Body Building

When I was 21, I weighed a painful 108 lbs. I had a 26 inch waist. I could not buy anything off the rack unless it was in the Boys department, which I refused to do. It was just embarrassing.

You know how when you're a teenager, all you wanted was to grow up as fast as you could, so that you could live your own life? I wanted it so much, but my body fought it the whole time, resisting each inch, each pound, as if it was some burden to carried, like a humpback, club foot or a heavily jeweled tiara.

Shortly after I turned 21, I made plans to move to a Big City. I didn't know where, but I didn't care. Any Big City with a vibrant scene will do: Chicago. New York. Cincinnati. I didn't care. Get me out of the sticks. I wanted to hear music. I wanted to see the bright lights. I wanted to use a glory hole.

I wanted to get laid, but I found out that my appeal only went to a subset of the gay population that saw M. Butterfly and subsequently fetishized Asians to be some docile, delicate, dramatic diva. Notice the alliteration.

In the Big City I started working out, lifting weights. I ate a lot of eggs, chicken breasts, nuts. Taken pills, supplements and other fart-inducing protein powders. On the outside, my body had gained forty pounds of muscle. But in my head, I didn't gain a ounce. Like a funhouse mirror, the reflection of me was that of a beanpole.

But my wrists are still relic; as if the rest of my body grew up, but my wrists are still that of that an awkward teen. I buy chunky, metallic watches to counter the flimsiness of my wrists. Even now as I type this, my wrists mock me.

Sometimes, in brief flashes of the mirror, I will see the image of myself that others see. But in a blink, that image is gone.

I Understand If You Don't

When I read your latest post, I thought about calling mom. Do you even know that I read your blog?

It sounded desperate: Sometimes I really don't know if I can hold on much longer. I’m tired and I just want to die. Then, you wrote that you were willing yourself to hold just a little longer, just until you are too tired to stay awake.

You’ve been going through depression for such a long time and I don’t know if you’ve just given up on the meds or given up on life and the possibility that it won’t get any better than it is now for you.

I know what it was like, when death seemed preferable than going on. For me, the choice was to have the strength to leave everything and go somewhere and start over, to be the "real me."

I don’t know if running away from home like I did would help you. I don’t think so.

Maybe you don’t need to run away from home. But maybe talking with other people who are going through the same thing would help. I don’t know. Maybe you need different meds.

For a few days, I was afraid that I would get a frantic call from J in the middle of the night. I left my cellphone on instead of turning it off like I usually do. When I saw your facebook status--just a cellphone pic of a half-eaten hamburger--I was relieved. I know it doesn’t mean a thing, but maybe you found a way to hold on just for another week, just another month.

Please hold on. But I understand if you don't.

Downlow

This time it will be for me. This time, only you who are still here will know.

He Is Risen

Pics from the Ecce Homo series by Elisabeth Ohlson Wallin

Dusty

Dusting off this thing.

Been poking around the site and checking out what I had written before. It's a bit strange looking at these posts, these memories.

I updated the template, customized it a bit. I had a lot of great ideas for the blog which I still may yet do. Maybe. I don't know if I have the time to devote to it this time. I know this about myself: my projects start with a small burst of energy which sometimes will snowball into something big. I don't know if this small burst is that. I guess you'll have to see...

Sorry

Hey guys, sorry I haven't posted for awhile. It's not that I haven't thought about it, I have, but every time I start to write something, it's just been too depressing.

I have come to the conclusion that for me, blogging is not something I do when I feel like I am in a precarious situation at work.

While I am not imminently in any danger of losing my job, I feel like somehow it is, even though it's irrational. Yes, yes, in this economic climate, we are all in some danger and I acknowledge that. But in my case, it's my new-ish boss, who has made the work environment really toxic. I feel like every day, if I screw up just one time (and everybody screws up, let's face it) I will get shit-canned.

In a different economy, I would've already left. But right now, I gotta keep my head down and be unobtrusive. Being a star can go both ways--people notice you and then they notice you screw up. This is extremely hard for me because one, I like to do good work and two, I am a stah goddamn it--I need the spotlight.

So, blogging has not been a priority. Nor has remixing. Or even updating my Facebook status. I would Twitter but I just can't find the energy to integrate it with this site.

I just wanted to update this so that when people get here, the last post isn't about some fucking toilet paper roll.

