your kiss is not on the current agenda

This man is clearly a visitor from an alternate universe.
Things that need doing, abridged version:

- get Super Lumina's brake pads replaced
- scale the cherry tree out back and unhook the windchimes before the bad weather starts
- clean off and store the patio furniture
- figure out what I'm going to do with pronounced WOO-BIN
- get my Christmas shopping sorted out before things go crazy
- migrate Armagideon Time to a Wordpress setup on my own webhost
- dig out the sumacs that have snuck their way into the raspberry brambles
- get a haircut
- mail out some packages to my friends
- complete the articles I promised for other sites
- finish sorting and cataloging my popcult archives
- quit kidding myself that making lists will aid me in getting any of the above items done

The Blue Things - You Can't Say We Never Tried (from The Blue Things Story, 1993) - I suppose it depends of what you definition of "tried" is. Mine might be a little more generous than most, and encompasses those transitory flashes of obligation I feel while playing videogames or otherwise procrastinating.

Not that effort automatically equals success, as Kansas's The Blue Things (later "The Bluethings") discovered when their rather nice Byrdsean sound failed to propel the outfit out of the midwestern regional market. Oh, well, there are worse fates than being a well-regarded 1960's garage rock obscurity.

still one place to go

If you happen to be visiting this humble corner of the internet based on JC's words of high praise (made even more flattering by the fact that I consider The Vinyl Villain the platinum standard of music blogs), I'd like to apologize for not bringing my "A" game at the present time.

In a rare reversal of the Armagideon Time status quo, I have a backlog of workable post ideas, yet very little time to execute them because of things currently going on at the day job. I'm juggling the prep work for a move with my everyday responsibilities while trying not to crate up anything I might need for the same.

Things should settle down by Friday afternoon, but it's going to be low-content mode around here until that bridge is crossed.

In the meantime, I guess I'll just continue with the original version/cover version juxtaposition theme from yesterday, with a classic cut from The Doors (which the wife hates) and a punked up Ray Manzarek-produced cover by X (which the wife absolutely adores). It's all in the translation.

The Doors - Soul Kitchen (from The Doors, 1967)

X - Soul Kitchen (from Los Angeles, 1980)

Vacation 2008: Epilogue - Just a matter of time

RIDE TOGETHER, DIE TOGETHER.
...and just like that, it's all over.

It's not like I didn't accomplish anything during this past week or so. I built a compost bin. I finally managed to get the patio table out of the basement and onto the patio. I bought a ton of retro-junk that will almost certainly figure into upcoming posts. I got to enjoy New England's first monsoon season (not that Al Gore is right about global warming or anything) from the comfort and safety of my home in the Woburn Highlands.

As bad as playing catch-up as work will be, it's nothing I haven't handled a dozen times before, yet I still can't shake the feeling that my stay of execution is about to elapse. Does the condemned have any last requests? Yes, dispense with the last meal and bring me some fine, fine L.A. power pop to comfort me in my indolence's dying hours...

The Plimsouls - Zero Hour (from The Plimsouls, 1981)

Vacation 2008: Day 4 - The orders are in

(from Howard Chaykin's American Flagg! v1 #2, collected in this handy forthcoming omnibus)
The life of a retrologist may be spiritually rewarding, but it doesn't really pay well...or pay at all, actually. To meet my many and varied financial obligations, as well as to support my useless crap habit, I also work as a flagman for data streams at a public university.

It's a perfect job in many ways. It's unionized, pays well, and is generally low stress -- barring the occasional meltdown on the IT end of things. The only catch is that while the flow of work may slacken at off peak times, it never stops and will start to clog things up for the rest of the office without my semi-expert guidance.

This is why I'm getting ready to make the hectic commute into Dorchester to pull a half-shift during the middle of my vacation. I'm hoping by going in late and leaving early I can avoid the usual traffic hassles on I-93....which is a lot like hoping that I'll find a strongbox full of Confederate gold buried underneath the azalea bushes next to my patio.

Black Flag - Clocked In (from The First Four Years, 1984) - It's always time for classic L.A. hardcore.

Wall of Voodoo - Back in Flesh (from Dark Continent, 1981) - The anthem for Generation Avoidance, to be sullenly muttered under one's breath during the long walk from parking lot to cubicle.

reach out and touch faith

My wife bought the above painting at a yard sale last Saturday. My first reaction upon seeing it was "Jesus was a human resources director?"

