THE SPILLED MILK CONNUNDRUM

Today is Halloween. All Hallows Eve. The night for tricks and treats. The night of trick or treating. The night when all the people in my neighborhood dutifully give to my children, all the crap that I say no to them, on a regular basis. The kids love it, I actually do too, and the amount of sugar crap candies in my cupboard is alarming on this night. But I guess that's part of life. My girls can process sugar pretty well, Hannah doesn't get any sugar high, and Sarah is mostly the same way, but she does get a little amped up from the sugar. But Halloween is a superlative kid's holiday and that's the way it should be.

Hannah dressed as a baseball player and Sarah as a witch. We headed out with our friends from up the street and their girls, and both families had their wagons in tow. My wagon had a blanket, a flashlight, a couple of little girl jackets, and an 18 pack of Bud Select. I was like a traveling bar. My other neighbors saw the beer in the wagon and I provided several adult beverages to those in need. And we went out for about 90 minutes. We started to head home when Sarah had broken open a scab on her forearm and was bleeding through her shirt. But I give the little witch credit, she protested the whole way home, in spite of her need of a new shirt, and in spite of her need for a bandage and a half pint of blood.

So we got home and we bandaged the arm as Hannah brought all the candy in from the wagon. You see, the wagon becomes the "dump site" when the candy bags get a little heavy. And so after the bandaging was done, we poured all of the candy on the kitchen table. We categorized the candy into piles or stacks...kit kats, m&m's, snickers, skittles, etc. And most of the table was covered. It was a very successful night, and we seemed to have twice as much candy as we did last year. At this point, I thought it was important to get some "real" food into those little bodies. So I put a pizza in the oven and some chicken nuggets too, and made a can of spaghettios. The girls ate and ate some more. They asked for milk and I obliged, and they started watching some show on the Food Network, where there was a cake making contest, and all the cakes were Halloween inspired. The cakes were actually very cool. And about the time that the girls started getting full, Sarah made a little spill with her milk. And I wiped it up and told her not to do it again or she'd get in big trouble. So five minutes later, she dumped the whole glass and it went all over two chairs, through the crease in the tabel and all over the floor. And yes, I was pissed, but look, the candy was all over the table, there was a cool show on the tv, and it's freakin' Halloween. Plus, she's THREE. So I gave her the heavy voice, but couldn't get too mad at her with her candy eyes and her candy face. So I cleaned up the mess, and she got out of her remaining clothes, and she finished eating and I got her into her PJ's.

Cleaning the floor is not good for my hip, my back or my knees. It's something I really don't do, I leave that to others. So that kind of mess tends to piss me off more than a little. But i held back. Tonight was Halloween. The table was filled with candy, a fun show was on the TV. What could i do? Punish her? No. But seriously, who could I be mad at besides myself? And when I gave her the milk I thought "why are you giving it to her without a lid?" And I gave it to her anyways. And while I was cleaning up this mess, I thought about the saying "don't cry over spilled milk". And I didn't cry, and I didn't make sarah cry about it. But why would I? Why should she? It's freaking MILK! She's freaking THREE! And so I got to thinking...why would anyone cry over spilled milk? Why would milk being spilled make anyone cry? Why would there be an accepted axiom about crying over spilled milk? What makes this euphamism exist? And I don't have an answer because of the wagon earlier (remember the 18 pack of Bud Select?). The wagon has made me so lazy tonight that I don't feel like googling and learning about the entymology of the phrase. But i cannot imagine why there would be a saying about not crying over spilled milk. Why would anyone cry over a spill? Unless they worked at at a gold factory, or an oil refinery. But then why wouldn't the saying be about spilled gold? Or spilled oil?

So the point is, that today is Halloween. The kids loved their night. I enjoyed myself. The milk was a non issue. But the topic of Spilled Milk has me puzzeled still. If you care to indulge yourself in some useless trivial pursuit, you can look into it. If you would rather just go about your lives as if nothing about this blog post is relevant, then I say go for it. In the mean time, happy Halloween. I hope you see everything.

WHAT'S THE MEANING OF LIFE?

I've always wondered what the meaning of life is. And I guess that's sort of a loaded question. But if you know me, you know that the answers to all of our questions are much less important to me than the questions themselves. But this question, in this day and age, might need some investigation.

