Greetings from the end of the world

Somewhere deep in the Appalachia or buried among the rolling mountains of Northern Canada there are families soundly sleeping in the safety of their survivalist bunkers. The children are not in school today. The men are gathering iodine capsules and freeze dried meals. They are loading their guns, sharpening their blades and taking inventory of materials as their devoted wives quietly mutter Bible passages or REM lyrics, slowly coming to peace with The End. 

They will be the ones to rebuild Earth. They will be the new forefathers. They will craft the first passages of our new history, burying the mistakes of the past. Our existence only a memory. Will they lead the weaker masses to safety through the flames? Will they play the hero roll to better the chances of repopulation? Or will they shoot their way out of danger, simply collecting our soulless corpses for consumption and further survival?

This is all assuming, of course, that the 'apocalypse' does not come in the form of a massive comet strike that spirals our planet out of orbit and in to a black hole. These survivalists seem to be banking on a sort of 'apocalypse lite' scenario where a nuclear misstep causes a massive tidal wave that wipes out half of humanity, or some sort of super volcano opens up a hole to the center of the Earth, swallowing millions of lost souls and leaving nothing more than a field of fire in its wake.  

Only time will tell. My only hope is that in 3 million years, well after all of our electronic devices are rendered useless and the world's financial institutions have collapsed and we have all started anew with only the most well prepared, incestual and cannibalistic leading the way toward a new society, when the radio waves of that thing we once knew as the 'Internet' somehow reach the intergalactic colonies beyond our galaxy that this blog will move to the forefront and serve both as a lesson in cynicism and a sort of primitive, genius manual for the way parenting used to be.

Today is the day, folks. The skies look gray. The ocean looks angry. LET'S GET READY TO RAPTURE!!!!!

...

The one where I once again find myself feeling totally out of place in a room full of mothers

Happy Suicide Tuesday everyone.

I am attempting to update today among a myriad of distractions, not the least of which is Avelyn's insistence that I perform the voices for the various characters from Thomas and Friends as she plays on her train table. So as you read this picture me sitting on the floor, telling engines to be 'very useful' in the booming Sir Topham Hatt voice or channeling my best John Leguizamo voice for Victor the Latino repair engine. Victor confuses me in that his job on the Island of Sodor is to offer maintenance services to all of the steam engines but he is a steam engine himself thus, no hands. How does a train with no hands repair another train? The short answer is: he doesn't. He just idles in the shop and bosses the humans around. Seems like his position could easily be trimmed from the budget. I guess anything is possible on an island where the trains rule the humans who operate them. The human-machine dynamic on Sodor is very confusing. Very. I could probably write a fairly in depth commentary on this, but I will not bore you. Perhaps I could get it published. If only I had the time. If only.

I have been thinking an awful lot lately about new ways in which to make money and become significant in the community, thus avoiding Suicide Tuesdays which are mostly spent thinking about how useless to society I am. A friend of mine from work has been tossing around the idea of opening his own pizza shop. I don't think I have what it takes to be a savvy business man (numbers are not my specialty) but his talking about the subject alone got me thinking.

 *** Another distraction emerges as Avelyn decides to press the power button on my computer and run away***

Whatever the case, I have come to the conclusion that I need to get the hell out of the snooty suburban community in which I am living so I am going to need to find some sort of cash flow significant enough to get me a mortgage. I can't rent anymore, I spend way too much time worrying about carpet stains and broken refrigerator parts. And I can't live where I live any more. The members of this community are outrageous and I want nothing to do with them.

Today I took Av to her 'gymnastics' lessons at the new rich person YMCA down the street. Here is the dynamic. There are about 5-6 kids in the class, all between the ages of 3-6. They do tumbles and other gymnastics related activities, most of them very poorly and clumsily as the are just children. While she is in the class I am forced to sit in a chair outside of the room, watching through the window while all of the other moms sit and squawk about their stressful lives being rich trophy wife mothers or PTO representatives. Here are a few of the characters that I deal with.

There is the Spanish woman who does not work because her husband is very wealthy. I know this because she often says things like "My husband is very wealthy." They are taking their son and daughter to Spain for three weeks to celebrate her birthday. This, of course, is after they get back from celebrating Christmas in some tropical destination that I didn't quite hear. Yup. Tropical Christmas.

