I always disliked those kinds of people who displayed a certain precious "Look how cute I am" persona, people SO secure in belief in their attractiveness, they don't even think about it.
There are cute people, and there are people who think they are cute, and the two sets don't intersect at ALL for me.
Now in the case of actors in movies, you never really know if that kind of persona is actually good acting or if it's just typecasting.
In the case of Charlie's Angels (2000), I'm inclined to think it's the latter. This is one of the most excruciatingly annoying movies I think I've ever watched. Cameron Diaz, good enough in There's Something About Mary, makes me cringe every time I see her in this DOG of a movie. How Bill Murray, usually pretty good about choosing jobs, allowed himself to get involved in this one is entirely beyond me. Even the visual effects and action sequence were B-O-R-I-N-G; that warmed-over "Matrix"-style stop-action fighting is already looking older than a pie in a face. Drew Barrymore... well, no need to even mention THAT proof of de-evolution.
It doesn't work as parody because it's not funny. It doesn't work as action because it's painfully obvious that none of the action is real. It works as fluff because it's fluff.
And yeah, I knew when I rented it, it wouldn't be good, but I had at least hoped it would put me to sleep. Shouldn't've had those two Pepsis with dinner.
Friday, March 30, 2001
Carloads 16, 17, and 18 went up last night, and we're pretty close to being done with this.
Other than that, not much new. Between work and moving, my days are full. But figure 9 loads times 40 miles round-trip, and I have lots of time to think.
Not gonna overload Blogger today (maybe later), but inordinately happy to see its return...
Other than that, not much new. Between work and moving, my days are full. But figure 9 loads times 40 miles round-trip, and I have lots of time to think.
Not gonna overload Blogger today (maybe later), but inordinately happy to see its return...
Thursday, March 29, 2001
14, going on 15, carloads taken from old place (all but one taken to new place). Also one truckload of musical equipment. I don't mind saying this is getting old, but there's a great satisfaction in seeing the task ever nearer to completion -- a task that looked damn near impossible at the onset.
One nice side-effect of moving is that we get to eat dinner out every night. Semi-exhausted and somewhat punchy (really, an underrated state, that!), we sit at the various tables and talk over what to do next, or just talk. (For a later blog, remind me to again bemoan the sorry state of professional services of any kind...)
Johnny Garlic's is a chain-ish restaurant in Petaluma. I don't know how to describe the tone of the place, maybe 'faux-yuppie-trendo-amateur.' Like, they have cute names for the foods (and you can 'intensify' each entree with additional crap on your plate for like 3 more dollars), and the main dining area is decorated in a vain attempt to emulate the inside of a volcano. One time we were there, they were hosting one of those mystery things, where a group of people has to figure out who killed some member of the staff.
Anyway, while eating there the other night, the waitress approaching another table somehow reminded me of Godzilla, and I'm off on a weird tangent:
Godzilla is working his way through a community college web-design course by moonlighting as a waiter at Johnny Garlic's. (He didn't have much experience, but his innate expertise at flambe dishes makes him a very desirable employee.)
When they host a mystery, his coworkers are all 1950s Japanese actors, and Godzilla is the victim:
"Raaaah! Would you like some pepper on that?"
"Much excuse, but mutant monster not arrowed to dispense seasoning! Mirabito is your honorable peppah dispensah!"
"Raaah! But I was already right here, and I had the grinder!"
<scuffle ensues among wait staff and Godzilla; a shot rings out. Much confusion, as some poor customer's flaming entree continues to burn and smoke fills the room. When the smoke clears, the giant reptile is missing.>
<Later...>
Participant: "Mistah Mirabito, you not hide body that easiry! Note Godzilla tail appear fwum behind potted prant!"
Mirabito (waving pepper grinder): "I not kill him! Simpry wanting to dispense pepper!"
<Participant walks over to body...>
Participant: "Ah ha! Note pepper-grinder shaped indentation on Godzilla forehead!"
Etc. (oh well, it seemed funny at the time).
One nice side-effect of moving is that we get to eat dinner out every night. Semi-exhausted and somewhat punchy (really, an underrated state, that!), we sit at the various tables and talk over what to do next, or just talk. (For a later blog, remind me to again bemoan the sorry state of professional services of any kind...)
