I haven’t really written much about my background, and growing up and all that sort of thing, so today’s entry is a bit of background to my oddness. I was born the fifth of six children into a military family. By the time I was four, my father had retired from that, after thirty plus years. (This site is basically turning into a graphic autobiography.)

I was probably the smartest child and that caused some friction. I was reading well beyond my years very early and had an extensive vocabulary by the time I was six or seven.

I distinctly remember finding a book, “Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex, But Were Afraid to Ask” and reading it, around age nine. Interesting stuff there for a nine year old. Wow. Eye opening. But here’s where it gets weird, my mother catches me reading this and slaps me and takes the book away. My parents were obviously very uncomfortable with sex. My next encounter with sexual information from the parents was at age sixteen as I was about to got to the prom. My father said “don’t. You see where it got your brothers.” That was it. (my older brother ‘had to’ get married early as his girlfriend got pregnant. That’s what you did in those days. These days…

I started school early, at age four, because most of the neighborhood kids were just slightly older than me, and probably my mom wanted me out of the house. In their defense, I certainly was mentally ready to start school. Physically, however, I was always one of the smallest kids in my class (including girls) and I think that probably hurt my social development. I was always sort of shy and had no confidence. I’d imagine that’s possibly why I was so promiscuous when I finally did start that portion of my life.

rigorous fail

I didn’t have sex until I was 19. That was two years after I moved out of my parents house. The girl I was with mounted me next to a pool and exclaimed, God that feels good! I was echoing the sentiment, but she never knew she was my first. Shortly after that she told me she was late, and I thought, oh, shit. I reflected on my father’s brief sex talk and knew what he’d be thinking, but what the hell, I listened to his advice for three fucking years. (not that I wouldn’t have done it earlier, but I never got the opportunity.) That first time and the results, made me nervous about repeating the experience. Oh, yeah, I was wearing a condom, but it broke. And it turned out she wasn’t pregnant, thank goodness.

A recent study has found that one of the most common causes of condom failure is vigorous sex. Interesting.

Toward the end of my stay in Chicago (in 1984) things were getting a bit sticky. We decided (and by we I mean Tommy) to move out of the one bedroom apartment off of Rush and Division and move into this living area above the company’s downtown headquarters. That probably would have been Ok if we’d given some warning to the person we were subletting from, but we didn’t. And he was pissed at the short notice and suddenly having to cover the rent and stuff there.

It also didn’t help that he was the son of on of the owners of the company. Not a good person to have pissed at you because he was also somewhat of a dick. Felt he was above it all because he was born with a silver spoon, you know the type.

So we moved into the headquarters, which was free, and this is where Rabbit took the piss off the fire escape, if you are following this blog at all. One night after work we went to a watering hole that was close to the job. We got all gooned up. Drinking like mad, coke, pot, whatever else (memories are understandably sketchy) and I decided I had had enough already. I couldn’t drive and I didn’t know how to get back to the slums we were living in, so I walked (staggered, crawled) back to work. Here’s where I made my mistake, but in that state, I was lucky to find the yard, let alone be thinking straight.

I took a short cut by hopping the fence, and staggered out to my crane. Now before you get to thinking “really, how stupid is this guy? He can’t drive, but he gets into his crane?” I didn’t start it up or anything, I just crashed in it. By this time I had been on the job for months, so the area around the engine was set up for lunch time naps, and I slept there. Somehow around 6AM I woke up and went to the locker room and changed into my work stuff, so I was on the job on time, doing my job and no worries, right?

Somehow the guards got wind of my escapades and the boss pulled me into the office and sends me home for not checking in at the guard shack the night before.

OK, maybe I should have done that, but would they have really let me in? And if that wouldn’t have happened, where would I have ended up that night, wandering around a seedy area of  Chicago, drunk and high? I probably would have been mugged or killed. Seriously.

So I was getting sent home for a unpaid vacation, and I got a case of the ass and I quit. For some reason they let me stay in those crappy living quarters until I got my papers and went into the Army. Probably because Tommy still worked for them. Who knows, really?

But the thing is, I had to quit drugs so my urinalysis to get in the military would be clean. So I was stuck in Chicago, jobless, bored and sober. I was also really depressed about the way my life was going, and somehow I got hooked on TV evangelists and became saved. I must have been a pitiful mess at that point. I did get saved, but eventually I got better.

