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Wealth is all on how you take it

Materials are nice to have,

But are lived without.

What can you make by miracle

Or even sense of doubt?

Rich are those who see and visit

Even if by phone.

Love comes by not taking of one’s self

By giving what is your own.

By words, by experiences, by touch,

By listening, by standing and being tough;

By being there, outside physical means,

By holding hands with those who can’t read.

In good times when all you think is there

In bad times when you wither with despair

We’re all rich outside skin and bones

If you let in the light, the light will take you home.

Culture is a level

Outside the neighborhood

If you choose to stay inside

Do you think you really should?

Abound in experience

Close it in your heart

The garden it grows every day

Sometimes more than not.

Perhaps it’s a day to remind us

how we face the facts

feelings can’t describe

its in the way you act

Those who never understand

what these words will mean

poor are those who never learn

to be a human being.

Last night, I had a small conversation with a Californian Poet via the internet. We talked philosophy, which often gets me into another realm of thought. She used the word “Meat” to symbolize certain women as- sexual objects. To me this provoked some really deep thoughts which evolved into the poetry piece you see before you. I feel from first reading, this may be one of my better pieces. Thank you Enedina.

The Butcher and the Chef< ?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

 

Once classified by other women

as a whore,

She waits:

For anyone.

 

The butcher is first on the cutting block.

With every blow by his instrument,

Another sinew is sliced,

Till in the end there are only tears.

 

The cleaver:

In the grip of a masculine hand

coldly carves random flesh,

for consumption.

 

A fatty piece,

Turned hard,

Remains soft at the loin,

Sweet and juicy.

 

Initial proceedings,

Perfect to the butcher’s eye:

cleaned and prepared

feelings avoided: satisfaction

 

Meat is simply sustenance

to a hungry palate,

Nourishment.

Stales.

 

A chef’s fingers,

Vision intrigue.

A delectable treat,

Some thing so sensitive: a woman

 

Passion clears the mind.

Delicious, the mentor infuses,

Creation on to waiting flesh;

A separation of love and hate.

 

With each sway,

With each move,

A delicacy blooms,

Every tear stripped away.

 

Till in the end,

There remains a dish,

So succulent,

Only a fool could tell:

 

It’s not love.

 

 

Today, I’d like to remember an anonymous person- an old man- who once made contact with me at a crossroad.

I’d just turned in my two week notice to my job in Manhattan after a slew of incidents which included the cut of benefits from a merger, the cut of salary, the re-evaluation of life as dictated by the events of 9-11, and the constant sickness of my new born son. I’d worked since I was twelve and being of a type-A personality, continued to pursue greater existance through work. I’d finalized the last day, which was coinsidentily made for March 15- the Ides of March. The freefall I took extended out to my walk along 6th Ave. I contemplated a whole range of scenarios which would fill my empty head on that walk….

Out of no where a poorly dressed old man comes up in front of me and throws a fist to my midsection, stopping only inches from it. I’d looked up. His face full of grey overgrown whiskers and his wrinkles deep formed a smile. He passed. I looked back at him, and he never looked back. 

Being of sound mind (or at least I thought so) I came to see this as a gesture of good fortune. Something about being punched in the gut and smiling, knowing what the future was to hold, knowing what I was feeling…. perhaps this old man was my guardian angel. Giving me the sign, that all the pressures and all the turbulance of one life, work themselves out. It was a strange incident, indeed.

Fortunately, I have creative friends and at the bar, after said incident- I expressed to them how I saw this as a “sign”. Everything I was doing, was meant to be the way it is. It was a crossroad AND I did the right thing, however I saw it leading me into the darkness of what I knew not.

That was seven years ago, and even though it’s passed as if it was yesterday, I remember that old man who brought me an unexpected treasure of memory. For it’s him I look back at, and feel strong enough to say, for whatever reason being, my path as yet defined- was right.

It was the simple gesture of standing in my way- the obstacle, throwing the hypothetical fist- the pain- to an all too indecisive action. The reason as yet undefined, finds itself, when only looking back in retrospect to those crossroads and signs along the way.

As a sidenote, my quick typing misspelled signs as sings. Isn’t that funny? Now, all I need is a new word like ”Gritinw” as writing.  

I stood on the bank of the Hudson with my worn leather boots gripped in white. The cold dampness crept through the thinned rubber sole, yet my feet remained like the roots of a tree. Still and peaceful, with the exception of the large ice flow that moved South so fast it played tricks on the eyes. Groans of buckled ice gave it a powerful presence like the machine which twists old cars into blocks of steel. The only other sounds were sqwaks from ten to fifteen seagulls who rested on the snow blown ice feet from shore. In a swoop, they parted and swarmed a red pick up truck, which instinctively they detected as a regular source of food. They flew rounds above it in hopes the driver would return them his appreciation with tosses of stale bread, but within a few minutes, had lost hope and returned in a drove to the cold hard river, reassuming their position like miniature statues.

 

            The rat traps were covered by snow. One had to wonder if a rat would actually be happy to find refuge in one of those large plastic containers from this frozen ground; much like wrinkled toes which curled to conserve heat beneath the skin of a shoe. The dead straw blades which pierced the polished white bone, were as far as you could see; like an Eastern version of tumbleweed frozen by damp drafts of water that caught them instantaneously mooring them to their foundation. Still, the shit stains on the benches remained. After all the storms and snow, they lingered- sore on the eyes.  

            Behind the park and the nearby historic houses was a mountain. It was one of the many which seemed to present obstacles in winter weather. It’s lining a large mass of trees filled the land. The leaves had long gone and they stood like the sparse grey hair on an old man’s head. It wasn’t difficult to see the natural contours of land over the town, because the river had ground deep into the bedrock from it’s beginnings at the Falls to it’s emersion into the Atlantic Ocean, walls of stone in spots up and down the river. When you think only four hundred years ago, Henry Hudson saw the same stone markers you realize how mortal we are.

            To the Right, stood the Tappan Zee Bridge. The Tappan Zee was an engineering feat; something so simple to connect one side to the next, yet so complex to support hundreds of thousands of pounds every minute of every day for over fifty years was mind boggling. Yes, it has deteriorated and those blasted steel plates which were bolted to keep cars from falling through, were a minor nuisance, but it was old. As any person who might consider themselves full of wisdom, it had seen its day. They talk of a new bridge, the rebirth of a new engineering marvel which would support both cars and trains, even a bicycle path- but progress is slow, as well as the economy. In the meantime, fixer uppers will be the way to go.

