Hey R2, do you remember?

by Lorin Michel Wednesday, June 8, 2011 9:48 PM

Once upon a time, in a decade far, far away a little movie came out called Star Wars. It was a near instant phenom, with its special effects, wild story, intriguing villains and of course the droids. It also had a young Harrison Ford in one of his first starring roles. Everyone who was a teenager and through their 40s saw this movie, male and female, including me. I didn’t like it then; I like it less now. While the story is interesting if you like science fiction, the dialogue is nothing short of atrocious, the acting only slightly less so.

Sorry, Harrison. You’ve done better in later years.

In fact the only two I found interesting were Luke Skywalker’s droids, C-3PO and R2D2. Their names were never truly explained and it didn’t much matter, though R2’s name is said to come from an inside joke between George Lukas, Star War’s creator, and his American Graffiti sound editor Walter Murch who evidently asked for Reel 2, Dialog Track 2 in its abbreviated form. C-3PO was the voice of reason, though he was a bit of a wimp. R2 was the daredevil, always taking chances, always rolling straight into danger. We knew all of this even though R2 didn’t speak any actual language other than short-rolling-droid-ese.

An R2 mailbox in Boston

R2 was Princess Leia’s droid on the planet Alderaan. They were on her ship, the Tantive IV, when they were fired upon by an Imperial Star Destroyer. Leia launched R2, with a distress message, and 3PO in a pod that crashed onto the planet Tatooine where they were discovered by Luke, who saw the message, fell in love with the scantily-clad princess, decided to rescue her and hooked up with Obi-Wan Kenobi, Han Solo and Chewbacca, and….well, if you haven’t seen it this is complete gibberish. If you have seen it, you get the gist.

Little boys loved these guys, as did big boys and lots of girls, which is why Hasbro created a toy robot version of R2D2 in 2002. My brother Scott bought one for Justin for Christmas that year and it was a big hit here in the house. Fan of the movie or not, this little robot dude was just adorable. He was programmed to respond to several questions, but when you asked him if he remembered Darth Vader, the evil, black draped, and black helmeted villain, the poor little guy shuddered and quaked in his droidness.

R2D2 is long gone, sold in a garage sale. But we still joke about him regularly. One of us will start a legitimate question with the very innocent words “hey, do you remember–“ and before the rest of the question can be asked, the other shudders and quakes and squeals in our best R2 impersonation. Generally speaking, neither Kevin nor I are very good droids. I think that’s probably a good thing.

We were in the kitchen tonight and I asked the question, and Kevin shuddered and quaked and squealed. It never ceases to make me laugh. I just wish I had video of Kevin as R2. Now THAT would be something to shudder, quake, squeal and celebrate.



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live out loud

Comfort food

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, June 7, 2011 9:41 PM

Everyone has their own unique version of comfort food, a snack or a meal that makes them feel better for indulging. It’s usually something that’s not especially good for you, which is why it’s so comforting. For some reason, most things that are bad for you make you feel better.

Kevin and I are partial to roasted chicken with garlic mashed potatoes and gravy. The vegetable is immaterial. I usually make something to give it the appearance of a balanced meal, and truth be told, it really isn’t horrible. Chicken is a protein, and veggies are good. It’s the potatoes mashed with butter and sour cream and cheddar cheese, whipped smooth and then heaped onto a plate with a nice crater created to receive the gravy. Yep, that’s what makes it bad in an oh-so-good way.

Now my personal comfort food is just bad all the way around. French fries, hot and salty, no ketchup, and a big chocolate shake. If there’s whipped cream available, all the better. This heart attack in a bag and a cup is my drug of choice when I’m feeling down or tired or just need the kind of comfort I can’t get from my husband or my dog. When my dad died, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was eat. My sister and mother had both left numerous messages on my answering machine, trying to find me. It was a Wednesday, and back before we were all surgically attached to our cell phones. I got home from a meeting in the Valley, and knew just by the sheer number of calls on the house line that something bad had happened. I listened first to my sister and then my mother, my mother again and then my sister, their voices becoming ever more concerned, frightened and anxious. I called my sister: “Dad died,” she said as she burst into tears. I was numb.

