Observations From A Middle School Dance

Somehow, my son is now in middle school.  Which, among other things, means he is now almost as mature as I am.  He recently attended his first school dance, an event that I had the sheer pleasure to chaperon.  What follows is my report on the evening.

  • No matter how old you are, you pulse will quicken when you find yourself staring down a feral pack of tween girls.  They are like hyenas.  They make noises like laughter, and you’re pretty sure that one on one you could survive.  But when there’s ten of them?  You’re fucked.
  • Seventh grade appears to be the cutoff age for when girls stop wearing shoes.
  • The physical differences between an 11-year-old boy and a 13-year-old boy are staggering.  The emotional differences?  Not so much.
  • There’s line dancing a-foot! (See what I did there?)  The lyrics of the song being simply the move you need to be making.  A good 80% of the kids were out there doing it.  The whole thing reminds me of the “Not Another Teen Movie” line “Who would’ve guessed that everyone in school was a professional dancer?”
  • One of the moves was “How low can yo go?”  I bring this up because it allowed me to witness the looks on the faces of several 8th grade girls realizing that with a short skirt on, the answer to that question is, “Not very.”
  • I find middle school dances immensely more entertaining now than I ever did when I was in middle school.
  • Jesus, this line dance song is still going!
  • There is no good way to aptly describe the look of confusion on an 8th grade boy’s face when the song stops telling him how to dance.  I imagine it must be the same look that Charlie Gordon had in “Flowers for Algernon” when he realized he was about to be stupid again.
  • Even in 2013, middle school dances are gender segregated.  How nostalgic.
  • There is a girl here who has memorized every move from Just Dance for “Party Rock” and is doing them perfectly.  She may be my favorite person here.
  • There is one black kid trying to teach 4 white kids how to do the Running Man.  Is there anything better that real, live stereotypes?  No, of course there isn’t.  Don’t be stupid.
  • Holy crap, another line dance!  This one is “Cupid Shuffle” and since its lyrics aren’t as explicit in what move you’re supposed to be doing, the dance floor is 98% girls.
  • There is no more angst-filled noise than a gym full of tween girls screaming the lyrics to Taylor Swift’s “Trouble.”  As Inigo Montoya said, “That is the sound of ultimate suffering.”
  • Seriously, they are loud as fuck during the “ohhh!” parts.
  • Not sure if the girl who showed up wearing what appears to be her mom’s prom dress is awesome, an outcast, or both.  I’m voting for both.
  • 48 minutes into the dance and we now have our first slow song.  I assume that keeping the slow songs to a minimum is way to keep hormones in check.
  • Not many couples “dancing” (more on this in a minute).  Most of them are, as Sister Anne Hannah would have put it, “leaving room for the Holy Spirit” between them.  A few 8th graders are not so inclined.
  • There are two girls “dancing” with each other right next to their friend who is “dancing” with a boy.  They are cutting up with her and keeping her engaged with them instead of paying attention to the boy.  Nice to see cock-blocking start at such a young age.  Haha, that kid is pissed!
  • We are one hour in now, and the shine is clearly starting to wear off.
  • Is this…..is this house music?  Yikes!
  • 8:30, an hour and half in.  Second slow song of the night.  Awkwardness abounds.  A few more kids “dancing” this time.
  • On this “dancing.”  Look, I can’t dance.  Period.  But this is fucking sad.  Most of these kids have each other at full arms-length away.  If you didn’t know better, you’d think they were pushing each other away.  And when did the “sway and spin slowly” turn in to the “stand perfectly still like your feet are glued to the ground and sway slowly?”
  • I think it’s sad that this generation doesn’t seem to have that one signature, generic, shitty dance move to make fun when they’re older like in the 80′s when all the girls did that little shuffle-kick move to every damn song.
  • Uh….they are playing “Baby Got Back.”
  • I am wondering if the school administration here is so white they don’t understand this song.
  • Dear Jesus, thirty 12-year-old girls just screamed “my anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hun!”
  • It occurs to me that having been a bouncer  in my youth has done absolutely nothing to prepare me for chaperoning a middle school dance.
  • 8:51, slow song number 3.
  • Holy shit.  Now they are play “Time Warp” from Rocky Horror.  I will crap my pants if these kids start doing the dance.
  • Pants are crap-free.
  • Slow song number four is Journey, “Faithfully.”  I cannot make this up.
  • It is surreal to watch my son dance to the Journey song I used to.
  • We have a new favorite part!  Some poor kid’s grandparents came to pick him/her up.  They are now fucking killing it on the dance floor as only white grandparents can.  I am delighted.  All the kids are doing the “stand and sway” while these two mother fuckers are spinning and twirling all over the place.  My joy is increased by my knowledge that somewhere in this crowd, their grandchild is absolutely mortified.
  • That seemed to have been the last song.

