Blimp

May Lee's

Asahi Lucky Cat

CCA Night 2

29 Bloody Marys

Veterans' Day

Installation by Julie Mendez.

: D. in his extra-large blue pajamas, gets orange juice from T downstairs; walk to Kaiser, run into M. strolling her son, he stares at me with big, curious brown eyes; waiting room in the SW corner, two well-groomed men, one taps his foot nervously while the other is ushered in; what I must look like, red-faced from walking, dripping coffee from my fingers, flannel and dirty jeans; weigh-in, 191 lbs, srsly?; heart-rate reads 92 which I mistake for my own but, as numbers flash and disappear, I realize it belonged to my predecessor; spray-gun thermos of liquid nitrogen; still early enough I go to Nijiya market for kewpee mayonnaise, salad dressing, tea, curry, and melon pan; he stands alone smoking a cigarette, blue flannel shirt, speed-acne, slight tilt to his eye, on the bus he flips through a sketchbook of inked octopi, stubble along his jawline and chin, a tilt to his lip, maybe no shower after a booze flipped night, feels like Friday; falafel with A. and run into C.; MetLife blimp, the image of Snoopy looks like a mix of Orville Redenbacher and the I.R.S. Records man; though I had 7 hours of sleep I feel hungover-exhausted; meeting about Stealth Seminars; snap a pictures of J.’s California Veteran’s statistics; ride the bus home; left-over chicken parmesan, Fringe and The Event; R. comes home, she shows me her work clothes for tomorrow, flannel blue pajamas and Cookie Monster slippers; “You’re gonna wear your nude Steve Madden heels, right?” “Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah! No question. I was just 99% about the outfit, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Brown Eyes

House on Masonic

Friendship Bracelet

Giants

Out of Service

Poltergeist at the Castro Theater

San Francisco Halloween Decorations

Party Store

Castro & 18th

All You Kneading

Raven & Dean

Body Part Knobs

MUNI

Dean

Big Daddy's

Foliage

Wedding

Breakfast

Clouds

Safe Surrender Site

: emails highlight making mountains out of mole hills; why does everyone get cc'd and when did "cc" become a verb; heat is rising; red dress on the bus talks loudly on her invisible phone about in-takes and disrespect; like a zombie walking into Haight Grocery; non-dairy vegetable pot pies (yuk), cheese and crackers, (Kathleen), organic Fuji apples, Cheerios; washing dishes, D. and I talk while he shreds last night's chicken; "I'm prepared to tell D. when I see her that we're being unfairly targeted," he says. "Yeah," I say. "Tell her some anemic troll came up the stairs and yelled at me."; red wine and Glee; "What happened to the speed in the show? The quick cuts and high energy?" Then Mercedes and Santana own "River Deep and Mountain High". "Here's what we've been waiting for!" and then... Rachel and Kurt do the Barbra/Judy duet from The Judy Garland Show!!; R. comes home while we're youtubing with "Proud Mary"; more wine, Cougar Town and 30 Rock; on the roof D. and I watch the stars, "I'm going to be happy to move out of here. I've been here for five years."; kick off the duvet and sleep under thin sheets.

The Hills

: text: dinner's in the oven I'm at my choir rehearsal, text response: sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your Old English rendition of "Bad Romance"; heat up last night's Shrimp Won Ton Pho; watch Dexter, The Event, and nod off in the middle of Fringe.

Clear Afternoon

: sleep the weekend off; trip to Lucky's for cleaning supplies; spend an hour in the bathroom disinfecting, wiping away grime, dust, and hair. The Swiffer makes mopping way more fun; strawberry Odwalla smoothie, kalbi kimchi sandwich from King Foot Sub; a nap while listening to laborer's next door tear up the house. They listen to KOIT and one sings along to Avril Lavigne, "I'm With You" which makes me happy; D. and I walk to get soup and notice Toy Story 3 is playing at the Red Vic; too much food at The Citrus Club, spring rolls, soba noodles with tofu and each a hefty portion of pho; walk around Amoeba, The Corin Tucker Band; a handwritten index card warning patrons of a PG-13 preview that shows before the movie. "Someone complained once during a screening of a G-rated movie about a preview, so now we warn everyone."; hard to believe the first Toy Story came out fifteen years ago.