A really sad lowlite of that time was I wrote a sob filled love letter to some girl I knew years before. I never got an answer to that letter; hopefully it never got delivered. Perhaps if I am famous someday, she will surface and that letter will be another black eye. It certainly won’t be a feather in my cap.

I was hit by a car, a truck and a bitch, and surprisingly only the third hit left any scars (and those were just emotional)

When I was only 17 I mostly got around on my bicycle. Not surprising in that my favorite song was bicycle race by Queen.

via videosift.com

I mostly was enamored with the poster that came with the album, at least in its original run. I think I probably masturbated to that poster a few times. It was pretty easy to do. I mean, c’mon, if you could not find a half dozen women/girls on that poster who were your type, you had to be gay. (not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

Makes me laugh a bit to think of my now homophobic brother who used to walk around with a blue zipper sweatshirt with a giant gold “Queen” iron on on the back. I was as ignorant about the gay connotation at the time, but he wore the sweatshirt and I turned out to be accepting. Sort of ironic that.  Thinking back, even the sweatshirt without the Queen on the back was sorta gayish with that double white pinstriping down the sleeves.  moving on.

OK. For those of you who don’t know the album (that’s a long playing record made out of vinyl – they had them during the vizioplastic era, which was sometime after the bronze age but prior to the silicon implant age) Kids these days will never know the pleasure of the hidden treasures of the vinyl albums. The posters that came inside the cover. The young pubescent boy who also came inside the cover (almost) when he saw the joyous naked women astride their bicycles, or bent over adjusting their -ahem- tire pressure or something. Oh, and they rang those bells unmercifully.

Not to mention the actual art of the album covers themselves. God, shrunk down now to the size of a postage stamp for your cd or dvd. You can’t capture the glory (hole) of a full size LP cover or the much anticipated double album. Man those were the days of album art. The Queen poster was an example of bum art. (not to be confused with album art)

Why oh why did those gay boys in Queen come up with  the idea of hundreds of nude chicks with bikes? Or how did they convince them to pose like that?  Most of those girls were (if memory serves) very attractive.  Memory does serve and so do mammaries. But not generally for gay men. But Freddy was bi. Mostly leaning towards men. or leaning over in front of them (how would I know? I’m just guessing.) thank you Freddy for whatever reason.

I have totally lost track of the subject of this post. totally.

Ok, re-reading. I was on my bicycle riding home from school one day. Minding my own business, but apparently not paying much attention to anything else. Suddenly out of a driveway a car bumper appears. I eye up the driver. Lovely looking lady and we make eye to eye contact. We both nod and then we both proceed. Luckily she was going slow and I managed to jump off my bike as it goes under her front wheels. She stops, backs up and gets out of the car. Shit. we’re back to mammeries again. I lose myself in a vision of loveliness.

I feel like Ralphy in a Christmas Story(mindlessly nodding at Santa) as this woman asks me if I’m OK. Asking if my bike is damaged. Asking me if I always have drooled like that as I nod like  freakin’  Forrest Gump on a slow day. I am a doggie perched on the dash of a car. my head is attached by a spring and my brain is attached by not a damn thing.

I tell her my bike and I are fine and I ride away with my wheels bent like something out of a cartoon. My wheels wobble, but I don’t fall down. fuck.

Yeah, I get home, and my brain kicks in and I kick myself in the fucking wobbling head.

I am too bent out of shape to even talk about the truck hitting me, and the bitch hitting me was just made up to complete the trio in the title of this post.

I have already talked about visiting the local nude beach, which was located at a small lake outside of Darmstadt, but what I didn’t go into was that the lake was also often the scene for bonfires and such late at night.

bow to me

I remember one party in particular. A friend of mine, Sgt Reigh, was celebrating his 25th birthday and had somehow gotten a GP small tent and erected it halfway into the woods. As it turned out, that was not the only erection of the evening. For the uninformed (which means non-military) tents were classified into four groups, first there is the shelter half, which is a one man pup tent thing – basically you need to pair up with a buddy  and your half and his half make a whole pup tent. Small tent, barely room for two people and their gear, but you must make due.

A GP small is usually used for a platoon headquarters. You can probably fit about 20 people in the tent (standing) and usually in a military sense, there would be a stove, a couple cots and a field desk. (GP stands for general purpose) GP medium slept about 20 people on cots (maybe) and a GP large was like a circus tent damn near.

