I think I've stopped writing personal things on here and started writing odd, travelogue-esque articles because I've been feeling unable to express myself properly.
What is new in my life? Let me think of a few:
I have a new job, working for the NHS as a call-taker. I'm still undergoing my training but getting paid the same as I will when I'm totally qualified. Its fun; the shift patterns are crazy (i'm working 11pm-7am for three nights in a row this week, thank god it's time and a quarter.)
It appears Korea is on the way, theres a slight conflict between my interests and the practicalities of it all however: I have different days of feeling really optimistic about going, and other times when I feel hopelessly scared. This hasnt been helped by my most recent of conundrums: adjusting (badly) to life after Uni.
I know I've banged on and on about it but the transition between Uni and home is just totally and utterly knocking me sideways at present. I dont have a grip on anything, I feel.
Put it this way: we all need routine to be able to function, I'm having enough trouble settling back into a new routine before I decide to dissapear off again, this worries me. It almost feels like I'm trying to hide from myself. Cliche' or what?
To take a broader view on it for a moment, I am aware that time flies and I dont want to miss a moment of it, but how do I deal with plunging myself into change so deep if I can barely cope with moving 200miles back home within the same country?
My attempts to settle back into routine have been scuppered somewhat by the job that, by its very nature, requires flexibility in it's shift patterns. My want to play rugby again has been buggered by my body's inability to take the strain (two big injuries in as many months, I'm under the delusion that I'm still really really fit, and I'm not!) In short, I feel a bit crap, directionless and pessimistic about the future.
You cant escape your problems, they pop up wherever you are, whatever you're doing and whoever you're with. I used to think I could face mine, but I think that maybe its not that easy.
If the move to Korea turns into a nightmare, I wont know how to ever forgive myself; I've talked it up for so long now, and though I think it'll be amazing, I just cant help thinking I'm doing it all for the wrong reasons, and at the wrong time.
But maybe I need to feel like this, now. Better to lose my nerve before I'm out there.
This is a test, one more that I'll have to overcome and dominate.
As Anna would quote : 'Our doubts are traitors, that make us lose the good we might oft win, by fearing to attempt.'
Good old Jaques...
Wednesday 30 September 2009
Saturday 12 September 2009
Cleanliness and acting the fool.
Those who know me will say this: I'm not tidy.
I cant help it, its not in my nature to be a clean-freak, I'm too busy being silly. Even I have my limits though...
When at 26 Denbigh Street (the infamous bachelor pad I lived in at Uni) the issue wasnt so much to do with cleanliness as it was to do with basic hygiene: our kitchen work-tops were inhabited with enough bacteria to start up a bio-weaponry arsenal.
This wasn't helped by the fact that the toilet was through the kitchen, on some evenings the smell would waft in and combine itself with the pasta you were making. It provided its amusing moments however; a favourite game of ours would be 'shower sabotage', where the window would be left unlocked and a fire extinguisher hose could be sneaked in. It would be unfair if I didnt mention that this game was usually played whenever Olly had a shower, after a while we dispensed with the subtleties and just kicked the door in. Seeing a naked and screaming Olly as we sprayed him was disturbing, but worth it.
I suppose I'm mentioning this because as bad as that house was for hygiene, and occasionally sanity, I miss being able to do daft things like that. Or maybe I miss the opportunity to do daft things like that...its hard to tell.
I could try to replicate it on my Dad, if I didnt mind being maimed.
I cant help it, its not in my nature to be a clean-freak, I'm too busy being silly. Even I have my limits though...
When at 26 Denbigh Street (the infamous bachelor pad I lived in at Uni) the issue wasnt so much to do with cleanliness as it was to do with basic hygiene: our kitchen work-tops were inhabited with enough bacteria to start up a bio-weaponry arsenal.
This wasn't helped by the fact that the toilet was through the kitchen, on some evenings the smell would waft in and combine itself with the pasta you were making. It provided its amusing moments however; a favourite game of ours would be 'shower sabotage', where the window would be left unlocked and a fire extinguisher hose could be sneaked in. It would be unfair if I didnt mention that this game was usually played whenever Olly had a shower, after a while we dispensed with the subtleties and just kicked the door in. Seeing a naked and screaming Olly as we sprayed him was disturbing, but worth it.
