Summer Breeze" in a funeral dirge style that earned them the nickname "the Drab Four".  Get it?  The Beatles were the "Fab Four".  

I guess the "sleaze" factor comes in with songs like "My Girlfriend's Girlfriend", a joyful ode to group sex, and the almost thirteen minute long "Unsuccessfully Coping with the Natural Beauty of Infidelity".  In the latter, the lyric is basically a rant about an unfaithful girlfriend.  Peter Steele sings "Do you believe in forever?  I don't even believe in tomorrow.  The only things that last forever are memories and sorrow."  This isn't strictly true, it's a poetic overstatement, but one can relate.  Sex and death.  The macho, dismissive stance of the song is parodied at the end when the frustrated lover wails "You... You make me hate myself."  

Once you've seen death, really seen it, you realize not only the absolute worst that can become of you, but also it's inevitability.  It's kind of like what the samurai used to call "the Art of Dying", making a conscious effort to let go of this life day by day to ease ones mind and perhaps allow for more enjoyment of it.  To enjoy a dirty joke, enjoy sex, and enjoy all of the other things that one day you won't be able to enjoy.  You know, because you'll be dead.  It's not so bad when you think about it.  

If memories last forever, then I credit Type O Negative with never taking themselves too seriously.  It seems like anyone who's had a hit record these days is thought a genius, especially by the artists themselves, and it's refreshing to have a band that admitted their faults.  The ultimate epitaph for any group is the greatest hits compilation, and Type O Negative entitled theirs "The Least Worst of Type O Negative".  

Peter Steele evidently had a lifelong struggle with faith and had experienced addiction, pain, and loss and when he became ill embraced a spiritual nature he'd long denied.  This is admirable in itself, but more admirable still was his attitude about it.  He didn't give a damn what people thought.  He made his own way.  

Strangely enough, "Everything Dies" is one of the most life affirming songs I've ever heard.  If you listen to anything, listen to that one.  

Would you hire ANY of these guys to clean your pool?

Then write a blog about how much it sucks.  Type O Negative and I couldn't care less.
        

The Snows of Yesteryear

"Where is Echo, beheld of no man,

Only heard on river and mere,

She whose beauty was more than human?

But where are the snows of yesteryear?"

-from "the Ballad of Dead Ladies"

by Francois Villon (1431-1489)

Old Flames and the Old Timer

I sat and drank with the old man for a while.  He'd clearly seen better days and kept looking at the clock as if hoping by some miracle it would run backward instead and deliver him to a past so much sweeter than the present.  He satisfied himself instead to talk of old loves over beers and well tequila and we were the best of friends for two and a half hours.

First there was Carla, whom he'd known since grade school.  She'd been his first, not his first love but the first woman with whom he'd performed the act of love, an act that over the years had become so far removed from the gentle purity of it's essence it was hardly worth that lofty title.  She'd gone on to work in a library and retired some years ago, a grandmother with a husband obsessed with ham radio.  They'd seen one another in the grocery store once around Thanksgiving time, she with her cart full of dressing, cranberry sauce and fixings for desserts and he with his full of wine, baloney, and day old bread.  There was no glint of recognition, no echoes from that distant past in which they'd been so hopelessly enamored as to allow one another the gift of physical consummation.  "She looked at me like I was a goddamned thief," he laughed, "but she knew right well that what I took from her she gave to me."

He next spoke of Elizabeth who'd been "rich and smart" by his estimation.  A thin redheaded student who waited tables for gas and rent money while he toiled as a dishwasher to support himself in a very modest fashion.  "She was from way down south and had a grandmother that called any northerner she met 'murdering yankee scum' to their face and mean every word of it".  They'd spend days off in her apartment naked, making food, watching television, holding and enjoying one another as only young people can.  "I loved those days we spent together," he said, "but I never loved that girl".  He wasn't sure what had happened to her, but was sure she had done okay for herself in life.  "She was that type."

