Guest Host Post: It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

I thought it was a nice gesture, if not the epitome of magnamity. A guy I know, Russ, for the last couple of years has hosted a charitable golf outing, The Luddite Open. The charity is Russ himself. He swears 100% of all proceeds go to help pay his alimony. Since everyone who knows Russ likes his ex-wife Doreen a lot more than Russ, it seems like a good cause. The Luddite part comes in when you get to the course and Russ hands you a beaten up wood wood, most of them circa 1967 (Russ has strange collecting tastes; just ask Doreen about the amount and variety of whoopee cushions he amassed over the course of their 12-year marriage), and a dozen Top-Flite range balls fished out of a reservoir adjacent to a driving range outside of Clyde, Ohio. All the participants must play the entire 18 holes with the water-logged Top-Flites and must tee off on every hole with a wood wood. And the only carts allowed are the pull kind.

Anyway, somehow Russ is able to get people to donate door prizes, skill prizes, hole sponsorships, and items for a silent raffle that is the climax to the whole event--in true Luddite, guy-who-struggles-to-pay-his-alimony fashion, the "meal" at the end of the round consists of Kool-Aid poured from suspicious looking plastic pitchers, loaves of Wonder Bread and containers of generic peanut butter and jelly, and marshmallows for toasting on a small grill (BYOS--bring your own stick for those). So this year, obviously overestimating the popularity of this blog, I donated for the silent auction the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to "Guest Post" my blog. Whoever ponied up the most money for the privilege would be allowed free range on this blog to rant/rave/entertain/shill/whatever for one post. Knowing the kinds of participants the Luddite Open draws, I was thinking conservatively when I told Russ I thought the offer would bring in one, maybe two C notes--which is no small portion of Russ's monthly amount due.

Unfortunately, on the day of the outing my other altruistic endeavor, manning the phone lines for the local Grammar Hotline, got in the way: Just as I finished my round I got an urgent call regarding a semi-colon pile up at the home office of a summer school correspondence course woman who was trying to complete a term paper on just how Mia Farrow could fall in love with both Frank Sinatra and Woody Allen in one lifetime. So I missed the after-golf shindig. Nevertheless, I was anxious to find out who had won the guest-blogger prize. Russ was evasive when I called him a few days later. "Damn, I don't have the list of winners in front of me," he claimed. "I'm sure it's someone you'll know and they'll be getting in touch with you soon enough." Well, that was eight weeks ago, and quite frankly I had forgotten about the whole thing until I got a call from a guy named Lou last week wondering how he could claim his prize. After a weird chat of about five minutes it became clear Lou had no connection with Russ, indeed had never played golf in his life, and didn't even know what a blog is. I had to investigate.

The following is not pretty. After much badgering Russ admitted no one had bid on my donation and that he ended up giving it to some guy named Ralph who was a guest at the outing of our friend Ray and who, Ralph, was pissed that his door prize was a whoopee cushion signed by Soupy Sales. Ralph turned out to be a bit of a Neanderthal who told me he gave the "stupid thing" to his miscreant daughter Raynelle. Tracked down in a high school parking lot cutting class and smoking Native American Spirits, Raynelle, after I convinced her I wasn't trying to lure her into a circus life and that I wouldn't tell her father anything, admitted she used the piece of paper on which I had written my generous offer to write a rather raunchy note to some kid named named Ricky in Mr. Jettison's chemistry class, because, "like, he'll flunk you on the spot if he catches you texting, man." Ricky was a scared little would-be hood who confessed upon some arm-twisting (both figurative and, as it turned out, literal) that he had used the paper to wad up some gum ("my mother always told me to dispose of gum properly, not to just spit it out") when he went joyriding after school with some wayward friends who had stolen the car from the maintenance staff's parking lot and who ended up totalling it and abandoning it. Enter Lou, who drives a tow truck for a wrecker.

"I work in salvage, so I salvage. Everything's got some value. I want mine. Now what the hell is a blog?" Thus my introduction to Lou. Turns out the guy, though not particulary loquacious or creative in blogging terms, is a pretty nice guy. We've made plans to go bowling over the winter. Anyway, after much cajoling and attempted creative jump-starting, I here present Lou's blog post (Lou isn't much of a typist, so his entry was dictated):

Lou Barbuto's Top Ten List Of The Use Of The Number Ten (10)

10. "I can't really think of a tenth one. Are we finished now?"