Weddinz

: this could be bad, but it's not!; motivate the crew to move, go to the cafe for croissant egg and cheese sammies; on the 71 our loud talking forces a couple to move to the back of the bus. Then, a man singing falsetto wearing an iPod forces them to move to the middle; on the BART we play the movie title mash-up game we learned from Cougar Town; hail a cab to S. and N.'s; a hot and beautiful day; they prepare flowers from her mother's nursery; beer, mimosas and pastries; get emotional as the ceremony begins; we make speeches; "S. has always been honest in her generosity and certainly generous in her honesty!"; the arrival of the pig wrapped in foil; wine, food, and conversations; their wedding cake is absolutely delicious; we play the movie mash-up game to the point of dizziness; cab ride to the train and a cab from from 16th and Mission back to the Haight.

Room With A View

Wish You Were Here

Lost

: 10:30AM and still drunk, body tenses with anticipation and guilt, what happened last night? Crawl into D.’s bed, we bemoan the presence of hangovers, the sounds of buses on Haight Street; coffee and breakfast, we get ready to leave the house; T.’s apartment is black marble and darkwood cabinets with new appliances and fresh paint, outside her door the residents of 101 scuttle into their crack in the wall; 71 to Golden Gate Park, walking with heavy beer and a blanket; bike parking, lawn chairs, guitars; Indigo Girls at 1:00PM, we’re in the ivy and dirt behind them drinking Sapporo; H. and J. arrive, tell us their Norm MacDonald and Tom Green stories; then an awesome performance by Dave Alvin and the Guilty Women; fish and (garlic) chips from the booths; people complement our food like it’s the sexiest thing; Rosanne Cash, Nick Lowe and then, as the fog rolls in and the mist sprays, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings; she tears up the stage with two beautiful back-up singers, a trio of hot men on brass, and she celebrates the whole audience from the front to the back; near the end I yell, “ShaRON!” and she hears me!!, waves; R., D., and I are the last ones left; walking home on Fulton passing retro buses and Airstreams; laughing until we’re exhausted; take the 33, make faces at each other; bearded guy with tattoos wears a black shirt with the word HEART in orange, “I like your shirt.” “Thanks, friend made it.” “Is that for the band?” “No, I went to Chico,” “Chico State? I been there.” D. pipes in “What kind of underwear you got on?” “Uh, this is my stop,” he says; craving bologna sandwiches but go for mortadella and Doritos; R. makes macaroni and cheese; the kitchen is a mess; D. and I watch Project Runway and two episodes of Cougar Town; flashing lights in my eyes; take a shower, go to bed, but I worry about the neighbors, think about gifting them Christmas cookies and rotten food outside their window.

Luce, the Foster Dog

Foosball

The 33

CCA Night

Breakfast, Lunch, Chicken Teriyaki

Wolf's

: older, long-gray-haired guy yells at a 71L bus for not stopping at a non-limited stop, “Hey! Hey!!” pounding the metal side; Whole Foods salad bar shows no sign of shortages, outages. Craving chicken and beets. Eat on the grass in the shade of the Metro PCS billboard; one of the hottest days; wander to Trader Joe’s and BB&B for a vegetable peeler. Utensils these days are swollen and heavy. Crowded store, everyone behaves like they’re the only ones there. Myself included. I put back the packages of lowly salted almonds and organic dried cranberries. Single guys don’t push carts, they carry baskets or nothing at all; Now, how the hell am I going to get home?; walk towards Market, lady in short shorts and white halter, “Excuse me, can you do me a small favor?”, pass a street littered in debris, smells like urine, comparing Tokyo to San Francisco; catch the 6, “I just didn’t have the mind for Folsom this year… nakedness throughout the city, it was great… “, the bus is depressing, girl reads handwritten notes from a journal some of which are highlighted, a young and hobbit-like couple fawn over each other, we pass boarded shops in congested street traffic; a bottle of Yellowtail Cabernet, microwave dinner like a grandmama on Hoarders; Dexter and Desperate Housewives. R. and I chat in her room over wine before pouring into our beds.