            To the left stood a contemporary building complex, similar to one common in tropical regions. It was a surreal image which stood like a two dimensional model against the blue of clear sky. It’s geometric patterns were obviously a mathematical trigger to which early settlers could not construct. Given the homes against the landscape of the river, the new “settlement” felt out of place in Nyack. True, all towns and cities merge to embrace both old and new; in this moment of loneliness it seemed wrong, yet right.  

            There are times when nature is supposed to bring back well-being, cure deep seeded ills within a body, ills one can’t put their finger on, ones which can only be diagnosed by a local psychologist. Thoreau had Walden Pond, trees, grass, the small critters which found themselves investigating a strange creature on two legs. And here, we find the bridge. Not the Tappan Zee, but the bridge which stands between the worlds of nature and urban living. In balance, there should be an equal proportion of both. A park can do that.

            At Bryant Park in New York City a plaque detailed a study that had taken place in Europe on gardens in urban areas. It turned out there was less crime which bordered parks, in general, because people find beauty and safety surrounded by nature. I say this in general, because it’s true you can find violence in them- it’s unavoidable, yet there’s a retreat, a calm.

            Today, in the cold of a swollen ice filled river, there’s peace. Today is the inauguration of Barack Obama, our new president, with which there’s hope. Here I find the bridge, between old and new- here it is…. direct from the park.  

For Christmas I received a wonderful poster from my parents. It was a variety of quotes on life. I’ve had difficulty with hanging it on the back of my office door, because it keeps falling off. Nevertheless, I do read from it.

I wanted to send a quote out there which I really like. It’s by the poet Henry David Thoreau, one of my favorites. I don’t think it could be any less than perfect.

“However mean your life is, meet it and live it: do not shun it and call it hard names. Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends. Things do not change, we change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts.”

It’s all a state of mind people. What we have in our minds, is what we die with- make them good, make them enjoyable, and when the pain becomes to much to bear, sleep close to them because in the end, they’ll see you through. SVR

Have yourselves a great day.

I’ve come to age some bread… stuff is FANTASTIC when it’s fresh, but it ages quickly. This past weekend I went out and bought it- FRESH. It included olive loaf and sundried tomato bread because of company we had staying over. Since then this bread as become hard as a rock.

I’ve been saving it for the birds. My grandmother in Liverpool used to feed the birds with left overs from every meal. During war time, food was very difficult to come by and every scrap wasn’t wasted. My father told me they’d get Catsup and make tomato soup from it. Although the war ended in 1945, they remained on food rations till 1950 or a little after that.

I presume as a kid, this is why I was forced to clean my plate. I once told my Dad I couldn’t eat string beans, and by God he wouldn’t accept it…. until I threw them up… he told me I was excused from eating them further.

I continue to try not to waste food by throwing it in the garbage. I remember when I worked in a restaurant as a teenager the dishwashers used to take the half eaten meats and left overs, put them in a pail and feed the racoons and opposums with it. It’s like the great saying goes, one man’s junk (or garbage) is another man’s treasure. Food is a treasure.

I was told French toast was something which emerged during WWII as the result of stale bread. The French would bathe stale bread in a solution of milk and egg to soften the bread, then they’d bake it. I’d imagine it must be like putting water into “space” food to revive something which seems impossible to eat. In India, curry was the result of trying to mask stale meat, which because of the heat- would age quickly.

I like to think we all make do with what we’re given, and in an ideal world food would be used without waste, but we all know that’s impossible. The thing is- bread is essential. How many of you have heard, “Better be good or you’ll be on a diet of bread and water!” Well…. maybe not THAT many of you, but it does occupy space inside and fills the hole.

 
I’m watching a series I received for Christmas titled, “The World at War”. It was a documentary on World War II which ran on BBC in the 1970’s. In the US I remember as a kid my parents watching it. I distinctly remember the introductory music for the program- very dramatic and powerful. I thought to myself about my parents trying to teach us what it was like in Liverpool during WWII as kids- of course speaking to my brother and myself as kids. We had no clue, and only mild interest.

As an adult, it’s engrossing. The series contains some 26 episodes, extensive research, and last night I watched the producer as he explained the details of  making it. It tried to give an unobstructed view, from both sides with real film footage. I found out the British Imperial War Museum had something like 200,000 miles of film (or something outrageous like that) in it’s archives, much of which was never looked at. Anyways, it’s facinating AND important.

At the time they were doing this, they’d already realized many of the survivors were starting to die off. The main leaders like Churchill, Montgomery, Roosevelt had died, and they did their best to get people tied in with the leaderships. The producer even told of one of the researchers who was able to meet with a high ranking SS official to get his take on things in the Gestapo. It was an exhausting attempt to put to light the events, the hardships and the social ramifications of the War.

I regress…. this whole blog was about bread.

Those of you who know my background, have heard me talk about WWII before. It was an unavoidable subject because of my upbringing and it’s powerful effects on my parents, which directly corelates to the raising of family- the values. 

I’ve always been lucky to have strong family ties. These remain even though we’re not a stone’s throw away from each other, when we’re together… we’re TOGETHER. We still remain in touch with a few aunts and uncles in Liverpool and will always be. You know, there’s nothing to escape the sense of humor. It’s humor that makes you survive under difficult circumstances- it “lightens” the load. Perhaps, the sharp Liverpudlian wit evolved out of constant bombings and despair. Either way, it lives pretty healthy in my family.

We’re expecting severe temperature drops in the next few days. I know Illinois and Minnesota have the worst in decades, I saw one trucker had a problem with his oil freezing. The tri-state area is only getting a taste of what they have.  Do remember the essentials in life: a roof over the head, food on the plate- BREAD, and big cozy blankets made of goosefeathers- oh yea, and the sense of humor doesn’t hurt either. Be well all and if you’re cold find yourself something funny to read or watch- warmth comes in many ways….  

