Jay Leno is getting a bum rap. He was atop the ratings when NBC announced his future replacement by Conan O’Brien. He was atop the ratings when the Tonight Show finally passed from his to Conan’s hands. The headcount for Jay’s primetime audience was roughly equal to what he had on Tonight and greater than that of either Conan or David Letterman in the post-news slot.
I was amazed at how many of Hollywood’s elite professed allegiance to Team Conan and expressed enmity toward Leno on the red carpet and at the podium at the Golden Globes. Jay did not create the current environment. NBC did. The cost to move O’Brien and his staff from California to New York must have been astronomical. The amount they are going to have to pay to extract themselves from the dilemma they created is staggering. As an aside, I must admit that it is impressive that Conan squeezed the suits for another 11 or 12 million for his staff, even though the network had already negotiated severance for them.
I’m not a Leno groupie by any stretch. It struck me as unfair when they picked him to succeed Johnny Carson, the real king of late night. Now I’ve read that Jay was a team player willing to go to the ends of the earth for affiliate relations and that NBC’s experience with Dave had been less than desirable in that regard. But still, Letterman had earned his spurs. As we have learned in the ensuing years, Carson thought that was a raw deal, too.
There have always been strong opinions about who should tuck America in at night. When in my youth Carson was chosen as the Tonight successor, there were many who said that no one could replace the great, sensitive, and eccentric raconteur, Jack Paar. I was one, and all of us had to eat our words somewhere along the course of the next 30 years. I remember the night that Paar was the sole guest on the Pat Sajak Show. Vanna’s buddy unabashedly admitted that Jack had been his idol throughout his career. On that night, Paar proved that he still had it. He basically took over the show and provided Sajak with one of his most enjoyable nights ever.
Like Paar though I did, Johnny won my heart years ago. He cemented his place there the night I was lucky enough to sit on the first row in Burbank and watch him work his magic in person. In addition to the king, all of the key players were there that night: Ed McMahon, Doc Severinsen, Freddy DeCordova (a piece of showbiz history unto himself), and Tommy Newsom. I give much of the credit for the enduring memory to John, but I must admit that Brooke Shields’ presence on the couch that night helps the recollection adhere to its assigned brain cell ever so much more securely.
When the shenanigans of today’s pretenders fail to keep me amused, I can always pull out my recordings of Johnny’s 25th Anniversary Show and his entire last week. They never fail to satisfy.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Dumbing Down the Vast Wasteland
All great civilizations before us have had their decline. Ours will be the first to play itself out on television. It will be a reality.
On May 9, 1961, then FCC chairman Newton N. Minow delivered a speech titled "Television and the Public Interest." Here is an excerpt of what he said.
"When television is good, nothing — not the theater, not the magazines or newspapers — nothing is better.
“But when television is bad, nothing is worse. I invite you to sit down in front of your television set when your station goes on the air and stay there, for a day, without a book, without a magazine, without a newspaper, without a profit and loss sheet or a rating book to distract you. Keep your eyes glued to that set until the station signs off. I can assure you that what you will observe is a vast wasteland.
“You will see a procession of game shows, formula comedies about totally unbelievable families, blood and thunder, mayhem, violence, sadism, murder, western bad men, western good men, private eyes, gangsters, more violence, and cartoons. And endlessly commercials — many screaming, cajoling, and offending. And most of all, boredom. True, you'll see a few things you will enjoy. But they will be very, very few. And if you think I exaggerate, I only ask you to try it.”
I think it is important to note that Minow said this before 24/7 broadcasting, before an infinite number of channels, and, perhaps most notably, before reality programming. Back then, programming came to a close each day, usually with a prayer. Someone should have prayed harder.
George Carlin included a cut called "Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television" on his 1972 stand-up comedy album titled Class Clown. When he performed this routine, he was, of course, referring to broadcast television, on which there are now only three words from the list that have still not been used. Needless to say, viewers of cable and other forms of pay television are afforded numerous and frequent opportunities to hear all seven words. Isn’t it odd that while Carlin’s seven words are apparently gaining usage on television, efforts to suppress prayer are on the rise. You can bet it is not because programming no longer comes to a daily close.