Dario

: it’s early but that’s OK. I slept too much yesterday. Take a shower and avoid shaving. Not interested in my clothes; N Judah to Embarcadero, I like his golden knees and I like his orange shirt and thick wrists, corded; Rockridge outdoor festivities always competes with Folsom Street Fair; E. meets me at Hudson Bay with Dario; we walk him around the block before going back to Manila and seeing Nagamuko; drive to her new apartment building, a 4 unit, old-fashioned, reminds me of Nana Libra and Nonni’s place in Saxonville; brass and crystal fixtures, a lever that pulls and closes the downstairs door, mirrors and prints left behind, an iron shadow in the hardwood floor, scattered ventilation masks and tea cans, armoires, plastic wicker patio furniture, an empty bottle Smirnoff left on the porch stairs; we leave Dario in the car while we go to Rudy’s; Pixar tore up the secret garden in favor of an office building that looks like Sylvan; Pancakes Deuces Wild, coffee, side of bacon; pulling boxes from the pantry top shelf, sticking to the paint. “How did I ever get these up here?”; “He’s a tomcat, a mouser."; S. and S. are in the backyard, sipping Scotch; she cuts his hair with clippers, we talk Mercedes MacCambridge, Johnny Guitar; Scotch and homemade cookies; Polaroids and old photographs. We were babies; On the way to San Leando BART, “I’ve been listening to that remix: they be rapin’ evry’body up in here. Hideja kids, hideja wife”; Sun in my eyes; Man, red-faced and a red sweatshirt wearing nothing else; Safeway for coffee, yogurt, cereal and other supplies; Walking up Haight run into J. and his boyfriend J.; How do we not have a vegetable peeler?; Tuna sandwich, Project Runway and Top Chef: Just Desserts.

Takahashi Building

Red & Gold

: AIDA on the jumbotron at AT&T Park, spread on blankets with 7-Layer dip, $20 Scotch, plastic cups of red wine; smoking outside the gates; the moon rises like a bomb going off, orange and bulbous; drinking beer in the car ride home, some kind of Kona blend.

Yellow Car, Yellow Bear

Corner of 15th & Kansas.

Wednesday Farmers' Market

Market & Noe

: sunny from Haight through 16th; oatmeal with brown sugar and crushed pecans; setting up log-ins, passwords, access. "I'm going to Thailand for Christmas."; learning new platforms; pad thai; birthday cake with chocolate pudding; lost his bike helmet; walk home into the sunlight. Strangers' figures and faces are blown out; Farmers' Market patrons; creeped by false flirtation, like birds of a scarecrow; washing dishes to Fleetwood Mac, "Little Lies" and "Gypsy"; rice, smoked salmon from a pouch and sliced tomato; First episode, Season 2 of Glee makes me very happy and I want to see more, wished they played out the "Telephone"-off; The Event which tweaked my interest but it's possible it could go the way of FlashForward or V.

Where's My F'n' Hover Car?

Where 8th Meets 16th

: early morning darkness; fog horn is a snoring giant; Jonathan Franzen's Freedom; sesame bagel with hummus and tomato, California breakfast; porch-steps to a screen door office; my picture taken next to a mannequin; we talk as he smokes Benson & Hedges; dogs in Ohio; lunch at JB's, tuna sandwich, cranberry juice and a bag of Lay's; take the 10 towards downtown; can hear Coldplay: "Yellow" from someone's earbuds; where to rest my eyes? Knees seem like an OK spot in-between maudlin (feet) and perverse (crotch) but not creepy (face); tuxedo fitting by boy in a bright blue shirt, ignore his dandruff; Mondays are a "bloodfest"; yogurt and granola then Lean Cuisine Chicken Parmigiana for dinner, nuke the living daylights out of it; outside the night air is window and the trees are loud; police lights on the edge of the park, a figure dances in the searchlights and more scan the bushes and lawn.

Haight, Sunday Morning

Just down the block.

Book Review: Margaret Atwood "The Year of the Flood"

The Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood




A prequel to "Oryx and Crake" this book follows the pre-Flood years of two characters and the hazy period of time following. Frighteningly prophetic with our potential futures; genetic-splicing, environmental collapse in the face of better-efforts, clearly delineated caste systems this book is a peek into a frightening future just as "A Handmaid's Tale" did decades earlier.

This book freaked me out. Having just moved back to San Francisco, I was near finished. Grocery shopping with products labeled "organic" left me feeling uneasy. Walking through the Haight was a good backdrop for the pleeb-state sections of this book or the arcades of major Japanese cities.

