The Point Breakiest Blog Post, Brah

*If you’re reading this blog while you’re drinking some sort of alcoholic beverage, take a sip every time there’s a Point Break reference.

POINT BREAK!

Take drink #1, bitches.

 

So it comes as no surprise that I am no fan of manual labor. In fact, it is uncharacteristic of me to participate in aerobic exercise or any sort of fast movement. Really, just roll me to the fridge in my desk chair.

However, last weekend I branched out. While in glorious San Diego, CA I took a surfing lesson. The FBI didn’t pay me to. I’ve always wanted to surf. Maybe it’s because of Annette Funicello or seeing Point Break too many times; either way, I decided to do it.

 

Just as long as Keanu Reeves wasn’t there.

 

I wasn’t nervous about sharks or not being able to master the wave. The most nerve-wracking thing about the whole ordeal was trying to put on a wet suit.

After much wiggling and frantic hopping, I was suited up. I was assigned a surf instructor who had a very non-surfer name: Carl. However, Carl did have the typical surf body and all was quickly forgiven.

 

See these lines? SEE THEM?

 

At first Carl seemed all business as we practiced on dry land.

 

Carl:  “Surfing is just like riding a skateboard…”

Me: “Never done it.”

Carl: “Okay, well, what about a scooter?”

Me: “Nope.”

Carl: “Boogieboarding?”

Me:  “Negative.”

Carl: “…”

Me: “Dude, I’m 30. I’m not expecting much.”

Carl: “Let’s just get back to business.”

 

Man, I couldn’t even crack a smile.

[Side note: The most disheartening thing in life is when I can’t make you laugh. If I can’t make you laugh then I consider myself unsuccessful. Either that or you’re a robot, ROBOT.]

Anyway.

After semi-mastering moving my limbs into positions long lost on me we ventured into the ocean.

I didn’t stand up right away. But I did work on Carl. Carl began to warm up as I successfully managed to toss in a few Point Break references that earned me a smile. Imagine me saying, “God forbid I surf like Keanu Reeves!” and then tossing my head back to give a throaty laugh while running a hand through my snarled curls.

Imagine.

In time, Carl he became pretty chatty. He chuckled. Made a few quips of his own. I was pleased.

 

Mr. Burns Pleased.

 

Jokes aside, I practiced my surf skill, appalled and not pleased as seven-year-olds hopped on their boards and stood with ease. I’ll admit it. I was jealous. Oh, to have the lightness and spunk of a child.

 

I gave them the finger behind their backs.

 

My very first try I fell off the board and jammed my arm on the bottom of the ocean floor. It tweaked my elbow but I pushed through. I must have operated on sheer adrenaline because for the entire session it didn’t hurt. I pressed up, slid my knees and stood. And fell. And repeat.

I held my arms up too high (thanks, Hollywood), I didn’t keep my eyes on the beach, I kept glancing back at my instructor for approval. I wasn’t too frustrated though. I didn’t have high hopes for myself. I knew I wouldn’t be a regular Johnny Utah but was still psyched to be out in the waves and trying something new.

And yet, through all this, the mistakes, the seaweed, the salty water in my mouth, idiot kids screaming “Shark!, I eventually did it.

 

This counts as standing.

 

As the session wound down, so did my upper body strength. My god, I worked muscles I didn’t know I had. I could barely press myself up on the last few waves.  When we wrapped up, the trek to shore was a sweet relief.

Surfing is a sport/hobby I’ll do again. You pay for it the next day with crippled limbs and thighs, but it’s totally worth it, dude.

Somewhere, out there, Patrick Swayze is giving me a slow clap.

 

“I swear to god Keanu, you ask me how to spell “cat” one more time…”

Thank You for SmokeLong

I have to brag. Just a little bit. SmokeLong Quarterly was on my dear-god-fingers-crossed-maybe-I’ll-get-published list. For a while now. Maybe, uh, four years, but who’s counting?

I did, assholes. Eight rejections later and hells yes, I’m in.

But seriously. I’m humbled and it’s awesome.  I wrote the right story and submitted it to the right place and so, it makes me very, very ecstatic to say my piece of flash fiction “Hard to Carry and Fit in a Trunk” will appear in this week’s issue and then again in the Quarterly Publication.