Surely Minow would have thought “wasteland” to be a totally inadequate descriptor if he had known back then about reality programming, which I believe to be the bane of the medium that has defined our times. I will admit to enjoying the first seasons of Survivors and Apprentice. Been-there-done-that was the cure after seasons one. I always wished I could dance like I was born to it, so I have watched a little bit of Dancing with the Stars. Watching Tom Delay may have cured me on that one. My admission that I will forever be a fan of George Carlin, his list, and all of his other work as far back as wonderful WINO is enthusiastic. I just threw him in as a humorous measure of change. Besides, the progression of his seven words into usage enables me to freely and correctly identify many reality programming offerings as shit.
There are good stories performed by good actors that are more appealing to me than reality shows. I like fiction. Hell, I write fiction. I like drama. I like Grey’s Anatomy, The Closer, Castle, Brothers and Sisters, and more. I like comedy. I like Two and a Half Men and more. I like books. I’m finishing South of Broad by Pat Conroy and have been wowed by the gentleman from South Carolina. Before that it was Greg Iles’ The Devil’s Punchbowl, and it was the best of an unbelievably good body of work from the man from Natchez. I’m getting excited about The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown, mine as soon as Suzie polishes off the last hundred or so pages.
Fiction makes no bones about it. It ain’t real, though it often imitates reality. Reality programming purports itself to be real but is almost always the farthest thing from it. I’d say make it go away, but since it now has its own categories at the Emmy’s, the chances of its disappearance are getting more and more slim.
On May 9, 1961, then FCC chairman Newton N. Minow delivered a speech titled "Television and the Public Interest." Here is an excerpt of what he said.
"When television is good, nothing — not the theater, not the magazines or newspapers — nothing is better.
“But when television is bad, nothing is worse. I invite you to sit down in front of your television set when your station goes on the air and stay there, for a day, without a book, without a magazine, without a newspaper, without a profit and loss sheet or a rating book to distract you. Keep your eyes glued to that set until the station signs off. I can assure you that what you will observe is a vast wasteland.
“You will see a procession of game shows, formula comedies about totally unbelievable families, blood and thunder, mayhem, violence, sadism, murder, western bad men, western good men, private eyes, gangsters, more violence, and cartoons. And endlessly commercials — many screaming, cajoling, and offending. And most of all, boredom. True, you'll see a few things you will enjoy. But they will be very, very few. And if you think I exaggerate, I only ask you to try it.”
I think it is important to note that Minow said this before 24/7 broadcasting, before an infinite number of channels, and, perhaps most notably, before reality programming. Back then, programming came to a close each day, usually with a prayer. Someone should have prayed harder.
George Carlin included a cut called "Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television" on his 1972 stand-up comedy album titled Class Clown. When he performed this routine, he was, of course, referring to broadcast television, on which there are now only three words from the list that have still not been used. Needless to say, viewers of cable and other forms of pay television are afforded numerous and frequent opportunities to hear all seven words. Isn’t it odd that while Carlin’s seven words are apparently gaining usage on television, efforts to suppress prayer are on the rise. You can bet it is not because programming no longer comes to a daily close.
Surely Minow would have thought “wasteland” to be a totally inadequate descriptor if he had known back then about reality programming, which I believe to be the bane of the medium that has defined our times. I will admit to enjoying the first seasons of Survivors and Apprentice. Been-there-done-that was the cure after seasons one. I always wished I could dance like I was born to it, so I have watched a little bit of Dancing with the Stars. Watching Tom Delay may have cured me on that one. My admission that I will forever be a fan of George Carlin, his list, and all of his other work as far back as wonderful WINO is enthusiastic. I just threw him in as a humorous measure of change. Besides, the progression of his seven words into usage enables me to freely and correctly identify many reality programming offerings as shit.
There are good stories performed by good actors that are more appealing to me than reality shows. I like fiction. Hell, I write fiction. I like drama. I like Grey’s Anatomy, The Closer, Castle, Brothers and Sisters, and more. I like comedy. I like Two and a Half Men and more. I like books. I’m finishing South of Broad by Pat Conroy and have been wowed by the gentleman from South Carolina. Before that it was Greg Iles’ The Devil’s Punchbowl, and it was the best of an unbelievably good body of work from the man from Natchez. I’m getting excited about The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown, mine as soon as Suzie polishes off the last hundred or so pages.