After some consideration, though, I realized that it made a lot of sense...

Good afternoon, please have a...no, no, you don't need to kneel or indulge in glossolalia, honest...please, have a seat.

Now you may be wondering why I wanted to meet with you. It's about your conduct as a member of this organization. I've reviewed your performance records and it seems to me that your actions frequently contradict our core precepts.

What? You say you've only been following what's in the employee handbook? Ah, I see. The thing is that when we were a small start up in the Levant, we never imagined the eventual scope or longevity of our operations, and so there's a lot of things in the manual that weren't meant to be taken outside very specific cultural and historical contexts. Because I was otherwise occupied at the time, the actual task of writing fell upon subcontractors, and their individual biases are reflected in the finished product.

And don't even get me started about the translation errors, my friend.

Confusing minutae aside, however, the handbook is very clear about the essence of our mission statement -- pacifism, forgiveness, forbearance, and compassion -- none of which seem to be reflected in your behavior as member of this organization.

Militarism? "Prosperity Gospel?" A rush to pass harsh judgement upon others? Turning spirituality into a pyramid scheme?

Really? This is really what you think we're supposed to be about, you id---

...

I'm sorry, forgive me. Occasionally my temper gets the best of me. (Just ask the moneylenders.) Be that as it may, it seems that your self-righteous fixation on details and has led you to overlook our actual mission statement, the "spirit," if you will, of what we actually stand for. In doing so, you have -- either intentionally or not -- propagated a creed that is fundamentally opposed to ours.

Even worse, you've presumed to do so in both my name and the name of this organization.

Though it pains me to do so, I must hand you this official reprimand. Think upon your mistakes and learn from them.

Go in peace.

Yeah, Jesus is quite the softie, unlike his father, who'd bring down plagues and lightning bolts on anyone caught accessing MySpace on company time.

King Missile - Jesus Was Way Cool (from Mystical Shit, 1990) - The Gospel According To That One Stoner That Shows Up At Every College Party.

Depeche Mode - Personal Jesus (from Violator, 1990) - The Song Guaranteed To Be Played At Every College Party That One Stoner Shows Up At (Also, "Love Shack" and "She Sells Sanctuary". I'm not dating myself at all.)

no ice in your lovers walk

This is supposed to by the final day of the heat wave that has engulfed the northeast in its suffocating blanket of haze and humidity, but part of being a Bay Stater born and bred is learning to take what the meteorologists say with a fifty-pound bag of salt. New England weather admits no master, and takes a preternatural joy in confounding expectations. I won't believe we've managed to wiggle out of the Devil's Armpit until I actually see the barometer drop and the feel the cool breeze on my face.

Whenever the temperatures begin to spike 'round these parts, I find myself thinking back to the scorching summer of 1993, back when I used to work the Saturday shift at the college library. Apart from the intrinsic lousiness of having to get up early on a Saturday, it was excellent work -- a 9-to-5 shift in an air conditioned building at a commuter school during intersession.

I worked the circulation desk and the number of patrons I had to deal with during a given shift could be counted on the fingers of both my hands and two of the toes on my right foot, and all phone inquiries answered with one of three standardized responses:

1. No, this isn't the Boston Public Library.
2. No, this isn't Boston University.
3. No, this isn't Puritan Pizza.

The rest of my my time was spent doing some light shelving, surprising the occasional mastubator during a floor sweep, and reading stacks of books and periodicals on whatever subject currently had my fancy. I'm not exaggerating when I state that the bulk of what I learned in college came from my at-work reading. The amount of time I had to kill, combined with a half-dozen floors packed with available reading material, allowed me range far and wide subject-wise with minimal distractions.

History (cultural, social, military), sociology, film studies, art, literature of all stripes, biology, astronomy -- all there for the studying, with no pesky tests or essays to harsh the learning buzz. Plus, sitting under a tree and reading The Stranger and The Plague during a lunch break in triple-digit temperatures really adds to Camus's Algerian je ne sais quoi in a way that can't be imitated in a classroom environment.

(I'm not knocking formal pedagogical methods, as there are certain things, like critical thinking methods, that benefit from the insight and guidance of a skilled second party. The problem is that too many of my college classes were more about gaming the instructor's system than about the actual transfer of knowledge.)

