Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Necessary Torture

She called my name and I arose, zombie like and followed her to the last little room, way back in the corner. Everything was blue and grey. The weird kind of blue of a dirty pool or surgical scrubs. I sat upright in the same aforementioned color of blue vinyl chaise longue of death. Fox news was on the TV, perched high up in the corner so I had to strain my neck to "relax" watching it.

"Okay, I'm going to make a mold of your teeth, so please don't bite my fingers while they're in your mouth," she says dryly.

Was she fucking kidding me or what? I may not like where I am, but I am VERY aware of where I am and why I am there. Are people so shocked that they seize down like a Pitbull on those innocent fingers? I stare out the window and watch the rain drip off the pine needles, framing the scene like a gorgeous Japanese woodcut. I try to unclench my fingers from the arms of the chaise.

"Great," she says removing the hardened blob of pink elastic goo from my mouth, "They should be with you shortly," and smiles leaving me to my own thoughts. I can't believe I have to actually pay money for this.

I sit and countdown the minutes until he arrives and cordially begins oral plesantries only to offer me some gas before he pulls out his giant size needle that he uses part time to euthanize wild sea whales.

"We're going to numb it a little first and then you'll feel a little pressure," he says "And remember, if you need a break, just raise your hand. You're doing great."

Yeah, right. That "pressure" he refers to is such a sharp piercing feeling, so wildly devious in it's delivery. Shooting pain that begins to melt half of your face off the bone. They begin.

The high pitched whine of the drill rotating at warp speed makes me nervous, but I force myself to breathe, and take my gnarled nubby bloodly claws from the chair arms and place my fists open in my lap. I exhale through my nose deeply as if I were a Master Yogi. He stops and asks if I'm alright. Aaa, Aaa. I could really use some drugs right about now. Yes, everything has it's place.

Two crowns later I am still wondering where the frick my tiara is. I deserve one after that. But I can't speak very well because my face is made of Silly Putty. They advise me to be very careful eating afterwards. Eat? Yeah, I think I'll run right out and get an Everlasting Gobstopper to chaw on. Or maybe some Laffy Taffy.

"That looks great and you did a really good job," he says leaving, telling me to have a nice holiday. I smile and think fondly of him in my hazey numbness. It is finished. I like my dentist. He's kind of sexy for an older man.

Leaving the parking lot, I wonder why I couldn't have a dad like him. At least the pain he inflicts has purpose and comes with positive reinforcement.

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Monday, June 26, 2006

Those About to Rock

Snowflake does a soundcheck

the who
And channels John Entwistle

The Babylegs arrived faster than the speed of light on Saturday. I immediately dolled the boy up and went for a walk. Later in the evening, Nana showed up and we decided to take him to a local Polka Fest for some deep fried cheese curds/death bombs. I could tell by her look she did not approve of the baby's legs.

In true rockstar fashion, Snowflake entertained the masses(the Geritol Set), dancing and spinning to music only he could hear on the giant deserted wood outdoor dance floor while the band took a break. He ripped two holes in his babylegs in a frenzy, conjuring images in my head of Jennifer Beals going crazy to "Maniac" in Flashdance. I was thinking, WOW. Just WOW.

"They're cute, but maybe Babylegs just aren't for him," my mother says as I strap him into the Slaab.

"You're just saying that because you think they're girly. We definitely live in the wrong place," I snap, defending my son's baby leg warmers. I cannot help the fact that he is as cute as a girl and I refuse to cut his curly locks. Secretly I was thinking, maybe they aren't boyly enough, maybe they are a tad froufy. I convinced myself otherwise and thought they'd be totally BADASS in ballet class if I sign him up. I want my guy to be a rugged individualist, willing to honor personal choice and difference among peers, even if it means wearing some very cute, very different clothes as a baby. He will be choosing his own togs soon enough.

This is still my time.

