The Life in My Years

An anthology of life

“Should we just go ahead and sign up for Apple TV?” I asked my wife, Cora. “It’s only ten bucks a month.”

“Sure why not.”

“Alright.” I answered. “The Giants are on Apple tonight, though I think it sucks that they’re starting to stream sports. Anyway, I’ve been wanting to watch Masters of the Air.

I walked to the home office and let out a sigh of resignation. Signing up for anything Apple meant that I would have to eat a small helping of crow – feathers, beak, and all. You see, I don’t have a love/hate relationship with Apple. No, I have a hate/hate relationship with Apple. I’m a hater. Yes I’m a dyed in the wool, bonafide, 100% pure hater of all things Apple.

My animus isn’t so much directed at Apple’s products and services as it is towards the Apple cult. Yes – cult (not unlike the MAGA cult only technologically discerning), Ask anyone of us, scum of the Earth, proletariat, lowlife, trailer park trash who uses a Dell computer or, horrors, an Android phone. We’ve all at one time, or many times, been denigrated by some Apple – head for being antediluvian slime.

For me it started in the early 1990’s with a coworker named Chris Smith. Chris took in the Apple snake oil intravenously and he made certain that the other four of us in our little purchasing office knew that we Windows users were lesser beings. Chris had even managed to convince management to allow him to set up his own personal Apple based system for office use while the rest of us were on a Windows platform.

On any given workday, the slightest Windows hiccup resulted in derision from Chris, followed by an annoying cackle that sounded like a dyspeptic goose.

Every year, Chris would take two days off to attend the annual, Apple convention and Steve Jobs love fest, held at San Francisco’s Moscone Center. So many idolaters would show up at Moscone to hear the apostle Steve Jobs deliver his homilies, that two blocks of Howard Street had to be closed off.

I never attended, of course, so I could only imagine what went on in that holy of holies. No Coors and chips there. No, I imagine they served oysters Rockefeller, tuna tartare, and of course Royal Beluga caviar. There was probably a 39 month aged Parmigiano-Reggiano served on slices of French baguette flown in from Paris which began as Cheese Whiz on Ritz until the apostle Steve transformed it by waving his staff and muttering a few divine incantations. Rumor had it that the Almighty Jobs stayed at a hotel in Berkeley (because, Berkeley) and walked across San Francisco Bay to preach at the convention.

After a few glasses of Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin Champagne, the guests could continue to the massage station where vestal virgins would rub out the cricks from the necks of pilgrims who had been holding their noses too long in the air.

“I say Jaspar,” said the distinguished man in a pink Gucci polo to Miles who was adjusting his Mulberry silk ascot. “Have you sampled the latest iPhone?”

“No, I missed that one. I walked 23 miles to the Apple Store a month in advance of the introduction and then stood in line braving three tornadoes and a blizzard. It was a ghastly experience and I was only able to survive by holding onto the faith that I would be able to lay my hand on that sacred device. Sadly, I didn’t manage to get in. I have tried the latest MacBook. It’s smashing, simply smashing.”

Jaspar took a sip of his Chardonnay that had hints of strawberry and oak.

Yeah, I’ll give ya a fuckin oak to sip on, ya hifalutin bastard.

Oh yeah, about those lines that form outside of Apple Stores when the latest communion, er, phone, is introduced. This is the kind of behavior I used to see when teens lined up to get the latest Jordans. But seriously, grown ass adults waiting to be the first on the block to get the latest phone which is allegedly already obsolete (Apple denies planned obsolescence, because any large corporation would deny such malfeasance)? Grow the fuck up.

Chris Smith moved to Colorado some time ago and took his cackle and his Macbook with him.

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“Save Democracy!!”

It’s the battle cry dujour. Google, “save democracy,” and you’ll get an almost endless list of articles about throwing America’s drowning democracy a lifeline. There’s even a 10 week course on how to reboot America’s democracy. As if 10 weeks would be enough.

The pundits and the hacks are all over “Saving the American Democracy.”