Let's do a simple breakdown of the question, or more of a breakdown of the key words in the sentence. First off, there's the word "meaning". "Meaning", as a noun is the message that was intended, or the idea that is intended. As a verb, it's defined as have in mind a purpose or to have as a logical consequence. Let that sink in for a few minutes, we'll get back to it shortly.

The next key word is "Life". The definition that I like is: the experience of being alive; the course of human events and activities. The course of human events and activities...hmmm. I like that.

So, the idea of life meaning something is the idea that the course of human events should have a purpose. That's what I'm getting at. What's our purpose? What's man's purpose? What's your purpose? What's my purpose? I can't speak for your purpose. I can guess on mankind's purpose, and then maybe that will lead me to my purpose. I promise I'm going somewhere with this. Swear to God.

My daughter Sarah will be four in a few weeks. Cute as a button and smart as hell. She loves music, art and Spongebob. She also loves candy, bologna and gravy (though not all at the same time). I wish I knew what makes her tick. I wish I knew what her purpose in life was supposed to be. I'm guessing here mind you, but I think part of her purpose is to give my life purpose. She and her older sister are mostly the only things I care about these days. But I'm a little more focused on this kid than I was on the first. You see, the first kid, to an idiot like me, is generally just one suprise after another. You're always guessing, never knowing what to do, to how the kid will react, what to think about her reactions when they don't go the way you'd thought they were going to go, over thinking, over analyzing, over reacting to most situations. But with the second kid, you know what to expect, you know what to listen for and what to wait for and how to do things better on the first try. I guess on the second kid you just feel like you have more control over the whole situation. So guessing through the first kid makes it easier to understand the next one. And so I think that I can do more for Sarah's development than I did for Hannah's at that age.

So the meaning of life is to help make our kids better than we were? That's a start but it's not the full picture. Maybe the meaning of life is complex. Maybe it's more than what we think it is. Maybe it's searching for ways to leave our mark on the world. Maybe at the end of our lives, if the meaning wasn't completely clear through the journey, then what resonates after our lives is what it should have been. If I don't do one spectacular thing, and if I don't have one thing that becomes my life's work, my life's purpose, then maybe that was the purpose. Maybe it's not just one or two or three things. Maybe when I'm dead at 62, and someone I knew in life takes a look at the life I lived, maybe then they'll see why I was here. My collection of thoughts, my efforts with my kids, the social indentations I made on those I came into contact with over the years, maybe all those things add up to a body of work that when it was going on seemed to be unconnected. But when viewed as a big picture body of work, maybe then my purpose for living will become clear.

The first twenty years of my life can really only be labeled as fun. The next 19 years could be labeled as work. I want the next twenty years to be labeled as interesting. I want to do and say and write things that resonate, that leave an impression. My goal is to be more interesting, to do the things that need to be done, to say the things that might go unsaid, to think the thoughts that no one else will, to ask the questions that need to be asked. I need to philosophize more and question more and act more.

The next twenty years will take me to my late fifties. I intend for those years to be interesting. I intend to take more adventures, and I intend to cut a deeper groove into the soil that I walk upon. If I'm lucky enough to make it to the twenty years after these next twenty, I want them to be more interesting, more wild, more caveman than all of my years prior to those. I want to retire in flames, to age with fierce intensity, to do things and go places no one ever expected of me.

And in the end, when I'm laying there on the slab, and the preacher talks about who I was and what I did, and how I lived, he'll have more to talk about than the fact that I was funny or charming or loved my kids. I may not change the world like Jonas Sark did when he found the cure for Polio, and I may not write a best selling novel like Stephen King did (so many times). But the stories they tell about me when I'm gone should be interesting, and poignant and funny and sad and filled with irony and twists and adventure. I intend to do things that I haven't done. I intend to fulfill my destiny as one who won't soon be forgotten. My life's purpose will be clear. My legacy will be interesting, my rememberances will be storied. And my children will tell stories that begin with "my dad always said" and "i remember when dad took me to..." and "dad loved to do....". And those around them will smile and say "I remember that, your dad was always saying or doing....". I will be remembered. And the meaning of my life will be revealed in the third act. Please stay tuned.

