It must have all started when Dorothy Provine, star of the 1960s television series, The Roaring Twenties, began doing commercials for something called Feminine Deodorant Spray (FDS, as it was named). I was around 13 when the show went off the air and could not figure out why women would need a special deodorant, but later caught on when Esquire Magazine, in its Dubious Achievement Awards, gave her the title of “Sweet Peas of the Year.” Provine’s groundbreaking work broke ground for all manner of commercials dealing with all manner of issues, the personal nature of which one would have assumed rendered them taboo. To cite H.L. Mencken, “Nobody ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American people.” Today proved it.
Driving down Main Street in Bridgeport, Connecticut, I saw the sign of the future; somebody’s future, anyway. There, amid convenience stores, travel agents, insurance agents, cell phone dealers and various types of restaurants stood the building which, according to the sign, houses the Center for Gestational Surrogacy. The CGS has no website that I was able to find but there are several others listed on the Web and the first one I went to states that in order to be a surrogate, the first requirement is that you be female. Glad they cleared that one up. But what about the prospective parents?
DISCLAIMER: I HAVE NO CHILDREN LOF MY OWN AND HAVE NEVER HAD A HAND IN THE RAISING OF CHILDREN EXCEPT FOR BABYSITTING MY SIBLINGS. Yeah, that includes diaper changes.
The whole issue bothers me, though, and I suppose there is no reason in the world that it should. However, when looked at through a certain lens, it becomes apparent to me that people believe they have a right to have children no matter what. Having observed various parenting behaviors in public throughout my life, it is my belief that there should be some sort of test given before people are allowed to procreate.
Before running off to Wombs-R-Us, they should be tested for the ability to handle the stress of an unruly child in public places. Before being accepted as prospective parents by Egg-Stravaganza, Inc., perhaps there could be a sleep deprivation test.
Having children may be a right, but I consider it more of a privilege than a right and, I am afraid some people consider it more a rite than a right. Two teenage girls were walking through the shopping mall I refer to as Trumbull Babylon, one pushing a baby carriage and complaining that she could not get her homework done due to caring for her child. The other commiserated but then said, “I really want one, too. I don’t care about the homework.” Maybe the Egg Farm should move to the mall. I can see it now: Eddie Bauer Wombs competing with Womb-A-Rama. Wombs To Go cheek by jowl with Discount Wombs. Victoria’s Wombs going up against Select-A-Womb. For home delivery, just call Dial-A-Womb. The list could go on and on, but I’ll leave it here as I go to bed and curl into the fetal position.
2010-05-13
2010-05-12
Ship of Jerks
It has been two days since I picked up Ship of Fools by Katherine Anne Porter. That is to say, two days since I have read any more of it. Out of 497 pages I have read 290 pages describing sheer hatred, malice, backbiting, detestation, repugnance, disgust, vitriol, abomination, loathing, abhorrence, resentment, petty jealousy, displeasure, anti-Semitism, spite and just overall bad behavior among a group of passengers and crew aboard a second-rate steamer sailing from Veracruz, Mexico to Bremerhaven, Germany circa 1931. There is not a happy character among the bunch except for two out of control children whose fun is always directed toward the misery of others. If there is any joy at all among this cast of misery-laden folks it takes the form of a particularly vile form of Schadenfreude. There are no real chapter breaks in this edition I am reading, so it has been a hate-filled marathon of 290 pages since I began. Little more than halfway through, I needed a break; the real thing is available any time I want to look for it. I can’t wait to see the movie.
Knowing less than nothing about the life of the author I still am wondering how she avoided the despair that leads to suicide. That she lived to be 90 years of age is a sort of miracle if this book is to be taken as evidence of her view of human society. I suppose reading her biography might be advisable. I am open to suggestions as to a good one. Right now I am looking for a copy of Pale Horse, Pale Rider, which apparently is a fictionalized account of her time recovering from the flu which she contracted during the 1918 pandemic. I am also in knowing whether the following quote is attributable to her. "I have lost children in all the ways one can." I would like a citation for this. Apparently, she suffered more than one miscarriage, at least one stillbirth and at least one abortion.
In fact, if anyone knows anything about Porter’s life and/or literature I certainly would appreciate hearing what you have to say.
