Monday Night Football: Nothing unusual for the NFL or the WWE or Nazi Germany. Sometimes there’s added excitement as several F22 Raptors (a bargain at $339,000,000 each, $62 billion spent on the whole program). The guys who fly them  evidently don’t seem to think they’re the greatest thing ever. These things are already obsolete.

Out comes a US  flag so large that it can be seen from space. It’s embarassingly huge. Maybe the size of the field itself. Dozens of ecstatic volunteers walk it out to the center of the field and hold it a yard above the ground.

Why do they need to televise the national anthem?

The guy singing is typically lousy–it’s a lousy song written by a guy who actually “owned” other actual human beings. While the Brits were shelling the hell out of Fort McHenry, Francis Scott Key wondered if the flag would still be flying over the stronghold come morning. I believe he was watching it all from a boat, but I might be wrong with my history. I grew up in his hometown. There’s an A-league baseball team named for him–the Baltimore Orioles own Frederick Keys, in western Maryland.

There is a military color guard holding another set of flags where the guy singing the anthem is standing. The camera pans to show athletes and fans mouthing along to what is essentially a two minute question. Does that flag still stand? Well, does it? That flag is on display at the Smithsonian. It’s large and shot to shit but it’s not quite as large as our modern AIDS quilt size NFL flags. The military pays  the NFL for what is essentially a recruiting commercial.

When an out of control police force that thinks it’s above the law (and often is)  goes around shooting first and and shooting to kill, black, white, everybody not in blue–you’re going to have a problem. They wear Kevlar vests and carry NATO weapons. They send in the SWAT team to make a traffic stop.

You aren’t a PATRIOT?

One of the teams is called the fucking REDSKINS. If we’re going to ask the people to hold their hand to their heart and pledge their loyalty to this vision of the USA, this better be the best fucking vision of the USA we’ve got.

Colin Kaepernick refuses to stand for the National Battlecry. I don’t blame him. He is actually being a patriot. His protest is not offensive. He’s not giving the flag the finger and spitting on it. He quitely kneels while the Stealth Bombers fly overhead. The USA is a country that spends more than half of it’s discretionary budget, all the money it has for the year, building the military and borrowing money to do it!  That’s more than $600,000,000,000 per year we spend on the military. Even at that level, way more than the next how many, 7, 8, 9 10 countries combined? That is obscene. And it’s still called “defense” spending. That’s like a guy making $40,000 a year who takes out bank loans every year and spends $25,000 a year buying guns and ammunition. Digging bunkers in his back yard. He is simply being a patriot. Dude, how many guns do you need? Have you ever heard of the Second Amendment? Don’t take my guns! I’m looking at you Obama! I know you want to take my guns! You’re going to declare martial law and cancel the election so you can remain in power and grab all the guns from everybody. I know it! I need more guns!

Key himself called the War of 1812 a “lump of wickedness.” He was an expert on lumps and especially wicked lumps.

It’s embarrassing. This is the message we send to the world. Our flags are menacingly huge and we all must put our hand on our heart and salute it.

This isn’t the people’s flag. This is the flag of Henry Kissinger. You can’t blame the  servicemen for carrying out 70 years of mostly illegal orders, though we certainly would hold others to higher accounts if they were on the losing end.

