Feminism, Distorted Reality And Friedrich Schiller

Jungfrau von Orleans cover

Subtitle: Enamoured after reading Schiller’s Die Jungfrau von Orleans… In German!

Note about book cover above. This is my first read of a Reclam e-book. I bought this on iBooks (2,49€) and am very pleased with how the publisher has taken the time to produce it, align it, make a joy to read on a screen. I have to admit, dear worst-reader, there’s probably no turning back for me. Although I’ll enjoy my physical book collection for the rest of my life, by slowly  and surely re-reading from it, here, it doesn’t look like I’m gonna miss buying real books anytime soon.

Onward worst-ho.

It’s been a long time, dear worst-reader. Probably waaaay too long. So I finally broke down the other day after reading this quote from The Hitch (Christopher Hitchens) and jumped on the good foot and bought me the Reclam e-book version of (one of) Schiller’s Meisterwerks. The English title of this book is: The Maid of Orleans. Although I recall dabbling in it (for quotes) years ago in its original German, I was never able to get through much of Schiller’s writing. What a shame, eh? So let me just put this out there, dear worst-reader.

Toms reclams
Part of my book collection includes these Reclams. Love them.

Now that I’ve finally read it in its original German, I’m totally enamoured with this play. In fact, the other night it almost had me in tears. But it wasn’t what I was reading that caused the tears. It was the fact that I was reading Schiller’s German. Yeah, baby. I was getting it. I was understanding it. I was, in fact, enjoying it so much, emotion began to over-take me. Every sentence, every stage direction, every scene and every act put me in fifteenth century France–while reading poetic German. Yeah, baby. This story became a piece of work that I didn’t want to finish. That is, I didn’t want it to end. And so. I skipped the last sentence of the final scene. That’s how I do it, don’t you know. That’s how I stay in a piece work that I never want to end. Also, since I’m getting the hang of reading these ebooks, especially on my ageing iPad Air, I’m really loving how I can so easily access my notes or highlighted text. Wait. Did I mention how flabbergasted I am with this play?

Joan of Arc according to worst-writer.

I’ve always been fascinated with story of Joan of Arc. Reason? Of all the things the Universal (Catholic) Church can do, it’s really, really good at twisting ancient stories, sewing mystery into historic events, and just flat out making $hit up in order to propagate an agenda. The story of Joan of Arc, which I believe to have been a real person, was one of its best über-lies. The only problem is, if the Church is so good at lying or making $hit up, what should one believe if one is interested in the truth? The wiki link above does provide a great deal of info regarding the story of Joan of Arc, including links to revisionist theories. But for worst-moi, something is missing.

Here a short list of what I consider acceptable worst-writer story-lines that could contain the truth about Joan of Arc:

  • The standard, church version (see link above). This is the canonised version of Joan of Arc where she’s a farm girl, potentially from a rich farming father, perhaps even somehow connected to royal blood, but through contact with God, she heeds the call to not just save France from England but also to unite long warring French tribes. In the end she is burned at the stake.
  • The conspiracy-theory. Until reading Schiller this was my favourite Joan of Arc theory. But be warned, it’s kinda out there! In it Joan was part of what remained of the royal blood of the Cathars. The Universal Church committed genocide against the Cathars between the eleventh and fourteenth century. Very few Cathars remained by the end of the fourteenth century. Of those who remained, they gained power and wealth in the chaos of the Hundred Years’ War. In fact, this theory goes so far as to claim Joan was one of the last members of the bloodline of Jesus Christ. JC, btw, is one of the founders of the Cathars as he wasn’t crucified but instead made his way to the coast of France… With his wife and family! I kinda dig the whole idear of the JC bloodline-theory because it fits well with the evil and violence committed by the Church in order to propagate their sick, authoritarian, patriarchal agenda including krapp like the inquisition, crusades, Galileo, etc. But enough of my nonsense, eh.
  • I finally have a new favourite version of Joan of Arc? Way to bring it on Fred Schiller!

The thing that really threw me for a loop in Schiller’s Virgin of Orleans (literal translation of the German title), is its feminism. Not well read in literature of the era, I’m curious if there is any other work from that era where females play such a prominent role–especially when it’s all about war. And not just any war but a war that French men couldn’t win. Indeed. Bring on the Feminines, baby.