Next up will be Joan Didion, beginning with, Slouching Towards Bethlehem. I have read nothing but reviews of Didion and have been impressed by what I have read. That is to say, most of the reviewers give her what seems to be only grudging respect, a sure sign I may be on to something good.
Finally, I will confess that my reading of female writers has been pretty much limited to Willa Cather, Eudora Welty, Carson McCullers and Edith Wharton and, among these, only Cather and O'Connor to any great extent. It is good to discover these others, to have one’s horizons broadened, if you will forgive the pun. Perhaps all this reading of women authors is proof of my growth as "an evolving male," as the hip would term the event. It pays to keep up with the evolutionary stuff, I suppose.
Knowing less than nothing about the life of the author I still am wondering how she avoided the despair that leads to suicide. That she lived to be 90 years of age is a sort of miracle if this book is to be taken as evidence of her view of human society. I suppose reading her biography might be advisable. I am open to suggestions as to a good one. Right now I am looking for a copy of Pale Horse, Pale Rider, which apparently is a fictionalized account of her time recovering from the flu which she contracted during the 1918 pandemic. I am also in knowing whether the following quote is attributable to her. "I have lost children in all the ways one can." I would like a citation for this. Apparently, she suffered more than one miscarriage, at least one stillbirth and at least one abortion.
In fact, if anyone knows anything about Porter’s life and/or literature I certainly would appreciate hearing what you have to say.
Next up will be Joan Didion, beginning with, Slouching Towards Bethlehem. I have read nothing but reviews of Didion and have been impressed by what I have read. That is to say, most of the reviewers give her what seems to be only grudging respect, a sure sign I may be on to something good.
Finally, I will confess that my reading of female writers has been pretty much limited to Willa Cather, Eudora Welty, Carson McCullers and Edith Wharton and, among these, only Cather and O'Connor to any great extent. It is good to discover these others, to have one’s horizons broadened, if you will forgive the pun. Perhaps all this reading of women authors is proof of my growth as "an evolving male," as the hip would term the event. It pays to keep up with the evolutionary stuff, I suppose.
2010-05-02
Oh, Frabjous Day, Calloo, Callay
Well, the rest of the radiology report finally came through and there is news to report. Compared to the scan that was done on February 4 of this year, “The mass involving the anterior rib cage and pleura has significantly decreased in size and currently measures 1 x 3.8 cm decreased from 3.1 x 5.5 cm.” Amid all the medical terminology there is not much of interest beyond the material quoted above except for the final statement which reads, “Impression: Marked improvement in the patient’s known metastatic lesions predominantly involving the right chest wall. Complete resolution of the small right effusion.” The small right effusion was a bit of fluid in the lung and that obviously has disappeared. Good news all in all and I am grateful for it as well as for all the thoughts and prayers that went into this and, I hope, will continue to go on.
The radiology report was good, but the timing here could be improved. The timing involved concerns the infusion. I get four bags of one of the 5-FU and each bag takes 24 hours. Ideally, this works out to 96 hours. Ideally seldom works out. In fact, it looks as though my Monday departure may not come about until Tuesday. The separate bags of the 5-FU get interrupted for fluids and other stuff, such as anti-nausea meds, etc. And sometimes the pharmacy gets backed up; it seems I am not the only patient here.
But overall, the news is good and that is what I am thankful for. Another day in here will not make that much difference in the long run.
The radiology report was good, but the timing here could be improved. The timing involved concerns the infusion. I get four bags of one of the 5-FU and each bag takes 24 hours. Ideally, this works out to 96 hours. Ideally seldom works out. In fact, it looks as though my Monday departure may not come about until Tuesday. The separate bags of the 5-FU get interrupted for fluids and other stuff, such as anti-nausea meds, etc. And sometimes the pharmacy gets backed up; it seems I am not the only patient here.
But overall, the news is good and that is what I am thankful for. Another day in here will not make that much difference in the long run.
2010-05-01
More Chemo Plus Cardinals and Forsythias
It’s been a while, but not much has been going on in these parts. One round of chemo follows another. Right now, it is May 1, a Saturday, and I am here at St. Vincent’s chained to the IV tree for my tri-weekly 96-hour chemo. I’ve been here 48 hours and should be out of here in another 48, although it never seems to work out that way. I usually don’t get out of here until late Monday or even Tuesday. Then it is back here every Thursday for a short chemo treatment. No end in sight so far.
