|This.||Fear of a blank page.||Those polka dots were talking shit.||Cat food again.|
self-portrait, with floating heads.
self-portrait, nude, in the box store.
self-portrait, wet, in mouth of whale, with fish.
This web page is the work of
Marc Heiden, 22 years old, who . He lives in Chicago.
My voicemail cries out for you:
(312) 693-0455, 5pm-8am.
Biding my time.
London in February.
Players Workshop (Term 2).
Piecing ideas together.
Look around, look around!
1 The Trial
Franz Kafka, Breon Mitchell (trans.)
2 Doctor Faustus
3 Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Hunter S. Thompson
4 Picasso: Master of the New Idea
Marie-Laure Bernadac, Paule Dubouchet, Carey Lovelace (trans)
5 The Tragical Comedy or Comical Tragedy of Mr. Punch : A Romance
Neil Gaiman, Dave McKean
Daze of Our Lives
Kill Less of Me
the Onion (W)
Red Meat (Tu)
This Modern World (M)
I Hate This Part of Texas
What Jail is Like
Penny Dreadful Players
WEFT 90.1 FM
art 'n resources:
b-side wins again 2001
010119 I made a crucial tactical mistake this morning when I
resumed the White-Out viscosity experiments. I wanted to be a good
scientist and account for differences in gravitational pressure by going
down to other floors of the building and pouring white-out into garbage
cans there, too, since the previous tests had all been conducted here
on the 10th floor. That took a while. After it was done, I brought up
sample bottles from each floor and compared their pouring rate to ones
from this floor. I haven't yet reached any substantive conclusions, but
holy god, I reek of white-out. An executive was at my desk a little while
ago explaining new frontiers in label-making technology. She stopped in
mid-sentence, sniffed, and asked me if I was all right. I gave a faint
smile in response. These poor people are just trying to do their jobs.
I was in a similar situation during my senior year of high school. My physics class was doing the Egg Drop experiment for a major part of our grades. We were supposed to use principles of physics to design a container that would catch an egg dropped from a first-floor window and keep the egg intact. Unfortunately, I was not a good physics student. I was very good at checkers, which my friend Tom Beach and I played every day on top of the lab tables during class, but I knew little else that had been going on in the class. My design was pretty terrible: I cooked some noodles and brought them to school in a bucket. Noodles are soft, I figured, and anyway my mother wouldn't let me take her towels. I wasn't sure how wet the noodles should be, so I brought one very wet bunch and one sort of wet bunch. After extensive consultation with the stoners who smoked behind the school in the morning (at the foot of the hill that I'd climb down after walking along the side of the 90-94 highway, having caught fairly indirect bus because I was late), I chose the sort of wet noodles. So I dropped those off in class, put the very wet noodles in my locker, and left for a field trip. (1) Then it was spring break. My construction was never even tested (2) -- the teacher passed me for the same reasons that most of my non-liberal arts teachers did, evident potential and sheer charm. The class noodles went gently into that good night. The locker noodles, however, had other ideas.
I returned from spring break feeling pretty good. High school was nearly over, the sun was out, what's not to like? I couldn't bear the thought of going to my first-period class, so I didn't. I walked around for a while, smiling at everything I saw, and headed to my locker to get my books for second period psychology. When I opened the door...I think I fell over. My memories aren't too clear from that point on. I know that I panicked, and that it smelled absolutely horrible, and that I did manage to smuggle it down three floors and out of the building somehow. I remember trying to bury the incriminating bucket, but ending up just hiding it instead. That entire half of the school building smelled like the rotten noodles, which is to say that it smelled like scratch 'n sniff nude photographs of Joan Rivers probably do. My hands had actually touched the noodles, so they were even worse. Scrubbing them near-bloody did no good. Everybody in the hall was talking about how terrible the school smelled, and I didn't want to get pinned down as the culprit. "Men For Others", nothing. They'd lynch me. I didn't have the courage to ditch an entire day of classes, though, so I slinked into second period psychology, quickly sat on my hands and hoped somebody was flatulent. The teacher gave up trying to teach because of the foul smell and broke us up into discussion groups, where the main topic was how terrible the place smelled. I knew I couldn't keep this up for long. Third period was homeroom and then AP English in the new, uncontaminated wing of the building. I tried to come up with a list of positive things about getting lynched. Then...just as class was beginning...the lights went out.