Fiction makes no bones about it. It ain’t real, though it often imitates reality. Reality programming purports itself to be real but is almost always the farthest thing from it. I’d say make it go away, but since it now has its own categories at the Emmy’s, the chances of its disappearance are getting more and more slim.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Book Surfing and Censorship
Recently, the topic du jour on Nathan Bransford - Literary Agent, the best-in-class blog by the eponymous Curtis Brown author representative, was a question he posed for comment by his readers:
When do you stop reading a book? << Click to read the post.
I decided to put in my two cents:
"Some of the very good reads I've had in the suspense genre have been provided by James Patterson. In the last few years, I have found that most of his books seem to be coming off an assembly line. He annually does two or three on his own and three or four that are jointly written with other authors. Even though he has gotten watered down, he can still pump out a doozy from time to time.
Back when he was golden most of the time, I decided to buy his first book, The Thomas Berryman Number. Though it won a first-novel Edgar all those years ago, I thought it was very murky and sucked in a manner not dissimilar to a Hoover vacuum cleaner. I have had two agents say that my novel-in-waiting might, at 72,000 words, be too short for the suspense genre. Almost everything Patterson writes is between 70,000 and 75,000 words, and Berryman contained 58,000 award-winning words. Though my research has shown me that most suspense novels are 80,000 words are more, I still believe in the wisdom passed to me by one Nathan Bransford intimating that he did not pay much attention to word count.
Okay, so I took a long route here to say that I used to read books all the way through. Berryman cured me of that. I get excited when I'm grabbed in the first three pages. I find a new way to spend my time if the Geiger counter doesn't make noise by page 50."
Not a stranger to commenting at Nathan's site, I was surprised and disappointed that he deleted my comment that day. There is no doubt that he thought my criticism of Patterson's first novel and current tendency toward cookie cutting inappropriate. I thought I balanced my comments by pointing out that James has written some beauts and still pops a hot one from time to time. That he doesn't always hit the target is evident from my own experience and discussion with numerous Patterson readers, some of whom are consequently now his former readers. It is especially true with his books written with helpers. I know the people who pick the Edgars are more expert in the literary field than I, but perusal of the reviews of Berryman at Amazon will let you know that I am not alone in my opinion.
Oh, well, I hope I haven't worn out my welcome at Nathan's place, and despite my comments, I still think James Patterson is a giant when he doesn't stoop. Finally, I just have to mention that Tyler Cowen's suggestion that we should consider surfing our books like we surf our channels is fascinating. Of course, we don't pay $25 for each of those channels we click through.
When do you stop reading a book? << Click to read the post.
I decided to put in my two cents:
"Some of the very good reads I've had in the suspense genre have been provided by James Patterson. In the last few years, I have found that most of his books seem to be coming off an assembly line. He annually does two or three on his own and three or four that are jointly written with other authors. Even though he has gotten watered down, he can still pump out a doozy from time to time.
Back when he was golden most of the time, I decided to buy his first book, The Thomas Berryman Number. Though it won a first-novel Edgar all those years ago, I thought it was very murky and sucked in a manner not dissimilar to a Hoover vacuum cleaner. I have had two agents say that my novel-in-waiting might, at 72,000 words, be too short for the suspense genre. Almost everything Patterson writes is between 70,000 and 75,000 words, and Berryman contained 58,000 award-winning words. Though my research has shown me that most suspense novels are 80,000 words are more, I still believe in the wisdom passed to me by one Nathan Bransford intimating that he did not pay much attention to word count.
Okay, so I took a long route here to say that I used to read books all the way through. Berryman cured me of that. I get excited when I'm grabbed in the first three pages. I find a new way to spend my time if the Geiger counter doesn't make noise by page 50."
Not a stranger to commenting at Nathan's site, I was surprised and disappointed that he deleted my comment that day. There is no doubt that he thought my criticism of Patterson's first novel and current tendency toward cookie cutting inappropriate. I thought I balanced my comments by pointing out that James has written some beauts and still pops a hot one from time to time. That he doesn't always hit the target is evident from my own experience and discussion with numerous Patterson readers, some of whom are consequently now his former readers. It is especially true with his books written with helpers. I know the people who pick the Edgars are more expert in the literary field than I, but perusal of the reviews of Berryman at Amazon will let you know that I am not alone in my opinion.