9. "Technically it's not really a use of ten, but I liked the old ten dollar bills with the cars and the people on the back. Did you know you can see a guy hitchhiking, if you look really close?"

8. "Top ten lists, I guess. What the hell?"

7. "The Aerosmith song, 'Big Ten Inch Record.'"

6. "Ten fingers seems perfect to me. I once knew a guy named Ron who was born with six fingers on each hand. Looked freaky if you ask me. Toes I don't care about."

5. "First and ten. Football. Ten yards for a first down is excellent."

4. "Bowling. Ten pins perfectly arranged in that little triangle. Huh? And ten frames of course. It's all pretty cool." (note to self--write a blog about the differences between bowlers and golfers re what is cool)

3. "Pearl Jam's Ten album. Kick some ass, man."

2. "The Ten Commandments. Not the movie, I hate Heston, but the actual Ten Commandments. Gotta give God his due on that one."

1. "That bathing suit. Those cornrows. Bo Derek, the movie Ten."

(I'll be back next post.)

In Dreams, I See This Guy?

Do you Coast? I've been Coasting faithfully for five years or so. I'm talking the greatest radio show ever--Coast To Coast AM With George Noory (though I also love George's Saturday night fill-in, Ian Punnett). Aliens, conspiracy theories, Bigfoot, all the 2012 dope you need to know--it's all here, nightly from 1 a.m. to 5 a.m. in the East, though my radio station usually plays the previous show's last hour from midnight to 1 a.m. George is a bona fide St. Francis of Assisi of the airwaves, always polite and comforting to all his crazy and/or intelligent listeners and guests. The best.

Anyway, last night I caught last Friday's last hour, the usual Friday "open lines." A lot of people were calling in telling George about their most significant dreams (the sleep movies, as opposed to the one-day -I'll-have-my-own-reality-show type). I was amazed at how vividly some people claim to remember dreams they had when they were little children. Of course I have vivid dreams all the time, but the ones I remember clearly upon waking are few and far between, and they certainly kind of evaporate over time (how many times, like this morning, do I wake in the middle of a particulary lively dream and can almost feel the memory dissolve and crinkle before my mind's eye?). So as I'm listening to people's most memorable dreams last night, as I myself was trying to drift away to dreamland, I started thinking about one particular dream that has stayed with me over the years, one of about five or six that haven't faded away altogether.

It must have been at least twenty years ago. In my dream I was ushered into a series of increasingly more secretive rooms by a few people who were strangers to me. Without knowing what was going on, I knew it was important. Finally I reached the final room. There, very much alive, but obviously on his death bed, lay Lenin, the (in)famous leader of the nascent Soviet Union. Lenin, himself, he of the steely facial hair and the imposing forehead. The purpose of my visit, it soon became clear, was to be allowed the obvious honor of touching the dying legend's forehead. I timidly stuck out my hand and Lenin actually leaned forward a bit off his death pillow, and I touched the famous forehead. End of dream, as far as I can remember.

Now eventually I have come to regard the dream as completely meaningless, the product of some short in my dusty synapses. But there was a time when the dream fascinated me for what it might mean. Could I (who, despite what some of my trueblood Red-state friends in this decidedly Blue county might think, possesses no Communist sympathies except when somebody brings a plate of homemade brownies to work) be destined to grow some cool facial hair, lose even more of my head hair, and end up leading the second great American Revolution, after having the torch passed through that forehead touch? So obsessed with finding the meaning to this dream was I that one crazy night in the French Quarter of New Orleans I decided to blow my last ten bucks not on a very budget tattoo but on a very budget Tarot card reading from one Madame Knew. In her smoky, ill-lit parlor I told Madame Knew all I could remember of the dream. She nodded her head gravely and then began turning over cards, making all sorts of unintelligble noises as each card was revealed. Unfortunately Madame Knew was a struggling single mother of four misbehaving boys; one of them had apparently mixed his baseball card collection in with his mother's Tarot deck, so when the ultimate card was flipped it ended up being a 1979 Topps Bucky Dent card. Madame Knew winced and shuddered then regained her composure and shrugged her shoulders. "Well," she looked at me with daggers in her eyes, "if you're a Red Sox fan you're destined for a life of continual heartbreak. If not, well, enjoy your great smile. End of session." She swept the cards off the table and ran out screaming, "Beauregarde, I'm gonna wring your little neck."