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Thursday, June 22, 2006


The easiest answer to any problem is medication. Got a pain? Vicodin should do the trick. Is it in the head? We could give you a little Oxycontin, but a shot of Demerol would be quicker. Kids a little too energetic for your lifestyle? Calm them down with some Ritalin or try the time release Dexedrine. Anxious? You definitely need some Xanax. Wait, do you think maybe you're having a panic attack? Here, here's some Valium. Having trouble sleeping at night? Forget those pesky relaxation excersises and have some Lunesta. Trouble getting out of bed in the morning? Yes, it's just fine to have some of your kid's script with your morning coffee. The key is to feel better, to feel good all of the time. Now, if you don't feel better after a few days, I know a corner where they sell the best SMACK in the city, very discreet. You can drive your mini van down there, no worries. Just tell them I sent you and they'll discount. I'd be happy to give you a script for morphine, but you're not terminal and I wouldn't want either of us to get in trouble. You'll be just fine, fine. Just don't breathe.

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Wednesday, June 21, 2006

My Legs (Feet, Actually)

And a new pair of clown shoes for me.

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Because I'm impulsive and easily distracted at work, I seem to surf the web for interesting items to deplete my checking account thus rendering myself to a kind of check to check joie de vivre. Yesterday, savvy Annie stopped by and we got to talking about these. I think we both first saw them on Mama C-Ta's site, worn by the adorable Cricket.

Although they probably look the best on younger babies, they claim one size fits newborns to 10 years old. Now that's the kind of s-t-r-e-t-c-h I'm talking about! Yes, believe it or not these ARE the jeans I wore in college.

Who am I to deprive Snowflake of some crazy cool baby legwarmers?

I did buy him a pair of the flames so that he could wear them when he rides his red seated Like A Bike. I didn't stop there. I had to get him the Union Jack pair and a funky multicolor stripe set. I'm sure they will look adorable with his still fleshy, bulbous baby thighs. And if they don't? Annie's new bambina will just have a nice start on a punk rock baby girl wardrobe.


Tuesday, June 20, 2006


Tonight I sat under the geometry of my pergola. I looked at how the the graying dark sky stood as a canvas against the vertical lines of the copper roof on the garage, softened by the blooming white Japanese Lilac. The catalpa leaves so gigantic and heartshaped, dripped off the branches, swathed in blossoms. The air was filled with a sweet essence that can only be described as subtle. Unlike the harsh Spring lilac and its brazen perfume, this is rather like the way you catch a whiff, just a touch of something long forgotten.

The world keeps on humming. The traffic rushes by, the lawnmowers growl in the twilight. I listened to the fountain gurgle, babble and pop. I watched the fading blossoms from my trees drift down from high above, like a gentle snowstorm. Slow and fat, like huge pieces of popcorn landing without a sound, covering the lawn in a white fluffy blanket. As soon as they land they begin to decompose, tommorrow they will be shriveled and brown.

I thought, we are too hurried in this life. We need more poetry. We need more time.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Fugs Bucking

The chase

fugs bucking
The embrace

Yes, it's all happening right here. It's good to know something is gettin' it on just outside my frontdoor. Bucking fugs.

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Sunday, June 18, 2006

Espresso Bean

brown dog
Waiting for his person
in the parking lot of Starbucks.

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Lightness of Being

Just a simple white Peony

Hugged by Hostas

Growing near the roadside

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One Week Out of the Year


And why I don't cut them down

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Thursday, June 15, 2006

The First Visitor to Nirvana

fountain bug
Bug against the green shimmer between water & stone

feeling it out
Riding the lip of discovery in my paradise.

ps...It's a good thing you weren't found exploring the kitchen floor or the side of my tub, sweet nuisance. If that were the case, you'd be squished in a paper towel and out with the trash. I would have freaked and said, "Fucking creepy bug", but you're so beautiful. Does everything happen for a reason?