The three feminists in the story are Joan, Isabeau (mother of the king) and Sorel (the kings wife). These chicks do some serious conniving. And that’s kinda cool. Also. Unlike the canonised version of the story, where Joan is arrested and tried for witchcraft, cross-dressing, and/or back-talking stupid, ugly white men–all perfect accusations by church authoritarian patriarchal mongers–Schiller instead focuses on her abilities as a warrior and a leader of men. He also makes it pretty clear how men either follow her or fear her. She is also a stedfast believer in God that in no way contradicts the dogma of the time. This leads to her fighting off charges of heresy (by cross-dressing?) but then she dies in battle thereby freeing France from the Engelländer. (Ain’t that a cool way to write it? Schiller, you da man!)

But here’s the real question that Schiller has got me asking: why would he write/create this version of an already established, canonised story at the beginning of the nineteenth century? Would it not have been more dramatic to have Joan burned at the stake? Would it not have been more titillating to portray her as a cross-dresser? Yet in Schiller’s life-time, this was his most popular play. Did his audience like this version better than the Church’s version?

Yeah. The greatest creator/perpetrator of reality distortion fields has to be religion. So much truth is out there and so much of it distorted. Why is that? Nomatter. Schiller definitely helped me sift through it (distortion) a bit more.

-Rant on

T

Tyre vs Tire Or Summer vs Winter

Pics as follows:

  • 2017 Mini Clubman jacked-up for tyre change
  • Michelin CrossCountry all-weather tyres; the ones with the sticker on the top tire
  • Bridgestone “Run-Flats” with around 5000km on them after being removed and now in my basement on top of a flat/folded moving box ready for sale or whatever else their fate has in store (size 225/45/R17)

First, dear worst-reader, for worst-moi, after all these years living within the Germania  tribe of #Eurowasteland, it’s “tyre” and not “tire.” Coming from an American expat that may not sound like much to you but according to (expat) folklore it is an indication of having gone native. Thank you for letting me get that out of the way.

I can’t remember ever considering changing from summer tyres to winter tyres while living in my beloved & missed #Americant where I owned three cars (before expating). Usually the vehicle you consumed determined whether or not you had season oriented tyres. Keep in mind that I grew up on the mid-Atlantic coast, which has a fairly mild climate. Although we had snow once or twice a year and ice more than that, the costly idear of actually changing tyres for seasons…? Whaaaaaaa? I mean, get this. #Americant is a country that still allows krappy, cheap retreads. Ever wonder why #Americant highways are so polluted with exploded tyre rubber? Ever get caught on a motorcycle riding behind a tractor-trailer going sixty-five mph and one of its retreads explodes? Seriously. Retreads shouldn’t be allowed on public roads. Nomatter. I’m waaaaay off subject.

I’ve been tickled, don’t you know, with our new Mini Clubman. In fact, every time I get in it and take off, I can’t help but say to myself: wow, this is a great little car. We’ve put a bit more than three thousand kilometres on it so far (we bought it with two thousand kilometres). And although we’re pleased with it, there is still one major thing left to do. As the lawmaking goes in #Eurowasteland, winter tyres are mandatory now. And although it’s a bit early to worry about snow season, we’re about to embark on a trip to Croatia with our big-little Mini. That means we’ll be crossing the Alps in Austria in late September. I know. I know. I’m sure it won’t snow then, plus, the summer tyres will be fine in Croatia but… I’ve got to get winter tyres anyway. How ’bout doing so now and thereby killing two birds with one stone?

Did you know, dear worst-reader, Germans are brake-drivers. That’s is, they drive their fancy, leased, German engineered and sometimes über high-powered cars with their brakes. Unfortunately, with the current state of Autobahns, there isn’t much choice to drive fast anymore because you’re constantly driving through construction. The good news is, because of the enormous cost of driving a car here, people are going with smaller, less powerful, less heavy and less super fast vehicles. That means, people don’t need to change tyres all year round–if they go with so-called all-weather tyres–which are nothing more than detoxed (if you will) winter tyres. Hence the two birds I’m gonna get with one stone, don’t you know.