It was discovered later, after some doubtless messy investigation, that a squirrel had committed suicide by diving into the school's power generator. There was no electricity and no heat. The administration tried in vain to sort everything out, gave up, and sent us all home. I went back to my friend Rob's house where I used his mom's industrial strength cleaners to neutralize the stench. Then we ordered pizza and played Super Street Fighter II, which was as happy an ending as anything had during my high school years.
Every once in a while, I think about that squirrel who died so that I might live. Did he find what he was looking for in that power generator? Was he the volunteer sent forth by a frantic council of squirrels who knew about the mess I was in and could see no other way to save me? I'll never know. I never even got to see him. But if I did, I know what would happen. I'd look deep into his tiny squirrel eyes, and he'd squeak: "Earn this". And then he'd pass away. Your sacrifice was not in vain, squirrel. I'm doing what I can.
But who's going to save me now? God, that white-out is powerful stuff. It'd probably take a rampaging moose to bring Beelzetron down for the day.
(testimony) A year later I got a convenient opportunity to ask Master about my experience. I decided to go to Master's Secret Yoga (a private consulting). When I came to Master, I asked him directly about all that happened to me. Master described me all the occasions that occurred that day including his reason for calling. As I guessed, the man who entered my room was Master Asahara himself. Master said, "I took you to the realm of Degenerated Consciousness." He took me there to show my karma of that realm and to show me the way I got the bad karma of speech and conciseness that made me say "I'm going to quit Aum Shinrikyo" although I didn't want to say it at all. So Master used his Phenomenal Body to show me the realm of Degenerated Consciousness because of my words about leaving Aum Shinrikyo. That was the time I felt Master possessing the greatest love and mystical power. (from Master Showed Me the Realm of Degenerated Consciousness by Tetsushi Kataoka)
I feel bad because according to this article, BankOne -- where I have my checking account -- lost $512 million during the fourth quarter of last year. I guess they were expecting me to get a better-paying job, and it sort of blew up in their faces. That's my lack of professional ambition for you.
If I had a baby, I'd take my baby on the town tonight. I was putting stickers on envelopes for a few hours today, and that's what I was thinking: if I had a baby, I'd treat her right. There are upward of three hundred verses that follow, but I've only so much time and I ain't go no baby anyway. Still, as a behavioral phenomenon, it's worth noting that old bluesman tendencies emerge during extended time spent putting stickers on envelopes.
(history) Jobs wanted to play hard-to-get, but this strategy backfired badly. Later, when asked if Microsoft would develop software for the NeXT system, Gates replied: "Develop for it? I'll piss on it." Which he duly did - metaphorically.
Peeing on computers is not the right thing to do. I would be happy to conduct lessons for tech industry nerds on how to properly talk shit.
Apparently, there is a Beelzetron office in Budapest. The new media guy and I talked for a while about what the hell use Budapest has for a consulting firm. He thinks the monks need to streamline monastic processes to seize opportunities in the new economy; my guess was that web design monks are still infatuated with the [BLINK] tag and need consulting firms to talk them out of it.
(1) I hadn't thought about it before, but in a lot of ways, high school was just like work.
(2) Damn shame, too. Think of all the poor babies who have fallen from airplanes that could have been saved by my revolutionary "bucket of sort of wet noodles" technology.
010118 Last night was the least punk-rock night of my adult life. Here is what I did: I came home, changed into more comfortable clothes, stared off into space for a while, cut my hair (1), burnt a frozen pizza, ate it anyway, drank some tap water and fell asleep on the carpet at eight. I woke up on the carpet (2) at six am the next morning, time to go back to work -- where I'd been, a mere two hours of consciousness before.
It's hard, therefore, to write new things for this webpage because I haven't lived very much life since the last time I did it. But I'll try, because if I don't, monsters will eat all of the babies.
One very predictable result of my over-acclaimed second zany time reports memo has been a whole fucking lot more work to do, as several months of careful guerilla operations are tossed in the shitter in favor of "having the funny guy do it." This causes me to shake my head and wonder if I should try to get out now, while my employment stock is as high as it's ever going to be. (3) I'd been planning to wait for at least the six month mark, though. So I am currently without a plan. You'll notice that, despite radical changes to my workload, the webpage is still getting its due. Questions from an imaginary FAQ file:
Q: You only write so much because you don't have a real job / have no work to do.
