Paris, oh Paris, be mine once again

The one and only downside of living in a climate like Israel's, where a November Sunday like today's is ideal for walking along the beach or playing outside (though no one ever complains about lounging in bed), is that you have to leave that climate once in a while. It doesn't take too long to get used to gorgeous 20+ degree Celsius days in November, but once you go on the desert track, it's hard to go back.

In other words, cold, cloudy, and raw is no way to greet visitors, Paris. I'm aware that it's November and you have that Northern charm, that gloomy romanticism that makes the city of Light sparkle all the brighter in contrast to the drab gray of the sky, but it's not very fun for those of us who have already adjusted to reasonable weather at all times. Especially when we have to stand outside all day and watch kids run back and forth kicking a ball around.

That's right, everybody! Paris!

Weather bitching aside, the trip was a delightful time, featuring a smattering of athletic achievement (our team went .500 and won 2 games, or two more games than our school has won in 14 years, or so the story goes), a couple rushed tours of Champs d'Elysses, and a couple meetings with friends. Naturally, a few stories came out of the weekend that are worth sharing.

Yo hablo español? I guess so.

Thursday night (we arrived Wednesday afternoon), I decided to celebrate our unsuccessful but initially relatively phenomenal day on the football pitch (we came away with one draw, our first point in a few years at least) by going to meet family friends in a suburb southwest of Paris. Our tournament was in a different suburb of Paris, to the west of the city. Naturally, to get from hotel to house, I had to go into the city and out of the city.

The first step was to take a bus, the ol' 258, out to the end of the RER. To get on the bus in Parisian suburbs, as in most places in the world, you have to buy a ticket. So, I entered the bus, ready to buy a ticket. Except for one problem: my bills were too big. No, not a typo.

This whole trip was funded by our lovely school. At least, funded for the coaches - the kids had to pay $700-some dollars. Perks included free airfare, free hotel with included breakfast, a coach's meal, a coach's pass to free food at the venue, and per diem. Per diem. The finest two words to survive from a dead language and arrive in our own eternal English.

For our purposes, the per diem was doled out in kind of a strange way (we had to keep receipts to prove that we used the money the way it was meant to be used, and not to stow away in our vault or blow on Parisian ladies of the street, unless they offered a proper receipt), but for the purposes of this blog, those details aren't necessary. What is necessary is the fact that I received 300 turkeys in the form of two 100 euro bills and two 50s. And before Thursday night, I had no occasion to spend those bills.

So we return to the bus. I get on the bus, the only person at the Bougival bus stop. The bus driver, a man of indiscriminate age and likely either North African or Arabic in lineage, nods a "Bonjour" to me, and possibly tells me how much money the ticket is. I have no interest in learning French and no aptitude in picking much up in the language: something about the delicacy and nuance of the accent, I think. So I, without any other options, plop my 50 on the ticket counter.

The bus driver looks at the 50 and looks at me. "I don't have change," he says, or maybe, "You douchebag, what the hell do you think you're trying here?" I couldn't quite pick up the intonation. Also, I had some explaining to do, and I was thinking about how to do it.

For whatever reason, I have an aversion to dropping English abroad when I can afford it. Maybe it's my b.s. contrarian nature, or my malcontent masochistic desire for sacrifice, or that I don't want to look like another helpless American, but I always lean towards representing myself as somebody from other places. It's an identity politics issue.

In this situation, it seemed obvious what I should have done. Russian had no chance of working. The crappy Hebrew I know had far less chance. That Italian I studied for three semesters had mostly sailed away, and wouldn't help here. Clearly, I had to go with English, and damn the stereotypes I'd heap upon myself.

"No tengo otro," I said instead. "Solo tengo este," again ruining this fine language. And yet...
"No tengo billetes pequenos," he said. Or I think he said.
"No lo se," I parried. "No lo se."
He thought about it for a moment. He gave me back my 50.
"Para mi, no es problema."
"A, vale, gracias," I answered. He repeated his expiation of culpability, his hands raised to emphasize the point. I thanked him again and proceeded to the back of the bus. The victory was not the saving of 1.6 euros (which also would have been comped with appropriate receipting), but of earning another story badge, another Spanish moment, and another giddy grin for no good reason.