I booked a flight out that night, a redeye into JFK. It was the only thing I could get and I had to get back east. Kevin wanted me to eat something; all I’d had all day was coffee. I think that was when I finally started to understand the idea of burning a hole in your stomach. I felt ill. My body was empty, but food was the last thing I wanted. He went to Wendy’s and got me a large fry with a large chocolate Frosty. I ate some. He was so sweet to do that.

I don’t know if it brought me comfort that day. I’m not sure anything could have. But I remember it, and that alone still brings comfort.

Webster’s Dictionary first printed the term comfort food in 1977, and defined it as food consumed to achieve some level of improved emotional status, whether to relieve negative psychological affect or to increase positive feeling. These foods can be nostalgic, indulgent, convenient or physical, and are often consumed because we’re stressed. Men eat comfort food when they’re feeling good, women when they’re feeling bad.

Either way, we all have our comfort foods and I make no apologies for mine. I was on the road today, and hungry. I was tired though not stressed or upset. Still, as I drove along and saw an In ‘n Out burger at one of the freeway exits, I felt an urge to pull off and get some fries and a shake. It would have been so comforting for the 90 plus mile drive.

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live out loud

Open windows

by Lorin Michel Saturday, June 4, 2011 11:07 PM

I love opening the windows and feeling – smelling – the fresh air as it rushes in. Even in Los Angeles, there is such a thing. Granted, we live north west of the city and just outside of Los Angeles County so we’re not really part of the smog thing that Southern Cal has long been known for. Out here in the OP, the temperatures often remain cool even deep into the summer and so the windows remain open.

There is something so freeing about an open window. It means welcome, bringing the outside in to spend some quality time. It allows a freshness to flow through any room. It is sweet and real and full of clouds. I always wonder why people automatically resort to air conditioning, even though deep down I understand. It gets hot; why not cool down any way possible, even electronically? My mother does it, though she’s older and the humidity where she lives gets fairly nasty. My sister and her family are big on AC in the summer as well. Again because of the humidity and the lack of air movement in the night. I remember it well.

When I was growing up in the North East, no one had air conditioning, even the most posh of homes. It wasn’t because people couldn’t afford it; it was because it wasn’t usually needed. An open window and a nice breeze was usually sufficient to cool things down even after a hot day. Our family had one large floor fan that my mother would place at the start of the hallway leading to my brother’s bedroom on the right and further down, my sister’s on the left and mine directly across on the right. We would open our windows and my parents would assure us that the fan would help draw the fresh air, the cooler air, in. It rarely worked, especially on those nights when the air refused to move and the warm hung like rain. On those nights, the open windows didn’t really help and we simply roasted. I imagine I wished for AC then but I don’t remember even knowing that AC existed.

Then I moved west into the desert and while the summer days are often brutal, the nights normally cool off nicely. Open windows allow the house to cool naturally, bathing the house in a gentle, earthy fragrance unlike the stale conditioned air that blasts from a machine. Kevin and I also don’t like air conditioning. It cools the air to be sure but it leaves the house feeling artificial. We’re also lucky because our bedroom is on the first floor so it never gets horribly hot and when we open the windows in the master bath and the slider in the bedroom, the cross draft is lovely. Perfect for sleeping, for breathing.

People existed for centuries with nothing more than open windows to bring fresh air into their bedrooms and their homes. I know that modern technologies have made our lives easier, but not necessarily better.

To me, open windows are a metaphor for the ultimate freedom; for the air that we breathe. Open windows are also a metaphor for an open mind, an open philosophy, an open sky; a true communion of industry and nature.

A welcome celebration of both. 

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great first paragraphs

Some things are and always have been universal

by Lorin Michel Friday, June 3, 2011 11:13 PM

Universal is defined as being general, having the same meaning and application everywhere. It involves all, not just some. It is universally accepted that humans and animals need oxygen to breathe, that plants need carbon dioxide. The sun rising in the east and setting in the west is a universal truth. Another is that humans are generally more complicated in their thought processes than say snails, though snails may be more purposeful. I happen to believe there is a universal desire to be happy. Of course happy is defined differently by different people based on their culture. Still, love and life are often thought to be universal aspirations.