A: Well, first, that was more of an accusation than anything else. Player hater. Second, no, I update this page a lot because I got skills and mad love for the peeps. Study hard, believe in yourselves and stay in school!
(news) Too irreverent, too subversive, too racy, too many curse words. Decade after decade across America, just about all those labels have been hurled at teenage anti-hero Holden Caulfield, protagonist of that staple of high school reading lists, "The Catcher in the Rye." For years, the little book has withstood attacks from the right. Today, Holden has new, perhaps more formidable, foes. This time his enemies have attacked from the left, with educators striking the J.D. Salinger classic from high school syllabuses because it fails to reflect multiculturalism. "In other words, Holden Caulfield is a white, privileged male," said Michael Moore, director of the literature commission for the National Council of Teachers of English. "In our very diverse schools, the drive to incorporate very multicultural reading is here to stay." (via)
Why is it that many of the people who determine what students read are less capable of critical thought than the students from whom they demand it? I never read "The Catcher in the Rye" in school -- I read it on my own -- but for fuck's sake, there's more to being alive and experiencing the world than the simple fact of your ethnicity. It's a good book, and it's easy enough to read that it leads teenagers into reading more. That's what matters. The contrasting quotes from teachers and students illustrate the flaws in the NCTE's thinking pretty well. At least the teenagers know what's up. I just feel sorry for anyone who's taking a class with someone like the teachers in that article.
(espn) Heritage Christian Academy junior Cedric Hensley scored 101 in a 178-28 victory over Banff Christian School of Tomball. "He's having a surgical procedure done on Friday and he will be out for about a week and a half, so this was his last game before he would be out," Heritage coach Jerome Tang said of Hensley. Hensley had twice postponed his surgery to continue playing. Banff coach Geoff Norton said he wasn't upset at Heritage's attempts to bolster Hensley's point total. "I was proud that my guys had a lot of heart and they didn't walk off the court discouraged," Norton said.
I don't know. If you lose a basketball game by 150 points, it's probably healthy for your grip on reality if you walk off the court discouraged.
Would you describe the plot of this webpage as "labyrinthine"? If you would, that'd be very nice of you. I think I'd enjoy that.
I saw a door that had an "out of order" sign on it. I love it when 'simple' machines are out of order. I would like for this to be the sort of world wherein one might walk down the street and see a rock with a guy standing by it who would say, sorry, this rock doesn't work, I'm trying to repair it but boy is this thing all gummed up, and you'd say, oh yeah, that's rock's out of whack, and he'd say, there's another rock down the street if you're in a hurry, and you'd hopefully say, no, don't worry about it, I can wait, and he'd be relieved and reply, great, and there'd be a moment of silence that would leave you with an opening to say, yep, rocks, they don't make them like they used to, and he'd agree, thinking back about the days when they made rocks like the did, and then even I might be content to go have a beer with that worker and watch the game.
(1) An act which necessitates Pavement's Cut Your Hair being in my head for the rest of the day.
(2) My carpet is not, admittedly, an especially strange place.
(3) "Oh, hire him! He makes the funniest memos!"
010117 On my way home from class last night, I stopped at the grocery store to buy cat litter. Sometimes I feel like the parts of my life when I am buying cat litter are the only real ones, and the rest are illusions. I really hate buying cat litter, partly because I have stupid thoughts while doing it and partly because it just sucks. I selected a package of the stuff, its container making several awfully grandiose claims about the powers of these tiny bits of gravel that were designed for the absorption of animal shit, and headed for the checkout aisle. A quick trip out the door was not in the cards, however. I was surprised to discover that there was a big sale on Cap'n Crunch whereby one could, upon purchasing an initial box for an already low price, have a second box for no further cash expenditure. Sweet, I reasoned. I like food. There were several pages in "Cryptonomicon" dedicated exclusively to the art of eating Cap'n Crunch, so I could put the theories to practice and see how they work. I selected one package of PB Crunch -- which is mostly just okay but occasionally hits a transcendent stretch wherein it tastes like water going directly to a thirsty soul -- and one Crunchberries. Fine. Sorted.
