walkingshadow: anne taintor. it's not easy being easy. (federer: m--moi?)
remember back in march of 2005 when i read david foster wallace's essay on tennis in a supposedly fun thing i'll never do again, and after posting excerpts of his fascinating portraits of macenroe, agassi, courier, et al., i said i dearly wanted to know what he would have to say about roger federer? i just found a piece he wrote back in august for "play" magazine in the new york times, entitled federer as religious experience, and it is *almost* as awed and rapturous and effusive as i myself feel when i watch him play:

And there's that familiar little second of shocked silence from the New York crowd before it erupts, and John McEnroe with his color man's headset on TV says (mostly to himself, it sounds like), "How do you hit a winner from that position?" And he's right: given Agassi's position and world-class quickness, Federer had to send that ball down a two-inch pipe of space in order to pass him, which he did, moving backwards, with no setup time and none of his weight behind the shot. It was impossible. It was like something out of "The Matrix." I don't know what-all sounds were involved, but my spouse says she hurried in and there was popcorn all over the couch and I was down on one knee and my eyeballs looked like novelty-shop eyeballs.

i found the article on the del.icio.us main page. social bookmarking is AWESOME. i think everyone will be on internet in the future.
walkingshadow: anne taintor. it's not easy being easy. (it's all in the stones that you throw)
whoever was on espn yesterday at around four-thirty p.m. talking about sunday's federer-agassi final were idiots who i'm pretty sure never even saw the match. that's the only reason i can come up with for mocking andre agassi for moving like an old man and needing a nap in the middle of the second set, because if they'd actually seen him play they would have seen how quick and fluid his movement was, how he was playing some of the best and cleanest tennis of his life to date. the thing is, agassi was playing some of the best tennis of his life and still, still, federer rose up in the third-set tie-break and annihilated him.

my mother was in the kitchen while i was watching the match, and she mentioned that i was, you know, loud. i get into it! i'm pretty sure i freaked out roommate n. last january during the safin-federer semifinal at the australian open. it's just. federer hits the ball differently than anyone else i've seen, longer strokes somehow, or softer, when his forehand is one of the fastest in the world. the ball looks smaller as it comes off his racket, and you never see him move, he's just there all of a sudden, ending the point with a winner you didn't even know was possible. mary carillo says she's never met a champion like him, says he somehow manipulates time: the man is never rushed. no one has a bad word to say about him.

everyone who says federer's game has no weaknesses obviously didn't see him blow every forehand volley he tried to hit, and weren't listening to johnny mac point them out each and every time (other things sports commentators are good at pointing out? turns out andre agassi is thirty-five, if you missed it the first forty million times they mentioned it). when he tightens up his net game, then he'll have no weaknesses, heh. or close enough. i'm still thrilled just to be alive and watching him right now.

other things i am thrilled to be alive and watching, though not on the same historical level:

house 201: acceptance )

house is a detective with a medical degree. he sees the world in pieces and instinctively, obsessively, puts the pieces together. the easiest, most natural au for him is the '40s film-noir private eye: he already broods, drinks, plays the piano, limps, and has a chip on his shoulder for the entire human race. substitute polio or a riding accident for the infarction and a morphine addiction for the vicodin, give him a fedora and a pack of cigarettes, and you're in business.

[livejournal.com profile] meinnim heard about the similarities some people—including myself—have drawn between house and rodney mckay, and was amused by them, calling for a crossover where mckay calls medicine "voodoo" and, you know, wackiness and EPIC SNARK ensue. [livejournal.com profile] ciderpress once called the members of john's team (excepting ford, pre-siege iii) "bizarrely, voluntarily ostracized" from their social groups, and that's, like, the definition of house's standing in the community. house is the most curious man on the planet (self-described), he has one thing ("dnr"), he's obsessed with finding out and knowing, according to himself and everyone with whom he crosses paths. rodney's drive to know is less explicit and less explored (it's not his show, exclusively), but whoa, trinity spoiler! what's the statute of limitations on these? )