"Oh, my husband is very wealthy so we are lucky to be able to take the time off."

And all the other moms eat it up. Evidently if your husband is 'very wealthy' your children are allowed to spend significant time away from school.

Over time Spanish mom has made friends with many of the regular white lady suburban women as they sit around watching poorly executed gymnastics and gossip about school or playdates. Today, one especially talkative woman was going on and on and on about a conflict her daughter, who is in first grade, was having with another girl who she used to be friends with but isn't friends with any more. The other moms sat and listened in horror as she described how her daughter didn't want to be the other girl's friend because she was mean and gets in trouble at school (GASP!) and that the other day they were pushing and shoving on the playground (SHOCK AND DISAPPOINTMENT!) This, of course, was followed up with many a question such as "Who is the teacher? Where was she this whole time?" or "What do the other girl's parents do?" as if no first grader has ever pushed another first grader on the playground. Oh, the teacher must have stepped away from her surveillance cameras that she constantly has focused on your kid to make sure that everything goes perfect for her all the time. SOMEONE MUST BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR THIS!

Do these women not remember school? For Christ sake your kid got in to a tiff with another girl, probably because she was being a complete bitch about something, and there was pushing. Grow up. Wait until she is 15 and come talk to me. But, no, this conversation went on for some time bashing everyone involved (excluding her own perfect child, of course) and eventually spiraled in to outrage over how the principal of the school took too long to return an email questioning whether or not they would be telling the children about the Connecticut school shooting.

"I just, you know, she comes home from school at 3 and I don't get the email until 8 that night. I mean, what am I supposed to tell her if she asks? How do I know if they even talked about it at school? How do I know if I should bring it up? She could have been more proactive about this, I mean, what am I expected to do?"

Oh, I don't know- stop worrying so damn much? First of all, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that if your child is in first grade the principal isn't coming over the intercom and spitting out the horrible details of a school massacre that happened to victimize children the exact same age as they are. Just a hunch. At most, they carefully and delicately go over school lock down procedure or what to do if something bad happens without offering any specifics. The teacher isn't saying "If anyone comes in here trying to murder you do this." No. Not how it works.

But you should totally stress yourself out completely over an email you sent to the principal instead of just deciding how to deal with it if your kid asks because, you know, there is a much better chance of hearing about it from an older kid in the hallway or from TV or the radio or 9,000 other places that aren't her totally irresponsible teachers and principal. But don't worry, you'll bring it up at tomorrow's PTO meeting just to be sure. Good plan. I mean, good God, someone get this woman a job. Or a landscaper to sleep with while her husband is at work. Or something to do besides try to perfect parenting all day long.

As bad as these mothers are the absolute worst are the Russians. There are two Russian children in gymnastics class who appear to be training for the Olympics, or at the very least for some sort of qualifying competition. While my clumsy kid is running around not paying attention and struggling to do somersaults these two are mean-mugging all the other kids and trying to perfect dismounts.

While they are in there doing this the mothers are video taping them and cheering them on from outside. Give me a break. These kids are 4-years-old. Mine dressed herself today. She is wearing a kitty shirt, polka dot pants and a green skirt. One boy is laying on his stomach and spinning around like a helicopter rotor. Take it down a notch. If you want your kids to be that serious take them to a class that is that serious. Don't stand over my shoulder with your video camera and yell in my ear while I am trying to play Fruit Ninja.

That is another thing. All of these parents are very focused on what their children do in this class. Maybe I am a bad father but I pay attention to probably 10 percent of the time Avelyn is in there, and that is usually just to make sure she isn't causing any trouble. I just don't care. She isn't doing anything competitive, or out of the ordinary for that matter. She is running and jumping and tumbling. She does most of this crap in the living room. She is having fun. Big deal. No need to hone in on every movement and analyze why this gymnastics class is better for this skill set or why the teachers mannerisms will help them adapt when they move up to the next skill level. Leave your kids alone. Let them have fun. They are toddlers.

That's another thing, these moms are sitting there complaining that their kids aren't paying attention at dance class and aren't working hard enough at gymnastics. For Christ sake they are children! Maybe this is why I am not 'very wealthy' or taking my family on tropical vacations. Maybe this is why I suffer through Suicide Tuesday. Maybe this is why my daughter is uncoordinated and refuses to acknowledge that the number 15 exists no matter how many times you teach it to her. Maybe my parents didn't push me enough as a child. I don't know, it all seems just totally over the top to me.