But no! Not fine! Not sorted! I took my cereal home to eat, and broke open the box of Crunchberries (not quite ready for the emotional torrent of PB), only to find that these were not crunchberries! These were crunchlings! What the fuck is a crunchling? From what I could discern behind the now sinister veneer of the Cap'n's cartoon adventures, crunchlings are some kind of fucking bird. Look, here's another rule for life. They say there are no absolutes, but there are. Here you go: from duckling to earthling, eat nothing that ends in -ling. It's got fuck all to do with meat or no meat. It's just fucked up. At least wait until the thing sheds its -ling status. How dare you try to feed me crunchlings, you sick fuck.
And let's consider the subtexts of the American cereal industry for a moment. At times we are presented with a food product sans meta content, e.g. Corn Flakes. We know that corn was involved somewhere in the process and we can expect food in the form of a flake. Fine. There are the social realism cereals like Wheaties, which link their product to practical application or achievement. Frosted Flakes gets more into a Garcia-Marquez brand of magical realism with its inclusion of a giant friendly tiger into the Wheaties-type narrative. From there we find cereals that are all meta content, wherein we are told that the food product has emerged from a fantasy world and is now in our lives: think Quisp, where a friendly alien brings us delicious food from across the stars, or even the traditional Cap'n Crunch, where the cereal has been harvested and must be defended from evil monsters (the Soggies). Some of these cereals have a sadomasochistic subtext that is downright disturbing -- see the denial, abuse, and frustration heaped upon the Trix rabbit -- but for fuck's sake, we are not asked to eat the fucking thing itself. The rare cereals that presents its elements as direct representations of its meta characters (mostly quick movie or TV tie-ins, like the old TMNT cereal) at least divorce the food product from the meta narrative. Quaker Oats is saying that these are the crunchlings, directly from the world of the Cap'n, and now eat them. Eat the crunchlings. You have seen them frolic with the Cap'n, and you were encouraged through advertising / branding to imagine that they are your friends. Now eat your friends, kids. Sick fucks!
(010116 fallout) Oh, one more msg I forgot to tell you about which actually is most important. T, our Partner enjoyed the time report notice so much she forwarded it to our Managing Partner, J. You may overhear JH supporting him. He is the number one man. I haven't heard if he's made a response but you've been seen as creative by two of the top people here in M&C (Marketing and Communications.)
Quoted verbatim (names excised). Nice person who wrote it, but god, that's creepy phrasing. They caught you! They've seen you as creative! Gotcha now.
It's really getting to be time to move on from Beelzetron.
If you are feeling stressed or otherwise unhappy, I recommend that you deal with it by going to RankMyPet and clicking the "This Is Inappropriate" button for every single one. Sorted me right out.
There is nothing especially interesting about this article -- I read it out of incredulity that there was a "Men Are From Mars..." TV show -- but boy, is there a great typo in the fourth paragraph!
(commentary) There was also a smaller picture of (Barry) Pepper with his shotgun open (or whatever -- whatever you have to do to load it) and resting on his shoulder, as he looked down exhaling smoke and looking all rugged and Marlboro-ish. But it wasn't an ad. It was editorial. He's all made up and posed with his gun, doing his "hobby," presumably for the delectation of the magazine's male readers, setting Pepper up -- much as women's magazines do with their models -- as an example of something that GQ readers should, in the editors' view, aspire to. On the next page was a quarter-page story about Survivor producer Mark Burnett's hat of choice, and a paragraph extolling the superiority of Hendrick's gin. And I realized that I don't want to know a GQ reader. I don't want to be married to one; I don't want to be friends with one; I don't even want to run into one on the street or have one call my home by accident. If the actual GQ reader is anything like the image the magazine's editors have, obviously, idealized, I want no part of him.
Great article. I didn't bring any lunch today and there's no cake yet. Damn it, damn it. I thought everyone liked me.
(overheard) Girl, I'll tell you about having a man in jail. They want a letter every day. I had these letters in my purse all week. They want a letter every day.
My name was included along with a select few on a fairly confidential memo about an upcoming ad campaign and I couldn't figure out why, so I ran away. I went out to lunch, and when I came back, I hid in the library with a book and read for a while. I've been sneaking back to my desk every once in a while to check email. Scary afternoon.