I remember being at a Baltimore Orioles game with my father when I was about 12. He was in the army between the Korean War and the Vietnam War. He was sent to Korea once the fighting was already over. He’s never told me anything about what the army was like. Never. I can’t imagine him in a uniform taking orders. Well, no. I can’t imagine myself in a uniform taking orders. Anyhow, I’d watched batting practice and was semi-excited for the game to be over so I could go home and eat chocolate mini-donuts and watch the highlights on HTS, the Baltimore Orioles cable channel. The highlights made the game seem real. We always had awful seats at the baseball game. Awful. Twice a game my father would yell out “Rip one Ripken!” and then “Get in the game, ump!” It didn’t matter when. It could’ve been between innings. He yelled out both. He volunteered when I joined Little League. Not as a coach. He never played a game of catch with me in his life. He played catch with my older sister when she started playing softball. He volunteered as an umpire. He called balls and strikes when I hit and when I pitched. It was too much. He had recently left my mom, us, our house and my mom cried every night while I saw him kissing my sisters best friend’s mother, Margaret. A new Billy Joel album might have caused my parents to get divorced. It’s very possible. I remember he played the song For the Longest Time over and over on thee tape deck of his 1983 brown Dodge Colt hatchback. The car we used when we went all day looking for aluminum cans on the side of the roads. Sometimes the highway, that little Colt freaking out like a sick goat as he slammed the brake, branked it into reverse and floored it to get the cans I missed on my side. Not my fault–I needed glasses but I was afraid that if I asked for an eye exam and glasses it would just lead to another money fight between them. I made it all the way into seventh grade, always seeking seats up front, getting into trouble just so I’d be moved and I could see. Then, finally, I got some glasses and I voluntarily picked the cheapest ugliest glasses they had that fit. They were a clear, grayish plastic lens. I kept them in my pocket in their case and only when the lights went off and we had to copy something on the overhead projector I snuck them on. Pete! Let me see! You’ve got glasses! That’s so gay! I’d been caught. The worst thing in the world that could happen to a sensitive kid that age in that day was to have the entire class looking at him. I started sweating. I hoped Chrissy didn’t see me. I knew she did. That bastard Erik had just ruined my entire life. And HE wore glasses. Well, he used to. His eyes were crossed in elementary school so he wore glasses with an eye patch in one eye.