Special thanks to Anderson Holderness who chose my story and the SmokeLong Quarterly staff who put up with my name more than enough times in their inbox.

So it’s cool. I’m happy.  I’m proud of this little story.

“Ginny Hanover always envisioned herself as a slender-boned girl.

Hell, she always envisioned herself in the trunk of car so right off the bat something’s wrong with this scenario.”

I hope you’ll read the rest of it here.

P.S. In case you need a moral, don’t give up on something you want.

Case in point –

My life is now validated.

Habitat for Calamity

This summer, my husband and I have a pact.

 

No, not that kind of pact.

 

We have a pact to travel through Arizona and see the sights. Road trips to cities like Payson, Flagstaff, Sonoita, etc. Our state – every state – has those fun, unique getaways and you should see them, damn it.

Whenever I take a road trip I always wonder two things: 1) Where is the nearest prison? 2) Where is the closest cemetery?

This weekend we decided to head down to Biosphere 2, located in Oro Valley, AZ.

I’ll tell you in advance that I’ve never seen Bio-Dome so you’ll be spared many Pauly Shore jokes.

Apologies all around.

I’ve always wanted to visit Biosphere 2  ever since I was a little girl and read about the Biospherians living in those self-contained domes. Back then a 10-year-old Jules’ thoughts probably were: “Habitats are cool.” “What food can they eat?” “Are they scared in the dark?”

Well, yesterday, 30-year-old Jules’s thoughts were: “Did anyone bone each other?” “Did they have to murder their own animals?” “Were they allowed wine? Because if not, goddamn it.”

“Go, world, go!”

The grounds of Biosphere 2 were so peaceful. Gorgeous views of the Catalina Mountains. Little habitats set up that reminded me of some hedonist community. Instantly, I wanted to live there. We joined a group of 30 people and watched a video that oddly glossed over the awkward reason why the Biospherians exited the Biosphere. I still do not know. It was like the people living in the community were a black mark. No one really wanted to mention them. It was odd.

 

It was because of the interior decorating.

 

The video also stressed the importance of science. DUH.

From there we traveled to five different habitats: Savannah, Ocean, Tropical rainforest, Mangrove wetlands, and Fog desert.

Exhibit A

 

 

The coolest was the rainforest habitat. It monitors the current rainforest temperature in South America, so what we felt was true atmosphere on the other side of the world.  The earth was blowing my mind.

Everything else was enjoyable.

Except for the doomsday tour guide, who would issue warnings like this:

“This is a strenuous workout. Many, many stairs and habitats. If you feel faint, tell me.”

Wait what?

Then there was this classic –

“Now, keep to the left on this hallway. When you come to the grate on the floor, do not step on it. I repeat, it is imperative that you DO NOT step on it. Make sure to duck and lift your feet when you come to the door and then you’ll descend at a steep incline into this tunnel, which you will need to conform your body to a 90 degree right angle…”

Holy overload. Instructions with the fear of impending death or agony are too much to follow.  I’m naturally prone to mishaps so I kept picturing stepping on the grate and setting off alarms around the Biosphere 2.

But in the end, everything went well. I didn’t step on the grate and we were led into this room.

In movies, this is the murder room.

After a demonstration that involved screaming and air pressure (don’t ask, because I don’t know) we headed outside, passed a structure that sounded like a dirty oral sex act (a Falaj?) and the tour ended in the hot and sweaty desert. The trip was fun. Worth it, sure. I’ll admit I was a little bit disappointed because for some reason I had expected the opportunity to frolic in the habitats, instead of just inspecting them from handrails.

But I get it. I shouldn’t trample the ecosystems.

I’m glad I went. I’m smarter. Better for going. I have a new understanding for our world and seeing science and research in progress was pretty damn cool. And so, I took the opportunity to thank it in style.

 

“I love earth.”

This Book Deserves a Face Palm.

I’ve made a huge mistake. Bigger than perms. Bigger than Jagermeister. Bigger than discontinuing Viennetta.

 

“Avenge me!”

 

Recently I read and just finished up the sequel to “Rosemary’s Baby” – “The Son of Rosemary”.

Before I confess my sin (boo hiss), let me explain myself. Many years ago, having loved, loved, loved “Rosemary’s Baby” oh so much, I researched the author Ira Levin and was thrilled when I saw there was a sequel. However, Amazon reviews were not kind.

