Noise Footprint

Announcement!
At the risk of blocking some of youse guys who don't have livejournal accounts, I lock some (but hardly any) of my entries in friends-only mode. If you're not on my "friends list," rectify that by creating a free (free!) livejournal profile and leaving a comment here so's I'll add ye.

New entries below.

Pre-positions!

"taken from a cool old single-volume encyclopedia thing"

How Many Five Year Olds Could You Take in a Fight?

10

And happy winter solstice!

Sad sad sad
Bad news about a much beloved cat. Log in to see.

Ice rink news

Good news from the Parks Department:

"As you may know, the 46-year-old Kate Wollman ice rink, which has slowly deteriorated over time, will be replaced with two high-tech rinks to accommodate growing crowds. About 100,000 skaters visit each winter. The site of the current 26,000-square-foot rink will be restored as part of the original lakefront as envisioned by famed park designer Frederick Law Olmsted. In addition to the new rinks, the new Lakeside Center will include a building that could house a gift shop, classroom and cafe. All will use green design techniques and be more energy efficient. Work is expected to be completed in 2010. In the interim, it is expected that the existing rink will remain open, at least in the coming year or two."

FYI
Hey all,

Just a note to say that until further notice, I'll be friends-locking my blog.

Thanks...

The one flaw

When someone tells you, "His one flaw is using the wavy underscore to signal 'set ital,' " you know she's a copy editor.

(No, not my quote.)

I do have to wonder sometimes if copy editors just have a different set of standards... or live in an alternate reality.

Overheard exchange between twentysomethings today in the office:

G: What's Arsenic and Old Lace?

M: I Googled it. It's an old movie.

Vocal-cord-based activities

I guess it's the natural thing to come down with postnasal drip and a sore throat right before two vocal-cord-based public activities. Anyone have any tips on how to produce a strong, healthy-sounding voice quickly for a span of four hours?

Activities, activities...who doesn't love them to f*cking bits? I wager you're a fan of activities. I might even bet money on it.

Tomorrow night's lineup: Not only will my great postnasal drip 2007 be featured, but others will have a shot for part of it too, should they accept the challenge. And I hope they do.

First up: 8 p.m. at the Bowery Poetry Club in Manhattan: The WYSIWYG Talent Show -- “Urban Storytelling for the Internet Age.... Now in its fourth year, the WYSIWYG Talent Show is a monthly series of readings and performances by bloggers living in or visiting NYC." Performing with me/before me/and/or/after me will be

boutell, special guest straight from the embrace of the City of Brotherly Love, reading a little something called "How to Break Up With a Really Nice Person." This is a piece of writing worth taking notes on, so audience members, bring your notepads/pencils/microcassette-recorders/other-outdated-device.

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

Afterward, time to beat feet to Freddy's in Brooklyn, where I'll be hosting the monthly low-tech big-ass-ham karaoke night. Free, free free. Come sing something and be in the running for the coveted big-ass ham and other mediocre prizes (some might even be vegan!).

Rumor has it that the evening's theme will be...Stevie Nicks. (Don't ask me why; I have no idea.) Come salute the mystical chanteuse who as a child had difficulty pronouncing her given name Stephanie, and called herself Stevie. Among the lavish festival of song titles available, eight Stevie/Fleetwood Mac classics await. I doubt I'll be singing any, but you should feel absolutely free to do so. I guess someone has to. (Pat plans to do the Leather & Lace duet with himself, so that should kill a couple birds right there.)

Yours in mucus/music,
noisefootprint

Born to run

This morning/last night I walked home to bed as the sun rose. This is what sometimes happens when I hang out with Brooke and company, especially when we make our own private dance party in her brand-new house (yes, "house"! in Brooklyn!). It hadn't dawned on me that I was up late enough for that. This is why Donald says he brings sunglasses to his bartending job, because he's never sure whether he'll need them or not when he leaves his shift.

I got home at 5:45 a.m., ate a hard-boiled easter egg, went to bed at 6:30, got up at 11:30 with that kind of hangover you get from lack of sleep, then ran the 3.35-mile Prospect Park roadway, which I had never done before, especially not after only five hours of sleep.

Treat your body right!! ARRRRRRR!!