Johnny Garlic's is a chain-ish restaurant in Petaluma. I don't know how to describe the tone of the place, maybe 'faux-yuppie-trendo-amateur.' Like, they have cute names for the foods (and you can 'intensify' each entree with additional crap on your plate for like 3 more dollars), and the main dining area is decorated in a vain attempt to emulate the inside of a volcano. One time we were there, they were hosting one of those mystery things, where a group of people has to figure out who killed some member of the staff.
Anyway, while eating there the other night, the waitress approaching another table somehow reminded me of Godzilla, and I'm off on a weird tangent:
Godzilla is working his way through a community college web-design course by moonlighting as a waiter at Johnny Garlic's. (He didn't have much experience, but his innate expertise at flambe dishes makes him a very desirable employee.)
When they host a mystery, his coworkers are all 1950s Japanese actors, and Godzilla is the victim:
"Raaaah! Would you like some pepper on that?"
"Much excuse, but mutant monster not arrowed to dispense seasoning! Mirabito is your honorable peppah dispensah!"
"Raaah! But I was already right here, and I had the grinder!"
<scuffle ensues among wait staff and Godzilla; a shot rings out. Much confusion, as some poor customer's flaming entree continues to burn and smoke fills the room. When the smoke clears, the giant reptile is missing.>
<Later...>
Participant: "Mistah Mirabito, you not hide body that easiry! Note Godzilla tail appear fwum behind potted prant!"
Mirabito (waving pepper grinder): "I not kill him! Simpry wanting to dispense pepper!"
<Participant walks over to body...>
Participant: "Ah ha! Note pepper-grinder shaped indentation on Godzilla forehead!"
Etc. (oh well, it seemed funny at the time).
Wednesday, March 28, 2001
The wedding thing is quite the experience. Though we've managed to keep it pretty simple, I've caught glimpses here and there of what a traditional wedding entails.
It's always been considered a major Life Event and rite of passage. But it's also something else.
Men, typically, don't seriously think out the cause and effect of social/emotional things. So a marriage proposal may be, to them, the product of momentary intense feeling and/or an investment in the promise of a reward (getting laid) five or ten minutes hence.
But from the word "yes," the young male finds himself in a steadily-accelerating maelstrom of new experiences.
There is a dictionary's worth of etiquette one must learn to survive a standard "dearly-beloved" wedding and garter-tossing reception. And the guest lists, and the "help," and the order in which things must occur, and the negotiations, and the bachelor and bachelorette parties.
The emptying of the wallet is mere preparation, a removal of defenses, for the trial-by-fire. All keyed towards his domestication, housebreaking, if you will. IF a young man gets through the hundreds of little opportunities-to-offend, AND doesn't get snagged on any of a thousand potential bridal "petulant frenzies" (tm Frank Zappa), AND manages to comport himself reasonably well, AND hasn't run screaming to another state or country, THEN, finally, when it's all over, he is silently pronounced "fit for cohabitation" by all present. So, why do you think they call him a "groom"? He is "groomed" for presentability.
None of these little details ever occurred to him when he got down on his knee - and he wonders at some point if he will ever be allowed to stand again. "Etiquette" never occurs to a single man. A married man is practically an expert.
"A husband is what's left of a lover after the nerve has been extracted." - Helen Rowland (1876 - 1950), English/US writer. I never much liked or agreed with this quote, but I see its truth.
It's no particular person's "fault" that this transformation occurs. It's one of those subtle societal things that nudges him gently and repeatedly, perhaps when he least expects it, gradually enough that each new concession is small, inexorable enough that in the end, he may find himself realizing that he has been nudged down a long long road, and the way back is completely obscured.
I am SO thankful to Terrie that it hasn't been like this for me, AND that I have gotten a glimpse of it. And I am thankful to my "guardian angel" or "higher self" or whomever, that I didn't marry those others in the past who might have taken me down that road.
It's always been considered a major Life Event and rite of passage. But it's also something else.
Men, typically, don't seriously think out the cause and effect of social/emotional things. So a marriage proposal may be, to them, the product of momentary intense feeling and/or an investment in the promise of a reward (getting laid) five or ten minutes hence.
But from the word "yes," the young male finds himself in a steadily-accelerating maelstrom of new experiences.
