My little weather
In the east, the storms have names. Ernesto is on his way. He's a Spanish storm prone to light destruction and searing bouts of depression. He's recognizable by the tears he cries. The weathermen all hail Ernesto. Ernesto will affect us all, they say. Especially our ratings, they don't say. Storms like him are big news. Here the storms take their time in coming. They plot and plod, spinning around those beady eyes and leaving a trail of fallen branches. We name them because we have time to name them. They aren't our friends, more acquaintances really. Freaks of nature, we claim behind their backs as we all track his progress eagerly on TV and radio and Internet. Even through our insults, we build a relationship with the storm. We introduce him to the family. We think about him while we purchase toilet paper and SPAM. We know him. Maybe we fear him. We definitely talk about him. Ernesto was quiet. I never would have expected this.
In the middle, storms are nameless. They answer to cyclone and tornado. The east may think this reflects a lack of imagination. What many in the middle gain during commutes, they lose in a storm. Proper names and waiting periods give way to green skies and the swirling winds. It's not a lack of interest that prevents naming convention. It's a lack of time. Storms in the middle are lust and raw energy. They are bumping against a bathroom stall, grunting, destroying. They are singular. They are in the moment. Storms in the middle sneak in, blow by, and leave us wondering where that came from. We remember them, but in a vague way, in a numbered way. That tornado in '86. The big one in '99. Storms in the middle are no less personal, they're just less personal to so many people. They don't give us a chance to talk about them until they are gone. It's like a tornado hit this place.
Storms in the west are a mystery to me. They seem to occur less frequently. In the west, mother nature is both more open with her emotions and more reserved. In some places, she doesn't allow them to build up inside and then come out in a rush of power and anger. She releases them daily with a sprinkling of rain and a mixture of sunshine and clouds. In other places, she withholds the emotions all together. She cries no tears and we sweat, but more figuratively than literally because it's all so dry. Of course, she has her moments, lightning and thunder and rain that still make children cower, but they seem to lack the magnitude found in the middle and the east. She makes up for this in other ways. Fires, earthquakes, droughts, she is a complicated woman.
Meanwhile, Ernesto stops at the beach for a frozen daquiri, a ride on the waves, and a desperate search for somewhere to let out his frustrations. Ernesto is on his way.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Monday, August 28, 2006
Unpaid advertisement
I picked up a little tip while I was in an Apple store the other day. I can create "Smart Albums." These albums group together my photos according to criteria I set.Oh the power. For instance, by first labeling all my wedding photos (with a little trick called Batch Change) so the comments field contains "Wedding," I am now able to instantly album-ize all photos taken at weddings this year. That way I have them all at my digital fingertips and I can tell you fun facts like: 132. My camera has snapped 132 pictures at weddings in '06. I can certainly up my totals while I ride the latter half of Wedding Wave 2006. One day, when I'm feeling particularly mean, I will create a slideshow from all the weddings I attended, set it to sappy music, and torture single people everywhere. Although, I must admit that I have ended up in about one quarter of the pictures, so what I really need is a Smart Album and accompanying slideshow titled, "Me. The digital years." That way I can torture everyone equally.
As, Bon Jovi didn't quite say, "It's i-life!"
(And it's now or never...)
Better yet, I should create a tune in Garage Band to go with my slideshow. Vanity in the 21st century ROCKS!
I picked up a little tip while I was in an Apple store the other day. I can create "Smart Albums." These albums group together my photos according to criteria I set.Oh the power. For instance, by first labeling all my wedding photos (with a little trick called Batch Change) so the comments field contains "Wedding," I am now able to instantly album-ize all photos taken at weddings this year. That way I have them all at my digital fingertips and I can tell you fun facts like: 132. My camera has snapped 132 pictures at weddings in '06. I can certainly up my totals while I ride the latter half of Wedding Wave 2006. One day, when I'm feeling particularly mean, I will create a slideshow from all the weddings I attended, set it to sappy music, and torture single people everywhere. Although, I must admit that I have ended up in about one quarter of the pictures, so what I really need is a Smart Album and accompanying slideshow titled, "Me. The digital years." That way I can torture everyone equally.
As, Bon Jovi didn't quite say, "It's i-life!"
(And it's now or never...)