Kids are kids. Be nice to them, teach them stuff. When they go to school let the teachers deal with them. That is a perk, not something to be overly concerned about. I could see if you were living in the ghetto or some community with horribly funded schools but even then, the teachers tend to be pretty well educated and dedicated even if the facilities are lacking or the kids are a little more rough and tumble. If you want one on one constant supervision for your kid home school the little bastard. Then it can grow up to have no social skills or concept of actual reality and live in a gated community and send panicked email's to your grand children's school and get totally upset that the teacher has a life outside of work and wasn't able to respond until 8 p.m. Teachers should get CEO money.

Anyway, after sitting and listening to 'push gate' and the outrage over the lack of timely response to the school shooting email I reached the end of my usable life, which is good because that was right when class ended, otherwise I probably would have ended up saying something to one of them. It isn't just like that at gymnastics, it is everywhere in this rich little suburban seaside town. Sure, our apartment is pretty nice and the streets are quiet and the schools are safe, but these are just the worst kind of people. I live with the 1 percent. I live with the people who don't think poor people deserve help because they don't work hard. I live with the people who leave the raising of their children to nannies and the walking of their dogs to "dog walking professionals" but it is fine because they take their children skiing every weekend.

So, this guy right here needs a cash cow of some kind so he can get his family out of this environment before his daughter becomes snooty and exclusive. Maybe I will try and make money from the blog. Today I started a blog Twitter page. I am still not quite sure how I am going to utilize that. Stay tuned. My hope is that it will somehow generate page hits and eventually someone will offer me a book deal based on this incredibly famous blog. It seems to happen to people with a lot less talent than me, so it is worth a shot, right? So, if anyone knows a publisher or two, tell them to tweet me. (Not really, though, because I probably won't get it or understand how to respond).

...

Good grief, it's time for Zoo Lights

Zoo Lights is a concept that has been incarnated in many a zoo across the nation. The idea is very simple: Bring people, and therefore more money, in to your zoo during the off season by covering the place in Christmas lights and a holiday decorations. Add a Christmas village or holiday wonderland of sorts and charge some money to sit on Santa's lap all the while giving folks a chance to see some of the more nocturnal animals in action. It is a solid business plan, indeed.

I have mentioned here many times how much I personally enjoy zoos and how I have passed that enjoyment on to Av by traveling to every zoo within driving distance over the past three years. The best, by far, has been Lupa Zoo in Ludlow, Ma. Privately-owned, it has a crazy variety of animals that are let to roam much more freely than a regular zoo. How can they do this? They actually give the animals room to live in very large habitats so they aren't totally suicidal and ready to tear apart a 6-year-old for their own freedom. I also fed a giraffe and saw a monkey masturbate. True story.

The closest zoo to us geographically is Stone Zoo which, conveniently, offers a zoo lights event every year after Thanksgiving. Last night we made the short pilgrimage to cap off the ever popular 'family day,' or as Av calls it 'fam-iwy-daaay.' This takes place just about any Sunday in which the Patriots do not play and usually involves lunch, errand running and one kid-friendly activity.

Let's go ahead and set the scene. Zoo Lights, in a nutshell, is about 800-1,000 families cramming in to an already small zoo that is half to three quarters closed off because most of the animals have been locked away in whatever depressing area they store animals when it is too cold for them to be outside due to the fact that they are no longer living in their natural habitat. Animals available for viewing are a bald eagle, arctic fox, porcupine, barn owl, river otter and a reindeer. We'll get to the reindeer. 

We decided that it would be a smart idea to arrive right when they opened at 5 p.m. and as it turned out we managed to make it close, pulling in the gate by 5:22 p.m. In our family that is right on schedule. Evidently our plan was a popular one. We were directed to an overflow parking lot across the street that had both no lighting and a series of giant, car-swallowing mud puddles littering its landscape.

It was at this point that a man in a mini van tried to pass me on the left hand side (in a parking lot) to get to a parking spot, of which there were several available, and I declared that I was going to "beat the shit out of someone" at Zoo Lights. It isn't family day if I don't threaten to beat the shit out of at least one person. Monica, to her credit, just laughed. It was also at this point that I began to ask myself why I had not packed a flask and asked Monica to drive, to which she said " I don't know why you didn't. You usually just get covertly drunk on Sundays anyway." Dammit. Not only did I blow my chance to enjoy Zoo Lights, I realized I am not as sneaky as I thought I was.