How to enjoy French cuisine

France is famous for its food. Fine dining, elegant cafes, romance - that's what Paris is there for, yeah? Let's digress to allow Jonathan Richman his say on Paris:

Well if you've been to cities but you've had enough
Have you been to Paris, France?
And if you doubt that Paris was made for love
Give Paris one more chance
The home of Piaf and Chevalier
Must have done something right to get passion this way
If you don't think Paris was made for love
Give Paris one more chance


Well now I'm calling it arrogant, calling it cruel
(Give Paris one more chance)
And also trop civilisé et mon dieu, c'est trop cool
(Give Paris one more chance)
But if you don't think Paris was made for love
Maybe your heart needs a telegram from up above
If you don't think Paris was made for love
Well give Paris one more chance


Well now there's some things I don't like and some things I do
But give Paris one more chance
I can see why Paris would be ugly for you
But give Paris one more chance
The home of Piaf and Trenet too
Must have done something right
Must have something for you
If you don't think Paris was made for love
Give Paris one more chance

Now hear the boys singing Bee Gees songs under the skies
(Give Paris one more chance)
And on the steps of Montmartre they harmonise
(Give Paris one more chance)
Because if you don't think Paris was made for love
Maybe your heart needs a telegram from up above
If you don't think Paris was made for love
Give Paris one more chance

Let's wrap it up..

Well if you've been to cities but you've had enough
Have you been to Paris, France?
And if you doubt that Paris was made for love
Give Paris one more chance
The home of Piaf and Charles Aznavour
Must have done something right
And will do something more

If you don't think Paris was made for love
Give Paris one more chance
Alright
Give Paris one more chance

Gee, that was fun. Anyway, I didn't have time nor the desire to give most of Paris that chance. On my fourth trip to the city, I felt like only two things would fire up my interest in Paris: good time in the art museums, and having a companion, likely romantic but potentially otherwise, to share in the good times. I didn't really have either situation going on here, so I was left with the aforementioned fine cuisine.

We'll skip the free food doled out at the venue dining area (though it was good) and the hotel breakfasts and stick to dinner. My annotated dinners over the four nights read as follows:

Wednesday - Before dinner, Danny, the head coach of our team, and I went for a bite near the hotel. I got calimari in the form of fries, which was interesting.
Then came the coaches' meal, which featured an entrée (French for appetizer, I guess), a main dish, and dessert. For an entrée: rabbit patè. It looked like a pale circle of ham and didn't taste that much different, but it was good, and the center had this delicious jelly that sealed the deal. Danny was much grossed-out by that option.
For a main course: Beef Filet. Originally I was scheduled to get salmon, but there was an extra plate of the good stuff, so I grabbed it. The French like their meat on the raw side, as do I (we'll see more so in a second), so this was right up my alley, with the encircling piece of the beef filled with a stuffing or sauce or something that also elevated the level.
For dessert: Chocolate cake. Self-explanatory.
All this and the halfway-decent red wine made me a happy man the first night.

Thursday - I met up with the family friends and we went to an Italian place in their neighborhood. With patience and diligence, I ate a gràtinee for the entrée, which was basically melted cheese over tomatoes (blech) and eggplants (good), in a plate of tomato sauce. I also assisted on an effort to eat a bunch of small fish that Olga, my kind hostess, ordered.
Already feeling nearly sated, I plowed through a carbonara, finishing the beef on the pasta after a steady effort. It was all too much though, and we turned down dessert for a chance at a peaceful tea and some chocolate wafers back at Olga's house. Also, I took the receipt.

Friday - This time I met up with Ben and his girlfriend (more on those details later). We agreed to go to the neighborhood he was staying in, not far from the center of the city. From there, we set out for a restaurant he had his eye on from the night before. I told him there was only one stipulation from me for where we should eat, and he immediately recalled our previous meal in Paris, two years before, when I noshed on some steak tartare.
Fortunately, his spot had it. And so our meal went off without a hitch. For an entrée the three of us split escargot, getting the full French cuisine action going on. The tartare was delicious, a raw beef patty with spices on the side to give it kick as needed. We drank a bottle of Bordeaux that I selected (though our nice Hungarian waitress told us that wouldn't have been her choice...excusez moi!), we talked of light matters and matters of the heart, and after the dinner we continued (again, more details in a second). Again, I took the receipt.

