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Life this Week and 8 More Possessions

14 Feb

Here are some of the “goings on” this week.

Last night Sammie somehow squeezed into a small cardboard box full of clean socks and two of my jackets (looks like a pair of underwear too). She’s famous for occasionally finding hilarious spots to nap.

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We have a Blendtec “Total” Blender, a superhero kitchen appliance with a price that will make you sick to your stomach, which is kind of happening to me right now. I don’t remember paying $500 for ours. I think it was more like $400. Anyway, we use it almost daily. The digital screen keeps track of how many times it’s been used. We’re over 1,500. This month I added a Twister Jar, and I produced the almond and peanut butter pictured below. I added cocoa powder to the peanut butter on the right.

I went from a cup of almonds to creamy almond butter in 40 seconds thanks to the twister lid. While blending you twist the lid and it keeps your ingredients scraped from the sides of the blender.

Seriously, if you want to change your nutritional life, buy a Blendtec or a Vita-Mix.
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On Tuesday I turned on the wrong burner, so instead of heating pasta sauce I melted a container of chickpeas and filled the house with toxic fumes. The beans you see below are stewing in a puddle of melted plastic. Luckily, when it cooled, it peeled off cleanly.

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The next photo I added to show “the world” how amazing we are that we have a fridge full of healthy fruits and vegetables. Are you impressed? I would love to see what’s in your refrigerator. Ten years ago a photo of my fridge would have been much different, containing very little except cow milk, soda, ketchup, pickles and maybe leftover SpaghettiOs (Ick!). The only thing I see that isn’t healthy is a package of cheese tortellini that the kids demand once every couple of weeks and two small pizza crusts under the head of cabbage.

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After taking pics of Sammie in the box, Ainsley took some self-portraits.

AinsleyMonday before school I shoved some poly stuffing into Trouble’s collar. As you can see, Ainsley wasn’t impressed. I, however, found it hilarious.

TroubleTheGrayCat

I’m still counting my stuff. See here and here. This is next to where I sleep. See photo below.

11. Alarm clock that looks like a phone.

12. Charger cord – Fits our four phones, four tablets, and three Kindles.

13. Ikea lamp

14. Marpac Dohm Sound Conditioner - I don’t think I can sleep without it.

15. Bedroom eyeglasses – You can barely see them in the pic.

16. Kindle Paperwhite e-reader – Maybe my favorite possession.

17. Google Nexus 7 tablet – Not far behind.

18. Table.

I’m not counting the cases because they nest. The way I look at it, if I were moving my stuff from one residence to another, it would be one bundled item. Consumables like facial tissues don’t count.

Bedside

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We Saved Frosty Paws

9 Nov

Wednesday morning Ainsley and I broke up a real live cat fight on the way to school. I was ahead of her, pedaling my ass off, when she saw or heard something to our left in someone’s front yard. She said “Daddy, stop! Turn around!” We circled around and saw two cats making a loud fuss about something. (I think I heard one of them say something about the direction of the country and the other one was asking about “legitimate” rape. Weird.)

I said “Ainsley, you’re a hero! Let’s go break it up before one of them gets hurt.”

“Okay, let’s go!”

As we pedaled over, fur flew from the body of the tan cat. We said “Stop fighting, cats! It’s not worth it! Whatever you’re fighting over–will it matter a two years from now? One year from now? No, of course not! Peace, brothers!”

The cats didn’t even look at us. On a normal day they’d probably run from approaching strangers, but on this day of war they both remained in a low, defensive posture right next to each other making low, growling noises.

A car pulled into a nearby driveway and a woman got out. “Oh my. Come here Frosty Paws!” I asked which cat was Frosty Paws. “The one getting the tar kicked out of him.” Oh, the tan cat. The one who was a little less furry today. The one who looked like he was in the middle of a summer shearing.

I used my front tire to separate the cats. I said “Ah, the poor thing” as she scooped Sparkle Paws up into her loving arms and told the black and white challenger (Romney) to hit the road. “Shoo! Go on, shoo! Get out of here! Go!”

I did the same: “Go on you dirty flea bag! Crawl back into the hole you came from!”

The nice lady thanked us for being such good samaritans and we resumed out trip to LeClaire Elementary. As we left I looked at Ainsley and she smiled real big at what had just happened.