And that's it. When I think of the Lenin dream, as I did last night, I just smile.

Lenin, or as more intelligent, sophisticated people call him...

Oh, That Guy: Bravura!

I love the Internet. Years ago, it had to be at the wonderful Cleveland Cinematheque, I saw a short film that's mesmermized my memory ever since. So mesmerized that I could never remember its name. But over the years, whenever I've had conversations about great movies, I always bring it up and try to describe it, but all I am able to say is that it's basically a one man show about some English Lord talking about his estate. Wickedly funny. And it stars Jim Broadbent. Broadbent is one of those "oh, that guy" actors. A lot of people don't know his name, but he turns up in a lot of movies--always the better for his acting--and is easily recognizable. I think I first fell in love with him in Mike Leigh's amazing film, Life Is Sweet. He's one of those actors who will pull me to a movie just because he's in it. Anyway, tonight I was determined to re-discover this short film. A few clicks not only gave me the name of the film, A Sense of History, directed by, of course, Mike Leigh, but also the film itself.

If anything, the film is even better than I remembered it from nearly 20 years ago--it's a British TV film from 1992. Broadbent is brilliant, and if you stick around for the credits (watch them all, there's one more bit at the end) you find out he also wrote the thing, which only serves to raise the man that much higher in my pantheon of cultural heroes. If Ray Davies wrote screenplays and acted instead of writing Kinks' songs, this is what he might have come up with on a dourly very good day. The film is a classic of black humor: macabre at times, witty, hilarious, and oddly moving. The language--the writing and how Broadbent delivers it--astounds me.

I can go on and on. I'm just happy to have found it after all these years and to be able to share its wonders. So, go get something to drink, settle in for a mere 25 minutes, and enjoy.

Voluntary What?

So I'm sitting around this morning waiting for a plumber to show (Samuel Beckett got a modernist theatre of the absurd classic out of the same situation; I, and therefore you, get this measly blog post) and before I know it I'm reading the police blotter in the morning paper (yes, Cleveland has only one daily paper, but having been a paperboy for the late [roughly thirty years of late status] Cleveland Press afternoon paper, I curmudgeonly cling to nostalgia)--call it involuntary boredom. Anyway, amidst all the usual CVS and Target shoplifter items I found this story:

Voluntary intoxication, Coventry Road: A 20-year-old man from Illinois was arrested for voluntary intoxication following a call at 3:35 a.m. Sept. 2. The man reportedly attempted to enter a limousine without consent, leading to police being called.

Sounds like a Raymond Carver story written by Ernest Hemingway. Now the obvious first question, of anyone with any local knowledge, is just what in the hell is a limousine doing on Coventry? It's like a hackey-sacker wearing a football helmet (do people still hackey sack, by the way?). And you know what? If you've parked your limousine on Coventry at 3:35 a.m., I'm afraid you've lost any claims to actually granting consent to anybody who wants to attempt to enter it. It's 3:35 in the morning--anybody walking/staggering around then is going to be involuntarily wowed by the sight of an idling limo; the fact that they're going to want to check it out goes with the territory. Motor out to Pepper Pike if you're all hung up on the consent thing.

Needless to say, though, the bigger absurdity of this story is that "voluntary intoxication" nonsense. Is this what legalese has come to? Come back, George Carlin, all's forgiven. Unless you're under the age of let's say ten and/or a captive of somebody, intoxication is hardly involuntary. I mean, come on, "involuntary intoxication"? "Honest officer, I was going to stay home tonight and read me some Willa Cather, but my buddy called and his girlfriend just broke up with him. I didn't want those nine beers. I was just trying to be a friend who's 'always there.'" Or, "Your honor, I was just following good golf etiquette. How freaky is it that an entire fivesome makes holes in one and is obligated to buy everyone a drink? I was perfectly content with my Arnold Palmer."