Some of the books I spent the most time with were grabbed from the reference section, which was blessed with an oversized encyclopedia of international horror films, an annotated bibliography on nuclear war fiction, bound volumes of film reviews from 1981-83, and (astoundingly) a copy of the Who's New Wave in Music directory. Taken together, they form an excellent snapshot of my predominant interests circa 1993.

After my shift ended, I'd walk to the bus platform in the late afternoon sun and catch the shuttle to the JFK/UMass Red Line station. From there, I'd take a northbound train to (the pre-gentrified) Central Square, and hike up Mass Ave to Harvard Square on foot, stopping at the various used record stores along the way.

Though I had fallen away from buying vinyl at that point (thanks to Maura's birthday present of a CD player and the emerging flood of CD-only imports and reissues), old habits die hard. There were still plenty of deals to be had on albums that either had missed the reissue bandwagon or weren't worth spending fifteen bucks for the CD version (as opposed to two bucks for a used LP).

My musical tastes were also in flux, gravitating away from punk/hardcore/industrial exclusivity and towards the pop, wave, and postpunk (and by extension, gothic) end of the spectrum. Flipping through my record collection, it's easy to notice the split -- from Sham 69 and company to The Lexicon of Love to Sex Gang Children in a few short steps -- even if I can't remember the specific instances of purchase. (In hindsight, I wish I bought a lot more records than I did.)

When I was done dilly-dallying over yesterday's musical castoffs, I would trek up Mt. Auburn Street to meet Maura at the cafe she waitressed at, where I'd swig discounted Italian sodas and lounge in the Cantabridgian twilight as I waited for her shift to end. From there, another short jaunt on the Red Line and a longer one on the ever-unreliable 96 bus would bring us back to her place, where we'd spend the rest of the evening watching The Kids in the Hall and Mystery Science Theater 3000 on Comedy Central while her rabbits ran riot around the room.

Good times, indeed.

Here's a mini-sampler taken from the aforementioned albums I purchased and listened to back in those days:

INXS - The One Thing (from Shabooh Shoobah, 1982) - A case of partner-to-partner musical osmosis. She taught me to appreciate INXS, I taught her to appreciate the Abrasive Wheels.

Bauhaus - Dancing (from Mask, 1981) - Spasmodically gyrating around the borderlands of postpunk, pop and perentiousness.

here we are stranded

Doll Man lives in a little universe all his own.
After missing work on Friday (because I hate working Commencement) and Monday (because we had to make an emergency vet visit for Fergus the rabbit), I returned to the office on Tuesday to a whopping backlog of work (because the database waits for no man or sick bunny). A couple of my co-workers were out sick, the reason being that one of them chose to stay on the job most of Monday despite having a ferocious illness. Germs being the restless little busybodies that they are, the illness leapfrogged though the maze of cubicles to offer Grandfather Nurgle's benediction (Andrew = nerd) to most of the other people in my department.

"Watch out," I was told, but I figured I'd be fine since the primary vectors weren't around to spread the infectious joy.

So imagine my glee this morning when I woke up out of a sound sleep to discover that some playful pixies had run a power sander along the tender flesh between my sinuses and my trachea, and had also replaced the lymph nodes on both sides of my lower jaw with PGA-certified golf balls.

Yes, it has been one fuck of a week so far, though I did manage to score a much coveted LP from eBay this morning which will be featured in an upcoming post that could very well cement my reputation as the antichrist of Boston-based music bloggers. In other good news, Maura and the good folks from the Woburn Feral Cat Coalition managed to round up Tess's orphaned kittens (as well as a litter of Pepi's, which was a surprise that shouldn't have been) last night.

I'm still trying to figure out why Maura, who went gallavanting around in the rain and cold, and had more social contact with the folks in our office, dodged the sickness bullet while I, the cubicular hermit who spent the evening playing videogames, took it right between the eyes. Maybe there is something to that vegetarian business she's always going on about, after all.

Japan - Quiet Life (from Quiet Life, 1979) - "Hi, we're Duran Duran, and we were wondering if we could borrow a pint of your sound and a couple slices of your image? Thanks!"

ne travaillez jamais

While I am a strong proponent of the antinomian viewpoint that work is an anachronistic impediment to a life of unstructured leisure, the mortgage and utilities people aren't hep to the Situationist vibe. (If you know of some that are, send me an email.) So I find myself obligated to render unto Caesar from my little cubicle overlooking Dorchester Bay, mourning each lost minute that could have been spent sprawled out on the couch and watching F-Troop re-runs on TV Land.