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Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Behind the Music

When I first met Lonis(pronounced Low Nis), he was just a poor farm boy. The last of three young 'uns to leave that burrough in the high green hills of Irma, he was bound for that glory road South, straight to being the King of Southern Swing. He hit the big time early and founded Blind Pug Records. Known not only for his droning, howlish laments to his eternal love Heidi, he had a thing for easy hyperventilation, especially in the humid throes of sultry summers. Quickly known for good times and fast snorting, he developed a reputation for eating anything and everything. His personal quote to live by was "Eat drink and be merry, for tommorrow we die"(or lay bloated on the couch).

That was until a frenzied piranha like fight over a Krispy Kreme blueberry donut hole caused him to leap off one of his amp cases and throw out his back. He ate a blanket and some pillow stuffing in a blind rage that left him almost physically damaged. Damage to his pride was more like it. After pulling the silk cord edging from his fair ass one morning, Heidi had had enough. She demanded he seek treatment. Introspection and a modicum of age left him singing a different tune. This is when he found comfort and refuge in The Teaching's of the Ayatolla. Not only did he tout the benefits of being neutered, his musical stylings turned spiritual in nature and he won a Grammy. Twice he sang the Chinese National Anthem at the Winter Olympics(Lillehammer and then Nagano where he also sang in Japanese).

It's been almost nine months since our sweetest Friend and Comrade has hopped the Chuck Wagon to that giant bag of dog food in the sky. It was time to share his glory, and his story. Spread the message and please give generously to Pug Life Ministries.

R.I.P Dear Dear Friend

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Tuesday, June 13, 2006

The Day the Earth Stood Still

They say your kids will do things to embarrass you. I've always done such a good job of embarrassing myself. My little Damien, seems to have found the Oedipus in him a wee bit early even though there's no Da around. Sunday night we were in bed ready for sleepies & dreamies and I ask him if he'd like me to rub his back as per our nightly attachment parenting ritual.

He looks at me with this Devil eye and says, "Mama rub my pee pee?" and laughs.

"What?!" I retort stupified to the point of swallowing my tongue and choking to death, somehow calmly holding it all together and laughing nervously and say, "I love ya babe, but not like that(like he has a clue!). You can rub your pee pee all you want. It is yours and yours alone to rub. In fact, you are the ONLY person who should be rubbing it." I left it at that. He said "Ya."

Can you feel me cringing? I was left wondering if I should check his scalp for 666. Instead I called my mother and she thought it was weird. I told the coworker and he looked at me like I was the Devil's Spawn. I even tried to share my pain on a friend's blog by commenting that her budding pyromaniac is an angel compared to my experience. I just wanted someone to say it was okay. He's normal, curious and maybe a little precocious. Fat fucking chance.

I removed my comment because I felt like the town freak. I'm left to figure it out on my own. Even at this early stage I think it sets an openess for future conversations about difficult subjects between the two of us. I want him to be comfortable with expressing his feelings about whatever is on his mind.

Even if he turns out to be a complete weirdo.

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Monday, June 12, 2006


I really wanted to put a Camaro

the abyss
Up on cinder blocks here. Or maybe an eight foot SAT-E-LITE dish.

All I could say when I pulled into my driveway this evening was,

extreme holy shit
Holy Shit! Holy extreme backyard makeover SHIT!

Godfather, I won't be thinking of you in Greece on Wednesday.
But you can still bring me the tchotchkes, lots and lots of tchotchkes.

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Saturday, June 10, 2006


The green bursts wide open, thickly, blades of grass clump and form the lawn of summer. The yellow daffodil, a Spring remembrance, heralds the way for heirloom iris and the beautiful white valleys of the lily. Remember the lilac, fresh and purple, gone already as the Catalpa buds, with lanky beans of fresh sproutling seeds, leading to the alabaster blossoms of weddings.

Pavement fresh and gray, forgetting the snow crusted walkway. What is yellow snow? I forget as I push the stroller past the Tasty Treat, pulling the dog away from the ice cream of strangers.

The flesh of youth, ripe and raw, tan and toasted just right, riding by on bicycles. Is that bleached Fruit of the Looms or the top of their actual ass skin peeping out of the waistband of their Levi's? That will never be my order again. Buzz cut and half naked, they laugh as they glide by saying,

"Ice cream makes you sterile!"