So Sgt Reigh got a GP small and it housed the kegs, cups and whatnot. don’t ask me if we had permission to be there – I doubt it, but no one really cared back then about a party in the woods. It was public parkland and we cleaned up afterwords.

We also built a huge bonfire and were cooking dogs and s’mores and all that sort of Americanized crappola. There were lots of locals there as well. We had invited the whole gang from Smuggler’s Inn and a bunch of those folks showed up to drink and have fun. It was across the fire I spotted a girl from the club. We had made eye contact a few times at the club, but I was a shlub, and had no courage to approach her, even with a few beers in me, but tonight was different.

I went up and said hello, and was shocked to find out she was American. She pouted and asked why I had never talked to her before and considered me a flirt with no morals – teasing girls with locking eyes and then never following through. I was a bit flabbergasted. She told me there would be no teasing allowed tonight and she leaned in and planted a long deep kiss firmly on my mouth.

I may have been a shlub, but I certainly could take a hint and this was much more than a hint. I have to admit though, this was a bit awkward, because I was supposed to be meeting another girl at this party and she hadn’t shown up yet. But a bird in the hand is better than holding my own bird, which was generally my fate, so off we went.

We ended up in the woods not too far from the party and I spread my jacket on the ground. it was a bit chilly out, otherwise I wouldn’t have had even that. We both then started simultaneously undressing and making out and groping and caressing each other. My god, the girl wanted me as much as I wanted her. Nice feeling. She also was very curvy and had great large breasts, which I had to check for firmness. They passed the grip test.

We soon were “at it” and we each had twigs and roots poking out arms legs, backs, front, etc. She had to deal with one more poking than I did, but all in all it turned out rather well. Once we were done she started talking and telling me about her boyfriend, who was getting ready to ship out back to the states again in a few weeks and how she hoped we could get together again soon. That kinda freaked me out a bit, cause I thought she was single, but honestly that whole conversation wasn’t happening prior to the horizontal rumba. She then threw out another shocker – her father was a sgt major. Yikes. I could be getting in over my head.

So we strolled back to the fire and I was making every excuse in the book to excuse myself. I still had another girl to meet, and I needed to break away.  I think her boyfriend was wandering around too, so she wasn’t planning on hanging out with me that night anyway.

Luckily that was the case because pretty much as soon as we parted ways, the girl I was supposed to meet showed up. The guys in my squad were razzing me pretty good about all my juggling, but they were subtle. (or out of ear shot mostly)

I ever did hook up with that other girl and by the next time I saw her, the first girl was sorta mad at me for ditching her that night. Not enough to not want to date, but she was interested in a serious relationship, and that just wasn’t in the cards, so our one night in the woods ending up being a one night stand. A one night tree stand maybe.

Interesting article in Psychology Today that basically says that if only terrorists would get laid, there would be a lot less violence in the world.

I particularly like the line that says something along the lines of  when you see a limo full of obnoxious drunken loud teens leaning out the window vomiting, think, hey, that’s bad behavior but at least it keeps them out of real trouble. That really is the solution. More Limos for Afghans, that’s what I say. Let’s spend the money we’ve been spending on the war effort and buy lots of booze and limos for all the countries that are causing trouble. This also is going to help their economy because there will be a demand for limo drivers and mechanics.

Think about it. This solution helps on many levels.

And to get back to the main point, how many girls love getting rides in limos? Especially limos filled with booze? That could lead to sex. And after sex what does the typical male do? Crash planes into buildings? NO. They roll over and go to sleep, and generally wake up in a good mood.

and the Psychology Today article

Fort Hood Texas

You never know how things are going to turn out, and even sometimes at the start you don’t even know it is “the start” of anything significant. I was talking to one of the lieutenants in our company and she was having some issues with her house; sort of home improvement sort of things. She was a sweet person who was on her on after having a somewhat sheltered life at home. Interesting sidenote was that she joined the Army Reserves and did so well at one of her schools that the military activated her and sent her to Fort Hood. I never knew that sort of thing could happen. Sure reserve componant units get activated during wars, but individuals during peacetime? News to me.

