My brother called me today, and in our chat he brought up an email he got stating that if you spread the $700 billion bailout in stimulus checks over the adult population instead of giving it to the CEOs, we'd get, like, $400k each or something like that.

Now, I straight-up can't wrap my head around $700 billion, so that sounded pretty plausible. Also, the guy telling me this is a financial whiz kid with degrees in accounting and finance who practically grows money on trees. I figure if he was that alarmed, then so should I be as well. I started getting really pissed off.

But... this is the internet, you know, and he got this "revelation" through chain spam.

I just checked on the US Census Bureau's website. Their latest statistic (from 2006) puts the number people in the US who are 18 or older as 225,633,342. Divide $700 billion by that, and you get only $3102 for each adult.

---

It's just like those emails I've been getting about Sarah Palin. There's fourteen pages of forwarded email addresses, each new header separated with aghast comments that each recipient adds. When you get to the main email, it's nothing but crudely photoshopped pictures of Palin with her head stuck on sleazy bodies. Then there are a couple more of some young blonde girl you assume to be her daughter, holding bottles of booze and shotguns, and kissing other girls. The email asks if this is who we want to lead our country, and everybody is just SHOCKED.

The photos aren't of Bristol, nor does the girl in them even resemble her. And why would a rifle-brandishing Sarah Palin from ALASKA be standing next to OUTDOOR POOL in a flag bikini?

---

We are so gullible. I said 'We'. I fall for it occasionally as well. Five minutes of fact-checking will reveal that 99.999% of all of these "revelation" emails aren't just wrong... they're so laughably ridiculously wrong that it's.. well, ridiculous. And yet we give them one quick glance, *GASP*, and then send them to fourteen other people that NEED TO KNOW these unbelievable things that somehow slipped past the media's attention.

Sometimes I question free will.

Remember Shaggy from school? Now that I'm online nonstop, we've been IMing a lot lately. Here's a snippet from a recent(drunk) conversation:

Shaggy: it's never what it seems until you're getting into the nitty gritty
like photography, did you really think you had to be aware of so many things in a single photo until you went to school for it?
hahahahhaa!!!!
porn is the one thing that should not have smell-o-rama
(putting laundry in dryer (drunk))

me: I just fell asleep in my chair an dwoke up again.
had a quick dream about orange juice.
very strange

Shaggy: haahahahahhahhaa!!!!!

---

I think the situation between Dark Haired Girl and I is this: we're both people who are more comfortable taking pain upon ourselves rather than seeing others hurt. Therefore, we know each other is hurting, so we hurt for each other, and that makes a vicious cycle that rapidly snowballs into one huge mess. We keep worrying about how much one another is worrying about us, until it reaches a boiling point and we're both just so damned despondent over each other that we're mutually driving ourselves BONKERS from three hundred miles away.

Taking a deep breath and a step back, it's kind of adorable the way we're freaking out over one another. :-)

Doubts

I should be asleep now, but I can't. There's something weighing on my mind, and I just can't shake it. I miss Dark Haired Girl so bad it's all I can think about. She's been frequenting my dreams lately, the recurring theme of which has been watching her hurting from a distance, and the overwhelming feeling of helplessness over my inability to soothe her.

Maybe it's because I'm really sick right now, and am a little extra vulnerable for it, but I'm having a serious moment of doubt about the decisions I've made over the last five months.

Have I done the right thing?

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded...

Well, the DSL is going well. A little too well, in fact. I've become a YouTube fiend. And I've discovered the joys of MySpace, although my sister informs me that I've missed the bandwagon. I guess that, much like my recent discovery of Dirty Vegas's CD, again I have jumped on the aforementioned bandwagon long after it has creaked to a stop. My sister has informed me, and it seems that Myspace was once, but no longer is, a vibrant and active community teeming with comments and interaction.

I refuse to believe that I am so behind the times.

---

But, then again, I am 30. As Christian Slater put it so succinctly in the movie "Pump Up the Volume":

Society is mutating so rapidly that anyone over the age of 20 really has no idea.

I shot a high school Homecoming dance tonight. I'm such a sentimental cheeseball... all those adorable young couples, smooching between when I posed them and when I snapped their portrait. I don't think I stopped smiling all night. All their hopes and dreams and aspirations, worn so unabashedly on their sleeves. I remember that time in my life (1996) quite vividly. I'm prone to say that, aside from the occasional teen who is prematurely wise beyond their years, anybody UNDER the age of 20 has no idea just what they're in for. I sure as hell didn't. It's been pretty damned rocky.