Dana was young.  "Young and foolish," he said, "but the most beautiful woman I ever saw."  She had dark hair and eyes and skin "brown as a nut."  She drank with him and laughed with him and they went dancing together.  "The trouble was, I was living with another woman at the time." He shook his head.  "A good woman, too.  Two good women wronged by one shit-heel at the same damn time."  One day he'd told himself to break it off with Dana, never bothering to tell Dana herself.  "But, like I said, she was young.  It's easier to take that kind of thing when you're young."  She'd gone on to become a flight attendant and, as far as he knew, hadn't married.  "Which shows you she wasn't so foolish after all." he said, and we laughed.  

Marie was going to be his wife.  "She was the end of it." he said, but not bitterly.  She was a big woman, with a big laugh and a vibrant spirit.  "Everybody loved her," he said "My momma loved her to death."  He told story after story about her, funny happenings, trips they'd taken, and the colorful things she'd say.  "She was sassy and didn't take no stuff."  The inevitable question, "What went wrong?" went unasked for some time as he shared his recollections.  When  finally asked, he smiled again.  "I was a fool." he said simply.  He'd tested her a little too much, was drinking too much at the time, "Which wasn't entirely my fault." he said, raising a glass.  One night he'd been given a bottle of Pusser's Rum as a gift.  He came home, made hamburgers for dinner, drinking rum all the while, and everything was just fine until right around bedtime.  "I don't know what came over me." he said.  "Every man, no matter how content, has some itch or another that he can't scratch.  He's got a body or two buried deep inside, and I loved this woman so much that I wanted her to know all about it.  All about me.  And so I told her everything.  Everything I wanted and everything I'd done.  We made love that one last time and the next day she was gone."  Not physically gone, but emotionally.  "Turns out she wanted things I didn't know the first thing about.  Things I guess I just couldn't give."  One attempt at reunion came to nothing and before too long she and all their old friends drifted away and familiar haunts became hostile and foreign places.  "I begged her," he said.  "Made a pest of myself with her friends, her momma, even.  Nothing.  Damn near drove me crazy."  Marie had married some time ago.  "A minister down in South Carolina.  Real nice guy, I've heard."  He shrugged his shoulders and we ordered another round.

I'm sure there were more women to talk about, but there wasn't however, more time in which to discuss them.  He looked at the clock one last time, his eyes closing dreamily.  "Young man, it's been a pleasure." he said.  He shook my hand and was gone.  I asked the bartender if she knew his name and she said she didn't. She called him an "irregular regular" who came in on occasion.  I haven't seen him since, but I look for him there at the bar.

I look at the clock wonder when I'll hope it runs backwards.  

"A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams"

-John Barrymore, who portrayed the poet Francois Villon in the silent film "the Beloved Rogue" (1927)

    

"I seem to be, but I'm not, you see..."

It's fairly rare to go to a bar with friends and, depending on how many drinks it takes to make one sentimental, for someone to say of some song as it plays that "this song is about me."  I've said it myself many a time.  These days, I feel akin to the Platters classic "the Great Pretender".

Kurt Vonnegut's "Mother Night" tells the story of an American playwright living in Germany during the second World War that is recruited by American Intelligence to broadcast coded messages out of the country in the form of pro-Nazi propaganda.  Unaware of the content of the messages he's sending, as far as the playwright knows, he's just a Nazi spouting Nazi rhetoric and after the end of the war he is considered by everyone involved to be just another Nazi.  The closest the book offers in the way of a moral is that you have to be careful what you pretend to be, because in the end, you are what you pretend to be.

I have lost control of myself more times in this life than I care to admit.  I have lost jobs because of it, as well as severely strained relationships with friends and loved ones.  These lapses have cost me a lot, sometimes I think, more than I can bear.  It's only now, towards the end of my thirty-third year, that I ask myself "why?".

I once heard someone refer to these outbursts as "your mask slipping".  Is the loss of control the loss of strength required to create and maintain these masks?  These false senses of self?  

Heavy stuff, man.  