Anyway, she had bought a cute little house and it had some issues, so I volunteered to fix a few things. It was a calculation on my part that if I did a few favors for an officer, her friend, who was my platoon leader, might give me a few breaks or something. That’s how it started. But I kept visiting and she kept buying new fixtures and stuff, so my projects continued. We grew closer.

Finally I was over to fix a door in her pantry, and I ended up in her panties instead. Pantry, panties. An easy mistake, I think you’d agree. It kind of happened like this. I arrived and started taking down the old doors. I was installing bi-folds, I think. And she stopped me and said, what are you doing here? I was a bit confused and answered that I was installing the doors. She said, no, really, why are you doing all this for me? There was a bit of awkward silence as we slowly closed the gap and started to kiss. I picked her up, carried her into the bedroom and gently put her down on the bed. We slowly undressed each other, but as I was taking her panties off, she stopped me.

“This isn’t the best time for this to happen,” she said. I looked at her with a confused look, and she told me that she was having her period. “That doesn’t really bother me.” She nodded, went into the bathroom and cleaned up a bit and then we consumated the relationship.

It was really fairly awkward to have a relationship between an enlisted person (me) and an officer (her). Especially that we were both in the same company. Now normally a relationship like that is OK, sort of, unless the officer is in your direct chain of command. That situation in called fraternization. Seriously frowned upon. But in our case, that wasn’t what was going on, but still potentially she could be ‘in charge’ of me in certain circumstances, special assignments, etc.

So we kept it quiet. And had a relationship for about a year. We were sneaking around, more or less covert operations, but we had the most honerable of intentions. Eventually it came to light because one of the other officers wanted to fool around with her and she kept putting him off. So he started snooping and found out.

I believe he told a few people and then he confronted me, telling me that it would ruin her reputation and I needed to realize that the relationship needed to end. I was also at the end of my enlistment and was deciding on whether to continue my military career, or get out.

This complication made that decision easier. He threatened to exposed us and bring up fraternization charges, so I just processed out instead. This just left my future to be worked out. She wanted me to move in with her. She offered to pay to put me through college, which was my next step in life. For some reason all that felt uncomfortable to me.

I told her I was moving back to Arizona and that we were through. I just couldn’t see myself being supported by a woman. It made it a bit more weird because her family was wealthy and powerful. I really didn’t get into this earlier, but one of our dates was to some Texas debutant ball. It was hosted by the governer, who was a friend of her family. Some of that stuff just made me feel inadequate for some reason. I didn’t ‘fit in’ with that crowd, although I could fake it pretty well.

Once she knew I was going to Arizona and was breaking up with her it got pretty ugly. I have always had a knack for not knowing how to break up with women and this was just one more example. I like to think it was sort of noble on my part. Let me be the asshole and you can then feel better about yourself. Me being the asshole was a total “It’s not you it’s me” taken to the next level. I really did love her, I think, but there were so many things going on with me at that time that I couldn’t figure out how to deal with it, so I just ran. Probably I wasn’t playing the asshole, I was just being the asshole.

I had lots of ‘adventures’ while I lived in Chicago, and I met a lot of interesting people. Many of the people I met you wouldn’t want to meet, if you met them, if you take my meaning. They were a rough lot, but most of them also had a good heart; they’d give you the shirt off their back, but you had to be cautious, they might also be picking your pocket at the same time. But it was all good natured.

a drunken taste of Chicago

One of the finest folks I met was a fellow named John Sullivan. As you can probably tell by the name, he was a native american. Ok, so the name didn’t give it away.  Should his name have been John “Broken Arrow” Sullivan, would that make you happy, you insensitive racist bastard? Well, that wasn’t his name. It was just John.

He was the chief mechanic at our work site (don’t read anything into chief either, I’m warning you!) and knew his way around a tool kit. He could fix pretty much anything, and did. Well, let me amend that, if they would let him, he could fix it. Sometimes when you work at salvage/scrap/demolition jobs, the main focus is can a piece of equipment run, not how well does it run. These companies operate under the radar as much as possible, and are prime targets for OSHA if the get spotted.

We had one grapple crane that leaked about 55 gallons of hydraulic fluid per day, but if you took a few days to fix it, the job would be at a  standstill, so they absorbed the cost of the fluid and kept running it. They actually kept a couple drums on the crane to act as extra counterweight, so they served a double function – allowing the crane to work over capacity, plus handy when the fluids got low.

