Am I a communication hack?

Not long ago, Concha blogged about how much easier life would be as a montage.

(cut to me reading Concha’s blog, laughing, looking off in the distance, fade to Concha and I on the swings in Covent Garden, cut to me all drunk telling Concha I only slept for 10 minutes, quick cut to a still shot of our happy ad school group at my London birthday party, cut back to me reading Concha’s blog, fade to black)

That particular entry raised my consciousness on a habit of mine that over the past 4 to 5 years has gone from infrequent to ridiculously manic levels. I think and speak in movie. It’s maddening and not just for the people on the receiving end. See, not only can I expertly weave in and make relevant the crowd-pleasing favorites, I can also conjur up the obscure, Valerie Bertinelli Oxygen Channel quotes with equal ease. Why won’t they go away? Why could I never remember science things or…math? (I was trying to remember what the things in geometry are called. But my brain’s too full of “Zoolander” quotes and Judith Light cancer scenes to hold such a memory).

What’s more disturbing, though, is that I use entire scenes from movies to convey my feelings in everyday conversation.

Take Valentine’s Day, for example. Someone asked me what I did and I told them I went to Borders after work and perused the new hardback fiction section. As if that wasn’t sad enough I added: “Kinda like in “It’s a Wonderful Life”. Remember? When George gets to see what his life would be like if he’d never been born? He sees Mary and she’s a haggard spinster librarian? And he says ‘Don’t ya KNOW me, Mary? It’s George! George Bailey! Your HUSBAND!! ‘ “I’M MARY!’”

Imagine the crowd of co-workers I turned into friends with thatlittle story.

Here’s another one. On roughly day 4 at my new job, a friend asked how things were going at my new job without one of my regular art director wives. The truth is, I liked it (and still do) but I was having that uncomfortable “I haven’t made a lunch buddy” kind of discomfort you often have at a new job. I was missing the familiarity of having a someone like BDH or BLH by my side. So I said, “Remember in ‘Up Close and Personal’ when Michelle Pfeiffer moves to Philadelphia? And they make her color her hair because the viewers told her she’s better as a brunette? There’s this scene where she’s sitting at her desk and she’s, like, SO completely lonely. So she calls Robert Redford just because she needs to hear a familiar, friendly voice, right? But when she talks to him she pretends that everything is OK. It’s kind of like that.” It sounds weird, but it described how I felt perfectly.

It’s sad, really. I fancy myself a (air quotes)“writer” (end air quotes) but often I rely on others to do my dirty communication work for me. Does this mean I’m a poor writer or a poor communicator? Or both? (Don’t answer that please, it’s rhetorical….honesty is such a lonely word. Shit! I did it again! This time with 70s song seepage!)

The truth is, sometimes people just beat you to things. And why waste all that time trying to clue people in to what I’m feeling when someone’s already done it so flawlessly?

Just last week I was watching a “Sex in the City” rerun. The one where Miranda makes Carrie try on a wedding dress in an attempt to calm her fears about getting married. Remember what happens when Carrie puts on the wedding dress? She begins to suffocate, she breaks out in a cold sweat, hives begin appearing on her torso. She makes Miranda rip the dress off her. Watching that, it hit me. That’s exactly how I felt when I fled Seattle to come back to San Francisco. Suffocating. Cannot. Breathe. Get. Me. The. Fuck. OUT. Of. This. CITY!!!!!! I GET it, Carrie! I underSTAND!

It’s sick, this blurring of reality and fiction, not only in my head but in the heads of so many of us these days. It’s as if fiction is directing reality now. People write lies for memoirs but think they’re true. Reality TV stars become celebrities. What’s wrong with all of us? Or is it just me? Too much Diet Coke? Too many lattes? Enlighten me, blogosphere. Please. I need to rekindle my faith in original thought again.

In an odd note of irony, Judith Light appeared as a judge on Law & Order SVU tonight. I saw her AFTER I’d written her into this entry. Did I WILL Judith Light to appear? Or would she have appeared anyway? See what I mean? Fiction….directing reality. Does that mean this blog entry is fiction? Or is it a memoir? Shit, I’m totally confused now.

The Ick Clause, 2006(a)

Thanks to everyone who commented, called and emailed after reading about my untenable tenant situation. It’s been a tough week. But I finally came to the decision that no matter what my landlord’s situation is now with regard to the old code 288c situation, it all comes down to me and what my comfort level is with the place I call home and the people who share the keys to my home and ultimately, my peace of mind. So I decided against moving in.