There is a dictionary's worth of etiquette one must learn to survive a standard "dearly-beloved" wedding and garter-tossing reception. And the guest lists, and the "help," and the order in which things must occur, and the negotiations, and the bachelor and bachelorette parties.
The emptying of the wallet is mere preparation, a removal of defenses, for the trial-by-fire. All keyed towards his domestication, housebreaking, if you will. IF a young man gets through the hundreds of little opportunities-to-offend, AND doesn't get snagged on any of a thousand potential bridal "petulant frenzies" (tm Frank Zappa), AND manages to comport himself reasonably well, AND hasn't run screaming to another state or country, THEN, finally, when it's all over, he is silently pronounced "fit for cohabitation" by all present. So, why do you think they call him a "groom"? He is "groomed" for presentability.
None of these little details ever occurred to him when he got down on his knee - and he wonders at some point if he will ever be allowed to stand again. "Etiquette" never occurs to a single man. A married man is practically an expert.
"A husband is what's left of a lover after the nerve has been extracted." - Helen Rowland (1876 - 1950), English/US writer. I never much liked or agreed with this quote, but I see its truth.
It's no particular person's "fault" that this transformation occurs. It's one of those subtle societal things that nudges him gently and repeatedly, perhaps when he least expects it, gradually enough that each new concession is small, inexorable enough that in the end, he may find himself realizing that he has been nudged down a long long road, and the way back is completely obscured.
I am SO thankful to Terrie that it hasn't been like this for me, AND that I have gotten a glimpse of it. And I am thankful to my "guardian angel" or "higher self" or whomever, that I didn't marry those others in the past who might have taken me down that road.
Tuesday, March 27, 2001
So much forgotten history in our daily lives (though that's all changing, with Blogger available!).
Going through old stuff, preparatory to moving. I haven't moved since 1995, and have not only accumulated a ton of stuff, but kept a lot of stuff that I never once looked at since the last move. It was these things that captured my attention the other day: performance reviews from jobs 15, 20 years ago; drawings and writings and weird office humor I once saw fit to collect and keep; the odd photograph, a younger me grinning out unknowning at the future me, bringing an entire hermetically-preserved world into focus in an instant.
Novato Unified School District, 1977? - 1979, I worked as a printer's apprentice, babysitting an ABDick 360 offset printer as it churned out administrative and class materials for local schools. I wrote on the typewriter through many dull moments, and that paper blog is mostly in a notebook. Awful poetry and scant humor. I was a real "litterary light"(weight) then.
Crocker Bank, 1979 - 1986: The printing trade petered out - the old Catch-22: couldn't get a job without being in the Union, and couldn't get in the Union without having a job. Got into a county job-placement program, and was groomed for a teller position at a major california bank. Rose from a mail-deliverer to computer-accounting entry person to a computer system trainer in that 7-year span. But in the same period, I was seeing the end of my first long-term relationship and introducing myself to cocaine (with which I'd have a long and fruitless friendship that ultimately lost me that job). Wrote in longhand while babysitting the big IBM band-printer that serviced the Computer Systems group, then in the text editor on the PDP-1170 and Vax minicomputers, until we got PCs and Multimate.
MicroPro, 1987 - 1991: Still on the coke train through the entire period, but rose inexorably from technical support drone to advisor to technical writer before basically getting fired (under the guise of being laid off). Joined the internet craze during this time, and started doing my writing in email and on Compuserve (and of course in the late and lamented WordStar). On at least two occasions, I got excellent an performance review within a month of a warning for attendance.
SBT, 1991 - 1996 and again 1997 - 2000: Still on the train, but finally debarked during that first stint, and after rising again to Technical Writer, crashed and burned in a flurry of non-activity. But I returned, yes I did, and saved the doc department there from ignominy (my boss) for those three years. Wrote in email, on Compuserve, on the web, in longhand, in WordStar, in Word, everywhere.
Writings and drawings from all of these times. Not a lot, but something here and something there catches my eye. Like today, I showed flashes of brilliance amid mounds of banality. Never knew that I wrote so poorly - that provides some insight into people I know now who don't write well. It's just time, learning the rules, practicing, that separates the young me (and those young writers) from the current me.
But it's amazing how much of it I'd completely forgotten... Must sit and go through that stuff one day, gently but in detail. Sometimes you may feel like you haven't moved an inch in twenty years, until you look up from your trudging and see, way off in the distance, the signposts you stuck in the ground twenty years ago.