I had the most facinating conversation at the breakfast table this morning with my son, and comedian, Shane. Although he’s only eight, he has this vivid imagination, and a damn fine sense of humor to boot (I’ll take claim for that one). He told me of a pretty detailed dream he had last night. I have no idea where it came from because I’d rather not disect it, and destroy the aspect that it was entirely his creation. For me, it made a wonderfully creative experience- like that of Willy Wonka. It went something like this:

S: Dad, I had a dream last night.
D: You did? Tell me about it.
S: There were two purple hippopotamus with parachutes on their backs.
D: (Thinkin, if this ain’t a grabber- NOTHING is) Oh, yea? Where were they?
S: One was in a hot air balloon. Only one could fit in each hot air balloon, but there were a whole bunch more up in the sky with yellow hippopotamuses, they had parachutes too. And there was a magic machine which created them.
D: What kind of machine?
S: It was kind of like a big box. All the yellow ones came from that, but it created more. It made a candy corn star.
D: Wowwwwww, I candy corn star huh?
S: (Getting excited now….) and when Brianna (his sister) touched the star, it made someone come out of nowhere with a whole giant bag of candy corn that they gave us. Each one didn’t look like candy corn though. It looked like those machines that pop out the candy.
D: Pez dispensers?
S: Yea, each one was candy corn but shaped like Pez machines. I was putting a whole bunch on a chair for Brianna. She was going to make a statue out of them.
D: On the chair?
S: No, just in front of it. The statue was going to look like her.
D: And you were helping her build it?
S: I was putting them on the chair for her to use, but you couldn’t mold them. But it still looked like her.
D: What did the magic machine look like?
S: It was blue and grey and looked like a pretty big box (about 3′ high by 4′ long). It was neat. Oh, and there was a large purple candy corn like a circle.
D: If it was purple, how did you know it was candy corn?
S: I just knew.
D: Were all the candy corns the color of candy corns?
S: Some were and some weren’t.
D: Back to the purple Hippo. You said one went on a hot air balloon, and the other stayed on the ground. What did he do?
S: Well….. he also went on a hot air balloon that the magic machine created, but later than the other. The yellow hippos were created a lot earlier then the purple ones.
D: and the magic machine made both the hippos and the hot air balloons?
S: Yea.

At this point, my mind started retreating on this new information and formulating these grand views of a color coated world laced with Willy Wonka like machines and painted candy roads.

When my daughter was five, I was hounded by her kindergarten teacher to come in and do a little writer workshop to help create a children’s book for a contest (she knew I created two). After months of this I finally conceded. When I went in to the class of about 15 five year olds, I thought I’d do a little brainstorming.. see what ideas they could come up with. Well, if you ever do this, and the kids are enthusiasic like my crowd, you’ll walk away BLOWN AWAY. These kids were ALL over me with ideas that were out of the stratosphere AND when they got excited they moved closer. I had like three kids climbing up my legs with their ideas! Their imaginations, without having being squeezed into modern adult thoughts, behaviors, or etiquites and speaking without judgement… BAM! I was so excited by their excitement, that when we finished, I called my friend Pietro who’s this magnificent sculptor and painter (at this time age 72) and offered to go to his place drive him up to the school and drive him back. He liked the idea and volunteered to do a sculptor workshop of making paper heads (he sculpts newspaper covered by tape and paints them). WELL, he got the same reaction with the kids… this class which included my daughter was so enthusastic, it impacted everyone involved. We both walked away with probably one of the greatest experiences an adult could have.

So… if ever you’re offered to hear a child’s dream. NEVER neglect the opportunity. They think on different levels than us, not twisted by adult thought and opinions- it’s pure. Entertain them and let them speak their mind- DON’T spoil it by putting in your two cents. You might be surprized what you hear, or enlightened by the colors of a child’s world. 

If I ever had an inkling I’d be somewhere down the line writing about hangers, I probably would have hung myself.

It’s come down to those silly little things which make our clothes so proudly displayed in our closet and over years we’ve accumulated all kinds. From the plastic bought ones, to the heavy duty suit and pant holders, pant buckle types and by far the most and poorly made ones were those shiny metal shitty ones you always receive when you pick up the dry cleaning. 

For years now I’ve found this uncontrolable mess with half hung shirts, to big for the hanger suits, uneven ties and basic unorganization. Perhaps O.C.D. can develop after living in the wreckless life of chaos. I think I’m starting to take on the characteristics of our favorite TV detective- Monk. Anyways, an opportunity rose this past week- one which REALLY excited me: Wood hangers.

I know you’re thinkin- WHAT kinda guy could get excited about hangers? I ask myself the same. My answer is a “Simple one”.

Yes, all… I am a simple guy. It doesn’t take a lot to excite me, but when a new year comes along I think to myself, how can I better my existance? Writing about hangers??? No, that’s not it. Having a closet full of hangers?? No, that’s not it, either. ORGANIZATION… that’s it. Grabbing a sturdy hanger from the closet on which to put a washed shirt. It’s really comedic if ya ask me. Never in my existance did it occur to me my life would come down to a simple hanger.

Ya see, there’s something about the wood smell. I went to the Martin Guitar factory last year and if you could smell the scent of these freshly sanded wood guitars… it would have made ya go ape. No, these don’t smell like wood, the scent has far gone beneath coats of polyurethane, BUT it does bring a kinda natural existance- a recyclable piece of material should I grow tired, or run out of money, I could burn them and be warmed by the bonfire of wood and metal (I certainly couldn’t burn a guitar!). 

A large retail store has recently gone out of business like many others in this horrible economy. The store was packed with merchandise and as the company lowered it’s prices on their goods to sell them off, there became an overabundant supply of good strong hangers. I’d priced them before in regular stores like Bed, Bath and Beyond and ruled them out until I found these gorgeous sturdy commercial hangers were selling 5 for a dollar. They were all beautiful pine, some stained to a walnut flavor- the rich looking kind. Well, I couldn’t resist.

I bought a few at first, just to try them out. They were goooooooood. All the jackets hung perfectly and wouldn’t ya know they matched the hard wood floors (uh oh, more of that OCD thing happenin…..)

Well, since the store is in it’s last days, they have boxes and boxes of these things. I thought to myself- “Hey, self- we’re in a new place… what better time to get your shit together than in a new place, in a new year! You better go back and get more before someone thinks of doing the same!”

Yesterday afternoon, I bought about 60 hangers AND it’s wasn’t enough….. I did the hall closet first. The one everyone who comes over sees. DAMN, did it look good! Then I did the downstairs with the dark wood ones cause of the carpet… AGAIN, I impressed myself. All the sudden, I’m rippin out clothes throwin down hangers, redoing all the closets to make them perfect. Perhaps I’m getting “mentally challenged”, but any interior designer would have been impressed. Last night, I went back and bought 120.. oh, I’m ailing…..