Better yet, I should create a tune in Garage Band to go with my slideshow. Vanity in the 21st century ROCKS!
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Memorandum
To: Mr. Daimon
From: Mr. David
Subject: Comments on endurance
Dear Mr. Daimon:
Please come back to the U.S. of A so I can chase you around and around shaking my fist in a threatening manner. I had a history teacher once who said, "Old is 15 years older than you." I intend to live by those words. Runners are in their prime at this age. Cyclists have only just begun. I will not be putting up with your negativity.
If you have questions or need to reach me, I'm going to be out running.
Thank you.
If your comment was some sort of reverse psychology kind of thing, good work.
To: Mr. Daimon
From: Mr. David
Subject: Comments on endurance
Dear Mr. Daimon:
Please come back to the U.S. of A so I can chase you around and around shaking my fist in a threatening manner. I had a history teacher once who said, "Old is 15 years older than you." I intend to live by those words. Runners are in their prime at this age. Cyclists have only just begun. I will not be putting up with your negativity.
If you have questions or need to reach me, I'm going to be out running.
Thank you.
If your comment was some sort of reverse psychology kind of thing, good work.
Friday, August 25, 2006
There's a black hole in Minnesota
Rochester, MN It's unfair to blame Minnesota for the downturn that my vacation has taken. I overestimated my energy level and underestimated Ma Nature. Tired and rained upon, I managed to eat a salad by a lake, wander almost aimlessly until I stumbled to the pinnacle of Americana, the symbol of all that we are and can ever hope to be, the Mall of America. Shops, restaurants, theme parks all in one building- this is why we beat the British and this is why we fight the terrorists.
It's not the enormous mall's fault that consuming could not lift my spirits. It's not like the mega mall didn't try. I mean, virgin mango daiquiris, come on, people that want to be cheered get cheered by that sort of thing. I sulked on and then drove on. As I trudged up the stairs to my Motel 6 boudoir, I thought about how nice it would be to find a Laundromat. Yes. A Laundromat. I drew my curtain and there. Shining before me was a MegaWash. Open 24 hours. With a hop, skip, and a little tail wiggle, I unpacked the dirty clothes and prepared to wash the California out of them. Overjoyed seems a bit strong, but as my clothes spun, I had a moment to relax and enjoy the quiet slow rock of the MegaWash. I read. I pinballed. I folded. I returned to Tom's light a happier lad.
I woke this morning to the gray that has stalked me on this trip. It was gray all day and in kind I was in a fog of my own. For 5 miles, I broke free of the fog as I made my way along Bear Creek on foot-pounding good jaunt. I realized something during my run. I have taken out the long slow distance over the past two years. I should do something about that; it's likely the cause of my deteriorating endurance. Other than that moment of light, this day has been less than bright. I have some small hope for an entertaining evening, but at the moment I wonder if that, like Bunyan and the big blue ox are merely myth. Babe, I wonder.
Rochester, MN It's unfair to blame Minnesota for the downturn that my vacation has taken. I overestimated my energy level and underestimated Ma Nature. Tired and rained upon, I managed to eat a salad by a lake, wander almost aimlessly until I stumbled to the pinnacle of Americana, the symbol of all that we are and can ever hope to be, the Mall of America. Shops, restaurants, theme parks all in one building- this is why we beat the British and this is why we fight the terrorists.
It's not the enormous mall's fault that consuming could not lift my spirits. It's not like the mega mall didn't try. I mean, virgin mango daiquiris, come on, people that want to be cheered get cheered by that sort of thing. I sulked on and then drove on. As I trudged up the stairs to my Motel 6 boudoir, I thought about how nice it would be to find a Laundromat. Yes. A Laundromat. I drew my curtain and there. Shining before me was a MegaWash. Open 24 hours. With a hop, skip, and a little tail wiggle, I unpacked the dirty clothes and prepared to wash the California out of them. Overjoyed seems a bit strong, but as my clothes spun, I had a moment to relax and enjoy the quiet slow rock of the MegaWash. I read. I pinballed. I folded. I returned to Tom's light a happier lad.
