Posts

Posted on

green pushes through

Learning.
Tuesday night and I had Keaton again – Sharaun’s volleyball game. Although it may sounds like Sharaun is a deadbeat mom (you know, for how often I’m left alone to tend to Keaton and all), I rather like our alone-time. We play trivia games while we listen to music (I quiz her on bassists and drummers and rock ‘n’ roll genealogy), we wrestle, we read books – we do all sorts of stuff. Besides, before Sharaun left, she cooked us a fine meal and fed Keaton – I can’t ask for much more than that. Oh, and while she was cooking, I headed out to do my 2nd daily check of my garden (I go out once in the morning, and once at night) and I was pleased to find that 90% of the corn seeds I planted have sprouted, as well as the okra. I’m happy to see the green push through, as it looks like the whole thing won’t be a miserable failure after all.

All this talk of the “violent” writings of the Virginia Tech shooter in the news lately brought back some memories for me. Back in middle school, I was pretty into the macabre, y’know, horror movies and Stephen King novels and specifically – into gore. Now, I have never been, and still am not, much for real-life blood – I’m pretty wimpy when it come to that – but I had then, and still have now, a penchant for writing. And, back then, I used to write all kinds of things. For a while there, and this is where this paragraph starts to close in on its topic-sentence, I swear, I started writing little ultra-violent “serials” that I would give to my buddy Joey every day. I would use typing class to do this, as we often had periods of just “free typing,” where you could do whatever you wanted as long as your hands banged the keys for forty minutes. So, I’d type all sorts of things: funny stories, song lyrics and poems I’d pass off as my own work, solid pages of random words for the patterns and shapes it generated, and, for a while, gore. It was that gore that got me thinking, as the news chatters on about the “disturbing” nature of Mr. Shooter’s writing. Well, for what it’s worth, what I’ve read seems rather tame compared to the twisted crap my 7th grade brain turned out:

After I had stabbed him about seven or eight times he stumbled off into the darkness, wandering, hoping a car might come down the road and save him. Blood was gushing out between his fingers and his eyes were turning pink. He begged me, “Please, no more, I’ll give you anything! Just don’t kill me please, leave me alone!” So I picked up my knife and proceeded to cut open his chest with the precision of a master surgeon. I couldn’t see anything but blood, all over my hands and drenching my body, dripping from my hair, and running down my legs.

After I had made a pretty big incision, he started to sit on the ground and twitch while sort of gurgling a little. I then felt the urge to plunge my hands into his open wound and pull out his pulsating heart. When I did this I found that is was not easy to discern if you are holding a man’s heart in your hand or just grasping at loose organs that were floating around inside. So I just grabbed the biggest handful of slop I could grab with my own two hands. I pulled it out and looked at it: some parts looked looked like little strands of spaghetti, but others looked like what you would see if you put a tomato in the blender and watched it whirl.

I brought the steaming pile of organs to my lips and pressed them against my face, the warm flow of blood trickling down my arms onto my chest, and the soft gurgling coming from this man I has just destroyed. All in all, I felt like it was a good kill, but I needed more to satisfy my sudden urge to watch death.

So I pulled a child about three or four years old off the street after school and into my car. He was asking me what I was going to do with him. I inconspicuously pushed the radio on, but also turned on the cigar lighter with it. In about ten minutes I pulled over to the side of the road and told the boy to take off his shirt. He wouldn’t do it though, so I hit him first and told hi I would kill him if he didn’t do what I wanted him to do. So he complied with my demands and removed his shirt. I pulled out the read-hot lighter and pressed it firmly against his soft back. His cries and screams of agony only fueled me to do even more gruesome feats to him.

After about three minutes with a cigar lighter pushed into his back the boy began to get tired of crying, so I took it off to reveal the scar that he would have to remember me by for years never to come. The boy then started to plead with me, but I would not break. I think picked up a huge rock off the ground and proceeded to hit him over the head with it until his face was covered with blood. Then I positioned him behind the rear left wheel of my car and got in the driver’s seat. I slowly backed up listening to every bone in his head pop and snap. I felt great. I stepped out of the car and looked at the damage I had done: the boy lay lifeless, his head splattered all over the ground and pieces of brain on my car wheel. I then cut his body up into nine small pieces and buried them in various places around me.