Going through old stuff, preparatory to moving. I haven't moved since 1995, and have not only accumulated a ton of stuff, but kept a lot of stuff that I never once looked at since the last move. It was these things that captured my attention the other day: performance reviews from jobs 15, 20 years ago; drawings and writings and weird office humor I once saw fit to collect and keep; the odd photograph, a younger me grinning out unknowning at the future me, bringing an entire hermetically-preserved world into focus in an instant.
Novato Unified School District, 1977? - 1979, I worked as a printer's apprentice, babysitting an ABDick 360 offset printer as it churned out administrative and class materials for local schools. I wrote on the typewriter through many dull moments, and that paper blog is mostly in a notebook. Awful poetry and scant humor. I was a real "litterary light"(weight) then.
Crocker Bank, 1979 - 1986: The printing trade petered out - the old Catch-22: couldn't get a job without being in the Union, and couldn't get in the Union without having a job. Got into a county job-placement program, and was groomed for a teller position at a major california bank. Rose from a mail-deliverer to computer-accounting entry person to a computer system trainer in that 7-year span. But in the same period, I was seeing the end of my first long-term relationship and introducing myself to cocaine (with which I'd have a long and fruitless friendship that ultimately lost me that job). Wrote in longhand while babysitting the big IBM band-printer that serviced the Computer Systems group, then in the text editor on the PDP-1170 and Vax minicomputers, until we got PCs and Multimate.
MicroPro, 1987 - 1991: Still on the coke train through the entire period, but rose inexorably from technical support drone to advisor to technical writer before basically getting fired (under the guise of being laid off). Joined the internet craze during this time, and started doing my writing in email and on Compuserve (and of course in the late and lamented WordStar). On at least two occasions, I got excellent an performance review within a month of a warning for attendance.
SBT, 1991 - 1996 and again 1997 - 2000: Still on the train, but finally debarked during that first stint, and after rising again to Technical Writer, crashed and burned in a flurry of non-activity. But I returned, yes I did, and saved the doc department there from ignominy (my boss) for those three years. Wrote in email, on Compuserve, on the web, in longhand, in WordStar, in Word, everywhere.
Writings and drawings from all of these times. Not a lot, but something here and something there catches my eye. Like today, I showed flashes of brilliance amid mounds of banality. Never knew that I wrote so poorly - that provides some insight into people I know now who don't write well. It's just time, learning the rules, practicing, that separates the young me (and those young writers) from the current me.
But it's amazing how much of it I'd completely forgotten... Must sit and go through that stuff one day, gently but in detail. Sometimes you may feel like you haven't moved an inch in twenty years, until you look up from your trudging and see, way off in the distance, the signposts you stuck in the ground twenty years ago.
816.1.
No bike this morning, powering up for taking a carload every evening this week.
Our new neighbor was playing very loud, I dunno, death-rap-metal-thrash, while working on his monster truck as we moved stuff in last night. Making a statement, I guess. His house is tiny, and I presume that the truck is his only source of music. Not a big deal to me so far - I like to make noise, so I tolerate the noise of others. Indeed, we lived across from the Portuguese Hall for six years, with the same throbbing bass line almost every saturday night for a large part of that time, interspersed with wedding receptions, livestock auctions, ice-cream socials, crab feeds, and every other dumb-ass kind of community thing. Cars parked up and down the street, kids screaming out front, and at night as everyone left, each pair of headlights in turn shining directly into our living room. We never complained about them, and they didn't complain when we were playing a Black Sabbath song during a funeral. "Live and Let Die," heh. I sense the gears turning in his little gear-head; he is registering his disapproval that someone should dare to live beside him in a home that has been empty for several months (perhaps previously inhabited by a complainer), and is basically performing a primal sonic spraying of the bushes, as he studiously ignores us. What he sees is a (to him) middle-aged couple moving into Sebastopol, home of the tie-dyed macrobiotic tree-hugger, next door to his little oasis of post-adolescent masculine crudity. The fool - I can remember being almost exactly like that, passive-agressive in my territorialilty about my sonic space. Why can I remember it? Because it's as recent as the last new neighbor at the old place; or the last time the Portuguese had a big "do" while I was drinking and jamming in our front room!