We want to have good, positive, extraordinary things surrounding us. We want to celebrate each day. I know I do.

Something as simple as the warmth of a June afternoon can bring peace; a clean kitchen and folded laundry can bring a sense of accomplishment. Walking the dog, taking a hot shower, fitting into a pair of jeans I had previously given up on. Definitely cause for celebration, at least for me. Something as magical as laughter and music makes me feel good. Something as extraordinary as the universe fills me with a sense of awe.

This week saw the end of the final mission of the Space Shuttle Endeavor. How incredible that we can put people into space and return them safely to the gravity of the earth beneath our feet. Each time a shuttle has blasted off I wonder about all that’s out there for them to see and us to discover. It’s both frightening and intriguing. From the photographs captured by telescopes, the universe is beautiful in its nothingness, in its everythingness.

I recently saw the movie Contact again, with Jodie Foster and an incredibly gorgeous Matthew McConaughey. I’ve never been able to decide if I actually like the movie though I like aspects of it very much. I like that it questions universal truths about faith and science, about human nature, about our belief in ‘what’s out there,’ if anything. As Jodie Foster’s character says at the end of the movie, if there isn’t, it’s an awful lot of wasted space.

Because no matter what is out there we are all part of it; part of the Earth, part of the solar system, part of the galaxy, part of the universe. Do our voices, thoughts, loves, desires and celebrations travel beyond our atmosphere? I hope so. It would be a shame for them to remain earthbound when they can soar into infinity and beyond.

As Marcus Aurelius, the stoic philosopher and the last of the five good emperors of the Roman Empire, wrote in Meditations in 180 AD: “All things are woven together and the common bond is sacred, and scarcely one thing is foreign to another, for they have been arranged together in their places and together make the same ordered Universe. For there is one Universe out of all, one God through all, one substance and one law, one common Reason of all intelligent creatures and one Truth.”


Some things are and always have been universally celebrated. 

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live out loud

The mild mild west

by Lorin Michel Thursday, June 2, 2011 10:32 PM

We have a reputation out here, west of the Mississippi, for being, you know, kind of, well, tough. People think the terrain is brutal and the climate equally so. It’s a place not always fit for man nor beast, except when it is. It’s an area of the country not known for being easy to live in, except that it is. Many centuries ago, in 1833, the phrase “go west, young man” was coined by Horace Greeley to explain the push by the government for people to move west, to expand to the Pacific Ocean and succeed beyond their wildest dreams. Hence the gold rush. It was called the Manifest Destiny.

In the mid 1800s, there was very little that existed in the west. It was untamed and scary with pioneers, scouts, lawmen, outlaws and gunfighters, Cowboys and Indians and more. In the small towns that popped up, there was some semblance of order. But mostly there was cowboy and plains justice, and a reputation was established. The west was known for tumbleweed and hangings, gunfights at the OK corral, gold and horses.

Today, it’s known for Beverly Hills and Malibu and Santa Fe and Colorado Springs and Tucson and everything else in between and all around. None of them are wild anymore, though there is often gold, or at least riches, and horses, lots and lots of horses, in very civilized environments living in beautiful stables. We may live in a west that is no longer wild but there are horses everywhere. Even in the city.

In Southern California, where Kevin and I live, the wild west is really only wild in Hollywood on Friday and Saturday nights. Another post entirely. Most people don’t ride horses any longer, at least on the streets. The only horses they ride are under the hood and number in the hundreds.

But horse property is plentiful, largely outside of the city and out of the county. Surely there can’t be horses still inside LA.

Except that there are.

In Chatsworth today, a city known as the pornography capital of the country, if not the world, horses were walking through parking lots. I know this because my friend Roy took pictures as a huge black horse, a gorgeous animal named Xander, accompanied by a small pony, walked through the parking lot of their office. Roy said the horse’s back was about a foot higher than he was. Astounding. This majestic animal simply pranced along the asphalt city where hundreds of years ago, his ancestors danced through dirt and dust.

Horses are phenomenal animals, transcending time. They look the same today as then, as do we. But they act differently. They’re more civilized, more modern. Most westernized.