It’s one of the reasons I enjoy riding our bikes to and from school. In a car we’re cut off from what’s happening around us. In a car we would have driven right past this street fight, maybe not even noticing the cats. Even if Ainsley had spotted the fight from the back seat, I doubt I would have even slowed down. But now we have a story to tell.

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I’m No Gandhi, But Come On People

8 Oct

“Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

That quote is often attributed to Gandhi. Maybe he didn’t say it. Either way, it’s permanently inked into my arm. This morning I realized that my daily dog walks in a nearby empty lot is a perfect example of how I try to “be the change.” This patch of grass is surrounded by condos on two sides, apartments on the third side, and some houses on the fourth.

This seemingly unclaimed rectangle of land is a dog shit minefield. Let’s pretend for a second that a dog’s booty-cake is an actual live landmine. If I blindfold four people and force them to cross this treacherous landscape, three will be blown to bits. That’s why I don’t step a single toe in there after dark.

I’m the only one who picks up shit here. So why do I bother when everyone else has apparently gotten together and decided it’d be awesome to see how much poop can pile up in one place? Well, because it starts with me; I want to “be the change” I wish to see in the dog shit minefield. And I know fellow dog walkers see me walking around with my little black, compostable poop bags. I wonder if they laugh. I wonder if they try to imagine themselves putting their fingers on turds with only thin plastic between.

Still, this isn’t the worst case of dog shit negligence I witness. I’ve hopped over gigantic piles of shit on sidewalks in downtown Edwardsville. Near restaurants! I don’t want to want to stoop to using an overused txt-speak expression, but OMG!

And also, AYFKM? (I thought I made this up, but Google set me straight. If you’re over 23, you may not know that AYFKM means “Are you fu*!ing kidding me?”) And that’s exactly what blitzes through my brain when I see dog turds on a busy sidewalk.

I’ve also jogged around piles of shit on the bike/running trails. Be the change you want to see in the world if you want that change to be worldwide disregard for human decency. How’s that for a inspiring tattoo? Or maybe: Be the ginormous pile of shit you wish to see in the world on the sidewalk. Words to live by.

Back to the field. It’s a perfect place for kids to congregate to play baseball or football or even to just hang out, like a small public park. I’m sure kids attempted this back in the 1980s.

“Okay, Timmy and Tommy, you’re on my team. Harry, did you bring–what the hell’s that smell? Billy, did you shit your pants again or did–Holy hell, I just stepped in a pile of dog shit.”

“Ah man, so did I.”

“Me too!”

“Dammit, so did I!”

“Let’s get out of here!”

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Small Dog Buries Large Bread

20 Sep

This morning I was walking Dexter Dog when he disappeared under a large evergreen and emerged with a large hunk of bread. I thought back to when he found a biscuit and buried it in some mulch in front of an apartment building. I was kinda pumped to watch him perform his magic again. It makes me think the little guy is smart. Who cares that he eats crayons and his own vomit.

Normally, he races from tree to pole to tree whizzing and sniffing about, but with this hunk of bread, I could tell he was conflicted. He walked, looking all unsure. I could tell he wanted to stash it. From his actions, I also learned that urinating while holding bread in your mouth is just silly and out of the question.

Inexplicably, he tried to squeeze under a blue Volkswagon Beetle. It didn’t work. I stood there wondering what he would’ve done under the car. Bury the bread? You can’t dig if you can’t get up from your belly, you silly dog.  He ventured on down the side of the car and peeked underneath again before giving up on that stupid idea. He walked up to the nearest house apparently looking for some more mulch or soft soil, but found large rocks. He turned around and walked back out to the sidewalk, dejected.

We turned the corner onto our street. I wondered if he had decided to carry the bread all the way home. Would I even let him eat it if he did?Probably not. Finally, he found some loose dirt next to the sidewalk and went to work digging a hole. He spent ten seconds digging the hole and three times as long burying it. I told him he was overdoing it. I said the damn bread is buried and to come on.

So now we have a bona fide trend; I look forward to sharing with you the next time Dexter buries found food.

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Skunk Bustling in My Hedgerow

8 Sep

Today I got up at 4:30. It’s the best time of the day for me to write, run, bike, or any other type of exercise, including yoga. But this morning I was reminded of one downside of being outdoors so early: furry little creatures with sharp fangs and claws are still crawling around the neighborhood.