I woke this morning to the gray that has stalked me on this trip. It was gray all day and in kind I was in a fog of my own. For 5 miles, I broke free of the fog as I made my way along Bear Creek on foot-pounding good jaunt. I realized something during my run. I have taken out the long slow distance over the past two years. I should do something about that; it's likely the cause of my deteriorating endurance. Other than that moment of light, this day has been less than bright. I have some small hope for an entertaining evening, but at the moment I wonder if that, like Bunyan and the big blue ox are merely myth. Babe, I wonder.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Oh you're not hardcore...
Salinas, CA- Dark Italian Coffee, free wi-fi, an empty downtown Sunday morning three blocks from the National Steinbeck center. Six locals and I wander the streets trying to pick the best coffeehouse and breakfast establishment, only I don't need breakfast. I've been up off and on since yesterday, which I suppose each of us could say about ourselves since conception or whenever napping truly begins, sometime after stem cells, no doubt. I meant I didn't sleep particularly well last night. Some less hearty souls might blame the ground for it was hard; I came prepared for that. I blame the chill. I'm not sure where I thought I was going, but I should have brought some heavier clothing. At 4:30 AM Pacific time, I could no longer abide by the upside-down-sprint-crawling-in-place method of warming up, so I left my campsite and went for a drive.
There are certain advantages to traveling alone. No one was around to complain that I was up and driving before 5 AM. No one would be concerned or have to find sleep of their own if I just stopped by the Pacific and took a little nap in my nice warm car. I had hopes of waking up to a gorgeous sunrise or some such poetry, but instead found the sky and the world to be what I can only assume from my short trip to be typically overcast. I was hoping my poetry would have yellows and pinks dancing on an ocean blue. I got greys and browns dancing on different shades of grey and brown. The poetry is subtler here.
Popping Pop-Tarts and guzzling water from a gallon jug, I made the drive back to camp in the light. Under grey skies I could see beauty in the countryside that had not been present in total darkness. I could also see golf courses. It is a strange sensation to sense the nearness of a vast ocean but not be able to see it. There is an endless quality to ocean and darkness, a pull outward toward the unknown. It is somewhat less strange to see the ocean in the morning. Vastness ends at the horizon. Vast still, but limited somehow. An ocean at night truly goes on forever and begins at the edge of sight. Golf courses, with their out of place and neatly trimmed fuzz of green, by early morning light and in total darkness offer a different flavor of strange. I had not felt the pull of golf course as I drove by in the dark. Now that I could see them, I did feel a slight pull inward. The ocean pulls out; golf pulls in. I am not sure what that says about adventure and privilege.
It's still morning and I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I've put golf and the ocean a bit behind me. I've filled myself with coffee and filled screens with this jumble. I feel mentally calmer and bladderly more excited. I don't know what the day or the night brings, which is more like life than most of us want to admit. I'm going to be ok with that. I want to camp tonight to continue to prove my... cheapness, a quality that I seem to place up there with honesty on the pedestal of important qualities, but warmth is a quality that has its own particular value and so I will likely end up in a seedy motel watching HBO and wondering exactly what I had hoped to gain from this whole thing and then remembering that this struggle between golf and ocean, in and out, me and my particular set of values is fun. I'm thinking, awake, suffering, free. Speaking of suffering and free, I'm not used to this much coffee...
Salinas, CA- Dark Italian Coffee, free wi-fi, an empty downtown Sunday morning three blocks from the National Steinbeck center. Six locals and I wander the streets trying to pick the best coffeehouse and breakfast establishment, only I don't need breakfast. I've been up off and on since yesterday, which I suppose each of us could say about ourselves since conception or whenever napping truly begins, sometime after stem cells, no doubt. I meant I didn't sleep particularly well last night. Some less hearty souls might blame the ground for it was hard; I came prepared for that. I blame the chill. I'm not sure where I thought I was going, but I should have brought some heavier clothing. At 4:30 AM Pacific time, I could no longer abide by the upside-down-sprint-crawling-in-place method of warming up, so I left my campsite and went for a drive.
There are certain advantages to traveling alone. No one was around to complain that I was up and driving before 5 AM. No one would be concerned or have to find sleep of their own if I just stopped by the Pacific and took a little nap in my nice warm car. I had hopes of waking up to a gorgeous sunrise or some such poetry, but instead found the sky and the world to be what I can only assume from my short trip to be typically overcast. I was hoping my poetry would have yellows and pinks dancing on an ocean blue. I got greys and browns dancing on different shades of grey and brown. The poetry is subtler here.