Keep in mind, this isn’t a review of tyre brands. Even though I picked the Michelin brand, I could have easily gone with Goodyear or Bridgestone or Continental, etc. The only thing that was important to me was to get a major branded tyre. There are a lot of tyres out there to choose from. But I will never forget changing from a cheap brand of tyres to a major brand a few years back and boy was there a difference. That said, the price difference between major brand to non-major brand isn’t enough to sway my prejudice to the cheaper tyre. So Michelin it is. But first a few thoughts on the run-flats.

The Mini came with Bridgestone “Turanza” summer run-flats (RF). Some years ago, I had a run-in with run-flats on a drive from Stuttgart to Munich. Half way through the drive the onboard computer of the Mercedes notified me I had a flat. At a rest top I checked the tyre. It didn’t look flat to me. At the time I had not idear what RF tyres were. So I got back in the car and drove the remaining distance to Munich. When I gave the car to the leasing company to deal with the “flat tyre” notification they asked how long I had driven on the flat. “What flat,” I said. The guy explained the RF concept to me–all the while holding back any (deserved?) ridicule of stupid American drivers. The only problem is, I was stuck with that car for a while and it needed a new tyre–NOW. The guy said it would take three weeks to get the same brand tyre. Whaaaaaa? I had to drive two days later from Munich to Köln–with that car. “No problem,” the guy said. So he replaced the tyre within twenty-four hours with another sub-brand RF tyre.

Go ahead, dear worst-reader. Call me a stickler. I’m spoiled. I want better. With that in mind, I don’t care what you think (of me). So get this: I can’t stand the idear of driving a four hundred horsepower Mercedes Benz on the fcuking German Autobahn for hour after hour and that vehicle not being in tip-top performance condition. Running three Continental branded RF tyres with one no-name RF tyre–that had a totally different tread profile, as well–just pissed me off. But of course I went with it. I was working for the man. I could only bitch (rant) at the world so much. Did the Mercedes drive differently? Of course it didn’t. Did it look different? Well, yeah, kinda, on account the profile of the one tyre was different. But I don’t care. In fact, I might even tolerate two different brands front and rear but… three brands to one? No. No. No. (Talk about provoking my tourettes.)

Anywho. RF tyres cannot be repaired if they’re punctured. They have to be replaced. That means, if I don’t have to, I don’t want to be in the predicament again where I have to wait (for weeks) for a tyre maker to deliver me the right tyre or have to then choose between buying a brand new tyre that doesn’t fit to the other three. But there’s one other thing.  RF tyres are extremely uncomfortable–even with the proper suspension. You see, RF tyres have something akin to metal lining in their walls. That’s how you can drive on them if they go “flat”. The metal lining prevents the tyre from buckling completely so you can continue (at limited speed, of course) without the wheel rims ruining everything. But then… Those metal walls, when filled with air, are as hard as rock.

The Mini Clubman is pretty bumpy and unnecessarily uncomfortable with the RF summer tyres it was delivered with. Also, the Mini is far from being a performance vehicle. The Bridgestone tyres are simply too much tyre for this car. With that in mind, the significance of “performance” only plays a role, IMHO, with vehicles that can also deliver that performance. By-the-buy, don’t get me wrong, I’ve since learned that the BMW 1.5litre, three cylinder turbo-charged power plant is a lot stronger than I thought it would be! But the Mini still does not perform in a way that requires anything more than solid, well built, good running tyres. Although I’ve only gone a few kilometres with the new Michelins, I have already noticed how much more comfortable the Mini is now. And. Since the tires are all-weather, I definitely killed those two birds.

-Rant on

T

PS Did you catch that last expat mis-spelling?