 

 

I’m not one to  be swayed by reviews (I have my own mind, damn it!), but with most of the reviews in the one star range, I opted to keep my love for the original intact and instead read “A Kiss Before Dying”. I enjoyed it.

But back to Rosemary and her demon spawn.

I first read “Rosemary’s Baby” when I was maybe fifteen and the writing hooked me. I found it in the attic, buried in a box of my mother’s high school things.

It was like crack. Levin’s style is so clean, crisp and says so much. It draws you in. I wanted to be at the party where Rosemary ruins her mascara. I wanted to throttle her husband, Guy for not believing her stories about witches. I remember when she makes the drink with egg and sherry and to this day think I’d like to try one. Scenes linger strong in my memory. As a kid, and as a woman now, I still admire that book. I reread it every few years, and marvel at its style.

And so…all this led me to NOT reading “Son of Rosemary”.

That is, until I received the book in the mail with a note from my little sister.

 

In our family, a post-it note constitutes a double dare.

 

Okay. So now I had the book. Curiosity made it too strong to just put it away. I couldn’t resist. I picked it up and went to my pool, deciding it could be a tawdry novel for sunbathing.

Worst. Mistake. Ever.

The writing is atrocious. I literally screeched aloud no less than ten times at classics like this:

 

She sat down, took a deep breath, and lifted the handset. Put it to her ear. Said, “Andy?”

“Tears are running down my face.”

Her tears welled.

 

Epic face palms every single sitting. The book even singed itself onto my thigh.

 

The devil’s mark comes in print form.

 

And yet, like your dad on his wedding night, I plowed ahead. It was too awful to put down. Like watching a fat-person-eat -cake-while-simultaneously-having-a-heart-attack awful. Plus, it’s hard for me to give up on a book. I’ve probably only done it once or twice in my life. I gotta finish those bastards off.

I expected it to be bad; but I didn’t expect it to be one of the worst books I’ve ever read. My only comfort is that I’ve never read “50 Shades of Grey”. And still won’t.

Ira Levin must have had a boner while he wrote this piece of shit because every other paragraph consists of Rosemary and her son Andy smothering each other with kisses.

Let’s review shall we?

 

Page 34: After the hugs and kisses, the sighs and caresses and tears and tissues…

Page 35: They sat close together, facing each other, clasping hands…

Page 45: He kissed her cheek.

Page 51: They kissed each other’s temples, kissed cheeks, the corners of their mouths – she pushed, they let each other go, turned.

Page 57: “Ah, poor baby,” he said, raining kisses on her head…

Page 166: They tramped along in their shades, gloved hands joined.

Page 193: He kissed her cheek; she kissed his, where his beard began.

 

I think you get the point.  Seriously, open the book, stick a finger in, and you’ll land on something involving kisses and caresses. It goes on and on like this, until son tries to have his way with his mother. I think. Maybe. I read it with half-slitted eyes while gagging.

And the ending. Oh the ending. It would put the TV show “St. Elsewhere” to shame.

I’m gonna spoil it because you don’t need to read it. The first book, “Rosemary’s Baby” never happened. It was all a dream. What the fuck, Levin? You toy with my emotions for fifteen years and I read the sequel to find it’s all a dream? That’s the cheapest copout I’ve ever had.

After my initial rage settled and I finished my hate filled rant on my sister’s voicemail cursing her for ever sending me the book I began to think.

I was sad. Levin’s writing was great in 1967. The Son of Rosemary was published in 1997. So what happened in that span of time? Granted, writers can get worse. But man, he had goodness.  He had something.

I guess he peaked.

A flood of questions hit me. Did the publisher just blindly toss him a deal without reading it because he sold books before? Did Levin know his writing wasn’t up to par, but desperate for a paycheck vomited some sort of shitbag of a novel? The saddest question, did Levin think his writing was good? That is was comparable to the original?

I get it. Bad writers get good writing deals. I’m not naïve. Writing is so subjective and this is my opinion, but man, when you compare what Levin had to what he ended up with, it’s Mickey Rourke staggering.

I-uh-I…just wow.

 

It’s my fault. I should have let the original novel live on in my head. Instead I have the sequel creeping in late at night like that dude down the street who calls himself your uncle and laughs when you back away in fear.

 

“Get it. Get it.”