And don't the laws of physics or something similar apply here? In order for something to exist, its opposite must exist, right? So if there's such a thing as voluntary intoxication there must be something called involuntary sobriety, right? Well, I guess being forced to watch a Republican Presidential Primary debate qualifies. At least that's a new one for the inevitable hundred-times-a-day "how are you doing" question: "Involuntarily sober, you?"

I don't know but I just don't like this intentional obfuscation of language we continue to involuntarily have to live with. Bring back the Mayberry World. At least back then Otis was what he was, the town drunk, not the regional municipality's reportedly voluntarily intoxicated person of interest.

It's In The Contract, Honey

Say what you will about the French, but don't say their legal system doesn't stand behind the nation's image as THE place and people for love. Or at least what seems to pass for love in these jaded times--sex. I saw this story the other day about a French court fining a man 10,000 Euros for not providing his (now ex-) wife with enough sex over the course of their 21-year marriage (not being too versed in foreign currency exchange rates, I'll leave to you the figuring out of what a year's worth of marital sex amounts to in greenbacks). Essentially, it seems, the court ruled that sex is a mandatory, enforceable part of the marriage contract.

Now I don't know le squat about French culture, but something tells me if the ramifications of this ruling waft over the pond to these litigious, infamously Puritan/Gomorrahan, Saturday night/Sunday morning American shores, Judge Judy and her robed brethren and sisteren are going to be inundated with alleged sexually neglected spouses of both genders. Eventually the Roberts Court will have to decide the ultimate question of just how much is enough (can't wait to hear Scalia on that one). Could be an interesting federal/states rights argument, too. I mean can one Supreme Court mandated number ("couples should and must have sex X times in the course of one [non-leap] calendar year") possibly be sufficient for such a "contain multitudes" diverse American culture? Is the young South Beach trophy wife's makin' whoopee needs equal to those of the 40-year married "and damn proud of it" Rotarian (well, maybe Kiwanian) hardware proprietor from Pierre, (North/South I never remember which) Dakota?

I don't know, but it seems inevitable to this cultural wag that eventually the actuaries will have to get involved so that every spouse will be assured of his or her rights. "Well folks, from the data you've submitted and that I've run through our latest tables, I guess I'm happy--certainly kind of envious, to tell the truth--to inform you two that you really shouldn't leave the bedroom until April of every year." Or, "Can't say I've ever seen these results before, but you two 'life of the party' types seem to be, well, overdrawn. You might have to wait until time travel technology is perfected and then go back and feign a headache or two on those Pocono getaway weekends you used to take in order to, well, even up your, um, scores." Which types of results will only lead to the inevitable "marriage bed" tax and that braggart neighbor of yours smilingly complaining about his tax bill, nudge nudge, wink wink. "Okay, honey, I'll get out that negligee, but it's going to cost us come tax time." Leave it to the French to screw up a good thing.

Succor For The Succor-Seekers

As any scribe should, I have nothing but the utmost respect for the actual people who were, and the entities who are now, Dear Abby and Ann Landers. And while I admire them deeply, I can honestly say I am hardly in their league. That said, among the variety of services I hope this blog provides its readers--including, but not limited to amusement, provocation, enlightenment, wisdom, diversion, etc.--I aspire at times also to gift you all with sound advice pertaining to your mundane lives, and I mean mundane in its literal, non-judgmental sense. With the aid of a little technology, I believe I am able to do so.

You see, behind the scenes here at spitoutyourgum, I am able to see all of the keywords/phrases, all of the search terms, that have led people, eventually, to this blog. Quite a handy tool, I must say. After wading through the most popular search terms--"take me to the best blog ever," "oh, interweb, make me laugh my ass off," "genius,"--I find the more obscure "one-offs": people looking for something very specific, and, it seems, very important to their lives. Sometimes I have to scratch my head and wonder how the combination of search terms led them here (and scratch my head further wondering if anything they might find here could possibly help them in their time of need). My hope always, and isn't it the root hope of all bloggers, is that even if readers don't find exactly what they're looking for, at my blog ultimately they will find succor. My blog truly succors. That's my purest hope.

And so, firm in the belief that there is a succor-seeker Googling every second, on this day of un-labor I will labor to provide succor to the succor-less. I must qualify things a bit before I begin, though: Although I happily play doctor, I am NOT a doctor; any advice given here is purely the fruit of years of sweaty experience and the wisdom therein gained--in other words, it ain't AMA-approved. Wade at your own risk. The following "questions" are the actual, verbatim search terms people have used to find their way to this blog.