I drove home, went into the garage, got out my shotgun, put its loaded barrel between my lips and pulled the trigger. I felt a tingling sensation and that was it. I was dead.

Ouch. Several times while transcribing that, I hesitated. It’s worse than even I remember it being. But yeah, I saved the stuff, just like nearly every scrap of “writing” I’ve ever done (and I have no OCR-scanner here, I typed it all in by hand, old-school style). There’s more of it, but it’s all as bad as that and this is pretty much representative enough to give you the idea.

I bet – in today’s paranoid school environment – it’d be enough to get a kid kicked out of school for good, or arrested, or placed in counseling. I wonder what might have happened back then had we been caught passing these things around, because we surely did. I mean, even re-reading it now, I know I was going for shock value – but putting myself in the shoes of a modern day shcoolteacher or administrator, it’d sure sound the warning sirens loud and clear.

(I showed Sharaun this entry, to see what she thought, saying to her, “I wanted to show some of the stuff I wrote when I was kid, but it’s freaking me out even a bit. But, I never killed anyone, so I guess I turned out OK.” She replied, “You haven’t killed anyone yet, but you will eventually – and then they’ll go back and read that stuff and be like, ‘Well, duh.'” Thanks babe.)

I wrote a while back about how the newish Zodiac killer movie had unearthed some newfound “clues” which were causing quite the amateur-sleuth stir over at zodiackiller.com. Apparently, all this Encyclopedia Brown blodhounding has led the little online community, and the site’s owner and moderator, to identify a new “suspect.” They’ve apparently got this guy’s name and complete bio/profile. To be honest, I haven’t been following closely enough to know what connected the dots from the new evidence to this new POI, but I of course have ultimate faith the infallible collaborative force of the internet.

Goodnight.

Posted on

the cost of her butt

Sweaty but comfy.
It’s too bad sweatpants have such a bad reputation, because those suckers are about as comfortable as it gets. I know, I spent the first half of this past Saturday lounging around in a pair. Yup, brown sweats and a too-big t-shirt, both of which have seen better days (which makes them even better, in this man’s mind). Seems like most men would agree that sweatpants are #1 for comfort, and most women would agree that they are objects of derision. Either way, I’m down with ’em. Let’s get back to the single-father thing.

Rewinding to the evening before my sweatpant-rocking, Friday – Sharaun left me alone with Keaton to go play with some friends. She wasn’t in the best of moods, a little snotty and fussy – I think she’s cutting some more teeth (about time). But, we had a good time. I put her on my shoulders and we danced around the living room to the iPod like we were trying out for the ubiquitous chick-flick dance-around-the-kitchen-and-sing-into-wooden-spoons scene. Man, I hate that scene… what about that scene appeals so much to the ladies? You hate sweatpants and love that? The only movie I’ll permit it in is Mermaids, and that’s only because I love Winona. Anyway, I put her down around 7:30pm and proceeded to kick around the house until around midnight. Then, because she’s been overflowing her diapers nearly every night for the past week, I decided I’d change her before I retired. Turns out, after getting her in my arms, I just couldn’t bear to put her down again. I took her to bed with me and she slept on my chest for about an hour until Sharaun came home and woke us both up.

I’ve come to realize I care for my yard a lot more in my head than I do with my back and hands. In other words, I could stand to spend a lot more time weeding and pruning and keeping up with things – and I don’t. When I take a look around the neighborhood, I’d have to say I have one of the least “looker” yards of the bunch. I’ve still got a vast unplanted pile of mulch off to the left of my house, the walkway up to our front door is flanked by wisps of tall weedgrass, and what plants I do have seem dull and placed oddly. Even my backyard, which I toiled so long and hard to complete, leaves a lot to be desired: the plants I chose to plant on the slope of my retaining wall are stupid and ugly, and the brown mulch that once looked so good now looks like a pile of gray ashes. Sharaun hates the mulch because it’s so dead-looking, and I have to agree. If rubber mulch wasn’t so expensive and I could feel better about spreading ground up tires over the planet – I’d jump on it. I think it’d be awesome to just give a high-dollar landscaper a blank check and have ’em do a number on our “grounds.” But in the grand scheme of things, my weeds take a back-seat to things like world hunger, so why worry?