I suppose I'm mentioning this because as bad as that house was for hygiene, and occasionally sanity, I miss being able to do daft things like that. Or maybe I miss the opportunity to do daft things like that...its hard to tell.
I could try to replicate it on my Dad, if I didnt mind being maimed.
Friday 4 September 2009
Hip Hop Just Saved Me.
Following the introspection of the previous blog (sorry about that by the way), I have decided to return to a social commentary of sorts.
What makes hip-hop an art form?
The biggest barrier to any social commentary is a fragmented mode of address (or, ‘not understanding each other’, like.) Rap and hip-hop has been both lauded and damned in equal measure for the messages of unity but also ones of hatred. Is it simply storytelling?
The origins of this fast-evolving genre have been disputed for decades, the most likely source will have been West African poets, known as griots. They used the spoken word to pass on great fables and poems to audiences. Paul Oliver writes in his book "Savannah Syncopators"
‘Though [the griot] has to know many traditional songs without error, he must also have the ability to extemporize on current events, chance incidents and the passing scene. His wit can be devastating and his knowledge of local history formidable.’
This leads us to the immigration of America, and a development of a cultural identity in what would have been a melting pot of differing ideals and values when it came to entertainment. Many Griot-style lyricists used their gifts to entertain crowds in the post-civil rights era in the 1960s/70s.
Jamaican influence was key; ‘Dub’ music had travelled well and was later mixed with the unlikely combo of Disco and Funk. The shorter beats gave way to the practice of ‘toasting’, an early emcee-battle of skill between two opponents.
This combative approach had given disenfranchised youth a voice and while Kool Herc & the Herculoids were the first team to make it big in the Bronx, the rest of the world was soon to catch up.
The ‘first’ hip-hop track to have been put to recording is largely thought to be The Sugarhill Gang’s Rapper’s Delight in 1979. The fun-fast trio of Wonder-Mike, Big Bank Hank and Master-Gee were credited by having a catchy hook and wacky lyrics. It is hard, when listening to this 17 minute masterpiece, to see how gangster violence could be influenced by this art form. But, as with all things, a subculture always develops.
Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five presented a new face of hip-hop to the world. Their songs were catchy but delved into areas of life that other rappers were no doubt living, but weren’t making records about. The Message is probably the best example of a rap-song that deals with the hard facts behind the genre’s poverty-stricken roots:
‘Broken glass everywhere, people pissing on the stairs, you know they just don’t care. I can’t take the smell, can’t take the noise, got no money to move out I guess I’ve got no choice.
Rats in the front room, roaches in the back. Junkies in the alleys with a baseball bat, I tried to run away but I didn’t get far cause the man with the tow truck repossessed my car.’
The track then gives way to possibly one of the most famous hooks in the world ‘Don’t push me cause I’m close to the edge, I’m trying not to lose my head.’ Seeing them in print somehow takes away from the significance; orally they are said as if every word deserves to be emblazoned in red and capitalised, such is the desperation of them.
The ‘real’ lyrics of rappers became overshadowed with the glamour of rapper’s and their respective gang’s lifestyles. While songs such as Rapper’s Delight reference this with the lines ‘I got bodyguards, I got two big cars...So afterschool I take a dip in the pool which is really on the wall, I got a colour T.V so I can see the Nicks play basketball...’ it is seen as more of a cartoonish dream, that this lifestyle could ever be lead.
Soon, hip-hop became about what you had, and how much of it. Excess was the order of the day and while this is not exclusive to the genre (look at the Rat-Pack’s decadence) it became a political middle finger to the rest of the world that people from the ghetto could make big money from raw talent.
You may notice that at no point am I professing to be an expert, I am merely giving a view. The first rap album I ever owned was Will Smith’s Willenium. Considered by many to be a joke rapper, Will Smith represents something totally different at the turn of the decade: in terms of his social mobility, he has gone from being a rapper, to actor, to producer and is now one of the biggest banking stars of Hollywood. Not bad for the skinny kid who used to emcee with a guy called ‘DJ Jazzy Jeff’.
The 2000’s then appeared to have a dual role for its rappers, they weren’t just revered for their music, their lifestyles took on a totally different meaning: Eminem’s rags-to-riches film 8 Mile shows a behind the scenes take on the struggle to ‘blow up’ and out of poor neighbourhoods through music, a task which Eminem seems to be saying is harder to do if you’re white trash in a predominantly black ghetto, such as Detroit. This is what makes it so hard for us as an audience to understand whether we are infatuated with the music or the people.