Recommendation: re-read "Oryx and Crake" before or after. I'm not certain "Year of the Flood" works as a stand-alone. There are many references to animals and organizations that are explained in "O&C".

View all my reviews >>

Jumped The Shark

Good afternoon...

The Werewolf Hotel has temporarily changed locations. They have moved operations to their Japan campus and can be located here:

Oukamiotoko no Hoteru

Please have a pleasant stay.

All I Wanted Was A Lousy Diet C*ke!

Last night I watched Comedy Central's Roast of Pamela Anderson: Uncut & Uncensored. Largely because the beautiful and exquisite Courtney Love was on stage acting up like the punk-rock girl that thought she would've made a better Lucy in her high school production of You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown. She's a national treasure and I'm not kidding.

So, this show was basically all about how Pam is a bag of STDs, her V is so big she uses a trampoline for a diaphram, and how her boobs will be donated to the Smithsonian when she dies even though she's Canadian. Then they'd sparkle a little praise about her commendable involvement with PETA. It was funny and I think Pamela Anderson is a pretty swell gal mostly because she says what's on her mind, is committed to what she believes in, and comes off like a caring person.

So, throughout the show, since it was TV-MA and "Uncut" and "Uncensorsed" I heard EVERY cuss word in the English language (C*** included.) Bea Arthur was in attendance! She heard it all, ask her. Also, Pam's nippies were beaming through her sheer black blouse. Fine by me. They don't scare me.

Now, Lisa Lampanelli gets up there and she's doing her bit about big c*cks and p*ss*ies and b**b**s... so her joke ends with her, for some reason, needing a soda and she says Diet [insert brand of sodie-pop here]. And they bleeped it!

. . .

They bleeped Diet C*ke? After nearly torching the FCC with firebreathing curse words they bleeped out Diet C*ke.

When did products and corporations become worse words to use on air than curse words? I swear to you, while wearing my jammie-jams, eating a Tr*d*r J*'s J*-J* and drinking a tall glass of water I laughed.

Products, corporations, and their intellectual property are sacred territory now. More so than our genitalia, our reputation, and our privacy. These words require more protection than people who reside around failing infrastructure.

Pretty Soon This Will All Be Different

I have a few weeks left. Then, The Werewolf Hotel is going to relocate for a while. There will be a new address and, I'm sure, a very different look. More or less.

In the meantime:

I keep a playlist on my iTunes for songs I become obsessed with for a period of time. I delineate it by the year. It's a fun way to record songs that are important to me, that mean something, that recall an experience like a night out or someone I met. This weekend I added Rufus Wainwright's Between My Legs to that list. It's been on heavy rotation, slowly climbing my Most Played list.

But there's another contender. A beautiful tune that I don't available to me yet because it hasn't been released. Isn't that frustrating? Understandable, yes. A reminder that in these days of instant gratification there is still do not open until Xmas situations.

Juliana Hatfield has a new album coming out the very day I leave for Japan called How To Walk Away. Her new song Shining On is currently being played in my myspace profile and hers! I have to say, the first time I heard it I was inspired. I like when art does that. Doesn't make you jealous, doesn't make you wish you had done something different; it moves you to be creative yourself.

Occasionally I'll wonder to myself: What will be the next song that really gets under my skin.

This one is it. Look for Shining On.

Another thing I love to do is look in the background of pictures. Reading book titles, recognizing CD spines, things like that. Often I take pictures of my own bedroom for future examination. It's a way of pack ratting without packing.

SPIN Magazine took this idea and ran with it. Here's Juliana Hatfield in her living room, surrounded by belongings, with a description for each one.

Notice that she has a copy of Wind Up Bird Chronicle. We share the same story.

Here. Is. Your opportunity...

...to witness majesty in action. Kate Braverman will be reading at Cantina in San Francisco this coming Saturday evening. This is very exciting; she has never failed to impress the few times I've seen her read.

Information:

Babylon Salon, San Francisco’s rollicking reading and performance series, presents a night of literary mayhem…

When: Saturday, June 14, 2008, 7:00 p.m.
Where: Cantina SF (basement level)
With Performances by: local authors Ann Ryles, Corinne Loveland, and S.J. Sasken; Farallon Review editor Tim Foley; and 2008 O. Henry winner, NEA Fellow, and Executive Director of Kore Press, Shannon Cain

And Featuring the incomparable Kate Braverman, award-winning author of novels, short stories, poetry, and non-fiction.

