Take note, as a new landmark is reached with this post: the first Pointless Milestone that is a second. Consider that the second occurrence of a Pointless Milestone is arguably more Pointless by its very nature.
When we last heard from TPL (That Particular Lady), she was sarcastically excited about going to church, and Terry had her computer. Let's find out where her life's at now, five days after her original call. As before, I will provide my best interpretation of her ramblings.
"Heyyyy, Helen.
Do you understand the importantcy of leaving or losing a wallet?
Your mother has to be contacted. I kid you not. I've tried (???) and your number is the most important one.
I do not have her number. And you wrote down the wrong address. Wrote down her rental home address.
(Indecipherable.) And my brother Terry is mad at me (what's new. Let's not ??? be to is??? ??!?!?!?)
My wallet is in your mother's vehicle's car. I need you to give me confirmation on that. I really do.
And will I keep calling? Yeah I will. Until I've received confirmation, you bet I will. Why? 'Cause it's important."
HERE'S WHERE I BREAK IT DOWN:
From the initial "Heyyy," you might expect the next words to be "...hey hey it's Fat Albert!" A truely bizarre beginning. Touché, TPL.
Next she launches right into the matter at hand, which is a wallet, and its importantcy. Having lost a wallet last summer, I can certainly empathize with the importantcy of her situation. I can't even tell you how well I understand the importantcy of leaving or losing one.
And now, a new player enters the fray: Helen's mother. Apparently she is a key figure in the case of the missing wallet, and if we skip ahead a bit, we can see that TPL's conjecture is that the wallet is in the mother's vehicle's car. Based on this wording, we are left with no choice but to assume that the mother has a vehicle which itself has a car. I would speculate that the vehicle is some sort of sentient, hovering personal transport pod that interlocks into a specifically designed compartment within the automobile. It's really the only logical conclusion.
In addition to having trouble contacting Helen, seeing as how she keeps calling me instead, TPL seems to have trouble contacting her mother as well. What if Helen purposely wrote down the wrong address, to save her mother from the hassle of dealing with TPL? What if, and I'm about to blow your mind here, Helen also purposely gave TPL the wrong phone number (which happens to be mine), because she didn't want any calls from her???
If this was planned subterfuge, we can extrapolate two possible reasons for this behavior. First, they were tired of getting these weird messages, which is plausible, although I have to admit, I find them rather entertaining. Second, this was all an elaborate operation to steal TPL's wallet.
But let us move on to Terry. Now we know that he is TPL's brother. In the first voicemail, it was established that Terry was in possession of her computer, but now is in possession of anger at her. Given the passionate technological need she previously expressed, it is almost certain that this matter is related to the current familial tension. It seems that the continued absence of her beloved data machine, coupled with the lost wallet, have left TPL in an irritated and impatient state.
Finally, let us revisit the speculated location of the missing wallet. Just what would it be doing in Helen's mother's vehicle's car, anyway? Well, I propose that Helen and her mother gave TPL a ride to church, the day after the original voicemail. I mention this in order to revisit the age paradox, because once again she sounds much closer to retirement age than drinking age. But if Helen is an approximate peer of TPL, how old does that make the mother who is driving them all around? I need to understand.
And will I keep blogging about this? Yeah I will. Until I've finished the story, you bet I will. Why? 'Cause it's important.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The First Time Someone Recognized My Magma T-Shirt
Before I start this post, I feel compelled to mention that this might be the most meaningful occurrence yet shoehorned under the banner of "Pointless Milestones."
On September 16, 2009, someone recognized my Magma T-shirt. I have waited 7 long years for this to happen.
Here's what you need to know about Magma:
1. They're French.
2. Their heyday was the 1970s.
3. They sang in their own invented language, Kobaian. This usually involves chanting things over and over again, like "Wï wï Ëss Ëss wï wï üss üss."
4. They sang about their own invented sci-fi/fantasy mythology, which involved a bunch of Earthlings settling the planet of Kobaia, creating a utopian society, then reestablishing contact with Earth and telling them how they should do things Kobaia-style, and the people of Earth taking great offense at this suggestion, inevitably leading to all sorts of heated discussions and wars. That covers the "Theusz Hamtaahk" ("Time of Hate") trilogy, anyway. There's also some archaeologist who digs up this Pharaoh and learns about his superpowers, I think. I'm sure it all makes sense if you speak Kobaian.