It is in this spirit that I am proud to announce Armagideon Time's first annual job fair. Given the present state of the economy and the accompanying blizzard of pink slips, being able to think outside the box has become a vital skill when it comes to job hunting, and our musical representatives are standing by to illustrate the wide variety of available career options.

Blotto - I Wanna Be a Lifeguard (from a 1981 single; also on Collected Works, 1994) - The romantic myths regarding the career tend to vanish quickly once one discovers their first suspicious-looking mole...or after performing mouth-to-mouth on a bearded grandma with garlic-and-whiskey breath.

Spacegirl - I Wanna Be a Spacegirl (Single Edit) (from a 1998 single) - First you'd have to purge 90% of your body mass, then cleanse yourself of any vestiges of actual talent, marry a soccer player, and wear the most unflattering 1970's sunglasses imaginable. Oh, it's "spacegirl," not "Spice Girl."

Ultravox - I Want to Be a Machine (from Ultravox!, 1977) - It depends on the type of machine in question. While I can see the appeal of becoming a sex, dancing, or love machine, I would not like to spend life as the flush mechanism of a public toilet. Considering that this track comes from the band's post-punky pre-Ure era, I'd assume that John Foxx yearns to become a meticulously-engineered piece of German industrial automata.

Gary Oldman - I Wanna Be Your Dog (from the Sid and Nancy OST, 1986) - In preparation for his role as Sid Vicious, Gary Oldman went on a boiled fish and melon diet that ended up leading to his hospitalization. In preparation for recording this song, Oldman went on a Gravy Train and toilet water diet that ended up leading to his being hit on the nose with a rolled up newspaper.

Hulk Hogan & The Wrestling Boot Band - I Want to Be a Hulkamaniac (from Hulk Rules, 1995) - There is a point where egomania becomes so densely concentrated that it collapes into a singularity from which nothing but lousy pop-rap-rock can escape. We have crossed the event horizon, ladies and gentlemen.

Catch the nipple-free fever!

the alternative is only one

Returning to work after a long holiday break was enough of an ordeal. Booting up my workstation and having the power go out in my cubicular neighborhood was Providence's little way of gilding the lily of aggravation.

I first though my surge protector was to blame. It's a cranky old beast which has been in use for over a decade, and is covered in a thick rime of carpet dust and other unpleasant accretions. I dug a replacement from the office's store of surplus tech-junk while waiting for the facilities guy to reset the breakers.

He eventually did, and everything was hunky-dory for a whole half hour before the power cut out again. After I composed myself and made sure that the throbbing in my skull was not the sign of an impending cerebral hemorrhage, I did some low-level detective work (i.e. "asked around") and discovered the true source of the problem: motherfucking space heaters. Apparently everyone in this circuit node, apart from myself, has one of those ingenious devices which convert the flow of electrons into a nosebleedingly high utility bill and a very small, very localized amount of heat energy.

(Seriously, it is a long-held belief of mine that space heaters -- along with their culinary cousin, the toaster oven -- are the unholy offspring of an alliance between the electrical utility overlords and a shadowy organization dedicated towards causing house fires. Nothing anyone can do or say will convince me otherwise.)

So, as I banged my head off the back of my ergonomic computer chair and watched the better part of what ought to have been a productive work day slip though my grasp, the space heater enthusiasts tried to determine a work-around to distribute the power drain more evenly while the facilities guy tried to explain that the building simply wasn't wired for that level of electrical use.

Like all institutional buildings, the climate control here does tend to be poorly distributed, but rarely to actionable extremes, and never to an extent that can't be solved with a sweater (or in my case, an insulated flannel shirt -- because once a punk rocker...) Then again, maybe I've never noticed any problems because I've apparently been surrounded by space heaters on all sides. Maybe I should invest in some flame retardant undergarments.