A chest and neck scan was done on Thursday when I came in and the neck came back perfectly normal, but there is no word yet on the chest. This is most likely a clerical error, i.e., someone sent one part of the report and failed to send the second part. My chest and neck have been violently separated and have been apart for two days as of this writing. Leaving neck and chest to find one another, let’s visit my house or, more accurately, the house where I rent a room.
In the mornings I like to take my coffee out to the patio in back where the sun shines. It is a nice, warm spot and the birds chirp, tweet, twitter, caw and whatever else it is that birds do vocally. Mostly these are wrens, sparrows, crows, and some unseen species whose calls I cannot identify. There are bushes and trees and some of the birds feed on the ground under the bushes. There is one bird in particular that comes every morning. He is a cardinal who feeds on the bushes and trees. I first saw him my first morning out in back and then it was a few days before I saw him again since I was in the hospital. When I came out of the hospital, though, he was there the very next morning. The cardinal was my Dad’s favorite bird, so I call him, “Buford.” He doesn’t seem to mind.
Forsythias were one of Mary’s favorite signs of spring. Among the bushes out back at my place is a forsythia. One morning, while the wind was blowing particularly hard, the forsythia blossoms were being blown everywhere, but mostly toward the neighbor’s yard. It was pleasant surprise, then, when a single forsythia blossom landed on the table next to my coffee cup. It was a nice reminder but I did not see it blow away. It went while I was having a sip of coffee. I don’t even know what direction it went. It was just gone.
A chest and neck scan was done on Thursday when I came in and the neck came back perfectly normal, but there is no word yet on the chest. This is most likely a clerical error, i.e., someone sent one part of the report and failed to send the second part. My chest and neck have been violently separated and have been apart for two days as of this writing. Leaving neck and chest to find one another, let’s visit my house or, more accurately, the house where I rent a room.
In the mornings I like to take my coffee out to the patio in back where the sun shines. It is a nice, warm spot and the birds chirp, tweet, twitter, caw and whatever else it is that birds do vocally. Mostly these are wrens, sparrows, crows, and some unseen species whose calls I cannot identify. There are bushes and trees and some of the birds feed on the ground under the bushes. There is one bird in particular that comes every morning. He is a cardinal who feeds on the bushes and trees. I first saw him my first morning out in back and then it was a few days before I saw him again since I was in the hospital. When I came out of the hospital, though, he was there the very next morning. The cardinal was my Dad’s favorite bird, so I call him, “Buford.” He doesn’t seem to mind.
Forsythias were one of Mary’s favorite signs of spring. Among the bushes out back at my place is a forsythia. One morning, while the wind was blowing particularly hard, the forsythia blossoms were being blown everywhere, but mostly toward the neighbor’s yard. It was pleasant surprise, then, when a single forsythia blossom landed on the table next to my coffee cup. It was a nice reminder but I did not see it blow away. It went while I was having a sip of coffee. I don’t even know what direction it went. It was just gone.
2010-04-17
Grave Matters
Social custom requires certain things of people and usually these rules are followed and sometimes they are not fulfilled for various reasons, some valid, some otherwise. There is a custom that I do not follow and for good reason. Or so I believe.
Mary and I were married for 16 years, 8 months and 5 days when she died at 10:04 p.m. on the second of April, 2006. We had known one another just shy of 20 years by that time. When we were married on July 28, 1989, she told me we would be lucky to have another 20 years together. I replied that we would have at least 25 years together from that time. I was 40 at the time and she was approaching 47 years old. I figured my actuarial prediction was the more accurate one. As in most cases, Mary was right. Mary was buried on April 5, 2006. That was the last time I visited St. Michael’s Cemetery.
I do not visit Mary’s grave for one very simple reason. That is not her in the ground. What lies in the ground are the mortal remains of the woman I still love.
For a time, I dwelt on the physical aspects of death. I know what the undertakers do to make the body presentable to the living for whom the entire funeral industry exists. Without the living, there would be no money in death. From thoughts of what the undertakers were up to I began to dwell on the physical aspects of decay and eventual putrefaction of the body. If you think about this stuff long enough you can go crazy. None of these physical things had one thing to do with Mary.