SONG FOR THE DAY

TWO YEAR ANNIVERSARY - BIONIC LEG

So last week, I quietly celebrated the two year anniversary of my hip replacement surgery. If you'd like to see a video of the proceedure, (not my proceedure) you can click here. I have to warn you though, the surgery is tough to look at. Yes, those were hammers they were using. It's not a really delicate surgery. My physical therapist told me that if plastic surgery was like artwork, hip replacement surgery is like wood working, or more like nailing two two by fours together. Nothing really delicate at all. But for the surgery itself, I was unconscious, and they might as well have hit me in the head, because it doesn't matter. Recovery was sort of rushed along. I learned to balance on my good leg. I took a shower at the hospital on day three. It was awkward because the nurse was with me for that. Her specialty was occupational therapy, but it was also to stand next to the shower and make sure i didn't fall out. Weird having some young good looking girl standing outside of the shower like that. She saw me in my boxers, and I'm kinda proud. But I didn't fall and she didn't have to help me up off the floor.

For those of you that knew me at the time, I moved slowly. I didn't do stairs for a while. There was pain, but there was a lot of pain before the surgery. I did a walker for a week or two, then a cane, then i just held onto things a little tightly as i walked. It was rough for a bit, but it seemed to get better quickly. But for two months I was like a baby learning to walk. Normal activities took great concentration. Going to the bathroom was like a well choreographed ballerina. (my hip is aching just thinking about all of this). But, I eventually learned to walk again, and eventually got rid of the cane. The physical therapy was cool because insurance paid for the trainers to come to my house, and the other cool thing was that my nurse made house calls, every day or two. And she looked like Heather Locklear, no kidding. She was gorgeous, like an angel. I looked forward to her visits. She took my 24 stitches out one day, and just because it was her, my beautiful health care angel, i kept from weeping like a baby.

The pain killers were a bit of habit. but when my prescriptions ran out, I never asked for, or had another pill. I can totally see how pain pills become addictive. You start to pre-empt the pain, and before you know it, you're taking a dozen a day, on a regular schedule. Can be scary.

So after year one, I decided to try and get into shape. I'd lost a lot of weight leading up to the surgery but it was time to get my cardio levels where they should be. And i walked and i walked and i walked. Now, two years later, i run some, i walk some. Four miles of walking and running happen at least 3 times per week (most weeks, although for some reason I did take about 2 or 3 weeks off recently). And when i'm on the trails or at the Y on the treadmill, i don't go 60 seconds without thinking about my bionic hip. And yes, I feel it, but it's not like pain. Not like the pain I had before the surgery. I need to be careful, but even if I over do it, it's like a dull ache, not so much pain involved anymore. And if ever I feel like it's not feeling right, I just stop and walk home, or stop and get off the treadmill.

Advil is all I'll take these days. I've had the opportunity to have some of those pain pills since my prescription ran out. But i haven't taken any. So, I'm proud of myself for that. And I'm proud of myself that i can play basketball and do layups. I can't jump nearly as high as I used to be able to, and i can't land on that leg when I do jump. But it's ok, because i couldn't jump at all before the surgery, and I wouldn't consider walking or jogging at that point. So my bionic leg is happy. I'm happy with it. I'd prefer not to have to do it again on the other hip, and there's no indications that i'll need to do that. But if I do have to, I just say bring it on. I've handled one, I can handle another.

Yesterday, at Junle Jim's, I saw an old guy, maybe 75 or so, going through the checkout lane with his wife. And I noticed that just below the hem of his shorts, where his legs should be, he had two prostechtic legs. That's two. TWO. He had no legs from somewhere just above his knees. he walked on them, he lifted grocery bags, he walked out to the car, with no cane, no help, no nothing. I thought of two words...tecnnology, and willpower. good for that old dude. he lost two legs and just said, "well, just give me some replacements doc, I still gotta walk." And walk he did. And walk I did. And walk I do. And I walk and I walk and I walk.

INDIAN SUMMER

Tonight I played basketball with my neighbor, Riley, who's in the 7th grade. And the kid is GOOD. My girls and a couple of the neighborhood girls bounced on the trampoline for an hour while we hooped. And the weather was perfect and we were able to work up a sweat in no time. Girls and I went for a walk and fed the geese at one of our lakes. I just threw hunks of bagel at the geese, tried to hit them. And aren't geese the dumbest animals alive? They are. Dumb. Anyhow, I'm loving my Indian Summer days this week, hope it lasts. I read that the Farmer's Almanac said that we were in for a cold, snowy winter, but the weather people don't believe it's going to be a bad winter at all. I hope they're right, I don't want a harsh winter. I want a quick, moderate winter. I'll take two good snow storms, some rain, and then nothing else. That's what I want. C'mon springtime... I'm rooting for ya.