I’ve been thinking a lot about why I feel so crappy about this and I think it comes down to a couple of things. First off, ignorance really is bliss. From now on, I think I’ll choose ignorance. And vodka. Blissfully uninformed, never saw a link, never Googled anyone, Absolut drunken bliss. Because putting in my address and creating an interactive map in which sex crimes – with pictures of the criminals who committed said heinous crimes – revolve around my little world is just taking information and interactivity way too far. That, my friends, requires vodka.

There’s also the whole judgment issue. I’m not perfect – far from it. I may never have committed a code 288c, but I’ve done things that haven’t turned out so well that people have judged me for and that didn’t feel so hot. For example, I was married. I’m now divorced. I’ve lost more than one fish off the hook once I revealed that little gem and I’m sure I will again. I know what happened, what mistakes I made and what I should have done differently but those few people didn’t stick around to hear about it, having already made up their mind about me and what I might be like in future relationships. And there wasn’t one thing I could do about it. Their mind was made up. That sucked.

It made me wonder, what would the world be like if there was one cohesive offender site out there? A site that let you type in your address and returned a full range of morally reprehensible crimes in your neighborhood? Imagine how your day would change if your favorite Starbucks barista popped up under the “gets hammered and always sleeps with guys on the first date” square. Or your next-door neighbor’s pic popped up under the “steals money from kids college fund and hasn’t told wife yet”? Or maybe your dog-walker shows up under “addiction to porn”? Would you change dog walkers? Would you get your key back from your next-door neighbor? Would you hit on your Starbucks barista? Would you tell them you saw them on the Offender site?

See what I mean? It’s just too much. Ignorance is bliss.

Sometimes it sucks being an adult. Somebody pass the vodka.

Help!

Friends of the blogosphere, I desperately need your help and advice. With something serious. Quickly.

As many of you may have read, I rented an apartment recently. I didn’t mention that the apartment is an old Victorian home and that the owner of the house is the landlord. And the landlord actually lives in the apartment….sort of. He has a small room in another portion of the house but he shares our kitchen and comes in and out of our apartment quite frequently to make repairs, help people do things around the apartment, etc.

This seemed odd to me at first but when I went to sign the lease, my fears were put to rest after meeting him in person. He seemed very nice, I got a good vibe and he was actually happy to have someone of my “mature state” moving into the apartment. We also somehow got on the topic of how he had changed his life, he used to be a “wild guy” but now that he’d “turned his life over to God” he was a changed man. And he seemed like a really nice guy. I signed my lease, felt safe and went on my merry way with plans to move in on March 4.

Fast forward to last night. A friend of mine forwarded me a link to a sex offender web site. It was odd that I opened the email because I almost never read forwards – I’m not sure what possessed me to open this particular email on this particular day. But I did. The site allows you to type in your address and see if any registered sex offenders live near you. Those listed on this site could be rapists (yellow squares) child-related sex offenses (red squares) or “other” (green squares). I typed in my new address and almost had a heart attack. Up popped a picture of my future landlord and partial roommate. As a green square. Upon further investigation (thank you to BDH for her efforts in this), I found out he was convicted of a “lewd and lascivious act with a child under 14” under code 288c, which is “oral copulation”. So basically, a child under 14 gave him a blowjob. Whether that child was forced or not forced, it’s weird. I could be living with a pedophile. And I’m completely freaked out.

I’m trying to decide what to do. It seems obvious since I say I’m completely freaked out but there are 2 sides to this. People do change. Maybe he’s just trying to live an honest life. Who am I to judge? Besides, I’m not under 14. I’m out of his interest range (seriously, I’m not even trying to joke about this). As ASkor wisely put it, if we all made decisions based on people’s pasts and never trusted anyone, everyone in the world would be required to live alone on their own tiny, sad little island.

But what if he hasn’t changed? Who’s seen “The Woodsman” with Kevin Bacon? I know, I’m always bringing it back to movies, but think about it. Kevin Bacon’s character was really trying to change. He wasn’t a bad guy. Just a guy with a serious fricking problem that in the end he couldn’t overcome. (He moved across the street from a school and flirted with disaster by letting some teenager sit on his lap in a park). I don’t want to end up being inspiration for an episode of “Law and Order SVU”. And I don’t want to live constantly worried about whether someone’s rifling through my panty drawer or has installed a camera in the shower.