John could have fixed that. He drove a beat up old pickup truck with a utility bed on it. It was totally not street legal, so it stayed within the confines of the work site, which was a huge steel mill locatted on Chicago’s south side near Indiana. (don’t think for a second that John the Indian was from Indiana, he wasn’t)

He’d drive up whenever I had a mechanical issue and he’d stop the truck, pop a Budweiser, and throw a chaw of tobacco in his mouth and spit long drooling disgusting puddles of juice on the ground. He’d also have a stump of a stogie in his mouth at the same time, just to ensure he had enough nicotine, I guess.

I had to act as the assistant mechanic when he worked on my crane. He’d yell “hand me that festerous” and I’d have to guess what tool he meant. He could never remember names of tools, so he called most of them a festerous. That was a catch-all name that he had made up.

John looked more like an Irishman than an indian, but he told me stories of his mother who was full blood Cherokee or Choctaw or whatever she was. What a combination of blood to have. When I left Chicago, he, my brother and our buddy Rabbit all signed a ‘good luck’ card for me, and he signed  me, John the drunk. Nice self image there. Accurate though. He started drinking early AM and never stopped through the day. the only other half Irish half Indian I knew was my first fiance so maybe that combination of cultures has a tendency toward addiction. Certainly is the stereotype, and those two examples held true

Is it a morbid curiosity or what that makes people look at the obituaries? I mean I never used to look at them when I was younger and I can’t tell you the turning point. Maybe when I hit 40 or 45? I don’t think it was a certain number, but maybe after hearing about a few people I knew dying, and then reading about friend’s parents and stuff, I am now an obit addict. Usually it’s the same thing, too, we will check names, but then also ages. If someone is “young” then I have to see if there was a listed cause.

Were they in a car wreck, should I send money to the Cancer foundation, or diabetes or what? The worst is when there is no explanation. Natural causes or something like that. Natural Causes? and the photo is usually someone  you’d expect to see walking down the street.

Another oddity is the old person who just has a photo of them from 50 years ago. I see a lot of WW2 vets smiling in their uniforms, and the person is like 75 years old. Most people would never recognize the person from the photo. On the other hand I like the old/young photo montage. “oh, so that’s what they looked like when they were young” Interesting.

nuff said

And the cause of today’s post? I saw a name I recognized. It was a “friend’s” father. Larry X, Sr. 74, died, blah, blah, history, surviving: wife, two daughters. No Larry Jr. Nothing. Larry senior was a cop and jr was a criminal. Guess he got disowned to the point where he didn’t even make the obit survivors listing.

Funny thing was that I did a post about running into Jr. You know those people that you don’t like, but you seem to see them over and over again in your lifetime? You don’t ever run into folks you wish you would. It’s always the losers and dregs of society. That’s Larry Jr.

When I was 17 and on my way to basic training I ran into Larry at the bus station. He was on his way to some halfway house on his own recognizance and stinking of whiskey. We recognized each other and knew we were on totally different paths. I think he was 18 and I’m sure as he was smelling of booze the arrival at the halfway house was going to be a bad scene. Funny (odd) how the characters pass by and you wonder how the hell can anyone live their life that way.

Larry Sr. was a prick, and Larry Jr was shuttled around to live with different relatives growing up, but that doesn’t excuse behavior, it just explains the start of a wasted life. A life that is ignored even amongst the dead and gone.

]]> http://www.halfacareer.com/2009/larry-sr-no-jr/feed/ 0 http://www.halfacareer.com/2009/voyeurism-and-paranormal/ http://www.halfacareer.com/2009/voyeurism-and-paranormal/#comments Sun, 15 Nov 2009 17:05:37 +0000 admin http://www.halfacareer.com/?p=242

This is probably a really odd thought (so it fits in here) but for people who believe in an afterlife and spirits and ghosts and all that, where does that lead or how interested are ‘they’ in ‘us’?

Jeepers Creepers

I have this picture from the Family Circus cartoon of Grandma and Grandpa standing on a cloud with wings and billowy robes looking down on their family, grand kids and whatnot. Sometimes they save them from a falling branch or from tripping over a curb or something, but what all are they looking at?

My wife swears a spirit grabbed her arm and prevented a fall down our basement steps and she actually had bruises on her arm that resembled finger prints, so that may indicate some level of interest in everyday activities, but where this all leads is, do we ever have any privacy?