As the tenor was singing the Anthem, I stood up my hat pushed back like an Iranian woman fashionably wearing a head scarf. It wasn’t enough for the guy behind me. I heard a grunt behind me but I didn’t turn. Then I felt a pressure against my neck. A hand squeezed my neck while another slapped my hat off, sending it several rows ahead of me. My hair! It was a mess! How horrible! And this guy still had the nerve to cuss me out after smacking me and my hat. I looked toward my dad who hadn’t really noticed what had happened. His attention was always a ways off. I wondered if he was going to leave me any money when he died? He stuck his finger in his nose and promptly put his own hat back on top of his combed over graying pate. When it was windy, his combover came undone and I was always amazed at just how long some of those hairs really were. I wanted so bad to have a father son relationship with him but he wasn’t as good a fther ad he was an impartial umpire. It would look bad if he clapped for me, he told me once after a game where I struck out three times and walked a dozen. Thank God I faked an injury in the third inning and the coach pulled me out of the game. As much as I wanted to pitch, I was immediately shamed and terrified to be in control of the game. Everybody was looking at me again and I couldn’t stand it. It was fine to be out in right field where you were expected to drop the ball and then you got rid of it and attention shifted to the rest of the team. I was a pretty good hitter considering how bad my eyes were. I lived the first 12 years of my life thinking that stars were really really blurry objects. The first night I looked at the sky with my glasses I was amazed. They were only tiny points. Suddenly, half of the terror of night, the not being able to see the monsters went away and so did  all of the blurry lights. I’d fight myself every time I needed to put on my stupid glasses from then on. Now we live in a society where wearing glasses is actually almost cool. More than anything else growing up, I lacked confidence. So when another adult physically assaulted me for not removing my ball cap at an Orioles game, the first thing I needed to do was to get the attention OFF of me. And NOW. NOW! Somebody in front of me handed my hat back to me but I was too afraid to meet the eyes of the guy behind me who had smacked it off. He was drinking and probably in his 30s, there with his friend. I was a 12-year-old nobody. You’re not supposed to hit a guy with glasses. But moreso, you’re not supposed to be a guy who needs glasses. Especially not those frames. It was another huge blow to my self-confidence, already waning as the other kids got girlfriends and grew fast. I wouldn’t go through my final growth spurt until I had dropped out of high school. That’s right. I just stopped going. I never found any of that self-confidence anywhere and I degenerated into a person that nobody wanted around. I was worthless. I didn’t want to be assessed. Maybe I’d slip even lower. I had no experience being a cool guy. I couldn’t talk to girls. When they did show an interest I felt the heat of those gazes on me, sizing me up again. Instantly I cut myself back down to hide under the branches of the larger trees to declare myself as voluntarily out of the game. Even worse, I stopped being smart. I literally thought that I could change who I was by changing the people who I hang around with. My best friend all through elementary school, Jonathan, (huge success now, married to a beautiful Indian woman lawyer) was not cool either, but worse, he was smart and not cool. If I was going to change lunch tables, I’d have to cut myself off from my best friend. I remember one weekend in October, sixth grade. My older sister asked me what I was doing this weekend. I remember explaining to her that I was going over to Jonathan’s to spend the night ONE LAST TIME. I had decided that I needed to stop being friends with him totally. I’d not tell him just one day I’d stop speaking to him or returning his calls and I’d stop going over to his house to spend the night. It must’ve been awful for him. I can’t even imagine how horrible I must’ve been Ironically, before I dropped out because my clique had turned against me and were now trying to destroy my life as we’d done to two other guys the previous two years, Jonathan was rising in popularity. He’d gotten a perfect score on his SATs. I didn’t take them. Not then. I took them in fifth grade as part of the Gifted and Talented experience and I think I did better then then I did six years later when I drove myself all the way to Gettysburg school district to take the SATs in secret. Unfortunately, my school had a prom scheduled the day after the last chance to take the tests senior year. I saw names of people I knew. I saw faces of people I knew. I hadn’t been in school for about a year and a half. I’d grown about six inches since I’d last seen these people. I tried to hide physically while I tried to to concentrate on the test. At one time I’d probably be able to ace it like Jonathan. I didn’t do any homework from sixth grade until I dropped out in the end of tenth. I wonder what kind of a student I could’ve been if I’d kept trying. I was easily the smartest kid in the county wide gifted and talented class. Always finished testing and entire units way before the other kids. We were given a module in fifth grade that was supposed to last us an entire term. Three months. I finished it in a week. From then on I was given a pass to go hang out and read in the library. I loved that library. Jonathan and I had a contest to see who could get their names in the back of the most books. I couldn’t find a single book that didn’t have his JDW on the library card. One Friday, I was still alone and Jonathan would finish the next week and we’d begin an epic and voluntary 60 page report on whales. I was the better writer. He typed it all up and we turned it in. It was the size of a book. Amazing. I started to see my whole life ahead of me. We’d go to the same college and start a computer business and become very rich. But it didn’t happen because I wanted to be on the lowest ladder of the cool tree instead of being left on the ground. At least I was in the game, I told myself. I wasn’t, but I told myself that. This was the same time I actually thought that if you masturbated you potentially gave yourself AIDS (AIDS was what you got when sperm entered  man’s body, according to my friend Johnny Stone from the swim team) but you could also convince a girl to like you if you said her name right was you were cumming. Not only that, but the next time you saw her in school she would know what you’d done thinking of her and sometimes you’d watch her body language–watch the way her free swinging leg pointed at you. How she’d look up in your direction and then touch her hair. Nothing would ever come of anything with any of the girls in my own school. I needed to find a girl who had no idea that I was a miserable nobody. Eventually I did. I was 17. I had gone skiing by myself. I was reckless, often pointing myself straight down a hill and getting right into a speed tuck. I got some good speed up and at the end I’d throw a mountain of snow with my quick stop. I had so many things on my mind. So busy. I had nothing. I roamed the malls and sometimes bought clothes but mostly just dared myself to look at girls as they walked by. These malls were not local. I couldn’t go to any local mall. There’d be people who knew me and knew I was a nobody. There was a chance that I might actually be becoming cute, but I really couldn’t tell. I carried myself like I had just gotten off a 14 hour shift in the coal mine. I had inherited my dad’s horrible posture. I’m quite sure now that I think about it, my mom had not really known much about my father when they married. I’m sure she thought he was somebody better than he was. And vice versa. She came from an old American blueblood family. Her parents had her in case my granddaddy didn’t come back from the War in Europe. He was a navigator in a Martin Marauder. That meant he was also in charge of dropping the eggs as they said. I wondered how many people he’d killed. What guts it took–once over the target, the pilot basically gave total control of the plane to the navigator until the bombs were dropped. I can’t imagine hearing the flak exploding near the plane. My granddaddy came back from the war and got a good job doing , as far as I can tell pretty much nothing but drinking and smoking, because of family connections through my grandmother. My mom was about 10 years older than her sister and maybe 14 years older than her youngest little brother. She was gone  while they were being raised. They sent her to a rich girl camp in Canada where she started smoking. She was 13 years old. Of course she smoked heavily while all three of us, my sisters and I, were in the womb. I wonder if I’d be an inch taller if she hadn’t. In Brave New World, exposing the Epsilon fetuses ti cigarette smoke and ethanol sounds about right. Perhaps I was supposed to be a better Beta. I doubt I was ever intended to be an Alpha and I never wanted to be. Too much pressure and you had to talk in public a lot with a natural ease I just didn’t possess. The scariest thing ever was when one of those horrible teachers made us stand up in front of class and give presentations. The entire fucking class staring at you. You also had to take your ball cap off when you did one of these. All those silent darting dark eyes like predators when you stood up there. You were on trial. It felt like that at least. I tried to fake my way. Eventually I’d find that I could actually almost o it smoothly if I did it while drunk. But I didn’t know when to stop and woke up in strange places after blacking out. I’d lost shoes, wallets, thousands of dollars, keys…I’d done stupid horrible petty crimes while hammered. I somehow emerged from that alive and relatively unscathed. Though I’ve been arrested maybe three times. I think three. It could’ve been so much worse. Sunday nights were the worst, unless it was winter and it was snowing. Then they were glorious. The call of no school. Up early. Then two hours late. Then as the snow piled up, it always seemed to start around 4 am. Only a couple times did it ever start in the middle of the day and they had to send us home early. In 10th grade, while I was already being tortured, we were blessed with a huge blizzard that dumped several feet of snow on us. It wasn’t so bad in the city, but in the subs and burbs it would take all week to clear those streets. We were off twice for a week at a time. Entire weeks. I’d wake up in the morning and wait for the call on WFMD. Frederick County Schools are CLOSED. At that point I had a girlfriend who went to another school and was afraid I’d lose her. She was of Chinese descent. The ony Asian girl I’ve ever dated. We liked the same music and skiing and had the same entrepreneurial plans for our futures. Of course, I betrayed her when I met another girl whose father was a famous Hollywood, Florida doctor and then I met Jenna, whose father was headmaster at the Eton of West Hollywood, the place where the stars sent their kids to private school. Jenna and I spent the summer traveling around Europe. From June to the end of July. I’d read Kerouac’s On the Road and changed my major to English Creative Writing. I started trying to learn to write. And I began to have that romantic idea about every time we got in the car to GO GO GO! I was upset when I read Bukowski’s last book, PULP, and found that he’d died the year before I went to school in California in 1995. I wanted Jenna to be my girlfriend so much and then it happened and we became co-dependent. She too was enamored with writing and changed her major. We were in the writing program together. One professor imagined I could be a famous journalist. I knew I had a book in me somewhere but I also knew that there was no real hurry to write it. It was so much easier just to be a cock jerkoff and say you were a writer and that you were working on a book. I’ve been doing that for 21 years now. Still working on that book. I’ve written millions of words by now but not even close to finishing a single book. IT would be like having ll of those eyes turned back on me again. And most likely they’d be disappointed and figure me out, they’d find out I’d been running from myself for 23 years and they’d find out who I USED to be. Or rather, who I REALLY AM and WAS.