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Friday, June 09, 2006

Not the Flocking Kind

baby birds
Safe, snuggled siblings in the topiary nest

a nest
Wishing we could have stayed that way forever
Or at least a little while longer.


Green Is Blue

Mr. Green floating, chilling
Hanging in the basin of the fountain.

free floating
Suspended, frozen in the moment
His last minutes before

my little bird
Homelessness, bidding adieu.

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Beer Cans & Ass Cans (Don't Go Breakin' My Heart)

It's so easy to be lulled into a false sense of security. There are people you think you can rely on, spill your guts to and in the end, they pour them into the hot, black tar sun soaked street for all to see. It burns.

Take for example The Italian. We're the same age and he just happens to be married to my cousin and works for my family. There are times when I'm deep in thought, meditating and concentrating on the sentence that's forming in my brain as I type. He sees my intensity and has to try and interrupt me any way possible.

He reminds me of this character called Colleen Fernman that Gilda Radner played on SNL. She was this crazy little girl with no attention span. Sometimes when I look at him in conversation I can hear the song "She's Not There". It's like looking at a deer in the healights. It's a robot saying "This does not compute".

Bald yet hairy, tall and beer bellied, he slides open the door next to my computer and lights up his Marlboro Light. I quit smoking in August and his stench now bothers me as the haze blows back into the office.

"So, what else ya know?" he says, trying to get my attention. Sometimes I am so disturbed that I have to point blank tell him that I am TRYING to write and could he please just give me a minute. I know it's rude, but half the time when he's talking I just nod like I'm listening in agreement with his meandering babble. Today he's ignoring me completely. Holdover.

Wednesday the bambino was with me at work and there was a point where he made a comment about the time to come when Snowflake has his first beer. Yes, I pointed out, that would be akin to the first blow job his daughter gives. He said it wasn't the same thing. It really steamed his clams, baby.

He actually told my father that "I" wasn't talking to him. WTF? He still hasn't talked to me this morning. He is so old school when it comes to grudges and I think it must be so stressful to be so angry and begrudging and rotten like that on the inside. Fuck that. Maybe this is why I am still single. I cannot handle the fragile egos of these poor babies called men. I refuse to kiss the ass of an asshole.

The thing is, Snowflake's Y is an alcoholic. My own father is a daily drinker but it's acceptable because he's made alot of money. One of my bothers had a drinking problem and died from an overdose of valium. I don't take this kind of funnin' towards my bambino lightly. I am a parent alone and it pisses me off to have to constantly fight the jackass comments people make because it is normal for them.

This little corner of the world is home to The Culture of the Drink. It permeates everything, weddings, baptisms, funerals, every single fucking holiday and everyday life. It is not uncommon to read court records involving people charged with their seventh and eighth drunk drivings.

Now he's answering ALL the phone calls, every s-i-n-g-l-e one. At one point he had BOTH cordless phones on his desk next to his desk phone. As an extra bonus, he's carrying a can of air freshener around to cover up his blowout ass stench. Sweet. He just sprayed some lilacy bullshit in his office. And he's all about the bullshit. Gee, I wonder why he's being so nice to me.

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Thursday, June 08, 2006

Your Songs (For J)

It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside but, here I am being tagged for my very first MEME by the lovely J. I'm kind of excited yet almost nauseated because this is the moment of truth. Name 13 songs you absolutely love/loved but are humiliated to admit to. Excuse me for a moment while I pour myself a glass of Fish Eye.

1. She Drives Me Crazy by The Fine Young Cannibals No Comment.

2. Tusk by Fleetwood Mac featuring the UCLA Marching Band Damn, I thought those drums and horns were just so effing cool. Once in awhile I still kind of like it.

3. Shelter by former Playboy Playmate Taylor Dane. My best friend Paul and I would just jam out to this in my apartment in college. Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na I'll be your shelter, baby.