Poor Keaton has had a pretty bad diaper rash the past few days. Though it’s on the mend now, it was probably the worst she’s had yet. It’s an end result of a domino-like progression of baby-ills though, all starting with teething. Teething, in addition to rashes on the face, a runny nose, low grade fevers, and irritability, can cause diarrhea. Friday, she had ten diarrhea-diapers in one day. Even though Sharaun and I didn’t let her sit in them long, wet poo can wreak havoc on a little baby’s fair booty-skin. So, Keaton’s erupting teeth gave her a diaper rash – a cascade of baby dramas. On the plus side, I think she may finally be getting some friends for her lonely pair of teeth… too bad it’s at the cost of her butt.

Goodnight.

Posted on

video makes up for word


I don’t have much today, work was brutal like it hasn’t been for a while now and kept my brain pretty much consumed all day – no time to think about things to write about. It was non-stop and frustrating, but I did manage to get some long-overdue work done. In the end though, I split at five and didn’t look back. I stopped at the local warehouse place on the way home to get some final touches for the garden (some tomato cages, some bell pepper seeds, and some drip equipment). It rained today in sunny California, and the temperature was downright un-Summer… but I didn’t let it stop me from getting a few minutes outside finishing up my sowing and whatnot. I swear, if this garden works I’m gonna be pumped.

Anyway, the point of that paragraph was to say, “I’m tired.” So, I figured that, tonight, in lieu of writing, I could just post a link to the video we took of Keaton 2nd day walking. She’s getting better, and this afternoon was trying to walk more than crawl right near bedtime. She gets really happy when she’s doing it, I think she knows we enjoy watching it (she should, the way we cheer her on). Anyway, you can watch the incredibly cute video over at Keaton’s gallery – all edited and scored and annotated by moi. Enjoy!

Goodnight.

Posted on

gotta get that chore wheel, y’all


Well, it’s official – Keaton’s walking. All of the sudden today she just started standing up from sitting, not needing to pull up on anything for support. Once up, she’ll walk short distances – ten or so steps – to mom or dad or something else she can hold on to. While it’s not full-on walking as a primary mode of transportation (and therefore not “real” per Sharaun’s definition), it is definitely walking and she’s definitely doing it. I’ll make sure and get some video posted as soon as we get some. And so, another milestone. Now… if she’d only get some more teeth, those two bottom-front ones look so lonely in there…

I don’t know why I’ve not realized this before, but my high-speed provider offers free usenet access. You get capped at 2GB per month and the retention isn’t as stellar or solid as giganews or anything, but it’s pretty awesome. Sometimes usenet is the best place for some lesser-represented music on the major invite-only trackers (especially classic blues, there’s a well-established group on usenet for the genre, but it’s scarce on most private-trackers). So, I hooked that up the other day on the new compy at home and was winging bits through wires in short order. Got some great new vintage blues stuff too, can’t wait to give it all a listen.

Actually, speaking of that blues music, I recently downloaded a collection of recordings from the pre-Robert Johnson Delta blues artist Tommy Johnson, and, as I often do with new musicians I “find,” I decided I wanted to know more about him. I headed over to allmusic.com and looked him up, and it turns out he’s got one heck of a story. Check this out:

The legend of Tommy Johnson is even harder to ignore. The stories about his live performances … are part of it. So is his uncontrolled womanizing and alcoholism, both of which constantly got him in trouble. Johnson’s addiction to spirits was so pronounced that he was often seen drinking Sterno-denatured alcohol used for artificial heat — or shoe polish strained through bread for the kick each could offer when whiskey wasn’t affordable or available in dry counties throughout the South.

Johnson spent most of the ’20s drinking, womanizing, gambling, and playing … when the money got low and apparently, only when the mood struck him. By all acounts, Tommy felt no particular drive to relentlessly promote himself and — while he played music for pay until the very end of his life — he certainly wasn’t as serious about his career as he was about his drinking.

He cut one more stack of great records for the Paramount label in 1930, largely through the maneuvering of fellow drinking buddy Charley Patton. Then the slow descent into alcoholism started taking its toll, the one too many nights of Sterno and shoe polish buzzes reducing his once prodigious talents to small, sporadic flickerings of former genius. He worked on a medicine show … in the ’30s, but mostly seemed to be a mainstay of the juke and small party dance circuit the rest of his days. He was playing just such a local house party in November of 1956 when he suffered a fatal heart attack and went out in probably the exact fashion he wanted to.