5. Their music is a mix of jazz, rock, opera, and a bit of funk here and there.
6. I won't bother embedding any Youtube videos of them, as they would probably only serve to frighten you. But they're there if your curiosity proves too difficult to resist.
7. They are my favorite obscure band of all time.
To the best of my recollection, I discovered them via a web site called Audiogalaxy, in the spring of 2002. I was sufficiently enamored with them that within a matter of months, I ordered one of their albums and a t-shirt bearing their logo, direct from the artist's online store. And since the day my order arrived, I have waited for a glimmer of recognition to sparkle across the visage of a complete stranger when confronted with the Magma logo.
And that day came last September. I was returning from the post office, crossing the intersection of Toland Way and El Paso Drive, when I happened to notice that I was being noticed by a man on a motorcycle.
Here is a poorly-conceived and frighteningly-illustrated depiction of our chance meeting:
Figure A is an eerily accurate representation of the author and wearer of the Magma t-shirt. Figure B is the best picture of a guy on a motorcycle from behind that I could find.
My memory of our encounter is not perfect. But I believe that he first stated "Oh... Magma." and started to point at my shirt, but had to grab his handlebar to steady himself. It is also possible he raised his fist in the air in a show of solidarity. What he said next was inaudible, except for a more forceful "Magma!" that conluded his communiqué.
I turned around as he passed me, pointing to the logo, and asking "Yeah... you like that?" It was hardly the most articulate exchange, but what we shared in that moment was beyond what mere words could express anyway. Next time, though, I'm going to have to be certain to shout "Hortz fur dehn Štëkëhn Wešt!
Hortz zï wëhr dünt Da Ëhrtz!"
On September 16, 2009, someone recognized my Magma T-shirt. I have waited 7 long years for this to happen.
Here's what you need to know about Magma:
1. They're French.
2. Their heyday was the 1970s.
3. They sang in their own invented language, Kobaian. This usually involves chanting things over and over again, like "Wï wï Ëss Ëss wï wï üss üss."
4. They sang about their own invented sci-fi/fantasy mythology, which involved a bunch of Earthlings settling the planet of Kobaia, creating a utopian society, then reestablishing contact with Earth and telling them how they should do things Kobaia-style, and the people of Earth taking great offense at this suggestion, inevitably leading to all sorts of heated discussions and wars. That covers the "Theusz Hamtaahk" ("Time of Hate") trilogy, anyway. There's also some archaeologist who digs up this Pharaoh and learns about his superpowers, I think. I'm sure it all makes sense if you speak Kobaian.
5. Their music is a mix of jazz, rock, opera, and a bit of funk here and there.
6. I won't bother embedding any Youtube videos of them, as they would probably only serve to frighten you. But they're there if your curiosity proves too difficult to resist.
7. They are my favorite obscure band of all time.
To the best of my recollection, I discovered them via a web site called Audiogalaxy, in the spring of 2002. I was sufficiently enamored with them that within a matter of months, I ordered one of their albums and a t-shirt bearing their logo, direct from the artist's online store. And since the day my order arrived, I have waited for a glimmer of recognition to sparkle across the visage of a complete stranger when confronted with the Magma logo.
And that day came last September. I was returning from the post office, crossing the intersection of Toland Way and El Paso Drive, when I happened to notice that I was being noticed by a man on a motorcycle.
Here is a poorly-conceived and frighteningly-illustrated depiction of our chance meeting:
Figure A is an eerily accurate representation of the author and wearer of the Magma t-shirt. Figure B is the best picture of a guy on a motorcycle from behind that I could find.
My memory of our encounter is not perfect. But I believe that he first stated "Oh... Magma." and started to point at my shirt, but had to grab his handlebar to steady himself. It is also possible he raised his fist in the air in a show of solidarity. What he said next was inaudible, except for a more forceful "Magma!" that conluded his communiqué.
I turned around as he passed me, pointing to the logo, and asking "Yeah... you like that?" It was hardly the most articulate exchange, but what we shared in that moment was beyond what mere words could express anyway. Next time, though, I'm going to have to be certain to shout "Hortz fur dehn Štëkëhn Wešt!
Hortz zï wëhr dünt Da Ëhrtz!"