Wildly mild and mildly wild. Giddy up! 

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live out loud


by Lorin Michel Wednesday, June 1, 2011 10:55 PM

Tonight I’m celebrating. Sometime back in February I had an idea as I was supposed to be sleeping. I was laying there in my big bed, snuggled under the covers, warm and toasty, thinking about what I do, about the state of the world, about how everything always seemed so negative, especially in terms of news and politics. My mind was swirling and twirling, about everything and nothing, with the wonderful night-thoughts that nestle into the brain to take up nearly all of its space. One thought planted itself: Live Out Loud.

That sleepless night included subconscious thoughts of Betsy, my good friend Bobbi’s sister who had died of cancer in September of 2010, at the age of 42. I had only met her once, but her presence permeated my soul and her death affected me more than I could have ever guessed. Her mantra, as I remembered that sleepless night, came from the quote by the French writer Emile Zola: “If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud.” She was a fighter.

My mind swirled and whirled and suddenly there it was. The idea to start a blog, to write something everyday that lived life out loud; to write about something I wanted to write about, to find something to celebrate.

Since February 19, I’ve been fairly true to that idea, that mantra. And tonight, I’m celebrating my 100th post. Most days I’ve posted only once; on the rare occasion, there have been two. But I’ve posted. I made a commitment to myself to do so, and I feel a sense of pride that I have accomplished that; I have lived up to my promise to myself. It’s a good feeling, something to celebrate.

I’m 100 percent invested, 100 percent owned. I’m not part of the Fortune 100 and that’s OK. I’m not 100 percent de agave, or pure tequila. This is important if one loves Arizona, and specifically Tucson, as I do. My IQ is actually higher than the bell curve that is set at 100. The current humidity level here in the OP is not even close to 100. My dog is over 100 in dog years.

One hundred is pure, in many ways complete. But for me, 100 means that I’m just getting started.

So tonight I’m celebrating all those who have read on a regular basis, and welcoming those who have perhaps just discovered me. I am humbled by your presence.

Live it out loud and celebrate something, anything, everything. Find something today and for 100 years.



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live out loud

Dog is my shepherd; I shall not want

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, May 31, 2011 10:10 PM

Most days our lunchtime walk takes us past a house in Westlake that has two Australian Shepherds who come running to the fence as we approach. As soon as they get to the fence, they immediately sit down and move their heads in unison, watching us closely. There’s never a bark or a growl; just attention and fascination. We speak to them; they do not speak back. One is brown, black and white with expressive light brown eyes. The other is gray and black and white with icy blue eyes. It’s difficult for us to pull ourselves away but then we remember that a) we’re on a walk and b) we’re being disloyal to our own half Aussie back home.

When we adopted Maguire 14 and a half years ago, the shelter thought he had some German Shepherd in him. But it quickly became evident that he was probably more Australian Shepherd and Golden Retriever with some other bits and pieces mixed in for flavor. He has the eyes of a shepherd, and the coloring; the temperament of a golden. He did some herding of Justin when both were younger, but he’s always been fairly mellow, easy, almost docile. He looks more like a shepherd though, and has the shorter legs and the movements of one.

Interestingly, the Australian Shepherd isn’t even from Australia but rather from the Western U.S. No wonder Maguire feels so at home out here. They got their name because of the imported Australian sheep they were so good at herding. They also quickly got a reputation for being extremely intelligent; another reason that we’re sure Maguire is part Aussie.

We’ve become very partial to the breed, especially the mutt versions, for obvious reasons. But when I come across stories like that of Shep, I know that these dogs are truly blessed creatures.

In 1936, a sheepherder near Fort Benton, Montana became ill while tending his flock and was brought to St. Clare Hospital. In those days, the west was still untamed with cowboys riding across the high plains and through the mountains and shepherds tending to many different herds. Shepherds lived on the prairies, moving from place to place with their sheep, traveling in wagons and sleeping in tents. They would go for weeks without seeing a single person, and their best friends and constant companions were their dogs. When they did need to travel, they did what others of the time did: they went by train. A train is how this one particular shepherd was brought into Fort Benton, along with his faithful dog, an Australia Shepherd, who waited, the legend says, by the hospital door. Three days later, the man died. His family in Ohio requested that his body be sent home to them via train.