So, sober and already teetering on holiday melt down we headed toward the zoo. Not before crossing a two-lane state highway with only the aid of a zoo employee risking his own life to slow cars down by waving a flash light. Apparently the police were busy. (Insert donut joke here).

One positive to the evening was that, as zoo members, we were able to avoid the line that literally stretched to the end of the parking lot and cut right to the entrance gate. That zoo membership paid for itself right then. Once inside the Zoo Lights extravaganza we immediately sought out the event's main attraction: an "encounter" with a real life reindeer. At first, "encounter" seemed like a strange term to use. Once I had the "encounter" it made perfect sense.

The line for the reindeer encounter was essentially a giant cluster fuck of people losing their children. People randomly and periodically searching for one or more of their kids in a concentrated area, yelling their names, arguing with their significant others about whose responsibility it was to keep an eye on them etc..  The average conversation went something like this:

"Do you have Brian? Oh my God where is Brian!?"

"I don't know, I thought you had him by the otter."

"Well, where is he, Steven?! He was just right here!"

"I DON'T KNOW! I"M STANDING IN LINE!"

"Well he was just right next to you! I have Cassie, WHERE IS BRIAN?!"

"Lois, I"M STANDING IN LINE, YOU GO FIND HIM!"

And so on.

 Usually the kids were no further away than a nearby bush, but it is dark out, so parents tend to panic a bit more. The couple in front of us, who appeared to have entered in to the loveless, no longer attracted to one another era of marriage, lost their son Eric for about 3-7 minutes. He was literally standing about 4 feet away from them the entire time. In the mother's defense, the kid could have spoken up one of the 65 times she belted out his name, and I probably could have helped, too since he was standing right next to me, but it was more fun not to.

Another highlight of the line was a man, a zoo employee who I am kicking myself for not taking a picture of, who was walking around in a red sweater wielding some sort of staff or walking stick adorned with a red bow. At first he used this stick to back people up as wide strollers came past the line of people, and later he would stand at the front of the line and regulate who got to see the reindeer, all the while spouting random facts about the animal like "She is 8-months-old. If that were you you would still be a baby, but she is a reindeer, so she is a teenager." This man, while soft spoken and mustache-clad, was also stern.

We were in line for probably 15-20 minutes before we actually caught a glimpse of the reindeer which was standing between two handlers. These two handlers were included in every family photo taken. One man smiled, the woman did not. She was taking her job a bit too seriously. Around this time the reindeer began to give up. It was about the saddest thing I've seen. The thing kept looking at the handler like "are you kidding me?" and eventually just walked away, had some water and decided to lay down. This is where the 'encounter' part of the deal became clear. "Look, you guys, we have a reindeer but there is no guarantee it is going to care enough to stand up or go near the picture taking area so we are promising nothing more than an encounter."

Here is what the goth teenager reindeer looked like before totally giving up on life. Can't say I blame it.

 We were going to bail at this point but Av insisted that she wanted to have her picture taken with the animal so we hung around in line. A few minutes later some kids, a bit older, uncovered a loophole. If you cut through the bushes next to the line you could sneak in and see the reindeer without waiting. I was going to let this slide until one of them pulled out a phone and started taking pictures. Oh, no, no, no, no, my friend. Not today, little boy, not today. That is when I decided to intervene.

"Hey, I'm not sure if you brought any parents with you today but there is a line to see the reindeer and it doesn't start here."

Monica's response? "Congratulations, you just intimidated three 8-year-olds."

Where was the man with the staff for that one?

Shortly after this we finally were given our chance to encounter the reindeer, and here are the faces Avelyn decided to make during her precious, coveted picture time: You can see the man's staff just to the bottom left.

Notice how far away the barely visible reindeer we encountered is laying. There were several more pictures taken, many after Monica pleaded for a smile, all with very similar results. Av thinks she is hilarious.

Immediately after the final picture was taken and we contributed $3 toward the suggested donation of $5 for the reindeer photo, I scooped Av up and proceeded to walk face first in to the only goddamn branch in the entire zoo without a string of lights on it.