I’ve consulted my board of directors of friends and they are split, 60/40 in favor of me trusting my original gut opinion, formed without the sex offender info and going ahead and moving in. Many of them are saying “it’s probably nothing, he says he’s changed…..people DO change.” I’d also like to point out that the Board of Directors of RBrown friends is a collectively well-educated, high-earning, intelligent group of people, several with infants.

I consulted with someone at the Bay Area Housing authority (or something like that) and told her the situation. She told me how to remedy it if I wanted to try and get out of the lease and get my deposit back. She can’t offer legal advice but the more I told her the less she felt comfortable with him and the situation. Of course, she also said she had a friend that peed on a tree in a park, a kid saw him do it and he was convicted of…guess what? Code 288c, lewd and lascivious behavior with a child under 14.

For the first time in a long time, my gut has abandoned me and is completely split, literally and figuratively (I woke up with stomach knots at 4:30 this morning). I got a good vibe from him in person. But I also believe in signs. Why would I – the girl who makes fun of forwarded emails and almost NEVER opens them – choose to open that one? What are the odds? Is someone sending me a signal?

So, I’m asking for your honest opinions and comments. Thanks for reading and for (hopefully) not thinking I’m crazy and naive for still considering moving in and perhaps trusting that people can change.

Here's the link, by the way: http://www12.familywatchdog.us/

Do I have "WHORE" tattooed on my forehead?

No, seriously, do I? Because I feel like I must.

Recap: I’m out with my girls last Saturday, minding my own business when a guy they know approaches and chats with them. We get introduced. I pay attention to the mindless chitchat, I smile. I nod. At the end of their convo he says “Hey Dshaw, I need to get your email so I can get Rbrown’s number and ask her out.” What? OK. Cool.

Said suitor follows up with Dshaw, gets my number, calls me and we go out for drinks tonight. There’s a modicum of chemistry, we have a good conversation, he seems nice. We have a couple of glasses of wine and somewhere near the end he throws in the Ace card of “well I don’t have any chocolate at my place but maybe we can go back there anyway.”

What the fuck?

I reply with the nervous laugh “Um, well that’s probably not the best idea.” He seems satisfied but my red flags have been raised.

He drives me home, gets out to walk me to the door (extra points), kisses me goodnight and makes a comment about how my name isn’t on the directory. Naturally, I don’t bother to go into the whole “I’m subleasing” story. I make a joke of how I’m not directory-worthy. And he follows up with “Well, invite me up for coffee”.

Again, I must ask – WHERE ON MY FOREHEAD IS THE WORD WHORE WRITTEN??!!

“What?” I ask, confused. “Invite me up for coffee,” he says.

I’m not even sure what my reply was… something like “Um, well, it’s not really a (insert name here) thing, it’s more of a Rbrown thing. I don’t drink coffee. I don’t have a coffeemaker (no shit, I said both of those things, both lies). “ And then – and I’m sorry BLH – “my friend I’m subleasing from just had a baby so it’s not really visitor-friendly. Cribs and stuff.”

I got the “OK, it was nice to meet you”. Then the walk-off. I will never hear from this guy again. Nor do I really want to. I thought he was nice. Jesus!

OK, so it’s a fine line. We all have needs. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t invited someone up for some “coffee” before. So I’m not sure why I’m shocked. Nothing should shock me anymore. If there had been some more build-up…maybe there would’ve been a little coffee. But I’m not entirely convinced this guy knew my name at the end of the date. Remember, when he met me, I was merely a nodder and a smiler. So to go from that to naked coffee…well, it just seems wrong.

To channel Carrie Bradshaw for one lame moment, allow me to say for anyone who’s dated me lately, in the past, or may be considering it and reading this blog…let me be as clear as Carrie on this: “I’m looking for love. Real live honest to fricking God love. And if you’re really just looking to have “coffee” with me, don’t bother.” (OK, Carrie didn’t say it exactly like that, but it needed to be said). Is every girl you meet someone you just wanna DO??