Oh, well, I hope I haven't worn out my welcome at Nathan's place, and despite my comments, I still think James Patterson is a giant when he doesn't stoop. Finally, I just have to mention that Tyler Cowen's suggestion that we should consider surfing our books like we surf our channels is fascinating. Of course, we don't pay $25 for each of those channels we click through.
Monday, July 27, 2009
A Friendship Treasured
I’m getting old. Yes, I know I look very youthful in photographs, but truly, accumulated chronology is barking at my heels. As fast as my number of years is gaining on me, the light at the end of the tunnel, retirement, isn’t visually enlarging on the approaching horizon fast enough. I’m hoping the economy will bounce enough by the time I am 62 or 63 to put me among those images instead of still seeing them in the distance.
I won’t miss the work. I’ll write and ride my bike and play golf and read and eat lunch over a Scrabble board with Suzie and do all sorts of things for which there never seems to be enough time right now. What I will miss is the daily interaction with the people who prevent workdays from being drudgery. There have been a number of those at each place I have been employed. Among them, if you are lucky, there are a few rare ones who are undeniably special.
Sometimes, from one job to the next, you regrettably lose touch. I have. The Web and e-mail and Facebook and the like have enabled me to rebuild bridges in some cases. Thank goodness those utilities are there to prevent relationship gaps now and in the future. I mention this today because a dear friend is leaving my place of employment in the next few days. If yours is on the list of e-mail addresses to which I pass interesting, inspiring, or humorous forwards, you know her as one of my most prolific sources and probably have at least a feel for her specialness.
She was the first person other than Suzie to read my novel-in-waiting. We have exchanged our likes in reading matter. She introduced Suzie and me to Dean Koontz. She now has two copies of his best book, Watchers, because I inadvertently let her original get wet. The result was wavy pages that could cause seasickness in too lengthy sessions of reading. I knew I had to get her a new copy, as it was obvious from the wear on the original that it was my friend’s literary Velveteen Rabbit, a truly loved volume. I have always been impressed that she and her daughter, Alyssa, would be in the late night hordes to get their new copy of each Harry Potter book. They took turns reading them to each other aloud. Those are treasured mom and daughter experiences for sure.
Anyway, Christine Harris will be missed here in the halls of the venerable old bank I visit each day. I wish her enjoyment of the lighter workdays and much shorter commutes she’ll experience in her upcoming endeavor, as well as in every other aspect of life. Suzie and I promise to make sure that Christine and her ever-dashing hubby, Darren, pop up on our social calendar with regularity.
Take a look at the links here at Red Stick Writer, click on the one for Christine’s photography, and view the world through the eyes of one who sees its good side.
I won’t miss the work. I’ll write and ride my bike and play golf and read and eat lunch over a Scrabble board with Suzie and do all sorts of things for which there never seems to be enough time right now. What I will miss is the daily interaction with the people who prevent workdays from being drudgery. There have been a number of those at each place I have been employed. Among them, if you are lucky, there are a few rare ones who are undeniably special.
Sometimes, from one job to the next, you regrettably lose touch. I have. The Web and e-mail and Facebook and the like have enabled me to rebuild bridges in some cases. Thank goodness those utilities are there to prevent relationship gaps now and in the future. I mention this today because a dear friend is leaving my place of employment in the next few days. If yours is on the list of e-mail addresses to which I pass interesting, inspiring, or humorous forwards, you know her as one of my most prolific sources and probably have at least a feel for her specialness.
She was the first person other than Suzie to read my novel-in-waiting. We have exchanged our likes in reading matter. She introduced Suzie and me to Dean Koontz. She now has two copies of his best book, Watchers, because I inadvertently let her original get wet. The result was wavy pages that could cause seasickness in too lengthy sessions of reading. I knew I had to get her a new copy, as it was obvious from the wear on the original that it was my friend’s literary Velveteen Rabbit, a truly loved volume. I have always been impressed that she and her daughter, Alyssa, would be in the late night hordes to get their new copy of each Harry Potter book. They took turns reading them to each other aloud. Those are treasured mom and daughter experiences for sure.
Anyway, Christine Harris will be missed here in the halls of the venerable old bank I visit each day. I wish her enjoyment of the lighter workdays and much shorter commutes she’ll experience in her upcoming endeavor, as well as in every other aspect of life. Suzie and I promise to make sure that Christine and her ever-dashing hubby, Darren, pop up on our social calendar with regularity.