I hope today's experience doesn't serve as an augur for the rest of the work week. In any case, I managed to wring another self-conscious post out of the idiocy and finally got on opportunity to unleash this most guilty of pop-rock pleasures:

Peter Wolf - Lights Out (from Lights Out, 1984) - 1984 was a big year for dancing in the dark, apparently. Here the former J. Geils Band frontman eschews awkwardly tripping the light fandango with Courteney Cox and instead chooses to groove to the radio, oh.

...and if you're the cautious sort who doesn't want to sprain an ankle or stub one's toes while booglalooing in a darkened room...

Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark - Electricity (from Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, 1980) - And thus the "alternative energy rock" subgenre was born. Dead or Alive's "You Spin Me Round"? It's about the need to build wind farms, honest.

Röyksopp - Circuit Breaker (from The Understanding, 2005) - Preventing negative mood overloads though the power of well-constructed Scando-tronica.

push it to the floor till the engine screams

I work at one of Greater Boston’s many universities, and one of the great perks of my job is the unbridled opportunities for people-watching it provides. Every trip to the restroom, vending machines, or ATM yields insightful (and often painful) glimpses into the lives of that strange breed of creature known as the “college student.”

Although nothing will ever top the time I quite literally ran into two wild turkeys out for a late afternoon stroll behind one of the lecture halls, yesterday’s sojourn in search of some decent vend-o-fare did include some interesting material for the empirical anthropologist. At the entrance to one of the college buildings, I crossed paths with a rather hirsute and odiferous individual who bore all the distinct markings of the stereotypical male sci-fi/comics/RPG fan, right down to the patchy beard and air of disdainful superiority.

Considering my well documented set of hobby-horses and other assorted interests, it may seem hypocritical for me to tag others of the tribe with labels. Fandom is not monolithic, however, and as an Algonquin from the Northeast would have been certainly puzzled by certain customs and practices of a member of the plains-dwelling Sioux -- and vice versa -- there are aspects of fan culture which remain baffling to me. I have spent too much time dwelling in the houses of the non-fan, perhaps.

That’s all beside the point, though, because there was something about this particular fanboy that set him apart from his peers: He was carrying a large, old-school boom box with him, with the Star Wars: Episode IV soundtrack blasting from its tinny speakers. In these days of listening technology, where smaller and more personal is better, projecting a full-on sonic assault in a ten-yard radius around one’s self can only be seen as a deliberate act of attention-mongering only slightly more subdued than having John Williams and the London Philharmonic follow one around and play the music live. It struck me as the ultimate realization of fanboy megalomania, the overwhelming compulsion to relentlessly inflict one’s interests upon passers-by, while the passers-by merely roll their eyes and do their best to escape.

One thing that struck me after the fact was “Why the Star Wars theme?” The franchise does have its share of obsessively hardcore adherents, but it has also become part of the mass popcult consciousness. Everyone knows the theme to the first film, even folks with minimal interest in the movies, books, and related ephemera. The fanboy’s choice of music flew in the face of conventional fan-behavior where there’s premium put on exclusivity, which in turn provides opportunities for condescending pedantry: “Oh, you would think that. Obviously you’ve never seen the Japanese laserdisc version.” It’s a form of (arguably) secular Calvinism that puts an emphasis on proselytizing, but only for the sake of reminding those outside the elect that they are stupid, while the proselytizer is a genius. I’d have been less surprised if he’d played the theme to some as-yet-unlicensed-for-American-release anime series, a filk remix of the Man from Atlantis theme, or Rush’s 2112.

It got me to thinking about what tracks I’d select for my own intrusively blasted theme song (though I pray that I’ll never have to face that particular demon). After careful consideration, I narrowed the field down to two worthy candidates. The final choice would depend on my mood at the time:

Mike Post & Pete Carpenter – Drive (Theme to Hardcastle & McCormick) (from Television’s Greatest Hits, Vol. 6, 1996) – The original and superior version of the show’s theme song (with vocals by David Morgan). Truly the brightest, most glorious moment in the mismatched crimefighting duo with a bitchin’ high-end car genre of TV shows. Sure it was formulaic pap, but it was formulaic pap that spoke to the hearts and souls of a generation of kids too stupid to know better.

