Just completed as in like so two hours ago the Coronation of Middling City U's newest baddest prez, John Simpson. Lots of my signature people looking human moments, looking ecstatic in bursts. Two nights of grazing on party food, those mysterious cheesey nuggets. Found Laura amidst all today's chaos and invited her to join me alongside one of the tables laden with crudites out the wazoo.
And just back from Philly yesterday, several days of walking through a small town, emptying (with assistance from Bill, Kennedy's bestest pal) a bottle of Oban, and best of all filming for art's sake. Just wrote to JR to inform him of such.
Onwards now to points ever beyonder.
Beyond Love.

Song du jour, du moment, is Beth Orton's Someone's Daughter.
Jaunty, rollicking, chock full of insight perfect for a day that has a chill that squeezes the remainder of life out of the perennials.
So Christopher Reeve died. And I recall shooting him near the Rainbow Bridge where one can cross from polluted Niagara Falls, NY to Vegaslike Niagara Fall, CA. His hands amazed me, all puffed out from meds and flakey. I made images of his body, his talking head, and those hands. At that time he had had no feelings yet in his body and speaking was laborious for him, intake of oxygen, phrase, repeat. It was painful to watch, I found myself holding my own breath and releasing it when he spoke. And I felt like death was upon him then, several years ago. Why was he on the Rainbow Bridge. For a film fest that never happened again, in Ontario over There.
This past weekend, post-wedding, I spoke with Father Jim of the Greek Orthodox Church in the Middling City, a man who if any, has a spirituality hovering around him - uncommon, I believe, in people of the Cloth. I helped him scoop the tray holding jordan almonds, the dual crown used in the ceremony, and some other nuptial paraphernalia, into a plastic bag. I spied the almonds. Are those jordan almonds. Yes, he said, have one for luck. I did. THEN he tells me about two seventy-year old sisters who kept jordan almonds from every wedding at that church, who put them under their respective pillows - for years - as it's superstition that the man of your dreams will come to you in the REM state. Did they ever marry, I asked. No. So much for lucky jordan almonds. I, too, now am assured a life of spinsterhood. Oh well.
Mad props to Beth Dearest for giving me her secret code to print out school readings as my own account with sheister-ridden XanEdu.com wouldn't recognize me as one who had reluctantly and yet diligently shuttled $80 or so at them for the same priviledge to discover last night that Holy Crap I can't access a thing and I'm on the road in minutes and what in hell shall I read on the trip if not good ol' snoozearific Michel Foucault et al. So now I'm armed with Foucault brilliance and won't have to pick up the latest MC News, USA Today or crapmag that I would not usually purchase but for that mysterious state of airport consciousness when suddenly flourescently-lit trash pubs look so... enticing.

Fluxes of Love.

Today I came out into the world. So therefore a bunch of us met up at the Middling City's most eldest of juicejoints, Ulrich's, for revelry's sake. Frosting, cake, gifts, singing, dancing to leder-hosed music, rat scampering quietly around a corner out of the corner of my eye, the debate raging overhead for a portion, more scotch, more dance, more frosting, cards, laughing with head tipped back. Good times were had by Yours Truly, most importantly. Then morning rolled around and it was full-throttle work all day, John Lennon's day.
Today a crisp apple day and, as is my custom, I called my mother who sprung me to discover my father, the other third of the equation, must have been online so no Hello at the exact minute - 2:01PM. Blogging now in my studio/live space getting well wisher calls and emails as the Hispanic evangels rock on for the almighty mightily and I work on various projects before ultimately heading to Kennedy's where I have a huge desire to bake sweet potatoes stuffed with crab or lobster. Tomorrow we jet off to another city for a while.
Older, wiser, stronger, faster, that's what I just told Justy.
Life might be for the living but birthdays are for the birthed.

Nascent Love.

Um, so minding my own stinkin' business (need I say - as USUAL) I'm having a, as in uno, drink with one of my most beloved editors, the Liz. Then more.
So then I query so what IS the next cover story of the next issue of the Shiny Happy. Well, wouldn't You know, it's the Asian Trends Pulitzer Piece by Yours Truly. Very Truly. Truly truly.
While out and about we are speaking to the bar owners, the chef of the joint, and assorted (not sordid) others.
Now here. Where I have the proverbial gun to the head, where I am flailing away and am assuredly looking at an old-school, charming night sans sleep. Hello! Journalism! This, kids, is what it's all about. The over-indulgence, the grace, the caffeine, the deadline pressure, the tension, the creativity. The ebb. The flow.
Love it, live it.
Called Beth in the midst of the throes of it. Noted she has not called back. She is scared. This is frightening. This is Get the fuck out of my way or I steamroll right the fuck over y'all time.
Onwards to crime.
Onwards to less time.