The poor unsuspecting redneck doesn't yet know that he's competing with a master -- we have five or six electric guitars and large amps easily capable of drowning out his pitiful Rob Zombie tape, about 2000 CDs, records, and tapes, and a reasonably kick-ass stereo. We actually have more noise-making equipment than would fit in his entire house! So, though we don't think much of his taste, we are happy that he likes noise. I was a bit concerned that we'd be asked (repeatedly, by prim & puckered, schoolmarmish, vaguely acting-like-they-mean-well persons for whom there is no such thing as "quiet enough") to turn it down here; I guess that won't be the case!
Someone stop me from breaking out the Damned the second I get the stereo set up...
No bike this morning, powering up for taking a carload every evening this week.
Our new neighbor was playing very loud, I dunno, death-rap-metal-thrash, while working on his monster truck as we moved stuff in last night. Making a statement, I guess. His house is tiny, and I presume that the truck is his only source of music. Not a big deal to me so far - I like to make noise, so I tolerate the noise of others. Indeed, we lived across from the Portuguese Hall for six years, with the same throbbing bass line almost every saturday night for a large part of that time, interspersed with wedding receptions, livestock auctions, ice-cream socials, crab feeds, and every other dumb-ass kind of community thing. Cars parked up and down the street, kids screaming out front, and at night as everyone left, each pair of headlights in turn shining directly into our living room. We never complained about them, and they didn't complain when we were playing a Black Sabbath song during a funeral. "Live and Let Die," heh. I sense the gears turning in his little gear-head; he is registering his disapproval that someone should dare to live beside him in a home that has been empty for several months (perhaps previously inhabited by a complainer), and is basically performing a primal sonic spraying of the bushes, as he studiously ignores us. What he sees is a (to him) middle-aged couple moving into Sebastopol, home of the tie-dyed macrobiotic tree-hugger, next door to his little oasis of post-adolescent masculine crudity. The fool - I can remember being almost exactly like that, passive-agressive in my territorialilty about my sonic space. Why can I remember it? Because it's as recent as the last new neighbor at the old place; or the last time the Portuguese had a big "do" while I was drinking and jamming in our front room!
The poor unsuspecting redneck doesn't yet know that he's competing with a master -- we have five or six electric guitars and large amps easily capable of drowning out his pitiful Rob Zombie tape, about 2000 CDs, records, and tapes, and a reasonably kick-ass stereo. We actually have more noise-making equipment than would fit in his entire house! So, though we don't think much of his taste, we are happy that he likes noise. I was a bit concerned that we'd be asked (repeatedly, by prim & puckered, schoolmarmish, vaguely acting-like-they-mean-well persons for whom there is no such thing as "quiet enough") to turn it down here; I guess that won't be the case!
Someone stop me from breaking out the Damned the second I get the stereo set up...
Monday, March 26, 2001
812.3.
Beautiful morning. Stopped to get a picture of the peach sky over Skillman, where the road ahead had a strip of tule fog across it...
Only six carloads and one truckload moved over the weekend, but they were large loads. It rained on Saturday after two runs (one of them taking musical equipment to John's for safekeeping. We also set up and filled bookshelves at the new place, providing a set of boxes to bring back and refill. Doesn't seem like much, but the whole point of not having to move in one weekend is that you don't have to knock yourself out on it. And the new house is *just* starting to look less empty than the old one. I will be attempting to run a load up every day this week after work.
Too, those first few days of packing, you spend a lot of time sifting through the stuff.
Realtors who sold the old place sent us 'estoppel' forms to fill out - why should we accomodate their needs in ANY way shape or form? Threw them out, then retrieved and stored them, thinking they might involve some kind of attempt at absolution for the realtors/buyers, in which case we'll just keep 'em, unfilled. By the way, correction to brevious blog: the credit check was only $10 (vs. $40 at the Century 21/Bundesen realtor).
More Born Today work over the weekend; added the 9400th quote to the database AND passed the 10,000 mark on home page hits (since May 2000 - more than that since the page began over on sbt.com). Over 60 billion (bytes) served!