To return to the issue of lyrics and the various interpretations of them; there is a renaissance of reality in some pockets of the genre. The idea being that the more we earn and spend looking good, the less good we do. As twee as it may sound, Kanye West’s early albums (where he still rapped) were an exercise in what can only be described as masked smugness. His records preached about the double standards of the world:
‘I say fuck the police, thats how I treat em
We buy our way out of jail, but we can’t buy freedom.
We’ll buy a lot of clothes but we don’t really need em
Things we buy to cover up whats inside.’
Lupe Fiasco, a personal favourite of mine, addresses the same issues of greed, inequality and the deterioration of social values. His approach is different in that he likes to make the audience think, rather than Kanye, who forces it down you in a manner which feels less sincere.
His song ‘Intruder Alert’ focuses on the pain in society, and challenges people to change their views of addicts, immigrants and much more. And he does it all without a sample from ‘Another Day in Paradise’:
‘He said nobody else ever loved him
Thats why he gets high enough to go touch the heavens above him
Vividly remembers every pipe
Every needle that stuck him
Every alley he ever slept in
Every purse that he snuck in
Every level of hell he’s been to
And the one that he’s stuck in
The one he can’t escape
Though it’s of his own construction.
Maybe you can relate
Maybe you one of those that just doesn’t
Maybe he doesn’t care
Loves to allow these demons to come in.’
Though strictly only forty years old, hip-hop has the capacity to become even bigger in the coming years. My preference for rappers like Lupe are that they stick closely to the truth of it all, reminding us why we should all live together harmoniously (Lupe is also a practicing Muslim).
The story-telling is all, without it the genre just becomes nonsense verse telling people to ‘get low.’
What makes hip-hop an art form?
The biggest barrier to any social commentary is a fragmented mode of address (or, ‘not understanding each other’, like.) Rap and hip-hop has been both lauded and damned in equal measure for the messages of unity but also ones of hatred. Is it simply storytelling?
The origins of this fast-evolving genre have been disputed for decades, the most likely source will have been West African poets, known as griots. They used the spoken word to pass on great fables and poems to audiences. Paul Oliver writes in his book "Savannah Syncopators"
‘Though [the griot] has to know many traditional songs without error, he must also have the ability to extemporize on current events, chance incidents and the passing scene. His wit can be devastating and his knowledge of local history formidable.’
This leads us to the immigration of America, and a development of a cultural identity in what would have been a melting pot of differing ideals and values when it came to entertainment. Many Griot-style lyricists used their gifts to entertain crowds in the post-civil rights era in the 1960s/70s.
Jamaican influence was key; ‘Dub’ music had travelled well and was later mixed with the unlikely combo of Disco and Funk. The shorter beats gave way to the practice of ‘toasting’, an early emcee-battle of skill between two opponents.
This combative approach had given disenfranchised youth a voice and while Kool Herc & the Herculoids were the first team to make it big in the Bronx, the rest of the world was soon to catch up.
The ‘first’ hip-hop track to have been put to recording is largely thought to be The Sugarhill Gang’s Rapper’s Delight in 1979. The fun-fast trio of Wonder-Mike, Big Bank Hank and Master-Gee were credited by having a catchy hook and wacky lyrics. It is hard, when listening to this 17 minute masterpiece, to see how gangster violence could be influenced by this art form. But, as with all things, a subculture always develops.
Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five presented a new face of hip-hop to the world. Their songs were catchy but delved into areas of life that other rappers were no doubt living, but weren’t making records about. The Message is probably the best example of a rap-song that deals with the hard facts behind the genre’s poverty-stricken roots:
‘Broken glass everywhere, people pissing on the stairs, you know they just don’t care. I can’t take the smell, can’t take the noise, got no money to move out I guess I’ve got no choice.
Rats in the front room, roaches in the back. Junkies in the alleys with a baseball bat, I tried to run away but I didn’t get far cause the man with the tow truck repossessed my car.’
The track then gives way to possibly one of the most famous hooks in the world ‘Don’t push me cause I’m close to the edge, I’m trying not to lose my head.’ Seeing them in print somehow takes away from the significance; orally they are said as if every word deserves to be emblazoned in red and capitalised, such is the desperation of them.