There it was uniformity! All there. It was sooooo gorgeous, like a beautiful cactus flower emerging from it’s bud in a desert sky.

I’m an obsessive guy- I admit to this fully. When I’m dedicated to a project, and form my own pressure bubble I’m there entirely! All the sudden yesterday, years of unease came in a wave of purchasing coat hangers. I mean, it could have been like unearthing a treasure chest of jewels for me! I could picture myself tossing all shapes and color variations of wood coat hangers in the air and holding my arms over my head to keep from getting it bashed in. It was joyous, it was marvelous… BUT… I’m still not done. The obsession is pounding me as I write to you. I have 3 closets left… and 7 days. That’s when the store closes for good.

My concious speaking - Steve, what if one of those wholesalers realizes the opportunity they have at picking up these hangers for practically nothing… you’ll have nothing… you better get moving.. Damn you, concious!!! See you later all- gotta buy hangers!

For Christmas I received a beautiful book on Vincent Van Gogh. I started to read it and stopped to write this passage, an exerpt, from Letter 309 to Theo, his brother. He kept constant contact with his brother and his whole career could be summed up with these very discript letters. He believed there is a connection between painting and literature, so in doing, he wrote his brother constantly to whom his support was constantly given.

The extract of this letter can parallel the reasons I do what I do and it stopped me in my tracks, to capitalize on this moment of inspiration. It says it all, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who has these feelings. Read it for yourselves and take it for what it is. We all have something to give.

“I not only began drawing relatively late, but in addition I may well not have so very many years of life ahead of me (…) As far as the time that remains for my work is concerned, I believe that without being premature I can assume that this body of mine will still keep going, despite everything , for a certain number of years yet- say, between six and ten. I feel all the more able to assume this since at present there is not yet a proper ‘despite everything’ in my life (…) I do not intend to spare myself or pay much heed to moods or problems- it is a matter of some indifference  to me whether I have a longer or a shorter life, and in any case physical mollycoddling such as a doctor can accomplish up to a point is not to my taste.”

“So I am continuing in my life of ignorance, though there is one thing I do know: within a few years I must accomplish work of a certain order; I do not need to be in too much of a hurry, because no good comes of that- but I must go on working calmly and quietly, with as great a regularity and composure as possible, and as much to the point as possible; the world is my concern only insofar as I have a certain debt and obligation, so to speak- because I have been wandering about this world these thirty years (ok, for me a little longer…) - to leave a certain something in memory of me behind, drawings or paintings, out of gratitude- not made in order to gratify some fashion or other but to express an honest human feeling. That work, then, is my objective (…)”

I hadn’t planned on writing a blog this morning, until I advanced my travel calendar to today- the last day of the year. On December 31st, 2008 I read a quote by Leonardo Da Vinci- “Every now and then go away and have a little relaxation. To remain constantly at work will diminish your judgement.”

Well, it’s my first day off work for awhile. Through the Xmas season, which really got underway about the first to second week of December, I’ve had only two days off. It’s really repeled my desire to communicate with people. In such a small time, when you’re bombarded by people in both treatment of problems and salesmanship, one’s bound to resist and attempt -in a slow down -to simply talk. Lately, I’ve had no desire to deal with people. True, I started enthusiastically, as I always do. I love people, I love talk, but on a retail scale during the holidays- it truly becomes a job. When you twist personalities from every genre, every sex, every race into one crammed session of selling, it takes a point of decompression to regain yourself. A few days off is perfect.

Granted today, although off is not a “retreat” day.. you can’t actually get away from people on new years. I’m definately not an introvert and I do enjoy the company of people, friends, family- but lately- even I want to shut down the world to rest. I think I’m in need of the January “let down” to just recooperate.

There are two times I reevaluate myself and the beginning of the year is one of them. Nobody kicks my ass like my ego, which has been boiled down over the years to something inside a shrivelled little shell of a cranium. BUT every January and every August it’s like the grinches heart.. it grows into this big old monster who beats me relentlessly and attempts to move me to action. Usually, it’s pretty successful.. gets me planning at least. My problem is focus- always has been.

I call myself a professional juggler. I juggle numerous projects and although it some times takes me forever to complete one- I do it with style. I care for kids, I work a part-time job, I want to make a small screenplay into an art film, I have to work on music for a movie, I want to work on our third CD, I need to attend a pitch conference in New York, AND I MUST complete a re-edit of my manuscript which I will try in vain to sell this year (in addition to completing my current manuscript). Hmmmm, seems kinda a lot. Feels like I spin a lot of wheels, not really going anywhere… like I’m in neutral and gunning the gas.. makin lots of noise, but going no where.

Well, in the grand scheme of things, I feel all things lead somewhere and although I’m not sure exactly HOW I’m gonna get there. I’m confident the place will one day show itself and I’ll seize it. Being knocked down and dragged out, humbles you. I’m really ok with my position, even if it’s sort of floating from project to project. I sometimes wonder if this is what I was meant to do in life- be a project floater. Send out info over these invisible lines of communication, to set small fires on which heat will be built. Fires are built from sparks and should I be the flint to make the fire light, it’ll be so.

For this new year, I’ll continue to write and work my projects and be happy I’ve had the opportunity to share in this, as Louie Armstrong says “wonderful life”.  Happy new year readers AND bless ya all.  

 

What better way to wake up the day after Christmas, get Dunkin Donuts Coffee and watch a coffee special on National Geographic. Sure I have to be in work at noon and work till close, but I see nothing better than filling my “data base” with some newly acquired information attained to BS around the coffee machine. (NO we don’t have a coffee machine or even ready made cups- but I’d like to think in my imagination we do).

Since I’m extremely limited in time, and for the sake of a shower needed, I’ll let you in on one interesting fact regarding Folger’s Coffee. Basically, Folgers was established in the early 1840’s when the gold rush hit San Francisco. The Folgers were from a Whaling family on Nantucket and at this point the Sperm Whale business had depleted many of the whaling grounds. The sons of the “Whaling” Folgers decided to sail to San Francisco and capitalize on the gold rush. He felt that if they could provide the miners with ready made roasted coffee, they’d make their fortunes in coffee instead of Whaling. Wouldn’t ya know it, they did!

We still see Folgers on the coffee shelves in the supermarket 150 years later.