both house and rodney chose their talents and brains and themselves over other people; they don't like people very much, people slow them down. i'm not saying they're twins separated at birth—rodney is largely oblivious to people, where house is acutely, painfully dialled in to *everything* around him; rodney is insecure and impatient, where house is angry and bitter and actively antagonistic; etc., etc.—but they're both constantly working the "out of my way, bitch! genius at work!" thing.
walkingshadow: anne taintor. it's not easy being easy. (the day is like wide water)
the vacation went on a week longer than i'd planned and could have extended indefinitely, but michael drove me to the airport yesterday morning after bagel sandwiches and coffee; and after missing the exit twice and wondering belatedly if holiday travelers would put a crimp in my stand-by plans, i bought a ticket and hopped the 11:40 flight. hitchlessly! my dad took me out to lunch when he picked me up at about 1:30, and at home i took a three-hour nap and woke up groggy. after chinese food for dinner i stayed up until five a.m. catching up on fic and livejournal. hello, livejournal!

to sum up, over the past two weeks i

1. started and finished a heartbreaking work of staggering genius, which i loved and laughed out loud at, but recommend with reservations, as it is consciously self-conscious about being self-conscious, and some people don't like that sort of thing. he reminds me very strongly of david foster wallace, the introspective young white literary male endlessly and obsessively analyzing the world, himself, his relationship to that world, how others relate to that world and thus to him, etc., etc., ad infinitum; for a writing style and way of life that seems to ceaselessly strive for meaning and the proper, most effective way of engaging the world, it's a great distancing tool. between you and the experience is always the interpretation, a translation of a translation between event and response and emotion.

2. consumed the following visual media:

a. four full-length feature films: the aforementioned i) harold and kumar go to white castle and ii) team america: world police; iii) the 40-year-old virgin with [livejournal.com profile] silentfire—and neither of us can remember *ever* laughing so hard in a movie theater; and iv) finding neverland, a nice movie that made us cry and yet lifted our spirits, aww.

b. a grand total of, like, fourteen billion hours of fannish television, including i) all 27 episodes of stargate: atlantis; ii) every cheesy tv show and made-for-tv movie joe flanigan appeared in that [livejournal.com profile] isilya in her grace and lovingkindness made available for download; and iii) the entire first season of house, since it came out on dvd at such a convenient time.

c. a tivo-ed episode of bill maher, who talked to anderson cooper* and fareed zakaria via satellite; quoted richard nixon in calling america a pitiful, helpless giant (because, seriously, what is the fucking point of an infrastructure if not to do exactly this, the epic, huge-scale things that federal governments should be good at, even if they're good at nothing else); and had bradley whitford, mary frances berry, and michael eric dyson venting some serious spleen at republicans, structural poverty, and racism.

* anderson cooper is my new hero and has been since a couple of months ago, around the time of the edgar killen trial: cooper was interviewing, via satellite, harlan majure, the former mayor of philadelphia, mississippi and a character witness for killen. early in the interview cooper asked majure why he thought the kkk was a benevolent organization, and majure said the klan took care of the entire community, even "visiting" more whites than blacks, to which cooper incredulously replied, "are you kidding?" and i almost fell off the elliptical machine. the interview continued in exactly that vein, cooper angry and disbelieving, quoting statistics and not letting up for a minute; the poor mayor had absolutely no idea what was happening. i have never seen anything like that on any television news show, ever.

d. early-round action at the us open! between CBS and USA there was hours and hours and HOURS of coverage to be had, and often i could trick people into sitting down and watching with me, ha! there have been some very, very high-quality matches at the open so far this year, e.g. federer-santoro on friday, that was AWESOME. not so awesome was andy roddick going out to giles muller in the first round—and even WORSE, we all still have to watch andy roddick driving a lexus during every other commercial break. and they come often in the game of tennis.

okay, the structural integrity of the list has been compromised, or at least its readability has, or perhaps i mean my patience with letters and roman numerals. speaking of structural integrity: [livejournal.com profile] silentfire made me an omelette one morning, and i sang a little song while it cooked, a song i call "breakfast lament (the green pepper blues)", to be sung to the classic pete seeger tune "where have all the flowers gone?": it starts with the structural integrity of the green peppers being lost to thermodynamic chemical reactions and goes from there.

on sunday a bunch of us went out to six flags over georgia and rode rollercoasters for eight hours, and on monday my brother tried to teach me how to throw a frisbee between matches at the us open, and all told i must have eaten in a dozen different restaurants, never the same one twice and all delicious. i laughed a lot, an awful lot. i went to sleep some nights awash in anxiety, because as much as i love my family and think they're totally neato-keen, i'm not completely comfortable with them, in the way that i'm not comfortable with all but three or four people in this world. but [livejournal.com profile] silentfire is one of them.

i was up at eight this morning but managed to stretch it to ten-thirty, and man was i tired at the gym this afternoon. i'm tired now, too. i can probably trace the cause of the tiredness back to something having to do with five a.m.

sometime soon i will post the pages and pages of sg:a meta that i have been generating, but believe me when i say you'll know it when you see it.