Monday, March 15, 2010
The First Time I Got A Weird Voicemail From This Particular Lady
I got a phone call several weeks ago. Now I get at least 2 or 3 phone calls a week, so this didn't seem abnormal at first. But when I beheld the display of the LCD screen which promulgates the caller ID function of my cellular telephone, I was in for a shock: I didn't recognize the number. A chill ran down my spine as I tried to imagine why someone I didn't know would be trying to establish contact with me.
After my initial panic, I decided caution was the optimal approach and put the phone down gingerly. I had silenced the emphatic drum beats of my chosen ringtone (entitled "Drum Beats"), but as I stared at the mobile device on my desk I could still hear the drums pounding in my mind, echoing across my cerebellum. Suddenly the phone vibrated and I lurched forth to grab it. I dialed my voicemail, but as I listened, my fears dispersed and were soon replaced with bewilderment. Mild, mild bewilderment.
You can listen for yourself and read along with the best transcript I can muster. The portions in parentheses are those of which I have the least certainty.
"Um... hey, uh my phone just rang, I was thinking maybe it might be you, or maybe it's Terry, I don't know.
I was drinking coffee (thought I'd) hang around see if the phone rings again.
Hope it is Terry... I need my computer SO BAD.
Um... I was gonna get coffee... but... I have to stick around. (Yikes.)
Um, ok, um if you get an opportunity would you give me a call? (Thanks Helen.)
And... church tomorrow. Yay. Um... I know that sounds really bad. And at church tomorrow, I'm very excited. 'Kay?
Listen, take it easy. Bye Helen."
HARD-HITTING VOICEMAIL ANALYSIS AND SPECULATION:
Firstly, my name is not Helen. But it has recently come to my attention that my voicemail offers no identification, only an automated recitation of the applicable digits. Thus, my original characterization of this particular female as inobservant is suspect. Yet I cannot discard the feeling that it is within the realm of possibility that her antenna doesn't quite pick up all the channels, if you get my meaning, and I think you do.
Now the first point of intrigue is the reference to her computer, and the dire need of it which she emphatically asserts. This remark ran counter to my intuition that the subject was of the elders. It has been my experience that while elderly persons are capable of using such digital equipment, they do not encounter the same fixation issues as younger generations. I sometimes see gangly youths wandering the streets and shouting "omg i need mah computr <3 SO BAD :'(" to no one in particular, but have yet to survey this phenomenon in a retirement community.
A related technological discrepancy is that the initiator of this aural correspondence had no apparent way of knowing who had telephoned. Caller ID and answering machines are quite commonplace in this epoch, so if she truly lacks acquaintance with the identity of her inquirer, I must assume she has neither (unless there was an answering machine, but no message). Could it be that "Terry" has these pieces of equipment, just as he seems to have her computer? If not, the absence of modern technology would imply an older personage.
But then there is also the mention of church, which arises in a sarcastic manner. And as everyone knows, sarcasm is far more common in juveniles than the well-aged, due to hyperactivity of the pituitary gland. You may draw your own conclusions.
Another noteworthy paradox is instigated by the dual references to coffee. In the first, the subject explains that she had been drinking some, in tandem with the task of waiting for a return phone call. However, she soon changes her story. Now she claims she was gonna get some coffee, but appears to be inhibited by the need to stick around... but isn't this just the same obligation as before, reframed without mention of her previous desire to "see if the phone rings again"? Why have coffee and loitering suddenly found conflict with one another? Could this conflict be so alarming that it compelled the "Yikes" at the end of her statement?
I have far more questions than answers right now. But it has been helpful to get my thoughts out on the screen, and hopefully it will aid my continued efforts to process and digest this affair. Oh also there's another voicemail but I'll get back to you on that one.
After my initial panic, I decided caution was the optimal approach and put the phone down gingerly. I had silenced the emphatic drum beats of my chosen ringtone (entitled "Drum Beats"), but as I stared at the mobile device on my desk I could still hear the drums pounding in my mind, echoing across my cerebellum. Suddenly the phone vibrated and I lurched forth to grab it. I dialed my voicemail, but as I listened, my fears dispersed and were soon replaced with bewilderment. Mild, mild bewilderment.
You can listen for yourself and read along with the best transcript I can muster. The portions in parentheses are those of which I have the least certainty.
"Um... hey, uh my phone just rang, I was thinking maybe it might be you, or maybe it's Terry, I don't know.