There’s much to say about coffee and it’s history, and the coffee houses which so inspire those in the creative fields, however, one needs time to be on his/her side to explore the wisdom of such knowledge. In that light, let me leave you with a quote from a poster my parents got me for Christmas titled “What is Life”:

“Be who you are

and say what you feel

because those who mind don’t matter

and those who matter don’t mind”- Dr. Seuss

I have a wonderful red velvet jacket which usually makes an appearance some time during the Christmas season, every year now for at least five years. It does come out on other attention getting times, but I can always count on it to bring a little festivity to the holidays. Well, today I wore it.

The funny thing about my velvet jacket is it ALWAYS gets attention. In some ways good, in some ways bad. For some reason people who are a little “off” are always attracted to bright colors like red. I have no problem with this whatsoever, in fact, I kind of welcome it except when I’m hard at work.

I’ve started to work a part-time job to fund some projects I have for the Spring, and Christmas season is always the crazy time, after all it’s retail. Retail, as most of you know- SUCKS. It maximizes your hours used for work dedication and minimizes any choice of money. I swore years ago, I’d never end up back there after I managed a store, but as a part timer nowadays- it’s the only option which allows me flexibility in my hours to find a delicate balance. Nights and holidays… yea, I gotta work ‘em.

The good thing about where I work is I dress up once again. I always enjoyed wearing good chic clothes, but found myself lazy when I simply wrote or spent the valuable time I used to write. I’m a man of basic necessity, I get needs covered and only when I need to “present” myself, will I find myself dressing up and being my “former self”. I do enjoy it, don’t get me wrong… dressing up in fine clothes is something I REALLY enjoy, but there are other things which find themselves in front of that luxury I must achieve. It’s like the old Rolling Stones song from Only Rock & Roll- “Luxury” goes. Needs first, wants later.

This morning I was a CRAB. I’ve been lacking sleep and working like crazy. I was initiated into the work place at the end of November and given little direction to sink or swim. I know the biz, with the exception of the computer system, which I was forced into learning with dynamic speed considering it’s Christmas. I’m fast to learn, and to now, I’ve been able to get by.

I’ve developed some confidence to show off some of the fancier clothes, which in the past I may have reserved to a few of my close friends or people I considered the “inside circle” (no it’s not S&M wear, but more chic and funky stuff) which was the reason behind me adorning myself in the red velvet today.

I tossed the idea back and forth and said to myself- “Ya know self, ya get one time a year to get away with wearin this and it’s now or next year…” Soooooo- I did it.

In retail you get ALL kinds of people; from the brilliant and beautiful, to the dumb and idiotic. If you had a magnet to weed out the who was who, I think a red jacket might be it. Red is a strong color and people tend to gravitate towards it. I haven’t decided which kind it attracts up to now, but today at one point it almost felt like the strange and odd. It started when an older man who I’d classify as a 1970’s funk burnout approached. He was with what appeared to be his son. Both had large afros, his being interstrewn with grey hair. When I spoke with the man, he seemed really distant, off in a daze….. indecisive and could barely speak audible words. Granted it is the holidays and I give him the benefit of the doubt. We went back and forth with talk, but I couldn’t get a direction on him and he seemed clueless of what he was looking forward. I offer advice and try and direct, but I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. I did take out something which was $650 and the guy’s body actually convulsed. Some things you just don’t need to be told, but sometimes you just can’t get away…..

I’m kind of attracted to the strange. It’s like a broken window you want to look through to detect what stone is inside. I enjoy this on days I have time, but NOT today. Today, you get ‘em in and get’em out…..

The VERY next customer was what I might classify as a “weiner”. EVERYTHING was “awwwwww or ughhhhhhhhh”.. “I don’t knowwwwwwwwwwww”, “I like it, but I don’t know…. she’s soooooo picky….. (Sure this ain’t you?!) Well, again the guy couldn’t pick a turtle outta a line up of people. I knew this terrible waste of time was because of my magic jacket. People want to talk, but again, NOT TODAY.

Everyone’s had the experience of being cornered into conversation they don’t want to be in… they’d rather avoid it at all costs, but try and be civil, kindly and polite. (At least this is what I’d imagine on my own instincts) BUT, once it begins they look for the escape, HOWEVER and whereever possible. I couldn’t seem to do it. Meanwhile people who need attention are giving you these looks which demand you, but you simply smile and nod in hope they understand. It doesn’t always work.

A few days ago a guy came over to me after a sale and asked for help. Fine, no problem- seemed like a nice guy. I get to the counter and a woman freaks out. “I was first! Why are you tending to him?!” she asks. He turns back (granted he’s about 6′3″ 300lbs and says “I went and got him, you didn’t”. It’s what I love about New Yorkers- simple and right out there. She was pissed, but he knew what he wanted, made a decision and BANG… it was there. With so many people around, you do your best to try and keep track and you can’t always meet the demands. I finished and was blindsided by another couple of guys who grabbed me- took me over to the same area with the same “bitch”. At this point, all her anger was directed at me.

I don’t take to kindly to people getting in my face. Being a former Customer Service Manager, I find it difficult to let the people blow their stack without putting them straight and easying the tensions. I excused myself to the guys and dealt with her. She was ok in the end, but she was still a bitch. I like chaos, but I know my place, and here I was just a cheaply paid marsupial.

Main point of this whole thing was 1) If you wear a red velvet jacket, be prepared to get attention from not just attractive people, but the crazy and insane. 2) When in a packed mall on Xmas eve, prepare to have fights on your hands- they’re gonna happen- and it’s unavoidable. 3) Keep your senses open and you’ll find a wealth of stories evolve from these experiences like those above  AND 3) Avoid a retail career- it doesn’t pay.

Have yourselves a FANTASTIC Christmas all!!! Merry merry…. don’t be buggin…..

First, let me wish everyone out there a VERY Happy Thanksgiving! It’s a wonderful time to be around family and friends and nessle in for the holidays. Bring on the cold, stay warm- plenty of hot toddies, apple cider, hot chocolate and whatever “toasts your buns”. It’s a time to wander around in the adoration of nature and appreciate havin a roof over your head, food on the plate, and fire in the fireplace or heat in your heart.