As I pedaled to the end of the driveway and paused for an approaching car, I saw something walking away from me, into the street. I thought it was either Timon from The Lion King or a primordial drawf because it seemed to be walking on its hind legs. But as the car came closer, the headlights showed me a fluffy white and black tail pointing to the sky. Skunk. It was probably chillin’ under our car as I rolled right past it. It could have reached out and shredded my ankles.

I don’t know much about skunks. I’m clueless about whether they always prance around with their tails up or if they only raise them when they’re pissed off at early birds like me. Do they squirt from under their tales or do they face their enemy, stand up on their hind legs, pull down their little skunk pants and squirt like a deranged man whizzing on a tree in a public park?

I can write with confidence that a skunk shower would have ruined my day. This afternoon I’ll be in St. Louis cheering on the New York Mets (The Mets did, in fact, beat the Cardinals). A severe beating would be in store if I showed up smelling of skunk wearing a Cubs hat hurling caustic insults at Matt Holliday (He didn’t even play). People around here already think Cubs fans are a little “off.” Some would even tell you–don’t believe them–we’re a bit smelly in general.

During early morning outings I’ve encountered foxes, cats, skunks, opossums, squirrels, moles, deer, and critters I couldn’t identify. And I live in DOWNTOWN Edwardsville, not out in the sticks. It would be different if it was like: “Oh look at that cute fox thirty yards away.” Instead, they sprint from nearby bushes, drop from trees in front of me, or are standing so still and inconspicuous that I almost run right up their ass.

This happened with a deer early this summer. I was jogging, not paying attention, just kind of watching the ground in front of me, when I suddenly noticed I was standing next to an unfazed deer. I could have ridden him home. Finally he looked at me and smiled–I swear it looked like it!–and bounded away and disappeared between a baseball diamond and the Children’s Museum.

And I forgot to mention the skunk-sized crows that get pissy when I’m outside early. They caw caw caw at me and pretend they’re itching to peck my face off. They sit low in trees I jog past and raise a big stink about my presence with their flapping and cawing before they fly off, leaving me with a dangerously elevated heart rate.

 * * *

Note: The above is all mock complaining. I even love skunks. I would even kiss a skunk if I knew I wouldn’t be sprayed. But not on the lips. Probably on the top of the head. So, yeah, it’s humans that are continuously encroaching on animals. So boo on us!

“They paved paradise to put up a parking lot”

- lyric from Joni Mitchell’s 1970 song “Big Yellow Taxi” recorded in 1970.

 

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The Fifth of July: No Burns, Body Parts Intact

5 Jul

We enjoyed the pyrotechnic show last night from a safe distance, no flaming debris crashing about like last year. Of course, I would have liked to have been closer, but we arrived too late to cram into Troy Park and we wanted to have a quick escape–in years past it took an hour to get back out of said park.

I spent the Fourth cleaning the garage, riding my bike, gulping water to stay hydrated, wiping the sweat out of my eyes, and yanking on my sweaty boxers. Yeah, gross, right?

This morning on our walk, Dexter (our little two-year-old black dog), found a biscuit in a neighbor’s yard. Instead of stopping to eat it (like the time he found a big cracker), he continued on … urinated on a stop sign, a lawn bag, and then walked up into a different neighbor’s mulch and dug a quick hole, dropped the biscuit, and then, with his face, spent 30 seconds covering it up.

I was amazed. I gave him a good praising when he hopped from the mulch onto the sidewalk. I said something like “That was so awesome Dexter; I had no idea you could bury a biscuit!” I’ve seen dogs bury bones in cartoons on TV. And they certainly bury a lot of bones in children’s books, but I’ve never witnessed it.

I was most impressed with the efficiency, like he does it all the damn time. I mean, the biscuit was completely buried in 15 seconds. He could have walked away right then, but he spent some extra time nosing around in there getting it just right.

The cats bury their waste several times a day in our basement, but who cares, right? That’s not half as cool. And I can’t stand there watching the cats in the litter box because their poop makes me gag and run. I’m beginning to think I need to jerk a knot in the cats’ tails to encourage them to do something cool once in awhile. Cat nip is kinda fun, but they just plop down on the floor and rub their faces in it. I need to find some “nip” that makes them do back flips. Right now our cats are excellent at sleeping and standing around looking at me like I’m supposed to be entertaining them. I’m sure the cats would just love to see me to bury a biscuit with my face. Assholes.