I think when I was younger, in high school and earlier, I just wanted to make everyone happy, proud, or generally satisfy the people around me.  At what point did that eclipse my desire to be honest?  At some point I rebelled a little, I guess, and tried to become a more self-gratifying version of the "me" I'd been thus far, but again, only now does it occur to me that I know so very little about myself.   

I fear questionnaires, as they always prove so hard for me to fill in.  I should know my favorite color, and I don't.  If I had a favorite flavor of ice cream and it changed, it wouldn't be the end of the world.  

Just who is Paul Sterling, anyway?

  
They don't write 'em like THIS anymore...

I'm an Idea Man

So, you've heard of Batman.  Some of you may have heard of Bob Kane, who created Batman.  Still more of you may have heard of Bill Finger, who wrote a lot of Batman stories and came up with many of the things that make Batman the character he is today.  Either way, I'm willing to bet the farm that a hell of a lot more of you knew Batman than knew Bill Finger.  

Bill Finger was an idea man, and I can relate.  I've always had stacks of what I thought were good ideas, but only recently have I had any motivation to do anything about or with them.  I'd like to share just a few of these ideas and if any of you feel inspired to swipe them, you just go right ahead.  Some of my best ideas are about getting revenge on people who wrong me.

PADRE

This is an idea for a digital phone application or a digital phone application gone horribly wrong.  PADRE is a sort of personalized spiritual adviser.  You'd fill out a questionnaire concerning your basic beliefs of right and wrong, good and evil, and afterlife, etc. as well as giving PADRE the sound of your voice so that it could tell when you were upset, sad, nervous, or depressed.  PADRE would know you inside and out and over the course of your day if you needed to be uplifted or inspired, you'd just hit your PADRE button and be thus affected.  "PADRE, I didn't get the promotion.", or "PADRE, I feel so lonely."  Who knows, this type of thing might exist already, but I also thought it might be interesting if through some glitch or malicious intent, PADRE began giving horrible advice to particularly susceptible people.  PADRE would say things like:  "Why don't you just murder him?" or "Drive your car off the road" in a soothing electronic voice. 

ATTABOY

I'm not sure if the name "Attaboy" has already been used, but outside of that he's a superhero and his powers   hinge upon his self esteem.  On a good hair day, Attaboy could give Superman a run for his money and all would be well, but on a bad day?  He couldn't take out the trash.  I picture him lifting a car, a tank, a safe, or something equally heavy while someone nearby whispers to a friend that Attaboy looks like he's gained a few pounds.  Upon hearing this, he weakens, and whatever he's holding crushes him into the ground.  

The Bitterleys

I'm a fan of one panel gag cartoons, the likes of which you only find in "the New Yorker" these days, and I thought it might be nice to have one about a wealthy family that, by all appearances, are normal, well-adjusted successful people, but each panel would reveal instances of the reality behind closed doors at the Bitterley home.  Mrs. Bitterley would be an abusive heavy drinker, Mr. Bitterly a spineless put-upon neurotic and I haven't devised any further members of the family, but two scenes would be:  Mr. Bitterley tying his tie in the mirror while an inebriated Mrs. Bitterley asks him "Do you need a lawyer to make a suicide pact?" and another in which a clergyman visiting the Bitterley home is informed by Mrs. Bitterley that her faith in the power of prayer was shaken when Mr. Bitterley had a massive coronary and somehow managed to live.

Dirty Pictures

When I worked at the book store I was amazed at the myriad versions of the Kama Sutra that are on the market.  Some are more spiritual, others more instructional, and others just a good excuse to print dirty pictures.  Far and away my favorite editions of the Kama Sutra are those that include old Indian paintings as illustrations, in which the male participants have curled mustaches and the female participants are bejeweled and both have looks of borderline indifference despite the sexual acrobatics in which they are engaged.  The pictures are so garish and gaudy that they would inspire humor more than lust, and I would amuse myself by thinking up captions for the pictures.  These are some of the better ones:  

Your comeliness will no doubt spur my rutting of you well into the daylight hours. 

Your musk is that of an unwashed beast... No, it is good... I like this. 

Who is the maharajah of this vagina?  SPEAK!