[livejournal.com profile] malelia_honu and i have a lunch date for tomorrow at noon, and tomorrow i have bellydancing class again!, and also tomorrow i will give cousin m. the first season of boomtown on dvd, which i picked up for twenty bucks in the same used-cd store where i found the kaiser chiefs' employment and [livejournal.com profile] silentfire got [livejournal.com profile] gjstruthseeker star trek: the voyage home (but only after we made many, many the search for spock jokes, e.g. spock, spock, where are you? i turn my back for one minute, etc., etc.; also the synopsis on the back mentioned that they eventually found spock's *living essence* in mccoy, and i have no way to interpret that that doesn't involve canonical mpreg. which i suppose is only to be expected from the creative mind that brought you both sex pollen and have-sex-or-DIE). thursday's looking good, is what i'm saying.
walkingshadow: anne taintor. it's not easy being easy. (Default)
Dear livejournal, how are you? I'm all caught up on the posted goings-on in your lives, but it has been ten days since my own last posting. There's this sense that one can say anything on livejournal, unburden oneself and confess oneself, without repercussions or Hail Marys or anyone even frowning at you like you should know better and they're not mad, just disappointed. If you've got your antennae up and your filters right, you even find people who'll applaud you for it, whatever it is. My entries tend more to the quotidian minutiae of the last book I read and what I had for lunch, but I miss my minutiae if I don't write about it. If nothing happened last Thursday—and around here, some days absolutely nothing happens—is it really so essential to document the fact? Why does it feel essential?

Anyway. To start from the present moment and work my way backward—no. To start from ten days ago and work my way forward to the present moment:

Did yoga on Thursday with [livejournal.com profile] malelia_honu and her mom; the instructor is going on a month-long vacation and we'll be having substitutes starting next week. Class was over at 8:30 and we got out of the parking garage a little before 9:00, at which time it was POURING and lightning and thundering and RAINING REALLY HARD. I did not drive home. Instead Mal and I retreated to her place where we ordered in Italian food and watched Zoolander with a break in the middle for the food and Without a Trace. By midnight the movie was over, Mal was falling asleep, and the rain had almost stopped.


The weather stayed clear enough on Friday for my mother and me to take my grandmother to the cemetary for my grandfather's yartzheit; it was technically June 14th, but as my mother said, we're more about the spirit of the law than the letter. The day before had been a very busy day for my grandmother, grocery shopping and maybe a trip to the bank, and she was very quiet and tired today. We took her home soon and my mother took me out to lunch. Over huge salads at Chili's I explained yet again that the problem re: choosing a career isn't finding something I like, it's finding something I like to do. I like everything. In naming the top five classes I'd taken at UF, I came up with Social Psychology, History of Urban America, Intro to Linguistics, Biological Anthropology, and, um. Hmm. I really liked calculus. I thought very hard about taking Calc III for fun, but never did. I never took any hard sciences, so I couldn't say whether or not I would have liked them. I feel cheated of my science education, going back to high school at least. My biology teacher was fabulous, but I didn't take anything away from chemistry or physics.

Anyway. I dropped my mother at home to make a cake and drove around collecting my contact lenses from the optometrist and my prescription from Walgreens. I got home in time to start reading [livejournal.com profile] kaneko's Intersections and get halfway through before we left for dinner at cousin M.'s. More people who watch a lot of television and don't have much else to talk about. I realize of course that many of the people on my friendslist watch a lot of television and a lot of their posting content is about just that, but the level of engagement on which they tend to watch is incomparable to my dinner companions'. I guess I wouldn't care what we were talking about as long as it were interesting, that it went beyond what their TiVo queues held.

I watched SG:A vids tonight and here's what I learned:

cut for length, but I'm welcoming any conversation about characterization, canon, and general SG:A chatter )

Still to come: a rambling and incoherent discussion of giftedness in my favorite fictional characters.