4. Muskrat Love by The Captain & Tenille Yes, The C & T's Greatest Hits was the first LP I bought when I was in fourth grade. I just loved those little Muskrat noises, and you KNOW that wasn't from using ProTools. How'd they do that?!

5. Der Kommisar by After the Fire Hey, don't turn around and always remember, the more you live the faster you will die La La La La La

6. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald by Gordon Lightfoot Maybe it's because it's about the northern stomping grounds, but in any case I still would like to know where the love of god goes. Anyone?

7. Baker Street by Gerry Rafferty I had this 45. It just jammed, baby.

8. Jesse James by Cher Come on, Baby! If you can give it, I can take it cuz if this heart is gonna break it's gonna take alot to break it... Oh hell, I still love all these cheesy whack songs, who am I kidding?!

9. Pac Man Fever by Buckman & Garcia Any questions? In my defense, I WAS under 10 at the time.

10. Afternoon Delight by The Starland Vocal Band and it wasn't just because it was in "Tiger Eyes" by Judy Blume or because I'm in love with Ron Burgundy.

11. Billy Billy Bayou by Jim Reeves Listened to him from the time I was born.

12. Xanadu by Olivia Newton John I was IN LOVE with this movie. Shhhhhhhhh!

13. Brandy (You're a Fine Girl) by Looking Glass

You know there's a lot more, I just can't seem to thinkof the REALLY good ones. Enjoy! Now I must ask The Hip Stylish and Utterly Preggo Glamgranola to add her two cents, along with RadioFree as he stares down high from his lofty musical perch. And of course, any one else happening by to do so as well. Let me know if you take this enormously important challenge!

p.s. Anyone that loves ELO is right on! in my book.


If Found Please Return To

playing at work
At work I'm my own boss and I like to dabble

what me?
In office supplies.

smiling busy bee
Yesterday, I was the Avant Garde Postmaster.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

One for the Little Lady

Do you ever look in the mirror and wonder what you'll look like when you're older, much older? Or have you ever pondered the thought of your own longevity? How long do you wish to live? Does it depend on the condition you're in? It's bizarre to look in the mirror and see your face slowly morphing into another version of you. For the longest time I felt like I was fresh out of college, 22 in the mind and mirror. This persisted well into my mid 30's and finally I am seeing that certain something fading away. This is not a bad thing per se, but when I take photographs of myself I am seeing the emergence of something different, something I don't recognize. Is this the middle age me? I don't know and it does scare me a little. I guess if I want to buy into the whole baby boomer fascination with "60 being the new 30", then I'm just fine, fine.

92 years ago my grandmother came into this world. Today, this sweet church goin' lil' lady celebrates her birthday amid the release of The Omen and those three little numbers that cause such fright and frenzy. She knows and recites vague and well known poetry and prose from memory. This morning I was treated to "The Spider & The Fly". Those amazing blue eyes have seen so much. Not only did she witness the Great Depression and the New Deal, but on her 30th birthday, the Allies invaded the beaches of Normandy. D-Day, B-Day. Cool, granny. She gave birth to eight little beings in this life. She buried four throughout her existence, including her husband almost twenty years ago.

I remember when she finally broke down and moved into an apartment 12 years ago because she was afraid to live alone. She was as happy as clam, and as spritely as a lamb in her new place. After a while, friends began to die or lose their health. It became depressing for her. She told me on several occasions that she was ready to die whenever that happened. I'm sure the ambulance calls get to be somewhat of a death siren after a while. I always cheered her up by telling her how fortunate she was to have such great health and how lucky Snowflake and I are to have her. I don't know what I believe about faith and religion, but I assured her that the God she believes in has a purpose for her. She took comfort in that.

A long time ago she gave me the slim white gold wedding band embellished with tiny orange blossoms that stayed on her hand come hell or high water. She had to take it off with a vat of vasoline. I never felt so honored. I thank her for the gentle love and warmth she has given me throughout life. For caring for me when I was little and for being here to care about my son.