I had chinese food for lunch, which never works out very well. Chinese joints downtown suck. "Vegetable dish" is generally understood as "finally! a chance to get rid of all this cabbage!" I give the concept a try once every couple months, and found today to be more or less the same as before. Did score a bit higher on the edibility meter, I suppose. A fat middle-aged man sat down next to me with his companion, a middle-aged woman. She had some manner of soup. He asked what it was, and she told him. He'd never had that before. I must have been getting weird chemical reactions out of the cabbage, because suddenly I felt very sorry for this man who'd never tried this soup (or so many other things) but had probably tried cheeseburgers several thousand times. It seemed so sad, all those wasted opportunities and now middle-age. I contented myself with trying to take sides in the conversation taking place to my right, where the writing styles of various Chicago sports writers were being rated with various four-letter words.
My (white) alarm clock radio is still set to the sports talk station that I mentioned a couple weeks ago. A voice asked, as the buzzer went off: "Are the Giants for real?" I woke up with a start, thinking: Fuck! I sure hope not!
010116 I really blew it this time. Zany Time Reports Memo II is a massive hit. People are losing their shit over it. The only thing standing between me and total disaster (e.g. attention) is the fact that one of the finance executives sent it out, not me; my name was credited on the bottom, but not on the 'From' line, so responses aren't coming directly to my inbox. Managing Partners and various global directors love it. It's even been forwarded to the guy who's in charge of absolutely everything worldwide, Big Jim. Oh, fuck me.
(obit) PHOENIX -- Al Gross, inventor of the walkie-talkie and a father of wireless communication, once said he believed he was born 35 years too soon. He died Dec. 21 in Sun City Arizona at age 82.
Who weeps for the walkie-talkie? It takes a lot of courage to be an inventor knowing that you've got one strike against you with a name like Al Gross. You can't name any of your inventions after yourself, which is half of the fun of inventing things in the first place. Probably have a lot of friends jockeying for the invention to be named after them instead. Hey, Al, call it a Rampson. That's a good name. A Rampson device, for talking to... No, Al stuck to his guns, and he gave his device the name it deserved. Click 'send' not for whom the bell tolls, Al, the bell clicks 'send' for thee. Over.
I spent a while this morning gathering bottles of white-out from the supply rooms and pouring them into my garbage can to test the different brands for viscosity. I got your hot young creative copywriter right here, Beelzetron.
I suppose you probably have to know me in person to imagine the look on my face: an exec stops by. "So, you heard about the big shots?" Blank look. "Oh, they love you." What have I done? Sweet Jesus, what have I done?
(news) Scientists say they used a particle accelerator to smash the nuclei of gold atoms together and create the highest density of matter ever yielded in an experiment. The accelerator, the Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider, smashed the nuclei together at nearly the speed of light, Brookhaven National Laboratory scientists said at a conference Monday. Physicists who studied the debris streaming from the collisions concluded that densities more than 20 times higher than those within the nuclei of ordinary matter had been produced. Temperatures in the compressed matter topped 1 trillion degrees.
Science with no practical application rules. Saving lives is all fine and good, but the moment that we as a culture lose sight of the value of smashing things together at high speeds is the moment that, well, we lose a part of ourselves. School film-strips about Science In Motion really had a negative effect on me, I think. They were always about guys making chemicals to make better containers for companies. Where's the passion there? Had they been about guys smashing things together really fast and then calling press conferences about it, I would have been on my grade school science textbooks with a quickness.
Another article said that Russia is bringing Mir down on March 6th, so if you have any shit up there, you've got to get it out before then. Just a reminder.
(email) The Finns took MLK day off, presumably to spend the day listening to CDs by that Finnish grrrl band whose yahoo photo you linked. Actually, probably not: they're into pretty straight-ahead jazz and Barry White (let me write that again so you can ponder that this afternoon: the Finns enjoy Barry White).
Finland rockets to #3 on my list of destinations for post-late-twenties burnout.
I went out on Morse Ave late last night hoping to get yelled at by some crazy people. All I received were requests for money, though. It's a sad state of affairs. I can understand if the crazy people are tired of giving it away for free, but it wasn't always that way. Near the train station, a dirty man asked if I could help him get to Schaumburg. Come on, guy. What the hell are you going to do in Schaumburg? Why would anyone go there? Where's the sick baby, the empty stomach? Where's the craft? Oh, entropy, leave me the crazy people, if nothing else.