A horrible end. I ditched my last name and started going by my middle name. That way none of the people who knew how unacceptable and inferior I was would never be able ton track me down. Maybe I hoped I would turn into a different person with a different name? I had developed a crippling anxiety and panic disorder and I couldn’t even work any more. I was already out of the work force after losing all of my confidence jumping out of the workforce by age 25. I married into an uncomfortable situation because there was no pressure for me to WORK, I could just sit at home and work on the book while she fucked people for money. This proved to be a much better idea when I was drunk and  she brought home $5000 after spending a day with the Maloof brothers, owners of the Sacramento Kings and the Palms Casino. Her and her mom worked at the same brothel. That was a pretty good day. The Maloofs sent their limo over the Sierras and all the way to Carson City. She said that her guy just jerked off on her. They went into a Kings store and it was shut for them and they were given 15 minutes to get what they wanted. That winter and for winters overs the next 10 years somebody in the family was wearing an expensive piece of clothing with the Kings logo on it. I owned two of these $600 jackets that I wore only at night when I went rollerblading. I was trying to stay in shape. We were living at her family’s house. I wanted my old life back. I couldn’t pretend to write my book anymore. I gave up on even imagining how that might look. Instead I took our money and blew it daytrading stocks and we blew another huge chunk in Hawaii on our honeymoon. About a month after I moved in there, she came home with herpes. And then it turned out to be heat sores, thank God. Condoms didn’t break that easily we joked. And then she started fucking guys without condoms for more money or as she later claimed, the condom broke and she really did get a disease. No herpes. Genital warts. Her pussy was full of them. She went to a doctor who used froze them off and she kept going to work. The idea of eating her pussy ever again became a distant one. How could I be married to somebody who fucked other men for money. Not even a LOT of money. I couldn’t tell her how to run her body and business because then I would be a pimp. The very idea made my anxiety and panic take over my life. I became addicted to poppy pods and they were still cheap and I drank that slop all day every day until I was up 50 pounds. I was a slob who slept all day until I was sick then got up and made my poppy slop. I started drinking cans of Coke and by the end of a night I’d go through a 12 pack. It was safer than me drinking beer. I became a shut in. I barely saw my wife and when I did, I was so disgusted by what I had allowed to happen to us I felt like our lives were over.