Quincy Jones – The Streetbeater (Theme to Sanford & Son) (from Television’s Greatest Hits, Vol. 3, 1990) – I associate this track with pain, blinding white pain of the nausea-inducing variety. It’s not because I think it’s a bad piece, quite the contrary. Way back in the day when Maura and I first started dating, I was channel surfing and stopped on TV Land just as the theme began to play. I was thrilled; Maura wasn’t and she demanded I change the channel before the tune got stuck in her head. I tried playing “keep away” with the remote, at which point the woman I would eventually marry “accidentally” elbowed me square on the nose, causing me to black out for a few minutes.

My other strange encounter of that was considerably less irritating than the boom box nerd, but far more intriguing. In the courtyard outside the science building stood the most adorable pair of hipster undergrads, a gal and a guy, sharing a single pair of iPod earbuds as they made goo-goo eyes at each other. Ah, young love in bloom, free of all the complications, pregnancy scares, and drunken 2:00 AM phone calls…

As I dragged myself back to my dismal little cubicle, I found myself wondering what song exactly the little lovebirds happened to be listening to. My first guess was Sisqó’s “Thong Song,” the pinnacle of romantic sentiment in Western cultural history. Not even The Bard’s sublime Sonnet 18 (Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?/Thou art more lovely and more temperate) can approach the passionate resonance of “She had dumps like a truck truck truck/Thighs like what what what/Baby move your butt butt butt.” (Ed. note: I’d sooner vote Republican than post that track here.)

After a little more reflection, I began to wonder if perhaps “Thong Song” was a little too much freak to handle in that gooey stage of their relationship. Maybe they were listening to more intellectually stimulating romantic material, like “Anthrax” from Gang of Four's 1979 LP Entertainment! It’s a heartwarming analysis of love as lensed though the Marxist concept of alienated labor and as compared to a deadly spore-borne illness. It’s one of the all time great make-out songs, too.

Then it hit me, and it was so painfully obvious that I cursed myself for not realizing it sooner. There is only one song that truly, madly, deeply captures the that sort of bliss in musical form, and that song is:

Commander Cody – Two Triple Cheese, Side Order of Fries (from Lose It Tonight, 1980) – In the days when I used to buy used vinyl by the pound, the “C – Misc.” bins in every secondhand records shop in the metro Boston area were packed to the partitions with Commander Cody (with and without The Lost Planet Airmen) LPs. I never purchased any, but it made me contemplate why these stores just didn’t create dedicated slots for Mr. Frayne and company. Was it a case of hipper-than-thou audiophile bias against blue collar “boogie woogie” rock? Or simple laziness?

(The illustration for today's post was courteously provided by the incomparable Chris Sims.)

what reasons do you need

The first day back on the job is always the worst. I had such plans for today, too, but what wasn't burned out of me while playing catch-up fled to the blood-red beats of a whopping sinus headache.

The Boomtown Rats - I Don't Like Mondays (from The Fine Art of Surfacing, 1979) - Today especially, but unlike Brenda Spencer, I don't feel the need to inflict suffering on others because of it. Unless you happen to hate this song, that is.

somehow I stay thin

For most of the past week, I could hear a nagging little voice in the back of my head. It told me that I really ought to check in with the office, so as not to be buried under an avalanche of work upon my return from vacation. Unfortunately, that little voice was easily drowned out by the calamitous licensed din that is the Knights of the Old Republic games.

As a result of my placing a higher priority on foiling the machinations of virtual Sith Lords than on occupational responsibilities, I've spent the last few hours attempting to resolve a week's worth of job tasks in the space of a single 7.5 hour shift. It hasn't been a pleasant experience, but it's considerably less onerous than, say, mowing the lawn is. The only real worry I have is that this frenetic pace and the hyper-density of the data in need of stroking, smoothing, and crunching might trigger the dreaded Tetris Effect where all sensory input gets contextualized in terms of the process.

It hasn't happened so far, thankfully, so I think it's safe to say that--

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Save data in mail merge format? Y

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Damn, damn, and damn...

Queen and David Bowie - Under Pressure (from Hot Space, 1982) - I know nothing of this "Ice Ice Baby" of which you speak, stranger.

LiLiPUT - Blue Is in a Rush (from Kleenex/LiLiPUT, 2001) - Classic femvox postpunk from the land of watches, cuckoo clocks, and untraceable bank accounts.

Big Audio Dynamite II - Rush (from Planet BAD: Greatest Hits, 1995) - This is the shorter, three-minutes-and-change version of the song, which I prefer to the slightly self-indulgent original.