Saturday - After our team's relatively triumphant tourney (7th out of 10, a 2-2-1 record, a win over the tournament champs), we decided to treat them to a pizza meal. Our bus dropped us off on the Champs d'Elysses, the driver warning us that we had a scant hour and a half to enjoy the meal before he had to take us to the airport five hours ahead of our flight (El Al is not that absurd in their security procedures; the guy was just squeezing us). We had one player on the team, actually our one all-tournament team selection, who is half-French and half-Mexican, and he directed us to Pizza Pino.
Pizza was the simple thing to order for the team, easily apportioned and shared among 15 kids. But as a coach, I had a little bit more leeway in my selection. Thinking about France and thinking about Israel, weighing what my options were and what they would be, I made the only choice I could, and ordered another steak tartare.
My second tartare in 18 hours was a little looser in presentation but it came with an egg. It was also very good. I was again quite sated, a necessity before the long trip home. And no, I didn't manage to snag the receipt this time; that would have been a bit too much of a reach.

So, in four dinner meals, I managed to eat cow in four different forms. I also had steak or beef filet twice at the venue dining hall. I guess what I'm trying to say that in Europe, the answer to "Where's the beef?" is either Paris or my belly.

A last story, a funny meeting

As mentioned, I met up with Ben. It had been in July that we last saw each other, on a day where we watched Spain take the Euro 2008 tournament in football and then took in the film, Lucia y el Sexo. A good, Spanish-themed day. And we're meeting up again when I go to visit him in Madrid for Thanksgiving, which is sure to lead to more silly adventures.

But let's return to the recent past. On Friday, right after our first win in the ISST tournament in at least 14 years, I went into the city to meet Ben. That win was notable not only because of the game itself, but because of the silliness of my role in it. (Of course it comes back to me! Whose blog is this, anyway?) Our first game that morning was a rough game that saw two of our players ejected and saw us give up more than two goals for the only time on the weekend as we went down 1-4. It rained through that game, and as we were supposed to have a nice long break between first and second game, I went back to the hotel to shower, write, and relax.

In the hotel I did those things, and also told an unseen maid below me (we had a duplex room, so I was in the top "floor" of the room, Danny in the bottom) that she shouldn't come now. Actually, I told her nothing, and didn't even walk down to see her, as I only had boxers on. But when she said, "Apres," I recalled the Regina Spektor song, "Apres moi," and remembered that meant after, and parroted the maid. I'm not completely helpless, at least.

Anyway, while lying in a half-dressed, post-shower state, writing to my heart's content in my weathered notebook, I received a phone call. "Who the hell would call me?"
I answered the phone. It was somebody from the tournament. We had decided to play in 20 minutes. No big deal, right? I could just walk over, a 10-minute walk, and make the game. Except, of course, I had the key to the locker room. And so while they offered to send me a car to pick me up, I decided it'd just be faster to jog over to the field. And I remembered that even in crappy, cold, cloudy, raw weather, it is possible to break a sweat.

Satisfied with my vital contribution to our win, I looked forward to the meeting with Ben. I had sent him an e saying I might be a half hour early for our scheduled rendezvous (see? More French!) on Pont Neuf. We selected the location because it's central, and because it was in the Bourne Identity, and besides some of our high school friends decided I might actually be Jason Bourne due to my travels and secrecy, or something.

I figured Ben wouldn't get the email, so I was prepared to walk around Pont Neuf on my own. I did a lap of the famed bridge, realizing as I walked that "Pont Neuf" as a meeting place wasn't very specific. After the lap, I limited myself to traversing one side of the bridge back and forth, crossing the Seine 6-8 times in total. To keep myself amused, I sang songs. Mostly my songs, as I'm fairly self-centered. Then I started improvising new songs, laying bad Spanish lyrics over a tinny dance beat in my head, shaking my ass as I sang to myself. Have you figured out that I'm crazy yet?

Ben y su novia arrived a half-hour late, and were fortunate to catch me on the right bank, resting between trips. We quickly agreed on dinner, as detailed above.

Really, I just wanted to talk about the singing on Pont Neuf, but I might add the fun we had at their rented apartment afterwards. By fun I mean that in opening a bottle of wine, I tugged on the cork too hard and spilled a little. No big deal, except I did it right over a nice white wool chair. Which was still not too big a deal, as la novia, Liz, knew of a way to take care of red wine stains - rubbing them out with white wine. It made almost too much sense, but it worked. At least as far as I knew. And it was the right backdrop for our talks of matters of the heart. By matters of the heart, I of course include fantasy football. As a friend puts it, le sigh.