I LOVE sex. Really, I mean who doesn’t?? But if there’s chemistry, let it breathe a little. Why ya gotta rush it and shit? Ok, once again I’d say, I too, have made this mistake more than once. But only if all the signs are right, for fuck’s sake! If I was wearing a skank outfit on Saturday or tonight and sending mixed signals, maybe I’d get it. But I wasn’t. I was just me, and I was me on level 2 on a scale of 1 to 10. Because I’ve been told Rbrown at 10 can seem a bit much, a bit flirty, even when I’m not meaning too. So this guy got me at a 2. And he wants “coffee”.

Where did I go wrong here? What signals should I NOT have sent??

In a “High Fidelity” moment, I even dialed up SilverFox. At 12:16 am. To tell him thank you. FOR BEING NORMAL. Because as screwy as all that got, he was always a gentleman, he always read the signals, he always treated me with respect. Which was weird. Because we drank a LOT of coffee. (sorry if you’re reading this….you always wanted to be the cool guy in my books and now you’re the sexy, cool gentleman guy. Hope that’s cool). Silverfox could merely smile at me and my stomach did flips. He touched my arm and it caught on fire. So on the occasions Silverfox and I decided to have coffee, it was really a no-brainer. Stomach flips and fire are coffee-worthy. 2 glasses of wine and someone I’m pretty sure doesn’t know my last name? NOT COFFEE WORTHY.

Are we all doomed, us single girls? Should I just go back to “inviting people up for coffee” and say fuck it to finding more? Someone give me hope. Please. I just don’t think it’s wrong of me to want the coffee….AND the coffee cake, the Splenda, the purple couches, the stir sticks and the soundtrack. The whole goddamned coffee fucking shop.

Right?

My TOTALLY RAD new apartment!!!!!!!!

As many of you know, my search for a permanent home over the past 4-6 weeks has been a bit of a challenge. I’m not a vegan, I’m not unscented, I wear leather, I’m not a pagan, I watch TV and I’m not at all active in a single stuffed animal community that the Bay Area has to offer. Not one. (Ballsy of me, right? I mean everybody knows a good stuffed dog alliance will score you the best room the Outer Sunset has to offer.)

So you may be surprised to hear that someone as picky and scent-a-licious as me finally managed to sign a lease. That’s right. I’m moving into an apartment on March 3. But it was a tough choice between my two finalists. Allow me to explain.

Apartment 1
The post for apartment 1 stated they were looking for a woman in her mid-30s to balance out the 2 males (early 40s and 30) and 1 other female (early 40s). I went to meet the roommates and check out the apartment (located in Cole Valley) a week ago. Nice people, cute place, but it was as silent as a tomb at 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon. Now most of the time, I’m out doing something fun and weekend-like at 2 pm on Saturdays. But on the off weekends I’d actually be in my apartment, it’s likely I’ll be sitting in my room watching whichever marathon of whatever reality TV show VH1, Bravo or MTV are offering. During commercial breaks, I’ll be listening to clips of songs I want to buy or illegally download in between reading from whatever book I’m enjoying that particular day while fielding calls from my friends on my cell phone with a very loud ring tone version of the “Hungarian Hat Dance” regarding what our plans for the evening are. What can I say? I’m a multi-tasker.

The interview progressed and one of the roommates asked if his practicing cello and flute would bother me during reasonable daytime hours. I answered honestly: not at all. He then asked me if I had a TV. Yes. He paused. And he supposed I’d want to watch the TV in my room? Um, yeah. Right. This might be a problem. You know. The buzz of TV carries. We might have to monitor this.

Pre-advertising, this hullabaloo wouldn’t have been a problem. Because me and my 24-inch hunk of TV would still be living in harmonious urban bliss at my ginormous studio with hardwood floors, huge closets (plural), separate dining room and hallway (that’s right, a hallwayin a studio). But now that I’m paying surgeon-like student loans back for social worker-like advertising checks, compromises must be made. Lines must be drawn. Cellos must be listened to. Volume must be curtailed. Hour long discussions about handling conflict endured. O, what fun we’ll have, apartment 1!!!!

Apartment 2
The posting for this apartment announced an open house hosted by four 20-something roommates. It never occurred to me that I shouldn’t go to this open house because of my advanced age. I figured they’d either like me or they wouldn’t, I’d get the apartment or I wouldn’t, end of story.