Shearing of the Heather

A friend wrote to me today, "Are you getting a haircut this Saturday?" This was an odd question, I thought to myself, until I saw what she sent me:

Annual Shearing of the Heather

She assured me that although she is a "Heather enthusiast," she doesn't think she can attend this event.

har har.

There's even a North American Heather Society.

Unfortunately, this craziness is happening all the way up in Fort Tryon Park, so it's unlikely I'll go.

Harlot S. Webb

Included among the many reasons that

boutell is awesome is that he made me this:

...Complete with a cute derby name he has suggested, a roller skate, and of course, rock, paper, scissors. I can hardly take it. He's going to get his block knocked off one of these days!!!

Not again

A good conversation is not one that starts out with my George-Bush-voting parents asking me over dessert, "So, what do you think about global warming?" Please don't ask me this, ma and pa. Our relationship is much better when you don't mention yet again that Michael Crichton novel you love so much, State of Fear. You bring it up every time you want to back up your opinion that mankind's impact on global warming is a hoax. When you use the word "selfish" to describe politicians and companies who are pro-environment and who are invested in slowing potentially huge problems, it just makes me cringe and want to leave the room.

Especially don't do this right after I've spent a month copyediting the annual "green issue" of the magazine I work for.

Addendum: Confirming my suspicions, my mom is apparently programmed to nag me about how long I keep my teabag in my tea each and every time I come home.

Cock ring of fire

Happy Good Friday! God, how I love saying that.

I've mentioned this before, but as a kid on Good Friday, I wasn't allowed to go play with friends or anything like that. It was a day on which I had to be quiet and somber and supposedly reflect on the crucifixion, mainly between noon and 3 p.m. My mom once told me I had it pretty good compared with when she was a kid -- she said she had to sit in a chair all day on Good Friday.

I guess I started out this year's Good Friday on an appropriately dismal note by waking up at 9 a.m. totally hungover after drinking with my cousin Will at Freddy's last night and going to bed at 5 a.m.

It wasn't until this afternoon that I remembered telling Will the story of how someone I knew in college got tricked into having the phrase "cockring" as his university e-mail address, which he couldn't change. Then we started wondering how cock rings work and neither of us knew, and I consequently made several phone calls deeply after midnight in the interest of finding someone who could explain it. Sorry, Josh, for calling you; sorry Sterling; sorry Jim.

FInally I hit upon the idea that a peep show would have the answer, so I called directory assistance for Seattle and got the number for the Lusty Lady. A young guy answered the phone and didn't really seem taken aback when I said, "My cousin and I are trying to figure out how a cock ring works," (which in retrospect is not the best way to phrase it if you're not into incest). He calmly explained it, and that was that. Thank you, Lusty Lady, for being the victim of that last night.

If it's in public, how private is it?

Everyone knows that it's bad manners to pay very much attention to the people packed in around you on a subway or bus. If it's rush hour and you're besieged on all sides by strangers, you find a way to visually focus on something that's not one of the many people who are three inches or less from your face. This is why companies that advertise on the subway have a captive audience -- because otherwise you have to look either at the ceiling or at the arm of a stranger's coat in order to appear adequately disinterested in the individuals around you, and thus not make some poor innocent uncomfortable or risk getting threatened by some thug who thinks you're looking at him.

Equally, it's considered bad manners to inspect what the person next to you is reading. Sometimes your gaze accidentally alights on a page of a novel being read next to you, and the reader, overly aware or reactionary, might scrunch up his shoulders and angle the cover more to the left so your sneaky eyes can't get in. It's his private inner world, after all. On the subway. Reading over someone's shoulder is bad behavior, yes, but sometimes in these sardine-can surroundings it can be virtually impossible to not occasionally glance at the printed word when it's so close to your face.

As for me, I too get uneasy when someone glances down at my page and catches a sentence or two of what I'm reading, because I'm afraid they'll think I'm reading something stupid.

I have a problem not reading words when I see them. This turned into a trust issue in a past relationship. My boyfriend put notes that he'd written, notes from others, postcards, etc. onto a wall. Since they were on the wall, I looked at them. I didn't think anything of asking him about one of the notes, because they were right out there, in a room where many friends and colleagues came and went. He reacted as if I were a stranger reading over his shoulder on the subway. Behaving as though he'd been invaded, he expressed complete contempt for my actions, silently removed many of the notes in determined indignation, and in refusing to discuss it further, built another invisible barrier between us.