POST SEASON BASEBALL

So I've been watching the MLB playoffs nightly, or as often as they're on. And baseball is absolutely awesome this year. The Yankees are storming their way through and the Phillies look like they're trying to repeat for the World Series champs again this year. And so many games are coming down to the last at-bats. Good pitching, good offense, marquee matchups. This is baseball, and baseball is America. I'm digging the post season and I can't believe more people aren't watching baseball right now. Good times. Yeah, good times.

SONG FOR THE DAY

FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE

I'm still in my fortress. Still thinking, still writing. Nothing is finished. Nothing will finish itself. That's why it's called Nothing In Particular. It's ok though, it'll all come through at some point. Thanks for checking on me.

UNINSPIRED

Writers block isn't fun. Especially when i've started so many things and can't finish them. Starting and stopping a story, a thought, a piece of original writing is, to me, like my experience with sleeping is. If I wake up early or if someone wakes me up, I generally can't go back to sleep. So I usually just get up. And if I can't finish something after I've started writing it, I generally generally don't go back and finish it. I don't know why, I guess the moment has passed. Maybe the energy of the story has passed me by and it just doesn't come back. So bare with me while I go through this. I promise to get something good posted soon. And hey, we all deal with stuff in our life. I am dealing with some pretty big stuff right now. Maybe i'll post some about the MLB Playoffs, maybe about the Bengals. Maybe I'll just go dark for another day or two. Either way, I'll have something for you all soon. Use your time wisely.

SPARKY ANDERSON

Sparky Anderson was the manager of the World Champion Cincinnati Reds in 75 and 76 then won another World Series with the Detroit Tigers in 84. I was 5 in 75 and thought that Sparky was the best manager in the world. I didn't know anything about managers then, he was really all i knew. But he was such a character, he became a part of my life. He'll always be the first manager I've ever known and will always be the greatest manager ever. Today he is 75 and is just as vibrant as he ever was.

I watched a video today of the reunion of that 1984 Tigers Champion team. Sparky was obviously the focus of the video, you can view it here. And it's been 25 years since that team won the WS with Sparky as the manager. Every former player there said that Sparky took such a vibrant interest in their lives on the field and off. It was unanimous that the lessons that Sparky taught in the clubhouse and on the field were not just about baseball but about life. Many of these guys talked about the lessons Sparky gave them in those years have blossomed in their personal off the field lives over the years. And Sparky in his interview was talking about how he managed, he said it wasn't in his arms, or his legs or his ears, but what he saw with his EYES was what told him what to do and how to manage. He was so emotional in his interview that he started to actually cry. And not like a baby, but like a man. Like a man so passionate about his life and career and about baseball and those around him, he was just so moved by the telling of the stories of his wonderful life and career. He was charmed for sure. But it wasn't luck, it wasn't college. It was being able to see the world around him, understanding his place in it, and helping others seee where they fit in to that same world. This is a lifelong baseball guy. And, he was terrible as a player...good glove no bat, they'd said about him. He played one year at the major league level. One year. And he had a 545 winning percentage as a manager. He's a tiny little guy. And yet he was the fearless leader of human giants on the great baseball field of MLB as well as the fearless guide through the lives of those he touched. What a wonderful man. He is one of the most sincere people I think I've ever heard talk. And he has every right to be a cocky sonofabitch. But cocky ain't Sparky. And Sparky ain't cocky.

I always see baseball as, and think of baseball like a metaphor for life. I know that life is a journey. And throughout life, we all need a guide. How lucky those men on the baseball field were to have experienced one of the more qualified guides in life. I believe that if Sparky touched your life, you were lucky. I've never met the man, and I've never been in the same room as him, but he's a shining star in a world that needs more shining stars.