They were, as a couple. I moved out and into a local hotel and got a job at the daily paper.

Right after we got married, which we did because I was too hungover to fly that day and I didn’t want to even think about flying into ISLIP and then waiting in line for 45 minutes for a taxi cab that would take 45 minutes to get home and would cost $70. I couldn’t ask her for money. That was, if not blood money, pussy money. Sex money. Her warts had come off one by one. When I pulled out sometimes they were stuck to my dick.

Right after she came to NYC to live with me, I found out it was only a visit. The plan was she would visit me every month and then go home and work and fuck people for a couple weeks and send me money. I already made enough money. She had a seventh grad education. But I got really sick during her first stay. I was taken to the hospital and they couldn’t diagnose what I had. I was in the hospital for 10 days and then finally checked myself out. Pulled the IVs from my body and left a note. She was going home the next week and we spent it in bed watching movies she’d already seen.

 

My drinking in NYC had made me persona non grata at most of the bars and with most of my friends. I was a horrible lonely drunk. D was still 18 years old and she didn’t even like drinking. The first time we’d gotten drunk together was the night before we got married, February 19th, 2002. I wonder if 9/11 had influenced me in any way. I worked as an editor in porn and she fucked people for a living. It seemed like a fit, but just because there were no immediate signs that our puzzle pieces weren’t a good fit, the best sign was that she was born a day after me, although 7 years later. She had only had two real boyfriends thought she had fucked 500 people in the first six months she worked at the Ranch. She didn’t get into drugs and booze until she turned 21. Then that’s all she did. She started wrecking cars. She cheated on me while I was back in NYC. That only lasted two times before she was fucking somebody else. “For free?” I’d said. She picked up her first DUI. Three or four more and she’d be in prison again. She could’ve had 20 more. And shoplifting. Grand theft auto. Check forgery. Fraud. Grand theft money. Drug charges. It certainly could’ve been worse. Soraya found our that we had bee married and refused to forgive me for marrying a whore, though she was so curious bout it and then admitted that it turned her on and then she was mad that it repulsed me. She had some weird fantasies about shitting on each other (she was writing a sex book about poop under another name) and once confided in me that she thought it might be nice to be raped by a dog.

We were living in Vegas and I was doing as much meth as I could get my hands on. I gave a little piece to her once and she told me she wanted to kill me on that stuff. I was a horrible person, but I could explain away my monstrous behavior as fodder for my book. My book that was never coming. But I was CLOSE. What did I have to possibly write about? I had a few strange experiences and life choices but it seemed to obvious to write a book about what was obvious and besides, if I never finished the book nobody could ever judge me and my talent or my decisions to make horrible decisions so my book would be more interesting.

Soraya wouldn’ forgive me being married to a hooker as though she wanted to be the hooker but couldn’t and it drive her crazy and finally pushed her away while we were living in Mexico, primarily so she could have another six months on her VISA in the USA. She wanted to buy a small restaurant here and cook everything and we’d make so much money she thought. She was serious and we were very close to getting her parents to loan us the down payment and we’d have bought this guy’s business that was next door to the hotel we stayed at for the first three weeks here in Mexico. By that time, she had two new best friends and she confessed to Douglass Cooper, writer and statutory rapist that I’d once been married to a hooker and worked in porn and he was fascinated by it and they both were but he told her he wanted to fuck her and marry her and she had been giving him massages for $200 pesos. She said you can’t say I can’t do it because you were married to D, the fucking whore! Fuck you!