Onwards to Love.

Open thought to Kodak, one of several pains in mine arse. Whyowhy discontinue a winner, namely, your CN41 b&w film. I mean really. A grand film. Now to be replaced by a more expensive model, curiously named VW. Does Volkswagen know of this.
End of letter to misdirected corporation Kodak.
And just finished pondering the big questions raised by snapshots, papparazzi and daguerreotypes for skewel. Dragged philosopher Paul Virlio into it all, about his thoughts on what he dubbed the telepresence, what we all imagistically experience en masse, to global result.
“Since all presence is presence only at a distance, the telepresence of the era of the globalization of exchanges could only be established across the widest possible gap,” he writes.
Rock on, philsopher man.
Makes for further great cocktail party conversation.
Planning a bon voyage party for video artist Koji Tambaata at my joint, somewhere in the 20s. Full-on booze-a-thon with video people and rockstars and others. Or not. We have to hold a summit meeting.
And, on the subject of the day you should really be shopping for already, my bday soiree is happening Friday night at 9PM at the oldest grindingly sloppy bar in the Middling City, Ulrich's. German band live, in those cute little leather short sets.
So, if you are in the MC and are of revelling age, come and be.
Time to further my education, edit some marriage images and then, and THEN, watch the veep debate at 9PM EST. Cheney the Corporate Evil One v. The Dubiously-Credentialed Edwards.
All.

Debate on Love.
Parliamentary Rules and Roberts's Rules of Order in Full Effect.

Holy guacamole a first just happened seconds ago, when I lifted the half-full, nay, half-empty bottle of Oban to my lips and sucked its essence into my soul following this marathon - and I mean MARAfuckinTHON - two days. Today was an oldschool Perfect Me 18 hour day that ended with the dual Harvey Breverman gig at two galleries. First the one, then the other. Made hundreds of digital images of the beloved Harvey and his students, former students, art people, my art people, my pals, etc. etc. I think at the Harvey gig I may have spent about 60% of the time talking. Oh, if the woman who hired me finds this on the ol' internet system that was but a joke. It was more like... oh, 10%. Another sip of Oban, hello nectar of the gods. And tomorrow early to rise and meeting and the wedding of the diva bride and her man until it's time to meander into the final moments of Kennedy's show across the way. Interpol, Oban, a change of clothing, bane. You will be oso shocked and happy to note the Shiny Happy Mag story is complete, a genius array of over 2K words. And happy happy happiests to JW,Esq. who turned, uhhhh, according to some tripped-out femme at a recent concert, 28 or 29. But I know, ever-diligent fact-searching and soothsaying journalist that I am and will forever be, that he is over the age of 30. But never will he reach my age as I'm ahead by five or so.
And, really, there are eight shopping days and what in hell are you waiting for.
Search this blogpost for super-secret bday gift ideas.

Ideas about love.