Now that’s some hardcore musicianship… a real dedication to the craft. I tip my shiny wingtip to ya, Tommy.

I’ve decided, after Sharaun told me some friends of ours have a similar plan, that I’m going to create a comprehensive “chore chart” for the house. The hope, is that I can standardize a routine that will help both me and Sharaun to better keep up with housework. This may seem anal or unnecessary, but it’s not. I’ve complained again and again and again about the state of our house. Sure, we can clean it up enough in the common areas to where people don’t notice, but I see the backlot, what gets swept under the rug – and it’s filthy. The things I know Sharaun dislikes doing, cleaning the showers and bathrooms, I don’t do often enough. Plus, I’ve tried to explain to Sharaun that keeping a place “tidy” as a lot easier than doing a major “spring cleaning” every few months to sort through the accumulated detritus.

The other day, I threatened to hire a maid – a luxury which somewhat disgusts me, but the threat was hollow and was meant more to “subtly” communicate (for the billionth time) my state of displeasure with the cleanliness of our crib. Of course, she thought the idea was ridiculous – which I thought might spur some re-dedication but instead generated the suggestion of a “chore chart.” Bingo, I’m all over that. I want to have this done next week and put into use ASAP. Sheesh… we gotta get right or this kid is gonna grow up thinking she can leave a trail of waste behind her all the time. I gotta get that chore wheel, y’all.

Goodnight.

Posted on

beautiful and nice?


Monday night around 8:30pm. I came home and mowed at lunch, took a little longer than my usual hour trip home but I could afford it. Sharaun had an evening engagement tonight and another tomorrow night, and I didn’t get the chance to mow this weekend after being in China for more than a week since the last pass. So, I took care of it when I could – lunch hour. And now I’m here alone half-watching some Simpsons reruns and writing.

Since getting back in town, I’ve watched two TiVo’d episodes of the new Discovery Channel series Planet Earth – which I’ve found pretty engaging. I’ve always enjoyed “nature” shows when they’re done right, and this one is spectacular, just like all the hype said. One thing it does do though, is increase my yen for a high-definition television – I can already tell the thing would look incredible in HD (even though it probably would be all ugly and stretchy-squashy because nothing seems to be the right shape for the rectangular HDTVs). When are they gonna figure that out anyway? You know when I’ll spend two grand on a TV? When the picture being broadcast “fits” without A) clipping the edges, B) letterboxing, C) squishing people to look all fat, and D) squishing the extreme edges to marginally improve over (C). Yeah, eat that HDTV manufacturers… or TV broadcasters… or filmographers… or whomever is responsible.

While we’re on the topic of TV shows, I was reading a buddy’s blog the other day and hit upon a seemingly simple statement that he and his wife had been reliving some 1980’s moments watching The Wonder Years on TV. He even mentioned the name of the network, something called “Ion.” I was immediately drop-jawed. I’ve pined for Wonder Years reruns ever since the VHS copies I taped off Nick at Nite in the old days were plowed into a landfill. I immediately opened multiple Firefox tabs to kick into high-gear in my search to see A) what the hell the Ion network is, and B) do I get it on DirecTV here in California. Turns out, I freakin’ do get it… and I already had the channel mapped (I think it used to be the WB or UPN or something?)… anyway, two minutes later I had a TiVo season pass setup for the best show on earth, and one that shaped my tween years like none other. Oh Mike… you know not what you have done. Now, if we could just meet somewhere between that snowy place where you are and the sunny place where I am to catch the premier of The Dark Crystal II, I’d be in clover.

Now for some dispatches from last week in China:

My first night in Shanghai, I decided that were I to sleep immediately after getting to the hotel, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and not be able to get back to sleep. My plan was to retire to the bedsheets only upon complete exhaustion. For that reason, when I got to the hotel I showered, redressed, and called a buddy of mine who lives in town. “Beers?,” I asked, “Beers,” he affirmed. Twenty minutes later and we were walking down a pub-lined Shanghai street in search of hoppy goodness. A few pints and a plate of french-fries later, I was climbing into a taxi and handing the cabbie my room keycard to express my desired destination. Now, I’ve been to Shanghai once before, and I’m moderately familiar with certain areas – so I knew enough to recognize that the driver was headed in the right direction. As we neared the area where I knew the hotel to be, I stopped paying attention assuming he’d got it right and wasn’t taking me for a ride (I know that, literally, he was, but I’m using the expression here… well… if you didn’t get it you don’t deserve the explanation).