Do you want me to shit on you?

I want you to tie my up in that vacant lot next door and cover my mouth with duct tape and rape me and the safe word will be I can’t breathe, you’re killing me. From then on, I couldn’t make a move without having my hand  around her throat. I didn’t like it and it sometimes left marks on her throat, which she used against me when she was mad at me. How could somebody who was married to a whore be such a fucking prude? She didn’t understand me. You used to work in porn! Objectifying and degenerating these poor women. She was more mad when I told her that after working there for six months I stopped masturbating. Her fantasy was that there was a constant stream of wanna be porn girls coming off the buses and fucking me in the office. Farthest thing from the truth. The fuck biz was in Los Angeles. Chatsworth, specifically. Nobody came to visit except once in a while the photographers to sell us sets. That was for the editor in chief and the art directors to handle. I was managing editor of CHERI until I got my final promotion–Editor In Chief of … Finally Legal magazine. I had zero budget. All the sets were world rights sets from other magazines we owned. Most of them looked very dated as we no longer bought much for world rights. I changed my pornynym from Peter Thompson to Chester Brown. The young girl look wasn’t sexy. It said an ugly girl with freckles and pigtails and a stained shirt pissing herself like she was a very slow learner was sexier than a girl in clothes, a fetish that I was growing to appreciate much more. I was actually getting only turned on by women who were nice, came from close families, had real passion for the things they valued–girls who would probably be good mothers I guess. I was looking for love. I was fucking the editor in chief of Playgirl when I went out to Reno for Valentines’s Day. She was on Stern that morning and our VP had heard it on his drive in. He was shocked when I introduced him to D and her mom by lunch. He thought I was somehow the smoothest guy in the world. This mother daughter hooker team was the flavor of the week and everybody wanted them to do something. D had a schedule book that was full of appointments for the next year. About 60% of the time the guy didn’t show up. So she hung around and got wasted, usually too wasted to drive home but they let her anyhow. Most girls lived at the brothels so they’d just pass out with a dick in their mouth but wake up richer. Once she came home wasted and walking funny. She didn’t close the door all the way and I could see her asshole was swollen and pink. It was fucked open. She sat on my that night. Right as the sunlight was coming through the curtains. The next day we’d cover that patio door with aluminum foil. That way I could sleep all day. I felt something strange in her cunt. That wasn’t too unusual. Once I’d actually found the ring from a condom inside her. I nearly speared it with my cock. I was too fucked up to actually finish so I’d give her a few strokes and then roll off and pretend to cum in my hand, usually spitting in it in case she checked. That night I was drunk and she was drunker. I felt my peen stabbing something that cut it. Or nearly cut it. WTF was that. I fucked some more while she slugged from a bottle and passed out. I pretended to be going down on her and she grabbed the back of my head and arched her back and meowed.

Inside her pussy, there was a Juicy Fruit wrapper. Not just the yellow paper part but a wadded up piece of the foil. I expected to fins the gum but maybe that was up too  far. Somebody had used her cunt for an ashtay and a trashcan. I asked her about her parties. She got her check. After they subtracted for the bar tab, she brought home $37. I saw her bar tabs were now up to $500 a week or more. Sometimes she bought drinks for the house in which case it was $500 a night. She had to fuck $1000 worth of guys just to break even. At that place, with the low traffic in those years, she was lucky to get a guy to shell out $200 for 30 minutes. She used to be $1000 minimum and she’d get it. She shouldn’t have left the Branch. But she would’ve just gotten into meth sooner of she hadn’t.

They paid for doctors, sheets, rent and board…

Maybe this could be a book one day. I still don’t know.

But, Colin K. Former star QB at UNR. Wolfpack! I feel you, brother.

I accidentally wrote almost 6000 words on this. How hard would it be to just write a few more of these and make it a book. Most of it is already written anyhow and has been for years. I’m just trying to honestly figure out my motivations for having chosen this path. Had I stayed in NYC I could’ve maybe married money or been promoted or moved jobs. When I left my apartment had gone up $27 a month and I was angry. Third stop on the L. Newly remodeled. I loved that apartment.  Spend all of Sunday riding my bike to the beach in Breezy Point. Sunburned and so tired from the 20 mile ride (once I ride there and back twice in a single day, July 4, 2001).

 

 

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