Mary gave me a copy of Skinny Legs and All before we were married. She was always self-conscious about her legs which were, in fact, pretty darn skinny. She hardly ever wore shorts and usually wore long dresses or skirts. When she gave me that book, I told her that she was not her legs or her famous Bowe nose or any combination of body parts. The point I was trying to make is that it was her very self that I love and not a collection if tissue, fluid, bone and blood. It is the very idea of Mary that held me then and holds me now.
Mary Bowe Koechig was full of love, joy and wonder for everyone and everything around her. Lying in her lounge chair on the deck at Mary’s Cove, a fuchsia plant hanging above her, she would quietly smile when her hummingbird appeared, making its regular visits. She never said a word, but rather enjoyed the presence of this remarkable bird who gave her so much happiness. She found what she called “faces” in the petals of flowers, especially pansies. Mary found reasons to be happy with life and sought to bring that happiness to others. Her regrets were not many, but one regret she carried with her to the grave was that she felt she never did enough for her daughters.
Losing her hair to chemotherapy, Mary asked me to meet her halfway. After telling her I did not marry her hair, I disappeared into the bathroom and shaved one half of my moustache off and asked if that was what she meant. She merely suggested that I would be more socially acceptable if I shaved the other half. But she did laugh.
This and more is what I carry in my heart. I carry the memory of her smile, her laugh, her tears and worries. This is Mary. Her skinny legs did not matter; she mattered.
Our friend Charlotte tends the grave and tells me how it looks and I appreciate what she does. Mary appreciates it as well. For me, however, it is enough to carry her in my heart. That is all I need and all I can handle.
Mary and I were married for 16 years, 8 months and 5 days when she died at 10:04 p.m. on the second of April, 2006. We had known one another just shy of 20 years by that time. When we were married on July 28, 1989, she told me we would be lucky to have another 20 years together. I replied that we would have at least 25 years together from that time. I was 40 at the time and she was approaching 47 years old. I figured my actuarial prediction was the more accurate one. As in most cases, Mary was right. Mary was buried on April 5, 2006. That was the last time I visited St. Michael’s Cemetery.
I do not visit Mary’s grave for one very simple reason. That is not her in the ground. What lies in the ground are the mortal remains of the woman I still love.
For a time, I dwelt on the physical aspects of death. I know what the undertakers do to make the body presentable to the living for whom the entire funeral industry exists. Without the living, there would be no money in death. From thoughts of what the undertakers were up to I began to dwell on the physical aspects of decay and eventual putrefaction of the body. If you think about this stuff long enough you can go crazy. None of these physical things had one thing to do with Mary.
Mary gave me a copy of Skinny Legs and All before we were married. She was always self-conscious about her legs which were, in fact, pretty darn skinny. She hardly ever wore shorts and usually wore long dresses or skirts. When she gave me that book, I told her that she was not her legs or her famous Bowe nose or any combination of body parts. The point I was trying to make is that it was her very self that I love and not a collection if tissue, fluid, bone and blood. It is the very idea of Mary that held me then and holds me now.
Mary Bowe Koechig was full of love, joy and wonder for everyone and everything around her. Lying in her lounge chair on the deck at Mary’s Cove, a fuchsia plant hanging above her, she would quietly smile when her hummingbird appeared, making its regular visits. She never said a word, but rather enjoyed the presence of this remarkable bird who gave her so much happiness. She found what she called “faces” in the petals of flowers, especially pansies. Mary found reasons to be happy with life and sought to bring that happiness to others. Her regrets were not many, but one regret she carried with her to the grave was that she felt she never did enough for her daughters.
Losing her hair to chemotherapy, Mary asked me to meet her halfway. After telling her I did not marry her hair, I disappeared into the bathroom and shaved one half of my moustache off and asked if that was what she meant. She merely suggested that I would be more socially acceptable if I shaved the other half. But she did laugh.
This and more is what I carry in my heart. I carry the memory of her smile, her laugh, her tears and worries. This is Mary. Her skinny legs did not matter; she mattered.
Our friend Charlotte tends the grave and tells me how it looks and I appreciate what she does. Mary appreciates it as well. For me, however, it is enough to carry her in my heart. That is all I need and all I can handle.