That's it for now. I hope you are doing well. I hope you are working. And if your last post was about something stupid, think about it, you probably want to update it with something, anything or maybe even with nothing.

Toilet Paper Roll

When a toilet paper roll is yet to be unfurled, its direction is unknown. Like cellophane tape, you see the edge, the line, but you don't know its direction. Clockwise, counter-clockwise, it's a mystery. Until you pick at it and then suddenly, you know, and the toilet paper knows, its direction.

I had put in a new toilet paper roll yesterday. As I sat on the toilet, I started picking at the end of the roll and found that it rolled backwards. Now I have an existential dilemma: do I take out the roll and re-install it the correct way, or just just wait for the roll to run out in a couple of weeks?

I left the toilet roll as it is. There are about 250 sheets in a roll. I already used about 14 sheets.

Does what I do tell me more about who I am as a person, a human being? Does it speak about my personal habits? Does it illuminate the frequency in which I take a dump?

Why do I think these thoughts when I am sitting on the toilet?

Chicago Missed Connections

As seen on Chicago's craigslist:

FFC E Lakeview - m4m - 29 (Stairs)
We past each other and I glanced down the stairs and saw you looking up. Was around 7:30 I think. I think we have a future together.

Straight (?) guy at my gym... - m4m - 26 (Chicago Park District)
You: Tall, muscled white guy at gym in tight black tank top and red shorts. You looked hot benchpressing 220. Me: also tall, white muscled guy who spotted you. Tell me where my mole is located on my face and how many hairs are sprouting from it.

Sidetrack Sunday - m4m - 38 (Sidetrack)
I was there with a bunch of friends, you were there with your tall friend. We were in the glass bar chatting. We headed to eat dinner and I left without getting your number. Tell me what hat you were wearing and what you do for a living so I know it's you. I'm very interested in your tall friend.

nice guy in a blue blazer suv - m4m - 28 (franklin park)
u used to pick me up and take me to your place. I miss you would love to hear from you again but you have a restraining order against me.

looking for charming ace - do you know him? - m4m - 31 (Lincoln Park )
i don't know your real name. you are persian and everyone called you ace. you are gentle, handsome, polite and smart. i'm sure that you meet a lot of people but hopefully you can guess who this is. we met at a birthday party last week, i was wearing glasses and a brown shirt, but you were too busy being popular lol. i wanted to talk to you more but you didn't come back from the bathroom after i told you about my herpes. your big eyes and smile are unforgettable. what are the chances that i can see you again? Matt

Burning - Redux

Remember back to when I first reported a burning sensation I had back there? You don't? I don't know why you would forget such an important event in my life that involved my butthole. I question your loyalty.

Anyway, once in a while it flares up and I wondered why I am suddenly plagued by this when I am pretty hygenic in that area, as you never know when somebody will have to come by and kiss my ass at work.

But newsflash, I read on the internet that using the 'personal moist wipes' instead of toilet paper can cause anal itching due to the excessive moisture and/or the chemicals or perfumes that are in the wipes.

I was aghast. This was a paradigm shift for me. That this could be the cause of itching is quite distressing as the moist wipes are very very comfortable. The idea of going back to my old way of butt cleansing, you know, with leaves, is troubling. I will have to research this further and report back to you...

Recession Depression

It's really not that easy to stay upbeat in this recession. Some of my friends here at work have lost their jobs. The worst part about it is the Survivor's Guilt that I am feeling, that I am still here and they are gone. I mean, would it be better if there was an Elimination Ceremony, complete with tiki torches? It's hokey but I suspect that it would be better than this emptiness, this sudden vacuum. I'm sorry it was them, but at the same time, it's like, better you than me, better you than me...

In With The New...

With the Inauguration of our new President, the White House website has been updated.

I don't think I had expected to see LGBT issues to be front and center at the new website, but I was totally surpised and delighted to see it. Here's the Agenda for Civil Rights at whitehouse.gov:

Support for the LGBT Community

"While we have come a long way since the Stonewall riots in 1969, we still have a lot of work to do. Too often, the issue of LGBT rights is exploited by those seeking to divide us. But at its core, this issue is about who we are as Americans. It's about whether this nation is going to live up to its founding promise of equality by treating all its citizens with dignity and respect."