Soon, we were pulling into the taxi loop at the hotel. The driver stopped and said something to me in Chinese, I glanced at the meter and handed over the requisite 16 yuan. Stepping out of the cab I walked toward the large revolving doors of the hotel. In the elaborate glass doors there were little “pockets” with shrubbery and Chinese-style decor, the whole thing being a large rotating circle split down the center by a glass partition (you’ve no doubt seen the type of door, which is actually harder to describe in words than I’d’ve every thought). Anyway, I remember thinking that I didn’t remember the little pockets of decorations coming into the hotel earlier. Then, as I stepped into the lobby, it hit me: this was not my hotel. Confused for a moment, I walked around thinking I’d perhaps entered through and alternate entrance and was just approaching from an unfamiliar angle. Nope, wrong hotel altogether.

Not knowing what to do, but knowing I was relatively close to my real hotel, I walked back outside and surveyed my surroundings. My head was telling me my hotel was just down the road somewhere, and the way to my right looked most promising by virtue of some big buildings. So, I struck off to the right and soon found myself between two hotels, the wrong one I’d just left and another, the name of which I could not yet see but which ended up being mine (I guess the cabbie had simply dropped me between the two assuming I’d walk to the right one). As I walked in the darkness, a man appeared from the curb and began approaching me with quickness.

“Hi!,” he said. “Oh crap,” I thought, what now? “Beautiful girl, sir?” Ahh… the outside-hotel hustler shtick, a simple pimp trying to move his merchandise, a common occurrence for westerners in China. “No thank you,” I said as I walked on, not stopping to give him more conversation time. “Nice girl, sir!” Nice girl? “Hold the boat!,” the little devil-looking me on my left shoulder began, “Beautiful and nice?!” I turned towards the approaching little man. “Don’t you even!,” harped the the little cherub-me perched on my right shoulder – as he shot a lightning bolt of righteousness at the devil-me opposite him, causing devil-me to explode in a poof of red dust. “No; no thanks anyway,” I mutter as I shuffle away.

Goodnight.

Posted on

getting out of a rut


Let’s clear the air here first, before we do the standard blog fare: For about two weeks now, I’ve been pretty disappointed with the blog. I haven’t been able to put the right amount of time and effort into it, and it’s shown with multiple-day dry spells and bad entries. I know exactly why too – I’ve just been doing too much of everything else: hanging out with friends, yardwork, playing with the baby, reading – just to name a few. I don’t think this is a bad thing at all, but I would like to get back into some more meaningful writing (not because I feel guilty but because I actually enjoy it). So, I’m hoping to get out of the rut here soon – maybe you’ll decide to see me through it, sit with me through the doldrums and wait for the other end of the tunnel?

Hey, before you read more – go check out the big ol’ backlog of pictures I uploaded to Keaton’s gallery, you won’t regret it (she’s cute as crap!).

Sitting at the gate awaiting my flight from Shanghai back to the US. There is a brilliantly beautiful girl sitting not far from me, traveling with her family. She looks to be part Western and part Eastern, apparently the best bits of each. I’m pretty much in love with her right now. Seems she’ll be flying to San Francisco as well, so perhaps between napping, reading, watching some TV, and stealing an occasional glance of her – I’ll have an enjoyable ten hour flight. And now, much to your amazement and sure-thing applause, I bring you the next sentence from some fifteen-hours later: Sitting in San Francisco waiting for that last puddle-jumper home. The brilliantly beautiful girl is also going home, it seems, and her home is the same as my home. Although, I must admit the long flight has dulled her edges just a bit – but I must look even worse than my fresh-and-clean best too, so I’d say the mutual chances of a clandestine hookup have at least gone down proportionally. It’s OK, though, because I’m about to be home with my wife and daughter – and I’m ready ready ready…

Ahhh… the relaxation that can only come from being on one’s own couch, a full weekend ahead of him, having just returned from China (yes, it’s a rare form of relaxation indeed). Keaton’s here too, just dad and baby – while mom man’s some event up at church (she’s become quite Mrs. Involved lately with all manner of “mom’s group” doings, which I think is wonderful – and probably appeals to that sense of responsibility she cultivated and then had to leave when she started, then departed from, her teaching job). All this means dad’s got Keaton for the morning, up until her afternoon nap. After that, I plan to try and get my garden planted (providing the clouds break). I’ll get what I can as living transplants up at the Home Depot, and if I can’t find the exact breed of what I want there I’ll do seeds over the ‘net and start that way.