---

Speaking of... did you ever catch, in this modern day, what Christian Slater was doing in that movie? He was blogging. He was the ultimate grand-daddy of all bloggers, long before there was such a thing. Think about it.

I have DSL! Yay! I already had to pry myself from YouTube twice tonight... I'm going to turn into a fiend. I'm now using it to stream some Canadian radio station for the background music to my photoshopping and now blogging.

---

Drove down to The Flats again. I'd earlier referred to them as Cleveland's party area, and a small portion of them near the mouth of the Cuyahoga is. Otherwise, along the rest of the river it's simply the floodplane alongside the river. To either side is a sharp incline, and in earlier pre-industrial days, the Flats were referred to as "under the hill" were where the unsavory people lived.

Anyhoo, (and again with the tidbits) I'm still trying to comprehend the spectacle of how such a relatively narrow river accommodates such gargantuan ore freighters, so I decided to take a drive along the more industrial end of things, as well as take a hike around the artsy Tremont neighborhood. Here's the photos of the day:

Today was a very long day at work, given the morning training session at the corporate office which is over half way to Toledo, and then back for a full day at the studio.

So I stop by the C.H. to unwind. After several beers I am talking to one of the kitchen guys whom I met that very first night I signed the lease here. Out of nowhere a guy near 60 with slicked back hair and a leather jacket starts talking to him in a foreign language with a deep European accent like The Count from Sesame Street (lacking only that trademark "ah! ah! ah!" laugh). Not only does he sound identical to the voice actor for the mathematically obsessed foam puppet vampire, but also (and with GOD as my witness) the guy's name is Vlad.



... although he wants people to call him Wally. He starts going on about this drama between him and his woman of over twenty years. So here's this guy who looks like Pauly Walnuts from The Sopranos, sounds like The Count, and is concluding his tale of romantic woe with "... so I tell her: I'm the one you loves you, baby. L-U-V-S you!"

Anyway, it turns out he is conversing in Polish with kitchen guy, so immediately my interests are piqued. I ask him the basics: How do you say hello? Of course, like any self-proclaimed badboy, he wants to teach the rude slang first. He says to greep people with "Yock Tah Vee Shee?" (online translation pulls up "Jak to wieszający"), which is Polish for "How's it hanging?". He tells me his own personal reply will always be "Dough Co Lee Nuss" (Do kolan).

This means "To the knees." Vlad/Wally is a very interesting character.

I tell him I'm part Polish, and I love shopping at Fancy Food. He says they closed, which I bemoan, telling him of my crush on the girl that works there. He says "Ah yes, Ukranian Blondie. She is very pretty. You have fallen in love with Ukranian girl!" and has a hearty laugh. I guess they're opening up in another location nearby, so no worries. I'll have to temporarily get by without my smoked bologna.... somehow. *sigh*

Wally then proceeds to dive into an incredibly lengthy and equally boring story about drunken driving with a friend, and drunken fishing with a cheap "Mickey Mouse" fishing rod. The story keeps getting longer, and it becomes obvious that he's totally making it up as he's going along.

So after he leaves I lean into the kitchen and say to Kitchen Guy in The Count's heavy accent: "I vould like two... TWO plates of paprikash. Ah! Ah! Ah!". Kitchen guy laughs.

---

Kitchen Guy is listening to this interesting music, and he shows me the CD case. It's a band called Puscifer. Turns out it's a side solo project of Maynard James Keenan, of Tool and A Perfect Circle notoriety. I think I'll have to check it out online once I get my DSL modem in the mail. Oh yeah... I signed up for DSL which gets connected today. Now it's just the wait for the modem to come in the mail.

I'm giving this a quick edit Sunday morning, and am thinking maybe I'll try dodging the rain and visit the Tremont Art District.

Anyway, back to last night:

---

I'm bored. It's not a bad mood or anything, I've just been in this weird malcontented headspace all day, dying for just an ounce of intellectual stimulation and/or conversation.