Take a look at the links here at Red Stick Writer, click on the one for Christine’s photography, and view the world through the eyes of one who sees its good side.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Corny Reminiscence - Buck an Ear
Toward the end of spring last year, Suzie and I trekked to Baton Rouge to attend the 40th reunion of Broadmoor High School’s Class of 1968. Prior to that, the last reunion I attended was the 10th back in 1978, and people hadn’t changed much in that first decade. Interaction was still somewhat cliquish. Most importantly, I was still living in Baton Rouge and kept up with some folks by bumping into them from time to time.
My 1992 move to the Johnson County, Kansas, suburbs across the state line from KCMO put the skids on that time-to-time bumping. As the years passed, I increasingly missed that incidental contact. When I visited Baton Rouge, I made time to see immediate family and a few close friends with whom I’d maintained contact, but there was never enough time to contact and see all of the other relatives and friends I wanted to see.
I was in the middle of a job search when the 20th reunion was held. Rather than a fault of my own, it was mismanagement by loan-related people who had caused the problems that resulted in the middle management layoff of which I was a victim at Ambank. Despite that, you always feel self-conscious when you’ve suffered a “jobectomy.” Afterward, I regretted having missed the gathering of my fellow Buccaneers of ‘68.
I think they convened again at 25 years, at which time I was just finishing my first year as a Kansan, and I believe there was some sort of work-related conflict. Uncle Sam moved me here as part of my employment with the Resolution Trust Corporation, the temporary Federal agency created to resolve the S&L crisis. About 30 of us from the Baton Rouge office of RTC had relocated to the Kansas City office in the spring of 1992, as the agency pared itself from 14 offices around the country to six. Again, I hated to miss the Buc camaraderie, but I had yet to realize how being away from my hometown would make reunions so much more meaningful.
When the 30th Class of ’68 conclave was held in 1998, my dad was in the middle of chemotherapy for colon cancer. I chose to pass on the reunion and visit after Dad was finished with his treatments a couple of months later. That way, he would have been feeling better and would get more enjoyment from my visit. This time, in addition to being sad about not getting to see my former classmates, I was also devastated by the loss my father. On the August Sunday morning before he was to have his last Thursday treatment, a cardiac event took him from us. Had I traveled to BR for that reunion, I would have gotten to see Dad one more time. No MasterCard ad is necessary to tell me that would have been priceless.
When the 40th reunion rolled around last year, there was no way I was not going to be there. Getting to see these people with whom I walked the halls of Broadmoor High School from the seventh through 12th grades was, and I’m dating myself here, almost like an E-ticket ride at Disneyland. Gone was the cliquish behavior. Wisdom and a comfort with life had set in. My classmates looked great.
In a moment, I felt younger. Remember, it was the first time I’d seen some of these people for 30 years. In the interim, I saw myself aging in the mirror, while I kept seeing them as they looked in high school or at the 10th reunion. Oh, they still looked good, but at least they were now my age again.
I thoroughly enjoyed the evening at the Walden Club. Though I had a previous engagement early on the next evening, I went to the Pastime around 10:30 or 11:00 to enjoy remainder of the less formal huddle to which even other graduating classes were invited. My disappointment was palpable when I got to the bar under the bridge and discovered an empty parking lot. Apparently, my classmates and the Pastime are getting older than I thought. Either that or my memory is failing. I know I’ve been at that place past midnight many times.
I told myself right after the reunion that I would make and maintain contact with the people with whom I had refreshed my acquaintance. There were good intentions, but it turned out to be like one of those let’s-do-lunch things, at least until now. After hearing friends and family here in Kansas talk about good experiences in reconnecting with old friends on Facebook, I decided to give it a try. I’m glad I did. Initial contacts have already occurred with a number of my Broadmoor friends and I hope there will be more.
I know that over time I’ll be more actively communicative with some than others. That said, it will be nice to know that they’ll all be there to bump into from time to time. I was going to say that we shared a moment in time and should exercise some semblance of staying in touch. The reality is that we shared a fairly large chunk of our lives. Some of us to back into elementary school, but as a class, most of us were lucky enough to string six years together at BHS. I believe I read in some of the reunion material that we were the only class to take full 7-through-12 advantage of what started out as Broadmoor Junior-Senior High School. As a consequence, we know over a decade’s worth of Goodwood Boulevard pirates.