Popping Pop-Tarts and guzzling water from a gallon jug, I made the drive back to camp in the light. Under grey skies I could see beauty in the countryside that had not been present in total darkness. I could also see golf courses. It is a strange sensation to sense the nearness of a vast ocean but not be able to see it. There is an endless quality to ocean and darkness, a pull outward toward the unknown. It is somewhat less strange to see the ocean in the morning. Vastness ends at the horizon. Vast still, but limited somehow. An ocean at night truly goes on forever and begins at the edge of sight. Golf courses, with their out of place and neatly trimmed fuzz of green, by early morning light and in total darkness offer a different flavor of strange. I had not felt the pull of golf course as I drove by in the dark. Now that I could see them, I did feel a slight pull inward. The ocean pulls out; golf pulls in. I am not sure what that says about adventure and privilege.
It's still morning and I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I've put golf and the ocean a bit behind me. I've filled myself with coffee and filled screens with this jumble. I feel mentally calmer and bladderly more excited. I don't know what the day or the night brings, which is more like life than most of us want to admit. I'm going to be ok with that. I want to camp tonight to continue to prove my... cheapness, a quality that I seem to place up there with honesty on the pedestal of important qualities, but warmth is a quality that has its own particular value and so I will likely end up in a seedy motel watching HBO and wondering exactly what I had hoped to gain from this whole thing and then remembering that this struggle between golf and ocean, in and out, me and my particular set of values is fun. I'm thinking, awake, suffering, free. Speaking of suffering and free, I'm not used to this much coffee...
Friday, August 18, 2006
Oh the places...
The backpack is all stuffed with tent and clothing. I'm leaving on a jet plane knowing to the minute when I'll be back again, unless I get delayed by weather or maintenance or some unforeseen circumstances. I'm looking for a few of those starting after noon- weather, maintenance, and unforeseen circumstances. In the mornings though, all foreseen circumstances, please. After lunch, it's time to start wandering in my rented carriage. Chauffeur and passenger all rolled into one, I'll be a human Cordon Bleu and adventure will be my cheese. I have direction, as that seems to be my hot pants of late, but the plan is only loosely defined. I've packed freedom, of course, and underwear. I trust both will be clean and still fit tomorrow. There are certain things I need to take care of and certain things I have to admit to myself. I'll pay my respects to a dear friend by spending some time with the fishes. I may admit that the allure of the big city is less my style than the drive away from it. Or I may find the opposite- that the big city is an enormous powerful magnet and I am but a slender paperclip powerless against her pull. How quickly will I discover that my travels are much less profound and so much more Pictionary? Person. Place. Thing. Object. Action. Difficult. All play.
The backpack is all stuffed with tent and clothing. I'm leaving on a jet plane knowing to the minute when I'll be back again, unless I get delayed by weather or maintenance or some unforeseen circumstances. I'm looking for a few of those starting after noon- weather, maintenance, and unforeseen circumstances. In the mornings though, all foreseen circumstances, please. After lunch, it's time to start wandering in my rented carriage. Chauffeur and passenger all rolled into one, I'll be a human Cordon Bleu and adventure will be my cheese. I have direction, as that seems to be my hot pants of late, but the plan is only loosely defined. I've packed freedom, of course, and underwear. I trust both will be clean and still fit tomorrow. There are certain things I need to take care of and certain things I have to admit to myself. I'll pay my respects to a dear friend by spending some time with the fishes. I may admit that the allure of the big city is less my style than the drive away from it. Or I may find the opposite- that the big city is an enormous powerful magnet and I am but a slender paperclip powerless against her pull. How quickly will I discover that my travels are much less profound and so much more Pictionary? Person. Place. Thing. Object. Action. Difficult. All play.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Sunday, August 13, 2006
K through 21
Hairy-chested kindergarteners have nothing on me. I skipped the trip to the babysitters, haven't had to color inside the lines in more than a month, and had a beer with my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It wasn't as delicious as I'd hoped, but then memorizing my phone number has not proven to be as valuable as "they" claimed it would be. Like chasing the girls at recess, I have found this day to be an excellent stress release. I'd climbed a few too many jungle gyms, piled on a few too many Mother's Day outs sans mom, and just plumb had my fill of Legos and Lincoln Logs. To negate that overburdened feeling, I've filled my day with idle TV-watching, like Saturday morning cartoons only on Sunday and with Gilmores on DVD. Every day cannot be filled with activity. Sometimes we just have to take a moment to buy more Johnson and Johnson's "no more tears" shampoo, even if we're too much of a big boy to need it. Or we have to remember to use the kickstand on the shiny blue bike with the banana seat instead of always flinging it into the grass. Or we have to come home when the street lights turn on. And no it doesn't matter if one of them is out and never comes on, it's still time to come home. And yes, have a drink before bed, but just one, and that's it.