Heatwave, #Eurowasteland And How I Learned To Love Electric Shades

If you haven’t heard, dear worst-reader, #Eurowasteland is experiencing a pretty severe heatwave. Indeed. In all my years living among the Germans as a lost and useless-eating #Americant, I’ve never experienced it this hot for this long. Yesterday I measured 37.5°C (that’s almost a 100°F). That may not sound like much to you but considering the humidity in this area combined with a bit too much green through out the year… Seriously. I’ve been to dry heat areas. I can take 40° plus in India. I can even hang in summer-time Arizona. Northern Europe is different than all that–when climate goes nuts. The worst part about is that it’s been in and out of  30°C–plus or minus–since early July. Oh, how this reminds me of my youth on the eastern shore of Maryland and the grand and luscious Chesapeake Bay (that I miss dearly). July and August and September (and sometimes June and October) were unbearable with heat and humidity back then. But there was always something to fall back on. That’s right, dear worst-reader. We could at least get out of the heat and even sleep in modern air conditioning. Here, though, there ain’t no A/C. Instead, there are concrete walls, wood floors and lots and lots of electric shades. In fact, during the day, for the past few weeks, these shades are down all the time. Not until about 7pm can we open them. As you can see in the pics above, we live in a rather rectangular, three level flat. These pics are of the ground floor. Separating our relatively small but comfortable living room and the kitchen is an open, outdoor atrium with eight glass doors. It’s where we do all our out-door cooking (grilling) and fresh air patio-ing; it’s connected directly to the kitchen (not pictured). It’s kind of a nice layout once you get used to it–except when the sun becomes a barrel full of heat. And so. During mid-morning hours we lower the shades. It’s at that time I begin worst-writing and hoping that the devil-heat doesn’t overwhelm me.

-Rant on

T

PS I’m fully aware that my use and abuse of air conditioning in my youth is part of my suffering today. For that I am sorry. And although my neighbours are all buying plug-in A/C units, we’ve decided to just keep our shades lowered.

Exploding Shrooms Or How To Razor Wire Your Paranoia?

Sites seen while walking Beckett, The Killer Pug. The mushroom is at least 12-14 inches in diameter. When it ejaculated its spores there might have been a slight wind from the South West. There is a metallic greyness, an almost mechanical shade around the base of the fungus. I never before thought I could see a smell, especially one that must, if a taste for it could be acquired, that has a look that smells so hideous. Perhaps I should document how the fungus will end up once it’s completely dried out. For indeed, dear worst-reader, there are hardened, if not fossilised fungi in the forest-park that Beckett and I traverse. And so. Yes. Two things I need to do in life (before it ends). One is to photograph all (ALL!) the churches in Köln and the other, perhaps, is to take majestic pictures of all the fungi inherent to the Germanin Boden (ground). And worst-speaking of Germania. Once I left the forest-park and began the trek home–for my pug has a difficult time right now dealing with the extreme weather situation caused by a world of greed mongers galore and their hate of climate–I finally took a snapshot of one of the houses on Rich-Inheritor Street that I walk by almost daily (on account it’s between where I live and the forest-park). Don’t you know, there are a few of these streets in every major village of Germania. (For those not in the know: there really are no cities in Germania; only villages.) They are the streets where no one earns a thing but their parents and grandparents did. And so. The lap of luxury in almost ancient, if not old #Eurowasteland villas, that all say fcuk-you in caps to people who would like to have a chance at upward mobility, where grand-children of Nazi conspirators and/or corporate fascists bought their way through the game of life. These places (villas) when listed for sale on real-estate sites go for millions of €uros. Yet there is something sinister about them–about them all that is above and beyond their fiat value. I’ve spoken to a few occupiers of these old-money places (villas) as I can’t help but pass their servants who walk the watch dogs. “What’s with the military grade razor wire,” I inquired of a MILF walking a mut hound-dog that has the longest droopy ears I’ve ever seen. Before she could answer I glanced at an open button on her thin blouse, gazing at the lace of the brassiere underneath as it pressed and smooshed her ageing teat. I could see sweat in her sweet place and I think the hound could smell it, too. “So, baby. Is the razor wire because of the neighbour-hate that you Germans have for one another,” I added. For a second I thought she was gonna point two fingers from her breast to my eyes and then to her eyes. But she is not a German servant. Instead her hound growled and she went on a short tirade complaining about Merkel and the immigrant problem that Germans shouldn’t be having at this time. I kept my rude eyes fixated and showed sympathy to her dog. Once she got on about the increase of break-ins in the area I got bored. I then asked her if she wanted to fcuk in the forest-park. “I know of a soft stump you can use to bend over. Will your hound mind or will I just have to push his nose away all the time. Such a thing is very distracting, don’t you know.” But she had moved on down the street, somehow proud of telling an immigrant how she hated immigrants. Nomatter. I’m keeping an eye on that one. I know where she lives. I know that there is no military grade razor wire on one of her accessible ground floor windows.

-Rant on

T

Blut Und Boden Or If You’re A Good Boy You Can Have All The Pu$$y You Want

Screen Shot 2018-06-20 at 06.52.37
Source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8402204; FYI I did edit the pic a bit removing the disgusting swastika and nazi stuff. You’re welcome.