I watched the trailer for Serenity again and am very excited about September. I don't know how much crossover there is between the fandoms, but I'm guessing everybody already knows David Krumholtz is in the movie, right? Playing a character called "Mr. Universe"?


Saturday was one of those days when nothing happened. I watched tennis; I did nothing; I did nothing; I read fic online; I fetched take-out with my mother for dinner; I started Fermat's Enigma, a history of the solving of his Last Theorem. I'm up to the twentieth century.


Tennis coverage started at noon on Sunday. I slouched around the house after that until my parents go out to dinner and I watched the last disk of Dead Like Me; in more when-my-fandoms-collide news, Kaylee of Firefly was the goth girl in Episode 114, "Rest In Peace".

Then I found SG-1 fic by [livejournal.com profile] paian omg. I have started reading SG-1 fic. But, come on! This was inevitable, right? Right? Guys? Half the authors I know and love write in SG-1 and a handful of the reccers I trust the most have been reccing SG-1 for months and years, but I'm taking suggestions.

The dog came in just when the thunder and rain started in the small hours, leaning close for me to scratch his ears and belly and croon at him that the big noise couldn't hurt him before he laid down on my foot to sleep.


I went to bed in the small hours of Monday morning (so small they were almost big again) and tried to get up three hours after going to bed for shopping with my mother, as planned, but though I have a very clear recollection of setting my alarm for nine a.m., I have no memory of turning it off again. My mom came in at a quarter to ten to get me up, told me not to rush, take my time, etc. I set tennis to tape and we hit the Pembroke Mall. We came home exhausted five or six hours later and stopped at Publix on the way home for essentials (mostly fruit); we made dinner and I watched the tennis I'd taped and was very, very tired.


My last dentist visit was in 2002. On Tuesday both the hygienist and the dentist chewed me out for getting lost for three years, and then grudgingly proceeded to tell me my teeth look great. I think they almost would have loved to find half a dozen cavities, just so they could say "see? See?! This is what happens!" Except nothing happened: three years and no decay. I've never had a cavity. I brush thoroughly, I floss nightly, and he said if I keep doing what I'm doing I'll have my teeth until I'm a hundred and twenty. They both said I should think about having my teeth bleached. I'm thinking about it.

I came home jubilant only to find my mother had been crying but was too upset to talk about it, just that "[we? I?] have to move." She said telling me why would just make her cry more, and she had errands to run. This is a bad thing to do to me! I have an extremely vivid imagination. I am paranoid. My first thought was financial disaster. My second was personal/medical disaster. My third was divorce. Common sense started kicking in soon after, as I remembered that if any of those things were true, *moving* would be the least of all difficulties; and my dad had absolutely no idea what was going on, hadn't even known my mother was upset before she left; he did say she had talked to her school principal before she left, maybe she'd heard bad news? Should he call back and see? And I was like, don't call anybody, Mom will tell us when she's ready, etc. I worked out that it's likely she'll have to move classrooms within the school. This will be a total bitch. It's something like the fifth move in as many years and she was pretty invested in this room already, had unpacked things and set them up, and moving will be a bitch—but it'll get done. There's a lot to be said for the worst-case scenario.

I watched taped tennis! and then went to the 5:00 yoga, with Jason as instuctor this time: he was cool, he led class just like Tim at UF had. He gave us the option of doing a backbend instead of a bridge, which, whoo, should have helped my brain, according to this article. I'd gotten back the results of my bloodwork from last week: I am an extremely healthy human being; I need to eat more fish. My triglycerides are 67, my HDL cholesterol is 78 (total: 130) though my LDL is only 39 and that could be higher. Iron is fine, blood sugar is fine; as I remarked to my father, imagine if I were actually still working out five days a week.

We had an excellent dinner when I got back, a sort of alternative picnic: split-pea burgers a la Alton Brown, homemade baked sweet potato chips, corn salad, salad salad. We watched House, Detox )As I mentioned the other day in [livejournal.com profile] isilya's journal, it's laughable what these doctors do. Are they the only five doctors in the hospital? Okay, plus Cuddy, the token administrator. Are there no nurses? No lab technicians? The ducklings do EVERYTHING. They draw blood, they run scans, they perform autopsies and brain surgery. What is the head of Oncology doing up in Diagnostics all the time? In what universe would he draw blood himself? Whatever. I am entertained.