Don't worry, friends, because in the coming weeks I'll be going to Spain, as mentioned, but also following knowingly in Jesus' steps for a weekend, I believe. Doesn't make sense? Let it lie, then, just let it lie. It'll clear up soon enough. Laila tov, all of you.

A Dead Sea Appetizer

One of the more interesting ideas our school has is the "Week Without Walls." In said week, the high school students spend two school days doing community service and then three days on a field trip to somewhere in Israel, for a deeper and separate cultural experience of the country. The middle schoolers just do the field trip part. Anyway, it's a nice concept that could lead to exciting new activities and a chance for students (and teachers) to bond in different ways outside of the classroom. In theory.

In practice, most students go with their friends. Those with good attitudes get a lot out of the activity and wish for more. Those with poorer attitudes try to play a garbled gambling form of blackjack beneath the cliff the rest of their group is rappelling on and then get yelled at by the intern teacher when they go back on their word to actually rappel after two hands. Fortunately, I didn't have to deal with any of that...


That said, there's not a whole lot of storytelling to undertake over the trip. We went to a place called Metzuke Dragot, near the Dead Sea and officially in the West Bank, below Jerusalem (a little more on this distinction in my next post). It was a nice little resort complex, and served as a safe base for our rappelling experience. We went to a nearby cliff and rappelled down it a few times. The most challenging part of the whole rappelling bit was the knots they taught us on the first day, knots that for the most part we did not need to tie the rest of the time. Also, the kids giggled a lot when the guides talked about Prusik knots. Actually, the group of 7-8 freshman boys we had on the trip reminded me a little bit too much of myself and my group of friends freshman year, from the ethnic diversity (theirs actually quite larger) to the good-humored/poor taste racial ribbing to the lack of individuality. This tempered my temper, at times. (Also, with regards to the Prusik knot bit - most of the guides giggled just as much as the kids.)

There were a couple other moments of note. The first night, we met up with another group from school that was rappelling about 20 KM south of us, and after a pedestrian drum circle, a high school dance broke out. A group of Ethiopian (or otherwise African; Ethiopians are the most common African peoples in Israel) high schoolers tried to get in to our dance, including one persistent girl especially. She pleaded, she claimed to be from our school but didn't know the name, she begged, and then she resorted to claiming one of the boys from our school, an Angolan, was her long lost brother, and that she wanted to reunite with him. She didn't get his name right even after somebody told her what it was. (It is a tricky name, to be fair.)


On our last night, we went to a spa near the Dead Sea. As such, while the kids hung out mostly in the pool, the spa did offer both a tub of mud to cover oneself in and sulfur springs hot tubs. The SSHTs were hot and smelled like rotten eggs. After about 10 minutes in one, I got out, or right about when I started tasting the sulfur on my lips. (I was warned not to dip my hair in, because then it might stink for a couple days. I mean, stink more than usual.)

After some cleansing chlorine, I covered myself in mud from head to toe. I can't really claim any great benefits of sticking mud on your body, and I only had it on for 5-10 minutes, which is probably insufficient anyway. But I tell you what, smearing yourself in dark mud that you take from a wooden tub of it in the middle of an open spa square at night is as much as it sounds, and then twice more. The whole putting on the mud thing makes up for having to shower in sulfur to rinse it off. Also, the other teacher in my group told me that a guide or someone there told her, "It's best to put it through your hair and on your genitals and everything." Sadly, I only heard about that after the fact...

Ok, here are some more pictures.

This, friends, is the Dead Sea. It's pretty.
A lonely olive tree on our resort at night.

The place wherein we did the bulk of our rappelling.

And for my next trick, we're off to Jordan! Next post, rather.

This was supposed to be a party...Oh, wait...

Call this an odds and ends post and then let's get on with it, shall we? Today's pictures are brought to you by the hills en route and near Jerusalem, right before my camera went on the fritz as we drove to the Old City, or as we say, "Right on time."


Party Party
Being as I and my roommate live in a fairly large apartment, one with an ample living room that has two separate couch seating areas, a long dining table, and a full kitchen, and being as we don't use all that space very often, we decided that the being in the apartment needed to grow. So we threw a party.