Hairy-chested kindergarteners have nothing on me. I skipped the trip to the babysitters, haven't had to color inside the lines in more than a month, and had a beer with my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It wasn't as delicious as I'd hoped, but then memorizing my phone number has not proven to be as valuable as "they" claimed it would be. Like chasing the girls at recess, I have found this day to be an excellent stress release. I'd climbed a few too many jungle gyms, piled on a few too many Mother's Day outs sans mom, and just plumb had my fill of Legos and Lincoln Logs. To negate that overburdened feeling, I've filled my day with idle TV-watching, like Saturday morning cartoons only on Sunday and with Gilmores on DVD. Every day cannot be filled with activity. Sometimes we just have to take a moment to buy more Johnson and Johnson's "no more tears" shampoo, even if we're too much of a big boy to need it. Or we have to remember to use the kickstand on the shiny blue bike with the banana seat instead of always flinging it into the grass. Or we have to come home when the street lights turn on. And no it doesn't matter if one of them is out and never comes on, it's still time to come home. And yes, have a drink before bed, but just one, and that's it.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
What you get is not what you want and what you want is not what you get
In a clearing between the deep green of conifers, two enormous log bridges floated in the air above the smoothest pond I've never seen. It was calm, serene, beautiful. One end of each log was sliced perfectly. The other ends were too far away to see. As if in a helicopter, I hovered into this serene clearing. There was a mack line of disc players on one of the logs. That should provide some picture of the scale. They played comfortably; the fear of falling wasn't a factor. I landed on the other log, not landed really, but appeared. I had the urge to cross the log, to reach the other side I couldn't see. I started to walk and then I lost my balance. I was clinging to the underside of this enormous log when I lost my grip. Suddenly I found myself a lot higher above the water than I'd realized. I was higher up and I was falling. It happened very quickly. I plummeted toward the sheet of pond and then with a splash I woke up.
In a clearing between the deep green of conifers, two enormous log bridges floated in the air above the smoothest pond I've never seen. It was calm, serene, beautiful. One end of each log was sliced perfectly. The other ends were too far away to see. As if in a helicopter, I hovered into this serene clearing. There was a mack line of disc players on one of the logs. That should provide some picture of the scale. They played comfortably; the fear of falling wasn't a factor. I landed on the other log, not landed really, but appeared. I had the urge to cross the log, to reach the other side I couldn't see. I started to walk and then I lost my balance. I was clinging to the underside of this enormous log when I lost my grip. Suddenly I found myself a lot higher above the water than I'd realized. I was higher up and I was falling. It happened very quickly. I plummeted toward the sheet of pond and then with a splash I woke up.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Saturday afternoon at the quote factory
It's a gradual descent into a life I never meant... R. Kiley
In the end, perhaps we should simply imagine a joke; a long joke that's being continually retold in an accent too thick and too strange to ever be completely understood. Life is that joke, my friends. The soul is its punch line. T. Robbins
You said you provided your guests with a welcome basket of eyeballs. All I found in my room was a trash vase filled with old tragedies. You also claimed to offer free overnight humping in your garage. Not true, Fella. M. Libs
It's a gradual descent into a life I never meant... R. Kiley
In the end, perhaps we should simply imagine a joke; a long joke that's being continually retold in an accent too thick and too strange to ever be completely understood. Life is that joke, my friends. The soul is its punch line. T. Robbins
You said you provided your guests with a welcome basket of eyeballs. All I found in my room was a trash vase filled with old tragedies. You also claimed to offer free overnight humping in your garage. Not true, Fella. M. Libs
Thursday, August 03, 2006
My broken Landis
Dear Floyd,
You have hurt me. I watched the Tour this year with more delight and more fervor than ever before. I watched and cheered for you in a boyish way, in a way I have not cheered for a stranger since I was a boy myself. You see, long ago, baseball burned me. They broke my heart and I still haven't forgiven them. I stopped cheering after those baseballers struck. I stopped tuning in on my transistor radio. I stopped being glued to television screens. I found out that there was very little power and very little satisfaction in pouring my heart out in hopes that my little hollers could somehow affect the universe enough to force in one more run, or basket, or field goal of professionals. Professionals were people doing a job. Some focused on the money. Some got caught up in drugs. Either way, it didn't take long to find a more appreciative audience. I found my teammates. They don't get paid and ideally they don't cheat.