On Wednesday my mother and I made a heroic effort at all-day shopping at Sawgrass and were immensely successful. We worked our way through five stores (with a break for a delicious lunch at the Cheesecake Factory) and found shoes and shirts and skirts before losing the will to live. We brought home sandwiches for dinner but were still too full from lunch to eat them. I'd gotten about seventy pages into The Tipping Point before my parents and I went to see Batman: I was disappointed. My mistake was in listening to so many positive critical and personal reviews and getting my hopes up. Hope is fatal. No spoilers here, but—it dragged. The plot was no worse than any other superhero movie I've seen, but considering how much there should have been going on, it all felt too thin and insubstantial. I've never liked Chrisitan Bale and, though I'd heard very good things about him here, I still don't like Christian Bale. He's unattractive, and he can't juggle his teeth and his lines in his mouth at the same time. I wasn't impressed with either his acting or his presence in the role. I liked Katie Holmes better than I liked him. And this is me flagging down the Cillian Murphy bandwagon and clambering aboard. I'm genetically disposed—or contractually obligated, or something—to find Cillian Murphy very attractive, as he has dark hair and light eyes, PLUS high, sharp cheekbones and a great mouth. And he's so wee! Is he not wee?

I'd taped the tennis that aired this morning, but I was so tired by the time the Wimbledon update was over at midnight and I already knew Roddick had won his match, so I went to sleep instead. Shocking, I know.


I met S. for lunch at Sweet Tomatoes on Thursday—a working lunch that included a study session for the dreaded GRE. I love math; I just don't remember much of it. Still uncertain as to how knowing low-frequency vocabulary words out of context and without benefit of a dictionary will make me a better graduate student. Please advise.

The yoga instructor this time focused largely on breathing and energies, chanting to begin and end. Sanskrit still sounds very much like Hebrew; she tried to tell someone after class that Sanskrit was the first language, from which all other languages come, and that babies call their mothers "ma" in all languages because of the inherent vibrations that all objects sent out, which we all intuitively pick up on and know, even babies know, when they don't know the words. Um. Yes. Or, you know. No. But the class was good.

Instead of going home right afterward I sat with Mal in Dunkin' Donuts for an hour or two, drinking coffee and eating donuts and singing along with the music, the same music that was playing last time we were in here, and the tape started repeating within the hour. I dealt the first three games and turned over the Queen of Hearts all three times. The odds of that are 1 in 140,608. I also kicked ass in the game, but that'll all even out next time. It always does.

That night I finished The Tipping Point and found it fascinating. Aside from being fascinating in its own right, with the case studies and the examination of Paul Revere's sociability, it was like a walk down Social Psych memory lane. One of his first endnotes referenced Granovetter's "Threshold Models of Collective Behavior" and I had to smack my forehead for not anticipating that one. The Granovetter threshold! is the number of people who have to do something before you'll do it too. For some people, this number is zero: they are the people who go first. Then everyone in the crowd whose threshold is one follows; say there were ten of them: then everyone whose threshold is between two and ten follows them, etc., and soon everyone rushes the field after the game, or starts looting the store, or buying a cellphone, or whatever. There have to be enough people whose threshold is low enough (and some other restrictions may apply) or you've just got one guy rushing the field and getting picked off by security.


As of Friday, my parents have been married for thirty-two years. We all went to lunch at a Chinese restaurant in downtown Hollywood and to dinner at a French restaurant on Las Olas Boulevard. I recycled their anniversary card from last year (I was in England at the time and forgot to send it off) and gave them a tiny DVD player for use in the kitchen (installed in thirty seconds or less; it took longer to make room for it in the cabinet) and Field of Dreams. May they use them in good health.


My toes hurt from having separators in for most of the day. I've manicured and pedicured and painted, for fun but also for the wedding tomorrow. I'm going to a wedding tomorrow; it's completely bizarre. We were invited, by phone, about two weeks ago; it's cousins on my father's side whom I have never met. My mother and I are strongly of the opinion that we either 1) were entirely forgotten until now or 2) are third-tier guests; neither is particularly flattering. I was all "have fun! I'll be over here, not at this wedding!" but my dad appealed to me with I would really like for you to be there, so I'm going. I won't know anyone at all, but maybe the food will be good?