Well, dear worst-reader. I got five years. It’s been a long time since my expat host country offered me five. For the past ten or twelve years (about half my total stay so far), it’s always been a two year visa. “Two years and let’s see how things go,” some automaton sitting behind an ugly office government desk would say. Indeed. Of course there was a time when I was offered a ten year visa. And then there was the time I was offered citizenship. But I laughed when they offered citizenship. Reason? Because of the unrein  (impure) nature of my existence, i.e. born of a half-breed American male serving in the US Navy and a German fräulein, I don’t have the right Blood and Soil (Blut und Boden) combination and therefore am punished (for something I never had control over) by not being allowed to have duel citizenship. Hence I can have citizenship but only if I give up my American citizenship. “Is you stupid,” I said to the automaton working behind the ugly government desk that made the ridiculous offer. “Why the fcuk-you would I want to give up citizenship from the greatest country in the world to have citizenship from some two-bit #Eurowasteland country that is still stuck in the 18th century–even though you guys make great cars?”

Fcuk you, Germany!

Anywho. As far as the ten year visa offer went, they saw that my home country passport was expiring and told me that I’d have to get a new visa anyway if/when my passport expired within their ten year visa period. So whenever they ask I usually just say: make it for two years you cock $ucking mutterficker–and while you’re at it don’t forget how I assimilated in this $hithole country long before #Trump & Co called out all $hithole countries. You’re fcuking welcome, biatch. And then I added a final remark about how they don’t deserve me anyway. If the automaton had a bit of pre-school English then we both giggled and continued looking away from each other. If he (or she) understood me fully, then he (or she) closed up, we remained silent for the rest of the process until he (or she) dished out… my fcuking papers.

But hey! Have no fear, dear worst-reader. The other morning, the stars were aligned. The moon is in the eye of Jupiter and my passport has another ten years till expiration. And so. I have been granted a five year visa.

Fcuk you, Germany!

Pause. Breath.

“Would you like a permanent residence visa,” I was asked.

“Why,” I retorted.

“No. That won’t work either,” the automaton said, correcting himself. Then he added after looking in my passport and pointing it out to me, “But I see you’re passport expires in 2025. There is no time for ten year visa. Basta, ja.”

“Dude, just make it two years. I really don’t give a flying rats-a$$ fcuk.”

“Yes. Ok, then. We’ll make it five,” he said. And we didn’t giggle.

Whoppp-dee-fcuking-do!

And so was my Monday morning this week. I had pranced up to the hideous bureaucrat facilities behind the train station and waddled my way through a crowd of refugees galore. Although I thought I had prepared myself with all the required paperwork–which amounts to nothing more than proving I have the financial means to not be dependent on The State–along with my US passport, of course, I did forget one thing. A new biometric photo.

worstwriter angry or not
Say, Germany, do I look like a give a fcuk?

So I trekked across the campus behind the D’dorf train station to a pastry shop nearby where I bought a cup of black coffee. I only did this because no one would/could provide me the proper change for a 50,-€ bill. Usually I never carry bills under €100. The biometric photo machine only takes exact change, or 7,-€, and the nearby change-machine doesn’t take bills higher than 20,-€. The line to use one of the two photo machines was long but it looked like it was moving.

Yeah. Bureaucracy and the poor, baby.

Once I got the proper change–and the coffee–I headed back to the refugee facility to see what bureaucracy awaited me next. Of course, I realised I don’t drink cheap coffee so when I passed a security guard in a bright yellow jacket–of which there were many–I asked him if he’d like a cup of coffee and handed him the fresh cup. I told him it was untouched and I only got it to get change. He spoke a broken form of Bulgarian German (or something like that) and thanked me, accepting the coffee as though someone was doing something nice for him. I assure you, dear worst-reader, that someone wasn’t/isn’t me.

IMG_4570.jpg
Yellow mark-down is what I mis-read. Actually, the truth is, I never read this shit in this first place. Still, it does say I have to provide a current photo–which I eventually did after buying a security guard protecting Germans from a horde of refugees in the direct vicinity.