She is so sweet and wonderful. I look into the mirror and hope to be as beautiful of a person as she is. Prune me up, hunch me over, render me unrecognizable from any youthful blink of the eye but please give me at least 100 years- the dirty, the good, the bad, the ugly. I'll take them all.

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Friday, June 02, 2006

Opening Up

The demolition has begun. Earlier this week a pile of boulders magically appeared in the yard. The trailer they were carried in on left nice ruts in the boulevard across my beautiful golf course like lawn. Thursday the "BobCat" showed up, parked squarely in the center of the backyard. What did it all mean? It meant the pergola was closer to realization!

I came home tonight to the center of the Earth opening up behind the garage. Well, it wasn't quite that but, but seriously there were huge piles of black dirt everywhere from excavating and the beginnings of the boulder retaining wall were already taking shape. I felt like I was witnessing the birth of my own Secret Garden. Thankfully SF was cashed from a heavy overdose of outdoor air and was sleeping soundly. This gave me the opportunity to explore the newly exposed pit of hellfire and damnation.

Spotted Cow in hand, I changed the exterior lightbulb so I could linger awhile. It was just long enough to get dirt in my Keens and between my toes. Gritty like drywall dust. You could smell the fresh soil newly turned, there is something so very clean about its essence. The crescent moon appeared in the sky, floating frozen above the copper cupola on the garage. This IS where I belong.

A perfect, perfect night.

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Imagining Meat

meat raffle

The first "Meat Raffle" had to be a smashing success. I imagine monster trucks jamming the parking lot, as their flannel wearing, trucker's cap topped owner's heads bottleneck at the entrance. Bad teeth and chewing tobacco are everywhere. I can smell man sweat. I feel a thousand slaps on my ass that I want to greet with a Club Size can of mace. How exciting to win a batch of smoked chops, a ham or a turkey! Maybe I should go...

Now if this was my kind of Meat Raffle, he'd be tall dark and handsome or even Nordic, preferably multilingual and well endowed. Smart, but not smarter than me. I think to myself is that any way to find a mate, MsMamma? Nah, I'm not actually desperate enough to pay for sex. If I went and I really wanted to get laid, I'm sure the sex would be gratis, but hell no gracias!

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Thursday, June 01, 2006

She Would Kill Me

my mama
What she doesn't know won't hurt her,

mom sails
And besides, I think she's adorable.

mom sails
I hope I look that good at 60. Kick & Stretch, Mama!

Sun Shine


Either you love it or you hate it.

Very cool, very stylish and totally mine. To some this signifies the epitome of 50's Modern. Forget about Vitra's reissue, this baby is the real deal. Everybody tried to copy this one in some shape or fashion. My classic sweetness is an original George Nelson key wind Sunburst clock made by the Howard Miller company in Zeeland, Michigan. Back in the day(c.1948 or so), this little number sold for around $30. Pretty expensive for the times. What many people don't know about their beloved George is that he had a talented stable of designers that worked for him. When you say George Nelson, you may as well be saying Irving Harper when you're getting down to clock talk.

My little supernova hung on the wall of my parents cottage for many moons. They bought the cozy little shack almost 14 years ago from the widow of a oil company owner. They bought the place fully furnished and when I saw it for the first time I thought I was going to puke. Extreme orange shag carpeting wall to wall rubbing up next to shiny ebony colored paneling. There was a little turntable on a special cart and underneath were a thick stack of Hawaiian music records with a few polkas mixed in. Then there was that clock in the corner. That hip, cool fucking clock. We transformed the place with our creative minds but kept the Sunburst in its original spot. I always told my parents I would like to have it if they didn't want it anymore.

Monday night there was a knock on my door and it was my mom with a big bag of relics from up yonder. One of them was the Sunburst. I immediately took down a picture where I had always planned to hang it. It looks so hep, cats! So right at home.

I love it. Come on over and we'll read some Ferlinghetti, baby.

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