Good times, my friends.  Good times.

The next day, I ran into a parent who had intercepted an email floating around some of the students.  The email was about who “scored” at the dance.  She quickly explained that “scored” in this case, meant that they had slow danced with someone.  As a man, I can proudly say that my son “scored” several times, and with two different girls.
*Fun fact:  I misspelled “chaperoning” and spell check suggested “chaperon gin.”  Next time, spell check.  Next time.

You Know, Like In Second Grade?

When my son was about 5, he had a mohawk.  A glorious mohawk.  Not one of those damnable faux-hawks parents give their kids just to get them to shut up.  I mean a fucking Mohawk.  Dyed bright blue.  When we put it up, it rose over 6 inches off his scalp.  It was brilliant.  One fateful day, he had asked that it be put up in liberty spikes and I of course obliged because I am in fact the coolest dad ever.  We later found ourselves at the mall, which is astonishingly, not the most surprising part of this story.  (I do so hate the mall.)

During our stroll about the mall, we heard the patter of soft-soled feet behind us.  As a matter of course, I simply do not turn around at the sound of sensible shoes, but after a moment, as the sound neared, it was joined by an, “Excuse me?”  The voice was directly behind us and close enough it was clear she was speaking to us.  We stopped and turned to greet to twenty-somethings clad in all black, their hair coiffed beyond all reasonable measure that would be required for a trip to the mall.  The woman and her friend flashed professional-grade smiles.

“His mohawk is great!” the woman said.  She didn’t have an accent, but she spoke with the air of a person who desperately wanted to be from Europe.  You know the type.  She was important, by God, if only to herself.  She drank lattes all day, spending fully a third of her income on them, and while yes, she did go to nightclubs, she only went to the BEST ones and even then would not deign herself to dance as the music was tragically American and all the best dance music was from Europe and why did it have to take so long for anything good to happen here.  I did not like her already.

“Thanks.”

“We,” she gestured to herself and her friend lest I be confused, “work at Mitchells’ Spa…”

Of fucking course you do.

“…and I have a client who has a mohawk.  What do you use to keep his up like that?”

This was a legitimate question.  Once a mohawk gets to a certain length, extra measures have to be taken to get it stay up.  Regular hair gel will simply make it too heavy to stand, and hairspray alone will not always be strong enough.  There are several methods one can use.  We used Elmer’s Glue.  Plain ole Elmer’s Glue.  Works like a charm.

I smiled, because I have explained to people before that we use glue and the reaction is always the same.  A small amount of incredulity, a smile and a “No way!”  The end.

“It’s Elmer’s,” I said.

The girl and her friend nodded.  She bent down and inspected the mohawk a little closer, but said nothing.  I took her silence as apprehension and thought to do her a professional favor and arm her with information to relay to her client.

“It washes out very easily, I promise.  Maybe and extra minute or so under some warm water, then just shampoo it out.  I swear it’s not a problem.”  People often ask about the clean up.

The girl and her friend nodded again.  She was now staring at me.  There was doubt in her eyes, I could see it.  I’m still gonna help this girl, I decided.

“Just try not to get it on the scalp.  It will dry white on the skin, but not in the hair.  Or they make a clear kind now.  That’s what we use.”

She was still nodding.  Still obviously confused about something but I was done trying to guess this girl’s problem, so I shut up.

“Elmer’s, huh?” she said.

“I swear to God,” I said.

“Uh-hmm, uh-hmm,” she said knowingly.  “And where did you get it?”

“Get what?”

“This Elmer’s stuff.”

Sweet merciful public school system.  This chick didn’t know what Elmer’s Glue was.  I looked at her friend to see if he was gong to step in.  He wasn’t.  I couldn’t tell if he didn’t know either or was stifling laughter so hard he had had a stroke.