* * *

Anyway, in other news, I rode the recumbent tricycle yesterday and this morning. I had been thinking about selling it, but it’s just too awesome to part with. There’s one thing I can’t stand: the amount of attention it attracts. I can’t ride a block without someone yelling “Cool bike!” from a car window.

Exactly the same, but mine’s green.

Yesterday, someone in a beat up car yelled “I’m going to steal your bike!” I whipped my head around to look because it startled me. It sounded like a female. Then she laughed real loud. I thought I was back in Pana for second. Then this morning a guy staring at me from his car smiled real big and silly at me and waved.

What’d I expect, right? And the thing is a bright green to stand out just a little more.

Actually, there’s three other minor issues. 1) It takes up a lot of space in the garage; 2) I can’t use the bike racks on the buses; and 3) I would have to buy a special hitch rack to transport it with our car.

* * *

Let’s see, what else is going on? Not much really. I’m in Panera again, watching fat people eat junk like scones and cream cheese smothered bagels, getting fatter. What’s the freaking deal with these people? I know, I should save this for my other blog, but it’s sad how rare I see healthy-looking people these days. Eating junk food is just as unhealthy as smoking. It’s hard fact to accept.

Not the way I wanted to end, but they’ve lowered the temperature in here to 40 degrees and I’m dressed for 105.

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Daddy, There’s a Dead Opossum Riding Your Bike Around the House

18 Jun

I was sitting in Panera Sunday and there was an older guy and a teenager sitting 14 feet from me. Their conversation didn’t grab me until the man got louder and more animated. I couldn’t tell if the older guy was a father or grandfather.

For the next 10 minutes I listened and watched while pretending not to.

He repeatedly emphasized the word “responsible.” I assumed the kid did something dumb like teenagers tend to do, but I quickly learned the man was talking about being responsible on the baseball field.

“You guys have to be able to TRUST each other!”

“You’ve got to be RESPONSIBLE!”

The man was overweight and ugly. (I feel bad writing about his physical appearance, but it seemed to be an important part of the overall package–rough looks and rough speech.)

Then he said something like this:

I noticed something yesterday with you guys. When someone makes the third out, nobody picks him up. Do you know what that means? When I played ball, when a guy makes the last out, we’d bring him his glove and hat. Pick up Johnny! Hey, pick up Larry! That’s what we called it, Picking a guy up. You guys don’t DO that.

He was perplexed with “kids these days.” It’s fine, I guess; aren’t fathers supposed to have intense conversations with their sons? But it was one-sided and the man was just so goddamn SERIOUS and gruff about it. About baseball. Baseball is a fun game (double emphasis on both fun and game). The boy was silent and sullen.

(Below is a sad attempt at a graphical representation of what I saw. I got bored and didn’t want to create a “cartoon” teenager, so this poor kid (an actual high school baseball player) got pasted in. Those are cockroaches on the man. Don’t ask me why. Sometimes a picture is NOT worth a thousand words. Oh, and the guy did have shoes on.)

When Chloe is participating in volleyball, track, soccer, or whatever, I like to put her in a headlock, throw her down to the ground, and then drag her to the car by her hair. And that’s after she’s plays well.

No, really I put my arm around her, pull her tight, and ask if she had fun. Then I ask her questions, but not critically like “Why didn’t you blah blah on that one blah blah play?” I try to get her talking about her experience, even if that means playing dumb about the rules or about what I saw. It’s seems a good policy to NOT pretend I have all the answers. And If something funny went down, I’m definitely going to talk about that.

But I’m one father in a world of–well, I was going to estimate the number of fathers in the world, but I don’t want to look a fool, because, really, I have no idea. Point is: there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Though it feels … wrong to even type those three words: skin a cat. Eww. I can’t type it without picturing it. Speaking of cat, this morning on my bike I saw a pile of roadkill near our house and ’bout had a heart attack, because I thought I recognized it as a friendly neighborhood feline. Then I saw it was an opossum. Not that that didn’t make me sad though.

Up in that last sentence I wrote “this morning on my bike I saw a pile of roadkill near our house.” Obviously, I could have worded that differently. The pile of roadkill was NOT on my bike and my bike was not near our house. In other words, a dead opossum was NOT riding circles around our house, because that’s just weird.