Now, for all my antisocial traits, I have had a little bit of success with past parties. In fact, most anybody reading this here blog has likely been at one or another, whether in Massachusetts or in North Carolina. And if you weren't there, you missed out.

This party took place Saturday night, which is as previously mentioned a weeknight out here (so the party had something in common with almost every party I've thrown). A small gathering of 10-15 teachers and school personnel made for lots of catty remarks about students and potential inter-department showdowns. But, thanks to the ready presence of homemade sangria, potato salad, and foods people actually liked, we had other fun things happen. Such as...

- One of my bosses decided that we needed a little bit of help around the house. To be expected, considering that we're men in our 20s who don't really care about how clean we are. At least not that much; we did tidy up before the party, but nothing out of the ordinary. So what was expected was that something in our apartment might not be quite up to snuff. No major issues, just little messes here and there.

Our boss disagreed. From my vantage point at the end of the table closer to my roommate's bedroom, I noticed her bustling about quite a bit, with regular stops to the cleaning supplies closet we had more or less ignored (I checked it the next day; I found an iron and toilet paper). Finally, she gave me the "come hither" finger gesture. From there she led me to the bathroom. Specifically, to my toilet.

There I found that all the dull stains on the porcelain had more or less dissipated. She had taken to the task with bleach and an iron will, and all of a sudden we had a clean kitchen sink, I had a clean toilet, and I learned a great tip for how to get blueberry or strawberry pie stains out (not that I like either of those foods, but the thought is nice, no?) Soon her help became a running amusement, as she noticed our quite-neglected plants and decided the neglect should end there. Which it did. Only, it picked up again the next day.

It was quite a time, actually, and every so often she would motion to me to come over again and explain her latest act and the reasoning behind it. Meanwhile, as each successive guest learned about what was going on, each successive guest made a, "I'm going to have a party at my house next!" joke. The sort of shared humor and experience that builds a community and makes parties worthwhile.


- We had an Israeli boyfriend of one of the new teachers talking politics in the wee hours with a couple of our more politically astute new teachers. As teachers at our school at least have a wide range of political views, from the current president is the devil to the current democratic candidate is the messiah, with a little leeway in the middle, and as Israelis can tend to lean towards the republican candidate a little bit more, it was an interesting debate. Or rather, it was interesting to see that it was happening. As the debate was in English, the unfair edge went to the Americans.

Somewhat before this debate, by the way, we got yelled at about the noise. Door goes closed, speakers for my sweet party playlist go off, party goes on.

- Did I mention there was potato salad, two (slightly) different types of red sangria, and a large bowl of white sangria? That might explain...

- We finished the night with a silly card game. "Apples to Apples" it's called. Each player is dealt five red cards with nouns on them, some proper, some common. One player (the player rotates) draws a green card that has an adjective or a descriptive phrase. The other players submit a red card they think best suits the green card drawn. The idea is that there will be some funny juxtapositions when, for example, a green card of "Hot and Heavy" draws a red card of "My memories".

Not too complicated of a game though, right?

I say this because one of my lovely colleagues, in fact one of my two or three favorite people involved with the school, struggled with this concept. She struggled with this concept for two reasons: 1. She has a tendency to make mountains out of the proverbial molehill. 2. She had her fair share of sangria, or wine, or beer, or the gross liquor somebody else brought. This affected her despite the fact that she has often bragged on her ability to throw 'em back and tolerate pain killers and the like, to the point where she says she can't get knocked out in the dentist's office.
Regardless, any good party needs a performance like this. She slogged through the game, adding to our collective knowledge of the game, since after all, when you have to teach something, the process allows you to understand it better. Later, she gave me the most intimidating, "I really care about you," speech I've ever had in my life, considering I did nothing wrong to spur it on. And she left her forks. And couldn't remember how she got home. You see? That's how to throw a party.


A First Guest
Also at this party and assisting in its preparation and ultimate success was Dan Fox. Fresh off the Birthright trip, he and a friend stayed at our place, in that ample living room, for a while. His friend left on Wednesday night, and though Dan made efforts to get out of town that night as well (though Lord knows why when he could stay with me), he stuck around until Sunday night.