The ‘real’ lyrics of rappers became overshadowed with the glamour of rapper’s and their respective gang’s lifestyles. While songs such as Rapper’s Delight reference this with the lines ‘I got bodyguards, I got two big cars...So afterschool I take a dip in the pool which is really on the wall, I got a colour T.V so I can see the Nicks play basketball...’ it is seen as more of a cartoonish dream, that this lifestyle could ever be lead.
Soon, hip-hop became about what you had, and how much of it. Excess was the order of the day and while this is not exclusive to the genre (look at the Rat-Pack’s decadence) it became a political middle finger to the rest of the world that people from the ghetto could make big money from raw talent.
You may notice that at no point am I professing to be an expert, I am merely giving a view. The first rap album I ever owned was Will Smith’s Willenium. Considered by many to be a joke rapper, Will Smith represents something totally different at the turn of the decade: in terms of his social mobility, he has gone from being a rapper, to actor, to producer and is now one of the biggest banking stars of Hollywood. Not bad for the skinny kid who used to emcee with a guy called ‘DJ Jazzy Jeff’.
The 2000’s then appeared to have a dual role for its rappers, they weren’t just revered for their music, their lifestyles took on a totally different meaning: Eminem’s rags-to-riches film 8 Mile shows a behind the scenes take on the struggle to ‘blow up’ and out of poor neighbourhoods through music, a task which Eminem seems to be saying is harder to do if you’re white trash in a predominantly black ghetto, such as Detroit. This is what makes it so hard for us as an audience to understand whether we are infatuated with the music or the people.
To return to the issue of lyrics and the various interpretations of them; there is a renaissance of reality in some pockets of the genre. The idea being that the more we earn and spend looking good, the less good we do. As twee as it may sound, Kanye West’s early albums (where he still rapped) were an exercise in what can only be described as masked smugness. His records preached about the double standards of the world:
‘I say fuck the police, thats how I treat em
We buy our way out of jail, but we can’t buy freedom.
We’ll buy a lot of clothes but we don’t really need em
Things we buy to cover up whats inside.’
Lupe Fiasco, a personal favourite of mine, addresses the same issues of greed, inequality and the deterioration of social values. His approach is different in that he likes to make the audience think, rather than Kanye, who forces it down you in a manner which feels less sincere.
His song ‘Intruder Alert’ focuses on the pain in society, and challenges people to change their views of addicts, immigrants and much more. And he does it all without a sample from ‘Another Day in Paradise’:
‘He said nobody else ever loved him
Thats why he gets high enough to go touch the heavens above him
Vividly remembers every pipe
Every needle that stuck him
Every alley he ever slept in
Every purse that he snuck in
Every level of hell he’s been to
And the one that he’s stuck in
The one he can’t escape
Though it’s of his own construction.
Maybe you can relate
Maybe you one of those that just doesn’t
Maybe he doesn’t care
Loves to allow these demons to come in.’
Though strictly only forty years old, hip-hop has the capacity to become even bigger in the coming years. My preference for rappers like Lupe are that they stick closely to the truth of it all, reminding us why we should all live together harmoniously (Lupe is also a practicing Muslim).
The story-telling is all, without it the genre just becomes nonsense verse telling people to ‘get low.’
Wednesday 2 September 2009
A peek into the frontal lobes...
Delving into my brain, never exactly safe...
I often wonder about attractiveness in people; there are many varying and clashing philosophies about the reasons behind infatuation and I for one think it is a different scenario for everyone.
Take a person who spends their whole time being obsessed by their own image: they are so worried about what people think of their appearance that they don’t pull their guard down for long enough to let anyone begin to know them. That isn’t attractive. Why?
Psychologically, we put up certain ‘fronts’ to attract people, its natural. People who bare all (emotionally) on the first encounter might be refreshing, but do you really want to know everything about someone that early, or at all?
Mystique is strange; if you like puzzles and games then you are drawn to people that baffle you. Mainly because their notions and ideas might clash with your own. Or, they appear to be very similar, but there’s something just beneath the surface that hints at something more.
So, if a person’s attractiveness is reliant on a blend of mystery and revealing...why do we find ourselves attracted to people who aren’t ‘right’ for us?