010115 I knew I had spent the entire night in that impossible position because the cats had arranged their naps around it; I fell asleep on the couch at 9:30, hoping that I'd make it up and out the door before the store closed at 10, and now I wasn't going anywhere because, blood-flow a distant memory, my right leg was my only functional limb. Things looked grim. As the clock hit zero, though, I was saved by a superheroic team-up between the carpet, the CD player, my big toe and the Velvet Underground's "Sweet Jane".
The train ride was brutal. Something was wrong with the doors; at every stop, it sounded as though a robot was learning how to scream and just starting to get serious about it. I read a bit, and it bought me a few moments of peace. I don't know what it is about me that says, hey, that guy looks like he could dig some tinny second-hand tunes, but there's something that does it, because I can't remember the last time I've been on the train without someone else's headphones in audible range. This morning's stereoperson began to smell more and more of bacon as time passed. There was no one else sitting in the area, so nothing new was introduced to the environment, which made the man's olfactory evolution into a giant slab of bacon all the stranger. I'm a vegetarian. If I eat meat, I get sick. Feelings about animals have nothing to do with it; it's just what physically happens. Bacon, overachiever among meats, makes me ill by sheer smell. I've been riding the CTA for most of my life, so I knew that the smell could not be escaped within this or any of the other cars on the train. If one pair of seats turns into cooked pig guts, then the whole thing does. I spent the last six stops standing in the open-air off-limits area between train cars, immersed in whatever happens to air, steel and cement when it's mixed with mold, water and electricity.
(tech commentary) From the stage, (Axl) Rose slammed the Internet, calling it "a load of crap".
A single tear rolls down the Internet's face. It only wanted Axl to be its friend. Welcome to the jungle, Internet. I would like Beelzetron a lot more if they'd use a Guns n Roses song for their upcoming ad campaign instead of this orangutan urinating on a Farfisa organ crap that I hear all day.
The Chicago Sun-Times has a front-page article about which college majors are the hottest. As it turns out, the cool thing to do is to accumulate as many majors with no practical application as possible before you run out of money. No, really.
Hope you could have a peaceful new millennium holidays.
I would like to recap this issue.
Our partner, Adamnet, would like to fix the payment for two of PO as were listed my previous e-mail bellow.
Those two were services delivered by our office last month.
To complete foreign exchange US$ - YEN rate, Adamnet would like to have copies of the INVOICES as soon as possible.
Please initiate these.
I would appreciate if you could send me the copies of these by FAX as long as you deliver by air mail.
Thank you very much in advance.
I had a wily plan to tell everyone at work that I was being transferred to the Alaska office, so they wouldn't be seeing me any more, but I'd still be working for the company and they should send my paychecks to a forwarding address in Alaska, which would belong to a fisherman who'd send them to me here in Chicago in exchange for booze. Unfortunately, my wily plan fell apart when it was discovered that there is no Alaska office. The fisherman wanted an awful lot of booze, too.
Here is a picture of my new favorite band, who are the best at music.
Then I came up with a new wily plan: looking through the office directory, I realized that this consulting company does not have a Honcho. I couldn't believe it. The Honcho position is wide-open at Beelzetron. I am working on my application right now. I'm totally qualified! I am going to be the best Honcho ever.
(upcoming movies) Premise: A monster (literally) who decides to kill everyone who he encounters is befriended by a young woman.
Complete with Sarah Polley and Robert John Burke? Hal Hartley knows what's up.
The second zany time reports memo (see 010112) received a rave review. (1) I'll have to pull the thin veil of contempt a little further open next time, I guess.
The business districts are noticeably quieter today because most offices, like the city's schools, are closed for Martin Luther King Jr Day. This office is not. I've been thinking about throwing around some strident rhetoric about the racism at the heart of Beelzetron, but I don't actually feel all that bad about being at work today. (2) I wish everyone would shut the fuck up, of course, but that's a universal. No one was around on Friday except me and the new media guy, who's a pretty decent fellow, and that made the nauseating task of kicking out the zany time report memo jams a little easier.
Someone give me a digital camera. You know I'll do good things with it.
(1) I can't put this one online, though, because it violates copyright and reveals the secret identity of Beelzetron.
(2) I have a keyboard and things that I want to type, and my brain only feels like a demon spit on it when I stop moving. Not exactly happiness, but it'll do.
I know my rights. Give me back my damn pants.