“Save the democracy,” says Jake Tapper on CNN. “Our democracy is at stake,” cries Alex Wagner on MSNBC. Jesse Watters over on Fox also wants to “Save America’s democracy.” As do Sean Hannity, Jen Psaki, Tim Miller, Jon Favreau, Mike Murphy and a legion of other opinionators.

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Santa Claus strikes me as being a bit creepy. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After getting over my Bruceville gloom (see previous post), I set out, eastbound, for French Lick, hometown of hated former Boston Celtic, Larry Bird. “The hick from French Lick,” they called him. Still do I guess. Back in the day, I had other choice names for him. None quite so flattering as  “hick.” It was the 1980s, the era that many consider the golden years of the National Basketball Association.

I was a Los Angeles Lakers fan and naturally my favorite player was Earvin “Magic” Johnson. The Johnson and Bird rivalry that went back to their college days when Johnson’s Michigan State Spartans defeated Bird’s Indiana State Sycamores to win the 1979 NCAA Championship captivated basketball fans worldwide. That classic matchup still ranks high in number of viewers. 

You were either Bird or Magic. There was no in-between. No self respecting Laker fan could feel anything but enmity towards Bird. “Larry Legend,” could’ve cured cancer and then walked across the oceans to feed the world’s hungry and he would still be that fucking guy. Of course, the ill will went both ways. And still, fans of the one bestowed grudging credit to the hated other.

So why drive eastbound, halfway across Indiana to French Lick when I should be heading due south to New Harmony?

Because.

Because decades after the rivalry that was so magical, a rivalry that literally lifted the NBA out of the doldrums that it had been languishing in, I’m feeling a pull. Fucking Larry Bird broke my heart countless times during that fabulous decade, but still, I realize that without Larry Legend, that golden age of basketball would’ve never existed except maybe in some cheap sports novel. I have to pay homage to the villain of my early adulthood. 

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“Leaving home was one of the easiest big decisions I’ve ever made. But once I left home, continuing the journey until it reached some kind of sensible conclusion or fully played itself out, was another matter – one of the hardest things I’ve ever attempted.” ~ William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways.

‘Just drive,’ I tell myself. ‘You’ll get over it – again.’

I’m a month into the road trip and the next stop is New Harmony, Indiana.

I hadn’t planned on New Harmony when I started this trip. In fact I hadn’t planned on most of my destinations with the exception of Omaha, where I landed, and from where I’ll depart back for home.

I decided on New Harmony only a week ago while staying in a Best Western in Hannibal, Missouri. I’d already planned the next two stops. Two nights in Springfield, Illinois to visit the Lincoln Presidential Library and then two nights in Marshall, Illinois as a base to go take in the Parke County (Indiana) Covered Bridge Festival.

Where to after that?

Fuck if I know.

Stuck.

With a mind to drive into Kentucky and then touch West Virginia, I spread some maps out on the bed. I’m not averse to using Google but spreading out a paper map or three provides a bigger picture.

Part of the goal of this excursion has been to hunt for some names that stand out. I’ve touched Nimrod, Ten Strike, Athens (not Greece), Paris (certainly not France), and Virginia (not the state). Scanning the maps I saw, Princeton (likely not the university), Poseyville, Mt. Vernon (not New York) and Geneva (absolutely not Switzerland). I found the town of Santa Claus which I considered for half a moment before trashing that notion. I can only stomach Christmas for three weeks max and certainly not in October. Hell, in some of the places I’ve been, the retailers are already jamming Christmas down our throats and it’ll only get worse.

There, in the southwest corner of Indiana was New Harmony.

Harmony is a good thing. Right? New Harmony, contemporary harmony, any old harmony; one can never get enough harmony. New Harmony it was. Not only did the name attract me, but its location, on the shore of the historic Wabash River, helped close the deal.

Lodging was an easy find. There it was, The Old Rooming House. The Old Rooming House, in New Harmony. It doesn’t get any more seductive than that. The price per night was a mere sixty dollars. There was no online reservation system so I phoned the number and got Jim. Jim was chatty and started giving me a tour of New Harmony even before I told him I was looking for a room. Was I talking to the innkeeper or the tourist bureau?