Most years my parents hosted a party of family and friends on New Years Eve. Everyone would be invited about 9pm, used to enjoy each others company and catch up on lost time. Usually most people assembled in the dining room with the piano and play… sing… dance in front of a burning fire in the fireplace. Always this would be accompanied by plenty of drink. About 10 minutes to midnight all the men assembled outside and sing, ”To all Acquiantence”. Often there would be close to about 20 very loud guys shakin up the neighborhood with their voices. Their wives, or girlfriends would stay inside and assemble in a line from the front door.

Every man would bring in a log, a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread, symbolizing warmth, thirst and hunger. The point being each item was supposed to bring in wishes of warmth, plenty of food and drink for the new year.

The women would stay inside and assemble in a line from the front door. As host, my mother was usually the first. Each man would enter the door guided by my father and go down the line kissing the womens cheeks. When he came to his woman, he’d present her with the items and a big whopping kiss.

These parties founded such good memories. The music especially. My Uncle Clarence often took over the pianist position with another piano player, usually my Uncle Tony and play all evening. Perhaps it’s why music has come to mean so much to me, especially the piano, and history perserves memory.

This day in music history is probably the most significant to the progression of Electric Rock Guitar. Jimi Hendrix was born. His birth was the foundation for many rock guitarists including J.V. - Kid Sicily, fellow co-founder of Funk Thunder. Soooooo, if your raising your glasses and toasting today, remember to salute the rock God of guitar- Jimi Hendrix.

May you all be blessed with many beautiful memories, which you’ll recall today. Eat, drink and be merry! Happy Thanksgiving! 

I think we’ve reached a pivotal point in America where the majority of people finally “get” supply and demand, BUT I think the government doesn’t realize we as a people DO get it. Let me explain why. 
 

The billion dollar bailout initially was given to banks to buy up poor mortgages which THEY’D (the greedy ones- can’t put the blame on everyone) given out, and would allow the government to get the poor mortgages to hold over time until the financial mess eventually comes to an end. As a result of giving the mortgages to the government the banks could rid their books of these stupid loans which tied up their money and regain liquidity, thus lending money back to the people who gave them money in the first place. Ok, that was the concept- BUT we know that’s not happenin.

The government changed its mind and started giving some of this money to the businesses who faulted because of the mortgage mess. Billions and billions of dollars are reallocated. So when the banks get the money, they say- “Oh Shit- Joe Business is getting OUR money, we better hold on to what we have and not give it out.” The banks who were supposed to get more liquidity decide to keep the money in their own bank because of the financial mess. Can’t say I blame, ‘em. If you just crossed a desert and someone offered you some water, would you give it to someone else?

Now the government realizes this problem and tries to refocus their strategy. I understand they realize the people need the money, to buy more goods. Ha ha… now this is where it gets funny.

We’ve had monopoly money for years and years. We’ve spent for years and years. It’s our psychology and something we took for granted. All the banks just gave us money to spend, the government gave us money to spend and the economy did REALLY good.

All the credit cards and banks got greedy and again, they gave us the “fat kids” only candy to eat. No protein, just sweets. We ran around like nuts with this constant supply of candy until one day we started to get aches and pains cause our bones weren’t growing, our muscles were deteriorating and we got tired: we had to sit. The banks were the “sweet pushers”.

“I heard the government was going to give us more money! Hurray! I’m gonna spend it on more sweets so I can run around some more and have some more fun! Hurray!” and then the majority started thinking, but my body is aching and I’m really not healthy, I think I better grow up otherwise I could die- I mean ALL of these debts….

I don’t know about you, but I could use a few bucks- TO PAY DOWN MY DEBT. You see, what I just put here…. TO PAY DOWN MY DEBT.

Ok, most Americans have put out all this money ALREADY. They’ve spent money they DON’T have, and are stuck with bank debts in the form of credit cards, loans and such. I don’t think you really need a brain to figure out, people out there are losin jobs and we’re a little worried about all of this money we owe. I’m gonna take the money the government is gonna give me and try and do something constructive with it like, PAYING off stuff. I learned my lesson, and the smack on my hand is better than the bat on my head.

Soooooooo, if I’m one of a majority of thinkers who feel this way- the majority of money we’re gonna be getting isn’t ending up in the form of spending, like it used to. It’s goin back to the banks, who again are gonna be hording it like the bear who stored up food for hibernation. What do you get in this case? The SAME situation, a stalled up economy.

They always shoot the messenger, but some words need to be said.

Everyone says it’s got to get worse before it gets better. This is the truth. Everything about the economy is about psychology: Confidence=spending, Fear= hording. How do you change the national thinking? Damn fine question. Hopefully the new administration can reinvest it’s time and money back into the United States, fine tuning a patriotism which grew in the immediate aftermath of 9-11. We live in the finest country in the world, and every now and then, we gotta be reminded, WE make it that way. Sure, we have problems like everyone else, but we have an infinite potential of resources RIGHT HERE. Who needs outsourcing! Grow internally, not externally. Everything starts here, with your thoughts, your dreams, YOU’RE potential. If you believe- you can achieve. It’s all about US- the United States of America.

I’ve said my peace.

This morning I was a zombie. I had one of those moments in which I was completely blotto upstairs… mindless… not a thought in my head, but sleep.

I went to church on account I committed myself to doing so. Not because I particularly wanted to, but set in mind Sunday to go to the old church which is only limited to a few times of worship. It stands next to the more modern place of worship.

I’m strange when it comes to ritual. When I want to go to church it’s largely because I feel a need to spiritually. I look for inspiration in surmons and passages, but to me, it’s largely about the surroundings. If I’m going to be moved spiritually, I look to the structure, the wood of pews, the stained glass windows, the carvings, the marble- the aura.

I blame my English heritage for the desire to attend Gothic Cathedrals- places bound by historical tradition and have had a feeling of centuries of worship. I can’t really describe it, in any word except maybe “vibe”. Modern places must have a charasmatic leader- someone with passion about his/her faith and one who can convey that to their subjects. My enlightenment comes in the form of atmosphere which of course includes the people. For the modern church, that comes in the leader.

When I sat there listening, I thought about routine. I watched the practiced rituals, as I have done every Sunday I attend Mass. It’s a Catholic church, and I’m not Catholic. I thought to myself, many of these people may be here simply out of routine and not for a want to be there. I know people who find the routine of going to church more a hinderance than a desire. It’s not that they’re not passionate about their faith, but they’ve been “trained” into a routine which resembles the likes of a job and as any job becomes a job- people get lax. They don’t dress up, they think of other things they could be doing, they’re there physically, but not mentally.