I was drinking coffee (thought I'd) hang around see if the phone rings again.
Hope it is Terry... I need my computer SO BAD.
Um... I was gonna get coffee... but... I have to stick around. (Yikes.)
Um, ok, um if you get an opportunity would you give me a call? (Thanks Helen.)
And... church tomorrow. Yay. Um... I know that sounds really bad. And at church tomorrow, I'm very excited. 'Kay?
Listen, take it easy. Bye Helen."
HARD-HITTING VOICEMAIL ANALYSIS AND SPECULATION:
Firstly, my name is not Helen. But it has recently come to my attention that my voicemail offers no identification, only an automated recitation of the applicable digits. Thus, my original characterization of this particular female as inobservant is suspect. Yet I cannot discard the feeling that it is within the realm of possibility that her antenna doesn't quite pick up all the channels, if you get my meaning, and I think you do.
Now the first point of intrigue is the reference to her computer, and the dire need of it which she emphatically asserts. This remark ran counter to my intuition that the subject was of the elders. It has been my experience that while elderly persons are capable of using such digital equipment, they do not encounter the same fixation issues as younger generations. I sometimes see gangly youths wandering the streets and shouting "omg i need mah computr <3 SO BAD :'(" to no one in particular, but have yet to survey this phenomenon in a retirement community.
A related technological discrepancy is that the initiator of this aural correspondence had no apparent way of knowing who had telephoned. Caller ID and answering machines are quite commonplace in this epoch, so if she truly lacks acquaintance with the identity of her inquirer, I must assume she has neither (unless there was an answering machine, but no message). Could it be that "Terry" has these pieces of equipment, just as he seems to have her computer? If not, the absence of modern technology would imply an older personage.
But then there is also the mention of church, which arises in a sarcastic manner. And as everyone knows, sarcasm is far more common in juveniles than the well-aged, due to hyperactivity of the pituitary gland. You may draw your own conclusions.
Another noteworthy paradox is instigated by the dual references to coffee. In the first, the subject explains that she had been drinking some, in tandem with the task of waiting for a return phone call. However, she soon changes her story. Now she claims she was gonna get some coffee, but appears to be inhibited by the need to stick around... but isn't this just the same obligation as before, reframed without mention of her previous desire to "see if the phone rings again"? Why have coffee and loitering suddenly found conflict with one another? Could this conflict be so alarming that it compelled the "Yikes" at the end of her statement?
I have far more questions than answers right now. But it has been helpful to get my thoughts out on the screen, and hopefully it will aid my continued efforts to process and digest this affair. Oh also there's another voicemail but I'll get back to you on that one.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
The First Time I Got a Button and a Sticker That Were Older Than Me
This weekend I was bored and so I went out and did something about it. I found out that a place called Rockaway Records in Silverlake was having a 99 cent sale and decided to check it out.
A BRIEF HISTORY OF ME GOING TO RECORD STORES IN LOS ANGELES.
When I was a student at USC, there was a sub-par chain record store across the street, but I did patronize it and remember purchasing such notable albums as "The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway" by Genesis and the Strokes debut, "Is This It?" My desire for a real record store led me to discover Aron's Records in Hollywood, and specifically, the mega-sales they had twice a year which featured thousands and thousands of CDs for a dollar or two (or three) each.
And then in 2001, I visited the Bay Area and stumbled upon Amoeba Records. I was astonished. It was easily the best record store I had ever seen. And then I found out they were opening a store in Los Angeles within a few weeks. And then my head exploded.
I had little need for any other records stores once Amoeba arrived, and then I left the state for quite a while anyway. Between Amoeba and the new digital music climate, most other independent stores were driven out of business. Aron's closed in 2005, and I was quite sad to realize I would never have another chance to go blind and throw my back out from peering over a profusion of forgotten plastic discs for several hours.
ANYWAYS, I didn't know what to expect from this Rockaway place, and I certainly didn't want to get my hopes up. The sale was in an annex, and was probably about 5% of the size of an Aron's blowout. But it did have a greater variety of merchandise: buttons, concert tickets, posters, promotional photos, stickers, in addition to the standard tables full of CDs and LPs. And everything was 99 cents.