 

I blame my sister for sending me the book.

I blame myself for being hopped up on Coronas and thinking I can do tawdry.

But most of all, I blame Ira Levin. You should have just let Rosemary hail Satan in peace.

Your Kindle Means Nothing

I have a Kindle and I’m meh about it. It’s like a fine hand job; one enjoys it. I guess. It serves its purpose, but unless offered to you, you forget it’s an option.

Which is fine with me, because I, for one, have a heated love affair with the printed word. Like actually in print, black and white, Times New Roman font  (give me Comic Sans and die), smelling like a dirty thrift store, greasy paperback word book.

There’s something about the weight of the word in your hands. The heft. The smugness of flashing what you’re reading to others. Nyah, nyah, I read about SMART THINGZ.

Uhhh, how did this get in here?

Despite owning a Kindle, a device able to carry tons of books in one compact piece of technology, I still take three books along when I travel. Maybe I’m silly. Maybe I haven’t adjusted to the electronic age, but damn it I can’t. I like my books meaty.

The only reason I use a Kindle is to get a book ASAP.  Say one night I’m on Amazon all sweaty-palmed and breathing heavily and see a book I absolutely must have. Then this is where I unearth the Kindle. One click and BAM! I have it.

And still. Sometimes I hold out for the actual book.

Why you ask? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY, JULES?

Well, let me elaborate in handy-dandy list form.

1. The Satisfaction of Finishing

Ahem.

Reading and finishing a 450-page book on a Kindle isn’t as satisfying as finishing the real live thing. You’re done. You close the book with a hearty thump. The sense of accomplishment is a tangible thing.  I’m a visual person. I need to see this.

The Kindle Progress Bar is worthless.

Hell. Go there.

It doesn’t make me feel secure in the knowledge that I’m making progress. I don’t even know what I’m looking at. Do the tick marks serve a purpose? Will they grant wishes?  I guess I’m 41% done but how many pages left?

HOW MANY?

2. The Smell

C’mon. Books just smell good.  Especially the old ones.

3. My Collection

(cue evil laugh)

I like to look at all the books and know I own them. Just like that hobo in my basement but that’s a story for another time.

Shh, it can hear you breathing.

I’ll probably never reread the books on my Kindle. I own Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas electronically but I’ll still buy the book one of these days. Building up my book collection is a good thing. I love my office library and if I had my choice my entire house would be covered in books.

Like this. Precisely like this.

4. The Memories

I travel a lot. I read a lot. The two go together like Sid and Nancy. Minus the whole murder thing.

Aw, precious.

I remember many, many books I’ve read while traveling, and on vacation, and the cities I’ve read them:  Ayiti – New Orleans, This Book is Full of Spiders – San Francisco, Hell’s Angels – Dublin, etc, etc.

On the Kindle I forget. I don’t have that physical piece to call up my memories.

Actual books are like roadmaps to where I’ve been and who I was when I read them.

5. Zombie Apocalypse

Granted, you may have more important things to do like running for your life and pitchforking Zombies than consider the old book during a Zombie Apocalypse, however, when the crazy slows down and you settle into your new lifestyle of fear and paranoia, ol’ mr. electric ain’t gonna be around.

Where does that Kindle come into play now? Huh sucker? You’re probably chucking it at a Zombie’s head or using it to dig some type of mass grave maybe. I don’t know. Don’t ask me to imagine things further because they’ll get out of control.

Aaaand, Zombie Strippers. Check.

Books are reliable. In any disaster scenario, they’re always there. When you have no electric, you have a book. You can still read in the daytime and by candlelight at night.

They still exist.

But so do Zombies.

So you’re probably gonna die.

This Message Brought to You by Procrastination and Writer’s Block

Procrastination. As a writer (and human being), I know it fondly and freakishly.

Do not ask.

However, it’s not just a writer’s thing. Everyone procrastinates. It’s human nature. If you say you don’t you’re a liar-liar-pants-on-fire. Or you’re just way too pure for me, so stop reading my blog RIGHT NOW.

I’ll bet even Hemingway wasted time doing other things.

Like boozin’.

Procrastination can be good. It can take the mind to another place; distract you until you’re ready to come back to the story, the problem or the kidnapping at hand.