When I made the reservation Jim told me he only takes checks or cash. That was fine with me. He also instructed me what to do if he wasn’t there when I arrived. He explained that around the side of the building near the little parking area there would be a chalkboard which would have my name and room number. Just walk in and make myself at home. Final payment could be made by leaving the check or the cash in my room if he wasn’t around. There was a lot of trust involved. When I told a friend of mine about the arrangement she was convinced that Jim was a fool. I felt otherwise. Jim trusts in the goodness of people and lives by that, and if someone takes advantage it’s more the perpetrator’s problem.

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The aircraft is on approach, circling the regal city known as “La Dominante.” Forehead leaning against the window I look down and easily pick out the features. There’s the Grand Canal, busy with water traffic; vaporettos, working boats, and pleasure craft. I can even see the gondolas, little water bugs bobbing on canals big and small. Over there is Piazza San Marco and across the water the distinctive Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute.

Venetzia.

As the plane circles, my view becomes blurred by tears. My heart, the heart that has always rested in the warm Tuscan soil, is happy. The ancient voices of the Caesars speak to me. Il Tevere, (the Tiber River) courses through my veins. The delicious aromas of i mercati di Roma kiss the air I breathe. Looking down I realize that the pull I’ve always felt is stronger than I could’ve known; an irresistible connection. Even though I’ve never spent more than a month in Italy at one time, this feels like my homecoming.

I was nurtured in the Italian way by my mother, an Italian war bride, and her mother, my Nonna Maria. They molded our family culture and founded our traditions. My ties to Italy have tightened, as the country of my birth, the place where I’ve spent all of my life has turned into an angry place, a dis-United States that has pivoted from the place I’ve known, loved, and been proud of, into a burgeoning autocracy, ruined by a cheap carny turned president who, with the help of his acolytes, has ripped away the decency of the office, torn down national traditions, and disdained the Constitution. Now I turn to bella Italia for solace.

The plane completes its lethargic arc and straightens its approach. As we lose altitude I watch the highway of boats, the vaporettos and swift water taxis maneuvering between an aquatic highway delineated by strips of buoys. The water, even from high above, appears choppy and I worry about how Cora, a non-swimmer, suspicious of boats, will fare.

***

Close to touchdown, water looms. It isn’t unlike landing at SFO, where you get the unnerving feeling that the plane will splash down rather than touch down. Old timers like me know the drill at SFO. Just a moment after you see the strip of airport hotels on the San Mateo Peninsula to the west, you look down and there’s land.

Of course old locals like me can remember back to 1968, when a JAL DC-8 ditched into the fog bound bay near Coyote Point, two and a half miles short of the runway. There were no casualties except for the egos of the pilot and the copilot, and the jangled nerves of passengers, but had the plane landed a short distance further from the runway it would have exploded into a public park.

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Call this a memory jogger. Or call it a cautionary tale. Call it both. This is a look back to that period between June 15th, 2015 and, well, now. It’s also a peek into what America’s future might look like.

The way we were

We didn’t know it at the time, but that June day in 2015 kicked off what was one of the darkest periods in the history of the world, certainly of the United States. That was the day that Donald Trump announced his candidacy in what was not so much a speech as it was an angry, racist rant. It was also a warning of what was to come. A warning that wasn’t heeded in November of 2016 and what might be ignored again this coming November.

There was no ambiguity at all. Trump laid his filthy cards on the table for all to see. In the best known riff from his speech, Trump put his racism out for the world to see as he blamed Mexico for willfully consigning criminals to the U.S. “When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best. They’re sending people that have lots of problems, and they’re bringing those problems with us [sic]. They’re bringing drugs, they’re bringing crime, they’re rapists. And some, I assume, are good people.”

Trump’s announcement warned us all that he and the truth are not on speaking terms. Hell, they’re barely acquainted – if at all. Among his lies that first day, Trump claimed that the Islamic State had built a hotel in Syria. Well, they didn’t build a hotel, they appropriated the Ninawa International Hotel after it was closed down in the middle of a war. And they didn’t run it as a hotel. And, it isn’t in Syria, it’s in Mosul.