“I don’t remember, probably Harris Teeter.”  Maybe she would start to get it.

“They carry it at the grocery store?”

Maybe not.  “Sweetie, it’s Elmer’s.  Elmer’s Glue.”

Still nothing.

“You know, like in second grade?”

“Oh, okay!  Thanks!”  They turned and walked away, but I could tell, she still had no idea what I was talking about.

 

You Guys Have No Idea

How much I love you.  I spent 90 minutes in the public library shuffling through old copies of Cosmo for you.  No, I’m sure that didn’t look creepy at all – a 43-year-old man reading Cosmo sex articles in the library and taking notes.  Nothing to see here, Your Honor.

(Sidebar: Recently, @menshumor tweeted that they thought Cosmo was intentionally giving women horrible sex advice so they would stay single and keep buying Cosmo.  There may be something to that.)

So by now you can probably guess what this one’s about.  To be fair, I have tried (and continue to try) to find men’s magazines with the same shitty sex advice, but I haven’t found one.  If you find one, let me know and I’ll be happy to tackle it.  The problem is men’s magazines are all about either sports, cars or technology.  The one’s that are about sex, aren’t about helping you have better sex.  They’re about the fact that you’ve given up on finding a woman who will let you do stuff to her and what you need now simply is masturbation fodder.

This time, I’ll look at Cosmo from August of 2012, a piece on “Sex Tips Inspired by Fifty Shades of Grey.”  <sigh>  Yeah, because taking tips from a book that started out as fan fiction on a “Twilight” website is ALWAYS gonna work out. Whatever.  It’s in two sections:  “Dominate Him!” (exclamation point is not mine, I can assure you) and “Let Him Take Control.”  (Hmmm, no exclamation point?)

Here are some goodies from “Dominate Him!”:

6.  “Press a fork (firmly, but don’t break the skin) into different parts of his body – his butt cheeks, his pecs, his thighs.”    See, I’m just gonna think you’re hungry.  And crazy.  And if I start thinking you’re crazy, I’m only gonna have sex with you like 30 or 40 more times.  (Because crazy chicks are awesome in the sack, you see.  ‘Til they get all stabby.  And from fork to knife isn’t far to travel.)

8.  “Tell him that he’s your slave for the evening, and if he does whatever you want, his reward is sex that is all about him.”  Two things here:  1) Cosmo clearly does not understand the concept of the sex slave, and 2) Doing what a woman tells you to do all day just so you can have sex isn’t really all that special for us.  *rim shot*

9.  “In your meanest schoolteacher voice, tell him to stand in a corner facing the wall and not to move.  After a few minutes, demand that he get into bed and ravage you.”  Um, if my wife yelled at me like that, my response wouldn’t be to get an erection, it would be, “Have you lost your goddamned mind?”  Then I’d get a beer.

11.  “Swivel a small ice cube over his frenulum (Note: they do not specify, but I am going to assume they mean the one on the penis, and not the one under the tongue, however, this IS Cosmo, so who the fuck knows) again and again until it completely melts.  While his skin is still wet, blow hot breath on it (breathe out through an open mouth).”  Okay, this one actually sounds intriguing, but I’m including because they felt it necessary to include instructions on how to blow hot air.  Ladies, if you haven’t mastered blowing warm air out of your mouth, then the old “ice the frenulum” trick is a bit out of your skill set.

15.  “Tie his silk tie loosely around his penis, then roll it up and down for a silky hand job.”  See, now I’m convinced that Cosmo is run by penis-hating lesbians.  Every article they have ends up with tying a penis up.  Besides, silk ties are fucking expensive.  You know whats not expensive?  Lube.  Try lube.

25.  “Use the back of a brush to swat his thighs when he steps out of the shower – wet skin is more sensitive.”  What?  Yes, I’m dripping wet, standing on a wet surface, by all means, smack me with a brush and make me jump.  Then read next month’s Cosmo for tips on giving a sexy sponge bath to your newly paraplegic boyfriend.

These next few came from the “Let Him Take Control” section.  Also, the fact that you think telling him what to do is letting him take control might explain why you’re still single.  But I digress.

3.  “Lie across an ottoman, and tell him, ‘Professor Wankerton, I’ve been bad and I need a spanking.’”  Sweet merciful baby Jesus.  “Professor Wankerton?”  Words cannot describe the stupidity.