If You did not take the time to watch tonight's Aspirational Debate, indulge in a firsthand document instead of predictable spin and snippets, I am impatient with You at this moment - or could it be the spate of tea and afterbuzz bordering on hyper-freneticism.
Most troubling phrase uttered by BadW was I know how this world works.
My maddest props to Kerry (who should be buying better suits, in my not very humble opinion as I've got the blood of a bespoke tailor and generations of seamstresses and sewers within) was his comment on certainty. That the hook or by crook BadW is ascertaining wrongly - his words were that there may be certainty but the facts or beliefs behind that certainty may be wrong.
This half-arsed certainty is parallel to beliefs that lead one to follow terrorism or to engage in acts of terrorism - beliefs that are certain and certainly not benefiting many or putting forth the concepts of co-existence, acceptance or peace.
There was one moment, near the end, when Prez43 garbled several words together, just a mash of sounds. Arresting it was. Reminded me of the Martianspeak (KLAATU BARADA NIKTO - to which I replied EEP OP ORK AH AH....... which any self-resepcting fan of the Jetsons will know as well as they will know what the initials WMD or WTO or OPEC stand for, fercrissakes) in the movie Kennedy showed me last evening, The Day the Earth Stood Still.
Oh, and one final parting shot/blow/thought.
Money, and the having of money, mean nothing. It might make the ugly men of the world fuckable or charities creak along. Or prevent historic buildings from collapsing. But. It never means taste or kindness or style ensue.
So. Post talkpoints up come the families. Kerry had only his date, the ketchup heiress. The Bushies had to share their portion of their limelight with the Kookie Twins. Ketchup lady looked like hell. Hair askew, a bad suit choice. And both first lady contestants wore winter white. At moments of appealing to the masses the whites, the pinks and pastels turn up.
Out on her own Hillary showed up in black and that is, seemingly, her colour of choice. Theresa Heinz needs a stylist. Kerry needs a better-fitting suit. Think these things don't matter. In a battle this important every factor counts - demeanour, thoughts, suits, slogans. Frumps and the weak don't win.
Rah Rah Rah.
Eep Op Ork Ah Ah.
epinw readers vote.

epinw Army of Love.

Not that this will alarm You but the ol' piece for the Shiny Happy Mag is l.a.t.e. Once again I am creating stress wrinkles in the visage of an editor. But, as I always say, it's researched, fact-checked out the literal wazoo and will arrive Pulitzer-ready. Just when I think I'm done researching - kablam - along comes more fun facts, a new joint to investigate. On the advice of GoodW, bona-fide & head-to-toe Banana Republic Boy, meandered into BanRep today for the FallSale and later spread the good cheer, telling Deb post-standing Wednesday breakfast engagement that indeed it was worth the suburban foray. Thanks to GoodW en route to the Luxe Card. What with all the Parsons School of Demands purchases I should be well on my way to the New School U plutonium card. Favoured new word, speaking of things invisible yet oso powerful: allotropic (an element that can appear in more than one form, sort of like multiple personality disorder). Use it, love it.
$5 Word Love.

Returned from ad agency gig at Middling City Zoo post asscrack of dawn. The femme who hired Yours Truly says Be there at 930. So I am. Along with some construction workers hard at work making Otter City, a display of... otters, and workers engaged in poo management. Finally, the event. For the dessert, if you will, of the hoopla, zoo workers had the elder statesman elephant meander out for a photo op. I saw this as Republican Party propaganda and will be PhotoShopping a Dem donkey into all the elephantine images. Sitting in my car parked in the center of the Middling City's largest park/golf course I talked to Beth and collaboratively we noted that our grad program is so peripheral in our minds. On that note onwards to homework and its attendant focuslike activities.

Focus on Love.

Swearing on the souls of the venerable and very dead founders of New School U (the corporate giant to the start-up Parsons School of Desirability), I was like so trying to do homework today in the wi-fi-rich teahouse. But. But what. I will so tell you what. There was a deep-throated - woopsies - let us say she was whisky-voiced, woman in the joint who boomed on and on and on and on about cancer, meditation, members of the Middling City U English Department Faculty of Yore who Yours Truly studied and partied her balls off with, and much much more. My ears and mind wandered. But, Beth Dearest and I have duly dually noted that the online seminar is so... off-kilter. There is no discussion as of yet despite the prodding efforts of, You guessed it correctly, Perfect Student Me. BTW and ink this on the calendar, there are thirteen shopping days until the day that I plunged into the world the day after the birthday of John Lennon. I count my b-day as a shop day as it's a dimanche fercrissakes and who the hell can't muster up some energy to shop on that day of non-rest, especially for such an important holiday. Supreme likes, should you need ideas: green, green tea, green, green tourmaline (ask the nice counter girlies at Me & Ro about my drooling over their exquisite green tourmaline ring), and world peace.
Oh, another distraction in the tea joint was a familiar disc playing up above so I asked Jennifer to refresh my memory. Over the Rhine. But of course. Then she tells me they have a new one, a double cd and it's for freakin' sale in the tea/jewelry/cd outlet. It is now mine and Blair would be oso proud of me as he manages them.

Love Outlet.