On the subway, if a person is reading something that jumps out and I can get away with it, I write it down. Recently:

- A woman on the B train reading a magazine article called "What He's Feeling During Sex"

- A young Hispanic guy on the Q train writing in his notebook the lyrics to what he titled "The Riddler's Anthem"

Just what every gal wants to hear

"You know, you were in my top five break-ups, and we weren't even seeing each other."

-Name withheld to protect the innocent

Odd to hear, but it makes sense. I can think of two boys who fit into my own bad-breakup-but-weren't-actually-dating category.

Phrase of the day

summer teeth — some're yellow, some're brown, some're here, some're there.... [say it aloud]

Example: "She has summer teeth."

(Courtesy of Richard)

Blood on the tracks

A couple weekends ago I got outta town and went to Chicago. The flight on Delta was less than $100. After a weekend in the company of

spinach_boy, Prairie Landing, and Colliculus in a city that's much lower-key than NYC, I felt completely refreshed and relaxed. For one thing, the standard of living just seems higher for what you pay. For another thing, the vintage shopping is genuinely affordable, unlike NYC's vintage scene. Additionally, the Spice House in Old Town is really great (you can taste all the spices, and they're all packaged really cute). I picked up grains of paradise, Singapore seasoning, vanilla paste, and really good powdered chocolate for hot chocolate.

But perhaps the most notable experience was when the subway I was riding hit someone committing suicide (successfully) and was shut down for two hours. (Luckily, Chris and Matt picked me up.) Story here: Autopsy: Man Struck by CTA Train a Suicide

Now, on to the present.

Conversation today between me and the fashion news director, whom I like:

Her: It's so warm over here!
Me: Yeah, we start baking in the afternoon.
Her: Do you know whose thermostat you're on?
Me: Amy's, right there.
Her: You're so lucky; I have to leave my office and go fight with [the editor in chief] about ours, and she's like, practically anorexic, so she's always cold.

Guest post: Inconsequential lyrics

In today's guest post, Richard discusses the idiocy of certain song lyrics about his hometown.

* * * * *

Q: What did you tell me your opinion is about that "Chicago" song by Frank Sinatra?

A: Actually, there are two Chicago songs that were performed by Frank Sinatra, "My Kind Of Town" and "Chicago (That Toddling Town)".

Neither song really addresses any way in which Chicago is unique. The songs are more like templates (or Mad-Libs) where the writer can insert a city name repeatedly and then three gratuitous references to that city. In "My Kind of Town" the three noun phrases are "jazz," "The Wrigley Building," and "Chicago Cubbies," and it's the next-to-last paragraph before the first of them is even mentioned.

And each time I leave, Chicago is
Tuggin' my sleeve, Chicago is
The Wrigley Building, Chicago is
The Chicago Cubbies, Chicago is
One town that won't let you down
It's my kind of town

It reminds me of that Simpsons episode where Lisa goes to college and winds up at a campus poetry reading. The poet guy warms up the crowd by mentioning a few dormitory names, and the students proceed to go nuts when their dorm is mentioned. "Hey, did you hear that?! He said my dorm! Say another building!!"

That's what those two songs seem like: inconsequential sound bites spoon-fed to Chicagoans hungering to feel important and not just residents of "The Second City." Or perhaps they're just the work of a lyricist with the back of an envelope and some time to kill.

In summary, "toddling" is a stupid, stupid word.

* * * * *

Sleep secret

Find your own pose!

Bubble Blower Traits and Tendencies Bubble Blowers live in a constant state of reinvention. They thrive on trying new things — foods, countries, careers — and their look is always changing (from mod to soup dragon to robot chic). This endless string of transformations would be disorienting if it weren't for the one constant in their lives: the reconnection they find night after night in The Bubble Blowers pose.

Comfort Zone The Bubble Blower is a Sea pose. Other Sea poses a Bubble Blower might explore: Cliffhanger and the Colon.

A Tip about Preparing for the Pose The Bubble Blower is a classic Sea pose, meaning its focus is on symmetry and synchronicity. To deepen the experience of the pose, try playing the Mirror Game (sit knee-to-knee and maintain eye contact as slowly you move your hands, heads, necks, and midriffs in concert) in the hour before bedtime.