The dog, who had become known as Shep, followed the casket to the train station and watched as it was loaded into the baggage car. He whined when the door was shut and as the train pulled away from the station, he ran after it until he could run no more. He watched until it was long gone, and then returned to the station. He dug a hole under the train depot and he waited for the train bearing his master to return. He waited for five and a half years, rising to meet each train. People fed him and cared for him; some tried to adopt him. But he wanted none it.

The long vigil took its toll on Shep. His legs became stiff, and he was hard of hearing. Perhaps that’s why he failed to hear Train 235 as it rolled into the station one cold winter morning. When he moved to get out of the way, he slipped on the icy rails and his long wait was finally over.

I’m not religious, but I do find a lovely synergy in the idea that dog is god spelled backwards, or perhaps it’s the other way around. Like that wayward shepherd in 1936, I too believe in the loyalty of a dog, and put my faith in one daily and for the rest of his life. And mine. 

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live out loud

Workin' at the car wash

by Lorin Michel Monday, May 30, 2011 10:51 PM

It has been a perfectly lovely weekend. We had friends over on Friday for an official Fritini kickoff. We had martinis and wine, a big bowl of farfalle – bowtie – pasta with marinara sauce, garlic bread, a wedge salad with blue cheese and candied walnuts and chocolate lava cake for dessert. Yes, it sucked.

Saturday we did some house stuff, priming the trim on Kevin’s studio to paint; painting the pillars, the side panels inside the Range Rover that hold the seat belts in place. Then we went for a long motorcycle ride before meeting some friends for a beer. They have a little boy who’s about 19 months old. He sat in his high chair, chomping on cheerios, edamame, and banana, and playing I-can’t-see-you with the cloth napkin draped over his face. He would giggle every time his mom or dad would pull the napkin away. There’s nothing more intoxicating than the rolling, rollicking, uninhibited joy of a small child. You just can’t help but laugh along.

Afterward, he wanted to sit on the motorcycle. He’s an Angel in the making.

Chance Cline and Kevin Michel, biker dudes

We came home, made a nice dinner and watched the last two episodes of the first season of The Borgias on Showtime.

Sunday was all about painting and laundry and then … wine tasting. We went to one of our favorite local places, Cornell, an old western establishment whose building has been there since the late 1870s. It was jammed but once it settled down into itself, the wine was pouring freely and it was lovely. Dinner, Treme and The Killing.

Cornell Winery

And today, Memorial Day, was a day of relaxing and puttering about. We placed the finished pillars in the Rover, and then decided to wash it. After last week’s rain, it was filthy. Then we washed the Porsche because it felt left out, and yes it needed it as well simply because it hadn’t been washed for quite some time.

We always joke that Maguire likes to wash the cars. We started this when he was young. He’s always been very smart and has quite an extended vocabulary, or at least he did when he could hear. He seemed to understand when we told him what we were doing. He would stand on his rug in the foyer and watch us, head cocked just to the right as he waited to be asked if he wanted to “wash the car.” Then he’d start to dance, feet bouncing off the tile, ready. Ready! I’d open the door, he’d bolt out into the front yard and sit, waiting, patiently, quivering. Ready to jump out of his fur. I’d bring out his leash, the extended one, hook it first around the tree in the front yard and then around his neck. He’d thrust his head out, waiting for the choke collar that was only used when we washed the car. We never needed it otherwise. Once in place, he’d settle down to a nice long nap, half in the sun, half in the shade while we actually did the work of washing the cars.

He helped again today. He can’t hear us anymore but he seems to know when we’re washing the cars and he stood in the same place, on his rug, head cocked, anticipating the leash and the front yard and all of the work of napping while Kevin and I … washed the cars.


It was a good weekend, a good day. I hope everyone else had a good one as well.