But the opossum died under questionable circumstances. Our road has a 35 mph limit and this bloody scene was 10 feet from a stop sign! Oh man, I’m getting worked up like I did about that poor turtle. And this poor turtle. I need to take some deep breaths.

At that point in the street a normal driver is moving at, like, 5 mph. (I’m going to picture a man in a large vehicle as I rant.) I like to think HE was operating with brakes, steering, eyeballs, a brain, and a conscience, but obviously something was missing.

“It was just an opossum!” he might dare to say.

Oh, no you didn’t! (Oh no you di’int!)

That creature probably had a family and could have been a father like me. And even if this father opossum liked to bite his opossum kids (and I mean hard) for not keeping the burrow entrance swept, he was probably a decent marsupial just trying to make his way in this crazy world. And on the day after Father’s Day!

OMG! Read the paragraph below from Wikipedia; it’s exactly what I do when Jennifer wants me to work in the yard.

When threatened or harmed, they will “play possum”, mimicking the appearance and smell of a sick or dead animal. This physiological response is involuntary (like fainting), rather than a conscious act. In the case of baby opossums, however, the brain does not always react this way at the appropriate moment, and therefore they often fail to “play dead” when threatened. When “playing possum”, the animal’s lips are drawn back, the teeth are bared, saliva foams around the mouth, the eyes close or half-close, and a foul-smelling fluid is secreted from the anal glands. Their stiff, curled form can be prodded, turned over, and even carried away without reaction. The animal will typically regain consciousness after a period of between 40 minutes and 4 hours, a process which begins with slight twitchings of the ears

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Rock ‘n’ Crow: Pausing to Look Around

6 Jun

Slow down. Look around. Be “present” and “in the moment.” I read this stuff in books about Buddhism and mindfulness. But it’s difficult. So I draw symbols and words on my wrist to help me remember.

While walking the dogs this morning, I stopped to spot the crow that was “Caw! Caw! Cawing!” at me. I stood still and searched the tree tops while the dogs sniffed around for scents of dogs long gone.

What I first determined to be a big black bird was an odd branch crooked in two sharp right angles. I looked higher in the tree right above me and took a few steps.

Caw! Caw! Caw!

I stopped and saw the bird right above me looking around like birds do. He didn’t look down at me. I thought about the odds I’d get pooped on. 5 percent? Probably lower. I walked from underneath to get a better view and wondered if I was the cause of his anxiety (like I was out to steal his blackness) or if I had taken a different route the bird would be sitting in the same spot making the same cries. How much did I change the order of the universe by walking down Buchanan Street?

Dexter whizzed on some weird bush. Sammie tugged the leash–almost out of my hand–wanting to move on. A crow on the ground would get the dogs’ attention, but not the cocky crow way up in a tree. The bird flew away to caw at someone else and I walked on.

I paused again before a Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Bar wrapper on the sidewalk, considered picking it up, but stepped over it. The dogs sniffed at it. I wondered how it came to be here at my feet. I pictured a young male–anywhere between 8 and 24–ripping the paper off and tossing it over his shoulder, something I might have done at that age. But not at this age.

I imagined a boy littering, not only because I know myself, but I know my own girls. They occasionally carry sacks around the neighborhood picking up others’ trash. Our street is heavily traveled by pedestrians and bicyclists; we’re on the edge of downtown, so it’s common to find liquor bottles and a variety of food packaging in front of our house.

When we’re together, all trash gets handed to me. To them, my pockets are the most useful thing ever invented. Unlimited trash and storage capacity.

Of course, females litter too, and maybe my girls, whom I’m bragging on, will grown into litterers before growing back out in their twenties. I’ll say “Remember when you used to PICK UP trash?” God, I’m getting emotional thinking about Chloe at 17.

I approached the intersection of Buchanan and Hillsboro and heard the hiss of sprinklers. The drenching of decorative plants against an office building made me think of my own yard, in need of attention. I thought I heard more flowing water across the street at the Episcopal Church. Its impressive landscape is so abundant, extending so far from its walls, that hidden sprinklers deep within the foliage wouldn’t have surprised me.