So, with an eye full of pine needles we ventured over to Santa's Village at which point I had to explain to Av why I would not be spending anywhere between $14-$30 to wait in another long line to have her picture taken with the third fake Santa we had seen that day. Instead we toured the "Village" which was an indescribably creepy collection of dirty, kind of broken Christmas-like renditions of fairy tales and Christmas stories. Once again, I am kicking myself for not taking pictures, especially of the filthy 12-foot teddy bear that looks like something out of an abandoned, haunted amusement park.

Finally, before the merciful ending of the evening, we stopped to let Av take a train ride. The ride was uneventful except for this fake elephant that appeared to be urinating on a bush.

In short, Zoo Lights is probably fun if you go on a Tuesday night. My advice? Spend the $50-$75 on a membership. Skip the lines and you can go to the Stone and Franklin Park Zoo for free whenever you want. Your kid will probably have a good time, but not a great time. Av was apathetic. She wanted to pet the reindeer so I think when it became apparent that it wasn't allowed she stopped caring.  Also, river otters kick ass.

...

Just a disclaimer, as there has been some confusion. The musical selection at the bottom of each post is not necessarily related to the theme. Unless it is. Usually, it is just a song I like that I think people should listen to.  

Hating your neighbors, lying to your kids- HAPPY HOLIDAYS

I'll get to that Mexico story soon, turns out I don't have a whole lot of free time these days. A lot of this is due to being totally wrapped up in the center of the holiday season. I am, like, two steps away from Santa Claus at this point. At the very least I am Clark Griswold. I used to totally despise the holidays. I don't care for Thanksgiving at all, I am not particularly religious and usually Christmas just means having to stress out about finding, and affording, a gift that people won't make fun of you or resent you for giving them. Then there is family. Lots and lots and lots of family. Sure, there are people that I enjoy seeing and frolicking with every year, but there are a lot more people that I don't have any use for- especially when you start getting in to the dark depths of a relationship and there are two families to visit every year. Shitty relatives are so much worse when they aren't actually related to you. So much worse.

Since I have decided to partake in fatherhood, however, the Christmas season has begun to be enjoyable again. Instead of just stressing out about the obligatory crap that I don't want to do I am now beginning to enjoy showing Av all of the Christmas preparations and I am feeding off of her excitement. I think the other day I may have felt actual joy. I am not doing nearly as much grumbling as I normally would about buying gifts because I know what I am buying is going to make her happy (and will also be fun for me to play with- there is a certain feeling that you are buying gifts for yourself as a child). And the best part? When you have kids you can slowly weed out all of those people you don't want to see around the holidays. Easy excuses make for fewer obligations.

Unfortunately, having children does not excuse me from hanging Christmas lights, so all of my neighbors still get to hear me yell things like "fucking cocksuckers" or "piece of shit douchebag" as I string lights on the porch. It only took me about three and a half hours this year to finish up the job, which is about an hour less than last year. Something that the childless, yuppie piece of shit that lives across the street seemed to think was funny. So funny, in fact, that he continued to comment on it while he loaded up his Mazda for a snowboarding trip along with his sweater vest, turtleneck, loafer-wearing bro dude best friend.

"Still at it, huh?"

Yeah. I'm still fucking at it. You know why? Because hanging Christmas lights is a pain in the ass. I'm standing on a freaking patio chair with strings of icicle lights draped over my shoulders. I have dropped a staple gun on my foot FOUR TIMES and NONE OF THE LIGHT STRINGS ARE THE RIGHT LENGTH! Once I got all the lights up I had to take two strings back down because the plugs on the strands of lights didn't match up. Oh, and I have a three year old nipping at my ankles and trying to sabotage me the entire time.

"Those lights look like they are winning."

Oh, do they? Do they look like they are winning, Gavin? Well you know who isn't going to be wining? You, Gavin. You. You know why? Because while you are on your snowboard trip I am going to break in to your condo and put my balls on your pillow. That's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna steal your dog. I'm gonna fix your girlfriend up with one of my friends. You are going to come home to no dog, no girlfriend and a pillow that smells like balls. WHO IS WINNING NOW, GAVIN? By the way, Gavin? Awful name.