And yet, while other, normal folk may go see a movie, frolic in the outdoors doing sporty-type related activity, or having fistfights with hobos in alleyways, as a writer my procrastination usually takes place in front of my computer. Doing everything in my power to avoided typing much needed words.

Tweet. Music mixes. Baby talk to my cats. Enough of this. I decided the time was ripe to make another video. And yes. I was procrastinating when I made it.

So crank up the volume and adjust your jockstrap because here is the stupid shit writerly procrastination is made of.

Guest Blog Post: When Your Mom Laughs at Sex Jokes by Ryan W. Bradley

In an effort to distract myself from the memoir I’ve been writing at the pace of an elderly snail, I began writing small essays about other portions of my life that wouldn’t be covered by the memoir. Shades of Early Manhood is a collection that has come out of these outcast essays. They are small moments, some of them more humorous than others, but all of them are little pieces of the puzzle of my life that continues to come together. It may be too much to ask that you pretend to find me funny, but you should try anyway.

 

~~~

When Your Mom Laughs at Sex Jokes 

by Ryan W. Bradley

I’ve never been caught masturbating. According to Hollywood this is a rite of passage for teenagers. I suppose it’s lucky I’m so neurotic that when I masturbated as a teenager I waited until the middle of the night to do so. Another emotional horror story I missed out on: walking in on my parents having sex. I don’t generally consider myself to have had a lucky childhood, but I do feel lucky I was able to escape these memories some people are stuck walking around with for the rest of their lives.

But you can’t escape sex and your parents colliding. For me this includes hearing my dad talk about my mom’s g-spot nearly two decades after their divorce, or telling a friend of my sister’s that his “machinery” still worked. Or my stepdad telling me in regard to me saying he shouldn’t read my novel that he and my mom already know I’m a pervert.

It was during the fall of 2004 when I was faced with the realization that my mom has experienced oral pleasure. I’ve always recognized, logically, that my parents had sex, probably still do in their respective marriages. And it doesn’t bother me. I believe it’s a healthy aspect of life. If people aren’t having sex, they ought to be. But I also don’t need to be faced with my parents’ sexuality directly.

I’d been kicked out of college after my sophomore year and was floating between my mom and stepdad’s couch and my sister’s. One night my mom decided to watch Robin Williams’ Live on Broadway with me. I’d seen the special when it aired a couple years before, but all I remembered of it was laughing my ass off.

Most of the special was fine. I laughed as much as I did the first time, and my mom seemed to enjoy it, too. Then it happened. Robin Williams did his bit about going down on a woman. If you haven’t seen this act, it includes Williams muff diving in the crook of his own hairy arm. I laughed and tried hard not to look at my mother beside me on the couch.

It doesn’t matter how old you are, sometimes using “we’re all adults” as a mantra simply won’t cut it in regard to your parents. Seeing your mother with tears of laughter streaming down her face because of a cunnilingus joke is one of those times.

Maybe no one ever walked in on me yanking my own chain. Maybe I never had to see my parents bumping uglies. But watching my mom try to catch her breath as Robin Williams buried his face in his own bigfoot-esque swatch of arm fur, well, it seems close enough. Rite of passage achieved. I certainly no longer feel the same about Robin Williams, as if I’d caught him and my mother having sex. And I’ll never watch stand-up with my mom again.

It was the kind of moment when adulthood collides with the reminder that your parents, too, are adults in a way that makes you feel distinctly immature. I’d say it was a coming of age moment, but for fear of a pun I’d better not.

 

~~~

Ryan W. Bradley is a writer. He is cool. I like him.

His story above made me remember watching Species with my father and Original Sin with my mother, and I heartily echo the fear one feels when a sex scene or sex-related act is combined with PARENTS IN THE ROOM. 

Ryan W. Bradley is the author of three poetry chapbooks, a story collection, PRIZE WINNERS (Artistically Declined Press, 2011) and CODE FOR FAILURE, his debut novel (Black Coffee Press, 2012). His poetry homage to Pablo Neruda, THE WAITING TIDE will arrive in 2013 from Curbside Splendor. You can visit his website here.

I Peed Like a Boy and I Liked It

Last weekend I went camping. I’ll spare you the usual jaunty tales of sitting in the sun and drinking wine.

 

But yes. Wine was had.

 

Instead we’ll talk about something much more important. How I peed in the woods like a boy.