In front of a fourplex I saw a gray rock half-buried in the dirt. It was smooth, the size of a sensible cookie, probably displaced from a nearby sea of rocks. It looked like a rock Ainsley would dig up and slide into my pocket. I almost did myself. But I’ll wait for a future walk and I’ll say “Whoa, look at that awesome rock.”

I’ll be sad when she stops sliding “treasures” into my pocket.

So, yeah, the drudgery of life, reexamined, can be more fulfilling than carrying the metaphorical bag of feces.

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Don’t F With My Q

4 Jun

I love when the dogs go all apeshit at the mail delivery person when I’m asleep ten feet from the front door. I jump up thinking it’s the end of the world. Freaking Armageddon. And I’m not talking about that crappy Affleck/Willis movie. Then I think “End of the world? Silly me, that’s not happening until four days before Christmas.” (Looks like I won’t be Christmas shopping this year.)

Anyway, the dogs literally try to eat through glass to get to the guy (I’m annoyed right now because I don’t know what to call the postal employee. Can I say “mailman” or is that sexist? But it’s actually a MAN! Shit this parenthetical is too long.) putting trash into the black box tacked to the outside wall. Seriously, I thought the USPS was closing up this month or something.

If not for the embarrassingly annoying dogs, I’d invite the mail carrier in, lead him to our recycling bin, point at it and say “Here is where I put everything you bring. Every day.” But that would be mean. And I’m totally not mean.

Seriously though, I do everything online. I pay bills online. I get cool coupons online. Okay, I forgot we still get Netflix movies through the mail, but I can easily give that up and go all-streaming, all the time. That would put an end to queue hijacking. That’s what I call it when my daughter promotes movies like Mulan 7 to the top of the queue.

It goes something like this.

Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Ten minutes of just . . . barking.

Me: “YES! The mail guy finally brought something useful.”

I wait until he’s out of sight and then I open the door.

Now I’m excited. I rip into the red and white envelope expecting Fight Club or The Godfather: Part II only to find some horribly obscure made-for-video cartoon that’s playing THIS VERY SECOND on The LAME Channel.

For the love of GOD, don’t F with my Q!!

Editor’s Note: This post was created in 20 minutes and was not thoroughly proofed for errors.

 

 

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Just Face It, Eating Face Is Gross

30 May

The snacker on the left, the snackee on the right

This story is scary, bizarre, sick and will likely give me nightmares tonight. If I wake up chewing off my wife’s face, I’m going to be in big trouble. I mean, like, sleeping-on-the-couch-for-a-week in trouble.

A naked man was shot dead when he wouldn’t stop chewing the face off of a second naked man on the side of a busy highway. The cop said something like “Hey man, stop chewing face!” The cannibal looked up and growled at the officer before resuming his human snack. That’s when the cop made the boneheaded decision to shoot him.

The guy was unarmed. (The victim was unfaced . . . hee hee) No hidden weapons in his butt. Why shoot him? Taze him, squirt that stingy stuff in his eyes, knock him in the head with your stick. What are those things called? Batons? Call for back-up.

Was it the growl? Come on copper. Just because a human growls at you doesn’t mean you’re dealing with The Wolf Man. The attacker’s teeth, the only “weapon” to speak of, were HUMAN teeth. Not a big threat to the cop. Obviously, the cop was shaken and failed to think it through and wanted to quickly put an end to what his peepers were seeing.

I’d shoot this

Here’s the most gruesome quote from the article: ”He had his face eaten down to his goatee. The forehead was just bone. No nose, no mouth.”

I’m getting woozy. That’s so disgusting.

Anyway, since I’m all into healthy living, I guess all I can comment on is the nutritiousness of eating human flesh. I would not recommend eating human face, either raw or cooked. I’m a vegan, but let’s pretend I’m not. Let me think about it for a second . . . okay, I’ve come to a decision about face eating: No, I wouldn’t eat face . . . or feet . . . or thigh.

Of course, I wouldn’t lie down naked on the side of the highway either. I’m totally against bits of glass and rocks poking into my knees and elbows. Ouch. Also, people spit and toss nasty liquids from their windows. That’s just . . . nasty.

Okay, let’s just say for fun that I would eat a guy’s face. I wouldn’t eat a filthy homeless man. I mean, I scrub my organic apples; why would I snack on a guy who hasn’t showered since Kung Fu Panda was in theaters?

Okay, it’s no longer fun, let’s stop pretending.

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