In my mind, if there’s a god the only reason he ‘invented’ us was because he or she was bored. I mean think about it, floating around in a giant darkness for eternity with nothing to see or do? (remember he didn’t invent (or need) light until the ‘first day’ of the seven. (what a busy week) But basically inventing the universe was like getting cable hooked up.

So we ended up being god’s cable and he could afford the premium package, so she also gets to view my premium package, you know? And if that’s true, then maybe there are levels in heaven similar to basic cable, digital starter package, premier, sportsnet, etc and maybe hell is a pair of rabbit ears and their is still analog signals, but all three stations are 50 miles away and you only get commercials.

I mean if you are believing the strumming the harp thing, that would really get old fast. I like playuing guitar, but forever? And everyone singing hallelujah? Did you ever listen to people who are tone deaf or just don’t have rhythm? Holy shit. literally.

So of course they’d be watching us. (I know I will be)  We are the biggest interconnected soap opera that also happens to be X rated. So do I ever have privacy or are my grandparents and all the assorted ancestors tuning in to the hide the salami show? Or the solo acts? Gosh at one point we were worried about having kids in the next room and keeping the volume low. Do we have spirits perched on the head board munching popcorn and running commentary?

On second thought, I probably wouldn’t watch my own descendants, that’d be too much like incest, I’d probably watch the neighbors.

]]> http://www.halfacareer.com/2009/voyeurism-and-paranormal/feed/ 0 http://www.halfacareer.com/2009/human-sexuality/ http://www.halfacareer.com/2009/human-sexuality/#comments Thu, 12 Nov 2009 15:29:54 +0000 admin http://www.halfacareer.com/?p=240

I was listening to an interview with Brianna Booth, who is a student of human sexuality. The interview was on a website called the Get Inspired! Project and it made me think about sexuality a bit. (like that topic is really far from my mind at any given time – right)

Spinning Wheels, got to go round.

She used an example of a color wheel, where different colors are very clearly defined and we know where blue fits in and where red fits in. Clear definitions of color, but there are no clear definitions of sexuality. But wait, the colors all gradually blend too, don’t they? I mean red isn’t in green much, but greens blend into blues which blend into purples which blend into red. So how does this fit with sexuality?

Uptight sexually conservatives may have a clear line on things in their minds. Sex is missionary style and for procreation. But why? Do they think, oh, ‘doggy style’ is close to bestiality, so it’s just wrong. That might lead to actually lust for dogs, right? No, obviously not.

So maybe it’s just pleasure. You know. And then just staying with a monogamous relationship, but you are free to explore pleasuring each other. Exploring more normal practices, maybe different positions, maybe, gasp, oral sex. Maybe ‘deviant’ exploration with tongues…hmm.

So maybe that gets into salad tossing. Yeah, a tongue lashing of the anus, if you’re not familiar with the salad term. So if I enjoy that occasionally where can that lead? It’s anal pleasure, and for a man that’s going to a dark place. (not in my mind, but to some)

I remember once my father was supposed to get a prostate exam and he said “I don’t want anyone fooling around back there.” Like the doctor was fooling around. So he wouldn’t get that done.

But for me that fooling around can be alright. We occasionally use devices in our sex life (current life with wife) and that’s fine with me. But in some people’s eyes that is probably bordering on homosexual behavior. But wait, it’s with my wife. that’s not gay. (not that there’s anything wrong with that)

But as I told my wife I occasionally have gay sort of fantasy thoughts. My thoughts are very generic and the men are so far removed from a real man it’s more like thoughts of extra-terrestrials than actual earthmen. These men are totally clean, well scented, and more like animatronics. God this description is really going wrong. These fantasy men just aren’t real. I’ve ‘experimented’ or is that “experiMENted” with real men back in the college days (isn’t that so cliche?) and it literally was a nauseating experience. (only two encounters and both were with me lightly buzzed, but then throwing up almost immediately upon actual contact) So fantasy, yes, reality not good.

But in my real sex life with my real sex wife, we explore and enjoy each other in many and various ways and I see nothing wrong with it. Still know this isn’t a topic I share openly because it just isn’t very well accepted and generally isn’t a common table topic. Maybe with the right crowd, but even then I kind of doubt it. Guess I’ll just share here..