Me and about 15 other hopeful roommates showed up at the Pacific Heights Victorian last Monday. As the roommates guided us around, a “Bachelor” vibe ensued. Other roommate hopefuls began throwing elbows to get to the front, jockeying for position so they could get some face time with the roommates, throw a few clever words in. ”Look at me! I’m funny!” But being on time, being tall and wearing heels finally pays off – I was at the front of the pack and nobody was knockin’ me and my 6’0” frame (in heels) out of the way. Go ahead, bitches. (Keep smiling!) Try.

We all sat down in the hallway area for a Q&A. More hopefuls, saying things just to be saying them, asking questions just to be asking them, talking

What the…??? Is that a washer and dryer I see back there? A new washer and dryer?? Oh holy shit, the stakes just rose. Say something funny! Wait, what? I have to write a bio about myself?? Are you fucking kidding me with this? I get to write a bio? This place is SOOOO mine.

I wrote while the roommates talked. “Like, we’re all really good friends. And we just wanna, you know, like keep that vibe. Like, we all totally go out together every weekend, to North Beach and get totally crazy. It’s really fun. We want somebody that’s into that. It’s totally important to us.”

My pen froze. Abort! Abort! You’re not 20-something anymore! (I’m talking to myself now, for those of you who didn’t catch on) You’re a self-described “daytime friend” to your other 20-something friends because you know all you really want most of the time is a couple of glasses of really good wine, some sushi, your best girls, a few hotties to serve as eye candy and a midnight curfew and poof! You’ve got yourself the perfect Saturday night. Tequila and Jager shots? 5 am taxi rides home after partying in the apartment of some randoms for 2 hours after the bars closed? Totally 1996. And an occasional 2002. (Disregard 2003-2005 of ad school) Maybe a few times post ad school in 2005. OK. You got me. No one’s perfect. BUT NO MORE.

I couldn’t do it. I thanked them, got up and walked out. I could feel the eyes of the other hopefuls staring holes in my back. Their smugness, though unspoken, was deafening. She is SO not getting this apartment. She should totally be staying to mingle with the roommates. No WAY is she getting a rose.

And the winner is…..
The answer seemed so obvious as I walked out of the apartment that night. I’m not a youngster anymore. It’s time to be an adult. To live with adults. I’ve got adult debts and lines around my eyes that I like to pretend are laugh lines. My 20s were over eons ago. Ad school was forever ago. Real life is here. Real life is today.

But as I thought more about that, I rememberd how much fun, how many gut laugh out-loud $2 wine coming out of my nose moments I had living with my five 20-something hottie London gal pals in the Islington flat. I thought about what an incredible experience it was sharing a West Kensington dive with Better Darker Half, a 20-something gay Aussie boy, an Italian guy who spoke no English and a married Polish couple that partied like rock stars, boiled water and drank it to ward off hangovers and managed to get up every morning at 5 am to report to work. And how I managed to fit my 30-something ways into that life and still have fun. Did I want to live in a library? In a place where people would judge me for loving “I love the 80s”? Or did my pendulum swing more towards an occasional tequila shot with a low-cut silk camisole thrown in for good measure to highlight my mature bosom? I’m hip, I’m with it, tucka tucka tucka. Right? Besides, no one had offered me the apartment yet. I bailed early. Surely they were on to me. Surely. Right?

Wrong, my friends, SO WRONG. I was offered Apartment 2. And I took it. I fooled them- mooohoohawwhahaaaa!! Though my intent was never to deceive them, just to check the place out and see if they looked like people I could live with. Despite their 20-something ways, they did. They seemed cool. Like me 10 years ago. (or 2 years ago at times). Nice people. Just not lucky enough to be born in a year that doubles as a sexual position. But now they think I’m between 24 and 28. Shit.

So, all you 20-somethings….would you be pissed if you found out your new roommate was older than you thought? Even if she was like, totally fun, cool, and funny but sometimes like, abandoned going out on weekend nights altogether to enjoy Netflix, wine and a good book?

Oh my GOD. People think I’m between 24 and 28. SWEET!

Coldplay or Oldplay?

Tuesday night I had the pleasure of spending an evening with one of my favorite boyfriends. While most of you recognize him as Chris Martin, mega supahstar and front man for Coldplay, I simply know him as “baby”. (When Gwyn isn’t around, that is).