Read Michelle Richmond’s interview with Kate here on Fiction Attic.

Braverman’s groundbreaking novel Lithium for Medea imbues a raw, dangerous world with her startling lyricism. Her latest work, the Graywolf Press award winning Frantic Transmissions to and from Los Angeles, brings the same sensibility to memoir. The result is a genre-bending challenge to the form.

Cantina SF is conveniently located at:580 Sutter Street, San Francisco, CA 415-398-0195(www.cantinasf.com) Plentiful parking below Union Square. Up one block on Powell, left on Sutter; or Powell Street Bart Station, walk past Union Square one block to Sutterthen left, 1/2 block on right. (580 Sutter)

-Free Admission-

Come at 7:00. Reading and performance begin promptly at 8:00. Complimentary eats. Cash bar exotica.

Babylon Salon is a reading and performance series sponsored by alumni of the University of San Francisco MFA in Writing programYour hosts: Timothy Crandle, Timothy B. Rien, Lindsay Tam Holland, Maury Zeff and Laurie Doyle.

I'm Impressed Press

In three hours a press was born. A press is like a match.com profile; everyone has one but so few get updated.

I wrote a few short vignettes and bound them into an 8 page booklet called "One of the Strangest Days" IIP-001. I love serialized things, assigning objects numbers and a place in line. Perhaps I ought to be an airline ticket agent. I think not.

This is the mission plan: I'm Impressed Press will be (1) a free publication given to friends or anyone. (2) Anything and Everything. (3) Whatever I want.

Here's a sample for you:

Running Up That Hill

Alex and I were walking down 16th Street towards the Mission to get to BART. She walked her newish red Schwinn and we had just finished drinking some drinkie-drinks at Il Pirata after a tedious day of working at our jobs.

As we passed the SFPCA a woman was running towards us. She wasn’t dressed for running, and by that I mean that her outfit was more suitable for a squat in a comfy office chair. Her run was smooth and had the appearance of ease; a little too easeful for climbing a steady but noticeable incline. But something was wrong with her mouth. It was… removable. As she passed I saw her pop out her lower teeth, play with them and pop them back in.

Alex and I looked at each other. Could the day get any stranger than this?

I *Heart* Canadians

And, right now, South Park is high on my list.

Before I left for Vegas I caught the show where Canada goes on strike and the turn-around phrase of "I'm not your buddy, friend!" "I'm not your friend, guy!" I'm not your guy, buddy!" stayed with me from SFO to the Flamingo. During a cloudy afternoon we sat by the pool and wouldn't you know the douchebags behind us started in on this exchange. I didn't know realize it had cult status.



I wonder what Canadians have to say about their portrayal through South Park.

What I Did With My Summer Vacation

Yesterday I took a plunge that can be more humiliating than getting an STD test with your primary care physician.

I sold some old CDs.

I've done this a million times before, I've even been on the other side of the purchasing counter. I know the drill. I know not to take selling the Christina Augilera & Ricky Martin duet single (do you even remember that? When I found it again - I thought it must have dropped in from an alternate universe) personally but there's still that twinge of shame, guilt, and desire to explain why you once had a copy of Santana's Supernatural (I got it for free!) or 3 or 4 Groove Armada albums (again, free).

I wanted new music but, now more importantly, I wanted to release myself of these deadweights. Ten years ago I surrounded myself with walls of CDs; I loved their security and comfort; the way the binding colors blended (ever line them up according to the visible light spectrum? I did), monitoring the growing width of my Throwing Muses section, the geometric splice and slice when they were shelved alphabetically and then by year released. I thought for sure I would eventually have a closet devoted to their storage.

With MP3s and development of three digit gigabyte storage capability hanging onto the remixes of Destiny's Child's Bills, Bills, Bills is no longer a priority. I still own it. In digital form on my computer. And, if anything were to happen to that computer and the greatest hits of Whitney Houston disappeared into the 0/1 ether I can be okay with that. I don't need to archive the popular culture of late 20th to early 21st century music. My CD collection will not end up in the Smithsonian when I die. Atleast not one with the Go soundtrack.