Since I usually don’t pay much attention to German bureaucracy, I missed the part in the instructions I was sent that required me to bring a new photo. Hell, check out that list of krapp they want me to bring along. Look at all that stuff! Are the refugees Germany is taking in from #Americant middle-eastern war zones required to bring that much stuff, too? Oh wait. I wonder where all those people struggling on boats in the middle of the Mediterranean are able to get a “Schulbescheinigung” (proof of education) or “Mietvertrag” (rental contract). Oh wait (again). Most of the stuff I’m required to show has to do with money–not with wars of choice that Germany and, of course, #Eurowasteland has profited from over the past twenty (or so) years.

Ok. Based on that last worst-remark about Germany profiting from mid-east wars, let me say this: I stand by it. In fact, the whole of #Eurowasteland has had numerous chances to stand up for the weak and oppressed of this world–that’s right, even by calling-out the US for it’s wars of choice–but it has done NOTHING accept promote a world of consuming to survive hidden behind the hideous filter of its past. The Continent is once again preoccupied with the greed $hitshow of nativism, tribalism and its reawakening of old-time aristocracies reminiscent of pre-WWI. That’s why I have no issue–like so many Germans do–with all the refugees being taken in. In a way, I’m one of them. And please don’t mistake that last sentence for me equating my situation whole heartily with theirs. And so goes the $hitshow of first, second and third world refugees all coming together in a country of automatons and corporatists that, in the event it’s required, couldn’t find their way out of a wet paper bag.

On the other hand, taking in millions of refugees is the only thing Euro greed-mongers can do in answer to #Americant’s wars-of-choice. This is of course how Europe supports those wars! And no matter how you view it, it is a sad state of affairs, especially in Germany right now. I really feel awful for all those naive refugees that the pseudo-rich Germans are taking in. The facility that processed me as a foreigner the other day was packed to the hilt with people who are clueless to what awaits them–and their children. And let me tell you, it ain’t pretty. Even though they have made it out of extreme poverty, war-zones-galore or the humiliation of dictators, by coming to Europe they will be regulated to a state of 2nd or 3rd class citizenry that they will NEVER be able to overcome. The Germans, and other Europeans, will never accept the influx of these people who, sad to say, look quite different than the average (especially northern) European. For if I’ve learned anything after twenty-plus years of living in a part of the world where collective greed was invented, it’s this: Blut und Boden is all that’s left. Unless, of course, you can get a bank to finance a fancy car or afford regular trips to Mallorca for a get-away. Yeah, that’s what refugees are after. (Sarcasm off.)

As usual, I’m off subject. This was supposed to be a post about worst-writer, aka Tom Stough, acquiring permission to live legally five more years in the old country–that he can’t get out of. And although I should be happy about it (I guess), I am instead furious. And the only thing that comes to my worst-mind right now is… Blut und Boden and how Germans, French, and yes, even the British, are obsessed with it. Btw, anyone out there in worst-writer land remember Blut und Boden? It was used vividly (in English) during the Charlottsville, VA, antics where #Americants tried to promote their greed mongering ignorance only, in the end, to slip and slide down that fun-game of racism #Trump & Co. have made dinner table talk once again. Welcome back to 1968, my beloved #Americant.

I wish all those refugees that I was in the middle of the other day a better life than what they left to get to $hithole Germany. Heck, I even wish them better and more luck than I had. They’re gonna need it.

-Rant on

-T

PS The second part of the title of this worst-post kinda reflects that only thing the Germans really have to offer. But I digress.

Sunny Place In Germania, 5KM Long Luxury Beach Front Property, A Deep Diver

The Prora complex is both fascinating and scary. “Kraft durch Freude.” Strength through enjoyment? Something like that. This building was first built at the end of the 1930s and when Germany started to lose the war all work was shut down. It was supposed to be play land and funville for up to 20k national socialists, I guess. Of course, the DDR never did much with it so it stood in waiting along the Baltic coast of Rügen. Waiting for what? Enter the capitalist pigs and their ability to turn something grey, banal and fascinating into something utterly dystopian and wondrous. It is indeed the perfect abode for automatons of success. If you can afford one of the flats in this place, you’ll have an absolutely breathtaking view of the Baltic Sea. When weather allows, you’ll be able to exit your apartment and go for a swim in clear, crystalline waters. Heck, even when weather doesn’t allow you can swim here. I’ve seen dudes swimming in these waters already–and it’s early May. Yeah. Kraft durch Freude.

Rant on.

-T