With his boorish behavior on that day in June, Trump flashed a bright yellow warning light that told the world he’s a lowbrow, no class, asshole.

In those early days, most Republican office holders saw the impending iceberg and started heading for the lifeboats. Over the successive days, weeks, and months to come, when it appeared that Trump’s populist snake oil was being bought by the electorate in giant, economy sized jugs, that iceberg started looking more and more like an ice cube to far too many of those Republicans and they decided to take a ride on Trump’s ship of fools. (My apologies for the mixed metaphors. Sometimes I can’t help myself.)

Trump showed everyone exactly who he was when he publicly humiliated his opponents. He called Marco Rubio, “little Marco;” Jeb Bush “an embarrassment to the Bush family;” and called Ted Cruz’s wife ugly and his father an accessory in the JFK assassination. And all of those individuals showed just how cowardly and feckless they could be when they all folded like cards and ended up as disgraceful, whimpering lap dogs to Trump.

The whole world witnessed the mayhem that characterized Trump’s term. His foreign policy, if you could call it that, was an abject disgrace. He cozied up to Kim Jong Un while North Korea bloated its nuclear stockpile. He lionized Putin. He withdrew the U.S. from international agreements and institutions. He nearly broke up the NATO alliance.

At home? The list is long and undistinguished. He botched the COVID response that left millions to die when they probably didn’t have to (remember the dark comedy about injecting bleach?). He passed a tax cut for the rich that was supposed to benefit the middle class, but was just a game of three card monty that screwed the people who needed the relief the most. He packed the Supreme Court with two conservative hacks who likely perjured themselves, and one religious zealot. It’s a court that has done more to take away rights than any previous court in history.

And of course there was the boorishness, the misogyny (“grab them by the pussy”), the racism (fine people at Charlottesville, and the mingling with known racists), the meanness (remarking about a trip to a WWI cemetery that contained American dead, “Why should I go to that cemetery? It’s filled with losers.”), the autocratic leanings, and the countless episodes of turning on people who weren’t reverent enough for his liking. The wretched cur that bites the hand that feeds him.

He was an absolute disgrace. He refused to hang Obama’s presidential portrait in the White House. When he invited the National Champion Clemson University football team to the White House he feted them with stacks of McDonald’s hamburgers (who in the fuck does that?). There were the temper tantrums that left ketchup on the White House walls. There was the violent removal of peaceful protesters at Lafayette Square, done just so that he could pose in front of a church, while holding a Bible (a book he’s never read).

After criticizing President Obama for taking a few golf trips (98 over four years) and promising he would be too busy, Trump spent all, or part of, over 260 days on the golf course at a taxpayer expense of over $144,000,000 (in his first term, Obama played 113 rounds of golf).

And then there were the lies. Donald Trump proved to be a world class liar. During a mere four years, Trump tallied an estimated 30,373 lies, from little stretchers to colossal whoppers. That comes out to an eye popping 20.9 prevarication per day. And that only accounts for the ones that could be reported. It’s actually a truly marvelous feat that could be worthy of a spot in The Guinness Book of World Records.

And it all culminated on January 6th, 2021 with an insurrection. That, after he damaged American’s faith in the legitimacy of elections.

For nearly four years, Trump has been throwing a nationwide, oh woe is me, pity party. Hardly a day goes by that we don’t hear, “treated unfairly,” “treated badly,” “persecuted,” and his all-time favorite, “witch hunt.” All of this from a pathetic snowflake who has made a career out of bullying people. Any parent would send such a petulant child to timeout, if not a trip to the woodshed.

Trump’s reckless, self-centered behavior has caused destruction that will likely not be repaired for years if not decades. As my wife often says, “He’s ruined this country.”

And maybe the most maddening part is that the ruination was caused, not by a man with a political philosophy or a cogent world view, but by a mean spirited two bit con-man; a narcissistic charlatan without a cause.

But that was then.

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“Western fully understood that he owed his existence to Adolf Hitler. That the forces of history which had ushered his troubled life in the tapestry were those of Auschwitz and Hiroshima, the sister events that sealed forever the fate of the West.” ~ The Passenger by Cormac McCarthy

Cormac McCarthy’s fictional character, Bobby Western, and I share a common beginning. Western’s mother and father met while working on the Manhattan Project, the enterprise that built the atomic bomb which would have been forestalled but for Hitler starting a worldwide dust up. My own debut also came about as a result of World War II.