After the priest railed against gay marriage in a political way, preaching to the assumed choir about how Christians/Catholics/The Zealous do not need legislation to tell them that marriage is absolutely between a man and a woman, and a few other matters on the platform, a terrier ran from behind the altar, prancing and yipping all the way. A few congregants/wedding guests asked if I, the paid shooter, captured this Greenpeace-worthy, PETA-like activity. I did not, I said, as I was trying to catch the little beast more than capture it.
I gave the terrier mad props for attempting to fluster Father Blowhard.
Oh, and also, the groom's eight year old son nearly passed out on the oppressive altar. I later asked him how this happened, nearly. He showed me how his tie was tied so tightly that his lips had turned blue. And he nearly passed out again to illustrate.
In the midst of a love song, one that inspires couples to press their bodies together and to press their misty memories together, the dj boomed mid-song over the PA - THIS IS ONE OF THE WORLD'S MOST POPULAR LOVE SONGS. I mean really.
Just once I'd like to request a mic for my unfettered and sporadic epinw-style commentary throughout a wedding day. An example: Who the hell's idea was it to serve so MANY starches for dinner. & Uh, Father Blowhard, this one goes out to you, howzabout we stick to phantasmagoric ideals of a marital nature and keep the Republic out of this.

Dem dere Love.

Again listening, in obsessive fashion, to soundtrack from Lost in Translation x-specially track 5 that is Girls by Death in Vegas.
When life does not spring a Virgin Megastore in one's path one must make do, embrace the rehashing of a collection like a gallery on the skids without funding.
Last night, what small surrealisms in parts. After a solid night of working spun out of my Jetson Heliport in the most wee of hours and, as I had sipped mega-watt green tea all the night long, I was like so up to the task at hand for meeting Good W and his pals. Once I called him W and his response was that I was never to call him that again due to the alleged president's co-opting of the letter - I told him the right thing to do was to reclaim the, his, letter.
Four of us walked a few long blocks to the former offices of Middling City Orchestra, now housing several on its three stories. The MC Orchestra was one of my clients so to revisit this building and be able to meander into its nooks and crannies with abandon was a treat. Up in the attic (who the hell on the orchestra staff had to toil away the workday up in that hovel) one of the residents has a lovingly-organized display of death dolls from a graphic novel apparently. Rivalling anything I saw in the Satanists's home a while back, all black, intricate, ready for battling. It was at that point that Good W's pal Colleen told me of causing the jettisoning off of a young man on a water bed, as we looked down upon an air mattress resembling a water bed.
The residents shared stories of ghosts wandering this old home, about people drowning babies there when it was a home for unwed girls, about people slipping on the wooden stairs and feeling embracing arms about them. Not nearly as spooky as the shelves of death dolls.
Off now again to points beyond.

No love for death dolls.

THIS JUST IN:
I AM BACK ONLINE CHEZ MOI, AFTER ABOUT HALF AN HOUR WITH A FACELESS, NAMELESS TECHIE. CHECK UNCHECK CHECK CLOSE OUT OPEN UP CHECK UNCHECK AND VOI-FUCKIN-LA... ONLINE BRAINAL ACTIVITY UP AND RUNNING. YOU WANT MISERY. OFFLINE MY DSL. STOP.

Well cheese and crackers how the h-e-double-crisscrossed-hockey-weapons did it get to be thirsty Thursday already.
Yesterday's gig was at the home of the parents who brought one of the favoured ones of Yours Truly out into the world, Rio. Her parents, parents-in-law of Ron. So I show up and note most notably that there is a giant grill on the front Middling City lawn rivalling any of the suburbs. And, manning the grill, is Smoker Bob, in shorts, tan, cowboy hat, etc. So the food was insuredly good. John the CW Rocker was there and that was a bonus. Inside, a celebration of 50 years of marital union and guests manhandled programs and sang while Ron and I shot each other blood-curdling-oh-fuck-I-may-just-break-out-into-heathenistic-cackle looks.
You will be not too surprised to know that Yours Truly has once again painted herself into a grand corner and has oso many deadlines on her head that it might just implode like an old pumpkin.
And, speaking of pumpkins, one of my pumpkin-smashing students from last year's late-night seminar, taught from within my golden Forester, was inquiring if class will be in session this season. To which Yours Truly replied Do upraised pumpkins experience velocity and gravitas and gravity and elicit jubilation in equal measure.

Tutorials of Love.