If any of you who, like me, were among McLavy's minions happen to stop by here, please leave a comment. It’s been nice knowing you. Let’s do lunch.
My 1992 move to the Johnson County, Kansas, suburbs across the state line from KCMO put the skids on that time-to-time bumping. As the years passed, I increasingly missed that incidental contact. When I visited Baton Rouge, I made time to see immediate family and a few close friends with whom I’d maintained contact, but there was never enough time to contact and see all of the other relatives and friends I wanted to see.
I was in the middle of a job search when the 20th reunion was held. Rather than a fault of my own, it was mismanagement by loan-related people who had caused the problems that resulted in the middle management layoff of which I was a victim at Ambank. Despite that, you always feel self-conscious when you’ve suffered a “jobectomy.” Afterward, I regretted having missed the gathering of my fellow Buccaneers of ‘68.
I think they convened again at 25 years, at which time I was just finishing my first year as a Kansan, and I believe there was some sort of work-related conflict. Uncle Sam moved me here as part of my employment with the Resolution Trust Corporation, the temporary Federal agency created to resolve the S&L crisis. About 30 of us from the Baton Rouge office of RTC had relocated to the Kansas City office in the spring of 1992, as the agency pared itself from 14 offices around the country to six. Again, I hated to miss the Buc camaraderie, but I had yet to realize how being away from my hometown would make reunions so much more meaningful.
When the 30th Class of ’68 conclave was held in 1998, my dad was in the middle of chemotherapy for colon cancer. I chose to pass on the reunion and visit after Dad was finished with his treatments a couple of months later. That way, he would have been feeling better and would get more enjoyment from my visit. This time, in addition to being sad about not getting to see my former classmates, I was also devastated by the loss my father. On the August Sunday morning before he was to have his last Thursday treatment, a cardiac event took him from us. Had I traveled to BR for that reunion, I would have gotten to see Dad one more time. No MasterCard ad is necessary to tell me that would have been priceless.
When the 40th reunion rolled around last year, there was no way I was not going to be there. Getting to see these people with whom I walked the halls of Broadmoor High School from the seventh through 12th grades was, and I’m dating myself here, almost like an E-ticket ride at Disneyland. Gone was the cliquish behavior. Wisdom and a comfort with life had set in. My classmates looked great.
In a moment, I felt younger. Remember, it was the first time I’d seen some of these people for 30 years. In the interim, I saw myself aging in the mirror, while I kept seeing them as they looked in high school or at the 10th reunion. Oh, they still looked good, but at least they were now my age again.
I thoroughly enjoyed the evening at the Walden Club. Though I had a previous engagement early on the next evening, I went to the Pastime around 10:30 or 11:00 to enjoy remainder of the less formal huddle to which even other graduating classes were invited. My disappointment was palpable when I got to the bar under the bridge and discovered an empty parking lot. Apparently, my classmates and the Pastime are getting older than I thought. Either that or my memory is failing. I know I’ve been at that place past midnight many times.
I told myself right after the reunion that I would make and maintain contact with the people with whom I had refreshed my acquaintance. There were good intentions, but it turned out to be like one of those let’s-do-lunch things, at least until now. After hearing friends and family here in Kansas talk about good experiences in reconnecting with old friends on Facebook, I decided to give it a try. I’m glad I did. Initial contacts have already occurred with a number of my Broadmoor friends and I hope there will be more.
I know that over time I’ll be more actively communicative with some than others. That said, it will be nice to know that they’ll all be there to bump into from time to time. I was going to say that we shared a moment in time and should exercise some semblance of staying in touch. The reality is that we shared a fairly large chunk of our lives. Some of us to back into elementary school, but as a class, most of us were lucky enough to string six years together at BHS. I believe I read in some of the reunion material that we were the only class to take full 7-through-12 advantage of what started out as Broadmoor Junior-Senior High School. As a consequence, we know over a decade’s worth of Goodwood Boulevard pirates.
If any of you who, like me, were among McLavy's minions happen to stop by here, please leave a comment. It’s been nice knowing you. Let’s do lunch.
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