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live out loud

Portrait of a boat in a field

by Lorin Michel Sunday, May 29, 2011 10:56 PM

It sits in a field surrounded by rolling hills on the south side of Kanan Dume as you drive toward the beach. Small and rotting, it looks both completely at home and horribly out of place amidst the canyons of Malibu. I’ve noticed it for years, ever since I’ve lived here in Oak Park and have had occasion to drive Kanan both north and south. It has a dark hull and a lighter rim. Weeds have grown up around it and through it. It points aft toward the road as if watching for someone to come, to visit, to welcome it into port.

I’ve often wondered about this boat sitting in a field, alone. Wondered how it got there since it’s so far from water, wondered who owned it, wondered how long it has been there and how long it would stay. It’s a forgotten vessel, something that was once sea worthy or at least lake worthy. I can imagine it floating out on a body of water, a man and his son safely on board, a red and white cooler stowed safely under the wheel, out of the sun, away from the birds. In the cooler: tuna fish sandwiches with lettuce on wheat bread, apples, chocolate chip cookies and cokes. Enough for a day of fishing. A transistor radio played the local baseball game, probably the Dodgers; maybe the Angels. A pail of fresh caught trout or catfish resting under a tarp; a bottle or two of sunscreen tossed on the deck. The boy would laugh at dad’s lame jokes about go fish and leading a fish to water.

I’ve often wondered….

This tiny little boat, forgotten in the middle of a field on the way to Malibu, looks so lonely. Perhaps it got left behind accidently, when someone parked there with it on a trailer and it rolled off, unnoticed. Perhaps it was left on purpose, no longer needed. Maybe it was a source of contention between a husband and wife. Maybe it’s haunted.

I’ve often wondered who owned the boat, if perhaps the person who owns the property left it there to mark the territory. But I’ve never seen it move, never seen any evidence that anyone has been there recently. It hasn’t moved; it has remained anchored even as thousands of cars drive by. I wonder how many notice the odd little boat sitting awkwardly in the field. I wonder how many wonder why it’s there, or if they simply take it as it is. A boat in a field, alone and adrift in a sea of flowing grass.

I celebrate the boat on this Memorial Day eve, for its loneliness and its haunting beauty. It’s a portrait of a past forgotten, a portrait of the canyon. A portrait … of a lost soul.

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live out loud

The hunchback of noter don

by Lorin Michel Saturday, May 28, 2011 11:27 PM

When Justin was little he was a talking machine, a ball of energy as most kids are but he was never silly. He was a Capricorn, and Capricorn’s are serious by nature, even when small. I, too, am a Capricorn, so I know this first-hand.

Kevin would pick him up from pre-school when he was in Montessori, buckle him into his car seat and then get into the driver’s seat, adjust the mirror down just a bit so as to see the little redhead with the enormous glasses, and then off they’d go. Kevin had only to ask: How was school? A litany would follow. As Justin spoke very matter-of-factly, he’d slouch down in his car seat, slurping from his sippy cup filled with juice, his right leg bent, the ankle lazily slung over his left leg. He looked like a little old man. All that was missing was the cigar and newspaper as he discussed the day’s news.

He would chat about artworks accomplished, aquariums, and books, what he had for lunch, what he wanted for dinner, and what movie he wanted to see. It was invariably a Disney flick, one that he would watch wide-eyed in the theater amidst shrieking children, and then once released on video, watch it again.  And again, and again, and again and again, and so on. One more time, daddy.

In 1996, Disney released The Hunchback of Notre Dame, an animated musical about the famous hunchback Quasimodo, charged with keeping the famous Paris cathedral’s bells ringing true, as well as other things, including loving the beautiful gypsy Esmeralda. Justin was fascinated and wanted nothing more than to see this ancient story by Victor Hugo as interpreted, much more nicely, by the mouse.


He wanted to see the hunchback of noter don. Kevin pointed out that he thought it was, in fact, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, pronounced dom.

Justin thought about it for a moment, sipped his juice and shook his head. Then he sighed heavily.

“No, daaadddd,” he announced definitively. “It’s noter dooonnnn.”

There was no convincing him, just as there was no convincing him that the cartoon Chip ‘n Dale was not chip, chip and dale.

Message: Kids know what they know when they know it, and they are seriously convinced of their knowledge.

So tonight I’m celebrating the wonder of childhood and the seriousness of its convictions. I’m not sure there’s anything better.

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relative celebrations

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