Every so often, I dabble in fanaticism again. I start to believe. I start to think that I can be more, I can be great, because I get to witness greatness on that 20 inch box. Then you come along. I devoured your amazing story. The difficulties you have overcome. Your dedication. Your gritty determination. And I watch. I watch hours of men pedaling through France.
Floyd. Some places torture war criminals by making them watch men pedal through France. But I watched on the edge of my failing couch. I tried to will you to success. I believed in you. And you did not let me down. You delivered a stirring victory. An epic story. One for the ages. It seemed glorious. Instead, it teeters on tragic. Whether you're innocent or not, and oh, I cling to the hope that you are, the victory is tainted. I'm shaken. You didn't deny it like an innocent man. But how? How could you be that stupid? Or if this is some vast conspiracy... It's too much. I can't go on. One parting shot- suddenly Zidane, the man who lost his temper in a heated battle looks like a hero. Assuming he wasn't on drugs, at least he was competing on an even playing field. Is that really too much to ask of professional athletes?
I don't have tears to cry. Please make it go away.
-Dave
Dear Floyd,
You have hurt me. I watched the Tour this year with more delight and more fervor than ever before. I watched and cheered for you in a boyish way, in a way I have not cheered for a stranger since I was a boy myself. You see, long ago, baseball burned me. They broke my heart and I still haven't forgiven them. I stopped cheering after those baseballers struck. I stopped tuning in on my transistor radio. I stopped being glued to television screens. I found out that there was very little power and very little satisfaction in pouring my heart out in hopes that my little hollers could somehow affect the universe enough to force in one more run, or basket, or field goal of professionals. Professionals were people doing a job. Some focused on the money. Some got caught up in drugs. Either way, it didn't take long to find a more appreciative audience. I found my teammates. They don't get paid and ideally they don't cheat.
Every so often, I dabble in fanaticism again. I start to believe. I start to think that I can be more, I can be great, because I get to witness greatness on that 20 inch box. Then you come along. I devoured your amazing story. The difficulties you have overcome. Your dedication. Your gritty determination. And I watch. I watch hours of men pedaling through France.
Floyd. Some places torture war criminals by making them watch men pedal through France. But I watched on the edge of my failing couch. I tried to will you to success. I believed in you. And you did not let me down. You delivered a stirring victory. An epic story. One for the ages. It seemed glorious. Instead, it teeters on tragic. Whether you're innocent or not, and oh, I cling to the hope that you are, the victory is tainted. I'm shaken. You didn't deny it like an innocent man. But how? How could you be that stupid? Or if this is some vast conspiracy... It's too much. I can't go on. One parting shot- suddenly Zidane, the man who lost his temper in a heated battle looks like a hero. Assuming he wasn't on drugs, at least he was competing on an even playing field. Is that really too much to ask of professional athletes?
I don't have tears to cry. Please make it go away.
-Dave
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
New age
I think I accidentally grew up in the last week. One minute I was carefree and unmotivated, then I spun around three times and poof I'm working late and fixing my resume and having actual ambitions. It's like I've aged 5 years since last Tuesday. Or maybe it's just the weight of my friggin' moustache.
I think I accidentally grew up in the last week. One minute I was carefree and unmotivated, then I spun around three times and poof I'm working late and fixing my resume and having actual ambitions. It's like I've aged 5 years since last Tuesday. Or maybe it's just the weight of my friggin' moustache.
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