-- Barack Obama, June 1, 2007

Dumpster Diving

I knew, of course, that one day this would happen to me, that I would end up in the dumpster, though the mere idea of it tickles the vomit-trigger in the back of my throat. I mean, it's irrational I know, but for some reason, I always knew that I would actually end up in a dumpster at some point in my life. I don't know why, I don't have a fetish for it or anything.

I've fished things out of the dumpster--I mean, who hasn't? Lamps, home accessories, a half-eaten hamburger--but you don't get in the dumpster for that. Most of the time, like the lampshade I found, it's barely even touching any garbage or rotten food in there. And although there may be a few flies hanging on it, one can easily shake them off.

Also, it seems that these days, people in our neighborhood will just set the things out beside the dumpster instead of in it, as a form of recycling. I fully subscribe to this. I believe that by recycling, we can lower our carbon footprint. So, when we had decided to get a new living room set, I took the old sofa, the end tables and a few old knickknacks and left them by the dumpster in our back alley.

In order to encourage someone to take them, I even arranged the furniture and things in such a way that they could imagine how this stuff would look like in their own living rooms. I draped a throw blanket casually on one end of the sofa. I angled the end table to create interest. I was tempted to run upstairs and get a small votive candle which would be great for this look, but I stopped myself. This was junk after all. I didn't want it to look perfect.

The finished look, with the brick wall of our building as the background and our gritty alley, was not unlike some urban/derelict/loft look that I see in CB2 catalogs. In fact, I think I did such a good job, that I checked the CB2 catalog afterwards to see if they had a dumpster in there for me to buy and put in my own living room. Maybe a smallish one, painted a bright distressed orange or something.

But this morning, I had been in a hurry to get to work and I had hooked my car keys on one finger along with three bags of trash. As I threw the trash into the dumpster, the key fell off my finger.

At first, it was just sitting on top of one of the garbage bags, but as I leaned into the dumpster to try to reach for it, it slipped further down. I had only one chance to get the keys as it would be out of my reach if it moved one more inch.

But as I stood on tiptoe to reach for the keys, the dumpster moved and there it went--my keys slipped to the bottom.

For a few seconds I wondered if I really had to go into the dumpster, especially since I was wearing a nice jacket and I had a cute tie on, ferchrissakes. But, you know, this is like when some dude asks you when you're giving him a blowjob if "it isn't the biggest fucking dick you've ever seen", it's rhetorical. It isn't the biggest dick you've ever seen, but why blow the moment? So you just nod your head and wait until he's asleep and then steal his wallet.

There's only one thing that comes to mind when you're standing in the middle of a dumpster, pushing garbage around, fishing for your keys, and that's "how pathetic am I for being in here and what a fucking ass of a boyfriend do I have that I have to throw out the garbage and make me drop my keys into this shit."

It doesn't matter that it was my fault that the keys fell in, and the three bags of garbage are all filled with empty beer cans and wine bottles that I'm mostly responsible for. He's the one to blame for me standing in there, with some clammy wet thing oozing into my shoe...

Ghosts of Chicago

John McNally, ever the self-promoter (just like moi), had sent me a copy of his new book and asked me to write a review of it in Amazon. Honestly, I try not to write the straight review, because that's just not me, but I don't think the readers on Amazon would get my usual style, so here I am.

To his credit, John didn't say that I had to write a good review, but he did sweeten the pot by offering me his autograph. Anyway, I read the book, which is a short collection, and I enjoyed it immensely. In my review below, I talked a little bit about my favorite stories in the collection.

John McNally's new story collection Ghosts of Chicago is full of portents, mysterious circumstances and haunted people. McNally has the ability to get to the essence of his characters and allow them to live their stories. And just like real life, they are full of unexpected events and comic turns. There is ravaged beauty, bits of magic and hopefulness in these stories.

The book opens with "Return Policy," a very affecting story about Mark Timbers, whose wife had left him after 18 years of marriage. Mark gathers up all the items in his house that were given to him as wedding presents and sends them back to their givers, because he felt that he no longer deserved them. Along the way, he attracts a stray dog, a dead cat, a deadbeat neighbor and the sales girl from a department store that was going out of business. How the story ends, demonstrates how people come together in times of grief. It brought tears to my eyes.