I wanted to get the hell out of the apartment, but I didn't want to just go sit at some bar, getting drunk to some sports game on TV that I don't give two hoots in hell about. My gears are getting rusty; they need a good oiling and to get spinning again. Well, tonight I ended up going the dull route. Tried to feign interest at the C.H. in the OSU football game, and there were a few very well executed plays by both teams, but it after a short while I found myself getting progressively more annoyed.

I'm sure there's an infinite number of fun (and far more stimulating) little things to do in Cleveland, but the problem is finding the info. There are tons of websites, and Cleveland has its hippie paper like every other city: The Scene. It's difficult when you spontaneously say "hey, I want to do something." to comb through the dazzling amount of information.

So there I was at the C.H., getting progressively frustrated by my lack of enthusiasm over college football. Remember the good-smelling lady I spoke to a few weeks ago? She was there, and walked over to me to say hi again. And she still had on that wonderful perfume. She went back to her seat, so I went over to her and chatted for a bit, but she gave me the "Well, it was nice seeing you again." line, so I took the hint and sat back down. I bought her next drink and she waved me a thank you.

I left and hit the streets with my bike in search of... I don't know. Just something. Stopped by this frozen custard stand that's been there since the fifties, replete with tons of neon. I've driven by a bunch of times, but never stopped. Had a tremendously delicious sundae and rode on. Ended up at an old comfortable dive I'd never been to, but which is next door to the SaveALot I frequent. An ad in The Scene mentioned they had a band tonight.

Turns out, I was the only representative of my generation there. Seriously. After a good scan of the crowd, I could only guess the next youngest person was maybe 45... but you want to talk about a visual feast of jaw-dropping milfs in black pants and strapless tops!! It was actually kind of adorable to watch them compete for mens' attention, standing there with their boobs stuck out, and then coyly deflect advances from the guys all dressed up with three buttons undone, baring hairy chests and thick gold chains. You just know that back in the 1970's when they were in their twenties, they were doing the same exact thing. It's just as I'd observed of today's college crowd at O'Feenies.

Anyhoo, there was a live band, and I was in the mood to dance. The second they kicked into a K.C. and the Sunshine Band tune, I had to join the crowd and hit the floor. A lady who had been sitting a seat or two from, and who was just out there dancing by herself as well, told me that I was the best dancer out there. I said "Thank You!", and building from past experience, kept dancing, only this time I turned to face her instead of retreating back into my own little world.

That's twice my dancing has been referred to in superlative terms, and honestly, I don't see why. Maybe it's the enthusiasm, because I feel like I look like a doofus when I'm dancing. I just get my neck loose, my hips going, march back and forth with my feet, and kinda keep my hands close and wave my elbows around in what could only be described as a sort of sensual chicken dance.

(of course, get me in an industrial/techno club, and I just go tribal.)

After I went back to my seat near her, she told me it was nice I was the only guy out there who smiled while I was dancing. We got to chatting, and it turns out she works for the local PBS tv/NPR radio station complex, and I told her that's what I listen to almost exclusively. My internal monologue was going "*GASP* Someone with brains!!" After mentioning where I'd just moved from, she said "I know Troy. I'm friends with a journalist from there: Bob so-and-so."

I shot back "Holy Shit!! I knew Bob & Nancy too!!", and we shared a mutually amazed laugh. It's a small small small little world.

She and I danced quite a bit through the evening. Her friend (whom we encouraged to come dance with us, but she wouldn't), the DD for their evening, had to leave so she left with her in lieu of walking home.

Went to ride my bike back home, and passed the dance club mentioned in earlier posts. It looked open, so I asked the door people what kind of music they were playing. "Arabic" they said, and I mentioned that sounded cool, and that I was sick of the same-ol' same-ol' everywhere else. They told me it was a private Arabic party, but (I mean, they were very nice about it) maybe they could get me on the list for next saturday's Serbian night.

Nah. I'm sure even if I got in, I'd get crap about being American.

I've never been racially discriminated against before. It was really humiliating. Nevertheless, I shook the door guy's hand and told him to have a great night. I'm sure he figured me for some random happy drunk or something.

---

The band was excellent, and the dancing was a blast, but I'm still bored, which is just plain silly considering the adventurous evening I've had. Even the Jamiroquai CD I borrowed from the library yesterday is failing to amuse me.

I am really really really really under-stimulated. I am so freaking bored.