Last Christmas, my little sister bequeathed to me something apparently only Montanans have heard of – the GoGirl.

 

 

It’s basically a silicone female urination device that allows women to pee while standing up.  I was curious. I took it out of the tube…inspected it…

 

“I shall name you Bob. And you shall be my friend.”

 

Had some fun with it…

 

 

 

 

And briefly flashbacked to that one Beetlejuice scene…

 

“What scene i–Oh right. THAT scene.”

 

And then decided to test it out. The instructions seemed simple: “Just hold GoGirl against your body, forming a seal. Aim and pee.”

Easy pee-sy.

I probably should have tested it at home before taking it into the wilderness but once I was down to my skivvies, ready to take a leak, I was hit with the “Where do I seal?” worry. I know pee flows from my urethra; however, cupping a plastic cylinder thing-a-ma-bob around it so precise-like rivaled a Mensa test.

“Where’s my urethra?!” I lamented to my husband in my best Brad Pitt what’s-in-the-box? voice from my hiding spot in the trees. “I can’t find it.”

As always, he promptly drank his wine and ignored me.

I was a tad befuddled. I mean, it’s not like I can unzip my zipper and stick it in like the website suggests (adjust your clothes; there’s no messing up your jeans – uh, yeah right), I do wear underwear, so you still have to de-pants.

So I did it. And I cupped it.

It worked. Sort of.

 

Like I said, I should have practiced before. But it wasn’t bad. And the thrill of peeing while standing up can never be matched.

It’s a cool product. I can see where it would come in handy when a bathroom isn’t around.  I’m just probably not the best person to use it. I’m a fumbling mess with poor aim and unsteady legs (gentlemen).

I guess, when nature calls, I just prefer squat-lounging back against trees like the uncoordinated woman I am.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The McRib Is Back.

A cheap bottle of wine on the nightstand is empty.  The girl stands, slips on her shirt and jeans.  She sits down again and begins pulling on her Keds. “Are we going to keep meeting like this?” she asks.

“Meeting like what?”

“In the dark?”

“How do you want to meet?”

She glances over her shoulder and offers a toothy smile. It’s our third time and I think her name might be Tracy or Tiffany or something equally trashy. “Dinner would be nice,” she says. She giggles. “In a lit area, maybe?”

I point my cigarette at her. “Yeah, well, McDonald’s is open. Right down the block. Don’t let me stop you. I hear the McRib is back.”

 

 

~~~

I think I wrote something really freakishly good today. Or it’s just freakish. Either way, I wanted to share a part I’m semi-confident in. At least it made me laugh. And remember the McRib.

Stuff Happens. Like Washing Playboy in the Laundry.

A few little ditties this week.

Why?

Because I feel like it, hookers.

~~~

Last night I inadvertently washed my Playboy magazine in a load of laundry. Not sure how that happened but my sheets were covered with pieces of tattered boobies. It took me a while to discover why my clothes were sprinkled with shredded paper and when I finally figured it out it was like my own starring role in Nancy Drew and the Case of the Disappearing Playboy Magazine.

It was fun.

I was a sad panda though, because I really did want to read the issue.

Who spies fleshy bits?

~~~

Good books were delivered to me this week. Choke by Chuck-who-in-the-hell-can-pronounce-his-last-name-Palahniuk, The Mapmaker’s War by Ronlyn Domingue (loved her since The Mercy of Thin Air – dear god please read this NOW), and Spillover by David Quammen.

 

“Oh sweet babies…”

 

I’m salivating to start Spillover tonight. Every now and then I get hot and bothered to read about infectious diseases. And you know, because I don’t like sleep. At all.

~~~

Saturday, the husband and I drove out to Four Peaks to do some target shooting. The Arizona desert is very beautiful and yet it reminds me of scenery in The Neverending Story, which is also a bit depressing. We went off-roading and drove through these creepy tunnels. I kept picturing hordes of zombies careening through them to eat our delicious brainssssssss.

~~~

On the writing front, I have a flash fiction piece called “Betty Lou is Welcomed to Undereaters Anonymous” in the spring edition of JMWW. Robert Vaughan rocks for including me among other fine, fine writers. JP Reese’s “Simulacra” had me marveling.

I also had a piece of fiction that’s been trying to find a home since June of 2012 accepted by Pithead Chapel so that makes me feel all kinds of good.