2010-04-16
One Man’s Tea Partier is Another Man’s Embryonic Terrorist
Bill Clinton was heard on the news today describing the Tea Party movement as somehow reminiscent of Timothy McVeigh, the notorious Oklahoma City bomber, responsible for the deaths of over 160 people in 1995. Clinton claims the activism and anger of the Tea Partiers mirrors the anger of McVeigh which ultimately led to his despicable act which included the deaths of 19 children.
This clearly is either delusional on the part of our former president or it is a blatant attempt to discredit an organization which seeks rightful active participation in government. Clinton is not alone in this. From the very beginning of its administration the Obama White House and its supporters have resorted to ad hominem attacks on opponents, labeling them as racists, ignorant, angry, recalcitrant and worse. Now, nascent terrorism is on the menu.
That Clinton would chose anger as one focus of his argument is ironic. One remembers a day in the not too distant past when a sitting President of the United States chose to lie to the nation, angrily stating, “I did not have sex with that woman.” Did his anger lead to an act of terrorism? I doubt he has the testicular fortitude for such an act, except perhaps by proxy. Is he capable of such a thing? Well, to quote someone, “It depends on what your definition of ‘is’ is.”
Speaking of that famous quote (right up there with, “I am not a crook”), this is an attempt at controlling speech. In a tyranny, one of the first things to go is freedom of expression. It was done in China. It was done in Germany. It was done in the Soviet Union. It has been done all over the world with the same disastrous results. Joseph Goebbels famously said, “If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.” He also went on to state that truth is the greatest enemy of the state. This is control of speech at its utmost height. To challenge the truth as proclaimed by the state is to be traitorous. Yes, it is that serious. But it also is ridiculous.
This is all too ridiculous to even note except for the fact that so much effort is being put into an effort to quell criticism of the government. If argument is fair and open, what does anyone have to fear? It is as if government had never in the history of the world been questioned. All the criticism is being treated as a blasphemous, heretical challenge to Holy Writ, which is not surprising since Mr. Obama was elected on a wave of what can only be called a kind of messianic fever. But there is just one more thing that rankles.
Clinton has managed to cheapen the deaths of over 160 people by his comments. He has used the Oklahoma City murders to make a political point, a point, by the way, which really is lost in translation. Clinton joins the ranks of those who compare their ideological enemies to Nazis. It is a cheap shot, easily made and without basis. Once the charge is made it tends to stick. I quoted Joseph Goebbels above, not to compare him and Clinton, but to point out the direction the whole debate is taking. Looking down the road, it doesn’t look as if it will get any better soon.
This clearly is either delusional on the part of our former president or it is a blatant attempt to discredit an organization which seeks rightful active participation in government. Clinton is not alone in this. From the very beginning of its administration the Obama White House and its supporters have resorted to ad hominem attacks on opponents, labeling them as racists, ignorant, angry, recalcitrant and worse. Now, nascent terrorism is on the menu.
That Clinton would chose anger as one focus of his argument is ironic. One remembers a day in the not too distant past when a sitting President of the United States chose to lie to the nation, angrily stating, “I did not have sex with that woman.” Did his anger lead to an act of terrorism? I doubt he has the testicular fortitude for such an act, except perhaps by proxy. Is he capable of such a thing? Well, to quote someone, “It depends on what your definition of ‘is’ is.”
Speaking of that famous quote (right up there with, “I am not a crook”), this is an attempt at controlling speech. In a tyranny, one of the first things to go is freedom of expression. It was done in China. It was done in Germany. It was done in the Soviet Union. It has been done all over the world with the same disastrous results. Joseph Goebbels famously said, “If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.” He also went on to state that truth is the greatest enemy of the state. This is control of speech at its utmost height. To challenge the truth as proclaimed by the state is to be traitorous. Yes, it is that serious. But it also is ridiculous.
This is all too ridiculous to even note except for the fact that so much effort is being put into an effort to quell criticism of the government. If argument is fair and open, what does anyone have to fear? It is as if government had never in the history of the world been questioned. All the criticism is being treated as a blasphemous, heretical challenge to Holy Writ, which is not surprising since Mr. Obama was elected on a wave of what can only be called a kind of messianic fever. But there is just one more thing that rankles.
Clinton has managed to cheapen the deaths of over 160 people by his comments. He has used the Oklahoma City murders to make a political point, a point, by the way, which really is lost in translation. Clinton joins the ranks of those who compare their ideological enemies to Nazis. It is a cheap shot, easily made and without basis. Once the charge is made it tends to stick. I quoted Joseph Goebbels above, not to compare him and Clinton, but to point out the direction the whole debate is taking. Looking down the road, it doesn’t look as if it will get any better soon.