10.  “Instruct him to wrap your chest and torso in plastic wrap and touch you through it – the muted sensation feels amazeballs.”  Hey, if you think this is gonna float your boat then by all means, go for it.  But, as a general rule, don’t take any advice from someone who uses the word “amazeballs.”

11.  “Put a bunch of (clean!) loose change in the freezer for an hour.  Tell him to slick your vulva with warming lube, then cover it with the coins (outside only!).  The cold against the heat?  Incredible.”  I’m gonna add this:  Make sure you use Canadian coins.  You stick something to a woman’s vulva, she’s gonna claim it as it hers.  No need to be out two bucks.

15.  “Get him to wrap your wrists in toilet paper for a lighter restraint.  While you are bound, he should tease you to the point where you’re so turned on, you have to rip free of your shackles.”  And when you break free, scream “HULK COME!”

20.  “Let him run an electric toothbrush between your toes midforeplay.  He shouldn’t stop no matter how much you squirm.”  Yeah, that’s gonna be YOUR fucking toothbrush.

I’ll say this, even though the article was chock full of hilarity, kudos to you if you’re the guy dating this girl.  She seems fun.

*BONUS MATERIAL*

Cosmo has a question and answer series by their “sex expert” (not the same person who the article above).  Well, their sex expert is “the author of several books, including ‘Sultry Sex Talk to Seduce Any Lover: Lust-Inducing Lingo and Titillating Tactics for Maximizing Your Pleasure.’”  I repeat, “Sultry Sex Talk to Seduce Any Lover: Lust-Inducing Lingo and Titillating Tactics for Maximizing Your Pleasure.”  That’s the name.  Of her book.  About dirty talk.  I can only assume that in this book she replaces “Fuck me hard!” with “Your Tumescent Member: How Thrusting It Into Me Expeditiously and with Increased Vigor Would Be Rather Scintillating.”

 

I Am The Warrior

So I had this idea that it would be funny to take a song, use Google to translate it to a different language and then translate it back to English and see what we’re left with.  And I might still do that, but I got distracted (shocking, I know).  I decided to start with Scandal’s blistering rock anthem “The Warrior” because, working from memory, I recalled the lyrics being odd enough that I thought they’d make for a fun experiment.  Plus, 14-year-old me had a huge crush on Patty Smyth.  She was adorable.  But I digress.

In my research, I had to watch the video from 1984, and holy cow!  What a incredible journey!  I highly recommend you watch it.

In case you’re at work, or for some reason don’t want to experience three minutes and fifty-four seconds of 1980′s awesomeness*, let me walk you through it.

I was halfway through it (and quite confused) before it dawned on me that the video was about some post-apocalyptic Thunderdome-style fight.  Well, “fight” is a bit strong.  Our hero (I guess?), a poor-man’s Wolverine sans bitchin’ sideburns, must battle four, what appear to be, cargo net monsters who terrorize him by leaping around him in a circle until a court jester/bicycle messenger does two flips in his vicinity and decides he has had enough.  Then for some reason he’s dancing with some boa-ensconced, LSD version of a ballerina, their 12-second dance somehow resulting in her death.  After her untimely demise, Wolverine is jostled gently by two bright-blue scarf nymphs who walk past him slowly.  Frightening stuff.  He is then  flummoxed by a trio of dumpster-dwelling, pasty-fleshed bat people who are ultimately ousted by a pair of blue-suited twine demons, as is usually the case.  Wolverine  dispatches with them via his menacing good looks (a problem I know all to well).  At this point, the lovely and talented Ms. Smyth joins the fray having thus far been…narrating, I guess?  The final battle ensues, and like all good battles, devolves quickly into dancing which leads to Wolverine conceding (you’re not gonna win a dance-battle against Patty Smyth, everyone knows that) and then contentedly standing back to watch Patty sing (I get you, Wolverine.  I get you).  Until the trust fall, of course.  Wait….what?

In short, it’s delightful.  And I’ll probably watch it several more times today.

*”Three minutes and fifty-four seconds of 1980′s awesomeness” is also how I still refer to losing my virginity.  True story.

Sidenote: The video to Scandal’s “Goodbye To You” is also awesome, but only because it consists entirely of 4 minutes of the band completely encapsulating the 80′s in someone’s rec room.  I guess the budget for “The Warrior” broke the bank, what with having to rent that warehouse and everything.