When I make a commitment, I follow through. This morning was an example. I didn’t feel I should be there, but because it was an old church with the right aura (I’d gone there earlier in the week and felt it), I’d give it a chance today. As a result, I felt isolated, surrounded by the historical feeling, but not grouped with people of my own religion. I know it’s odd because I haven’t practiced my religion since I was a boy, but perhaps I’ve reached a point of exploration.

My father spent much of his adult life travelling. He spent probably the equivent to years in Asia and the Far East. To me, he’d always had a more spiritual presence, perhaps spread to him with in these areas he spent so much time. Like anyone who’s in a foreign environment, one tends to adapt to the ways of that country in more means that one. With that in mind, you might say that sense of spirituality came to me as a result. It’s as if I feel I’m only a small part of a much larger picture or wholality. Frankly, I could reason this or that, but I’m perfectly fine, happy and comfortable with my existance. I believe there should be places of worship and places to seek shelter to feel emotions and be guided however that may be. My opinion comes strongly with the urge that guides us there, whether it be from the hand of God, routine, or ritual- there’s a place where we find in ourselves to be one with the energies of the universe. Where ever that may be, when ever that may come, or what ever form it takes- it starts inside. Belief comes beneath the surface and blossoms with how it’s utilized. It’s there and shows itself when it needs and can show itself in the most unlikely places.

Writing is my solitude and my place to be one with the universe. I like to think it’s the reason I’ve come into existance, but what ever and where ever that path leads will always give me peace. I know from the depths inside, I’m a wheel and for this, I’ll always be thankful.

I woke this morning facing my bedroom wall. On that wall is a watercolor my friend Donald did http://dvaccino.com/ (go there and scroll through watercolors) of a black canvas in front of the light of a window. It’s an image in his studio and home.

He has one window which over looks a fire escape, with a view of buildings across the street. He’s on the third floor and can literally here the commotions below. The street is necessled between two avenues, which can both be seen from the window. Amidst the chaos of the area (busy, busy, busy), the light shines in.

I put the watercolor on the wall to the side of the bed because it was bare. I have paintings surrounding the other walls, and at one point this one was behind the bed. It doesn’t really go with the decor, but I really like it. It has yet to be framed.

This morning I realized I couldn’t have found a better place for it. Often I wake up facing that wall, and when I look at the “blank” canvas, I see it as a starting point. The beginning to a new day- every day- where the light comes in and shines on the black canvas (symbolic of the mind), and provides the inspiration needed to create for that day. The fact it’s a watercolor is a plus. Watercolors to me, always seemed to be “less” permanent- fragile if you will. They need more care, and can be damaged easily. The day hardens you and if you’re lucky, you’ll find peace in your dreams and wake to a blank canvas.

Representing today’s “spark” is my watercolor. It’s something I’m very honored and proud to have; every day I wake- I’ll realize it’s a new day, with new inspiration. My mind is a canvas- blank until, the day expires. The next day I get to do it all again.

Always look forward to tomorrow.

Tonight, I layed with my son in his bed. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, but I felt I wanted to read with him. I was focused and I felt it was time I’d spent a little mono a mono with the kid (he’s only 7).

He’s been practicing his reading. He sometimes struggles a bit, but he plods through like any boy learning to read. I let him read to me, then I switched it up and read to him- using more intonation and expression- then gave it back to him to read a little. It’s a simple exercise. He has the recognition of words, but sometimes doesn’t read it through and spits out something which appears to be similar in spelling, but not the right word. Something he recognizes.

As we went back and forth through this excercise, it got me thinkin about literacy and how important it is to normal every day function. I mean, here I’m typing to you and you’re reading it off a computer screen, which has most likely been taken for granted.

Only with in the past year and a half, I found out something REALLY shocking in my family. I call them my aunt and uncle, but they’ve always been my Godparents. They lived in Cambridge, England and my Godmother taught at one of the Universities there.

Since I was little I always called them Aunty Joyce & Uncle Den. My aunt being the teacher and my uncle being - well… my uncle. Since they lived in Cambridge and we only had limited time of contact growing up, I’d only grown close to them as you might a distant friend.

Well, my Aunty Joyce had retired from her university and spent most of her time with my Uncle Den. The most comical memory being his 6′3″ body getting into their car which was a Cooper Mini. It was like fitting a bread factory in a bread box. I’d always heard he was a little essentric and rode his bike everywhere.

Anyways, my Aunty Joyce passed away after getting cancer a year and half ago. It wasn’t until then that we learned my uncle, who was now in his late 80’s was illiterate. It turns out my aunty Joyce did EVERYTHING for him, down to the clothes he’d wear. When she passed, he didn’t quite know how to get on. Fortunately for him (as I believe God does in times of need), a workman who had known and worked with him some 40 years earlier crossed paths and now evidently takes care of him- as much as he can.

Well tonight, my little story time with Shane got me thinking about those people nowadays who have the problem of literacy. It seems like such a simple thing which is taken for granted, but can you imagine the torture of trying to hide the fact one could be illiterate for 70 years?

I spoke with my father who was very close to my Uncle, and even he was fooled. He’d known him eons, but never knew. When I asked him, “how didn’t you know? You must have been able to tell.” He told me when they were at restaurants together, he’d pick up the menu and pretend to read, then consult with my aunty Joyce- “What would you recommend Joyce?” he’d ask… and she would say…. “blah, blah, blah” and place the order. My Aunty Joyce was brilliant, and the fact she was able to hide his illiteracy was even more brilliant. It only made it terribly sad when she was lost. I mean, if you’d been illiterate and survived for over 50 years of marriage following a routine- HOW could you get on?

He’s been struggling for some time now. He’s one of those old fashioned types who’ll take no sympathy from others and will NOT let even my parents (his closest friends) come to see him, because he’s disgusted at the fact he’s lost a tremendous amount of weight, and is “half” of what he used to be. Some people you can’t talk to, and that’s my Uncle Den.. stubborn son of a bitch.

Regardless, when it comes to illiteracy- it exists… it exists NOW. So many take for granted words are simple and very explanitory, AND people over age 8 are expected to read. I must admit, he’s the first case I’ve come across, but he’s family. The fact he’s hidden it so well over 80 years is just mind boggling.