While I was aware that my parents met in Rome sometime during the closing months of World War II, I didn’t know the particulars of their chance meeting. My parents never volunteered to tell me how they came to meet and I never asked. They were never very forthcoming about their past. Hard to say why. I guess we just weren’t close in that way. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that in some ways we were strangers to each other. We just weren’t close in many ways, particularly my mom and I. When I moved out of the house and into an apartment with my friend Scott, Mom and I didn’t part on good terms. We’d had enough of each other. It’s hard to say whether she felt sorrow over my leaving or if it was just plain old good riddance. The chill thawed over time, warmed by my marriage, and warmed even more by the birth of her grandson, Matthew. He was the apple of her eye.

It was my wife who spilled some of the details of my parent’s meeting. I guess it was during one of those late night, woman to woman talks at the kitchen table when my mother told Cora the story of the American Sergeant who was relaxing in a park in Rome, and saw the young Italian girl who was walking her dog, a terrier named Tommy. Tommy’s leash somehow got tangled and when the girl struggled with dog and leash, the sergeant approached and helped her gain control. That’s it. The story begins there, and that’s where it was left. That short story and hundreds of photographs and letters in various boxes, bins, bags and albums left a puzzle that will never be completed. There’s nobody left to offer anecdotes or clues.

 

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Back when I was a tweener/teener, that is to say the olden times, when describing Mick Jagger as spry wasn’t meant as a compliment to a nimble octogenarian rocker, and Dick Nixon was seen as the ultimate in political corruption (Little did we suspect), my three favorite magazines were Playboy, Mad, and Sports Illustrated.

Playboy, for a pimply faced kid’s obvious reason, but also for the oft doubted reason that there was some good copy to be found between bare boobs and bottoms. “Oh sure you liked the writing,” said the doubter. No, really, Playboy is where I discovered not just the female mysteries that parents of their innocent boys didn’t want them to know about. It’s where I discovered the likes of Kurt Vonnegut, Norman Mailer and Jean Shepherd (He’s the guy who wrote A Christmas Story. You know, “You’ll poke your eye out kid.”). I remember trying to stifle my laughter at midnight whenever I was reading a Shepherd short story under the bed covers by flashlight. Since I knew that my parents wouldn’t be down with their kid gawking at the naughty bits I hid the copies that I managed to get my hands on in a field behind the house (Under the mattress is too obvious).

Mad was something I shared with my dad because we shared a love of satire.

And then there was SI. In 1970, a copy of Sports Illustrated ran you 60 cents and it was worth every penny; hell a hundred times that. Sports Illustrated was my first subscription, one that I kept for more than a decade. Every week, I looked forward to the new issue’s arrival in the mail. It took me maybe an hour to devour it cover to cover and I kept stacks of them in my closet.

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“Too clever by half.”

It’s a Britishism; one of those slang phrases from across the pond that has us Americans scratching our heads trying to solve an expression that sounds contradictory at best and at worst, like downright gibberish.

“Too clever by half,” was coined in 1858 by George J. Whyte-Melville in his book,” The Interpreter, and it means “too smart for one’s own good.” It was a futile head spinning exercise for me to try and squeeze the meaning from the idiom. In the end, I failed at it and turned to Google. And it’s possible that Google doesn’t have it right either.

***

During the course of the past year or more, President Biden has been hemorrhaging support from the progressives who helped lift him to office in 2020. It’s been impatience and anger over a variety of issues that includes gun control, student debt and climate change. It hasn’t helped that during his 2020 campaign, Biden made an implied promise that he would be a one term transition to a strong bench of potential candidates for 2024. His decision to run for reelection ran counter to polling that made it clear that Americans do not want to see a rerun of Biden versus Trump. To make matters worse, if not downright dire, support for Biden has been cratering among progressives over the administration’s handling of the war in Gaza.