We rendezvous-ed at an intimate little out-of-the-way place known as Oakland Arena where he crooned to me over a romantic light and graphics show as sweetly and lovingly as he does in the privacy (pronounced with a short “I” as any proper mistress of a British rock star knows) of my virgin-white ear buds. It was an evening to remember. The only flaw in this perfect evening was the 19,198 onlookers. (I shared Chris with my friend ASkor, so she doesn’t count in the disappointing debacle I’m about to outline for you).

Let me start by saying this: I hate – nay despise- the people of the world who feel compelled to tell you how out-of-the-uber-hip-loop you are for liking Coldplay (said with a sneer and downward voice inflection), a “mass appeal” band as I believe someone last described them to me. You know who you are and all of you reading know who they are too. They’re the people who’ve extended their music snobbery well beyond the acceptable years of high school and college. They’re the people who actually liked Coldplay about 3 or 4 years ago before anyone in our (slow to pick up the good Brit bands) country had ever even heard of them. The people who are so insecure they have to constantly tell you how cool they are, what new “films” (God forbid you call it a “movie”) you should see, people who mock you for watching Project Runway, for fuck’s sake, or for indulging in a harmless 10 hour marathon of “I love the 80s”. (What’s WRONG with these people?)

It’s one thing if you never really liked a band before they reached pop super stardom. But you poser-type people who liked them and then try to cop a ‘tude once more than 17 people listen to them? You people really piss me off. How can I prove that you ever liked said bands? OK, you got me. I can’t. But I was in the 11th grade once. (Actually, my music snobbery didn’t kick in until freshman year of college) I know your tricks. We all had our wear-all-black, fall-in-desperate-love-with-a-hackey-sacker-from-the-theater-department-who-worked-for-the-college-radio-station period, right? (Didn’t we?)

On a scale of 1 to 10 with 1 being the uber-hip music snobs, the Jack Black shooing the dad out of the record store for trying to buy a Stevie Wonder CD in “High Fidelity” and 10 being the soccer mom who still wears high-waisted, pegged jeans, has permed hair, teased bangs and loves (LOVES!) Celine Dion, I’d say I’m about a 4. I’m not super hip. I’ve accepted this. I wear Banana Republic and H&M. But I’m not all that un-hip either. I’m cultural. I know what the kids are listening to yo, and I like a lot of it. And a few times I’ve even pointed the kids to things they didn’t even know about. Go figure.

BUT.

I had no idea – ZERO – of what I was in for when Chris, ASkor and I met up on Tuesday night. The people. At this concert. Were shocking. SHOCKING, I tell you. As God and ASkor are my witnesses, I think Olive Garden may very well have been the official sponsor of the Coldplay concert. And on top of that, I think Applebee’s, Chili’s, Chevy’s and possibly even Bob Evans mixed with a little Cracker Barrel bused in their clientele special, just to see that new band from Ain-glind (that’s my phonetic attempt at a middle American accent) with the fella married to the Esty Lauder model that the kids are listening to these days. Good Lord. The place was teeming with suburbia types. I think I even saw some acid-washed jeans. What the fuck?

On top of that, people started filing out before the show was even over. BEFORE the encore. BEFORE “Fix You”. You know, that incredible fucking song that’s on the ONLY Coldplay CD those people even have or even know exists. Filing out, I tell you. Like it was the bottom of the fricking 7th at an A’s game. Because they wanted to beat traffic. Oh. Holy. Jesus. They probably also hit the early-bird all you can eat special on the way up from Fresno.

Don’t get me wrong. The show was amazing. If you like Coldplay, you like Coldplay. But somewhere between their old gigs at The Fillmore (which made you feel like you were discovering this unbelievable new band in your friend’s really huge garage with a bar) to their show at Oakland Arena (which made me want to ask where on the mall directory Chico’s was) they started selling ring tones. And letting their music be used…in commercials. And thanking the guy at iPod for selling so much of their music. Thanking The Man! (yes, I have an iPod but why should a badass like Chris Martin have to kiss that guy’s ass?)

So maybe now I can identify with you #1s on the scale of 1 to 10. Just a tiny bit. Maybe the truth is that once a band hits it big, it isn’t the band you don’t want to be associated with but the fans. Truth? Anyone?

Now if you’ll excuse me, Fayette Mall from Lexington, Kentucky circa 1986 just called. And I’ve gotta figure out how I can screen that shit out.