I was up early this morning, intentionally, for Breakfast at Wimbledon! My mother made scones and I made tea, and I ate strawberries but drank no champagne—I thought it a bit much for 9 a.m. First Roddick and Johannson had to finish their semifinal match, rained out from yesterday: it's going to be Roddick and Federer in the final tomorrow morning, unsurprisingly. Today it was Venus Williams over Lindsay Davenport in three dramatic sets. She had to come back from match-point down to win—the last time a woman had done that in the finals at Wimbledon was 1935.


ETA: Didn't manage to get this posted last night. My mom poked her head in my room at five after nine (and lucky that she did; an alarm is all well and good, but one can snooze indefinitely) and I roused myself for Breakfast at Wimbledon, Day Two: all about Roger Federer in straight sets over Roddick. Straight as an arrow, such a clean match, something like 48 winners and 11 unforced errors, no double faults—just beautiful tennis. It was great to watch, because the man is an absolute rock through two weeks and seven matches, giving absolutely nothing away, until his last serve went unreturned for an ace, and he threw up his hands in victory, then fell on the ground and burst into tears. Really, he was smiling and obviously elated, he hugged Roddick when he came around to his side of the net, and shook the chair umpire's hand, and sat in his chair and sobbed into his towel. His third straight Wimbledon championship and he's never really been tested. It's not a rivalry if only one of you ever wins.

I keep wandering around the house blurting out, "tell me again why I'm going to this wedding?" Damned if I know. I'd bring a book if I could. At least my nails are pretty.

walkingshadow: anne taintor. it's not easy being easy. (Default)
Public schools were out for the summer as of noon on Thursday, and my mother is now officially on vacation. She's taking workshops for the next three weeks, but that's not even close to the same thing. Yesterday I got up at nine-thirty (after getting to bed about three hours earlier) to help her pack up her room a little bit before they all went off to their end-of-the-year luncheon at noon. I went home and almost went back to sleep immediately, but I laid in bed getting hungrier and hungrier until my stomach was about to eat its way out of my body and strike out on its own. So I had lunch, did the crossword, and then napped for five hours.

I watched Numb3rs for the second week in a row last night, which I like fine and will continue to catch up on (though not fanatically), and which over-qualified me as ready to dig into the fic. First up was, of course, [livejournal.com profile] viggorlijah's Parallel Connections Over Symmetric Spaces that I'd saved as soon as she'd posted it oh so many months ago. It was wholly awesome: disastrous except for where it wasn't and I bought the story and it came together with a click, even with the frayed edges of real life. The kind of story that breaks you and remakes you in the course of the reading, right along with the characters. And then I read [livejournal.com profile] merryish's drift, this warm, perfect moment in which Charlie puts his brother to bed.

Ah, what else, what else. My mom got me up at a little after nine this morning (when I'd gotten to bed about three hours earlier) because they were playing tennis and she thought I would want to know. I did; I forgot it was Saturday. Unfortunately, Justine Henin-Hardenne was completely steamrolling Mary Pierce, so I called it quits after she'd gone up a set (6-1) and a break. It might have been like leaving a baseball game in the seventh inning to beat the traffic when you're sure of the outcome, only to have the team pull it out at the last minute or in extra innings, but I didn't really think so. I had breakfast, finished my book, and slept from noon till four.

The book I finished was David Foster Wallace's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again; I'd read most of it over Spring Break: the only thing left was the title essay, a hundred-page piece on a 7-Night Caribbean Cruise that Harper's sent him on. He brings a lot of analysis to the table, a lot of introspection and observation and theory along with his anecdotes and detail and character sketches. He talks about despair and death-transcendence and the increasingly creepy feelings he gets from their promises of pleasure and pampering, that eventually result in gult, paranoia, and dissatisfaction. The title of the essay is significant. Plus I personally got a kick about him describing Ft. Lauderdale International Airport and the demographics of a cruise ship, passengers and crew alike. Here are a few paragraphs that set the tone and set him up )

I've given the book to my mother. What to read next? I think I'll finish off the library books I have out and then work through the ones on my shelf (Ship of Gold in the Deep Blue Sea; Guns, Germs, and Steel; A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius; Walden; Gödel, Escher, Bach; etc.) before I request more. Some of the ones on my shelf anyway.

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