I don't know about you, but the memory of today's anniversary is still too painful to talk about. To this day, at quiet times when my mind is free to wander such as the work commute, gazing over Lake Erie, or walking around the grocery store, I find myself suddenly having to wipe tears from my eyes from the images that still randomly haunt my mind's eye, and the screams that still pierce. September 11, 2001 FUCKED me up for the long term.

I understand the importance of memorializing the date, but it's everywhere I turn. Every media avenue imaginable is smashing it in our faces, recounting the events of the day in complete detail replete with melodramatic violin music. Is nothing sacred? They're almost aggressive in insisting we don't already mourn enough. I don't need this.

More sights, sounds, and smells of Cleveland.

Had an interesting weekend. Saturday night after work, I decided to go to Edgewater Park and check out the beach there. On the way, I dropped off a CD of the photos of the dancers that I took a while back. I've been in email contact with the director of the studio. Anyway, I got lost and ended up at a park on Lake Erie called Lakewood Park. What a great place. I must've heard at least six different langages. Photographers were all over the place, some being a little less subtle (and a lot less polite) about their "street photography", but nobody seemed to mind. Took a photo of a couple sitting on a park bench silhouetted by the setting sun, but it was on an old film camera (forgot memory cards for my Canon. duh.) You'll see it later. Leaned on a fence and watched the sun dip below the lake horizon.

I decided to take a path down to the lake, and sat in the evening light on some big concrete blocks listening to the tide on the breakwall, when another photographer came down near me. We struck up a conversation, and ended up talking cameras for over an hour and well after dark. I gave him my phone number before I left, and we agreed it would be nice to have another person to take photos with.

I made an acquaintance. Yay!

Drove back home through the city, enjoying every second of living in such a wonderful urban center. Went out to a yet-unvisited bar down the street because Ashley, the girl who works my rental office and who I sit and talk to all the time, was going out with her boyfriend to sing karaoke and asked me to come along. It was nice. I sang "Wonderful Tonight". Ashley tried to play wingman for me, but to no avail. I really wasn't interested in anybody there anyway, save for a passing raised eyebrow for a girl who had a singing voice like Jewel.

Saturday I studied my map book and made sure to find my way to Edgewater Park. Remember where I'd taken photos back in June when I made my first apartment hunting trip up here? It was a windy day, and the lake was a little choppier than I'd seen it before, which was what I was hoping for. I want to see Erie when it's angry. I've only ever seen it placid. Anyways, there was a kite flying event going on with pro-level kite fliers and vendors and such, and lots of flexible poles with colorful flapping banners and those wind spinny thingys.





Walked down to the spot where I took the pictures of the splash and myself. The splashes were much bigger and dramatic this time, but try as I might, I just couldn't make them look any more dramatic than the first one. Asked a fisherman there if I could take his picture, and then walked up on the fishing pier to watch the lake for a while. Everybody was eating ice cream cones, and they looked good, so I headed over to the snack stand, and then headed off to the beach happily licking away at my chocolate-vanilla swirl.





Feel free to draw your own deeper meanings about racial harmony blending within the American flag.

I made a detour toward the sound of drums in the distance, and happened upon about seven or so people in a drum circle. Sat on a nearby bench, sheathed the camera (I was done for the day), and finished up the ice cream to the sound of drummers who occasionally gelled into a discernable rhythm, but mostly just fell out of beat with each and sounded like popcorn, or rain on a tin roof.

Got to the beach, took off my sandals, rolled up my shorts, and waded around shin-deep in the shallows of the Lake, the breakers splashing my knees and thighs. Walked the length of the beach which stretched, I'm guessing, maybe a third of a mile or so, and along the entire length, hundreds of relatively fresh carnation heads looked as though they'd washed up. Quite the mystery. I arrived at a gigantic fifteen-foot tall round iron door that smelled quite bad, and bore a sign warning that at any time, without warning, the door may open and discharge raw sewage. I left quickly, suddenly questioning the water I was wading through.

I have to admit, and maybe it was because I hadn't eaten anything for a while and my blood sugar was low, but I started to get a little depressed. The beach was littered with couples. Sitting on towels, walking along the edge of the tide holding hands, rolling around in the sand laughing and kissing, hanging out on the breakwalls, heads resting on the other's shoulder. I felt so alone. Gays, lesbians, elderly, teens, and everybody in between... They were everywhere, and it really started getting to me.