From The Secret Language of Sleep: A Couple's Guide to the Thirty-Nine Positions

Aside from the two men sleeping together thing, I find the pose currently accurate.

Subject
Midtown Manhattan, where I work, has meager lunch options. Most places are either overpriced or horrible franchises or both. And it's hard to find much that's vegan or vegetarian. So I'm always glad to find someplace I didn't know about. So thanks, Sara P., for telling me about Le Rendez-Vous Cafe and Bar on 8th Ave. at 46th St., with falafel and brick oven pizza, and most notably, a really cool Middle Eastern themed back room.

Charmed by its impressively high protein and calcium content, I bought some quinoa at Trader Joe's recently and have been wondering what I'd want to do with it. Laura K. linked to this Big Delicious Quinoa Bowl recipe, and now I'm revved.

What is it about March birthdays? M.M.'s birthday party was Saturday, M.G.'s birthday was Saturday, D.'s birthday was Sunday, C.'s birthday was yesterday, V's birthday is today, and R. and A. and M. and A. and others have birthdays still looming this month.

But also, what is it about cancer? All within the space of about a month, I've heard about a lot of cancer. J's cat got it, C's cat got it, Jo.M.'s mom got it, this young guy at the bar got it, and the dog in the novel I was reading got it. To name a few. I grew up thinking it was rare. Psych!

On the lighter side, my brother J. gives the new Stooges album an F+.

Holy Roller derby

Characterized by spontaneous expressions of emotional excitement indeed. In a word, last night was refulgent. Making a special guest appearance was the waggish

boutell, whose unholy passion for women's roller derby fired him up to cross not one but two state lines to attend Gotham Girls Roller Derby Goes to the Movies with me. What thrills and glory awaited us in the theater! We joined The Mess amid roller girls and their fans to enjoy action-packed motion picture shorts featuring roller skating, all the way back to a 1930s Popeye cartoon, Charlie Chaplin snippets, and Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, and Ginger Rogers tap-dancing on roller skates (it took Fred and Ginger 150 takes to get it perfect). These were interspersed with excerpts from Rollerball, Roller Boogie, and Xanadu, among others, and punctuated by scenes from a Gotham Girls documentary currently in the works and a futuristic short film called Kiss My Asphalt, which made my palms sweat (click on the link to view the five-minute film). My spine was tingling the entire time.

Later, we had the pleasure of talking with the famed Li'l Red Terror at the after-party. In her rougher days she sported an eye patch and a cane, but those bad-ass accoutrements have been shed in favor of good health. We had some free drinks and sang some karaoke before splitting in the name of responsible adult behavior.

"Now that I've sung karaoke in front of roller derby girls, what else is there?" --Boutell (who distinguishes himself from a fetishist in that a woman does not need to be in roller derby to turn him on, but it earns her major "points" if she is)

I heart

boutell! What a pleasant reminder that there are people out there with whom one can have a great spontaneous connection and share many interests. From roller derby enthusiasm to karaoke to vegan eating to love of public transportation to appreciating weird stories of how people lose their hearing and more, what a friend we have in Jesus. Whoops! I mean, Boutell.

Posture!

Because it's important!

Is it just me, or is it kind of weird that she has tossed the baton right out of her hand? Perhaps POSTURE made her do it!

A message from the American Dairy Council, from Rare Posters

Who?
If there's one thing I'd like to know, it's who checks my blog from the domain freshdirect.com.

Here in Manhattan today it would be wise to carry an umbrella, even though it's nice out. This is because it's 43 degrees, and last week's snow and ice are dripping off the rooftops and facades, showering like heavy raindrops onto pedestrians. When I exited the subway and emerged amid Manhattan's skyscrapers this morning, the sidewalks were covered with water, as if there'd been a storm or a flood. It was odd. But it's just the winter melting away. No need for a hat today, for the first time in weeks.

Saw Children of Men over the weekend. Loved it. See it.

Got home at 5 a.m. Sunday morning after pulling a Saturday Night Special for the first time in months. Have decided to not drink for one week as a result. This will be hard to keep if only because it restricts my socializing options. For many people, a resolution like this wouldn't even be required; it would be a default. But among the friends and lifestyle I'm immersed in, it takes firm resolve to not engage in our particular social default. Ninety-seven times out of 100, a friend will say, "Want to get a drink?" -- not "Want to get coffee?" or "Want to shoot pool?" or "Want to draw caricatures?" or "Want to cut a rug?" It's sort of just the urban way of things.