My first attention was the CDs, where I was able to unearth a decent Britpop album, "Love Is Here" by Starsailor, as well as the self-titled debut of Wilson Philips, which is simply the finest recording by a female vocal group descended from members of the Beach Boys and the Mamas & the Papas in human history.
I'm not normally interested in memorabilia, but for 99 cents I thought it might be worth browsing. And I'm glad I did, because I discovered two gems that appeared to be older than I. The first was a button that declared "Beatlemania Is For Real!" In the process of writing this post, I discovered it was actually promoting the soundtrack of a Beatles-inspired Broadway revue, but it's still cool nonetheless.
The second item was a Strawbs sticker that turned out to be from 1974. There's a part of me that wants to use the sticker, although I'm not sure where a good place for it would be, and I also feel like a bit of a poser since all I have is a 2-disc compilation (which I've been listening to a lot in the past few days) and really need to pick up some of their actual albums.
Wait, you've never heard of Strawbs?? Well let me rectify that. Here they are "performing" on Top of the Pops, which unfortunately means they are only miming while the recorded version of the song plays (standard TotP procedure). This song is "Lay Down," and I'll have you know it's based on the 23rd Psalm.
In conclusion, I was quite pleased to find Rockaway Records. I visited the main store afterward, and the whole operation had a homey sort of atmosphere. It offers a pleasant change of pace from Amoeba. And I'm totally going to go back there sometime.
P.S. Here's my 3 dollars and 96 cents plus tax haul:
A BRIEF HISTORY OF ME GOING TO RECORD STORES IN LOS ANGELES.
When I was a student at USC, there was a sub-par chain record store across the street, but I did patronize it and remember purchasing such notable albums as "The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway" by Genesis and the Strokes debut, "Is This It?" My desire for a real record store led me to discover Aron's Records in Hollywood, and specifically, the mega-sales they had twice a year which featured thousands and thousands of CDs for a dollar or two (or three) each.
And then in 2001, I visited the Bay Area and stumbled upon Amoeba Records. I was astonished. It was easily the best record store I had ever seen. And then I found out they were opening a store in Los Angeles within a few weeks. And then my head exploded.
I had little need for any other records stores once Amoeba arrived, and then I left the state for quite a while anyway. Between Amoeba and the new digital music climate, most other independent stores were driven out of business. Aron's closed in 2005, and I was quite sad to realize I would never have another chance to go blind and throw my back out from peering over a profusion of forgotten plastic discs for several hours.
ANYWAYS, I didn't know what to expect from this Rockaway place, and I certainly didn't want to get my hopes up. The sale was in an annex, and was probably about 5% of the size of an Aron's blowout. But it did have a greater variety of merchandise: buttons, concert tickets, posters, promotional photos, stickers, in addition to the standard tables full of CDs and LPs. And everything was 99 cents.
My first attention was the CDs, where I was able to unearth a decent Britpop album, "Love Is Here" by Starsailor, as well as the self-titled debut of Wilson Philips, which is simply the finest recording by a female vocal group descended from members of the Beach Boys and the Mamas & the Papas in human history.
I'm not normally interested in memorabilia, but for 99 cents I thought it might be worth browsing. And I'm glad I did, because I discovered two gems that appeared to be older than I. The first was a button that declared "Beatlemania Is For Real!" In the process of writing this post, I discovered it was actually promoting the soundtrack of a Beatles-inspired Broadway revue, but it's still cool nonetheless.
The second item was a Strawbs sticker that turned out to be from 1974. There's a part of me that wants to use the sticker, although I'm not sure where a good place for it would be, and I also feel like a bit of a poser since all I have is a 2-disc compilation (which I've been listening to a lot in the past few days) and really need to pick up some of their actual albums.
Wait, you've never heard of Strawbs?? Well let me rectify that. Here they are "performing" on Top of the Pops, which unfortunately means they are only miming while the recorded version of the song plays (standard TotP procedure). This song is "Lay Down," and I'll have you know it's based on the 23rd Psalm.
In conclusion, I was quite pleased to find Rockaway Records. I visited the main store afterward, and the whole operation had a homey sort of atmosphere. It offers a pleasant change of pace from Amoeba. And I'm totally going to go back there sometime.