Back To The Well

I can’t quit you , Cosmo.  Not with your delightfully awful “advice” and truly insightful relationship articles.  You keep being you, Cosmo, and I’ll keep making fun of you.  This time, we’ll look at the joke that was Cosmo’s “His 10 Biggest Love Lies.”  And, like anytime Cosmo does an article about men, you can just go ahead and addend the title so it reads, “His 10 Biggest Love Lies That You Already Knew Were Lies So Aren’t You So Smart.”

#10: “I’m stuck in traffic.”  Cosmo: “The funny thing is, a guy will toss this line out even if what held him up is perfectly legitimate. Still, you shouldn’t let it slide — it’s a lie nonetheless.”  Me:  “Ugh, no we won’t.  If we have a legit excuse (that you won’t get mad about), we’ll tell you.  We’re too lazy to keep track of that many stupid lies.”

#9: “It wasn’t that expensive.”  Cosmo: “Men like toys, and they don’t like sensing your disapproval, even if you don’t share a bank account.”  Me: “I’ve never heard a man say this.  Ever.”

#8:“I’m on My Way”  Cosmo: “Guys usually throw you this line when you’re making them meet you at some event they don’t want to attend — like, say, your family reunion. He’s stalling, but he’s also being pouty. Consider: He can’t exactly refuse to go without enduring serious repercussions from you, and he can’t very well throw a temper tantrum in front of your pop-pop. So saying this and then showing up late is his way of gaining a wee amount of control.”  Me: “Or, you could just listen when he says he doesn’t want to go.  Your call, really.  Also, ‘pop-pop?’  Really, Cosmo?”

#7: “I Didn’t Have Too Much Too Drink.”  Cosmo: “If he says it often he could have an alcohol issue.”  Me: “Option B: He, in fact, does not have a drinking problem.”

#6: “Sorry, I Missed Your Call, # 5: “My Battery Died,” and # 4: “I Had No Signal.”  Cosmo: “These three lines all mean the same thing: I screened your call.”  Me: “Then they’re the SAME FUCKING LIE.  Not 3 different ones.  Cosmo’s habit of making numbered lists that don’t contain the number of items they say they do is embarrassing.  Shit, Cosmo, if you can only come up with 7 lies (which, quite frankly, means you’re not even trying), at least have the balls (tee-hee) to admit it and title your article ‘His Top 7 Love Lies.’”

#3: “No, Your Butt Doesn’t Look Big In That.”  Cosmo: “If you want an honest opinion, go ask one of your girls instead.”  Me: “Cosmo got this one right.  But before you go patting yourselves on the back with your response, keep in mind that if you think this is a big relationship lie, you’re a moron.”

#2: “This Will Be My Last Beer.”  Cosmo: “Our experts say this man-lie delivered over the phone means he wants to get you off ASAP so he can spend more time with his buddies.”  Me: “No shit.”

#1: “Nothing’s Wrong, I’m Fine”  Cosmo: “Next time he uses this line, give him a couple days and then ask him again if he is still bummed…and why. By then he may have figured things out.”  Me: “Or, just drop it.  Besides, in a couple of days, he won’t know what the hell you’re talking about.  Remember that bit about asking your girlfriend for an honest opinion of how you look?  It’s the same sort of deal here.  If you want to talk about feelings, find one of your girlfriends.  That’s not what we do.”

Sweet damn, do women really think these are the biggest lies we tell in a relationship?  Either women are adorably naive, or men are superb liars.  And because I’m here to help (as always), here are the real top 6 lies we tell (not including infidelity cover-ups).  See, Cosmo, when I can only come up with 6, I don’t pretend it’s more than that.  It’s really not that hard.

#6:  The lie: “Hell yeah I want to go fishing with you dad!”  The truth: “Fuck.  Shoot me now.”

#5:  The lie: “I understand.”  The truth: “I quit listening 20 minutes ago.  Are we having sex yet?”

#4:  The lie: “What?! I can’t believe she did/said that!”  The truth: “I have no fucking clue why any of this is a big deal.”

#3:  The lie: “Nah, I don’t really think your cousin/BFF/roommate is all that hot.”  The truth: “Holy crap!  I would stab a hobo to see her naked.”