There are some dinosaurs that I will never, ever get rid of even if the only time I ever listen to a CD is when I'm taking a shower or going to sleep.

I'll still need a closet space to hold all the CDs I will never get rid of, that's for sure. And I still buy them on a semi-regular basis. I once vowed to never by music in digital form while there was a tangible version somewhere. The idea of buying an album without touching it, reading liner notes, closely inspecting cover art was horrifying. But I found a great subscription site and I moved forward, deeper into the millenium.

Anyways, I slept easier last night knowing that the corpses of CDs I haven't listened to in almost 10 years have been buried in greener pastures with the hopes that someday some brave soul will dig them up, give them a spin, and shoot 'em with a laser.

Oh! And BTW I did improve my collection yesterday with the purchases of the following: Aimee Mann: @#%&*! Smilers, Cyndi Lauper: Bring Ya To The Brink; The Knife: Deep Cuts; and The Go-Go's: God Bless The Go-Go's (pulled from the brink of used CD extinction).

North Korean Toddler Colonies

Over the past few days Stanford has rekindled my fascination with North Korea. Ever since Mayumi turned me on to an atrocious video done by the BBC depicting the devastation and political propaganda of this bizarre country I've been intrigued; with their monuments, the way they present themselves, the ghost-town Pyongyang, the "non-existent" Ryugyong Hotel and the phenomenal spectacle of their shows. 

Who they're meant for (the few visiting journalists or the North Korean denizens themselves) is anyone's guess. I imagine the performers believe they are presenting the awe that is their nation. 

And indeed they have. But is their intention to bewilder? The enormity of the production is staggering. But the truth behind the facade is a too monstrous to forget.

Watch this.

I wish I could link you to the original bit I saw but I'm beginning to watch the Vice expose found below.

Here.

Twenty Four #02

Folsom Street, San Francisco

Unicorn

Twenty Four #01

My sister has been sending me mass emails lately. Some of which haven't been that awful. My favorite ones are those that promote regional pride.

You know you're from New England when...
You know you're from Massachusetts when...
You know you're from Medway when...

etc., etc., etc.,

They're funny, sometimes true, and if after reading a declaration I'm confused then I get a sense that I missed out on some kind of cultural heritage that would otherwise brand me as an outsider. For those no longer living in the region these lists can be nostalgic and almost enough to punch to break your lease. (Then again, who wouldn't trade places with you, am I right?)

The best part is when you read a list like this and recognize the same statements made about New Yorkers, Philadelphians, San Franciscans, etc. Like that wee lad at some baseball game holding his middle finger out and shouting. He changes teams more times more times than a narcissistic Hollywood C-lister.

Here we go. Today's 24 siting comes from a list as previously mentioned. And, I apologize, but it's one of those facts that I can't even pretend to understand. But, what's great about it, is that it's self-referential. A very "meta" beginning to this new segment.

24. Sorry Manny, but number 24 means DEWEY EVANS.

Thanks!

Introduction to Twenty-Four

The past few weeks have been a wash of ridiculous ideas. There's something about being catapulted out of graduate school that makes you want to complete every possible (and near impossible) task you come up with. And, if you happened to graduate from an art school, then most of these tasks involved the current obsession in modern art: the Obsessive Compulsive art form.


From the 20 million beads sculpted by hand into installation pieces (thank you, Liza Lou):

To the chronicling, documenting, administrative handling of shredded car pieces into a skyscraper filing cabinet (and thank you, Sam Yates):

What we have is Art's obsession with Obsession. Anything that is meticulously done for a period of time unseemly for any "normal" person; anal-retentive organizational skills; the enlargement, exaggeration, parody, sarcasm, length, width, & height stretched to the borderlands of recognition is in vogue.

Add a pinch of magical realism and you have a new segment to The Werewolf Hotel: Twenty-Four.

To get it out of the way 24 is my favorite number for two reasons. (1) I was born on July the 24th. (2) It's divisible by many fantastic numbers: 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 12, & (like any whole number, itself) 24. I find that when this number pops up it's a sign, an omen, a message. I don't proport that it's always the case but it still seems to have personal properties I prefer to pay attention to.

Including its inverse: 42. The first time I really caught that number's eye I remembered to pay very close attention and I can't say why just now.

Perhaps, when the time is right, any other 24-Fanatics will pay attention with me. OK?