In "I See Johnny," a young woman, known to us only as Miss Betsy, is the host of a successful local children’s TV show. The titular Johnny is the boy Miss Betsy dated when she was 16, who was killed in Korea. The title refers to a segment in her show where she holds up a hand mirror (with the mirror removed) to the camera, and calls out the names of the children who have written letters to the show, "I see Martha! I see Jim!" What seemed strange to Miss Betsy is that even though there are lots of mail, she never sees Johnny. There are no little boys named Johnny. Every week she looks for Johnny, whose very name evokes some nameless longing in her.

Who hasn’t tried to play detective and try to track down somebody from their past? In "The Immortals," Rudy is sitting in an El train when he glimpses a woman standing outside who he recognizes but whose face he can’t place. The woman sees Rudy, recognizes him and calls out to him as the train leaves the station. Too late, Rudy remembered who this woman was: Leila, his ex-wife whom he hadn’t seen in 15 years. Leila took all their photo albums when they divorced after a brief marriage, telling him that it will be easier for him to forget her if he couldn’t remember what she looked like. A year after this chance encounter, Rudy picks up another lead on the whereabouts of his ex-wife, who is rumored to have been decapitated...

In “Men Who Love Women Who Love Men Who Kill,” Brandon Dawson is dating a girl who is in still love with a man in Death Row. Today, however, is the day that man is to be sent to the electric chair and Brandon goes out to buy an engagement ring. However, the fates are conspiring against him...

The Silverfish is the unlikely superhero in "The Remains of The Night," but this story is about his butler. Crazy.

Author James Frey was crucified by Oprah for not being completely factual in his biography, A Million Pieces. In a similar fashion, in "The Memoirist," an author may have fudged his facts a little too far, and his readers are going to give him a taste of his own medicine.

In "Contributor’s Notes," what seems like a straightforward biography about the author John McNally, turns into a hilarious romp with the type of punch-in-the-gut writing that shows us McNally’s mastery of the short story form. I loved this story! And what’s even better is the twist in the ending which was so unexpected that I was frickin’ amazed at McNally’s inventiveness. It's the perfect story to end the collection. And as I turn to the backflap, and there is this photo of John, in a Chicago Bears cap, scruffy beard, peering sexily above his dark frames...

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Related posts:

Author Stalker - How does it feel to stalk one of your favorite authors?

Interview with John McNally - If you like 'em rough, troublemakers are his specialty. Check out The Book of Ralph.

Responses

Hmmmn. Not the avalanche that I expected, but here are a couple of responses I got for my Ad on craigslist:

This one seems to be from some girl who thinks I have drugs.

Hay, I use to be a lesbian, but now I am with a guy. (Don't worry we are 100% drama free no one thinks you are gonna put your eg roll anywhere!) But I was just wondering if you played guitar? I have been looking on craigs list for a gay guy to just hang out with. I had a best friend who was gay in Cali but then I moved here to Chicago and miss that best friend relationship between a guy and girl with out sex. I got a guira for christmas and I am not good at all but I am trying. I have asked for one since I was like 7 and they finally get me one when I am 19. Ha, anyways I too am way into comic books (LOve YOU BATMAN!), music, love hip hop and other verious things. If you don't mind a beginner to just kick it with then get back at me.
Also 420 friendly 8)

-kaitlyn

This one just wants to give a shout-out and also brag about the fact that she has a band.

I thought your ad was funny incidentally.

I'm not gay, but I like guys as friends. Unfortunately, guys only pretty much want women friends they want to sleep with.

i started with guitars years ago--who didn't? and moved into vocals and drums, along with keys and bass. I have a band of my own--huge Journey fan. To the point of tattooing.

I laughed twice reading what you wrote: the Dolce thing, and the eggroll line. You must know 99.6 percent of what's up here is barely literate, much less cleverly funny.

Michelle

Curiously, no guys have tried to hook-up with me. What? Did gay guys suddenly develop modesty and chastity this new year?

Sigh. I guess I will have to find some new guitar friends in my class, the old-fashioned way, by pretending to be somebody completely different from myself...

Personal Ad

You know, when I was single, I hated personal ads, primarily because I thought that most of them were deceitful, if not outright lies--or at least the ones I wrote were.

I mean, it suited my needs pretty well: I exaggerated my physical appearance to the point that I might've been describing Colin Farrell, even to the point of posting a candid shot of a younger Colin.