P.S. Here's my 3 dollars and 96 cents plus tax haul:
Sunday, March 7, 2010
The First Time I Bought a Turnip
Just under two weeks ago, I discovered a bag of potatoes on clearance at Fresh & Easy Neighborhood Market™ for about 50 cents. This set in motion an unalterable series of events that led to an incredibly inconsequential moment that will forever be immortalized on this blog until somebody accidentally erases the internet: I bought a turnip for the first time in my life.
You see, once I saw that fateful bag of potatoes, I knew that it was time to make Hungarian Goulash Soup with the recipe that my mom had sent me. Having enjoyed it on multiple occasions over Thanksgiving and Christmas, I thought perhaps I would attempt to add it to my ever expanding culinary arsenal of basically just chili and pancakes. However, the recipe required many peculiar items that I never have around, such as vegetables. So when those potatoes showed up on that clearance shelf, I knew the time for action had come.
I was able to collect most of the other required items at the local Fresh & Easy Neighborhood Market™, but they offered no turnips. Apparently they don't just turnip anywhere. I was left with no choice but to patronize the foreign territory of a nearby Super-Market. And if setting foot on that alien soil wasn't strange enough, I wasn't entirely sure what a turnip looked like. The primary image in my mind had come from Super Mario 2.
Was I searching for a heart-shaped vegetable? Would it appear to have a nasty sunburn? Upon picking one up, could I expect to gaze upon a rooty countenance of indifference? Would it be necessary to chuck it at my nearest enemy?
My first brief reconnaissance of the produce section yielded no results. But my next expedition was a more rigorous affair, and I soon spotted a cluster of bulbous, purplish-whitish vegetables that were in close proximity to a label which described them as Turnips. Success! Behold:
When the time came, I took a peeler to my prize and chopped it just as I had the potatoes, which had provided the portent of my odyssey. And do you know? I honestly can't even tell the difference between the two in the final product. Next time I'll have to cut them into different shapes or something. Like red balloons and green clovers, for example.
And finally, this pointless milestone led to another: the first time I had to use up a leftover turnip. I had only used half of it before I had exceeded the required amount for the recipe. I considered cooking it in some other fashion, but couldn't find a reasonable solution within the limits of my patience. I thought perhaps I might still chuck it at my nearest enemy, but couldn't decide between the Northern Bad Neighbors Who Sometimes Play Music Too Loud and the Eastern Bad Neighbors Who Sometimes Play Music Too Loud. So I just ate it raw. It was okay I guess.
You see, once I saw that fateful bag of potatoes, I knew that it was time to make Hungarian Goulash Soup with the recipe that my mom had sent me. Having enjoyed it on multiple occasions over Thanksgiving and Christmas, I thought perhaps I would attempt to add it to my ever expanding culinary arsenal of basically just chili and pancakes. However, the recipe required many peculiar items that I never have around, such as vegetables. So when those potatoes showed up on that clearance shelf, I knew the time for action had come.
I was able to collect most of the other required items at the local Fresh & Easy Neighborhood Market™, but they offered no turnips. Apparently they don't just turnip anywhere. I was left with no choice but to patronize the foreign territory of a nearby Super-Market. And if setting foot on that alien soil wasn't strange enough, I wasn't entirely sure what a turnip looked like. The primary image in my mind had come from Super Mario 2.
Was I searching for a heart-shaped vegetable? Would it appear to have a nasty sunburn? Upon picking one up, could I expect to gaze upon a rooty countenance of indifference? Would it be necessary to chuck it at my nearest enemy?
My first brief reconnaissance of the produce section yielded no results. But my next expedition was a more rigorous affair, and I soon spotted a cluster of bulbous, purplish-whitish vegetables that were in close proximity to a label which described them as Turnips. Success! Behold:
When the time came, I took a peeler to my prize and chopped it just as I had the potatoes, which had provided the portent of my odyssey. And do you know? I honestly can't even tell the difference between the two in the final product. Next time I'll have to cut them into different shapes or something. Like red balloons and green clovers, for example.
And finally, this pointless milestone led to another: the first time I had to use up a leftover turnip. I had only used half of it before I had exceeded the required amount for the recipe. I considered cooking it in some other fashion, but couldn't find a reasonable solution within the limits of my patience. I thought perhaps I might still chuck it at my nearest enemy, but couldn't decide between the Northern Bad Neighbors Who Sometimes Play Music Too Loud and the Eastern Bad Neighbors Who Sometimes Play Music Too Loud. So I just ate it raw. It was okay I guess.
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