I also have an idea for a romance novel, the setting of which would be the years leading up to and including the American Civil War.  I call it "Gone with the Wind".  Any thoughts?     

My Secret Love Affair with Gene Simmons

As it happens, I got some very bad news one night while folding laundry and watching 'Gene Simmons Family Jewels'.  I'm not a longtime fan of the program and had only just tuned in but I was genuinely touched when he proposed to his longtime girlfriend, the Playboy playmate whose name I can't remember.  The mother of his kids.  That was a big season finale.  My tenuous relationship with the show is similar to my tenuous relationship with the rock group KISS in general.  I first met KISS in Ocean City, where the KISS pinball machine scared me senseless.  They looked kind of like super villains, and this was well before I knew anything about S&M and satanism or anything of the darker things in life.  So the dog collars and skintight outfits and demonic face paint were lost on me.  They just looked weird and scary.  They looked like Spider-man should be fighting them and winning.  This was during those middle years when KISS didn't wear make-up and were still around but not the sensation they were at first and not the marketing powerhouse they are now.  It was in the news some time ago that there was a KISS coffin available and I wonder if anyone has been buried in one yet.  Later on, I saw vintage KISS in performance on television and my mother said that "they were good" and I wondered what kind of crazy witchcraft my mother was involved in that these evil-looking mimes were , by her estimation, "good".  I remember Gene Simmons had a sex tape, too.  This was at the end of the big sex tape boom of a few years ago.  For a while Gene Simmons had his own magazine called "Tongue".  Gene Simmons has a freakishly long tongue, for those of you who don't know.  Oprah asked him how long his tongue was once and he told her it was long enough to make Oprah his very best friend.  I saw Gene Simmons on William Shatner's talk show, "Shatner's Raw Nerve" once and I liked what he had to say.  I've often wished I could reinvent myself.  That I could come up with a snazzy costume and not be Paul anymore but someone else that was more of what I wish I were more of and less all of the things I hate about myself.  Do you ever feel that way?  Today I realized that all of these scattered recollections of KISS and of Gene Simmons constituted an almost lifelong clandestine love affair between he and I, and I don't care who knows about it.

But one day I was watching 'Gene Simmons Family Jewels' and I got some very bad news.  The news came via text message and I remember reading it and feeling sick.  This particular episode was about a guy who'd been a schmuck and a womanizer all his life, one who was so much of a schmuck that he wanted it both ways, to be a father and family man and still run around having flings with groupies and porn stars.  It was the first time I saw this type of guy as being a schmuck and then and there I decided to be less of a schmuck myself.  To grow up a little.  To commit.  He was getting a second chance and I felt like my second chance was on its way.  I wanted to be worthy of and ready for it.  But then the news came, those damn text messages.  There was no second chance for me like there had been for Gene.  You'd think realty television would be easier to emulate, wouldn't you?  But no.  Not for me.  And just then I really wanted to paint my face.  To become someone else.

I haven't watched the show since.  Does anybody know if the marriage turned out okay?

I'd Rather Laugh Than Cry

As promised, here are a few things, some from my journals and some on the spot, all of which are in a lighter vein, more comical, and hopefully enjoyable.  Thanks for reading.

Erotic Fiction

A co-worker that typically toiled the evening shift with me was suddenly MIA.  I asked around but nobody seemed to know just why her schedule had changed.  I saw at the grocery store one Saturday afternoon and when I asked where she'd been, she told me she was taking a community college course in the writing of erotic fiction.  She wasn't a prude or anything, but it still came as a surprise.  "The instructor's really nice", she said, "and I've met some cool people.  So far, I have a B but he hasn't graded our last assignment yet."  I wished her luck and we parted ways.  It wasn't until later that night when I pondered just how one goes about grading erotic fiction.  I pictured the professors office, his desk with tissues at the ready.  He'd emerge, wiping sweat from his brow, hand you your assignment and somewhat breathlessly say: "Good work."