Activites in review
Because who doesn't love activities?

First off, activities options have both broadened and been cut starkly for me this weekend. I was scheduled on a 1 p.m. flight to Chicago today, but Delta canceled most of their flights to the midwest for the day, apparently. There was no getting on a flight before Sunday or Monday, so I scrapped hope of going somewhere cool during this long weekend. Well, good ol' NYC is cool enough, so I'm not completely crushed. Because, for one thing, there's this cool event on Saturday night:

Scodown!, a benefit party for "the first-ever presentation of Scopitones in a contemporary art venue." Needless to say, as a big fan of Scopitones, I'm psyched. And if I don't make it to that, there's a karaoke birthday party at an apartment in Brooklyn, and the band !!!'s album launch party for their new "Myth Takes" record at what is being described as "a super-intimate space in Brooklyn."

Speaking of !!! and mysterious shows, a few of us went to their so-called "super-secret concert" at Maxwell's in Hoboken last Saturday night. It was one of those unadvertised concerts MySpace is hosting and supposedly not letting anyone know about unless you sign up on their list. But as usual, Josh delivers this info even before MySpace does because he lives with the band. So it's nice to have an in there. The show was all-ages and we were among the few alcohol-drinkers in attendance. We couldn't help feeling like chaperones and were even annoyed when a little mosh pit started. Ah the dignity of age.

The next night I went with Candy and Donna to see "Sacred Chants of Tibet: Gyuto Monks" at Town Hall. It was a voyeuristic feeling, sitting there watching a spiritual ritual happening onstage, but I guess they've cultivated a whole performance tour and marketing and publicity and I guess it sort of does publicize and further the whole Tibetan cause. Description: "The Gyuto Monks, internationally renowned for their extraordinary multiphonic singing, are masters of Tibetan Buddhist tantric ritual, Their fascinating vocal technique in which the monks chant in deep, resonating voices and hold three notes simultaneously, has been part of sacred Buddhist rites since the 15th century. The monks have lived in exile in Bomdi-la, India since the Chinese annexation of Tibet in 1959." I'd been wanting to see them perform for the past dozen years, and now that I've done so, I can say that there was something great about it, but also something like being in church with its strange sedating qualities. Keep this in mind should you ever go.

Valentine's Day
I was home from work today baking Valentine's Day cupcakes for my roommates and D., and Colin came home early. We started talking about what Valentine's Day means to us (basically: little to nothing). He told me that in junior high at his school you could buy carnations for people. I told him about this guy I knew in college.

Having never celebrated Valentine's Day aside from passing paper Valentine's Day cards and chocolates in grade school, I was surprised my junior year of college when a guy I knew knocked at my dorm room door (Sypherd Hall for those of you in the know) on the big V. Day and gave me a poem he'd written for me on red and pink construction paper cut out in a heart adhered to a white doily. (This item is in a journal of mine in a box in the storage room; otherwise I'd post the poem here.) I was shocked, it was sweet, and no one had ever done something like that for me before. But it was so overly sweet, so saccharine and cloying, that I had to keep from laughing as I silently read its outrageous metaphors in front of him (there were dolphins mentioned, if I recall). Because who does that when you're post-teenagerhood? Maybe it was my jaded nature at a young age, but to me it had bypassed heartfelt and gone straight to schmaltz.

Making it harder was the fact that this romantic-minded person, whose last name was Steele (yes truly), had had a brain tumor, which sadly had affected his eyes and facial movement, and since then he'd always seemed to have an expression of dire sincerity that reminded me of a helpless kitten left out in the rain. But abating my guilt was the fact that he was sort of a judgmental near-racist. Among other things, he would use the phrase "white trash" earnestly and often.

Needless to say, it didn't go anywhere. But to save myself from sounding ungrateful here, there's a reason I kept that thing. Because, as no one had ever done that for me before, I had a feeling that perhaps no one would ever do it again.

I'm laughing out loud at work

It's not that I find the death of Anna Nicole Smith reaction-worthy -- it's that I find

nihilistic_kid's blog entry and ensuing comments about it completely hysterical.