Is a shot glass of nyquil deadly?

You're coughing up a storm, dude, and your nose is a train wreck, your throat is in agony, and your head begs for transplant and sleep is impossible--you better hope and pray NyQuil is deadly, or what's the point? Deadly, that is, not fatal. I find that at the first sign of any of the above symptoms, if I read the warnings carefully and with consideration, and pour as per instructions that red gold liquid into the plastic cup provided and gulp it greedily and chase it with nothing more potent than tepid tap water, within thirty minutes I'm out cold for the next eight hours and wake up feeling like Milton Berle in a gingham dress--natty, to the nines. Key words, "plastic cup provided." Not some Hooters shot glass you overspent for or the dreaded highball or the hoity toity snifter.

Should I wear a bra to bed?

I am creative. I do have an imagination. But I ain't no Joyce, Tolkien, or O.J. Simpson. I could not create or imagine such a question. It is a genuine query that somehow made it to this blog. Just what kind of answer the questioner gleaned from the heretofore contents of this blog, well, I plead the current let's not go there. But in my dedication to be the succorer to the succor-seeker, let me attempt to provide some support here. A former boss of mine was big on asking the "clarifying question." Oh, the clarifying questions that initial question conjures. But let's not be a boob about this. Am I correct in thinking that "to bed" means "going to sleep"? Because one might take to one's, or another's, bed for many reasons--attempting the day's crossword puzzle, eating cheese and crackers, removing the mattress tag, etc. Having never slept in a bra, I can't experientially comment on the pro's and con's of doing so. I just know that the thought brings to mind the word encumbrance and its delightful cousin-word unencumbered. Encumbered sleep offers little succor, from my vantage point. Having seen paintings of healthy-breasted women painted long before the invention of the bra (and doesn't the word brassiere have such richer connotations than the word bra?), I can hazard the guess that sleeping bra-less does no visible damage. That said, speaking from all points of view except a religious one (consult your minister, swami, guru, rabbi, whatever), I believe you should do what feels right for you, regardless of others' views, when it comes to going to sleep, to whatever degree of clad or unclad you feel okay with.

What does it mean when you dream of spit out your gum?

I notice the question is not "...when you dream of spitting out your gum." I also notice that it isn't spitoutyourgum, but still, I have to make the determination that the question pertains not to dreaming of any expectorative action but indeed dreaming of this particular blog. In which case, you obviously care more about this blog than I do, which all I can say is someone should. After due consideration I conclude that dreaming about this blog means one of two things: Either your life is fully unencumbered and you truly are living the dream, or you seem to be mixing something a bit edgy with your nightly NyQuil doses. Whichever, it sure beats dreaming of Mitt Romney, doesn't it?

What does your dreams mean when you can't spit out all of your gum?

On the surface, your question means you need some grammatical help with regard to subject verb agreements. Digging deeper, as a true succorer does, I believe the dream signifies a self-considered deficiency in being able to communicate effectively on your part. This blog takes its name from the Bob Dylan line "your words are not clear/you better spit out your gum." Thus, at its zenith, the wisdom dispensed by this blog is via Bob. You feel able to communicate somewhat--you clearly can spit out some of your gum--but not to the extent that you want to. If you're a woman, I suggest the usual remedies: a weekend at a spa, a month's worth of Dr. Phil TiVoing, joining a drum circle group, ice cream. If you're a man, buck up son, it's your lot in life--spit when and what you can and just chew on the rest, it gets better with age and other people's begrudging tolerance of you. I'm also kind of thinking, and it's merely inchoate musing at best, so take it for what it's worth to you, but maybe your nagging dream has something to do with sleeping in a too-encumbering bra.

Where is Cleveland Ohio?