Here I am having an absolutely perfect day, and my brain has to start this crap again.

Looked at my map and drove to an area called "The Flats", Cleveland's notorious party district. I wanted to see the mouth of the Cuyahoga; I remember Dad taking me there for lunch back in the day. Being Sunday night, it was pretty empty save for the jersey-clad sports fans at the bars. Stood on the riverside boardwalk there at dusk, having bought a beer at the outside bar of a restaurant called Shooters, and watched a couple of gargantuan Ore Freighters go by. High above, the deckhands all waved and jokingly shouted over the thrumming engines for beer, and I raised my cup in a toast to them.

Suddenly the sound of amplified Brazilian drums erupted from down the boardwalk, so I decided to investigate. A ways down, it must have been a Brazilian wedding reception or something, because there were flags everywhere, a big buffet, and ridiculously beautiful dark-complected men and women dancing. Quite the scene.

It got dark, so I went home, ate something, and started feeling much better.

"This is my corn. You people are guests in my corn!"

Today has been a day of several breakthroughs, the first of which is my given career, professional portrait photography.  Today is the first day that the balance between "fun" and "nervous" tipped toward the fun side. I had an epiphany of sorts last night sifting through portrait photographer's websites. The realization was that I don't have to rely on the same old shots time after time after time. Since becoming a scheduled photographer, I've been kinda relying on the same straight-and-narrow set of "blue chip" poses to solidify my embryonic skills. This has given rise to a sense of burn-out at the ripe old age (with the company) of a month and a half. Not good.

So last night, encouraged by the diverse portraiture conjured by Google, I decided to "let it all hang out", so to speak. My sessions today were the most relaxed, fun, diverse, and just plain great portraiture I think I've ever taken. I'm so damned proud of the photos I took today I could burst, and I think the customers will be beside themselves when they come in for the previews.

Our cameras are tethered to computers, so our images are beamed to monitors on the walls as we take them. There's no greater pat on the back than to watch parents get choked up and teary-eyed as their children's portraits appear, one by one as we take them, on the monitors. I've seen Harley-Davidson riding fathers totally lose it when they see our portraits of their kid come up on screen.

I love working for this company. :-)

---

The second revelation came tonight as I stopped at the C.H. after work. Remember the place I'd referenced in an earlier post as to where I'd played Beer Pong? It closed last week. I found this out from the C.H. bartender. I regard this as a message from the Primal Forces of Nature every bit as important as the voice that told Kevin Costner to build a baseball diamond in his Iowa corn field. This is a valid point. Hear me out:

Ok... so I, in the eleventh hour of my twenties, finally get to play this game called Beer Pong. Beer Pong is evidently is as ubiquitous and universal among America's 18-25 year old demographic as PlayStation, that Ryan Seacrest guy, and "green" product marketing... yet somehow I managed to miss out entirely on the concept of this rite of passage from boy to manhood. That is, until I nearly was no longer a "youth", but rather was fast on the road to becoming a burgeoning thirtysomething yuppie. Then I was handed (quite randomly) the opportunity to partake of this phenomenon at O'Feenies.

Then O'Feenie's shuts down.

Beer Pong is something that I, in my daily comings and goings, will most likely never encounter. Can't you almost hear Kevin Costner's voice* whispering God-like out of the ether... "If you play it, it will come!"

If I play this idiotic and childish (yet strangely fun) game, and get that "boy-to-man" nonsensical bullshit out of my system, a greater perception of adulthood will come. In short, I'll grow up a bit. Then, just as soon as The Voice vanished from Ray Kinsella, so too did the O'Feenie's, the vehicle of my personal Cosmic lesson.

---

*Kevin Costner did indeed play "The Voice" in the movie Field of Dreams. This gives rise to an interesting point: The voice was himself. Himself. Entirely from within his own little head, just as my (only slightly less) tear-jerking conclusion was. Hmmmmmmmmmm...

On the radio this morning was a BBC talk show dedicated entirely to the topic of Sarah Palin's pregnant 17 year old daughter. An entire goddamn program, with callers and email comments from Africa to Asia, and everywhere in between adding their two cents.

Wars are going on all over the world, human rights are being squashed, people are dying gory nightmarish deaths thousands of miles from their homes and families, and there's this little thing called a hurricane that just displaced tens of thousands of people from their homes. Sure, they got quick blurbs... but a single pregnant girl sparking global controversy? Are you fucking kidding me??