That people tended to be surprised when an Asian guy opens the door didn't bother me; everybody knows the biggest hurdle you have is to get the guy off the computer and out of his house. After that, it's a downhill ride, because once the guy took the time to meet you, more than likely they'll just say: fuck it, I'm already here, I might as well get a blowjob from this Asian guy, maybe I'll get a fortune cookie afterwards. Do you know that you can get a bag of fortune cookies for $2.50?

It's been a long time since I've thought about putting up another personal ad. And the some circumstances have changed as well: I'm no longer single; I am a decade older, but I still want to meet new people, particularly ones that can play guitar so I can improve my own skillz.

However, I've had to think long and hard about what to write in my new ad so that I don't, one, sound like some pathetic loser; two, creepy non-stop masturbating perv; three, fresh-off-the-boat Asian. And I have to do this, even though I am all three. I feel like it would be easier to just show up and bring a fortune cookie--I still have half a bag full.

But after some serious heart-searching, and using the creative definitions of "normal" and "sane," I posted the following ad on craigslist.

Gay Guy seeks Guitar Grrl

i'm looking to improve my barre chords, so would like to find a gay girl(s) to hang out with and play guitar. i'm a gay guy living in rogers park, chicago, 30s, asian. i'm not a straight guy impersonating a homosexual and to prove that, i can tell you the first names of dolce & gabbana: domenico and stefano. there's no way a straight guy would know that.

why a lesbian? because i really don't want to deal with guys thinking that this is going to end up with some hook-up. ok, i do, but i already have a separate craigslist ad for that--look for the one where it goes "asian guy looking to deliver thick and meaty eggroll".

we could also talk about comic books, the films of charlie kaufman and my obsession with this hot guy i work with and why he doesn't know that i'm crushing on him. then you and i can abduct him and throw him in the back of your pick-up truck. i'm just kidding. we won't do anything of the sort, we can just talk about ways i can stalk him on the internet.

we could meet at the Old Town School of Folk Music on Lincoln where i am going to take an indigo girls guitar class in january. here's the set list i prepared for our first meeting:

1. brian wilson - barenaked ladies (to break the ice)
2. limp - fiona apple (getting a bit serious and deep)
3. hold on - wilson phillips (to end on a happy and hopeful note)

you can propose an alternate set list as long as fiona apple is in it.

I purposely wrote in smallcaps to lend an air of playfulness coupled with an underlying pretentiousness and condescension. I am expecting an avalanche of responses.

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Related posts:

Wanted: Friend - What's the price of friendship?

#1 Single - Lisa Loeb and I are this close. The unlikely friendship of a popstar and a blogger.

Last Will and Testament

In the past few months, I have thought a lot about my Will. I've talked to my boyfriend about what to do in the event of my death.

My death. Sounds sad, melancholy but also, strangely erotic. I know some people prefer the word 'passing' or 'passed' as a euphemism for death, but I don't. It sounds like I died and was farted into oblivion. I can just hear some old biddy saying, "he's passed from this Earth." When I'm dead, please feel free to use 'dead' or even 'kicked the bucket. Or better yet, you can use 'bought the big one' to honor my life as a Size Queen.

Also, I have to do this in case my boyfriend and my mother have a fight about what to do with my heavily muscled cadaver. She's a traditionalist. She believes that I should be laid in state, in a frilly coffin with heavy make-up. I absolute forbid any make-up on my person, unless manufactured by Christian Dior. Also, it must be completely and utterly hypo-allergenic, as my dead skin will break out. Please also consult my color chart as I am an Autumn.

Now, how do I sign this to make it legal and binding? I can't use a pen--writing on my screen will ruin my internet porn-viewing activities. Okokok, here's what I'll do: I'll use a word that I don't normally use in conversation and I'll designate that word to be my signature. The word I choose is 'tittyfuck'. Henceforth, when you see this word on this site, it is my de facto signature, ok?

So here goes:

I, Paul a.k.a. "No Milk," solemnly swear on my stack of Honcho magazines, that this is my Last Will and Testament.

Please do not procure a coffin or plot or funeral services other than that to cremate my heavily muscled body. I do not want to waste any money on such frivolous activities to mourn my passing. Please cremate my remains. However, do not call the leftovers as "cremains." I don't think it makes it more palatable, just like "craisins" doesn't make dried cranberries less icky.