Besides doing a fine job as visitor, lounger, and party helper, Dan also filled a key role in buying challah on Friday. Challah, the lumpy sweet Jewish bread, is only made/sold in the stores here on Thursdays and Fridays. I always forget on Thursdays to buy it. The Friday before this, I ran to the store after getting dropped off at home (by that same colleague/friend mentioned two paragraphs up, actually), to just make it before the store closed at 4. I bought a loaf and, along with my roommate, we nearly finished the thing that night. This time around, Dan kindly bought us three loaves; two for the party, and one to eat straightaway. The loaves were not a hit at the party, but they did provide me with the carb part of my lunch today, so that's cool.

The other thing Dan did was accompany me to wrestling practice. Boris loved him, though it wasn't clear if Boris realized Dan was an actual, good wrestler or not. Probably because Dan was incapable of athletic gymnastic movements beyond the diving forward roll.

Anyway, on his last night in town, Dan went with me to a practice, with the plan to go straight to the airport from there. As fans of general hygiene and not getting anymore ringworm (though my number is at arba or hamesh these days), we showered after practice. Which led to the following...

Our Man showered in the small toilet/shower stall. It was lit, but not extraordinarily well - it was in the basement of an athletic complex in Israel.
As our man lathered himself up in Selsun Blue, he heard some giggling. Obviously, with a park and a bunch of other sports going on around him, he could expect that youths would be merry. He proceeded to lather and rinse.
As he lathered and rinsed certain areas, he noticed the giggling increased in volume. He also noticed that there was light coming into the shower area from a slatted window. Could there be a connection between the giggling and the light? Nah. But as he turned off the water and bent over to pick up the Selsun Blue container, he did notice that the giggling was female in nature.
In the locker room next to the shower stall, he consulted with his friend. Could it be? "I don't know, dude, I think it might be."
Our Man, getting a kick out of this situation, made sure to go through a long, careful drying process. After all, no one wants to get their clothes wet when driving to the airport in humid Tel Aviv nighttime weather. And to find out whether whatever was going on behind that window (there was one in the locker room as well) was related or unrelated to his actions was also on his mind.
And so, as Our Man and his friend conversed in English, and Our Man dressed, he began to hear words from above that sounded like, "Go, Jeff!" Quite confusing considering no Jeffs were around.
But just as Our Man was ready to leave, the giggling from above coalesced to a question. "Hey, gorgeous," went the cries, dotted by, "What's your name, gorgeous?" Our Man, after a moment's thought, responded, "You guessed it, well done!"

Unfortunately, his friend gave the more correct, less interesting answer, "Dan." And they left, never to run into those gigglers.


Around the ol' Office
There's also a job I'm doing here. If you don't know it, I "teach" at the American International School here. As the intern teacher, I T.A. in a couple of classes (so far the highlight has been teaching the Senior Project class about citing sources, since AIS's school website links to Duke's, and teaching the AP US History class about the Revolutionary War battles, which I muddled a little bit but mostly got right), co-teach a class on Study Skills (a subject I'm less than passionate about, so imagine how 9th graders feel on it), and sit around a lot.

Ok, technically I'm the tutor, which means I make myself available for students who want help in class. Business is slow. The highlight of the business is that I made a sign for my computer that says, "The Tutor is IN" in Lucy fashion. That draws a chuckle from just about everybody. But very little business. Fortunately, I'm not paid by the client.

Four other things to note about school -
1. Most of my students call me "Mr. Schwarznegger," and then feel really clever about it. Sigh. One calls me "Superdude", actually, which is somewhat different.
2. My soccer players have figured out my secret - I'm not very good at the sport. Still, I do push ups with claps behind my backs and beat them in a lot of the sprinting, so I maintain their respect.
3. There was a big fight that rumbled into one of my colleague's classrooms (actually, also the same colleague who amused during the Apples to Apples game - sometimes she is dealt with actual mountains), and it featured one student strangling another. Sounded pretty funny, anyway.
4. Despite the fact that the strangler is on our soccer team, the squad as a whole has proven my long held prejudice - soccer players are generally pretty wimpy. Oh well.


That's all for this blog! But in the weeks to come there's plenty of excitement - a school field trip to go rappeling near the Dead Sea, a five-day weekend for Rosh Hashana that I might use to go to Jordan, a certain stop sooner or later in Jerusalem, and potentially more guests, more parties, and certainly more excitement and stories to tell! Stay tuned, and thanks for reading!
[ /shtick]