If it wasn't apparent already, I don't care for Gavin. I haven't ever formally met him or his girlfriend. I have only said hello as he gets in to his car that is always unnecessarily parked in front of my house, but I'll tell you why I don't like him. He is young, in shape, does not have any children, appears to have plenty of money and is constantly walking around with a smile on his face. This man faces no adversity. He wears sandals. He plays golf during the week. He walks his dog in a bubble jacket. He goes on snowboarding trips. Judging by his recycling, he drinks Corona Light. His life is too good. Too easy. It is unfair and I don't like him. We have nothing in common. I bet he listens to Coldplay. His name is also Gavin. Let's not overlook that, either.

I also don't care for my Jewish next door neighbors to the right. I do not dislike them because they are Jewish, but when looking at the entire package, their religious snobbyness is responsible for many of their awful personality traits. I have always said that I don't care what religion someone is as long as they leave me alone about it. For the most part, the neighbors have left me alone about it, but you should have seen the death stare I got while I was hanging up the Christmas lights.

There are four main reasons that I don't care for these people.

First, they came on way too strong when they moved in. Knocking on our door and asking if we wanted to come over. Whoa whoa whoa. This isn't a fraternity. We aren't 17. Slow down. I'm not here to make friends. I have friends. You bought a house next to where I live. Enjoy. We aren't having a block party.

Second, the first thing they did upon moving in was cut down all off the trees in their back yard, most of which hung over our yard and provided shade, privacy and a home for many of the birds and small creatures I enjoy. Now the squirrels just wander around and eat trash. It is like a third world country after a national disaster back there. Dicks.

Third, and this is where the religion part comes in, about once every few months they have some sort of temple gathering at their home where throngs of old Jewish women aimlessly and cluelessly drive their high priced vehicles up and down the street looking for the house, turning around in the drive way, taking up all the spots on the street and generally causing a suburban traffic and parking nightmare. They stay for two hours or so and then the 'we are all leaving at the same time' puzzle begins. I swear sometimes they just stop in the middle of the road out of pure stress.

The fourth and final reason that I do not care for these people is that the wife listens to Jimmy Buffett. You know who else I bet likes Jimmy Buffett? Gavin. You guys should be friends with Gavin. And then you can all move. Or maybe I'll move. Hey, Gavin, can I borrow some money?

Moral of the story? Don't move near me. I am a psychopath.

Anyway, I got the lights up. I have not broken in to Gavin's apartment. The Christmas tree has been put together, it is in the window facing the Jewish neighbor's house. Yes, I do kind of hope it bothers them. Happy holidays. Now, all that is left is lying to Avelyn about Santa, elves and the like which makes for a magnificent excuse to threaten her when she is acting like a shit head. Which, like most children, and most human beings in general is all the time. We have an 'Elf on the Shelf' who reports back to Santa on whether or not she was good each day. This is funny because deep down I think she knows it's bullshit, she always asks why he doesn't talk or move or blink, but when it comes down to it she is going to go with it because if she is wrong she would be totally fucked. Kind of like being Catholic. Makes no sense when you really think about it, but people still follow the rules just in case. 

All in all it should be a nice holiday season. Unless people keep knocking on my door at dinner time asking me about my energy bill. That happened last night. It did not go well for the husky young woman wearing khakis and a 'Next Energy' polo shirt. First of all, don't knock on my door ever unless you have a delivery or you are selling Girl Scout cookies. Second, don't knock on my door at 6:49 p.m. Third, don't argue with me when I tell you I am not interested. This will land you a door slam in the face and a strongly worded email to your company's CEO. Why do I have this vision of me eventually living in one of those compounds like the guys on 'American Pickers' always roll up on? You know, one with three buildings filled with junk I've hoarded and a fence with a bunch of 'Keep Away' signs? I hope no one ever allows me to purchase a firearm.

...

Monica and I have been doing some arguing over the naming of our upcoming child lately. She is in to the usual Sam, Peter, Jimmy, Timmy, etc... that everyone always names their kids. I am looking for something a little more distinguished. I have already been shot down on Roosevelt, Filmore, Elmore and Leroy. Even when I tried to go more traditional with Lewis or Leo I was hit with a resounding 'no'. This is frustrating. About the only hope I still have is Calvin. I don't know why, but I really feel like his name should be somewhat presidential. Roosevelt seems best, but apparently that ship has totally sailed, so I am going to have to compromise. We could always go with Gavin, I suppose. 

...