Those voters, mostly progressives, and I consider myself a progressive, who plan on sticking it to the old man, for whatever reason, are being ‘too clever by half.’

I can speak about Biden annoyance because I’ve experienced it, I’ve written about it and I’ve spoken about it to anyone who will listen. I’ve railed against Biden on this very site, going so far as to promise not to cast a vote for him in November. I’ll admit it. I was being “too clever by half.” I was dead wrong.

***

While bashing Joe Biden, I’d managed to push aside the memory of four years under Donald Trump. Quite frankly, I don’t know how on Earth I could forget the incompetence, the tens of thousands of lies, the kowtowing to the world’s autocrats and the divisiveness that man sowed in America and around the world. And it hasn’t – fucking – stopped.

In normal times a former president would write a memoir, take to the rubber chicken circuit and fade quietly into history, as America separated from the previous administration and moved on. I wish that I could say that there’s been a separation from Trump, but we haven’t been able to enjoy a single fucking solitary second of separation. It’s been a fire hose gush of whining and threats and vile rhetoric and outright unmitigated bullshit from a man who is promising to the world that he intends to be America’s first autocrat.

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“Good food is very often, even most often, simple food.”
― Anthony Bourdain, Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly

Food. Glorious food. Pure food. Real food. Food that you can taste just by looking at it. Food that you never knew could smell so fresh and look so perfectly beautiful. This is the food that was always featured on the Travel Channel, before Travel Channel morphed into bizarre bullshit that has nothing at all to do with travel. It’s the food that you would swear must be Photoshopped.

Tomatoes by the thousands. Cherry tomatoes; dazzling, little crimson orbs hang in clusters from the top rails of booths and look down at their larger, plump cousins of different varieties and colors; bright red, green, purple, black, and some decorated with stripes of orange. A sea of green vegetables broken up by islands of bright orange carrots and gleaming yellow and red peppers and gleaming purple eggplant. It’s autumn in Rome and seemingly bottomless baskets of chestnuts are surrounded by a variety of squashes.

Butchers wielding razor sharp knives slice steaks from giant roasts and with their mallets pound slices of veal paper thin. There’s a boundless selection of meats here, where the butcher is as likely to have rabbit in his case as he is pork chops.

At the fishmongers, there are fish and seafoods of untold varieties, colors and sizes; filets, steaks, roasts and whole fish. While the variety is endless, there is one thing that they all have in common. These fish stare, in their eternal repose, through eyes as clean and clear as newly polished glass, just as they did when they swam alive and free. That’s how you know that the fish here is as fresh as you’ll get.

Over on the other side of the great hall, a tall slender young woman made even taller by her deadlocked hair that’s stacked and bound in a burnt orange scarf, slices strips of lasagna from a giant sheet of fresh pasta. The girl stacks the strips on a scale and looks to the attentive customer for approval. The customer, a middle aged woman, pauses for a moment of serious consideration and then points at the sheet. “Di piu, (more)” says the customer. The girl slices a couple more strips, pauses, and glances back at the customer. “Va bene (is that good)?”
“Bene,” the customer.

At the delicatessen, rows of whole shanks of prosciutto hang above display cases filled with cheeses of all types and textures. The deli man reaches up and snips some sausage links from a meters long, coiled rope of goodness that dangles over a display of salamis; sopressata, calabrese, finocchiona, and, of course, a great log of mortadella, it’s face daubed with slivers of pistachio and splats of fat.

This, is Mercato Trionfale, just a short walk from Vatican City in Rome.

At one of these deli booths a young woman deftly shaves slices of paper thin prosciutto from a whole shank. Back home in America the prosciutto is sliced on an electric slicer somewhere in the nether regions of the deli section. Here at Trionfale, it’s done in front of the booth, where the young woman puts on a show, wielding a scalpel sharp knife with the concentration and precision of a surgeon.

Bottles and tins of olive oil rest on shelves behind stacked jars of olives, condiments and preserves. Wine merchants offer wines from Piedmont, Tuscany, Lombardy, and Liguria. There are breads, pastries, dried fruits and rolling hills of bulk spices. Mercato Trionfale is an homage to all that’s good and right about food.

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