All right, I can go on only my wise instincts here and deduce that that question, resulting as it did in the eventual arrival at spitoutyourgum (headquarted, coincidentally in Cleveland, Ohio, so I guess the short answer is "right here, relax, you found it"), is not a literal, geographic query, but a more philosophic, existential one. Where is Cleveland, Ohio indeed. It's smack on the faultline/divide of hope and despair. It's not the buckle but the third notch (the one you unhappily shift to after you've eaten seven too many pirogis in one sitting) on the Rust Belt. It's south of nowhere. If the obscure outpost up river Willard stumbles upon in Apocalypse Now is indeed "the asshole of the world," then Cleveland, Ohio is that itchy part on your back you can't reach without a long pencil. It is the place that Hollywood decides Detroit or Milwaukee represents better and is a decent stand-in for Stuttgart, Germany. It is the cluttered box in your basement where obsolete technology winds up. If it's not quite home to, it's the real-life destination for, those who sleep fitfully, encumbered as they are with NyQuil paranoia, mouths of unwanted gum, and bra quandaries, and are just hoping to toss and/or turn into the arms of a competent succorer.

Bob And Baseball

During my non-blogging August, I failed to address two main events of much import: The fact that I saw Bob Dylan in concert once again back on August 6, and the incredible fact that the Cleveland Indians are still playing meaningful games this late in the season, with an outside chance at running down the Tigers and winning the AL Central crown. Both wondrous events defy description, so you'll just have to content yourselves with this bit of whimsy--Bob Dylan song titles combined with baseball names and terms (can you spot the one football interloper?). Hail Bob, Go Tribe. 


A Bob Dylan Baseball Hall Of Fame


Open the Door, Homer Bush
Desolation Preacher Roe
From a Buick 6to Lezcano
Every Grain of Sandberg
Driftin’ Too Far From Ernie Shore
License to Killebrew
Chuck Rainey Day Women #12 & 35
Lay Lady Lay Down a Bunt
Watching the Mickey Rivers Flow
Maglie’s Farm
Under The Red Schoendienst Sky
Blind Willie McGee
When I Pitch My Masterpiece
Precious Angel Hermoso
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dummy Hoy
Batter’s Up To Me
Subterranean Homestand Blues
Bud Black Crow Blues
Ballad of a Thin Manny Mota
Like a Rolling Steve Stone
Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie Montanez
Tiny Jeff Montgomery
Going, Going, Gone to the Bullpen
Solid Rock Raines
Buddy Groom’s Still Waiting at the Altar
Obviously 5 Basestealers
Idiot Wind Blowing Out of Wrigley
Property of Jesus Alou
Just Like Tom Trebelhorn’s Blues
Visions of Joe Adcock
Absolutely Sweet Lou Piniella
4th Time Around the Order
Lenny Dykstra Bruce Kison
Song To Woody Fryman
Lily, Rosemary and Jack Clark
It Ain’t Me, Babe Ruth
I Pity the Poor ImmiGrant Jackson
Not Alvin Dark Yet
Shelter From the Storm Davis
Please, Mrs. Henry Aaron
Temporary Like Al Cowens
Million Dollar Bash Brothers
It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue Moon Odom
Stan the Man In Me
It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes Walter The Big Train Johnson To Cry
I Dreamed I Saw Saint Augustine Busch
The Ballad Of Frankie Frisch Lee May and Judas Priest Holmes
Honey Just Allow Me One More Dean Chance
You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go Back to the Minors
Masters of Warren Spahn
Ballad of Ollie Brown
If You See Tommy Herr, Say Hello
Buckets of Chuck Rainey
Father of Ray Knight
My Back Mitchell Pages
Gates Brown of Eden
Ruben Sierra Remus
I Threw It All Away, (E 5)
Three Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim
One More Cup of Coffee in the Big Leagues
Joey Cora
Saving Mark Grace
Are You Randy Ready?
Mel Queen Jane Approximately
Alvin Dark Eyes
The Lonesome Death of Hattie Clay Carroll
Ring Them Buddy Bells
Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Clyde Wright
Can’t Waite Hoyt
Boots Day of Spanish Leather
Restless Wes Far(ew)ell
Man In The Dale Long Bud Black Coat
David Justice Like a Woman
One More Ray Knight
Country Pie Traynor
Peggy Boots Day
Champ Summers Days
Never Say Hey Goodbye

Special U.L. Washington Wing:

I’ll Remember U.L. Washington
I Want U.L. Washington
Sweetheart Like U.L. Washington
To Be Alone With U.L. Washington
Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here With U.L. Washington
`Til I Fell In Love With U.L. Washington
Something There Is About U.L. Washington
What Can I Do For U.L. Washington?