If a memorial is to be held, please gather in some suitable karaoke bar and sing my favorite lesbian songs. Rob! has free rein to sing any song a la Fred Schneider of The B-52's. Somebody will have to do a Michael McDonald impression, since I will not be present to do On My Own (duet with Patti LaBelle). If possible, I'd like Annie to play a cover of a Chris Mills song on her guitar. Annie, start practicing now. By the time I'm dead, you should be able to manage it.

As to the disposal of my ashes, please spread them in some location that is appropriate to my memory, like the Belmont Harbor, Wrigley Field, or the alley behind the Lucky Horseshoe where I got my first blowjob. Please save a small amount to be kept in safe place until such time that it can be thrown into Ann Coulter's face, hopefully in her next book signing.

Financial arrangements will be handled in a separate document, but please transfer all my substantial credit card debt to Elisabeth Hasselbeck. I want her to remember me every time she opens her mouth on The View.

I hope you all will remember me when I am gone as the cultured, funny, wise and good looking friend who loved you. And if you can't do that, just super-impose George Clooney's face on your memory of me.

I love you all,
tittyfuck
(signature)

A Brief Note

On the passage of California's Proposition 8, the constitutional amendment to define marriage as between one man and one woman:

This is a setback, but we have time on our side. I truly believe that we are moving ever closer to gaining equal marriage rights. Don't believe the right-wing. We are winning. Remember when we were in the closet? When coming out as gay was the big hurdle? People don't even care about that anymore.

Here's why I think we are going to win:

We are coming out with our relationships. We are having commitment ceremonies, and we are inviting the world to attend them. We are having children and sending them to schools and having play dates. We are coming out as families.

This is the most important thing: we are coming out as people.

When the world sees that our homosexuality doesn't define us as persons, that we are just the same as anybody else, then they understand that it shouldn't be the reason for denying us our fundamental rights.

Here's my call to action: you've already come out to your friends, family and co-workers. Now, when you have a party, a play date, a ceremony, a shower, a performance, a sports event, anything that you may invite just your gay-affirming friends to, invite someone else you may haven't thought of as accepting.

Let them see us. Let them see how we are just like them, and it will chip away at their resistance.

And having a great hors d'oeuvre plate and fancy cocktails can only help.

Election Day

It's 6am right now and I've been awake since 5:15am. I am anxious, nervous, paranoid but then I remembered to take my Xanax. Ten minutes later, the anxiety and nervousness melts away leaving just the paranoia. Now, I feel normal again.

Brian is still sleeping, softly snoring next to me, dreaming of a Democratic party win, an Obama win.

I lay in the dark planning the Election Day. Should I put on all my Obama campaign gear just in case it might sway a wavering voter? Or should I wear my usual slutty Saturday night outfit since it's been known to sway many a wavering guy? I decide to wear the slutty outfit, but put on an Obama button, pinning it on the fabric on my crotch just in case.

The polling location is just down the street from me. Four years ago, when I voted for John Kerry I was in and out in about 10 minutes. I remember the feeling of satisfaction I had entering the booth, which surprised me because I don't normally feel this way about a booth unless there was a glory hole somewhere in there.

This year could be different, there may be a line, which is both exciting and daunting. I can cruise the men and perform my civic duty at the same time.

When I became a citizen of this country, the last thing I was thinking that I was going to be able to vote. I was only thinking about how it would be easier to find a job, get credit. But now I realize how it has become this important privilege, to be able to elect this country's officials; far far more important than the ability to charge my purchases at Barneys.

I hope we can change the course of this country. I hope we win.

Get out and Vote!

I am hereby interrupting the silence on this blog to call on you to VOTE next Tuesday, November 4th.

If you're a gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered person, it is your duty to be counted every single time there is an election. If we don't vote, then we will never be heard. If politicians know that we are a mobilized group, then they can never put us in the margins or leave us out of the conversation!

If you're in California, you must Vote NO on Proposition 8! On Election Day, use your "I Voted Today" sticker as a pick-up line and get laid later. It works! I promise you.


Vote for Barack Obama!


Vote NO to Proposition 8!

Will

Sorry about my lack of blogging. My job is taking up a humongous amount of my time. I think of it as the evil penis vacuum pump that is slowly sucking out my will to live.

I'll be back soon.