The people at Fox are high if they think I'd rather watch a Schwarzenegger movie (whose name doesn't begin with "TERM") than their standard, brilliant, Sunday night fare of Futurama, King of the Hill, Simpsons, and Malcolm in the Middle (I don't watch X-Files). I actually avoid renting one-night movies on Sundays because I know I'll get sucked into that channel 2 stuff. What a nasty trick to inflict Arnold on the discerning viewers expecting funny, relevant television! Gawd help us if he runs for (or, gasp, BECOMES) Governor of California, but I wouldn't put ANYthing beneath the voters of this state, after Reagan. Maybe Gary Coleman should run.
Eyes of Tammy Faye: The slipcover hype says it will change my mind about Tammy Faye Bakker. Truth be told, I don't want to change my mind about her (in fact, haven't much 'mind about her' to change, spending as I do very little time thinking about Tammy Faye), but it did do that. She's a more admirable person than she's generally credited for. Though I dozed off because I was dead tired, and while in that semi-dreaming state, can only remember the shrill voice of Tammy defending herself and Jim and the PTL, with images of her scruffy dog somehow merging with hers in my mind, such that it was not unlike the yapping of a hyperactive mutt over some trivial occurrence that I couln't quite grasp. Let's talk about degrees of greed, and the Bakkers vs. Jerry Falwell. Really, I've got other things to think about.
Have been waking at like 4am lately. It would really be helpful to change my work hours to like 9-6 or something, but I'm really pretty beat by 2pm, let alone 5 or 6. Nobody gets here until 9 or 10. Maybe after the move I'll try to change my schedule, but it's hard -- I've always been an earlybird, except for one summer in Michigan when I was routinely sleeping till 11...
Beautiful morning. Stopped to get a picture of the peach sky over Skillman, where the road ahead had a strip of tule fog across it...
Only six carloads and one truckload moved over the weekend, but they were large loads. It rained on Saturday after two runs (one of them taking musical equipment to John's for safekeeping. We also set up and filled bookshelves at the new place, providing a set of boxes to bring back and refill. Doesn't seem like much, but the whole point of not having to move in one weekend is that you don't have to knock yourself out on it. And the new house is *just* starting to look less empty than the old one. I will be attempting to run a load up every day this week after work.
Too, those first few days of packing, you spend a lot of time sifting through the stuff.
Realtors who sold the old place sent us 'estoppel' forms to fill out - why should we accomodate their needs in ANY way shape or form? Threw them out, then retrieved and stored them, thinking they might involve some kind of attempt at absolution for the realtors/buyers, in which case we'll just keep 'em, unfilled. By the way, correction to brevious blog: the credit check was only $10 (vs. $40 at the Century 21/Bundesen realtor).
More Born Today work over the weekend; added the 9400th quote to the database AND passed the 10,000 mark on home page hits (since May 2000 - more than that since the page began over on sbt.com). Over 60 billion (bytes) served!
The people at Fox are high if they think I'd rather watch a Schwarzenegger movie (whose name doesn't begin with "TERM") than their standard, brilliant, Sunday night fare of Futurama, King of the Hill, Simpsons, and Malcolm in the Middle (I don't watch X-Files). I actually avoid renting one-night movies on Sundays because I know I'll get sucked into that channel 2 stuff. What a nasty trick to inflict Arnold on the discerning viewers expecting funny, relevant television! Gawd help us if he runs for (or, gasp, BECOMES) Governor of California, but I wouldn't put ANYthing beneath the voters of this state, after Reagan. Maybe Gary Coleman should run.
Eyes of Tammy Faye: The slipcover hype says it will change my mind about Tammy Faye Bakker. Truth be told, I don't want to change my mind about her (in fact, haven't much 'mind about her' to change, spending as I do very little time thinking about Tammy Faye), but it did do that. She's a more admirable person than she's generally credited for. Though I dozed off because I was dead tired, and while in that semi-dreaming state, can only remember the shrill voice of Tammy defending herself and Jim and the PTL, with images of her scruffy dog somehow merging with hers in my mind, such that it was not unlike the yapping of a hyperactive mutt over some trivial occurrence that I couln't quite grasp. Let's talk about degrees of greed, and the Bakkers vs. Jerry Falwell. Really, I've got other things to think about.
Have been waking at like 4am lately. It would really be helpful to change my work hours to like 9-6 or something, but I'm really pretty beat by 2pm, let alone 5 or 6. Nobody gets here until 9 or 10. Maybe after the move I'll try to change my schedule, but it's hard -- I've always been an earlybird, except for one summer in Michigan when I was routinely sleeping till 11...
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