The Value of Nothing

I was shopping at a secondhand store, browsing old books and videos.  I saw an older woman I think I may have went to church with as a boy also browsing.  She would hold up videos she liked and announce to no one in particular "Oh, I love this one!" and set it aside.  Some of the movies she loved were "Uncle Buck", one of the "Child's Play" movies, a Three Stooges compilation, and a documentary about Arizona.  The price on the videos was good, one dollar apiece or six for five dollars, so she could afford to have such eclectic taste.  Suddenly the woman exclaimed with great shock and distaste.  Apparently, mixed in with the family fare were several pornographic films.  She alerted the owner, who apologized profusely.  He had no idea that any of the videos were pornographic, and thanked her for pointing it out.  As a show of good faith, he offered all the movies she had accrued free of charge and assured her that something would be done about it.  Everyone was satisfied.  I returned a week or two later and found that, indeed, all of the pornographic movies had been removed.  While the bulk of the videos remained one dollar apiece or six for five, the dirty ones were placed in a box to themselves labelled "five dollars each".

Why I Shaved My Beard

Some time ago I shaved my beard.  There was much curiosity concerning my motivations for doing so and many inquiries.  The truth behind my stylistic change ran much deeper than anyone may have suspected and now, at long last, the story can be told.  I was outside on a cloudy afternoon.  A pleasant breeze, pleasant thoughts, and nothing to do left me lazy in the most wonderful way.  Off in the distance, way up in the sky beyond the clouds appeared a speck.  A tiny indeterminate dot.  The dot grew larger and larger, the clouds seemed to part, and I heard violins playing "Getting to Know You".  Before I knew it I was face to face with an astral being.  With God himself.  He said "how are you?" and I said "fine" and we just kind of went back and forth like that for a while.  You know.  Talking.  He said "Paul, shave your beard, okay?  It looks cool and everything, and you can grow it back later, just... shave your beard."  I told Him I would.  As is so often the case when one meets a celebrity, I could think of nothing witty to say nor pertinent questions to ask.  In all His serenity and wisdom I knew He didn't hold my awkwardness against me and I'll always appreciate that. He said "so long" and drifted backwards while "Getting to Know You" played in reverse.  I watched television for a while and shaved just before bedtime.  I'm still not sure just what purpose this served and have grown a beard again since, but when this sort of thing happens to you, you just have to go with it.  Do you know what I mean?

Dream Sequence

Burt had a fantasy concerning his wife.  He wanted to have her and the woman across the street at the same time, all three of them enjoying one another in the most base and carnal ways imaginable.  It began simply enough, he would think of it when he had a free moment or two at work or while driving.  It was a nice way to pass the time while he was raking leaves or washing dishes.  One day Burt found that his desire was no longer casual.  The fantasy had become an undeniable urge that needed to be fulfilled.  Knowing his wife as well as he did, he knew that no matter how sincere his wish or rational his argument, the concept wouldn't fly.  As it turns out, the woman across the street and Burt's wife knew one another and it occurred to Burt that if he spoke to the neighbor first and could get her on board then perhaps persuading his wife could become a possibility.  He had a drink to fortify himself and marched across the street where Burt saw, through the picture window of his neighbors house, not only the neighbor, but his neighbors husband and Burt's wife enjoying one another much as Burt had imagined for so many weeks, in full view of the neighborhood.  Burt stood for a moment regarding the scene.  When it had been a fantasy it had been a most enjoyable thing, but seeing it now, the confusion and hysterical gyrations of three people clumsily trying to find ecstasy, all of them sweating, grunting, and cursing through what looked like a pointless ordeal.  Well, it just turned Burt of the whole thing entirely.      

The Art of the One-Liner, or Paul: After Hours

My friend Stephen and I often amuse ourselves with little sayings that, upon first exposure, seem perfectly acceptable and civil, but on further contemplation are absolutely filthy.  

In the way of example I offer the following:

I want to link up my facebook with your twitter.  (I'm proud of this one and want to put it on a t-shirt)

Do you want me to warm up your cookie?

You have the prettiest lips I've ever come across.

I just went to IGA and you can't beat their meats.

Would you pass me the sauce?

I think these will do for now.  My apologies.