In May of 2005, Sparky's number was retired by the Reds in a pre-game ceremony on the field. I've never gotten to any of those pre-game things in my life. But me and my buddy Mike the War Dog were there. And we heard every word from Sparky, Marty Brennaman and others. As part of the Sparky tribute they gave out pictures of Sparky to all that entered the gates. And try as we might, we couldn't keep our pictures with us. What's a guy supposed to do with a 8 x 12 picture for the duration of a baseball game and the bars afterwards? We got sloppy drunk and stayed at a hotel by the stadium, and even though I had a great time, I'll always regret losing track of that picture of Sparky.

I hope that Sparky lives to be 115 years old and that he can inspire more people as he goes. What a cool dude, what a cool life he's lived. Bless ya' Sparky.

THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

I have an over active imagination. I take the most remote thoughts in my head and I... well I don't do anything. These ideas seem to develop on their own. Here's an example: I walked on the deck for a nightly smoke, and just as I stepped out there I heard something crack, just off the deck, close to the woodsline. My rational self knows that it was a cat or a rat or a raccoon. But the sound resonates in my mind. And I start thinking about something lurking in the moonlight, behind a tree, and the noise of my footsteps on the deck makes this ghoul turn it's attention to me. And as I sit in my deck chair and fire up my smoke, I imagine that this creature, this hound or dog or wolf or bobcat is crouched, in attack mode, sizing me up. He's looking for my weakness, observing my motions, looking for a good time to attack. And I wonder if mountain lions are smart enough to know when a human is looking at them, and if they're smart enough to know when I turn my head to walk in. It's stalking me. It's taking it's predatory silent steps, every few seconds, not wanting to make another mistake like making another fallen limb go crack in the night. It's shoulders are huanched and its eyes are wide yet trained on me, planning it's instantaneous attack. Wild cats seem to be able to calculate how many steps it's going to take them to pounce on their prey. They watch, ever so closely, and wait for that single opportunity to present itself to them. Will I look away? Is it my imagination? I did hear something, that's a fact. Sticks don't just crack on their own. A house cat doesn't make sticks break like that. A dog would've started barking in the night. A raccoon would've run, a deer would've run. Has to be a predator, has to be a killer. So I sit, and I smoke, never taking my eyes off the woods. I scan left then right, I can't see in the dark night shadows, but I'm certain I've looked right over the killer in the shadows. I know he can see me, smell me, sense my actions are defensive. I crush out my cigarette and hold my beer in one hand as I stand. I know he's thinking that this is his chance, his opportunity to get the jump on me. I'm ten feet from the back door. I turn to walk, but listen as I do. I'm waiting for a sign, waiting for something to crack or creak or to hear footsteps. After one step I look out into the dark wooded area, I see nothing. I take about eight more steps and put my hand on the door handle of the sliding glass door. No sound. This is his chance. I slowly slide the door open just far enough to get my body inside if I turn my shoulders to the side. One foot in, my head in, my shoulders in, I realize that my rear foot is still exposed, still on the deck. I imagine the Mountain Lion leaping over and clearing the deck railing, and as he descends ontop of me, his huge white teeth plunge into my calf, and he drags me back out the partially opened door and mauls me, while eating me alive. But it doesn't happen. I quickly pull my back foot inside the door, and close the door. I'm not scared mind you, my rational side knows the story is far fetched and that there's not a mountain lion for hundreds of miles. But still, the thought lingers for a moment. It could happen right? I do this all the time. No, I don't do anything. My mind does this all the time. I can't stop it, can't turn it off. Maybe this is why I don't sleep much. Who knows? This is one of about ten thousand imagination distractions that I deal with on a daily basis. Why Lord? Why me? I guess it could be worse. Right?

BASEBALL REGULAR SEASON IS OVER

It's officially over. 162 games. The long, hot, dusty baseball regular season has come to a close. My Reds started well and ended even better. It's no secret that I love baseball and that I love, love, love Reds baseball. It's sad for me each October because Baseball is a mainstay on my TV. Thank God for DVR or I'd rarely watch anything but ballgames. You know, some people collect stamps, some play fantasy sports, some people are avid readers or have kids that play sports in every season. But for me, baseball is a hobby. I don't have to collect anything and I don't have to buy much. Hobby is defined as: An activity or interest pursued outside one's regular occupation and engaged in primarily for pleasure. That's according to Answers.com. It's for pleasure. Baseball pleases me. There's nothing like the feeling of being home during the day and finding a day game being televised from some out of market ballpark. ESPN always would have one or two on during the week. TBS would play the Atlanta games and WGN would air Cubs or White Sox day tilts. So if you work from home like me, you can find a game on in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday on a regular basis. And I love that. I love checking the box scores and reading about the games of the night online. It's a huge interest for me, and it pleases me.