My point is three-fold. One- if you have kids pay attention to the habits they develop when their young- make sure they read, and read well. It’s these habits which will broaden their perspective on the world and indeed, teach them what others may not. Second- make sure you’re involved enough to know if there is a problem. If you catch a problem early, then your ahead of the game. Getting help early prevents future problems. Thirdly, be aware there are people who struggle with something we think is second nature. Be aware others need help to get through an article, a magazine, a book- because WHAT you know, may be a HELL of a lot more than someone else.

I love my son, and I love my Uncle- the fact my son can do something my Uncle can’t… well…. in this case, it’s kind of sad.

Remember to read.

It’s Easter 2007. I’ve just attended church and have walked away with an epiphany.

It’s not often I attend church, although with my children I have attended more church since the days of my pre-teen years. I’ve always found my content with working. It’s my belief that when you work hard and keep a decent life, that you’ll be rewarded after. I attend church when I feel there’s a need to pray for someone, or my prayer needs to be heard. I figure God’s got his own busy schedule and this guy (me) who is going to church after X period of time- MUST be goin there for a reason- so maybe he’ll pop by to have a look into what’s goin on with Steve. I do tend to go to church also on Christmas and Easter. Well… sometimes I think there’s reasons for being a place at a particular time, which maybe only you are meant to see. 

Looking back, I’m not really sure where I was in the progress of my novel. I’m sure I must have been working on it, because this served as an inspiration. As I sat there and looked at the Cathedral from the back, I noticed something I hadn’t done before. It occurred to me that if you were to take the building and turn it upside down, it would resemble the hull of a ship. As I made these shapes in my mind, I noticed the stained glass windows, could have been representative of gun turrets in the hull of ship- a clipper ship or one of the many galleons which you’ve seen through time. It got me intregued and kept my mind active for the surmon the Bishop was to give.

At this mass, the Bishop of Metuchen decides to elaborate on a gift he received from a fellow priest who did a sabbatical in France. This particular priest had written a journal entitled “Pilgrim Road” and it was about his stay on the island of Honorat. Ile St. Honorat measures 800 yards by 500 yards and has been active in the monastic community for 1600 years (supposedly St. Patrick had been taught there). The reason of this island being so important was because of it’s water supply, and as small as the island is, its provided by an abundant supply of fresh water, which flows through from the main land. 

In the surmon he describes the island of Honorat being symbolic of Christ’s resurrected life (I know because I kept the Easter summary) . He discusses the flowing waters of baptism. He relates by way of analogy it’s similarity to the movement of blood that flows from the heart to every part of the body. The monks tapped into the river to sustain their lives with it’s water so Christ’s resurrected life could flow into every aspect of our lives. He finishes it by asking if we’ll tap into the waters of Christ’s grace as they flow and states “it’s up to us to make it happen”.

Wow- it was pretty powerful to me. When I went home, I was inspired to sketch. I did a sketch of the Cathedral both right side up, and upside down. I penciled in a represative crowd who appeared like abstract marks in the church and when upside down they actually looked like waves of water. I wrote notes and questions regarding the surmon, and correlated it into one of the pivitol moments in my work. The strange thing is, I’d had a vision of where I was going in the novel, but not quite sure of how I was going to get there. So many things at the church that day “CLICKED”, I found it not to be coinsidental. It’s not something I can really elaborate on at this point in time, BUT I tell you this. The novel IS about SOUL. It’s taken some pretty interesting turns, of which I never question any more.

For whatever the reason, the idea of writing this came to me in a shallow sleep this morning, prior to getting up. Easter 2007. Maybe it’s a sign for me to really get back to the reason I need to work on this book- it EXCITED me..  Perhaps it’s a reminder to “tell me” this has got to get done.

Memories are amazing things. Sometimes they grab you, shake you around, and wake you up to the fact… we all have a mission.

Have a wonderful Sunday all! Rest today, for tomorrow there’s work to do.  

I see the world quite differently than many. I believe in vision, more than anything else and I believe it brings permanency to life.

Being an art lover, and collector for some time, I see people who have put their hearts behind a pallet and painted what they believe to be vision. It’s been handed down through decades of belief. I watched a series today on the world’s worst jobs in history and a few of them belonged to painters and their models.

The model in the Renissance era had to often pose for 3 hours because of the details the painters were so obsessed with. Often these people were poor and earned very little. They were expected to maintain a pose without motion for hours, sometimes holding up their arms in various ways. They had to hold ropes to ease the pain in their limbs. One particularly well-known male model was found in a shelter and because of his bushy beard and muscular body, he was used many times by the great painters of the era. For women, it was worse than prostitution, and paid for less than males. Many of these people were chosen from the poor and paid little, but would do it nonetheless.

One particular painter had to paint the inside of the dome in one of Christopher Wren’s Cathedral’s in England being up 75 feet on very unsturdy scaffolding. Today, it still lasts and they’re doing restoration on the cathedral, so we could get a first hand look at it close up.

When you think of the permanency of paint, I think of the future. The painter is often doing a pictorial in time of their feelings, their perceptions, their beliefs and meshing them together with current events, situations, memories, readings and such. If they’re good, their paint lasts many generations, outlasts their certainly in life and many of their children’s children.

I never thought I’d last very long in life. There was a time I came very close to the end, which in retrospect could be told in a pretty funny story about Parrot Fever. Regardless, when you have a life altering experience as such, you begin to think about what it is you’d leave behind, what difference you’d make to the world, how is it you’d leave.

Painters are not just artists with a paintbrush… no sir… they’re artists with cameras, they’re artists with instruments and recordings, they’re artists with a gift for logic and perhaps a spoken word, they’re people who put together a future and paint it in the way they do it- Dance, plays, computer graphics, movies, a merge of many disciplines. Artists are believers- they bring forth new worlds- they paint pictures which alter perceptions, to indeed create exactly that.

I’ve commissioned a painting or two because I had a vision which I wanted to be a permanent reminder- something I wouldn’t forget and something to continue me on the struggle. I’m not one with a lot of vanity, but I believe in the good of making your visions come true. For me, painting is the first step. As one vision feeds into another, another is created somewhere else who may be inspired by the vision which preceded them. I hope in some ways to give the gifts of inspiration to those who truly need them, or cross them in passing. It’s all I ever really want. Poetic as that may be.

For if I died tomorrow, I think I feel I’ve done pretty well and painted a picture for others, who indeed painted pictures for me. Thank you readers, thank you friends … THANK YOU!