Firstly, what is right and wrong for any one person is seldom a ticking of boxes (for me anyway), it has to be an understanding that this person could be my friend, without me forgetting that I fancy them too. Someone who understands, but tells me to shut up all the same, laughs at and with me, and doesn’t stop their world for me, but makes allowances just in case.
It comes down to what makes you comfortable; being put on a pedestal is scary and being treated like an idiot is demeaning. Respect is key. We’ve all been hurt, we’ve all hurt others.
As Oscar Wilde said: ‘Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future.’
I often wonder about attractiveness in people; there are many varying and clashing philosophies about the reasons behind infatuation and I for one think it is a different scenario for everyone.
Take a person who spends their whole time being obsessed by their own image: they are so worried about what people think of their appearance that they don’t pull their guard down for long enough to let anyone begin to know them. That isn’t attractive. Why?
Psychologically, we put up certain ‘fronts’ to attract people, its natural. People who bare all (emotionally) on the first encounter might be refreshing, but do you really want to know everything about someone that early, or at all?
Mystique is strange; if you like puzzles and games then you are drawn to people that baffle you. Mainly because their notions and ideas might clash with your own. Or, they appear to be very similar, but there’s something just beneath the surface that hints at something more.
So, if a person’s attractiveness is reliant on a blend of mystery and revealing...why do we find ourselves attracted to people who aren’t ‘right’ for us?
Firstly, what is right and wrong for any one person is seldom a ticking of boxes (for me anyway), it has to be an understanding that this person could be my friend, without me forgetting that I fancy them too. Someone who understands, but tells me to shut up all the same, laughs at and with me, and doesn’t stop their world for me, but makes allowances just in case.
It comes down to what makes you comfortable; being put on a pedestal is scary and being treated like an idiot is demeaning. Respect is key. We’ve all been hurt, we’ve all hurt others.
As Oscar Wilde said: ‘Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future.’
Tuesday 1 September 2009
Autumn Approaches, and my brush with the law.
I’m not a fan of writing melancholic observations of the changing colour of leaves, it can be completely boring for anyone else to read, and even more boring for me to write.
So, the 1st of September is upon us; the evenings feel that little bit shorter, the air is slightly less forgiving on bare skin and the leaves, the awkward cusses they are, have begun to turn bronze.
Everywhere, kids are being fitted up for uniforms in shops whose fronts bombard the public with huge bubble-fonts that scream “Back to School!” These are always accompanied by pictures of kids having simply THE best time of their lives in their new non-iron shirts; they’re all laughing, showing bright white incisors. What are they laughing at? If your child is anything like me at school age they’d most likely deduce the same conclusion: me.
I hated going back to school, not that there’s anything unusual in that. I think I was always struck by the fact that the summer was largely spent being patronised by the world at large (not being able to do ANYTHING without being considered a lout and, just as this is settling in, big posters appear on the high street to remind us that term starts all over again...it hardly seemed fair.
I know from my time in retail that the ‘back to school’ season is marketed at all ages. (I refer to it as ‘time’ deliberately, the branch of River Island I worked for when I was in college wasn’t QUITE like Broadmoor. I think they got dental care.)
It seemed so cynical, essentially saying “If you want your kid to look THIS good, make sure they have these shoes.” It baffles me that people can be that easily fooled, especially as it pressurises people to do the best by their children, usually out of the fear that they aren’t going to fit in unless they do so.
Anyway, enough of that. I never told people about my close encounter with the Met Police upon my arrival to the UK...
Gary and Katrina took me to a ship-wreck research centre (it also had a pirate section for the kids, which Gary and I found ourselves in) and then onto a few bars. We had devilled eggs in Mac’s Diner; the main diner area used to be a Harley Davidson garage, the decor giving honour to all of this. The menu was promised to be no-nonsense BBQ-fest, and so it proved to be.
Not being able to make up my mind, I chose to have ‘A little bit of everything’ which was:
Mac & Cheese
Soup
Beer-Can Chicken
Shredded Pork
BBQ Ribs
Potatoes
Quite frankly, it was awesome. I also had to contend with my belt, straining at its seams.
Boarding my flight after a few beers, a hearty meal and a last dose of North Carolina sunshine, I boarded my plane.