Speaking of my garden, the folks in Shanghai were quite astounded when I told them that I was trying my hand at the trade. Seems their notion of American suburban backyards doesn’t include gardens (wonder why) – and my desire to “farm” had them somewhat befuddled. I liked it, added to my Western sense of mystery, I’m like a storybook figure: A rich American engineering manager with two cars who can have limitless babies if he desires and grows vegetables in his backyard. All I need is a blue ox and a loom that spins gold and I’d be a timeless legend. Now I have the added pressure of a few Chinese coworkers imagining my bounty of homegrown vegetables to deal with as I tool my crop to success though – if it’s a complete bust now I’ll be letting an entire nation down.

Anyway, Keaton and I are sitting around watching the sun try to break through the morning clouds. We’re listening to the astounding-sounding MFSL version of Yes’ calssic 1972 album Fragile, which I just put on my iPod this morning after discovering, after getting a sudden and strong yen to rock out to it during my flight home, that, much to my horror, it was not already thereon. (Man, I re-worded that sentence like four times before I decided I’d placed all the comma’d-off portions correctly. If you do that “it has to make sense without the comma’d parts rule” it should read: “…after discovering that it was not already thereon,” sounds right to me). Anyway, the omission made me realize that my Yes collection is somewhat lacking, so I ran out and picked up both 1971’s The Yes Album, and 1972’s Close to the Edge, which are both sounding mighty fine to me right now.

Oh, I’ve been wanting to write about all the things Keaton can now do – more for my own recordkeeping than bragging, although a mite of bragging ain’t never hurt no one that I heard of. Anyway, Keaton can now say the following things: “bye-bye,” “hi,” “dog,” “ball,” “hat,” “night-night,” “wow,” “mom,” “dad,” “bread,” and most recently, “no.” She can correctly point to the following body parts when asked: eyes, ear, belly, feet, nose, and tongue. As of tonight, she’s taken eight consecutive steps while standing, so on the road to walking. She can make a roaring sound when you ask, “What does a lion say?” Sharaun thinks she’s a genius because of all of this, I just think she’s regular.

Just finished my taxes. I had put in Keaton’s SSN yet because I couldn’t find the card. Found it, put it in, and saw my Fed refund go from like less than $200 to just over a grand. I thought that was hardcore awesome. Goodnight.

Posted on

racing the clock

I’ll have to come back and add a picture to this post later, as Google and Yahoo image search seem to be dodgy within this communist firewall… apologies.

Thursday morning in Shanghai and I don’t have much time. I need to shower and dress and be downstairs to put away some breakfast before my ride comes to get me at 7:30am. That gives me precisely one hour to write and do all of the above. After that, the local team I work with here has treated me to a “day off” event in honor of the Chinese Tomb Sweeping holiday. We’ll hop aboard a bullet train (yes, I’m pretty pumped about that, although it’s not as fast as the local maglev) and rocket through the Chinese countryside on our way to the city of Hangzhou. In Chinese, I’ve been told that there’s a saying: “There is Heaven in the clouds, and there is Heaven on earth – and it’s Hangzhou.” Supposedly it’s stupid-beautiful and, according to the local men, well-stocked with good-looking Chinese women. Too bad I’m not in the market.

(Well, hope the Wikipedia links work for you… I couldn’t check them because the national firewall here blocks access to most pages – communism, you know. Maybe I’ll go read them when I’m back at home…)

As I sit here I’m sapping the hotel’s bandwidth by doing some torrent work (of course encrypting traffic so not to alert the Red Police and come back to a tossed hotel room and angry M16-toting guards). Grabbing the new Nine Inch Nails album, and some TV shows I missed while away for the plane. Once again, I love the internet for things like this – so easy and so simple and I don’t have to feel “disconnected” at all even thought I’m halfway around the globe. It’s cool, I can leave the client running all day while I’m off tromping through the Chinese countryside. Sorry, everyone else at this hotel who needs bandwidth to do work…

Gotta go, really short on time. Love ya.