#2: The lie: “Eww, threesomes sound gross.”*  The truth: “No, they fucking do not.”  *Normally, the idea of a man saying this wouldn’t even cross my mind, but a friend repeatedly told me that her husband has said this and refuses to recant. I told her every chance I got that he was lying, but she didn’t believe me.  Even if he means a “Devil’s threesome” there’s still a %75 chance he’s lying.  There has never been a time in history where going from one naked woman to two has not sounded awesome.  I believe Carl Sagan said that.

#1:  The lie: “I didn’t mean to put it in your butt.”  The truth: “Um, yeah I did.”  And, “I get that you’re mad now, but you know, maybe next time…”

An Open Letter To My Penis

Hey partner,

I know it’s been a while since we talked.  Not much since 8th grade.  And back then it was pretty much just me begging you to go away as I made the far-too-short trek from my desk up to the blackboard.  But you never did go away, did you, you little rascal?  You turgid scamp?  Nope.  It was just me desperately trying to solve the Pythagorean Theorem while the whole time you saw fit to strain against the dangerously thin fabric of my poverty-grade uniform pants.  I spent so much time doubled over, the school nurse thought I had scoliosis.

Then you spent all of high school playing your hysterical little game of “up periscope.”  Every friggin’ day.  Thanks for that.  You do realize that made it even more difficult to find someone (else) who would touch you, don’t you?  You managed to take my already disastrous social awkwardness, and run that shit up to DefCon4, all based on the knowledge that if some poor girl did have the audacity to speak to me for more than 3 minutes, you’d wake up to see what was afoot.

But we got past that, eventually (I can’t stay mad at you), and haven’t spoken much since, save the occasional apology during our college years.  And once again, I am sorry about all that.

We’ve had a pretty good run over all, and though you don’t greet me every morning as enthusiastically as you used to, I’m looking forward to many more years of trouble-free operation.

To sum up:  High school?  All is forgiven.  College?  My bad.  The future?  Hang in there, pal!  (Except, don’t, you know, literally hang there.)

Love,

Buddy

alien bubbles wing barbecue bob

Another one of those “use these 5 words” deals.  Got nothing for this one either.  Oh well.

And don’t worry, I’m working on new stuff.  Hopefully I’ll get it posted this week.

 

“Where’s Bob?”

“Can’t make it.  Wife’s pissed.”

“Oh?”

“Caught him with that stripper.”

“Bubbles?”

“Yup.  Had her dressed up a like an alien.”

“Illegal or extra-terrestrial?”

“Extra-terrestrial.”

“Uhh…” Jerry grabbed the tongs and flipped over the chicken wing sizzling on the barbecue.  “That’s pretty messed up.”

“Yup.”

Otter Toast Fan Bouncing Trap

Same agent had another flash fiction contest, this one using Otter, Toast, Fan, Bouncing, and Trap.  Didn’t win this one either.  If I could give one piece of advice to teenage me, or to any teenage boy who’s afraid to ask a girl out because of the fear of rejection, I’d say to write a story, then try to get it published.  You get over rejection real fucking quick.

“See you this afternoon,” Otter’s wife said.

“Good bye, dear,” Otter replied. “I love you.”

Down the path she went, her tail bouncing behind her. It was no coincidence the bounce had returned right after Beaver moved in upstream. Otter was not a fan of Beaver.

Maybe her love wasn’t real. Maybe it never had been. But Otter’s was. And so was his trap. Soon they’ll be caught in the rubble of Beaver’s dam, waiting for the flames to take them. In ten minutes, they’ll both be toast.

Oooh, Otter thought, toast sounds delicious!

Punch, scar, beach, send, Ken

A literary agent ran a flash fiction contest on her blog.  Deal was, write a story under 100 words using punch, scar, beach, send, and Ken.  Below is my entry.  I didn’t win, but you know all these anonymous, online, write-a story-in-the-comments-section-of-a-blog contests are all just popularity contests.

Anyway, enjoy!

Just one punch. One brutal, staggering punch. The kind that comes from a deep, dark fury. Enough to send that bastard Ken stumbling down the beach. He had it coming, though, didn’t he? A just reward for the emotional scar Jimmy now carried from watching Ken grope his mother. No one treats Jimmy’s mom like that.

You are so fucking lucky, Jimmy thought, that I’m only 2 years old.

Soon, Ken. Soon.