I’ve never been a good flyer. Every time I sit through a take-off my mind starts to wander to the sheer power in those engines, and how the slightest problem could effectively blow us all to pieces.
When I’m not thinking about that, I’m thinking about food. The nasty, freeze-dried, vacuum-packed ready-meals that are thrust at you as you contemplate watching more bloody films to pass the time.
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep. When I arrived back in Gatwick, I was shagged. It was 7am and my prepaid tickets to get to Manchester weren’t valid until 12.05pm. I had time to kill, but first I needed to...
BAM! I did the ‘falling’ asleep thing that people do when they are semi-dreaming and jerked awake. I’d been stood in line at a Tube-Ticket station at London Victoria at the time though. After sitting on a bench, drifting in and out of consciousness I was approached by a scary looking policeman, whose demeanour suggested that he’d like to throw me in the nick ‘with all the other nonces’. I explained to him that I wasn’t drunk, nor on illegal substances and I was just trying to get to Manchester. Clearly thinking that I was unlikely to be a problem for him if that was really the case, he let me go without another word. I promptly fell flat onto my face.
So, the 1st of September is upon us; the evenings feel that little bit shorter, the air is slightly less forgiving on bare skin and the leaves, the awkward cusses they are, have begun to turn bronze.
Everywhere, kids are being fitted up for uniforms in shops whose fronts bombard the public with huge bubble-fonts that scream “Back to School!” These are always accompanied by pictures of kids having simply THE best time of their lives in their new non-iron shirts; they’re all laughing, showing bright white incisors. What are they laughing at? If your child is anything like me at school age they’d most likely deduce the same conclusion: me.
I hated going back to school, not that there’s anything unusual in that. I think I was always struck by the fact that the summer was largely spent being patronised by the world at large (not being able to do ANYTHING without being considered a lout and, just as this is settling in, big posters appear on the high street to remind us that term starts all over again...it hardly seemed fair.
I know from my time in retail that the ‘back to school’ season is marketed at all ages. (I refer to it as ‘time’ deliberately, the branch of River Island I worked for when I was in college wasn’t QUITE like Broadmoor. I think they got dental care.)
It seemed so cynical, essentially saying “If you want your kid to look THIS good, make sure they have these shoes.” It baffles me that people can be that easily fooled, especially as it pressurises people to do the best by their children, usually out of the fear that they aren’t going to fit in unless they do so.
Anyway, enough of that. I never told people about my close encounter with the Met Police upon my arrival to the UK...
Gary and Katrina took me to a ship-wreck research centre (it also had a pirate section for the kids, which Gary and I found ourselves in) and then onto a few bars. We had devilled eggs in Mac’s Diner; the main diner area used to be a Harley Davidson garage, the decor giving honour to all of this. The menu was promised to be no-nonsense BBQ-fest, and so it proved to be.
Not being able to make up my mind, I chose to have ‘A little bit of everything’ which was:
Mac & Cheese
Soup
Beer-Can Chicken
Shredded Pork
BBQ Ribs
Potatoes
Quite frankly, it was awesome. I also had to contend with my belt, straining at its seams.
Boarding my flight after a few beers, a hearty meal and a last dose of North Carolina sunshine, I boarded my plane.
I’ve never been a good flyer. Every time I sit through a take-off my mind starts to wander to the sheer power in those engines, and how the slightest problem could effectively blow us all to pieces.
When I’m not thinking about that, I’m thinking about food. The nasty, freeze-dried, vacuum-packed ready-meals that are thrust at you as you contemplate watching more bloody films to pass the time.
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep. When I arrived back in Gatwick, I was shagged. It was 7am and my prepaid tickets to get to Manchester weren’t valid until 12.05pm. I had time to kill, but first I needed to...
BAM! I did the ‘falling’ asleep thing that people do when they are semi-dreaming and jerked awake. I’d been stood in line at a Tube-Ticket station at London Victoria at the time though. After sitting on a bench, drifting in and out of consciousness I was approached by a scary looking policeman, whose demeanour suggested that he’d like to throw me in the nick ‘with all the other nonces’. I explained to him that I wasn’t drunk, nor on illegal substances and I was just trying to get to Manchester. Clearly thinking that I was unlikely to be a problem for him if that was really the case, he let me go without another word. I promptly fell flat onto my face.
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