Went to hardcore girlie wedding shower yesterday, sunny yesterday, for MaryB, in Deb's backyard. A real pleasure, a gathering of so many revelling babes and pals and throwdown party girlies. And somehow, despite its being an EstFest, there in the corner lurked Jack Daniels. I left before he was cracked. I left just after Sarah and I played London Bridge is Fallin' Down with our manicured toes (Sarah is 2.3 years old) and talked to nearly one and all. Got the lowdown on the re-opening of Royal Pheasant from Molly "Mad-In-Charge" Q, co-owner. The beets on the menu stay. The Rat Pack banquettes stay. Live lobsters? Staying. Gaggle of barflies? Not so sure.
Saw Festival Express and Janice Joplin's filmed performances gave me bona fide, 100% skin-keep goosebumps. The footage is unforgettable, the editing stellar. But where were the groupies, the boobies, I ask.
For what is R&R without a little r&r.
I rest my rollicking case.
Rolllllicking, documentary Love.

A fun fact.
The only thing Yours Truly can think of that I share with the US hook or by crook president is that we both like to assign nicknames to others.
Put that in your pipe.
Smoke it.
Inhale.
So, according to Beth, we have a School Assignment. I mean, really. School Assignment. Don't these people know I have work to do, money to make, magazines to read. And art to ponder and create.
In mere moments I'll be toodling over to the New School U site to see what is in store for me.
Had a whirlwind of visiting with gal pals this week. Lunch with sister Soups and then Laura. Plethora of drinks with Cheryl, Liz and Annie. To say that some of these minglings didn't devolve into, ramble willingly, into full-fledged revelry would be a complete and utter lie. I regaled Beth, in Harrisburg for the !happynewyeartojews!, with some of the details, always carefully and measuredly beginning with I was minding my own business when...
Trying to get her to the Middling City for another visit, this time hopefully without pyrotechnics of personal disaster.
Haunting phrase du jour/time:
at the end of the day.
Keith the Wired Instructor - as in the material learnt and not in his upper intake - said ...At the end of the day every day we PSD13 were instructees. JamMasterV even found a way to insert that phrase into a report she reported and when she said it, a cloud of irony over her head, we all silently chortled and glanced at each other. Behind me, in the tea house where I am stealing wi-fi molecules, a jewelry designer is listening to something, watching something, on her laptop.
That phrase came out of the micro-mini speakers moments ago.
Do not use this phrase.
I propose that there is no end to any day. Think more linearly, stop thinking 24 hours, 24 hours, 24 hours. Confuse day with night, dreams with wake.
Waking Love.

Well. Well well well well.
No grotto could be found at the Middling City's answer to Hef's Joint. But what I did find was a MC version of Fabio, long golden silken tresses and all. At some point in the evening, whilst speaking to a fun gal at the bar I noted that Fabio had unloosed his mane and was supine on the marble floor, in front of the classical musicians whom no one could hear above the party din.
I spoke with Fabio. His name is Arthur. He is a jazz musician. Who dances while he's playing. Or that is at least what I thought his handler, standing alongside him, said.
With a gown on my body and short hairs on my head - as well as my Don't-Fuck-Wit-Me physique some in the throng who I know did not know Yours Truly. One client of mine of about six months or so back, post several martinis, said to me You look like a movie star. I wanted to say to her Yes, internally I so AM a movie star and have been for decades - only YOU see my true, exterior movie star. And I thank you.
No other party notables except that the white wine ran low to dry and then it was high time to move along to scotch fercrissakes.
Up in the attic/third floor rumpus area I asked pal Sam for a coin to feed the very naughtily racist bank to see if, in sooth, the eyeballs rolled back to white as Kennedy swore they would. And, by gum and by crackie, they freakin' did.
And Happy New Year to all my faithful epinw readers of the Jewish faith.

Faithful Love Forever Now.

Tonight would be the night that me and Kennedy get all gussied up and walk over to a black tie affair hosted by Rick the Sex Man. Owner of sundry boobie bars in the Middling City and in Vegas and god only knows where else. This man bought one of Hef's former rides and I imagine a replication of The Grotto somewhere in the basement. I told Kennedy I imagine losing him at the soiree, only to find him hours later, tux MIA and floating in The Grotto whilst grabbing onto a slippery, frothy bevvie and a slippery, frothy stripper.
Time will party tell.
Love's Tell.