Laugh Don't Destroy
Last night was Laugh Don't Destroy, a comedy fundraiser for Develop Don't Destroy Brooklyn, a community action group that tirelessly battles the Ratner basketball arena complex horror that's getting closer and closer to turning our neighborhood in Brooklyn into a public toilet of mass consumerism, high rises, traffic congestion, years of demolition and construction, and more.

The event was at Union Hall, which was fitting in its Brooklyn-ness but which isn't in the footprint of the construction plan. So in a way, it was sort of like hearing a white American actress railing against starvation taking place in a third-world country even though she's basically untouched by what's happening over there.

Anyway, the place was packed, and the bill was pretty fantastic -- Michael Showalter, Eugene Mirman, Jon Benjamin, Andrea Rosen, Partick Borelli, and like half a dozen more.

The total main attraction for me was seeing Jon Benjamin. And that's because he played the son, Ben, on Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist on Comedy Central in the 1990s. (I just loved that Squiggle Vision style of animation!) When I saw him onstage, I realized he was the guy at whom I'd flashed a critical look when he was talking loudly in the back of the room during someone else's performance. After I got over that weird feeling, at times I'd close my eyes to hear how much he sounded like his old character Ben. There's no doubt about it, it was him all right. That was fun, but I felt sort of ridiculous at the same time.

Guest post: Russian dance moves

Today's guest post is anonymous for international security reasons.

* * * * *
Q: Is there a specific dance tendency in Russian social dancing? Or just a general shimmying?

A: It is a lot of improvisation. Here in the old country it is always the same.

Stages

1. A few people start dancing

2. Then everyone rushes out to dance, it quickly becomes regimented (sloppy line or circle dances), and this collective dancing lasts longer than really necessary

3. Everyone is finally really wasted and people break apart and start dancing around individually or in pairs.

END

Return of the raving loonies
A strange thing happened today. I was in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and an old man (late 70s or so) approached me and said, "Excuse me, you look like you're part Irish and part German. Am I right?" A little surprised, I told him he was right (leaving out the other heritages), and he took the liberty of talking to me (rather, at me) for ten minutes about where he went to school, what his various graduate degrees were in, what he does for a living (high school guidance counselor) and what I ought to consider doing for a living (guidance counselor). When I told him I had to be off, he asked if he could send me his anti-Bush political essays and his poetry. Since I'd already casually mentioned one of the magazines I work for, he said I'd be receiving something from him on Wednesday.

I don't mind it, because sometimes it's nice to be approached by old people who seem like they're lonely and just want to talk. But ultimately, it can be weird.

I'm glad it happened though, because I was almost afraid that my days of being accosted by raving weirdos were over. It is not so! It happened also just last week in the elevator where I work. The only other person besides me in the elevator was a delivery guy. Without looking at me, he said,

"That Celine Dion, what beautiful music she makes. I wish she'd make some more of that beautiful music."

"It's too bad," I lied, unaware she'd stopped.

"Yeah, ever since she got married. She just stopped making music. That Celine Dion. What beautiful music," he mourned, shaking his head. Then he went into the story of how her husband is battling cancer or something and how Celine has chosen to take care of him rather than make music. I commented that it was a noble choice, to which he agreed, but he still seemed oddly disconsolate about the whole thing and walked out of the elevator as if on his way to a funeral.

Kiss it goodbye
It's nice to have one's record collection appreciated, but I never thought I'd get a note like this from a friend:

"Do you still have that music of North Sumatra 2-LP set on the Berlin Museum Collection label? I want to reissue it on the new label I'm starting with a friend. I can pay $100 for it."

I bought the two records exactly 12 years ago (I can hardly believe it) when I was studying in Germany during college. My boyfriend at the time (said friend who wrote above e-mail) was gaga about them. We played in a gamelan ensemble at the time and were pretty obsessed with the music of Indonesia. He asked me more than once if he could have them, but I said no because I'd brought them back all the way from Germany, and they are a couple of damn good records.

It's not the 100 clams he's offering, but I think I'll finally change my mind -- a dozen years later. I'm so skeptical of the age and quality of my record player's needle that I haven't played those LPs in years. So why not, really? I'm sentimental -- let him have 'em. At least I'll have a CD of the material, and my friend can fulfill his dream of finally getting his paws on it. The fact that he remembers the label (and I don't) speaks volumes.