Oh, that's right.... it's because she's the daughter of a presumptive Vice President. The only single feasible conclusion to be drawn from this is that Sarah Palin herself personally encourages not only her own, but if elected to office will urge all American children to have sex freely, pee on Bibles, and worship Satan.

Funny thing is, the only reactions I can find in a couple minutes' worth of Googling are people expecting this to spark a controversy, and preemptively getting angry (much like myself) at reactions they haven't personally witnessed, but are sure others must be saying. I don't think such negative attitudes (as parodied above) actually exist, except maybe on some obscure nutjob's blog of little or no consequence.

This concludes my pretty much uninformed yet highly opinionated rant. Moving on...

---

Tonight after work, I stopped at the C.H. for a cheap draft beer or two (but no more... rent, you know?). The bartender who has remembered my name since first seeing my debit card (and consequently calls me "Andrew" instead of the preferred "Andy", but I don't correct her) constantly fields phone calls from her immediate family concerning all manners of drama. She mentioned, pointedly but (good-natured ribbingly at us regulars), to one of her relatives that the Tuesday night crowd wasn't being talkative at all, to which I lodged the protest that I was dying for some decent conversation.

The bartender buys me a shot of Jack Daniels and a beer for my birthday, even though I mention that another bartender had done the same last week. What a gal! She marvels at my honesty, and I tell her that it's not only a blessing, but also a morbid curse.

So a few beers later a (suspectly attractive) lady about my age comes over and out of nowhere just starts talking to me. We get into a big, long, and pretty well buzzed conversation about mutual cardiac woes (long story), the nature of God (this is, after all, a mostly Catholic neighborhood), and senses of impending doom and eventual death (again with the Catholicism). A little before eleven she has to leave and we shake hands goodbye.

This I find curious, as I can count on one single hand the times an unfamiliar female has, of her own free will, engaged me in candid conversation.

I have a sneaking suspicion, and ask the bartender if she sent Chatty Cathy my way (btw, that's the bartender's nickname for her, not mine). She did, with the intent to divert C.C.'s flowing stream-of-consciousness away from a customer who had just ordered a dish and was trying (unsuccessfully) to eat, toward a guy (me) who had just mentioned a desire for conversation. Two birds, one stone. :-)

After C.C. left, I thanked the bartender for her thoughtfulness. It was, after all, a pretty darned lively and satisfying chat, and a wonderful alternative to the muted post-sporting-game commentary on tv there.

---

I recently picked up a used CD, Dirty Vegas, thinking it'll be another catchy dance-y techno disc. You know, the people who did the song "Days Go By" that was in that Mitsubishi commercial a few years ago? Never mind that I'm six years behind the loop, the bandwagon of which has already rolled, slowed, and creaked to a full stop. This has turned out to be one of the most deep, dynamic, and complex electronica CDs that I have listened to in recent history. It's a masterpiece in my humble opinion, especially the acoustic bonus track, which is nothing short of hauntingly beautiful. These guys are true songwriters.

Seriously. If you haven't already, go out and get it. Now. Skip work. You'll thank me later.

Went home for last weekend. My Sister-in-law's birthday is only days apart from mine, so Mom throws us a joint birthday party over Labor Day weekend. My Brother's young'uns brought all of us paper crowns from Burger King, so we all humored them and ended up wearing one for at least a little bit.

Me. Looking kinda gay.

---

It was such a relief to see Dark Haired Girl again. It was only two weekends ago that I last was home to shoot Blonde Haired Girl's wedding, but I swear it feels longer. The novelty of my current situation is beginning to wear off, and the loneliness is creeping in. I'm doing everything in my power to fight it, and for the vast majority of the time I'm doing a good job of enjoying my solitude and not letting it get to me. Damn, though, sometimes I just lay here at night in the dark and wish more than anything that she was asleep beside me.

---

Saturday night I was shooting a candid assignment at a Christian dinner function. Each time the choir took to the risers, there was this one lady whose black satin dress could not have been any tighter, had she been covered in black shrink tubing and blasted with hair dryers. So here they are singing sacred church hymns, and I'm trying to maintain professional demeanor, struggling to keep my eyes off her shapely butt.

I am going straight to hell.