There are 3 times per baseball season that I get sad. Mother's Day in May, Father's Day in June, and the last Reds game in October. Mother's Day on the radio with Marty Brennamen is special because Marty always writes and reads on-air, a poem that he wrote for his mother. It's special because Marty is so genuine, and so brilliant as a broadcaster of sports, that when you hear another side of him come through the radio, well, you just know it's completely heartfelt. You can hear how a grown man feels about the most special person in his life. It's touching. So is it sad? Not really, but it does make me go all sentimental. Then Fathers' Day in June...for me personally is just sad because it's been 5 years since my Pop died, and baseball always reminds me of him. I remember a few years ago Ken Griffey Jr. hit a homerun on Father's Day, and Ken Senior was in the front row. Junior hit that bomb, rounded the bases on those worn out legs of his and went directly from homeplate to the stands and gave his dad a huge hug, still wearing his batting helmet. The Cincinnati Kid. That one made my knees go weak. And then the final game of the year. All the broadcasters do the round of thanks to all the behind the scenes people in production, and they tell us about how hope springs eternal, and then they dissect the season, discussing what worked, what didn't, and what the team will need to overcome in the off season. They leave us with hope and sadness.

I guess the end of the season also means that summer is over, winter is near. Short pants are gradually replaced by jeans and sweaters and jackets. Kids are back in school and and nights seem to begin sometime during dinner each night. And the suntans fade and the leaves begin to change and I'm reminded that life goes on. But the best thing about baseball is that there's always another game, always another season. Hope does spring eternal in baseball. I can't wait for the playoffs to start, and I can't wait for the World Series. I can't wait to hear the hot stove reports on the radio and I can't wait to start reading and hearing about the big off season trades and signings to be announced. Most of all though, I can't wait for spring training to begin. Baseball pleases me and I ain't afraid to admit that. Now it's time for this Reds fan to put away his Reds cap and get out his Yankees cap. Hope spring eternal in Reds-land this year for sure. But it's always nice to have a backup plan. GO YANKS!!

WEEKEND IS HERE

Time to do something fun. Put up the Halloween decorations, rake some leaves, cut the grass. Play some football in the yard, watch some football. Hopefully the weather holds out and I can take my girlies to the festival. Nothing like a Fall Festival to make me smile. Have a good weekend! I hope you see everything.

WEEKEND PREDICTIONS

So, any sports that aren't called BASEBALL (the greatest sport in the world) are not my expertise. But since it's on my mind, I thought I would make a few predictions for the weekend.

Miami vs UC. I went to Miami, and have always rooted for them, and I love Miami and the city of Oxford. I feel badly for them, not sure why they have fallen off the map like they have. Miami is 2-14 going back to last year. But UC is going to clobber Miami, 47 - 10.

Bengals vs Browns This Bengals team is all revved up right now. The Browns have lost like 7 in a row going back to last year. The Browns have no offense and the Bengals have a ferocious defense. And Carson Palmer is starting to remember that he's Carson Palmer. Mortal lock...Bengals whip Browns 27-10.

Reds vs Pirates Reds win final two games against the Bucco's.

Ohio State vs Indiana Ohio State hasn't lost to Indiana since 1988. I don't think IU is going to snap that streak in 2009. OSU manhandles IU 44 - 17.

I actually have no idea what i'm talking about on most of this...

LAPTOP BULLSHIT: THE FINAL CHAPTER

So those assholes at HP finally sent me the other half to my power cord today. Stupid idiots. It took me two freaking months to get my computer fixed, and the one thing that wasn't a problem when we started this whole thing, was the power cord. I just want to move forward. I have been lied to, and let down through this whole process. I'm thankful for my warranty, but i don't think my next computer is going to come from HP. Unless there's a sale...

I'M GONNA SAY TWENTY

This is 2009. We say two thousand, nine, right? I'm not going to say two thousand, ten. I'm going to say twenty ten, then twenty eleven, and twenty twelve. Not two thousand twelve. We said nineteen ninety nine, right? It's gonna be twenty ten for me. And if you don't like it that way, accept it. I am right and you are wrong. Thanks for playing.