2010-04-14
Save This Man from Mall Ratism
There is a danger of my becoming a mall rat. Horrible as this sounds, it is my solution to the absence of wireless in my new residence. The landlord says I am hooked up but Windows is not able to connect to the thing. I get it for free here at Trumbull Babylon which has the advantage of being only one bus ride away; that is, I do not have to change buses in order to get here.
The constant blasting of music is a bit hard to take, but it is only a matter of attempting to block it out. Most times I am successful, but at others it does come through one ear and out the other like a rusty dental drill.
Another advantage to this place is the presence of not one, but two – count ‘em, folks, two – Starbuck’s locations. One is in a Target store and the other has its own storefront. Today I had lunch at the storefront location and did not have my normal venti caffe' Americano. Instead, I had a smoothie of banana and mango. I will not have this again for a while. The smoothie itself probably was very good but my taste buds seem to be a little disordered from the chemotherapy.
Speaking of chemotherapy, the rash from the Erbitux shows up primarily on my face and is a sight to behold. Periodically, chunks of my face fall off and they are not particular as to when, where or in front of whom they do it. I have gotten used to it, but it seems as though every stranger I see is staring to see this bizarre wonder that used to be my face.
Meanwhile, here are Trumbull Babylon, it seems fair to stare back. Some of the fashion statements here are no less bizarre than a scaly face that sheds unpredictably. I have seen in just a couple of hours sights that no one should be made to view. Exposed skin seems to be the indicator of fashion awareness. The more adipose tissue that is revealed the better, the rule seems to say. That and ugly tatoos.
Another thing that strikes me here is the fashion posters. Most of the male models in these posters seem to have their arms folded, chins tucked into their chests with their heads tilted to one side or another, with what I suppose is the gangster glare cominbg from their eyes. The majority of the female models seem to be either extremely angry or horribly constipated. Just the stuff to make me want to get into fashion.
Well, if I do turn into a mall rat, I certainly hope to be able to live up to the image here. There already is a start to a roll on my gut, so if I start cutting my shirts off at the bottom, I could get in on that count. A surly look will surely need to come along in time and I am sure I can manage that if they keep playing that outlandish stuff they call music. Meanwhile, I’ll just try to remain undercover.
The constant blasting of music is a bit hard to take, but it is only a matter of attempting to block it out. Most times I am successful, but at others it does come through one ear and out the other like a rusty dental drill.
Another advantage to this place is the presence of not one, but two – count ‘em, folks, two – Starbuck’s locations. One is in a Target store and the other has its own storefront. Today I had lunch at the storefront location and did not have my normal venti caffe' Americano. Instead, I had a smoothie of banana and mango. I will not have this again for a while. The smoothie itself probably was very good but my taste buds seem to be a little disordered from the chemotherapy.
Speaking of chemotherapy, the rash from the Erbitux shows up primarily on my face and is a sight to behold. Periodically, chunks of my face fall off and they are not particular as to when, where or in front of whom they do it. I have gotten used to it, but it seems as though every stranger I see is staring to see this bizarre wonder that used to be my face.
Meanwhile, here are Trumbull Babylon, it seems fair to stare back. Some of the fashion statements here are no less bizarre than a scaly face that sheds unpredictably. I have seen in just a couple of hours sights that no one should be made to view. Exposed skin seems to be the indicator of fashion awareness. The more adipose tissue that is revealed the better, the rule seems to say. That and ugly tatoos.
Another thing that strikes me here is the fashion posters. Most of the male models in these posters seem to have their arms folded, chins tucked into their chests with their heads tilted to one side or another, with what I suppose is the gangster glare cominbg from their eyes. The majority of the female models seem to be either extremely angry or horribly constipated. Just the stuff to make me want to get into fashion.
Well, if I do turn into a mall rat, I certainly hope to be able to live up to the image here. There already is a start to a roll on my gut, so if I start cutting my shirts off at the bottom, I could get in on that count. A surly look will surely need to come along in time and I am sure I can manage that if they keep playing that outlandish stuff they call music. Meanwhile, I’ll just try to remain undercover.
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