Minding my own business, completely, I found myself in the basement of Middling City Historical Society (wow, what a somewhat elucidating shithole) during a charity art auction in which I was particating. In mere hours my wondrous tripartite piece of graphite drawings on paper would be on the ol' block.
But first, research. Hence the basement. Kennedy and I prowled the depths, gleaning information. We pondered over the model Middling City of Yore, from the way-early 19th Century.
The flats, now not so flat with buildings.
My neck of the Middling city just off the map at my craning feet.
I suddenly became much more inspired by the pioneer days room displays.
I was so inspired by higher learning that I jumped the rail and sat in the "pioneer" rocking chair, rocking slowly, wine in hand, pondering life in pioneer days as well as the state of this Middling City institution.
I checked out the boots in the next "room." I lifted up the bed warmer, clearly a ye olde replication, and pretended to warm the pioneer bed with the missing mattress.
I moved on to a display of photos of the Fishkill Dump where all that remained post-9/11 remain. All the lost art.
Moved on to art on the block, not the dump (yet) and did one purchase - #93 in the air - until it was time to take the learning elsewhere.

Love or Else.

Cheez and crackers. OK more consistent blogposts, more words of wisdom and freewheelin' revelry here... and there.
Again on borrowed time/computer as the new fucking modem is not working and perhaps it is the port of ethernet magic that is a-fried out but that will only be gleaned after a long and intense and recurrent SOS call to some techie person who hopefully I can comprehend - as in their accent. The last techie was a gruff older man so gruff the gruffness obscured the actual words he spake.
Last night we landed after 3.5 hours in car, Kennedy and I that is, in front of the storefront gallery where some jazz happened starring our pal Peter Brotzmann. He was out in front having his customary Starbucks Americano and dark smoke when I unfurled the window to toodle out the window Excuuuuse me, which way to Buffalo. He stared blankly, then away. I toodled again. Same response. So we meandered towards him across the near-barren street of half-baked and half-assed businesses and decrepit row houses until familiarity swam across his face. We talked. The show began. I shot. Intermission. As I was on a road trip and had not had venison jerky it was beer time. Lame-o gallery (with a name like Faulty Metaphors or some such thing) had none. Grabbed $10 out of my bag and wandered to the convenience store. Found there some choice greeting cards. One to send to an accident victim. Birdhouses on the front. I ask, what do birdhouses have to do with accidents. Next. To a wondrous friend. Image on front is a cat, wearing a hat, sitting in a basket. At his feet, a bird, apparently dead. Inside. Sentiment is about You are a fab acquaintance.
And this fucking store has no beer.
Really.
Asking about in line waiting to purchase the excellent cards I met a woman named Janice.
Janice, a mom just off of work, ended up offering me a ride to a pizza parlour where I could buy a six pack. Janice explained excitedly that this joint had a wall of beer and she knew of this despite the fact that she does not drink.
Her car was a purple sedan with 10 pine tree air freshners and on the back seat were eight bags of snaxx for her two teenaged kids.
I did not have my seatbelt on in case Janice turned out to be a nut and I had to dive and roll.
Janice drove me 1 mile. We got out of the car and walked into the pizza parlour together. Janice explaining all the way about how I should trust no one else in the gallery's neighborhood and, most importantly, I should tell NO ONE that I am from the Middling City, as they'd take advantage of my naivete.
So, Janice drives me back to the gallery and Peter is there to witness me exiting a purple sedan. He raises his two eyebrows. I tell him about my new pal, Janice. I show him the greeting cards. May send him the one with the cat and limpy bird.
Ended the night at some Indian restaurant where I was served my scotch and soda with a deathly blue glowing ice cube. Upon leaving I placed the faux glo-stik cube in the to-go box in front of Peter.
The waiter nervously ran up to say
That ice cube remains the property of the restaurant.

I remain Your Perfect correspondent to all things Me.

Corresponding Love.

Well Well Well.
No, not so well for the DSL modem which fried out.
So no internet system for me, yet.
Apparently the trouble is far deeper and darker than I can figure out.
So borrowed internet time for now.
But onwards.
And onwards right now to Pittsburgh to see Peter Brotzmann, sax artiste, for the night with Kennedy.
So more later so all for now.
School officially begins again Monday, fercrissakes. So new cyber pencils must be sharpened, then, fer sher.
Love for now.